Rebel Fay

by Barb Hendee

  Brot'an got up, heading for the door. "Léshil is only half-blooded, with more years than Leanâlhâm's mother had when she bonded and mated with the girl's father. Léshil knows none of what I have told you. It is important that you comprehend exactly what you have done with him."

  He said this with no spite, but Magiere didn't wish to discuss her relationship with Leesil further.

  "You still owe me an answer," she said quickly. "Your name… Wynn said something about a dog."

  " 'Dog in the Dark,' in your tongue," Brot'an corrected. "Though 'mastiff would be more precise. Not wild but domesticated, like the ones humans use in war."

  "Is that what you saw when you went for your name?"

  Brot'an remained halfway to the door, his back still turned to her.

  "It came in silence out of the night, straight from the shadow of Roise Chârmune. It tore off its iron-spiked collar with its paws and bared its teeth, as if tuning upon its master."

  He finally looked back, and Magiere's own spite faltered for an instant at the discomfort in Brot'an's lined face.

  "At the time, I thought it a resentful shadow of arguing with my father over what I should do with my life. He did not wish me to take up service. Then later, when I joined Eillean, I thought it an image of the coming war. But I lost my taste for omens and portents over so many years. When Eillean died, it was a name and nothing more… until you appeared in our land."

  Brot'an turned away to the door. "And now I stand before my people to pull down Aoishenis-Ahâre for the sake of a half-blood and a dark-tainted human woman."

  He was gone, leaving Magiere alone with mounting anguish growing upon an old forgotten fear.

  Her memory slipped back to a tiny inn outside of Bela. She had waited there for Leesil. It had seemed almost better—safer—to let him go, before he fell prey to her dhampir side. In spite of all her fears, she wanted him too much.

  What had she done to him?

  Chap laid a ways off and watched the elm where Brot'an spoke privately with Magiere. Osha tried to occupy Wynn in learning to play Dreug'an. The sage relented but showed little interest and watched the curtained doorway.

  Try as Chap might, he could not hear what was said. And without line of sight, he could not dip for memories surfacing in either Brot'an or Magiere. He snarled at one Anmaglâhk guard just to see the man flinch.

  Chap's ears stiffened when Brot'an finally emerged and walked on into the dark, not even stopping to tell Osha to return Wynn to confinement.

  Osha quickly packed up the Dreug'an board and pieces and ushered Wynn off with the other two Anmaglâhk close behind. Chap stayed a moment longer.

  He reached out for Brot'an's memories.

  Whatever the man discussed with Magiere had left him unsettled, for his mind was not the blank slate Chap had found upon other occasions. Memories flashed in his mind so quickly that Chap had to focus hard to keep up.

  A mastiff stalked out of the shadow of a strange barkless tree amid a wet and barren clearing. It snarled silently at Chap as he watched it through Brot'an's memory.

  Brot'ân'duivé—the Dog in the Dark.

  This was the moment when Brot'an had gone to the ancestors for his name.

  As the memory faded, Chap saw an image of Leesil traveling in the forest. And then again the image of the dog that appeared when Brot'an stepped onto hallowed ground.

  The memory vanished. Brot'an's mind was as hidden as before.

  Chap traipsed back to the elm, trying to fathom what he had glimpsed. He turned as Brot'an's tall form slipped away between the trees.

  A naming—and Leesil.

  Chap stood there… long enough that he grasped the connection.

  * * * *

  Leesil was traveling to the place where all an'Cróan took their true name, or so they believed. If he gained hallowed ground, it would be to plead for a branch from Roise Chârmune. But Brot'an hoped Leesil might gain more.

  Why would Brot'ân'duivé want this to happen? Why did an Anmaglâhk master want to know Leesil's true name?

  "I can't speak your language. I won't get it right."

  Sgäile's throat closed at Léshil's panicked words. He stood shaking, and still could not open his eyes to this thing no one had ever seen, nor did they know where it came from or why it stood vigil over this hallowed ground.

  His people only knew it by a name and the oath that spoke of its deadly nature.

  "Ahârneiv…" he began again, and then faltered as he felt its hissing breath upon his face.

  Would it understand in any other tongue? And if it did, would it let him live, coming here with Léshil? All who came to Roise Chârmune must come alone!

  Sgäile began the litany once again, this time in words Léshil could understand.

  "Father of Poison…"

  He waited in tense silence for Léshil to repeat it.

  "Father of… Poison…" Léshil whispered.

  Sgäile took a quick breath. "Who washes away our enemies with Death…"

  Léshil echoed him again.

  "Let me pass by to my ancestors, first of my blood. Give me leave to touch the Seed of Sanctuary."

  As Léshil repeated his words, the serpent's breath faded from Sgäile's face, and he waited long in silence.

  He heard coils grating upon the earth… and then the softer wet sound of mulch beneath the trees somewhere ahead. Longer he waited with his eyes shut, until the sound nearly faded altogether.

  Something dropped upon Sgäile's shoulder, and he opened his eyes, breathing so quickly he grew dizzy. He kept his eyes on the dark oaks ahead, afraid to catch even one more glimpse of Ahârneiv.

  It was gone.

  Léshil's hand slipped off Sgäile's shoulder and fell limply at his side.

  "We… are free… to go on," Sgäile whispered.

  He almost did not believe the words as they came from his lips. Sgäile glanced sidelong at the half-blood—who had just changed his whole world, and perhaps that of Leanâlhâm.

  For more than two years, he and his grandfather had urged Leanâlhâm to wait, to put off her name taking, though their arguments grew weaker with each passing moon. They feared that she would not return from this place, not with human blood in her.

  Still, Léshil did not move.

  "You have gained hallowed ground," Sgäile urged. "You are accepted as blood."

  Léshil slowly turned his eyes toward Sgäile.

  "I'm here for one reason," he snapped. "For Magiere, caught among your kind because of me. I don't care how you or your ghosts see me."

  Léshil stepped on toward the clearing. Sgäile hung back, stunned back into silence.

  Human blood, by any degree, was a baffling thing.

  Leesil stood before the tree at the bare clearing's center and stared up at its wild branches filling the air above him.

  It wasn't shaped like the tall and straight ash trees he had seen. Stout branches sprouting from its thick trunk curved and wound and divided up into the night. A soft glow emanated from its fine-grained wood to dimly light the clearing.

  Leafless and barkless—yet somehow alive. From its wide-reaching roots lumping the earth to its thick and naked pale-yellow body and limbs, its soft rippled surface glistened beneath its own glow.

  "You must touch it," Sgäile whispered from behind. "Roise Chârmune will know why you have come, and the ancestors will decide.

  Leesil shivered. The night was only cool, but it had suddenly grown crisp within the clearing.

  This was what he'd come for, but after passing the guardian serpent, he wavered at touching this tree. He quickly slapped his hand against its bare trunk, just to be done with it, and shivered again as the temperature dropped sharply.

  "Sgäile… ?" he said.

  The man looked anxiously about and folded his hands under his arms against the mounting cold. Whether from fear or frigid temperature, he shook where he stood.

  "I do not know," Sgäile whispered.

  Someone stepped aro
und the naked tree's far side.

  The figure wore the gray-green of an Anmaglâhk, cloak tied around its waist and cowl pulled forward. But it was short for an elf, no taller than Leesil himself.

  Leesil began to pull back.

  "Do not move!" Sgäile warned. "Do not take your hand from Roise Châr-mune!"

  Leesil didn't believe this was a vision. Surely one of Sgäile's caste must have followed them.

  The figure raised a hand and held it up before Leesil's eyes. In that closed fist was an Anmaglâhk stiletto, silver-white blade pointed downward from its round, plain guard.

  Leesil snatched the figure's wrist with his free hand.

  The clearing lit up as if under a burning noon sun.

  Where there had been cold, now sweltering heat choked the air in Leesil's lungs. Within the figure's cowl he saw a face… his face.

  Leesil stared into his own reflection within that cowl.

  There were the faint scars on his own cheek from where Ratboy had clawed him. His own amber eyes stared back at him, somewhat too small for an elf's, above a chin not quite tapered enough for a full-blood's.

  His reflection looked older, somehow. And tears began running down his—its—face.

  Leesil stood there, gripping the wrist of his reflection.

  Heat made his double, his twin, or whatever it was ripple before his eyes. A shift in the land beyond the surrounding oaks tugged at his attention.

  He thought he saw barren mountains beyond rolling tan hills that were too smooth and perfect. High peaks rippled in the distance as those hills radiated heat. Sgäile hissed out one word.

  "Ancestors!"

  Darkness filled the clearing. The cold bit again at Leesil as his gaze shifted back. His breath caught as one puff of vapor rushed from his lips.

  He saw no reflection of himself anymore. His grip was closed on a slender translucent wrist that glowed like the naked ash. And he looked into… through… the transparent face of a tall elven male.

  The man's eyes turned stern as he looked back at Leesil. His face was broader at the cheekbones than other elves'. An ugly scar slanted from his forehead to his right temple and another marred the left side of his jaw below his peaked ear. He had seen battle during his life; his hand around the stiletto appeared toughened and calloused.

  No, not a stiletto… the elven warrior held a branch of naked pale wood like that of the ash tree. Long and straight overall, the wood showed gentle wavering throughout its length like any natural branch stripped of its bark.

  Pale glimmers erupted in the darkness behind the branch's bearer.

  Leesil remembered the ghost horde of the Apudâlsat forest, all hideously wounded in the moment of their death. These were different.

  They appeared as in life, dressed as they must have been long ago, though their transparent forms held no color but that of the ash tree's wood. A third were male, the rest female, and not all appeared old. Leesil counted at least a dozen.

  Their attire varied. Some were clothed no differently from the elves Leesil had seen around the council clearing. But others wore hauberks and bracers of hardened leather, either plain or covered in overlapping plates and scales of metal. Two wore helms of triple crests with scrollwork spirals engraved in their sides, as did the one Leesil still gripped.

  They carried spears, some as long as pikes, and quivers and bows slung upon their backs. Not the short ones the Anmaglâhk disassembled to hide away, but longbows capable of great range. One middle-aged female with scars down her left upper arm had thick triangular war daggers on her wide studded belt. They looked more like a human weapon than those Leesil had seen among elves. The spear in her grip was shorter than her height. Its thick shaft appeared to be metal instead of wood, and its head was wide-bladed and nearly as long as a short sword.

  And that one, with wild eyes full of fury, smiled at him beneath narrowing eyes.

  But there were none among the spirits dressed as Anmaglâhk.

  An elder woman in a robe approached behind the tall warrior holding the branch. Her face was slender and lightly lined with age. Long hair waved and floated as if she moved through water.

  Take the limb of Roise Chârmune… and guard it as it will guard you… as you will guard life, Léshiârelaohk.

  Leesil heard her voice, though her lips never moved.

  Tell Sorhkafâré we wait for him.

  A different voice. Male, tired but purposeful, like a sigh of relief after long burden.

  Leesil turned his eyes back on the scarred and wide-cheeked warrior in his grip. The man's gaze shifted toward Sgäile then flickered once to Leesil. He seemed puzzled by something between the only two living people in the clearing. Then the spirit looked deep into Leesil's eyes.

  Tell Sorhkafâré that Snähacróe still waits for his comrade… when he is finally ready to rest. Tell him… Léshiarelaohk.

  Leesil knew the first name from Magiere's vision—the long-forgotten name of Most Aged Father. The second might be this one holding out the branch. But that final name he couldn't place, though it was close to what his mother and her people called him.

  Léshil… Léshiarelaohk.

  He wasn't sure he could repeat it aloud, but its sound vibrated in his head, as if spoken again by both the elder woman and the dour warrior.

  The tall spirit opened his fingers, and the ash branch began to fall.

  Leesil released his grip and snatched it from the air.

  When he looked up again, the clearing was empty but for himself, Sgäile, and the soft radiance of the naked ash.

  He saw no spirits. Not a one.

  Leesil held up the branch of Roise Chârmune.

  Chapter Nineteen

  M idafternoon on the second day, Magiere ripped aside the elm's doorway curtain at the sound of running feet. "Leesil?"

  Six anmaglâhk stood outside, with Osha in the front, but there was no sign of Leesil or Sgäile.

  "Is time," Osha said in his thick accent.

  "Where's Leesil?" she asked. "How can the elves resume proceedings without Sgäile?"

  "You come," he urged.

  Wynn threw on Chane's cloak as Chap rose, and they followed Magiere out.

  The guards flanked them as they hurried through Crijheâiche to the council clearing. Again Magiere grew uneasy as she stepped between the bridge-branched oaks and the closest onlookers backed out of her way. She took a slow calming breath at the sight of Leesil and Sgäile standing with Brot'an behind the oak table.

  Leesil held his hand out. Magiere hurried down the slope. One anmaglâhk almost grabbed for her, but Osha waved him off.

  Faint dark rings surrounded Leesil's eyes, but he smiled at her. His muslin shirt and cloak were damp and smudged. He and Sgäile had returned in half the time Brot'an had asked for, so likely they had pushed on all night. Their gear was piled beneath the table, but Leesil's punching blades rested on the surface—along with something hidden by a shimmering piece of white cloth.

  "What are the blades for?" she asked.

  Leesil shook his head. "They were here when I arrived. Brot'an must have sent for them."

  Brot'an's hard glare told them both to be silent.

  Across the clearing's depression, Fréth and Most Aged Father entered as before, his chair carried by four anmaglâhk. As he was placed beside Fréth's table, the old elf leaned forward and peered toward Leesil and Sgäile.

  Wynn stepped in close to Magiere, ready to translate.

  Sgäile looked as worn as Leesil as he stepped to the clearing's center. His hair was a mess, streaming down around his pointed ears in a white-blond tangle. He called out, "The review of the claim will continue. Advocate for the accused may proceed."

  Brot'an stepped out as Sgäile backed away, and the crowd fell silent in anticipation. Magiere watched the faces around the clearing, and when she reached Gleann, he lifted his chin to her with a wry, subtle smile.

  "I call on Osha of the Alachben," Brot'an said.

  Wynn whispered in
Magiere's ear, "Osha of the Rock-Hills clan."

  Osha approached, and Brot'an lifted Leesil's winged blades, still in their sheaths. He drew one, raised it for all to see, and then turned to Osha.

  "Can you tell us what this is?" he asked.

  "It is one of Léshil's weapons," Osha answered quietly.

  Brot'an cocked his head toward those of the gathering. Osha cleared his throat and repeated with stronger voice.

  "Unique blades," Brot'an continued. "Do you know where he found them?"

  "I believe he designed these himself," Osha answered.

  "And what are these used for?"

  "To destroy undead, or so he said… by taking their heads."

  "Irrelevant!" Fréth shouted. "Léshil is not accused and these weapons have no bearing on the claim in dispute. The accused's advocate will keep to relevant testimony."

  "Relevance will be addressed," Brot'an replied calmly. "If the opposing advocate will refrain from further interruptions. As Sgäilsheilleache is not permitted to witness for either side, I have turned to another in this matter."

  Magiere followed Brot'an's seeking look toward Sgäile.

  "Objection noted and rejected," Sgäile proclaimed. "But the accused's advocate will be expedient in making this line of questioning relevant."

  As Wynn translated, Magiere wondered about the proceeding's rules. Brot'an seemed to have some freedom in questioning, but she wasn't certain why he was concentrating on Leesil's weapons. It seemed that Sgäile's limitations as adjudicator now worked against Brot'an, for Sgäile was the most familiar of all with Leesil and herself. Sgäile had been present in Bela when they hunted undead in its streets and sewers.

  Fréth whispered in Most Aged Father's ear. He glowered but kept silent.

  Brot'an turned back to Osha. "How did you learn the use of these weapons?"

  "Léshil told me and the others who escorted him to Crijheâiche."

  "Did he work alone?"

  "No, he said Magiere and the majay-hì"—he pointed to Chap—"hunted with him. Destroying undead was their vocation."