by Barb Hendee
“Stop treating her as if she will break!” Siôrs called with too much drama.
Even reed-thin Mehenisa looked astonished—or aghast. By her slight build, anyone might have thought her unsuitable to such a rough life. Ulahk and Kêl, cousins by human terms, were trying and failing not to snicker. Yavifheran, the youngest member, if judged by his size, watched with more disapproval than anyone else.
“Do you think the commander would send us out with untrained companions?” Siôrs asked as if the answer were obvious, and he flipped a hand toward En’wi’rên. “She is already a warrior and guardian, a full and true Shé’ith because—”
Yavifheran backhanded Siôrs across the arm, and Siôrs stopped short, as if he had almost made a slip.
Osha was too stunned by something else to give that much thought. A horse, not only named, held equal—no, superior—status among those present who trained to be Shé’ith?
Then who was En’wi’rên’s true rider?
“Show her respect, not your doubt!” Siôrs barked at Osha. “She has earned that more than any of us. Mount her knowing she will be there—always!”
As if to illustrate, he turned, charged straight at the horse, and leaped in the last instant.
Siôrs’s hands braced on the horse’s back as he vaulted and swung one leg over to land astride En’wi’rên’s back. Though she shifted, clearly that was a brief adjustment for the sudden passenger. Siôrs never even touched the reins.
“See?” he said, spreading his arms wide. Siôrs then swung his far leg over, slid off the horse’s back, and landed lightly on his feet.
En’wi’rên looked at Osha with her big black eyes, snorted at him, and shook her head.
Osha burned with embarrassment and stifled anger.
But it was the last time he disrespected En’wi’rên, no matter how much he abhorred riding another being. It was not that last time he fell, though that came later—again and again—in training with the pole or “mercy’s lance.”
He had difficulty learning to both feel and anticipate how En’wi’rên compensated for his mistakes while sparring on horseback. Most of his first falls were not from being knocked off her by an opponent’s lance across his midriff. He tried to pay more attention—to listen—to what she taught him in her movements. Less often did she have to save him, if possible. And then he still took a lance across the chest too many times.
En’wi’rên always stood silently, waiting each time until he picked himself up.
The worst came last, when he finally held that sword forced upon him. It was like touching the very thing that had taken everything he wanted when he had become Anmaglâhk. It was an unnatural, hateful thing; the seeming purity of the white metal blade mocked him. Everything about its use made this worse.
He understood striking from a distance with the bow, and even the return of the same from an enemy. With a small blade, though he could match few of his former caste, and never his teacher, the great Sgäilsheilleache, he also understood the bone knife’s hook, the stiletto’s hidden flash and speed, the strike and sweep of leg and arm, hand and foot, so close to an opponent that they were one.
But the sword . . .
Constantly shifting at a distance beyond touch and yet well short of an arrow’s flight seemed impossible to master. How many times did he suddenly freeze in finding Siôrs’s sword—or that of one of the others—resting flattened upon his shoulder near his neck?
Too many times to count.
What little peace Osha found in the forest began to wither.
At night, in trying to sleep, he was too often tortured by thoughts of Wynn. Not only for the pain of wanting her and the pain of her sending him away, but in imagining her in a barren desert and in danger without him.
As well, he wondered what had become of Wayfarer and Shade.
There had been times when Wayfarer had sent Shade to find and assure him. Even fewer times had the black majay-hì agreed to guide him to Wayfarer, and always in a place that could not be where she stayed with that wild woman. Even when he did manage to see Wayfarer with Shade’s assistance, she was slowly becoming someone he no longer recognized. She treated him more and more as almost a stranger.
Several times, he left the others on foot to try to find her himself, though he never succeeded, and when he returned . . .
The others’ worry, irritation, and anger were quite open. That cut him more than expected, and he did not know why. After having once abandoned her to Brot’ân’duivé and the others, he should have been relieved if not glad of her growing self-reliance. He was not.
There came a time when only Shade seemed glad to see him, and she was the only one he saw. Those were the only moments he found peace anymore, for she lingered longer and longer with him when Wayfarer did not come. The sight of a black majay-hì coming for him, and shying away from anyone else, puzzled the other trainees, though they never asked about this.
Finally, a dawn arrived when Osha tried to count how many had come and gone in the time of his training. He could not. Another dawn came when the others decided—or knew—it was time to return to a’Ghràihlôn’na. The journey back took longer than it might have, for the horses—including En’wi’rên—were gone that morning when he rose. Perhaps that had been the signal to the others.
It was dark by the time they arrived in the city, and Osha wondered what he would do now. All of his new peers had families here, and he had no one.
“You will stay with me,” Siôrs said, as if it were fact. “My mother loves guests.”
Osha did not know how to refuse politely. He had grown fond of Siôrs but would not be comfortable in an unfamiliar Lhoin’na family. He was still trying to find the right words as they approached the barracks when Althahk came striding out of the large stable nearby.
The commander’s expression was so stern that the entire group stopped and bowed their heads.
“Osha!” Althahk barked, ignoring the others. “Come!”
Osha blinked, startled, uncertain how to respond. After a quick glance at Siôrs, who only shrugged, Osha hurried after the commander. Althahk had already turned toward the stable, his boots cutting the ground in long, hard strides.
Osha grew more alarmed in catching up. Before he could ask, they reached the open doors of the stable, and the Shé’ith commander stopped.
“These claim an acquaintance with you,” he said. “I know two of them, and I told them it could not be true.”
Lost and confused, Osha peered into the stable. Chap and Chane, as well as a red-haired dwarf, were all standing before the backside of a wagon with three chests in its bed. The dwarf was familiar, for Osha had met him briefly in Calm Seatt when he assisted with their original escape from that city. He could not quite remember his name, though the dwarf appraised him with thinly veiled dislike.
All the recent past days and nights of training vanished in an instant as Osha saw the three chests in the wagon. Full reality returned as he looked to Chane, who nodded once.
“You know them?” Althahk demanded.
“Yes,” Osha answered. “Yes . . . I know them.”
“Go and collect Wayfarer and Shade,” Chane said without greeting. “Chap and Ore-Locks will go with you. I remain to guard . . . our wagon, and as soon as we resupply, we are leaving.”
Osha went numb amid confusion. It was not that he wished to stay, but as of yet, he had gained no answers to his questions:
Why had the Chein’âs forced the sword upon him?
Why had they linked him to the Shé’ith?
• • •
Chuillyon sat feeling sorry for himself at his usual table in a public house on the edge of a’Ghràihlôn’na. Once he had been the head of a secret order of the Lhoin’na branch of the Guild of Sagecraft. He had dressed in white robes and commanded subtle but real power. He had been a great scholar .
. . and more.
Now he sat drinking wine each night at the same table. Perhaps as a vain tribute to his former life, he wore a long black open robe over his simple pants and tunic. Black as the opposite of white was too much irony, though likely no one else would see it that way. No one noticed him much at all, for he always remained aloof.
How long had it been since he had chosen to secretly chase after Wynn Hygeorht into the bowels of lost Bäalâle Seatt? He had gone without permission or even guild knowledge, and one of his own acolytes had been killed. Another acolyte from a different order, but devoted to him, had been gravely injured. And upon his return, Chuillyon had been stripped of all positions and cast from the guild. Though he had mentally accepted this outcome, he had certainly never come to terms with it.
Then, an echo of Wynn Hygeorht had appeared two moons ago. He had been out walking in the city when that arrogant Althahk came in without his companions, but with three others.
Shé’ith always traveled in threes when ranging in their duties. Althahk alone escorted two foreign “elves” . . . and a charcoal black majay-hì.
Shade, unique upon sight as Wynn’s companion, was utterly unmistakable to Chuillyon.
He remained frozen in place, watching from a distance. What was Wynn Hygeorht’s wayward majay-hì doing here—and without the troublesome if endearing little human sage?
Strolling behind and off to the side, he closed on them enough to hear what might be said. The tall male and the short female spoke quite strangely. They were not Lhoin’na, which meant they had come a long way from that other place so few knew of on this side of the world.
But he knew.
Oh, yes, Chuillyon had occasionally traveled that far, considering that Chârmun, the great sacred tree of his people, had a “child” in the an’Cróan’s ancestral burial ground. Yes, this was simple enough information to acquire if one knew what he could do and how.
Wynn Hygeorht as well had spent several years on the eastern continent, though he had not known her then.
Chuillyon had long foreseen the growing darkness ahead. In concern, he had counseled sages, nobles, and royals secretly. Warning signs both light and dark heralded its coming nearer. And considering Wynn’s black companion was involved and now here . . .
He followed the trio that day, remaining out of sight as they first entered the forest. To his confusion and shock, Shade and the girl went off with Vreuvillä, that mad recluse who worshiped Chârmun and lived among majay-hì. But not before he caught a glimpse of the strange girl’s eyes.
Even from a distance in the forest’s shadows, those eyes were a strange, vibrant green instead of proper amber. After Shade and the girl were gone, the commander escorted the lanky young male to the barracks of the Shé’ith, where he was sent off with initiates likely in training.
None of this made any sense.
However possible, Chuillyon spent as much time as he could spying on them. Not so much with the girl, for it was quite difficult to get close with a pack of majay-hì always about. He did learn their names—Osha and Wayfarer—though at least once, the young male made a strange slip and almost called the girl something else.
And as with the girl’s eyes, there was something strange about the young male as well.
Osha apparently possessed a Shé’ith sword not given to him by the Shé’ith.
Every time Chuillyon learned another tidbit, it gave him fits of aggravation. Not quite as bad as with Wynn Hygeorht, but still . . .
Tonight, at the inn, he stared into a full goblet. He had not taken a single sip.
The obvious was unavoidable if he wanted any slim chance to figure out more about these two strange young ones with Shade. He certainly could not approach Althahk or Vreuvillä; doing so would eventually be heard of by the guild. Perhaps it was time for another surreptitious foray into the lands of the an’Cróan, such a backward people distantly related to his own.
There was a problem with that as well.
Highly placed sages of his suborder had learned to use Chârmun—“Sanctuary”—and its few “children” about the world as portals from one to another. No one would do so lightly; well, all right, he’d sought Chârmun’s assistance a bit more than anyone else had. And now, even though he was not highly placed anymore, nothing could take that ability from him.
However . . . outcast, disgraced, and worse, if he was caught doing so, he did not want to know what would happen. Well, he did think banishment was the next possibility, but they would have to catch him first.
There was a legend reaching back to the beginning of the Forgotten History. An ancestor of the Lhoin’na—and the an’Cróan—had been a leader of the allied forces in the Great War.
Sorhkafâré—“the Light upon the Grass”—took a cutting from Chârmun and left with those who would follow him. Some of the first Fay-born, including wolves whose descendants would become the majay-hì, joined him too. He led them across the world to establish a new territory on the eastern continent. There he planted that cutting, which became Roise Chârmune—the “Seed of Sanctuary”—at the heart of what would become those ancestors’ burial ground.
Chuillyon knew this legend was true.
With Chârmun’s assistance, he had briefly sneaked into that land a few times over many years. It seemed he would have to do so again for more serious snooping about.
Finally resigned, he rose and left the common house, leaving behind the full goblet. Heading through the city and out its northern side, he entered a path that led out into the thickest part of the central forest. He knew the way so well that he did not have to watch his steps. But as he drew closer to Chârmun’s clearing, he slowed to approach with care and peeked carefully around each turn in the path. He listened to the forest as well before sneaking onward.
The last thing he needed was to be caught here, and not just by members of his former caste or the Shé’ith. As he spotted Chârmun’s faint glimmer through the forest, he heard voices behind him along the path.
“Are we nearly there?” a deep, annoyed voice demanded in Numanese.
Chuillyon froze and looked about for any place to hide.
“Yes, nearly,” answered another. “Chap, you should lead. I have already failed to find where we must go.”
Chuillyon knew that voice and ducked off the path. Momentarily tangled in leafy, damp vines, he thrashed into the dense undergrowth, hoping no one heard. There he crouched behind a dank, moss-coated oak.
An instant later, Osha pushed through along the path.
Chuillyon was quickly distracted by someone else.
A red-haired male Rughìr, or dwarf, followed closely behind the young an’Cróan.
Chuillyon recognized the dwarf, though a name escaped him. He had seen the same one in Wynn’s company on her visit to his land, just before he had tracked her all the way to lost Bäalâle Seatt. And last down the path came a tall, mature, silver-gray majay-hì.
This was rather disconcerting, aside from Wynn’s own black companion. Just how many Fay-born had taken to wandering the world with outsiders?
Once the trio passed by and were a little ways down the path, Chuillyon slipped out of the brush more carefully than he had slipped in. It was not hard to follow them, considering the grumbling of the dwarf, who constantly swatted aside branches and vines that got in the way of his wide body.
What business did these three have so close to the presence of Chârmun?
Chuillyon crept after them.
• • •
Wayfarer sat with her legs folded to one side upon the mulchy ground. With Shade beside her, she looked up through a break in the forest’s canopy at a clear, starlit sky. And here in this place, there were always majay-hì within sight.
She had grown more accustomed to them via Shade’s guardianship and comfort. Sometimes they still reminded her of their kind in her lost h
omeland who had spied upon her and had likely done so for years before she was aware of them. She no longer feared that.
Wayfarer had never seen—dreamed—of anything like this place.
Strange bulging lanterns of opaque amber glass hung in the lower branches of maples, oaks, and startlingly immense firs. If one looked closely into the trees’ thick foliage, tiny trinkets and other odd items could be seen bound to their limbs by raw threads of shéot’a, something the Lhoin’na used to make shimmer cloth. All of those trees loosely framed a broad gully with gently sloping sides that stretched ahead.
Decades of leaf fall had hampered much undergrowth, leaving the way clear for the most part. Yet, ivy still climbed over exposed boulders and around and up evergreens. Bushy ferns grew here and there, breaking through the mulch that now crackled under loping, scurrying paws.
A pack of five adult majay-hì, along with four pups, engaged in their own form of communication all around her. Of course, the young ones were less interested in “talking” and more interested in who could stay the longest atop their rolling, running pile of little bodies. All dashed about past one another in rubbing heads, muzzles, or even shoulders . . . for they spoke with their own memories.
It was a language like no other.
Wayfarer had been learning it . . . hearing it . . . seeing it in her own mind. It now took only the barest touch of fingertips in fur.
Should she wish, Wayfarer could have reached out and touched them as they ran past. Flashes of their memories would be shared with her. If not for Shade guiding her, rather than Vreuvillä, this might have been terror rather than a revelation. But once it sank in, it changed everything.
Vreuvillä had said as much in a strange way. “They will prepare you.”
Wayfarer had not known what that meant. Prepare her for what? Then later, she did not care.
She had once believed herself an outsider, reviled and spied upon by the majay-hì of her own lost homeland. When they had come near her, hiding in the bushes and staring, she had thought this indicated their judgment that she did not belong.