The Night Voice

by Barb Hendee

  Bodies in strange clothing or armor gathered like ghosts. Their faces and limbs and any other exposed flesh were pale as death. A whisper carried in more than one voice, over and over.

  . . . Beloved . . .

  Hovering in flickering glimpses behind each figure was the red-haloed shape of that black-scaled dragon. He recognized two of the pale faces.

  The first had almond-shaped eyes in a narrow face draped with tangles of silken black hair. Though her irises had been crystalline then, in this vision they were so dark, they might be chocolate, nearly black.

  Li’kän had been the mad and near-mute guardian of the first orb, and Chap recognized the other.

  Likewise, Qahhar, with his thick eyebrows and shiny, dark locks, looked as Suman as Ghassan. But he was as pale as all the others—thirteen in all.

  These were the Children from the poem scroll Chane had brought to Wynn, but Chap never had a chance to see the other faces clearly. They crumpled into the black mists as if dying upon the whisper of . . . Beloved.

  He saw again the fiery maw and eyes of the dragon, suddenly smothered to nothing.

  In their place came flickers of his own life, his own existence, but again moving backward in time.

  Magiere and Leesil discovering the secret that he was Fay.

  Living on the road with Leesil after the young half-breed fled the Warlands.

  Eillean, Leesil’s grandmother, bringing him as a pup to Cuir’en’neina, Leesil’s mother.

  Being born and then . . . nothing . . . but more whispers that he now felt more than heard.

  Nothing . . . no more . . . nothing . . .

  Let there be something . . . some . . . thing . . . for us . . .

  He felt himself without body, without mind, without anything but thoughts. The overlapping chorus of whispers was so mournful, like ancient, timeless children mourning in the dark.

  A chorus of voices whispered in Chap’s spirit, like when he had viciously turned on his own kin when last communing with them. Now it was as if he had gone back even further to that time without time when he had existed as one with them.

  I—we—must exist.

  He felt them—himself, both, one—though no longer with flesh or presence. He felt five pieces of them—of himself—being torn out, though they went willingly for the sake of all . . . of the one.

  We will make our existence.

  Then there were the many within the one.

  He remembered the beginning of Earth, Water, Air, Fire, and Spirit—the first of any thing. Five parts of the Fay—of him and all that was One—sacrificed themselves in separateness. This ended the Fay’s nonbeing amid an endless, timeless nothing. There was a place and a time for it—they—to be.

  Upheaval quickly followed. He could not remember its cause, what it was, where it started . . . who was its source. Then he was alone, barely aware of his self.

  Nothing more came to him, and what followed began with a mournful loneliness in isolation. No, that was not from him but from some other, though he felt it now. Was that from all of them or from only another one?

  It built quickly, making him frantic, then panicked, and finally it became a desperate fury to escape at any cost . . . from what?

  He thought he heard distant screaming.

  And that one of fright and fury died, he could feel it—but it was still there, aware even after its own death. That face of the dragon shaped in fire winked away, but he could still hear its hiss . . . and the sound of scraping scales on immense coils exploded in another scream.

  “Chap . . . please . . . breathe!”

  He knew this voice, or he should. Not the fiery one that had died and not died. It was another being, but he could not find the name for it.

  “Wake up, Chap, please!”

  Was someone speaking to him? Was that his name?

  “Don’t you leave me, don’t you dare . . . Magiere, get in here!”

  He should know a name for that voice. Then came something else that he heard: a rustle, perhaps canvas, and rapid vibrations against his side, his body. Did he have a flesh and form? Footfalls brought another voice.

  “Wynn, what’s wrong?”

  “Magiere, he won’t move, won’t breathe. His eyes are open but . . . he isn’t breathing.”

  A hard touch on him pressed and shook him. He had a body, but it was only a shell. He could not move it or escape from it.

  “Chap, answer me—now,” snarled the second voice. “Wynn, what happened?”

  “He touched an orb, only for an instant, and . . . and then he dropped.”

  “Move aside,” a third, deeper voice ordered.

  “Brot’an, there’s no . . . What are you doing? Why’d you bring him?”

  “Move now,” that third voice repeated, cold and sharp. “Wynn, back away.”

  Chap—if that was his own name—felt someone touch him again, perhaps on a shoulder. The following whisper was so close that it blocked all other sounds.

  “Time to come back, old guardian. You are not done yet, as a guess.”

  Warmth spread from the touch.

  A light grew in the complete darkness until a soft glimmer took shape. He vaguely knew the form from somewhere as its glow coalesced into squiggly lines, which became branches, all of which sprouted from a thickening trunk. It was tawny and warm to the sight, and he had seen it somewhere before.

  “A bit longer,” that last, fourth voice added, tainted with puzzling humor. “At least, from what Chârmun tells me.”

  He knew that name was for what he saw in the dark. His panicked fury fled from its light. Other shapes began to form in his darkness and as a tree slowly faded from sight. With them came smells thickened inside a dim tent. The only true light now was a cold-lamp crystal lying near his head, between him . . . and Wynn.

  She collapsed atop him, sobbing in relief.

  Chap rolled his head enough to see the others.

  Near where Wynn had knelt, Magiere’s eyes half closed as she sagged in a heavy breath. And the one still touching him, Chuillyon, looked down upon him with a wry smile. Behind him, Brot’an was on one knee, ever watchful.

  Thankfully, the chest with the orb of Spirit was closed. Wynn must have had the presence of mind to close it.

  Ghassan stood in the tent’s opening as if he had just arrived . . . with Chane and Ore-Locks still outside but looking in. Leesil was nowhere to be seen.

  Why did Leesil’s absence suddenly terrify Chap?

  Worse, he remembered that darker moment when panic had been eaten by fury. Had either of those emotions been his, or had he merely felt them from that other, the one who had died and not died? But who and why?

  Chap remembered the last words of his kin. Those had to have some meaning for what he had seen—lived—in touching whatever lay within the anchor of Spirit, but he still could not find the full meaning of . . .

  Leave the enslaved alone.

  And why had he seen a dragon . . . the dark and fire-shrouded face of that great weürm?

  • • •

  Kneeling before Chap, Wynn grasped his face with both hands. “Talk to me.”

  He looked up into her brown eyes and then struggled to look around at the others present. For just an instant, she thought he paused in staring at Chuillyon, which confused and then worried her even more.

  —You must help me—

  “Of course,” she answered. “We will get you on my bedroll, and Magiere can find some water for—”

  —No . . . help me with Chuillyon—

  Wynn stiffened. There was nothing she could think of that was worth involving that trickster, unless he was the only way to escape if everything went wrong.

  —It involves his assumed ability to travel between Chârmun and its children . . . its separated parts—

  “What?
” she asked in obvious alarm.

  “What did he say?” Magiere demanded, crouching close.

  Wynn stiffened, suddenly wary of answering in the presence of some of the others.

  —We will need Leesil’s branch. If we hope to win this battle, you will do as I instruct. First, remove Ghassan and Brot’an, and then find Leesil—

  Chap sounded desperate as well as urgent. She didn’t like the guesses that came to mind without a full explanation. As always, she had to trust him again.

  “Everyone, give us some privacy, please,” she said. But as Chuillyon nodded and rose to follow Brot’an and Ghassan, she told him, “Not you . . . You stay.”

  Chuillyon stalled, raising one eyebrow in puzzled fascination.

  Oh, she so hated it when he did that!

  Wynn turned to Magiere in a low whisper. “Go find Leesil, quickly.”

  • • •

  Not long after, Khalidah stood near the edge of camp, weighing his options. Ore-Locks and Chane once again sat together, speaking in low voices, but occasionally Chane glanced over at the center tent in what might be concern.

  Khalidah too wondered what was happening inside that tent. He had no idea what had caused the majay-hì to fall, and this concerned him slightly, but he had come upon the scene too late and no one had offered an explanation. He had not wished to risk scrutiny by pressing Wynn or Magiere. Anyway, the majay-hì appeared to have recovered with the help of the enigmatic elf.

  Within moments of Khalidah and Brot’an having been sent from the tent, Leesil had come back into camp, and Magiere had drawn him inside. Their voices were too low to hear. It was tempting to use sorcery to listen in, but Brot’an was still out here . . . and watching.

  Well, if Wynn wished to plot and plan in secret, let her. It helped keep the attention off him, and he had his own plans.

  Deciding upon a current course of action, he turned to Brot’an. “I may as well be useful,” he said. “We passed an area that might be a good hiding place for a well. I will take a look.”

  Brot’an watched him with no expression. “Should I accompany you?”

  Khalidah raised one hand. “No, that is not necessary. You might be needed here, and I can hide more quickly alone if I encounter something.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he slipped out of camp, heading west. While he had been away on the long trek to meet Chane and Chap—and the three remaining orbs—Sau’ilahk and Ubâd had remained here. No, it was not a mistake, happenstance, or even the scouting of Brot’an and Leesil that had led to the selection of this spot to camp.

  It had all been his subtle doing.

  He walked through the foothills in long, steady strides for some time. Upon nearing the other camp, as usual, he encountered the ghost girl first.

  Either she or the masked creature who controlled her always sensed his coming. He passed her watchful stare and soon came upon Ubâd’s wheeled litter with his lashed, preserved corpse on top. His two overmuscled corpse servants likewise were always silently nearby.

  Sau’ilahk crouched beside a glowing oil lamp.

  He rose at the sight of Khalidah. Even out here after so many nights, his pale, handsome face appeared clean and flawless, as did his blue-black hair. He had always been vain.

  “You have all five orbs in your possession?” Sau’ilahk asked without greeting.

  Khalidah kept his tone measured, though his answer brought him relief and joy. “Yes.”

  Sau’ilahk scowled, less than pleased. “Then you should have contacted me via the medallion long before now!”

  “Yes, you should have,” echoed the ghost girl for Ubâd. “We have been waiting in ignorance while the horde grows.”

  Khalidah barely glanced at the corpse on the litter. The three of them might be in league, but he had no intention of telling them anything more than was necessary—when necessary. Certainly they had done no more for him. And of late, he had begun to question Ubâd’s inclusion in this triad of betrayers.

  The puppet master of ghosts or corpses seemed of little use for what would now come. Ubâd, as a necromancer, might have had value in the imperial capital, but in facing the horde or manipulating those who would enter Beloved’s mountain, such skills would be of little help. Well, perhaps they might.

  Without full certainty, Khalidah put this aside until it could be tested.

  “All that matters is that we have the orbs,” he said, “and the dhampir and those with her now plan to infiltrate the peak and locate Beloved.”

  Sau’ilahk’s eyes narrowed. “Then why do we not take all of them unaware, kill them, and take the orbs?”

  Khalidah shook his head. “To use the orbs against Beloved, it is better to let some of them carry the chests inside the mountain. That is what Beloved wants—Magiere with the orbs—so we wait to play our own hand until necessary. It is doubtful any forces below would recognize any authority in us if we try approaching without her.”

  “Yes, but anyone else—including you—among the dhampir’s group faces that same risk if they are seen,” the ghost girl countered.

  Khalidah refrained from smiling; these two were so deluded in their hunger for vengeance.

  “Depending on the final plan by the dhampir and the others, we can attain our goal if the two of you use your own methods to help distract the horde. Remain in the shadows, but pull their attention and allow me to slip past with a small team and take the orbs into the peak.”

  Sau’ilahk fixed on him intensely. “You will enter while we remain outside? I think not.”

  Again, lack of trust reared its head.

  “I have infiltrated the dhampir’s group,” Khalidah replied with quiet scorn. “And was it you who employed a single anchor to bring down Bäalâle Seatt?” He looked from Sau’ilahk to Ubâd, ignoring the ghost girl. “Of the three of us, who could manage all five anchors to fulfill our goal?”

  Neither of them answered.

  “If we are to succeed,” he went on, “you will distract the horde and leave the rest to me.”

  Sau’ilahk watched him silently without blinking. As to Ubâd, who knew what he would have done if he were not just a corpse.

  Neither of them had grounds to argue further, though Khalidah knew he had pushed them to their limits. He was the only choice to enter the peak, though his cohorts both knew this left him in control of all five orbs. And though they were both now a threat, this was the arrangement he had planned from the start.

  • • •

  Chuillyon reappeared beside Chârmun, still partially surprised over why if not how. It could not be luck.

  He had blundered into a group that had unearthed all five anchors of creation, brought them together, and was now determined to use such to destroy the Ancient Enemy . . . who was awakening and calling its servants to itself.

  Such things did not happen by chance, and neither did his dropping unwittingly among them.

  He frowned deeply as he looked up into the glimmering branches above.

  “You could have told me first,” he grumbled. “And others think I am devious!”

  Tonight, Chap and Wynn had kept him inside their tent and made a shocking request—no, demand. At first, he had been speechless, convinced it was impossible to fulfill. Wynn was certainly less polite than ever before. He realized he could not refuse to try, at least not to their faces, though he had every intention of applying all his powers of persuasion.

  At his agreement, Wynn had held up the branch, which she had requested from the half-blood. And with a touch upon it, Chuillyon had returned home. Now he could not fail in what he promised.

  Looking up, he again saw the small new sprout with one leaf growing from a low branch of the Chârmun.

  “You could have told me what you had in mind,” he chided, “instead of letting me blunder into it. It appears that again, I am not t
he only one prone to pranks.”

  He dug about inside his robe, pulled out a small knife, and unsheathed it. About to reach for the tiny branch, he froze.

  Chuillyon looked warily about the clearing and listened as well. Being caught by Vreuvillä or one of her pack would be a worse twist than using Chârmun for a trip. And soon enough, he would have to face that savage priestess to accomplish all that was needed. When certain neither was nearby, he set the blade to the base of that tiny sprout . . . and hesitated.

  “I would beg forgiveness, but obviously this is what you intended.”

  He cut the tiny leafed branch—barely more than a twig—in one clean slice.

  Cradling it in one hand, he lingered, and smiled. It was so much like another tiny precious child he had cared for long ago. That one he had personally given a new home in a hidden alcove of the courtyard at the third and greatest castle of Calm Seatt.

  And then he grew sad and worried. This one would not see that kind of peace.

  “I swear I will do my all for this one,” he whispered to Chârmun, as if speaking to a mother or father or both.

  He tucked the little sprout of branch into an inner pocket of his robe and looked to Chârmun again.

  “Bless me, please, for I will need it.”

  Then he slipped away into the forest.

  • • •

  Wynn emerged from the tent, followed by Chap first, and then Magiere and Leesil. Ghassan was nowhere in sight, but Brot’an, Ore-Locks, and Chane all turned her way. Brot’an immediately walked over, pulled the tent’s flap, and peered inside.

  Wynn looked down to Chap, gently placing a hand on his back. “How are you doing?”

  —Better, physically; as for otherwise, it does not matter anymore—

  It mattered to her, though, for whatever Chap had been through when he collapsed, she didn’t know what else she could do for him. What mattered most was that she had not lost him.

  “Where is Chuillyon?” Brot’an asked. “There is no one in the tent.”

  Wynn braced herself before turning to face him. “We sent him to check on Wayfarer and Osha and Shade, through Leesil’s branch.”

  It was not a lie, not exactly. Chap had demanded that the rest be kept secret. There had been no point in arguing with him.