Child of a Dead God

by Barb Hendee

  Magiere’s comment about being trapped was not precisely correct. They had used their time in the city to prepare for the coming journey. Magiere was not certain about their path, but she knew their destination lay in a mountain canyon so high up it was locked in snow and ice all year.

  “Ah, here are your new coats,” Osha said in Elvish, and tapped Leesil’s shoulder as he pointed down to the skiff.

  “In Belaskian,” Wynn chided without thinking. “You need the practice.”

  Osha gave her a sheepish smile and repeated in broken speech that Leesil and Magiere could understand.

  Wynn had not spoken much to Osha since his arrival. It seemed they easily fell back into a pattern in which she insisted he speak an appropriate language that her companions could understand.

  One elf in the skiff below climbed halfway up to hand off their new coats. Magiere had specifically requested these garments.

  Made of sheepskin with the woolly side inward, they were also lined with a thick layer of rough-spun cotton fabric. The outer hide had been deeply oiled against bad weather, something Brot’an added to their specifications. The new garments would maximize body heat retention in a cold climate.

  Meanwhile, Wynn and Leesil had arranged for smoked meats and dried fruits, water flasks, tea, and other goods. They had little to trade, but Sgäile handled the negotiations, ushering them out of any shop to await him. Wynn had an uneasy feeling that most of the items had been donated, since an anmaglâhk had requested them.

  The hkomas’s harsh voice called out for sails to be set. Wynn watched the crew scramble into the rigging to ready the ship. And it struck her that they were truly leaving. She sighed and returned to her companions. Magiere appeared calmer, but Leesil swallowed hard, looking more uncomfortable.

  Wynn heard Brot’an talking in low tones to Sgäile as the master anmaglâhk prepared to descend to the waiting skiff. Then Brot’an handed something to Sgäile. Both his words and gift, if that was what it was, passed too quickly for Wynn to catch.

  Sgäile glared at Brot’an with his fists closed tightly on the hidden object.

  Osha tensed up, his expression aghast. Sgäile seemed about to argue or question, but Brot’an raised a finger and his lips moved in one brief phrase.

  “Chein’âs?” Osha whispered too loudly.

  “Tosajij!” Sgäile hissed at him.

  The younger elf cringed in embarrassment. His wide amber eyes flicked toward Leesil, who wavered as he tried to lift baggage from the deck.

  Wynn wondered at the word Osha spoke, and why Sgäile ordered him into silence.

  Chein’âs—the . . . “burning” ones?

  Brot’an started to descend, and Wynn’s thoughts rushed to all he had done for her and her companions. She knew how much she irritated him at times, but he had been their protector and adviser—at a cost Wynn could not even estimate.

  “Brot’an . . . ,” she called, and then lost her nerve.

  Brot’an halted, then stepped back up on deck. He came closer, until he towered over Wynn, and grasped her gently by the shoulders.

  “Farewell, little one,” he said, and lowered his head to whisper, “and do not stop asking questions.”

  Wynn nodded with a sting in her eyes.

  Brot’an turned away, pausing once before Magiere. A shadow of sadness crossed her pale face. She, too, had depended on his wisdom in this strange land. But Leesil . . .

  He remained crouched over the baggage and did not rise. Too much had happened between Leesil and the master anmaglâhk for him to ever trust the man. Brot’an climbed over the ship’s side and vanished from sight.

  Sgäile turned hard eyes on Osha and pulled him away toward the ship’s aft.

  Wynn desperately wanted to follow and listen, though she knew such action would not be considered appropriate. She was about to go help Magiere and Leesil with the baggage when she noticed that Chap was gone. She spun about, searching the deck.

  He stood poised upon a crate near the rail-wall, gazing toward the shore. Wynn came up behind him and stroked his back. She knew what he had been doing all the early mornings and evenings when he had disappeared into the forest.

  Out beyond the city, Chap had spent his last days with Lily, the white majay-hì.

  He had said his good-bye to her the day they had arrived in Ghoivne Ajhâjhe, but the unexpected delay had weakened his resolve. Lily’s entire pack had gone home, but she stayed behind to be with Chap. The white majay-hì feared the populated city, and so he slipped out into the forest whenever possible.

  “I am sorry you have to leave her,” Wynn said.

  She would not come.

  “I know.”

  All around Wynn, the crew bustled with activity as they prepared to leave harbor. All except for one young woman. Wynn caught the girl watching her and Chap. Dressed in too large boots, with a heavy braid hanging forward over one shoulder, she turned quickly away and up the forecastle out of sight.

  As the sails caught the wind, the ship turned slowly toward the open sea, and Wynn thought she felt a strange, rhythmic thrum through the deck beneath her feet. Chap whined softly, his gaze still on the coastline, and Wynn felt overwhelmed by loss.

  There were so many reasons that they had to leave, but they left so much behind.

  Hkuan’duv stood on his vessel’s deck and watched the ship carrying the humans as it sailed out of harbor. He waited until darkness came.

  Of all the orders Most Aged Father had ever given, this one troubled Hkuan’duv the most. Sgäilsheilleache and Osha, two of Hkuan’duv’s own caste, were on the vessel he would track, and they knew nothing of his presence. Such a thing had never happened in his memory.

  As he stared toward the open sea beyond the harbor, a slender hand gripped the rail-wall beside him, and a soft voice spoke.

  “Your thoughts run in circles tonight.”

  Dänvârfij—Fated Music—looked him directly in the eyes. Her nose was too long and her cheekbones were a touch wide, but her skin was clean and creamy, like tea stirred with goat’s milk. She had been his last student, studying under him for five years, and there was always a quiet honesty in her eyes.

  When her skill with a bow clearly exceeded his, it was the final sign that their time together as teacher and student was over. He had spoken for her before Most Aged Father, and she had been given a word-wood in recognition. When she left on her first solo purpose, Hkuan’duv chose to take no more students.

  He did not respond to her comment. She knew him too well.

  “Have you seen our quarters?” he asked.

  “Yes, two small rooms below,” she answered. “A’harhk’nis and Kurhkâge can share one, you and I the other.”

  He nodded, turning from the rail-wall to find the other two members of his team sitting on the cargo hold’s grate.

  A’harhk’nis—Most Changeable—was unusually silent, even for a member of their caste. He was a skilled tracker, with wild eyes and unruly hair. Though he carried anmaglâhk stilettos, his preferred weapons were more brutal. In his belt at the small of his back he carried a pair of bone knives as large as sickles, their curved blades as wide as a human’s sword. He preferred his clothing loose and wore oversized breeches. Even with his cloak corners tied about his waist, it billowed around him.

  Hkuan’duv turned his eyes upon the last of his chosen.

  Kurhkâge—Sandpiper—was unremarkable but for his missing left eye and his stature. Lack of depth perception did not appear to affect him, and he came from the same clan as Brot’ân’duivé, sharing his oversized build. He had spent years in the human region south of the eastern coast, known as the Ylladon States. Kurhkâge was calculating and tactical, but his experiences among those loosely allied city-states of marauders had left him bitter.

  Ylladon ships sometimes grew daring and raided the lower reaches of the an’Cróan coastline. Shortly after Kurhkâge completed his tutelage, he headed south with two others on his first purpose. As the trio stopped over i
n the most southern an’Cróan coastal community, the village was raided. Kurhkâge lost his eye in that fight, but not one Ylladon marauder escaped.

  Hkuan’duv was certain of his choices. Only Dänvârfij troubled him a little. She was the most well-rounded in skills and training, but during their years together, he had grown . . . content in her company.

  After they parted, a year passed before Hkuan’duv felt at peace. He had no wish to go through such an adjustment again.

  Kurhkâge stalked over. He refused to wear an eye patch, and his left eye socket had healed into rough lumps of flesh.

  “The hkomas asks when we will leave,” he said. “He seems anxious over the growing distance between our ship and theirs.”

  Hkuan’duv nodded. He sympathized with the hkomas, who now followed the “requests” of the Anmaglâhk.

  “Soon,” he answered. “I wish to give our quarry some distance.”

  Earlier, the crew had prepared the ship. With little to do but wait, several of them cast curious glances at Hkuan’duv and his companions. Another twinge of discomfort passed through him.

  All an’Cróan revered the Anmaglâhk, who served to protect them. The ships of seafaring clans sometimes carried one or more into human territories, but the Anmaglâhk were only along for the ride. A team of four, led by a Greimasg’äh who made decisions and gave orders to the crew’s hkomas, was unprecedented.

  Hkuan’duv looked out into the dark harbor. It was time, and he glanced at Dänvârfij, her loose hair wafting softly around her long angular face.

  “I will give the word,” she said, knowing his mind as quickly as he did.

  “Tell the hkomas to fall off if he sees a hint of sails ahead. We must not be seen.”

  Dänvârfij headed for the helm at the ship’s rear.

  Soon, the iridescent sails fell open and filled with the breeze, and the deck began to softly thrum beneath Hkuan’duv’s feet. The ship slipped quietly out of harbor and to the east, never far from the coastline.

  Dänvârfij finally returned. “Your mind still runs in circles.”

  Hkuan’duv frowned. So far, he had told his companions little about their purpose. He breathed a troubled sigh as he gestured toward the hatch.

  “Get the others and come,” he said. “I will tell you all I can.”

  By the voyage’s second dusk, Leesil lay in a bunk below deck, unable to get up.

  So far, he’d kept down only small sips of water. Having been through this once before, he knew enough not to eat. Dizziness and nausea rolled in his head and stomach with the ship’s relentless teetering. The light of the one dangling lantern shifted upon the cabin walls. He closed his eyes and quickly opened them again. Darkness only made him feel worse.

  The cabin was small but well designed. Its walls were smooth, with no sign of individual planks, and pairs of ledges for bunks were shaped on both of the room’s sides. High-set porthole openings in the outer wall were sealed with brass-framed glass hatches.

  The cabin’s short oval door cracked inward, and Magiere ducked her head in. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’d rather ride fifty leagues on a half-mad horse,” he groaned.

  She came in, carrying a bowl of water and a rag for his head.

  Magiere’s caretaking was the one and only part of this sea voyage preferable to the last. Leesil had to admit that he enjoyed her attention. She sat beside him and dipped the rag without removing her gloves. Her hand was shaking just slightly.

  He reached out to touch it. “Are you all right?”

  During their time within the elven forest, Magiere had suffered from trembling and anxiety whenever she entered one of the tree dwellings. They hadn’t known why, until she’d lost all control in Nein’a’s prison clearing. And in that fight with their anmaglâhk escort, her bare hands had touched and marked a birch tree.

  Since boarding, Magiere had shown signs of the same manifestations she’d suffered in the elven forest, although they were far from its shore.

  “It’s not as bad,” she answered. “Probably just this nagging instinct to keep going . . . to reach wherever we’re headed.”

  Magiere had finally removed her hauberk and wore only her loose white shirt and breeches, with her hair bound back to keep it from her eyes in the wind.

  “Something odd happened a little while ago,” she said. “Sgäile politely related that the captain thinks it best that we stay on this end of the ship while below deck.”

  “A suggestion or a threat?” Leesil asked.

  “One’s as good as the other with these people.”

  He laid his head back as Magiere applied the damp rag to his forehead and looked up at the smooth seamless ceiling. Such a warning only made him want to go nosing about, but his stomach rolled on another list of the ship.

  “Where is everyone else?” he asked, seeking any distraction.

  “On deck. Sgäile is just staring out to sea. Osha borrowed some kind of game from a sailor and is teaching Wynn to play. Chap’s watching them without much interest, but I’m betting he understands the strategy better than Osha.”

  Leesil tried to smile. “This is the first time we’ve been alone since boarding.”

  Magiere didn’t seem to hear him. She gazed at the cabin wall—or perhaps through it to somewhere far away.

  “We’ll round the corner of the continent soon,” he said.

  She blinked. “What? Oh, I was thinking about . . . home. The new tables . . . the hearth, even that old burned sword hanging above it. We barely had time to settle in after the rebuild.”

  Leesil rolled toward her on his side. “Yes, home. A nice thought.”

  “If we ever reach it, if we are able to stay, if we don’t learn any more of ourselves that we don’t want to know.”

  The warm image of home faded from Leesil’s mind. Why did she keep bringing up the reason his mother had created and trained him—to use him as a tool against some unknown adversary the elves believed would return?

  “We make our own fate,” he snapped. “No one changes that.”

  Magiere dropped her eyes suddenly, and Leesil regretted his angry tone. He should be grateful she shared her worries with him so openly. But he stood by his words.

  They did make their own fate. No matter what name a pack of ghosts placed upon him, the only person he would “champion” was Magiere.

  She still gripped his fingers in one gloved hand, and he reached out with his other hand to trace the line of her jaw. Her face was so perfect to him. He sat up to kiss her, and his stomach lurched.

  “Stop that,” she said, and flattened her other hand on his chest. “You’re sick.”

  “Not that sick,” he answered.

  “Oh, really? You’re as green as Wynn’s lentil stew, and your breath . . . is terrible.”

  He stared at her. “How flattering.”

  “Rest!” She shoved him back down on the bunk. “I’ll stay with you.”

  Leesil’s stomach clenched as his back hit the bed, but he still frowned, feeling petulant.

  “We’re sharing quarters with Wynn and Chap . . . and this could be our last moment alone for a while.”