by Barb Hendee
Black lines had spread through his hand from beneath that one tiny flower. They twisted and threaded through his skin where living blood no longer flowed. He felt his skin began to split underneath those marks as they spread up his forearm beneath his shirt’s sleeve.
He had begun to grow cold . . . frigid.
Paralyzing, icy pain filled his black-veined hand and quickly followed those worming lines up his arm into the nearer side of his throat and face. He had cried out and then fallen into darkness.
Ore-Locks and Wynn had found him quickly enough, but he remembered little more than agony.
Tonight, he would not make such a mistake again.
He took a pair of well-oiled gloves from Welstiel’s pack, put them on, and dug for the tool kit. Opening the kit, he removed the single pair of tweezers it held. Carefully—cautiously—he began harvesting petal after petal and dropped them onto a piece of waxed paper. When he had finished plucking clean seven blossoms, he folded the paper many times and tucked it back into the pack.
Then he stalled, studying the small tool in his right hand.
How much residue from Anamgiah might remain on the tweezers and gloves? He could not afford such a mishap again. Using the tweezers, he peeled the cuff with one glove enough to pinch and pull it off, letting it drop. He then did the same with the other glove, but for the tweezers, he dug for a scrap of cloth and wrapped them up in that to store away for later cleaning. Nothing that had touched the petals ever touched his skin.
Just as he was at last satisfied, hoofbeats sounded out in the darkness. Quickly, he slung the pack over one shoulder and backed his way through the tall grass so that he might hide among the trees. Once again, he winced as the sensation of invisible insects crawling over his skin returned.
Dawn was far off, so he had time. He waited for and watched a trio of Shé’ith ride past at a leisurely pace. Only when they were out of sight once again did he head through the trees for the road.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Magiere walked through the desert foothills—more conflicted than she had ever felt. She couldn’t speak of this to anyone, not even Leesil. Not that he wouldn’t listen or care. Of course he would. It simply wouldn’t do any good. He couldn’t change the situation, and neither could she.
Scouting now seemed futile.
But even if they found the Enemy’s hiding place, her hands were tied until they had all five orbs. So they—she—kept searching for any signs of an undead or other servants of the Enemy that might lead them . . . somewhere other than more wandering.
Tonight, the scouting team was larger than normal. Those left behind at camp had become more restless of late. So they’d found a site between foothills with a solid overhang and a deep rear to leave Wynn on her own for a while—at her suggestion. There was little chance she’d be spotted if she kept any light source dim, and she had her sun-crystal staff in case of emergency, though that was good only against the undead.
Magiere now followed Brot’an and Ghassan a short distance ahead, and Leesil strode along beside her. His tan complexion had grown even darker, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him without that muslin cloth tied around his head and draped down his back.
In a sidelong glance, he caught her watching him.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re starting to look like a Suman.”
“What does that mean?”
Magiere shook her head. “Nothing. Forget it.”
Before he could press her further, she spotted Brot’an stopped up ahead. He stood motionless, as if not even breathing. Ghassan had halted as well. Magiere hurried on with Leesil.
An instant later, a familiar hunger built inside her.
Moonlight grew brighter in her eyes. She almost expected Chap to break out in an eerie howl, but he wasn’t here. Thinking became difficult as hunger flooded through her and she heard Leesil’s steps slow. When she glanced over, she found him staring at her.
Even in just the moonlight, he must have seen her irises had gone black.
Without a word, he hooked the leather string around his neck with one finger and jerked out the topaz amulet. It was glowing. At the extra light, Brot’an glanced back.
The first scream tore the silence of the night.
Magiere’s muscles tensed as she was about to charge toward the sound.
Ghassan held one hand up to stop her.
“Wait,” Leesil whispered.
She didn’t know how long she could wait, but then Brot’an and Ghassan both broke into a jog onward. Another scream pierced Magiere’s ears. Her jaws ached as her teeth began to elongate. Leesil grabbed her wrist, and that was all that kept her from bolting past Ghassan and Brot’an as they followed.
Brot’an ran upslope and dropped to his stomach near the crest. Ghassan dropped beside him, and Leesil had to pull Magiere down.
“We cannot interfere,” Brot’an whispered. “We must let this finish and follow them.”
Magiere choked back a hiss when she saw the slaughter taking place at the base of the downslope. Her night sight exposed five figures with near-white skin and filthy hair setting upon a small group of Suman nomads. Throats were ripped under yellowed fangs. Children were pinned to the hillside’s stony exposures. The noise grew as two men with long knives tried to fight back, and both went down quickly. One was torn open at the throat as the other went down, and his scream was cut short in a choke.
Magiere lost all thoughts of anything else. She sprang to her feet, but Leesil grabbed the back of her belt. She barely heard him skid on stone and packed earth as she pulled her falchion and white metal dagger.
• • •
Khalidah watched in alarm as Magiere charged, breaking Leesil’s grip on her belt and sending him skidding and tumbling after her. Brot’an was up in an instant. Leesil rolled to his feet and pulled a winged blade as he ran on. Khalidah fixed on the back of Magiere’s head as sigils and signs filled his sight.
If the dhampir and her consort, along with that master assassin, did not kill all targets before any could flee . . . there would be a trail to follow. Even if one of Magiere’s companions died in this rash assault, in her current state she might still rush after a fleeing quarry—and she could keep up.
That quarry might lead her straight to Beloved, and all of Khalidah’s delays to gain the orbs would come to nothing. Worse, if she were somehow crippled or even killed, would others continue or turn away?
Khalidah arose as more lines of light spread around his view of Magiere.
• • •
Rage consumed Magiere as she ran. Her mind was filled only with thoughts of tearing, hacking, and rending the undead. Her speed picked up in charging downslope, and then her legs shook and buckled for no reason.
She stumbled and then toppled as the baked ground and stones vanished before her eyes, as if her night sight had suddenly failed.
• • •
Ghassan fought wildly to regain control of his body as he watched Magiere stumble several times and then fall. Leesil dropped beside her and grabbed her shoulders. Brot’an ducked around them both, watching below for any attention that turned their way.
The screaming faded, the last one cut short to silence.
Ghassan’s legs began to move as Khalidah took his body to join the others.
“What happened?” Khalidah asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Leesil answered, sounding panicked. He had dropped his weapon and pulled Magiere up against his chest. “Magiere?”
Her eyes fluttered open, and her irises had contracted to their normal state. She sucked in a loud breath before even seeing her husband.
“What happened?” he asked her.
Magiere blinked several times, looked all around, and ran her hands over her face.
“Perhaps fatigue or disorientation mad
e her lose her footing,” Khalidah suggested, glancing below to see nothing but the mute silhouettes of corpses. “It is too late to do anything. The undead are gone, and we should leave here. Attempting to track them now could only lead us into an ambush. We will wait to pick up the trail at dawn, when most of their kind go dormant.”
Ghassan railed in frustration and impotence. The specter’s concern would sound so rational to the others.
Leesil reached for his fallen blade and drew Magiere up as he rose. “Yes, back to camp . . . for now.”
There was nothing Ghassan could do but turn his anger upon Khalidah.
I will see you scattered into nothing.
He heard nothing in reply, not even a snicker in the dark.
• • •
It took only a day for Osha—along with Ore-Locks and Wayfarer—to purchase necessary supplies. Not long after nightfall, he climbed into the remaining space in the wagon’s back with Wayfarer, Shade, and Chap. Ore-Locks climbed up onto the front bench. Chane followed him and took up the reins.
“Everyone present?” the vampire rasped.
Chap huffed once to answer, and Chane clicked the reins.
The wagon rolled out of the stable and onto the street. Osha leaned back against a chest to face the wagon’s rear. The others with him here in the back were packed in tight among the three chests, the supplies, and all the other gear.
This was all happening too fast.
Only one night earlier, he had walked into the city with Siôrs while wondering how he would spend his time outside of training. Now he was heading off to find an entrance to a fallen dwarven stronghold.
He had not even had a chance to say good-bye to Siôrs and the others or even pay his due respects to Commander Althahk.
Only one thing brought him comfort.
Wayfarer sat nearby, though she did not lean in upon him as she once had. Shade lay close to her, the majay-hì’s head across her thighs. Chap lay farthest back near the wagon’s rear, his head upon his paws. Wayfarer did not appear daunted by the prospect of another journey through strange places.
This was not the only change he noticed.
In her, Osha now saw . . . confidence . . . though perhaps it was still tangled in doubts. He understood both personally.
As the wagon neared a southern exit from the city and turned onto a road that still ran through the forest, he studied her whenever he thought she would not notice. She even looked different, though he could not decide if that braided circlet of raw shéot’a strips and soft rawhide clothing were to his liking. He certainly liked the look of her, but at the same time the new attire made her someone he no longer knew.
“Are you sad to leave?” he asked quietly in their tongue, so Chane or Ore-Locks would not overhear or understand.
She cocked her head slightly, watching him. “Not exactly.”
Again, she did not sound like Wayfarer—and certainly not Leanâlhâm of older days. For one, she answered his question directly and did not stare at the wagon bed. He had never heard her speak in such a forthright manner.
And likely that confusion showed on his own face, and so he glanced away.
“I have not learned enough . . . I am not ready to leave,” she added. “But I do miss Magiere and Leesil, and it is also good to have you again.”
In a flash of hope, Osha sought to meet her eyes, but found her looking at Chap. The elder majay-hì huffed at her with one switch of his tail.
Osha hung his head.
Strangely disappointed, though he knew not why, he felt the truth of her words.
He did not feel “ready” in what he had learned either, as he had uncovered no connection between himself, the sword, and the Shé’ith, and no reason why fate would link him to them. Was he sad to leave? He could not be sure. Perhaps had he found a new way to live? Perhaps he would miss Siôrs and the others and even En’wi’rên, though he still had bruises from her instruction. But as to all of this and how it had come to him . . .
It was still because of that sword forced upon him. Could he allow his path to be decided by anything connected to that blade? Finally, he lifted his head to watch the city’s southern gate of massive trees grow smaller and smaller.
As he leaned farther back to find a more comfortable position, he discovered Chap watching him intently.
Osha looked away.
• • •
Chuillyon hid in the darker night shadows outside the stable and watched as the wagon rolled away. The dwarf sat up on the bench with the undead while the young would-be Shé’ith, the girl, and both majay-hì were piled in among several chests and sacks of supplies.
What had brought this unlikely group together and brought them here? And why?
He had to know.
He could give them a head start and purchase a horse to follow at a safe distance. This might yield their final destination, at least. But at a distance, he might learn nothing of them or their goals or how such a strange collection of people had drawn together in the first place.
He could go to Chârmun and travel again to Calm Seatt, for though unknown to most, a child of Chârmun grew in the courtyard of its third and now royal castle. From there, he could make a reasonably quick visit to an old friend.
Cinder-Shard might have a few pieces to this strange puzzle.
But Chuillyon had dealt with Ore-Locks and Chane Andraso before. They had even stayed at the Lhoin’na guild branch once—along with Wynn Hygeorht and the charcoal majay-hì. Both the undead and the young stonewalker were tight-lipped and functioned on their own agendas. A trip to Cinder-Shard might prove a waste of valuable time. He might know exactly what Ore-Locks was doing here . . . and he might not.
Also, in the end, it was the two younger foreigners who bothered Chuillyon the most. Those two were more likely the crux of this odd puzzle.
One had been welcomed by the Shé’ith without any of the traditional petitions and preliminary testing. The other had been taken in by that annoying, renegade priestess of outdated practice, who had been a thorn under Chuillyon’s robe for decades. Vreuvillä despised the Lhoin’na sage’s guild and all those associated with it. She viewed them as having used Chârmun to give themselves a place of importance in the world. She sneered at the orders of the sages, at their need for ranks and titles.
Why had Vreuvillä accepted the foreign girl?
Chuillyon sighed in frustration; the answer would not be found in Calm Seatt.
That left only his earlier original notion: to visit the world’s far side to snoop upon his people’s backward cousins, the an’Cróan. Those two younger ones had to have come from there.
So he headed off again through the city. He knew the way to Chârmun so well that he paid little attention to his path, but once he drew close, the night was dark enough in the thickened forest that he risked pulling out a small cold-lamp crystal.
He should have given it back to the guild when he was stripped of his rank and cast out . . . and he had, actually. That he had an extra one, well, it was not his fault if no one asked about that.
Rubbing it lightly in his hands, he held it loosely in a grip to let only a little of its light escape. If Vreuvillä or her pack were about, he certainly did not need such complications. There had been enough already.
Something stood out in the canopy above him.
Tawny vines as thick as his wrist wove their way through the high canopy, some paralleling his path. They were smooth, perhaps glistening from moisture, but he could see a grain in them like that of polished wood.
As he stepped onward, more vines twisted above him, growing broader and thicker the farther he went. Smaller ones appeared here and there, branching off the larger ones. All were woven into the upper reaches of the trees. Soon, they did not glisten as much as faintly glow, as if catching the radiance of the moon hidden from sight farther abov
e.
He used the soft light of these vines to lead him, for he knew they came from where he now traveled. Branches, trunks, and bearded moss were like black silhouettes between himself and a nearing illumination inside the forest itself.
Chuillyon finally stepped out into a broad clearing and idly slipped the crystal away out of sight. Overhead, the forest still roofed the space, but the clearing was covered in a mossy carpet. And there at its center was his old friend.
Chârmun’s massive roots split the turf in mounds, some of which would be almost waist high near its immense trunk. Its great bulk was the size of a small tower, and though completely bare of bark, it was not grayed like dead wood. The soft glow seen in the vines and its branches lit the entire clearing with shimmering light.
It was alive . . . because in some ways it was life itself.
“Oh, so good to see you again, as always,” he said softly.
He headed toward the great trunk, as he had done many times before.
“Time for another outing, if you do not mind,” he added with a faint smile.
When he was close enough to touch Chârmun, he pulled his plain robe around himself and began to lower his large hood over his eyes. Still pinching the edge of his hood, he froze in place, staring.
Some new growth to replace the old was to be expected, but such so very rarely had leaves—not on Chârmun. And that was what he stared at now: a new small sprout with leaves. He had not seen such in fifty-seven years, and that last one he had planted in a secret place of the courtyard in the Calm Seatt’s third and largest castle.
Chuillyon released the pinch of his hood. He dropped his hand at his side with a moan.
“Do you not have enough children?” he asked in exasperation. “And where am I to hide this one?”
Chuillyon looked up into the canopy above as if searching for a sign. Finally lowering his eyes, he shook his head, muttering like a petulant child . . . of some seventy-plus years. Still no sign of an answer came.