Child of a Dead God

by Barb Hendee

  “I need to find a courier,” Wynn said. “Or at least some place where the caravans stop. I want to send word to Domin Tilswith now, and not wait until we reach Miiska.”

  “Chap, go with her,” Leesil said. “Meet us at that stable up the way. One of us will find an inn before you get back.”

  He grabbed Magiere’s waist.

  “Almost home,” she said tiredly, and Leesil tucked his head in close to her.

  Chap did not hear what was said, but Magiere turned a scowl on Leesil.

  “Not until you’ve had a bath,” she growled.

  Leesil swatted her on the rump and took off before she snatched hold of him.

  Wynn looked to Osha. He nodded to her, and she headed off.

  Chap followed Wynn, wishing at heart that they could simply go home and stay there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Magiere fell silent as she walked into Miiska.

  She quickened her pace, not wanting to be seen by anyone they knew just yet, not until they reached the Sea Lion Tavern.

  They’d arrived from the south, so the tavern was just ahead beyond the trees. All she wanted was to see her home. By the time she reached the sloping road’s bottom, and stepped from the forest into the edge of town, Leesil had to jog to catch up with her. The others were left behind, but Chap bolted headlong around Magiere, racing toward the dockside of Miiska.

  And then she saw it.

  Leesil’s hand-painted sign hung above the narrow door, and the whole place looked so much the same, as if she’d been away but a few days.

  The Sea Lion—and Chap was turning in pinwheels by the time Magiere squeezed the latch and shoved the front door inward.

  Everything inside still looked brand new, from the polished bar to the two-sided hearth in the common room’s center. Rashed’s sword hung above the hearth on the room’s bar side, marking the tavern’s rebirth from ashes. Beyond the bar’s far end, narrow stairs climbed to the second floor and bedrooms.

  Leesil pushed around Magiere, casting his hungry eyes over everything. At first he couldn’t speak any more than could Magiere. Then he sighed as his gaze fixed on the corner beneath the front windows.

  “My Faro table!” he whispered.

  Chap squeezed between their legs and made a hurried circuit around the hearth.

  “Caleb, you deaf old hog!”

  Magiere’s throat tightened. The loud, gruff woman’s voice came from behind the kitchen’s curtained doorway.

  “How many damn times have I told you—don’t put onions in the soup when Karlin is coming! You know he can’t abide the taste!”

  “I already put his serving aside,” came an answering shout from up the stairs. “Leave me be, woman!”

  A stout form in an old purple dress and stained apron burst through the whipping kitchen curtain. She turned, heading for the stairs like an irate captain hot after an errant soldier. But she halted halfway and turned quickly about. She almost dropped the long wooden spoon she wielded as shock washed away the ire on her round, wrinkled face.

  “Aunt Bieja,” Magiere whispered.

  Bieja barreled along the bar and nearly cracked Magiere’s ribs in a fierce embrace.

  “My girl . . . my girl!”

  Her aunt’s hair smelled musky, and it took all Magiere’s effort not to weep in overwhelming relief. Bieja had come, just as Leesil had insisted she would.

  Magiere’s aunt released her, and with tears on her gruff face, she spotted Leesil. Before he could duck, she grabbed him as well.

  “Ow,” he grunted. “Go easy! It’s good to see you, too.”

  Bieja stepped back, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, as Chap snuck out between table and chair legs.

  “Ah, so the troublemaker is still with you.” Then she noticed Wynn and Osha in the doorway.

  Magiere reached back, pulling Wynn in. “Auntie, these are friends. This is Wynn and that’s Osha.”

  Bieja crossed her arms, taking stock of the tall, hooded elf.

  “Osha,” Leesil mumbled, “better keep your ears covered.”

  Beija whacked him in the gut with her spoon. “Shut that mouth, imp.”

  Then a commotion began on the stairway. “Leesil!”

  Little Rose nearly flew down the stairs.

  Caleb descended quickly behind the girl, and his eyes widened at the newcomers. “Mistress Magiere?”

  Rose ran straight for Leesil and jumped at him. Leesil hooked her underarms and lifted her with an exaggerated grunt.

  “You’re getting heavy!”

  In truth, Rose had grown, and her muslin dress looked a bit small. Her auburn hair was thick and long—she was becoming quite pretty. Aside from her aunt’s presence, this was the first mark of just how long Magiere had been gone. Little Rose ran her small fingers down the closed wound along Leesil’s cheek.

  “What happened to your face?”

  “Fierce battles,” he said in a haughty tone and hefted her higher. “I’ll tell you stories at dinner.”

  “No, you won’t!” Magiere warned.

  “Just the suitable ones,” he corrected.

  Caleb joined them, his back slightly bent, and he grasped Magiere’s hand. “Welcome home, Mistress.”

  She gripped his hand with another breath of relief at that one word—home.

  “Domin Tilswith?” Wynn blurted out in surprise.

  She pushed past everyone as Magiere spotted someone else descending the stairs. He was slight-built and silver-haired, and his old gray robes sagged on him a bit.

  Domin Tilswith stepped into the common room with a smirkish grin. His green eyes sparked at the sight of his apprentice.

  “I received message . . . came right away.”

  Wynn hurried to meet him, but they did not embrace. They only clasped hands with mutual smiles.

  Osha still hung in the doorway with the two jars of ashes in his arms. He looked about in complete loss. A pang of guilt hit Magiere for ignoring him, but Aunt Bieja closed on the young elf first.

  “Oh, I don’t know where my girl keeps finding your kind,” she said and grabbed him roughly by the arm. “You best come have supper. No one that tall should be so skinny.”

  Even an anmaglâhk stood little chance against the will of Aunt Bieja. Osha forgot to duck, and his forehead smacked the top of the door frame.

  Magiere clasped the back of Leesil’s head, pulling his face close, little Rose still in his arms. She settled her forehead against his and whispered.

  “We’re home.”

  Near midnight, Leesil finally succeeded in sending Bieja, Caleb, and Rose off to bed. Osha settled the jars of ashes atop the hearth.

  Leesil didn’t want the homecoming celebration to end, but Domin Tilswith had been “smiling” patiently all evening. The old master sage awaited a more serious discussion, particularly when Leesil returned with Magiere from unloading their packhorse, and Wynn had returned from taking Aspen to the local stable.

  They gathered in the kitchen around the canvas bundle on the prep table, and Magiere unwrapped the orb.

  Leesil suddenly wondered where any of them would even begin to tell their story.

  Chap appeared to study Tilswith’s face, which grew dour and puzzled as the old man leaned over the artifact.

  “This what Welstiel sought . . . where you find?”

  “Do you know what it is?” Magiere asked bluntly.

  “Where you find?” the domin repeated.

  The old man’s Belaskian hadn’t improved any more than Osha’s had, perhaps less. Magiere, Leesil, and Wynn in turn each told him varied parts of their journey. Osha only listened, and Chap continued watching Domin Tilswith.

  Leesil wondered suspiciously at the dog’s fixed attention. Hopefully Chap wasn’t messing about in the old man’s head.

  Tilswith’s mouth opened slightly at Magiere’s mention of Li’kän, of the circlet that had removed the spike, and of water droplets rushing madly toward the orb to vanish in its searing light.
But Magiere never mentioned their differing impressions of the presence that had risen in the cavern.

  “Eô, âg-léak!” Domin Tilswith sputtered in his own guttural tongue. “Wynn, what we done?”

  Wynn’s olive face flooded with alarm. “Do you know what it is? Where it came from?”

  He shook his head, seeming suddenly older. “No. . . . But is more than simple tool, even for it power. The place found . . . so guard and protect it was. And secret so long. May . . . be . . . we should left it there.”

  Leesil flushed cold with disbelief. “After all we’ve been through? Sgäile died trying to help us bring this back! And you think we should’ve left it?”

  Domin Tilswith’s forehead wrinkled. “I did not understand—”

  “You cannot safeguard this?” Osha asked abruptly.

  Wynn turned her startled gaze to his face.

  Leesil followed her and found the young elf watching the domin as carefully as Chap was.

  “Osha, it is not that . . . ,” Wynn began. “I am sure the domin meant—”

  “I believed . . . your sages offer safeguard,” Osha cut in. “I complete my teacher’s guardianship because you said sages give . . .”

  He struggled a moment and finished in Elvish.

  Wynn looked at Leesil. “Security. He thought the sages could provide security, and truly they can—”

  “Not from Anmaglâhk,” Osha said flatly.

  “What?” Leesil asked.

  “Most Aged Father wishes much for this thing,” Osha continued. “So much, he set caste brother against brother. He will not stop.”

  “We let that woman back in the swamps get away!” Leesil nearly shouted. “You said she wasn’t a danger anymore.”

  “Dänvârfij make no difference!” Osha snapped back. “Her life, her death, no difference. Most Aged Father send others. Two moons, not more, and he will send my caste.”

  Osha turned equal anger on Domin Tilswith.

  “Sages cannot give . . . security from Anmaglâhk. They scholars, not guardians. They die and my caste take the orb.”

  Leesil looked to Magiere for any support.

  She stood leaning with her hands braced upon the kitchen table. Her eyes went dark, and Leesil felt as if the floor had shifted suddenly under his feet.

  Magiere whirled away for the back door. She slapped it open with her palm, stormed out, and the door swung shut behind her. Leesil rushed after her.

  When he stepped out, she was gone. He peered along the back of the tavern and adjacent buildings, and jogged to the tavern’s corner, looking about, and he still couldn’t spot her. When he turned back, he caught a glimpse of white in the forested neck of land behind the tavern that shot outward into the sea.

  Magiere stood there, the sleeves of her white shirt rustling in the sharp breeze.

  Fresh salt air blew against Leesil’s face as he wove through the birches and evergreens.

  Magiere just stared out to sea with one hand over her mouth, as if too overwhelmed to breathe. She took it away as she glanced at him, and he ached inside under her lost eyes.

  “What are we going to do?” she whispered. “Tilswith would take it if we asked him . . . but that’s like tossing fresh meat into a sheep’s pen to draw in the wolves.”

  Leesil wanted no more of this. They’d been asked too much already, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—struggle for an answer right now. He slipped his arm around Magiere, gripping her shoulder, and tucked his head next to hers until their cheeks met.

  “Not now,” he said. “We just got home . . . I don’t want to talk about orbs or sages or Anmaglâhk. I don’t want to think about any of this!”

  When he lifted his head, that lost look faded from Magiere’s eyes. She glared at him, her face filled with that familiar accusation for whenever he took refuge in denial.

  “What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

  He lifted his hand to her cheek, fingers combing up into her black hair.

  “Getting married.”

  Five days later, and loaded with trepidation, Leesil followed Karlin Boigiesque to the newly constructed dockside warehouse.

  “Karlin . . . Magiere thinks it’s a fine idea,” he grumbled, “but it’s not what I had in mind.”

  “It’s the only building in town that’s large enough,” Karlin insisted. “You just wait, lad. You’ll see.”

  The stout, balding baker with kind eyes was their closest friend in Miiska, and now chairman of the town council. The previous summer, Leesil had burned the town’s main warehouse, trying to cover his heels as he and Brenden raced to save Magiere and escape a trio of vampires. Later, he and Magiere had earned enough coin in Bela for its reconstruction.

  Made of stout pine, from the outside it was impressive—for a warehouse. But it was hardly where Leesil had expected to be married. Magiere seemed satisfied with the idea, claiming they’d come full circle. But at least the celebration afterward would take place in the Sea Lion.

  “Go on, take a peek,” Karlin said, and slid open one huge dockside door. “We had it cleared yesterday. Aria, Geoffry, and Darien’s mother worked on the rest all morning.”

  Leesil stepped around the baker and his jaw dropped. “Ah, dead deities in seven hells!”

  “Watch your tongue,” Karlin admonished with a chuckle. “This is now a sacred place.”

  The high bay doors used for loading the lofts sat open, and afternoon light streamed in wide shafts to the floor. All the crates had been removed and only barrels lined the walls, but garlands and bushels of wild blossoms and spring roses were carefully woven around them and up the walls.

  Clean muslin sheets hung at the front in a half-moon backdrop. To either side of this stood a linen-draped barrel supporting a decorated white vase filled with roses. Dead center between them, before the backdrop, stood a small linen-draped table. Upon it waited three white candles, an incense stick and brazier, and a long, neatly coiled strip of white silk ribbon.

  “That’s where you’ll stand for the ceremony,” Karlin said and dropped a thick hand on Leesil’s shoulder. “Guests start arriving soon . . . too late to run now, lad.”

  Leesil breathed the perfume from hundreds of flowers caught in the variegated light spilling into the wide space. He couldn’t wait for Magiere to join him.

  Magiere hid in a back room of the warehouse. She’d relented to Aunt Bieja’s insistence that it be turned into a dressing area, but now doubted her decision.

  Between Aria and Bieja rushing in and out with hot irons to curl her hair, she felt . . . exposed. But the dressing ordeal finally ended, and Aria and Bieja went off on some last-minute task. Magiere stepped in front of the large oak-framed mirror in a welcome moment of solitude.