Rebel Fay

by J. C.

  Sgäilsheilleache turned and left, but Fréthfâre could not bring herself to go just yet.

  "Father, pardon me, but what does this mean? Should I go to inform Cuirin'nên'a?"

  He shook his ancient head. "Most likely, Brot'ân'duivé will go tonight and take Léshil with him."

  The chamber seemed to grow dim around her as she tried to reason through Most Aged Father's words. Nothing made sense.

  "Go now, daughter," he said.

  She climbed the steps out of the earth, lost in her tumbling thoughts, and then ran outside, not stopping until she reached the elm where Léshil and his humans were kept. Before she reached the doorway, she knew the elm was empty. Still, she peered inside.

  All were gone… gone to free Cuirin'nên'a.

  Fréthfâre stood in uncertainty. Why had Most Aged Father called her in tonight to tell her this? He was exhausted, and if there was nothing for her to do, then why not leave the news until morning? Why such urgency followed by so little explanation?

  She stared off through the trees as her turmoil mounted.

  Father had tried to tell… to ask her something without putting it into words. For some reason, he could not give the order himself.

  Her stomach churned at the thought of Léshil, his traitorous mother, and those humans escaping. Not after they had found a way into this land. Not after all the discord they had sown among her caste. And not after what they had done to Most Aged Father.

  She had been at his side for long years… long decades. Whatever the reason that he could not ask her outright, she knew what he expected of her.

  Fréthfâre ran toward the river and the docks. In the full of night, the trees blurred by. She fled to the sixth birch upstream and fell to her knees by its doorway, pulling back the cloth hanging.

  Én'nish sat alone inside on the floor. The cup of tea before her must have sat a long while, for it no longer steamed. She stared blankly ahead, and then turned her sharp face toward the doorway.

  "Fréthfâre?" she said, taken back. "Are you well? What is wrong?"

  "We go north immediately. Brot'ân'duivé takes Léshil and the humans to free Cuirin'nên'a. They must be stopped." She hesitated before adding, "This is the wish of Most Aged Father."

  Én'nish cinched her cloak's trailing corners across her waist, and then her sudden eagerness wavered.

  "I do not understand, Covârleasa," she began, respectfully. "If the Greimasg'âh is with them, why are we sent behind him?"

  "Brot'ân'duivé is a traitor. You heard and saw him today."

  Én'nish still hesitated.

  Fréthfâre was not certain how to deal with Brot'ân'duivé, but she understood what must be done this night. A traitor escaped punishment, and humans would leave knowing the way for others to return to her people's land.

  "We will not spill the blood… of our own," she said, firm and slow.

  She let the words hang.

  Longing hardened Én'nish's eyes as she understood Fréthfâre's meaning.

  No, they would not spill the blood of their own, but the outsiders must be dealt with.

  Én'nish blinked slowly with a deep exhale, as if finally releasing long-harbored pain. She followed Fréthfâre out like one who finally saw the salve for her wounds within reach.

  * * * *

  Chane struggled through the heavy snow. Wind pelted his face with large flakes that clung to his hair and cloak. He could only see a few paces ahead and followed the mute shapes of Welsteil and their one remaining horse.

  "We must find shelter," Chane rasped. "We cannot locate the passage until this blizzard has passed."

  "No," Welstiel answered. "We keep looking. It cannot be far."

  The Móndyalítko had told them to seek a passage along a deep ravine. Once they passed through, they would be able to see the castle.

  Only three nights past, Chane's wild dog familiar had found the way, though calling it a ravine was an understatement. It was a deep and jagged canyon impossible to climb down, and its bottom was filled with snow-blanketed rocky crags. After its discovery, Welstiel behaved like an obsessed madman, driving them hard up through the mountains.

  Chane halted. Going on was useless if they could not see. He was about to insist they pitch the tent when a long howl and yammering barks carried on the wind from somewhere ahead.

  "The dog!" Welstiel shouted over the wind.

  Chane was in no mood for Welstiel's premature elation. "Wait!"

  He dropped to sit in the cold snow and closed his eyes, reaching out for his familiar's thoughts. When he found his way into its limited mind, he saw through the dog's eyes.

  At first, his sight was obscured by snow slanting through the dark as the dog scrambled forward. Then the animal halted at the edge of a precipice. Chane looked down through its eyes into a gorge at the canyon's top end, and vertigo overwhelmed him. The dog stood on a flat rock overhang, digging through loose snow.

  "What has it found?" Welstiel asked desperately.

  "I do not know… something." He opened his eyes reluctantly and stood up. "Upward… ahead."

  Chane took the lead, holding the dog's thoughts to sense the way. When he spotted the animal's tracks already fading under the blizzard, he released the connection and picked up his pace. Ahead he thought he saw where the canyon's upper end spiked downward into the rocky range. Upon its near side, something dug wildly in the snow.

  Chane trudged quickly up and dropped beside the dog. He looked down with his own eyes to where the canyon opened into a deep gorge too wide to see its far side. He began digging by hand, clearing snow from the ledge until he exposed a piece of flat slate that did not match the ledge's basalt stone. The piece was half the length of his body and smoothly fitted to the ledge's edge—except for a hole to one side just large enough for a hand. Chane cleared the opening with his fingers and lifted the slate panel.

  Welstiel hovered above him as they looked down.

  Snow-covered ledges—wide steps—were carved into the gorge wall, though Chane could not be sure in the blizzard if they went all the way to the unseen bottom.

  Welstiel examined the piece of slate. "This was intended to hide the pas-sage:

  "I do not think so. More likely a marker to find it or perhaps shield the first steps from erosion. This path is used regularly by someone, for it took much work to carve it out, crude as it is. Let us hope it leads somewhere useful, though we will have to abandon the horse."

  Welstiel stared into space. "The Móndyalítko said we would step out to see the castle. It has to be down there somewhere… it must be."

  Between the darkness and the storm, Chane had no way of telling if this was true, and he was sick of blind optimism. "Do we try tonight or wait until we have more time tomorrow?"

  "Now," Welstiel answered instantly, and pulled their packs from the horse. "Move on. We leave the dog as well."

  Again, Chane had no voice in their decisions, and his anger seethed quietly. But he held his tongue. Perhaps they were close to Welstiel's coveted orb, and once they found it, Chane might give Welstiel a surprise or two of his own.

  Chane braced a hand against the steep rock wall and took two steps downward, peering below. He saw nothing through the blizzard—not even the gorge's bottom, nor its far side. Snowflakes slanting across the night seemed to materialize out of the dark. The lower he went, the more the wind lessened, until the snow drifted lazily downward.

  Behind and above him, Chane heard Welstiel's boots scrape the steps.

  * * * *

  Sgäile headed for the third oak upstream from the docks, eager to be with his family once more and away from all others. He pulled the doorway drape aside, and there sat his grandfather, Gleannéohkân'thva, upon an umber felt throw as he wrote with quill on parchment.

  "Where is Leanâlhâm?" Sgäile asked.

  "She went to find a few things for our journey," his grandfather replied. "It will be an early start. Will you come with us?"

  Sinking down, Sgäile
untied his cloak and lifted the clay teapot from its tray.

  "I must first see Léshil and his companions safely off, then I will come home for a while. I wish to bring Osha with me—with your consent. Except for his training, I am considering a request to be relieved of duties for the remainder of winter… perhaps longer."

  His grandfather looked up, puzzled, but merely patted his shoulder. "Osha is always welcome. And it would be good to have you home for a while."

  Sgäile poured tea into one of the round cups and turned its warmth slowly between his palms.

  Indeed, to have a little peace once again, even into the spring. Time to reflect on many things he had not been aware of before today. Strange animosity existed between Brot'ân'duivé and Most Aged Father—a revered Greimasg'äh and the founder of their caste. A rift that apparently had grown silently over time. Fréthfâre as well had some part in it, for her ardor in challenge had raised Sgäile's awareness in the worst of ways.

  He sipped the tea slowly, but it brought him no comfort.

  Leanâlhâm fell through the door, breathing hard. "Sgäilsheilleache! Come—quickly!"

  He set the cup down, grabbed her hand, and pulled her inside. "What? Are you injured?"

  "No…" She gasped in another deep breath. "Urhkarasiférin gave me dried figs for our journey, and in returning, I saw Fréthfâre outside Én'nish's quarters. They did not see me, but I heard part of what they said. They go north after Léshil and Brot'ân'duivé."

  Sgäile sat back, whispering to himself. "Léshil has gone to tell Cuir-in'nen'a."

  "Tell her what?" his grandfather asked.

  Sgäile carne back to himself. "Most Aged Father has released Cuirin'nên'a. She is forgiven. Léshil and his companions must have gone to tell her." He looked at Leanâlhâm. "Brot'ân'duivé is with them, and Fréthfâre follows after?"

  "Yes," she cried. "And Én'nish. But I do not believe Brot'ân'duivé knows they follow."

  Sgäile carefully set down his cup.

  "They spoke of not spilling the blood… of their own." Leanâlhâm's voice quavered. "But why would they need to? And something in Fréthfâres voice… she only mentioned Brot'ân'duivé—not Léshil or his companions! Why would she say this to Én'nish?"

  Sgäile stood up, rapidly tying the corners of his cloak. His first instinct was to go directly to Most Aged Father, but if Fréthfâre acted on her own, this would only cause more discord.

  "I will find Léshil first," he said. "I will uncover what is happening."

  "I am coming with you," Gleannéohkân'thva said.

  "No, I must run."

  "Are you suggesting that I cannot keep up? Your caste is at odds with itself. You need a clan elder, and I am the closest you have." He turned to Leanâlhâm. "Do not leave our quarters, and do not tell anyone where we have gone. If asked, we have gone to gather supplies for the trip."

  Leanâlhâm nodded quickly. "Hurry!"

  Gleannéohkân'thva donned his cloak, not waiting for Sgäile's agreement.

  "Stay behind me," he told his grandfather. Perhaps he would need the voice of an elder.

  They left the oak, running along the river to the open forest, rather than through Crijheâiche.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Magiere ran beside Leesil, and a part of her still doubted such sudden good fortune. Their journey into her own past in Droevinka had uncovered horrific circumstances surrounding her birth. Their passage through the warlands and Leesil's past in Venjetz had only led to anguish and murder.

  She'd hoped the journey into the elven Territories would be different, and now it seemed Leesil would have what he wanted. The outcome was better than she had dreamed possible. Nein'a had been released with no bloodshed, and they were all promised safe passage out of the elves' lands to any destination they chose.

  All they had left was the issue of Welstiel's artifact, though Magiere had little idea where to begin. Then they could go home.

  Brot'an and Chap led the way, with Wynn in the center. Leesil and Magiere brought up the rear. Magiere wasn't certain how she felt about Nein'a's company, but she pushed the doubt away. Only Nein'a's freedom mattered now—or rather Leesil's relief from his long years of guilt.

  "Do you know where you are going?" Wynn called to Chap and Brot'an.

  Chap yipped once and tossed his head without slowing. Magiere saw a flash of white in the brush to her right, and then two more of silver-gray among the trees.

  "How long have they been with us?" she called out.

  No one answered, and they jogged onward at a pace meant for Wynn's short legs.

  "How do you think she'll take it?" Leesil asked. "Finally being free?"

  "What?"

  "My mother. She's been trapped here so long… I wonder if she'll even believe it at first."

  "Leesil—" Magiere began.

  A hissing in the air broke her attention as Brot'an turned and started to duck.

  A darting pale shaft struck the back of his head. He pitched forward and crashed limply to the earth.

  Magiere dodged the other way, as Leesil grabbed Wynn's cloak and pulled her behind a tree. Magiere peered back the way they had come. Leesil jerked out one winged blade as she pulled her falchion.

  Chap had vanished, but Magiere knew he'd be close by. She watched for movement but saw nothing in the forest.

  "He's been shot," Wynn whispered, and started to crawl toward Brot'an's prone form.

  Leesil pulled her back.

  Magiere couldn't see Brot'an's face, but he wasn't moving. Beside him lay an arrow on the ground. It hadn't sunk in on impact—good fortune perhaps, but that didn't seem likely.

  She hesitated at letting her hunger rise, but she did it. As her night sight widened, she focused upon the fallen arrow.

  In place of a narrow pointed head was a blunt gray ball of metal. Whoever had fired it wanted Brot'an left alive.

  "Is he breathing?" Magiere whispered.

  Wynn craned her head. "Yes."

  "Aruin'nas?" Magiere asked, and looked back down the path.

  "I don't see anyone," Leesil answered.

  A soft thud. Magiere whirled back.

  A figure clad in gray-green stood between her and Brot'an, with a stiletto in each hand. Amber eyes fixed upon Magiere. Even with the wrap across the figure's face, Magiere recognized those eyes.

  Fréth charged straight for Leesil before Magiere could move.

  Leesil was forced to duck into the open to get clear of the tree, and Fréth lashed out a booted foot into Wynn's head.

  Magiere heard a snapping sound at the impact. "No!"

  As Wynn twisted and fell into the brush, Chap leaped through the leaves above her and closed on Fréth.

  In the corner of Magiere's vision, someone dropped from above behind Leesil.

  Én'nish crouched with her overlong stilettos in hand.

  Magiere halted in hesitation over whom to go after.

  Good fortune was nothing but a fool's faith. If it wasn't the undead, it was the Anmaglâhk coming at them from the dark.

  Leesil sucked in a sharp breath as Fréth's foot collided with Wynn's jaw. The little sage topped into the brush. He heard either the crossbow or the quarrel case on her back crackle under her weight. Then Chap lunged out over the top of her, charging at Fréth as Magiere skidded to a halt, looking in his direction.

  A glint of bright metal flickered in the corner of Leesil's vision. He whirled to see Én'nish coming at him from him behind.

  Leesil twisted away.

  Her long stiletto pierced the shoulder of his cloak. She turned sharply, her body like the handle of a twin whip. The movement drove her lead arm onward as the other came under and up. The first blade tore free of his cloak, passing his head. The second arced upward for his throat.

  Leesil swept his winged blade upward, catching Én'nish's rising stiletto on its top edge. As he brushed her thrust up and away, she seemed to ride his momentum into the air.

  Her foot touched a tree trunk, and s
he pushed off. Leesil spun around as she came down behind him, his blade on guard. Én'nish's long, narrow stiletto screeched along the wing of his punching blade.

  She was sweating. Her face was twisted with rage, and the suffering in her eyes was too familiar.

  He'd seen it before, as he crouched upon the frozen ground outside of Venjetz, clinging to the skulls of his father and what he'd first believed was his mother. Only the face he saw then was Hedí Progae, who sought vengeance for her father, Leesil's first kill for Darmouth.

  He was tired of killing. He didn't want to be anyone's weapon anymore.

  Én'nish rushed him, twisting like a cat to get inside his blade's reach and strike for his chest or throat.

  Leesil spun with her, letting her lower blade skid over his hauberk as he parried the upper one. He slammed his empty hand into the side of her ribs.

  Én'nish tottered off balance as she swept past, but she pivoted with a scissoring slash of both stilettos to fend him off.

  Behind her, Leesil saw Chap raging and snarling after Fréth.

  "No!" Magiere shouted. "Guard Wynn!"

  Her voice was thick, her words awkward, and Leesil caught the black disks of her irises expanding. But he feared she might not best Fréth even in a full dhampir state.

  And Én'nish stood in his way.

  Leesil swallowed fear into cold dispassion, as his mother had taught him. He had to put Én'nish down to get to Magiere—and killing was what he'd been made for.

  Hunger rose in Magiere's throat and rushed through her body. This time, she welcomed the ache spreading through her jaws.

  Her eyes burned as her sight widened, and the night lit up before her. She swung the falchion with all the speed and force she had. Not an effective attack, unless Fréth was stupid enough to think she could block it.

  Fréth quickly slid back out of the sword's arc and further from Wynn and Brot'an. That was all Magiere wanted from her first strike.

  Before Fréth could come behind the falchion's swing, Magiere reversed, bringing its dull backside straight around.

  Fréth winced as it smashed into her shoulder. She bent and turned with the impact, but the falchion's tip tore through her tunic.

  They both froze, eyes locked on each other.