by J. C.
She grew pale and did not answer.
"What are you planning?" Snähacróe asked, moving closer to Léshiâra.
Sorhkafâré looked at his one remaining commander. "The horde turns upon itself. They have nothing else left within reach to feed upon—but it does them no good. In perhaps days, there may be few enough left for us to slip away."
"No!" someone snapped sharply.
Sorhkafâré knew the voice before he turned his head.
Hoil'lhân stood at the clearing's edge, and around her paced three of the strange tall wolves. All four were spattered and dripping in black fluids. All four watched him with equal intensity. Hoil'lhân stabbed the long, broad head of her spear into the earth, and Sorhkafâré watched more black fluid run from its sharp edges to the grass.
"Where have you been?" he demanded.
"Where do you think?" Hoil'lhân spit out at him. "The enemy's minions range upon our very borders… and you wish to run?"
"We cannot stay here in hiding within this blighted land," Sorhkafâré returned.
"I said no!" Hoil'lhân shouted, running a hand through her white, sweat-matted hair. "I will not let the enemy take what is ours! I will not leave any more that I cherish… fleeing with their screams at my back!"
"Enough," Snähacróe warned.
"It was not a request," Sorhkafâré said firmly. "I am still your commander."
Hoil'lhân breathed hard, twisting her hand around the upright shaft of her spear.
"And since when do you alone speak for our people?" Léshiâra said quietly, stepping toward Sorhkafâré. "You do not sit in the council of First Glade, and we no longer follow the old ways of divided clans. Such decisions are the province of myself and the others of the council."
"There is no council left!" Sorhkafâré shouted at her. "You are the only one that remains… so do you alone choose for our people, like some human monarch?"
"That is not my meaning," she snapped back. "There are too many here who need us."
Sorhkafâré shook his head. "What if they are the very ones by which the Enemy can still reach us? Out beyond our forest… those dead things that move and feast… they were once humans, like those still among us."
"You do not know how this was done to them," Hoil'lhân growled. "Or if the Enemy's reach could find any who shelter here!"
Snähacróe turned, staring off through the trees, as if trying to see the forest's edge. Léshiâra fell silent and closed her eyes, seeming to grow older and wearier before Sorhkafâré's eyes.
But he could not relent.
"We will take our own people. Perhaps the wolves will join us as well. We will get as far from here as we can reach. We will plant our cutting from Chârmun and create a haven for our people far from the Enemy's reach."
"Our people?" Snähacróe asked.
"Not the humans," Sorhkafâré answered.
* * * *
"The outsiders are dismissed!"
Chap didn't know who spoke those words, but they jerked him to awareness. His legs trembled as he pulled free of Most Aged Father's memories.
Leesil dropped to one knee beside him, but Chap regained his own footing.
Several anmaglâhk came in around Most Aged Father. Under their threatening encouragement, Chap turned away with Leesil and Wynn. Magiere joined them as they were all ushered out of the council clearing.
Chap struggled to follow but could not stop trembling. He looked up at Magiere's black braid swinging as she leaned against Leesil while they walked.
He knew why Most Aged Father feared Magiere so deeply, though the old man did not fully understand what she was. He saw only some new shape of those among the pale horde of his memory. She was far worse than even the old man could imagine.
Magiere was human, born of the undead. Yet she walked freely and unfettered into this land. Chap's mind raced back to his fear-spawned delusion in the Pudúrlatsat forest—of Magiere as the general at the head of an army…
No, a horde—one that could not enter a shielded land without her.
If only he could tell Magiere alone, without the need of Wynn to speak for him. Magiere deserved at least that much privacy, but there was no way to achieve such.
Chap blinked but could not keep the old elf's memories from casting ghost images across all things around him. A war had devoured the living at the end of a time known only as the Forgotten… the Forgotten History of the world. On the plain beyond the elven forest surrounding First Glade, Most Aged Father had watched the waves of undead sent by the Enemy.
All of them—every last one—had been human.
Chapter Twenty-One
Once Leesil had delivered the ancestors' message to Most Aged Father, they were all escorted back to quarters. Most Aged Father's claim had been dismissed, and thereby Magiere was cleared by council vote, but the elders remained to debate as they left. Leesil had no idea what would come next. The look on the old elf's face still lingered in his mind, but he felt no sympathy for the fear and festering pain he'd seen there. His mother was still imprisoned, and he'd had no chance to plead for, or demand, her freedom.
Magiere huddled on the dirt floor at the elm chamber's center, as far from the tree's inner walls as she could get. Wynn sat lost in thought upon one bed ledge with Chap sprawled at her feet. The day wore on in a lingering crawl as Leesil paced around with Magiere watching him.
She no longer visibly trembled, but her face was still weary and drawn. He finally fetched her some water, along with a few nuts and berries left for them. He reached out and stroked her black hair.
"Please," he insisted. "Try a little."
What relief he'd gained from the dismissal of Most Aged Father's claims wasn't enough. He had to get to his mother. He had to get Magiere out of this land and away from the elven forest.
The doorway curtain bulged aside, and Brot'an stepped in. He immediately settled on the floor with a long slow breath. He looked so openly distressed, it unnerved Leesil.
Leesil would never understand this man's ever-twisting motives, but Brot'an had stood up for Magiere when no one else would or could. Grudgingly, Leesil was grateful, though he'd never say so to Brot'an's face.
"What's wrong?" Leesil asked.
"I have failed," Brot'an said flatly.
"Most Aged Father lost, and Magiere is safe," Leesil said.
"Safe?" Brot'an shook his head. "They did not even suggest replacing him, after seeing him… hearing him. The elders gathered to question why he allowed you safe passage, but he told them his decision was an internal matter directly related to the safety of our people."
He paused, as if not believing his own words.
"Some are still troubled that he allowed humans into our land, but they will not consider that he is unfit. Age is too much a virtue among my people."
A low throaty chuckle escaped Brot'an's lips. It sounded wrong coming from such a man.
"You mean Most Aged Father?" Magiere asked.
"All of you will be forced to leave tomorrow," Brot'an continued, running a hand over his scarred face. "Be ready by first light. At least Glean-néohkân'thva had the foresight to speak up and gain you a barge downriver to Ghoivne Ajhâjhe. From there, you will be given safe passage by sea—the first humans to step foot on one of our ships. You will not need to cross the mountains again."
Leesil crouched down. "What?"
Brot'an looked at him with a saddened expression. "The elders are resolved. The claim against Magiere may be dismissed, but your presence will no longer be tolerated."
Wynn came closer, settling near Magiere.
"We can't leave," Magiere said. "Leesil hasn't even spoken for Nein'a. If he's now recognized as one of you, he has a right to—"
The doorway curtain lifted again, and Sgäile peered inside. He looked harried and exhausted. Leesil's cloak was draped over his arm.
"Léshiârelaohk," he said. "Your property is—"
"Don't call me that," Leesil warned. "It's not my name."
Sgäile sighed. "Your property is restored. I have brought your gear and blades… and Magiere's sword and dagger."
"Come in," Leesil said a little less sharply.
He didn't care for how that name implied he was one of them, but Sgäile only followed custom in using it, the same as with all of his people. And
Leesil wanted to hear another view on what had happened at the council. Of anyone he'd met in this land, Sgäile was the most trustworthy.
Sgäile shook his head, his tangled white-blond hair swaying. "I cannot stay. Grandfather and Leanâlhâm leave at dawn. There is much to do, but if you would, come tonight to the third oak upriver from the docks and say your farewell. Leanâlhâm has been comforted in meeting you."
Leesil chose not to press for his views on the council. Sgäile clearly believed this entire matter was finished.
"Tell Leanâlhâm that I'll try," Leesil lied.
Sgäile set the gear inside the door and was about to depart.
"Send Leanâlhâm for naming," Leesil said. "If that's something she still wants. There's no reason to keep her from it anymore. She can reach hallowed ground, if I did."
Sgäile didn't reply and slipped out. Leesil picked up his blades and began strapping them on.
"What are you doing?" Brot'an asked.
"I'm going to have a talk with Most Aged Father." He tossed Magiere her falchion. "Care to join me?"
She caught the sword and stood up.
"No more brash foolishness!" Bro'tan said. "Any threats, and you will be killed. I have been considering another tactic… though it may cause unpredictable changes for my caste."
"What tactic?" Wynn asked. "What more could you do?"
Brot'an's eyes shifted several times in indecision. "Remain here until I return."
"What are you up to now?" Leesil asked.
"I will speak with Most Aged Father myself. It should not take long."
Leesil locked eyes with Magiere, and she nodded at him.
"All right," he agreed.
* * * *
Dusk settled as Brot'ân'duivé headed for the massive oak. He did not call out for permission to enter and descended the stairs. Before he could enter the central root chamber, Fréthfâre stepped out and grew angry at the sight of him.
"Father has not sent for you."
"Leave," he whispered, stepping straight at her.
Fréthfâre's eyes narrowed.
He did not try to push past her but stopped short, waiting before the chamber's doorway so that Most Aged Father could see him.
"I would speak with you alone," Brot'ân'duivé called. "Please send your Covârleasa away."
The ancient leader reclined limply in his cradle of living wood, still shrouded in the same wrap he had worn to the gathering. His eyes were half-closed in weariness, but they opened fully at the sight of Brot'ân'duivé.
"I have no interest in the demands of a traitor," Most Aged Father said. "I will deal with you soon enough."
"Send Fréthfâre out," Brot'ân'duivé repeated. "You will have interest in what I say… to you alone."
Most Aged Father stared at him long, then slightly raised one hand. "Leave us, daughter."
"Father—" Fréthfâre began in alarm.
"Go!"
Fréthfâre turned a warning eye upon Brot'ân'duivé before she stepped around him. Brot'ân'duivé waited until her soft footfalls faded upon the stairs, and then he stepped into the ancient patriarch's root chamber.
"What worthless excuses do you offer for your conduct?" Most Aged Father asked, his voice cracking.
"No matter this day's outcome, the elders were disturbed by your behavior and demeanor. I expected them to replace you."
"With you, perhaps?"
Brot'ân'duivé ignored the question. "The ground you stand upon crumbles. If the elders learn what you have us do in the human countries, how long before they do as I hoped?"
"Manipulation… and open challenge?" Most Aged Father displayed only mock astonishment before he chuckled softly. "No surprise in this. I have long suspected you, deceiver."
Brot'ân'duivé shook his head calmly. "I serve my people, as our caste was intended from long-forgotten times… as all Anmaglâhk believe when they take oath of service. It is we, as well as our people, who are deceived by you. Yet we have kept faith, just the same. Turning humans upon each other serves no purpose but to salve your own fears. They are not this enemy you speak of so sparingly, whatever or whoever it might be."
Most Aged Father's hands went limp. "You had my trust, my love… how long have you been a traitor among your kind?"
"I have never been a traitor to my people, though I no longer believe in your ways. And neither is Cuirin'nên'a. The elders may turn a blind eye for what you do to her, because she is one of us. They see it as an issue of the An-maglâhk. But I would now barter for her release."
"Barter?" Most Aged Father returned. "Why, when you will soon join her?"
Brot'ân'duivé's voice grew cold. "You will release her tonight. Or I will tell the elders how you use the Anmaglâhk to set the humans on each other."
Most Aged Father's dried features stretched in mounting fury, and Brot'ân'duivé stepped closer.
"I will break my silence before the council," he said. "I will tell them all that I know of what you have done. As yet, you have nothing to hold against me. Release Cuirin'nên'a, swear to her safety… and I will swear my continued silence."
He watched Most Aged Father and waited.
The ancient elf would cling to power at any cost, even for just a little longer. Whatever he feared was coming would drive him to it. He would accept this bargain, and once Cuirin'nên'a was free, Léshil would leave this place and have no reason to return. If not safe, he would at least be beyond the old one's reach, until it was time for him to serve his purpose.
"I… accept your exchange," Most Aged Father croaked, his eyes stark with madness. "But this changes nothing. The loyal Anmaglâhk will continue to serve our people."
"Is Cuirin'nên'a released?"
Most Aged Father finally closed his eyes and placed his withered fingers against the walls of his bower for a long moment.
"She is released, so go to her, if you wish. But send Sgäilsheilleache and Fréthfâre to me at once."
Brot'ân'duivé turned away, his heart pounding.
They both knew the half-truth of all this. For now, it served Brot'ân'duivé's own ends and left him time to plan. Whether first he betrayed—or was betrayed—had yet to be seen.
But he was no traitor to his caste. He protected their future, for he still believed in the old one's fear of an enemy yet to show itself. He would do what he must to keep the Anmaglâhk whole and sound. Until they were needed no more, when it all finally ended on the stroke of the blade in Léshil's… in Léshiârelaohk's hand.
"In silence and in shadows," Brot'ân'duivé whispered as he left.
* * * *
Magiere tried to keep Leesil calm, but he kept pacing the elm's chamber, and she finally set to cleaning her falchion. It wasn't necessary, but handling the blade kept her from snapping, between the tension of lingering and the vibrant shivers within her.
Wynn sat on the floor, writing with her quill.
"What are you recording now?" Magiere asked.
"The end of the gathering. My guild will find it of interest in comparison to elven culture elsewhere."
"I'm glad I could offer them some diversion," Magiere sniped.
"Magiere, that is not what I—"
"Sorry… forget it."
In Magiere's mind, she kept pondering the silf's sudden appearance, and the idea that it or one of its kind had saved them from the blizzard. Why had it chosen to appear only before the council? How long had it been following her?
The chained translation of its belief that she was somehow of its blood still haunted her. She hoped it didn't know how she'd come by such mistaken heritage.
The doorway curtain folded aside, and Brot'an stepped
in. He did not look tired, but he was panting lightly.
Leesil rushed at him. "What happened?"
"Your mother is free," Brot'an answered without warning. "But she does not know it herself, so we must go to her now. I will explain the delay of your departure later and arrange for another barge."
Magiere was dumbstruck, like Leesil, but Chap lunged to his feet.
"Brot'an…" Wynn began, with confusion in her eyes. "How?"
Magiere wondered the same thing, but she slammed her falchion back into its sheath as Leesil snatched up his blades and strapped them on.
"I don't care how," he said.
Chap barked once in agreement and was out the door faster than the rest of them could follow.
* * * *
In the root chamber beneath the vast oak, Fréthfâre scarcely believed what Most Aged Father told her.
"Released?" she repeated.
Sgäilsheilleache stood silent beside her, his expression unreadable. She knew him better than he realized. Recent events had left him in turmoil. Today had been the worst in her life, defeat after defeat in humiliation.
"Yes, daughter," Most Aged Father said. "Cuirin'nên'a's time is served, and she is released."
"Why?"
Anger crept into his voice. "Do you question me?"
"No, Father," she answered quickly. "I only…"
Something was wrong. Brot'ân'duivé had demanded a private audience, and now a traitor was released among the people.
"Will that be all, Father?" Sgäilsheilleache asked. "Do you require anything?"
Fréthfâre wondered at his calm acceptance, as if it were all part of a normal day. Sgäilsheilleache rarely questioned anything, unless faced with the unforeseen. And this was certainly unforeseen.
Most Aged Father squinted at Sgäilsheilleache, and his milky eyes grew soft. "No, my son. Do not be troubled further. Go and rest. We all need rest.
Clearly, Most Aged Father placed no blame upon Sgäilsheilleache for this day's outcome. And why should he? The blame lay with Brot'ân'duivé, and sooner or later, Fréthfâre would find the proof of it. A Greimasg'äh had betrayed his caste, and this could not be left unattended.