by Barb Hendee
He smoothed his dark hair back. He would have to trust in his patron but also in himself, and practice a mix of effort and reserve. He stepped out as Chane began pulling down the tent.
"Why were you shouting?" Chane asked again. "You have never shouted quite like that before."
Welstiel's suspicion rose. "What do you mean?"
"You talk in your dormancy."
Welstiel remained passive, hiding anxiety. How long had this gone on, and why did Chane choose this moment to reveal such?
"What do you hear while I am dormant?"
"Nothing comprehensible, but never such an outcry." Chane became hesitant and changed the subject. "I wish to continue my lessons in Numanese as we ride."
Chane finished saddling his bony horse and swung up.
Welstiel followed suit. "Where did we leave off? I believe it was the common irregular verbs in past tense."
"Yes."
Lessons continued as they rode, but Welstiel's thoughts drifted often to the icebound castle, to the new scroll-filled hall, and to the calm stillness he had felt as he looked upon the iron-barred doors.
He started from his wandering thoughts, as he thought he heard a whisper on the cold wind.
The sister of the dead will lead you.
Chapter Six
H ot baths were almost a vague memory, until Magiere slipped into one beside Wynn, listening to the sage's embarrassing groans of pleasure as they washed. Once finished, Magiere pulled on the elven clothing made of felt and raw-spun cotton. Her skin smelled of honey and fennel from the soap. Leesil had his turn, complete with grumbling about soapy water that hadn't drained completely for his own fresh bath.
Magiere spent the rest of the evening sitting cross-legged in the outer room with her hosts. Leesil sat on her left with young Leanâlhâm on his far side. The girl studied Leesil with brief glances, thinking she went unnoticed, peering at his ears, eyes, and the shape of his face—until suddenly aware of Magiere watching her. Magiere didn't really mind the girl's interest in Leesil, or shouldn't have.
Leanâlhâm was overwhelmed that someone else in this world shared her differences from her own people. Magiere understood being different, constantly reminded of it when anyone looked closely at her.
Still, Leanâlhâm kept staring at Leesil.
How had this mixed-blood girl survived in a land where Leesil wasn't even welcome? And how could she possibly be related to Sgäile?
Magiere turned her attention elsewhere, seeking any distraction.
"Tell us about these Shapers," she heard Wynn say to Gleann.
"Some of our people are born with a heightened awareness," Gleann began, and his gaze slipped once to Sgäile. "They sense what you call the Spirit element of things. Given time and training, they can become Makers or Shapers… and a few healers."
It seemed Makers worked lifeless materials. When Wynn called them thaumaturges, Gleann made an effort not to grimace. They called Spirit into inert substance where they sensed accepting emptiness, making wood, stone, and metal pliable for fashioning by will, hand, and tool. Not in pieces but as a whole, like the rainwater barrels in the washroom.
Shapers took a separate path, plying living things that still held their natural Spirit at its fullest. They guided, nurtured, and altered living growth, like the trees and other plants shaped over years into useful things. Some learned to make a tree or plant grow part of itself into a separate piece that still lived. Patience seemed an absolute for a Shaper. And among them were the few like Gleann, who turned to the care of the sick and injured. Flesh as well as living wood could be guided by those with enough skill and training, and healers learned herb lore, medicines, and more common skills as well.
Magiere followed most of this, though some of Wynn's questions left her baffled. Gleann often answered the sage in Elvish, and then returned to Belaskian with a less lengthy reply.
Gleann spoke Belaskian well, despite his strong accent, and he'd taught Leanâlhâm in turn. Strangest of all was that Leanâlhâm was a quarter human. His strong love of the girl was surprising, as their people despised and feared anything foreign.
"You called Sgäile your uncle," Wynn said to Leanâlhâm. "But your grandfather referred to him as your cousin?"
Leanâlhâm grew shy, mustering a response, but Gleann answered in her place.
"Her grandmother was my sister by bonding, having married my elder brother. I believe, by your culture, this makes her Sgäilsheilleache's… second cousin? But he is a generation older than her, so…" He shook his head in resignation. "Our familial titles and relations do not translate well into your language."
"But would not her maternal grandmother be human?" Wynn asked bluntly. "I do not understand how her mother was half-human. And what of her mother—and her father?"
Gleann's expression grew tight and closed. "It is a family matter we do not discuss often."
Magiere glanced at Leanâlhâm and suspicions began to form. A marriage didn't mean both parents were involved in the making of a child. Nor that the mother was a willing participant. Magiere's own mother had been given no choice in her conception.
"Tell us of crossing the Broken Range," Gleann asked quickly.
"It took nearly a whole moon," Wynn began, "before we found a way…"
Sgäile lifted his eyes from pouring herb tea and fixed on the sage. All Magiere's senses sharpened in warning.
"In a blizzard, we were caught in a snow-slide…" Wynn continued.
Leesil shifted uncomfortably, bumping shoulders with Magiere. He too spotted Sgäile's rapt interest, and yet Wynn kept babbling.
"…we lost nearly everything, and then Chap—"
"That's enough for now," Leesil cut in, a blink before Magiere did so herself. "It's getting late."
Sgäile's narrowing eyes shifted to Leesil. It was only a brief instant, but enough for Magiere to catch his too-eager interest.
How they'd found the elven Territories was a story best kept to themselves. To Magiere's knowledge, no one before had ever returned from such a journey. Should they have a chance to use a way out of this land, she didn't want the Anmaglâhk to know it.
"Maybe some tea first?" she suggested. "To cut the weight of fatigue."
Gleann gazed among his guests with concern before returning to Wynn. "At least I can assist with your scholarly losses."
He rose and climbed the stairs to the upper level, disappearing from sight. Sgäile held out a baked-clay cup of herb tea to Magiere. She shook her head, and he passed it on to Leesil.
She didn't care for this herbal stuff, too different from the true tea that Wynn had lost to a skulking tâshgâlh. And she trembled inside, as though she'd already had too much real tea.
Gleann returned with a drawstring bag of olive-colored suede. He settled on the felt rug and opened it as Wynn curiously leaned his way.
Out came a roll of off-white single sheets with mottled grain from whatever plant fibers were used to make them. Next were pearl-white ceramic vials, which Gleann explained were filled with black, red, and green ink. Last came a strange form of quill.
Its dark wood shaft was long and narrow, but the bottom widened bul-bously above the head. The quill tip was made of a metal Magiere recognized immediately. It had the same brilliant sheen of Leesil's old stilettos and those of the Anmaglâhk.
"No," Wynn protested, studying the gifts with painful eagerness. "This is too much."
"Take them," Gleann insisted with a chuckle. "Beneath the quill's head is a pocket of sponge-weed fibers. It will draw ink deeply, and needs to be replenished less often."
Wynn was still politely reluctant, but eyed the quill's bright metal head. "Such a stylus… I have nothing to trade for something so dear."
Gleann rolled his large elven eyes. "How else will you record your travels and what you learn?"
"Grandfather!" Sgäile's expression darkened in alarm. "I do not think that wise. Some might not want—"
"By 'some' you mean your Most Aged Father."
Gleann snorted, but then paused before turning back to Wynn. "Be discreet and save these for when you have privacy."
Sgäile spoke low to Gleann, but the old man flicked the words away with his hand, and patted Sgäile's shoulder like a patronizing grandfather. Sgäile swallowed any further argument as Gleann slid the pile of gifts in front of Wynn.
"Thank you…" Wynn said, "so much."
Any spell of the evening's lingering ease broke as Sgäile stood up abruptly.
"Now to rest," Gleann said. "Thank you for a most pleasant chat."
The outer doorway's curtain rumpled and its hem dragged across Chap's back as he stalked in. Grass seed and strands stuck out in his fur, and his paws were filthy. He glanced about, movements sharp and manic in a way that magnified Magiere's own nagging nervous energy. And still she didn't know why she felt this way.
"Look at yourself!" Wynn said, and wrinkled her small nose at the dog. "What have you been doing? You will not crawl onto my bed in such a state."
Chap's eyes cleared as he fixed upon her. He barked twice for "no" and, startled by his own voice, whined and repeated himself more softly. He circled around to curl up beside the bundled weapons and the chest. Magiere wondered what he'd been up to.
Gleann showed them to the adjacent room of floor mats. As he said good night, Leanâlhâm nodded to them, but her eyes were on Leesil. She turned quickly away and hurried up the stairs.
As Leesil pulled the room's curtain closed, Magiere saw Sgäile sit down against the wall near the front door. Leesil remained poised, as if about to leave the sleeping quarters. Magiere sighed, understanding.
"The chest is safe," she said.
Wynn sat on one of the three beds. "Sgäile would not let anyone touch them, I think."
Leesil let go of the curtain and settled on the bed nearest the doorway. Magiere knelt on the one in the center.
The soft mattress smelled of wild grass, and the pillow's strange fabric felt like silk. She dreaded the rest of the night, fearful that sleep wouldn't find her or that worse might come if it did. Her only relief was in being away from so many strange faces, though Leanâlhâm surfaced in her thoughts.
"How does she bear it?" Magiere said. "Living among people who will always see her as different?"
Wynn, halfway into her bed, pulled up a blanket. "Who… oh, Leanâlhâm? Perhaps…" She shook her head sadly and lay down. "I do not know. But her name means 'Child of Misfortune.' "
Magiere's ire rose, smothering her edgy state. She had her own meaning for such a label. Magelia, her mother, had been forced to give birth, and had died shortly after. What could be more unfortunate than that in bearing children?
And though Leanâlhâm had her grandfather and, oddly enough, Sgäile, the girl was branded with a name that marked her for life. Like Leesil's own mother, how much cruelty could these people heap upon their children?
Magiere lay beneath her blanket a long while. She heard Wynn's breathing slow and deepen. She watched Leesil until certain he'd drifted into fitful sleep, then closed her own eyes, trying to rest. The night became endless under the persistent quiver in her body.
She found herself standing in the dark amid the forest; then she saw a shadow shift among the trees, coming closer.
It stepped so softly that footfalls came and went beneath the rustle of branches and underbrush in the light breeze. When she looked about, she saw no other dark shapes that had shadowed her through the night so many times before.
Magiere heard and felt something skitter across her foot.
Leaning against her boot was a freshly fallen oak leaf, still green and satin. She stooped and reached for it. At the touch of her finger, a brown spot appeared on it.
The dry color spread through the leaf's veins as its tissue faded and dried until fully wilted. Decay set in.
She jerked her hand away, rising up. The leaf rotted, then crumbled and came apart. Its fragments scattered across the ground in the night breeze.
A deeply shadowed figure stood quiet and still in the dark between two oaks. Something glinted in its hand… a stiletto. Even at night her eyes picked up a sheen brighter than silver. The glimmer of elven eyes showed within the figure's raised cowl.
Magiere reached for her falchion, gripping the hilt without taking her eyes off the anmaglâhk, but she hesitated. Was it an anmaglâhk? His forearm was bare—except for a wrist sheath. At his shoulder, she saw the hint of leather… of a hauberk?
She froze before the silent figure facing her in the dark. Rings of metal were bound in a weave of leather straps on the hauberk's front.
"Leesil?" Magiere whispered.
The figure didn't answer. Only the blade's tip tilted slowly up at her.
She pulled the falchion, backing away. "Leesil!"
Magiere half-awoke from the dream and thrashed the blanket aside. She scrambled across the pillow and backed against the small room's wall, looking about in terror. Her dhampir nature rose and widened her senses.
Leesil shifted in his slumber, rolling over with a mumble. Wynn didn't stir.
Magiere felt the rough bark through the elven felt jerkin she wore. Its touch made her back muscles spasm. Her shudders settled inward and grew to a hum in her flesh.
She fell forward onto hands and knees, and then collapsed in a heap when her shaking arms wouldn't hold. She curled in a ball upon her bed. The tremors slowly subsided. She wanted to reach for Leesil, to wake him.
But it had only been a dream… one more nightmare that plagued her sleep since they'd come into this forest. And for all she'd endured, Leesil's burden seemed far greater here.
Magiere turned about to put her head upon the pillow. Try though she might, she couldn't rest quietly, nor think clearly. Her muscles would not unclench.
Leesil roused slowly the next morning from a restless sleep filled with unwanted dreams—of his mother, and of a young Anmaglâhk's split throat, the man's blood soaking into his breeches. When he stepped out into the main room, Magiere was already up.
She sat on the moss next to the chest, with Chap sprawled out beside her as she stared blankly at nothing. A clay cup of steaming tea sat next to her, but it looked untouched. Their cloak-bundled weapons were gone.
Leesil looked about and found the bundle stacked by the outer doorway with the rest of their gear. There was also an extra pack of dark canvas he didn't recognize.
He should have known Magiere would hardly be sitting quietly if her falchion were missing. Before he was ready to deal with the day, their hosts were up and about, taking away any private chance to learn what troubled Magiere.
Leanâlhâm descended the stairs without a sound. She saw him, and this time smiled slightly before slipping out the front doorway. Sgäile crouched to tuck something in the new pack. Gleann came down and followed his grandniece outside, but the two quickly returned as Wynn came out rubbing her face with a yawn.
Leanâlhâm and Gleann each returned with a wooden platter of food. Sgäile took some as they passed and returned to fussing with the gear. Leesil didn't like him digging about in their stuff.
Gleann unrolled a felt rug upon the moss, and breakfast was served: wheat biscuits with nuts, more bisselberries, smoked fish, and a thickened hot porridge smelling of cinnamon.
While Leesil satisfied himself on the latter, Magiere sat quietly beside him and touched none of the food. He nudged her several times, but she shook her head. She didn't even react when Chap snuck in and snatched a whole fillet of smoked fish before anyone could stop him. Wynn scolded the dog, brushing off dried mud he'd left on the felt spread. She loaded a plate to set behind herself, just for him.
As everyone finished, Magiere stood. Sgäile looked her up and down. Whether he studied her or the new clothes she wore, Leesil didn't care for it.
"Your own clothes are clean," Sgäile said, "and packed. It would be best for all of you to wear what you have on for the journey."
What was he up to?
"Where's my armor?" Magiere asked sharply.
"If you think I'm walking about without protection, waiting for another of yours to jump us… think again."
Sgäile held up his hands with a frustrated sigh.
"Your protection is my concern," he said. "From afar at least, your present attire will draw less attention."
Leesil just frowned. Magiere didn't look any less foreign in loose brown elven pants and a yellow jerkin. She might be tall for a woman, but she wasn't built like an elf. And he was pretty sure Wynn wore the clothing of an elvish youth, but the bottoms of her drawstring pants were rolled up to keep from dragging. Her clothes were too long for her short stature.
"I do not mind," Wynn offered. "These are quite comfortable, but I will take my own cloak."
Osha stuck his head in through the doorway curtain, long white-blond hair hanging across his shoulders.
"Prepared?" he asked in Belaskian.
Leesil didn't have time to wonder where the young anmaglâhk and Urhkar had been all night. No one answered before Sgäile continued.
"There is much to carry, and we travel with haste. If you would allow, one of mine can carry your blades. They will all be at hand if needed."
"What?" Magiere spit back. "We disarmed for coming into your village—and little good it did! You keeping our weapons wasn't part of the arrangement."
Leesil agreed, though he grudgingly wondered if Sgäile made a valid point.
"Let's leave it be," he told her, "at least until we're out of this place."
Magiere turned her nervous glare on him. She shuddered suddenly and then turned away.
"I think Urhkar would be best to carry them," Wynn added.
"No," Magiere said flatly. "Sgäile will carry them."
Her choice baffled Leesil, but only for a moment. The way she looked at Sgäile, she was almost daring him to agree. If it came to taking their arms by force…
Leesil understood Magiere's choice and grew nervous at what it meant.
Sgäile wouldn't let inexperienced Osha stand against them. If they came fast at the younger elf, he probably couldn't stop them both. Urhkar was another matter, from what Magiere had experienced last evening at his hands. But Sgäile himself?