A Wind in the Night

by Barb Hendee

  He did not want to see or think about it.

  Days passed, each the same, and the ship arrived at the enclave where he had first boarded it.

  The crew found clothes for him from among their own people—in various shades of brown. He managed to dress himself, as he would not let anyone do so for him. He did not want them staring at his burns.

  It had been so long since he had worn anything but the forest gray of an anmaglâhk. When he looked down at himself in those strange yet familiar clothes of his people, he did not feel like himself; he did not feel like anyone at all. And then he gathered the hated bundle to go up on deck.

  “Take me ashore,” he said.

  Two of the crew immediately prepped the skiff.

  Once ashore, Osha walked to the very back of the settlement, near the edge of the tree line, as he thought of that shadowy figure . . . the one he had thought had been . . .

  No, it could not have been Sgäilsheilleache. His jeóin would have been ashamed of all the breaches into which his student had been forced, of the Chein’âs casting him out . . . of their taking his gifts as an anmaglâhk to force a human weapon upon him.

  His sorrow suddenly smothered under anger.

  “Valhachkasej’ú . . . Brot’ân’duivé!”

  Osha cursed the greimasg’äh by name in the foulest way of his people. Dropping his bundle of burdens, he ran into the forest and searched for any open space among the trees. He tried to think—imagine—how to call to the clhuassas, the listener, so it might take him away. . . .

  Everywhere among the thinned coastal trees, there seemed no place like the one in which the twisted greimasg’äh had first called the sacred one. Osha panted in pain as his clothes rubbed his burns.

  Then a sharper rustle rose in the branches above him. It was too loud for the shore breeze.

  Before he halted or even looked up, a large black feather flipped and rolled down into the scrawny grass before him.

  It looked to be that of a raven . . . a very large one. Osha tilted his head back.

  Something peered down at him with round and glassy black eyes in a black face.

  Between the leaves hid something—someone—larger than a mere bird. He would have been no more than half Osha’s height if he stood upon the ground instead of squatting on a thick, low branch.

  The séyilf—a Windblown one—gazed fixedly down at Osha as he flexed his folded black wings just once.

  Though he was slight-boned and narrow of torso, if he had opened those wings fully, they would have spanned five times his height. From his pinion feathers to the downy covering on his body and face, he was a shiny shade of black.

  The only séyilf that Osha had ever seen was at Magiere’s trial before the people’s clan council of elders. He had never heard of a black one.

  Instead of hair, larger feathers combed back from the top of the séyilf’s head. The same were visible on the bottom edge of his forearms and the sides of his lower legs. He pushed farther out of the leaves above and cocked his head like a raven.

  As Osha continued looking up, all the anger, sorrow . . . everything washed out of him. He knew the Windblown did not speak as he did, but he had to know what it was doing here. They were responsible for carrying message stones to and from the mountain of the Chein’âs. How was unknown, and beyond this, they were seldom seen. The Windblown, like the Burning Ones, were protected in alliance with the an’Cróan.

  Before Osha could think of a way to pose a question, the male began plucking more of his feathers. He dropped each one, and, five in all, they fluttered to the ground before Osha. The séyilf pointed to the feathers and then out and north along the coast.

  Osha looked down at the shining black feathers, and when he looked up, the séyilf was gone.

  Five feathers . . . and five white metal arrowheads . . . for war.

  The meaning was clear.

  Osha began to pant again, as if he could not catch his breath, until he went numb. He watched as one feather rolled twice under the coastal breeze . . . and he waited.

  Let them all blow away, and he would not have to look at them again. But not another one moved.

  Osha gathered the feathers and slowly returned to retrieve the bundle of his other “gifts.” He returned to the enclave to find that there was already another, larger vessel anchored offshore, and when he asked about it, he was told that it was bound for Ghoivne Ajhâjhe—Edge of the Deep—his people’s only true port and city far to the north.

  • • •

  A hesitant knock came outside the cabin door.

  Wynn started slightly, still on her knees facing Osha over the dead candle.

  “Wynn . . . are you in there?”

  At Chane’s voice outside, she stood up—having no wish for him to walk in and find her kneeling before Osha.

  “Yes, we are here,” she called.

  The door cracked open halfway, and Chane peered around its edge. He glanced from Shade to Wynn and then back to her before his eyes found Osha.

  “We near Oléron and should gather our things. I could not find you in our cabin, so . . .”

  He trailed off, and Wynn watched his expression darken. But her thoughts were churning with everything she’d heard. Osha suddenly rose, snatching up the candle, and he tucked it away in a small satchel.

  Ignoring Chane, Wynn asked softly, “Are you all right?”

  Osha nodded once without looking at her, but she didn’t believe him.

  “You should get packed,” she said for lack of anything better.

  Lying near the bunk’s other end, on the floor, was the long and narrow canvas-wrapped bundle. She had already seen his bow and his black-feathered arrows, though she didn’t know what had become of the tube of Chein’âs metal that he’d mentioned. But there could only be one thing left in that canvas.

  The sword.

  She wondered where he’d gotten the bow that she’d seen him use with shocking skill . . . a skill he’d never displayed in those early times she’d been with him. But she’d never seen him nock an arrow with a white metal head.

  “I am packed,” Osha answered, though he’d not moved from where he sat.

  Chapter Nine

  The port of Oléron was small compared to others Chane had seen: it was not even large enough to boast a harbormaster’s office. Even at night, it looked shabby and unnoteworthy. A knot formed in his stomach as he led the way into its smattering of structures, for he kept thinking back to the moment when he’d opened that cabin door.

  Wynn’s expression had betrayed something like guilt as she stood inside with Osha. What could she have to feel guilty about? A small part of Chane wanted to know. The larger part did not.

  At Nikolas’s vocal yawn, Chane looked down at his side.

  The young man had circles under his eyes that had grown darker with each passing day. Clearly the homebound sage was exhausted and not sleeping well. Nikolas looked around at the little town, which must be familiar to him. There was nothing exceptional about Oléron to Chane’s eyes; yet Nikolas appeared haunted by the sight of it.

  “I can’t re-remember if there’s an inn . . . here,” he stuttered.

  Chane glanced back at Wynn following behind him, and she frowned. She, too, caught Nikolas’s misconception, and she stepped ahead with Shade at her side. As Osha tried to follow her, Chane sidestepped in the way.

  His distrust of Osha only continued to grow.

  “We need a wagon and horses,” Wynn began, “to get started on our way to Beáumie Keep.”

  “Tonight?” Nikolas asked, a squeak of shock in his voice.

  “Yes,” Wynn answered. “You know about Chane’s . . . skin condition.”

  Chane looked away at the small dwellings and faded shops. For some reason Wynn’s mention of a “condition” bothered him, as if he had some weakness that oth
ers had to accommodate. He could see that Nikolas needed rest.

  “Chane cannot be exposed to sunlight,” Wynn went on. “I told you we needed to travel by night once we reached land.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Nikolas stammered, “but I didn’t think we’d do so the instant we landed.”

  Until recently Chane had been able to resist falling dormant during the day through the use of an inky violet potion—though he still had to remain protected from direct sunlight. But he had used the last of that draught back in Calm Seatt and had been unable to prepare more. One primary ingredient was a rare flower that in his native tongue, Belaskian, was called “dyvjàka svonchek,” or “boar’s bell.” There was a superstition that only wild boars and other hearty beasts could eat it and survive. It was deadly, and a difficult component to acquire.

  So for now he was stuck falling dormant the instant the sun rose. Chane spotted a possible small tavern or inn up the central street, little better than a wide dirt road. He quick-stepped to touch Wynn’s shoulder before he pointed out the place.

  “Take everyone there to rest,” he said quietly. “Give me your travel orders and enough funds for a wagon and horses, and I will find a stable or livery here . . . somewhere. You speak with the inn’s owner and see if there is fresh food to purchase somewhere for the journey.”

  She nodded, and he immediately felt a little better. They had traveled long ways together since he had found her again. She knew that she could rely on him.

  Wynn halted, as did everyone else, as she swung her pack off her shoulders. She handed her staff to Chane and began digging in the pack.

  “Do you want Shade to come with you?” she asked, pulling out a small black leather pouch.

  The pouch bulged more than Chane expected. “No, keep Shade with you.”

  Chane trusted Shade to protect Wynn—and Nikolas—more than he trusted that sulking elf.

  “I will not be long,” he called in his harsh rasp as he headed up the street.

  • • •

  It wasn’t long into the night before Wynn was aboard a wagon heading south down a rough coastal road. The moon was bright, and, while sitting beside Chane on the wagon’s bench, she looked out and over the cliffs at the ocean. White-foam ribbons of waves below lapped toward the rocky shore.

  Chane had insisted on driving, and Osha, Nikolas, and Shade were all in the back.

  True to Chane’s claim, he had procured a sturdy wagon and a team of young bay geldings. Even better, the stable master had acknowledged the letter from Premin Hawes as a domin of the guild, and agreed to hire out the wagon and team instead of expecting a full purchase. The guild was well trusted in such things, and Chane signed for the property with the promised return of both wagon and horses once they returned to Oléron.

  All things considered, the journey had gone well so far.

  If only Nikolas didn’t appear to dread his homecoming so much.

  If only Chane and Osha would at least try to tolerate each other.

  If only Osha weren’t suffering from mysterious burdens placed upon him by the Chein’âs.

  In the last of all that, Wynn hoped that once Osha had told her everything, she’d understand the changes in him and why he—and Leanâlhâm—had come all this way with Brot’an. Instead she was now even more confused.

  “Are you all right?” Chane asked.

  Wynn turned to find him looking down at her. Her expression must have given away her worries.

  “Yes,” she answered too quickly. “I’m only wondering what we’ll find at this duchy.”

  Though she said this to put him off, perhaps it was better to push down the issues with all of her companions and focus on the tasks to come.

  It seemed that a messenger—either a tall woman or a slender-boned man—wearing a black cloak and a mask and gloves had brought a package with a letter for Nikolas from his father. Therein was another sealed letter, the content of which Nikolas didn’t know, for Premin Hawes. The premin had then packaged several suspicious texts—one on transmogrification—as requested for delivery to Master Jausiff Columsarn upon his adopted son’s return to Beáumie Keep in Witeny. And the old master sage had also mentioned to Hawes that something was wrong with the young duke of the keep, and there were unexplained changes in the land, people, and even wildlife and livestock in the surrounding villages.

  The nature of those texts, especially that one, left Wynn wondering what was happening in the villages . . . or to the duke, a childhood friend of Nikolas Columsarn.

  And then, one night after the double letter arrived, someone matching the description of the messenger had somehow breached the dwarven underworld.

  That interloper had been stopped only upon reaching the wall through which Wynn had been taken through earth and stone to see the ancient texts she had brought back from the far eastern continent. That hidden place, accessible to only the Stonewalkers, was also where Ore-Locks had hidden the orb of Earth.

  If the messenger and the would-be thief were the same person, how could she—or he—possibly be connected to Nikolas’s father? And how could that someone know where the orb had been hidden?

  It still bothered Wynn that she’d been forced to set aside locating the orb of Spirit. But this possible attempt to steal the orb of Earth was more pressing, and so Premin Hawes had sent Wynn after their only lead.

  Glancing into the wagon’s back, she saw Osha sitting cross-legged with his back against the wagon’s left sidewall. Shade lay right behind the wagon’s bench with her eyes half-closed. Nikolas had drooped where he sat, flopping sideways onto two stacked packs by the wagon’s right wall.

  “We should stop well before dawn,” she whispered to Chane. “Nikolas is done in already. He’s not used to shifting time frames, day to night, like the rest of us.”

  Chane raised an eyebrow but nodded. “We should put another league or two behind us, perhaps go on until the high moon, but I will watch for a suitable place to camp. We can make the young sage comfortable once we stop. I asked the stable master to loan us canvases, poles, and blankets along with the wagon.”

  Wynn glanced sidelong at Chane, who kept his eyes ahead on the road. She couldn’t clearly make out his irises in the dark, but perhaps they had lost all of their color, and their pupils widened to see far better in the dark than the living could.

  He had changed in strange ways over the past season. Much as he had always watched over her and even Shade, his devotions as a protector had spread to any member of the guild as well . . . even for all the misery and obstacles the premin council had heaped on her.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, looking back over the cliff.

  “You do not have to thank me.”

  • • •

  As promised, and well before dawn, Chane spotted an adequate clearing off the road. They stopped there, and he allowed himself to get lost in mundane tasks, such as tending the horses and setting up two makeshift tents. These chores kept him busy until the moon was past its highest point. Only when Chane went to see whether Wynn needed help with the fire did he notice something else.

  “Where is the elf?” he asked.

  Shade lifted her head where she lay beside Wynn and peered all around the clearing.

  Wynn straightened up on her knees from blowing on embers inside moss laid over spindly branches.

  “I thought he was helping you,” she said, looking about as well.

  Nikolas had already crawled into one tent, but Osha was nowhere to be seen.

  As Wynn got to her feet, Chane focused on listening to every sound around them as he let hunger slip through his flesh to increase his hearing. Beneath the sounds of surf over the cliff and wind in the trees, he heard the gurgle of water, like a stream. Perhaps the sullen elf had gone for freshwater.

  Chane did not actually care where Osha went. His purpose was to protect Wynn a
nd aid in her pursuits. But any member of their current group who suddenly vanished without his awareness unnerved him. And then he heard the light footsteps approaching.

  In less than a breath, Osha came around a near tree into camp. With his hood down, his long white-blond hair hung loose and bright in the dark. His sleeves were pushed up, exposing his tan and scarred arms, and he carried three large silver fish on a cord strung through their mouths and gills.

  He could not have been gone long, and he had no hook, line, or pole. Had he caught the fish with his bare hands? More annoying was that Chane had not even heard the elf’s approach until the last instant.

  Wynn sighed, which pulled Chane’s attention in time to see her smile.

  “Oh, good,” she said, closing on Osha. “I managed to buy some bread, cheese, and a few apples, but those will help our supplies last.”

  She was praising Osha for providing food.

  Chane hated most human emotions. They were beneath him. He especially hated anything petty, even when he heard himself saying . . .

  “There is still plenty of time before dawn. Shade and I will hunt for other game.”

  Osha looked him up and down, held up the fish, and said in Belaskian, “Wynn does not like meat. She likes fish.”

  Chane went cold. The beast inside him, the monster of his inner nature chained down within him, thrashed at its bonds as if wanting blood. He struggled to hold himself in place.

  Perhaps his own hunger was why his emotions surfaced so easily. How long had it been since he fed?

  Wynn stepped up to him, placing herself between him and Osha, and touched the sleeve of his shirt. “You’ve been looking paler the past few nights,” she said quietly. “There should be . . . wildlife here. Perhaps you could go and . . .”