by J. C.
Wynn's hand, still holding the chalk, was shaking.
"Fay," the young sage whispered, gazing at the dog.
"What?" Magiere asked, but when no answer came, she shook Wynn by the shoulder. "What do you mean, ‘Fay'?"
Wynn looked back at her.
"He is Fay," she said, and swallowed hard. "An elemental spirit."
Magiere shook her head with a grunt of disgust. "That's just something that loon Welstiel called him. You told us yourself it was probably a folk term for his breed, even if he's a rare kind at that."
Wynn regained some of her composure, her attention split between Magiere and the hound.
"He senses death and life, has intelligence, understands language as well as dialect, heals miraculously… and his injuries are slight compared to what they should have been. I know of no breed such as his, and he does not have the look of mongrel or mix. You both have told me how powerful he is in battle, enough to face an undead."
She looked back to Chap, leaning down and trying to catch the dog's attention, but Chap swiveled away.
"Possession cannot change an animal's innate intellect, not that I know of," Wynn continued. "So his intelligence is part of his nature. I know of no way such could be created through magic." She fingered the chalk markings on the floor. "And when asked, he confirms it himself."
Magiere was on her guard now. Chap had been with them for years—had been with Leesil most of his life. In all that time, the hound had understood everything they'd said and done? True, Chap displayed uncanny intelligence for an animal, but this was nonsense.
"How is this possible?" Magiere demanded. "Even if he is capable? Leesil's had him since they were both young… and why are we only now finding this out?"
Wynn swallowed hard and shook her head.
"I don't give a damn," Leesil muttered. "I'm sick of every day revealing more… things"—he looked suspiciously at the dog—"pulling and pushing us around like unwitting puppets."
Magiere couldn't help but share Leesil's suspicion. Years ago, she'd stepped from a tavern into the dank, cold night of a Stravinan town so far inland and remote she no longer remembered its name.
A trembling itch had run up her spine as her senses came alive to the smallest sound and scent, followed by an urgency that told her to turn about. Something approached from behind.
It was the barest, tiniest rustle she shouldn't have heard, but she had heard rather than felt the hand digging in the cloth sack over her shoulder.
When Magiere whirled, ready to deal with this thief, she halted with his wrist in her grip. They stood there, she and he, staring at each other. Neither tried to move away. There was complete surprise on the thief's tan face.
Leesil's face.
Now, in the sages' barracks, Magiere looked into Leesil's amber eyes.
Something had prompted Leesil to steal from a well-armed woman. Something had piqued her awareness of a thief. After all the skill and cunning Leesil displayed over the years, she shouldn't have caught him. And somewhere nearby had been a dog.
If any of what Wynn concluded was true, then why of all people did this creature choose to keep company with a couple of peasant-cheating rogues?
Magiere shivered at the sudden recollection of the night she'd chased Chap into the street from the Burdock. There had been an urge to find Leesil, built upon her memory of their first meeting. Why was she recalling these two events now?
Leesil's eyes widened at her, and a sickening knot formed in her stomach.
"What… ?" she asked hesitantly. "What're you thinking?"
"The first night…" he said, uncertainly. "I remember the first night we met."
Leesil's face turned hard and cold as he looked upon Chap.
"You…" Leesil whispered.
Magiere's muscles clenched at the thought of what had happened that first night she looked into Leesil's eyes—and neither of them had known until now.
"You son of a bitch!" Leesil snarled, and he lunged at the hound.
Chap skittered away as Wynn fell backward, caught between the two of them.
Magiere grabbed Leesil by the waist and, crouched as she was, threw herself backward, toppling them both across the floor. Wynn spread her arms out like a barrier, with Chap nervously peering around her side.
Clinging tightly to Leesil, Magiere pulled him along as she backed across the floor up against the legs of a table.
"You did that to me!" Leesil shouted at the hound. "Stealing from a wandering woman with a sword—it was lunacy—but I couldn't leave well enough alone."
"Stop it," Wynn shouted back. "From all you have told me, he has never harmed you… never done anything to hurt you."
"Leesil, calm down," Magiere whispered.
He wrestled out of her grip and rolled to his feet. Backing toward the hallway entrance, he wouldn't even look at Chap.
"I can't be here."
He left without another word.
Gathering her gray robes and pushing her braid back, Wynn clambered to her feet. The young sage was obviously at her wits' end.
"I do not understand," she said, looking to Magiere for an answer. "Why is Leesil acting this way?"
Magiere had no answer for her. There was too much behind all of it, too little time, and so much more they were now facing. All these years, Chap had been hiding from them, following them silently. And telling Wynn anything meant revealing her and Leesil's past livelihood to someone who wouldn't understand it.
"Stay," Magiere finally managed to get out. "Stay with Chap and try to find out why he was digging through those parchments."
Betrayal and revelations aside, their immediate needs hadn't changed. She couldn't allow Leesil to turn away now. As she backed toward the hallway, Chap peered again around Wynn's long gray robe.
Canine crystal blue eyes looked at Magiere, watching her carefully.
* * * *
The moment the sun set, Chane slipped from the house to find Toret sustenance. He felt the hunger himself, and his wounded shoulder troubled him. It burned.
He traveled the alleys and side ways into a lower district until coming upon a derelict woman resting behind a stack of crates, half-conscious, an empty brown glass bottle in her hand, the air around her smelling of cheap liquor.
Her flesh reeked of sweat and filth and urine, but Chane gorged himself on her blood, soaking in her life. He was careful not to shed a single drop on his clothing. Eyes closed, he settled back and focused inward, awareness sifting through his flesh, driving the woman's stolen life into his shoulder.
Pain decreased, but the wound did not fully heal.
He let the woman's body lie where he had found it. As he walked away, it occurred to him that Toret had abandoned all rules concerning prey. Before this hunter's arrival, they killed infrequently and always disposed of the bodies with discretion—or rather, Chane made certain that was what Toret believed. Now, no questions were asked.
The hunter.
She was the key to fit the locks and chains upon him. All he need do was to bring Toret and this dhampir together. All previous schemes tossed aside, he stepped onto the main street of the inner ring wall, heading for the sages' old barracks. Toret waited to be fed, and time was limited.
Upon reaching the barracks, Chane stepped inside, not bothering to knock. It was still early evening, and likely Wynn would be about. He headed straight for the large study area, relieved to find her inside poring over a stack of parchments.
He paused upon entering.
Across the floor were scattered scribblings. Chalked words were everywhere, and only a "yes" and "no" were in Belaskian, the rest scrawled in what appeared to be Elvish script in odd groups at all angles.
He stepped in, and Wynn noticed his arrival. She looked perfect sitting there in her neat gray robes and long brown braid, surrounded by piles of parchment in the glowing light of the cold lamp upon her desk. Her calm olive face was lovely, and her knowledgeable counsel was always welcome. He could see that
she was attracted to him, though her intellectual nature blinded her awareness of this. She was a little sparrow of a scholar, and he would never play with her.
"Good evening, Wynn," he said politely.
For some reason, she appeared mildly agitated and not particularly glad to see him.
"Oh, Chane… did we plan to meet this evening?"
He crossed the room and pulled up a vacant stool to sit by her. "No, but I need information and thought to stop by. I hope that is all right?"
She nodded absently, preoccupied, and began scooping up parchments into neat stacks. "Yes, you are always welcome. There is simply a great deal happening right now."
"What is this?" Chane asked, glancing down at the chalked symbols on the floor and indicating the general disarray of the room.
"Assisting some friends," she replied, and sat back on her stool. "I am glad to see you, but I am a bit scattered at the moment. A change might clear my mind."
Wynn rubbed her eyelids; clearly she had been at her task too long without pause. Chane felt momentarily reluctant to burden her further. Mortals on the whole meant nothing to him, but Wynn was unique.
She reached out with small and perfect hands to straighten up the table. "Tell me what you are seeking."
"First, can you translate an Elvish word for me?"
"I can try. What is it?"
"Anmaglâhk," he answered. "Something I read recently, but I have no idea what it means."
Wynn's brows knitted. "I do not think it is a real Elvish word, Chane. Where did you see it?"
"In a history text on this continent's elves," he lied.
She appeared thoughtful for a moment. "My best guess… would be ‘thief of lives.' That is the closest I can surmise."
"Thief of lives?" he repeated. "That sounds like a killer—or an assassin."
"Perhaps," she replied with a frown, likely finding his interpretation unpleasant. "But the elves do not use assassins, so the word must have been used in reference to other races." She offered him a tired smile. "Now, what did you really come to research?"
"As long as you promise not to laugh at me," he chided.
"Why would I ever laugh at you?" She blinked, not quite catching his humor.
"I want to know about a legend called the ‘dhampir,' rumored to be the offspring of a vampire and a mortal. A mere superstition, but curious."
Wynn did not laugh. In fact, she stared at his hands and hair and, for a moment, Chane thought he saw fear pass across her pretty features.
"Where did you hear that word?" she asked.
Her reaction confused Chane enough that his senses began to open. Carefully casual, he spread his hands, palm up, in a carefree gesture.
"A passing fancy," he said. "I think it was in a tavern, a rumor I overheard."
She nodded, outwardly calm, but he heard the quickened beat of her heart and the slight tremble of her breath. Was she afraid… of him?
"Domin Tilswith is the expert on lore. If you will wait here, I will find him."
As she stood up, Chane felt an urge to prevent her from leaving, to find out what had suddenly frightened her. Such an action would certainly frighten her further and, strangely, that bothered him.
With a quick bow and a shaky smile, Wynn left the room.
Something was amiss. Then Chane heard the sound of quick footsteps coming toward him from the far end of the barracks. Instinct took hold, and he bolted from the study toward the front door.
* * * *
Magiere paced the short path between the bunks in their barracks room and the open hallway. Every time she reentered the room, she saw Chap perched next to the table, his expression somehow sad.
She understood little of what Wynn had explained throughout the afternoon and evening, as the young sage worked to speak with the dog in their halting manner. The study's floor was now covered in chalk marks.
Fay were as old as the world itself, so legends said, and for the most part they were considered to be myth and superstition. Varied religions had their stories of how life began, but older still were the tales of the world's making.
Earth, water, air, fire, and spirit.
Mountain, wave, wind, flame, and tree.
Solid, liquid, gas, energy, and essence.
Perhaps divine by some faiths' standards, these elemental intelligences had been the Fay, whose mingling brought the world into existence.
The sages believed humans were the oldest race, and the mingling of the first humans with these Fay, when the world was young, gave birth to new beings. In turn, these beings mingled among themselves and from them, down through the ages, descended the new races. The Elvish word for these Fay-derived races was Uirishg—which meant either "Fay-blooded" or "Children of the Fay."
Amongst the trees and forests were the elves. The people of earth and mountain were the dwarves, though Magiere had never seen nor heard of any in this land. The Fay-descended races of wind, wave, and flame were not known to Wynn.
In the far-forgotten past behind all of them were the Fay, the elemental beings.
Magiere looked up at Leesil lying in the top bunk. One arm thrown over his face, he ignored both her and the hound.
"Wynn told you," she said. "He doesn't control us. It's more a touch of thoughts, an urge built upon a memory— nothing more. That we weren't aware of what was happening"—she glanced at Chap—"is why we never ignored or dismissed it."
"And how many times have we been unaware?" Leesil asked. "How many turns in our lives were made because he wormed into our thoughts?"
Chap barked twice.
"Quiet!" Leesil snapped. His arm dropped, and he rolled his head enough to look at Magiere.
"I don't know," she finally answered.
"And what else is he concealing?" he asked in a snide tone. "Why are we so privileged to have his company?"
Magiere shook her head. "I don't know," she repeated.
"Well, I should be used to living in the dark by now," he muttered.
His words made her pause, as if he spoke of something else, but there was no time for it.
"We know Chap… thinks… the murderer isn't part of the council," Magiere offered, hoping to divert Leesil's attention to more immediate matters.
In truth, she didn't care to contemplate the mystery of the dog any further. The reasons for, and the implications of, Chap's hidden nature following them all these years were too overwhelming.
"The best Wynn can make out," Magiere continued, "is that Chap was looking for scent on the parchments. If an undead signed for the purchase, there might have been a lingering trace, but he found nothing. It's probably been far too long and the scent is gone."
Chap stood up on all fours and yipped at her, tail switching.
"I told you to be quiet!" Leesil shouted at the animal.
"That means ‘yes,'" Magiere said tiredly. "It's something Wynn arranged with him." She let out a deep sigh. "One for ‘yes,' two for ‘no,' three for ‘maybe' or ‘uncertain.'"
Leesil's head flopped down on the pillow again.
"Think you can do better?" Magiere asked. "She's done the best she can, considering she's trying to talk with some… one… who can't write or speak. She says his thoughts or way of thinking—as Fay or what have you— isn't the same as ours, making it hard to communicate with him."
A cold, wet lump prodded her hand, startling her.
Chap had inched to her side, shoving his muzzle into her hand with a soft whine. His tongue whipped between her fingers.
"How much of our lives has been shaped by him?" Leesil said, and leaned on one elbow to peer down at them. "Would we even have met if he hadn't forced it that night?"
"Does it matter?" she asked. "We're here, together, for a purpose. And I have to believe we'd still be here, whether or not he had anything to do with it."
Leesil's amber eyes narrowed and sent an ache through her chest. She wanted to comfort him but was uncertain how. Then a high-pitched voice filled the room.
&nb
sp; "What's the problem? You burn something else down already?"
In the doorway stood young Vatz in fresh oversize pants and shirt, his frazzled hair only slightly tamer than when he'd left this morning. A small relief spread through Magiere.
"Did you find your uncle?" she asked.
"Yup. Kept switching between moaning like he'd lost his mama and wanting to skin you for supper, till I told him about the money. Then he started growling about lost income while the place is being rebuilt."
Magiere sighed again.
"Had supper yet?" Vatz asked. "I ain't eaten much since last night."
"I'll find Wynn and get you something," she answered. "Stay here."
Perhaps the boy's presence and his ignorance of the evening's events would provide a safeguard between Leesil and Chap.
Magiere headed for the study, her mind filled with questions concerning the hound that refused to be dismissed. It was too much coincidence that an animal born to hunt undeads—though perhaps that was just a consequence of his true nature—should end up in the company of a dhampir, let alone a reluctant and retired assassin. When more immediate concerns were met and their task for the council completed, she hoped Leesil would gather himself enough that they could turn to finding answers.
When she entered the study, there was no sign of Wynn. A cold lamp sat on the desk where the young sage had been working.
She headed for the side passage leading to kitchen. In the dimness of the entry way, a soft light called her attention, and she glanced down.
The topaz amulet glowed brightly.
Magiere spun about.
There was no one in the room. The sound of booted footsteps echoed from the main hallway, and she started to run.
"Leesil!" she shouted. "My sword!"
She passed the front entrance but saw no one. Before she headed down the hall toward their room, Chap came toward her with Leesil close behind. The dog still limped, but he dashed past as Leesil tossed her the falchion. His punching blade was in his right hand. Vatz came running behind, loaded crossbow wrapped in his little arms.
"Get back in that room!" she ordered him.
His expression clouded, and his angry little mouth opened.
"No arguments," she snapped. "Move!"