by Barb Hendee
“Now?” Osha asked, though he didn’t turn from his vigil at the window.
“Yes, now,” Leanâlhâm answered, and she began digging through a pack to retrieve a small pot, raw potatoes, and a few green stalks Magiere couldn’t identify. “Do you have something more important to do?”
Magiere caught the quaver in the girl’s voice. She remembered that moment between Osha and Wynn, on Wynn’s first arrival, and how Leanâlhâm had reacted. That situation bore watching, and Magiere reached out to touch Leesil’s shoulder.
“Get a fire started. We have to eat.”
She then went to drop on the floor across from Osha at the window’s other side, still hesitant at the notion of language lessons amid all of this. She couldn’t help remembering how Wynn had once done this. Most of the Belaskian Osha knew, he’d learned from the sage.
“Leesil, do you have a knife?” Leanâlhâm asked.
“Nothing I’d let you use on potatoes,” he answered, gathering sticks from a pile near the hearth. “I’ll find you something.”
Everything seemed so normal and, although the illusion didn’t fool Magiere, she was grateful that the girl tried just the same. Doing something—anything—was better than staring at the room’s closed door.
Osha put his back to the wall and slid down to the floor. He glanced over, watching Magiere with some unspoken concern. Leanâlhâm wasn’t the only one exposed to Magiere’s growing problem. Suddenly, even language lessons seemed better than facing that.
“How did Wynn do this?” Magiere asked bluntly.
Osha tilted his head back against the wall, his long, white-blond hair falling away from his face.
“She . . . talk,” he said, a bit too wistfully. “Ask question. Make me answer. Scold if I talk Elvish.”
What Magiere truly wanted to ask was what Osha and Leanâlhâm were doing here. But by the way these two obeyed Brot’an’s every command, resentfully or not, it was too soon to press for answers.
Osha lowered his head, as if sad, and Magiere regretted turning his thoughts toward Wynn.
“I’ll give it a try,” she said. “You’re certainly doing better than Leesil did with your language.”
Osha lifted his head and blinked twice in puzzlement.
It had been a long time since Magiere had first entered the Elven Territories with Leesil, Chap, and Wynn. Along the way, Wynn had tried to tutor Leesil in Elvish, though it turned out to be the wrong dialect. Almost immediately, they’d been intercepted by anmaglâhk, including Sgäile and Osha. Since Osha was the most amiable among that escort, Leesil had thought to try out his new language skills.
Osha had paled in shock, flushed with fury, and drawn a stiletto. Wynn had to rush in, frantically trying to explain. Whatever Leesil had tried to say, it had come out wrong . . . and as a possible insult to Osha’s mother.
Magiere cocked her head toward Leesil and then winked at Osha.
Osha rolled his eyes, snorted, and covered his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh.
“I not this bad,” he whispered, but loud enough to be overheard.
Leesil paused at the hearth long enough to shoot him a scowl.
“I am not that bad,” Magiere corrected. “Now tell me about the voyage across the eastern ocean.”
Osha turned serious, his thin lips tightening into a line as his jaw muscles clenched. He looked away, remaining silent.
“Not about Brot’an’s little secrets,” Magiere added. “Just the ship, the crew, the food . . . the day to day.”
Osha half smiled, nodding. “Ath, bithâ!”
“No Elvish,” Magiere said. “I don’t understand it, anyway.”
In halting, broken phrases, Osha began telling her of his seafaring experiences among humans. Magiere listened, sometimes correcting a word or two. For the most part, all that mattered was that he could make his meaning clear.
Across the room, as the fire began to crackle, Leanâlhâm and Leesil spoke of mundane things, while he located a spare dagger and started on the potatoes.
“Those pieces are too big,” Leanâlhâm admonished. “Slice thinner.”
“That’ll take all night,” Leesil argued.
“If you do not, they will have to cook all night.”
She set the little iron pot’s handle onto the hearth’s arm and swung the pot in over the barely flickering flames. Magiere listened to Osha, but found it was not long before Leanâlhâm gently dropped a number of eggs still in their shells into the water. The potatoes followed, along with the greens she’d cut up.
After a while, Osha grew frustrated with fighting for new words he didn’t know. Soon after, he was saved from further struggle.
“All right, you two,” Leesil said. “Come eat something.”
They shared a late supper, maintaining the illusion that all was normal. But once the meal was done, they fell back into silent waiting—until the door opened.
Brot’an stepped in, followed by Chap.
Magiere climbed to her feet. Part of her was still enraged and heatedly hoping to talk some sense into Wynn about this insane notion of accepting help from anyone who offered.
Brot’an shut the door, and Magiere’s thoughts went blank. It took two breaths before she could speak.
“Where’s Wynn?”
Chap stalked right by her toward the hearth with a breathy exhale through his teeth.
Brot’an didn’t answer at first, and then said, “Wynn has chosen to remain with her other companions.”
Leesil had allowed Leanâlhâm’s domestic activities to suppress his own sense of betrayal and panic. He’d been on the verge of feeling almost himself again. Then Brot’an had returned and answered Magiere’s question.
Leesil was on his feet, but he didn’t speak to Brot’an. He turned on Chap.
“You left her there . . . with him?”
Chap clacked his jaw and then huffed twice.
“It was not his choice,” Brot’an added.
Magiere stepped between the two, caught at the room’s center as she tried to pick one of them to go at. She finally fixed on Brot’an.
“Wynn would not leave,” Brot’an said before Magiere got out a word. “Forcing her would have accomplished nothing.”
Leesil was at a loss, puzzled by how visibly uncomfortable Brot’an looked.
“I tried to dissuade her, as did Chap,” Brot’an continued, ignoring Magiere, and turning to Leesil. “You did not see her there. She is in no danger, and perhaps where she belongs for what she must do . . . for all of us.”
Leesil took a step, but Magiere got in his way as she rushed to the bed. It had been stupid to let Brot’an go in the first place, as he cared nothing for Wynn other than what she might accomplish for him. In one motion, Magiere grabbed her cloak from the pile on the bed and pushed right past Brot’an for the door.
“Chap, you show me where she is—now!” Magiere half shouted. “She’s coming back, one way or another.”
Leesil nodded. “I’m coming, too.”
“You cannot,” Brot’an returned, his voice rising above its usually calm, firm state. “She has set careful plans in motion, ones worthy of her intelligence. A message has been sent to a Premin Hawes at the guild’s castle, who will meet with Wynn to assist in translating the scroll that was mentioned. Wynn will then come to us. By tomorrow night, we may know the location of another orb.”
No one had a response to that, and Leesil struggled over what to do.
“Wynn has become a warrior in her way,” Brot’an said, “to hinder the Enemy, to stop another war. Would you dismiss her efforts?”
Leesil turned on him. “And what about you helping us, helping her . . . all out of the goodness of your heart? In seven hells! What are you really doing here?”
Brot’an narrowed his large amber eyes; one glared through the cage bars of old scars.
Leesil didn’t expect an honest answer, and nodded to Magiere as he headed for the door.
“I do not trust Most Aged Father
,” Brot’an said, freezing Leesil in his steps. “No more than I would trust the Ancient Enemy to retreat into hiding. I would keep these orbs from them both. Wynn is driven by this purpose, and I would join her in it . . . even if I must go through you.”
Brot’an shifted around Leesil in a lunge that forced Leesil to back up.
“What are you really doing here?” Brot’an echoed.
Leesil was momentarily rattled. Brot’an may have a bagful of other secrets, but in that smaller part where Most Aged Father was concerned, he was telling the truth. Leesil looked to Magiere.
She watched them both, and he clearly saw pain and fear in her dark eyes at Brot’an’s words. Like Leesil, Magiere had frozen in doubt. Only Chap remained as he’d always been concerning the master assassin. He rumbled, jowls pulled back partway.
Leesil hadn’t received even one recalled memory from Chap, and likely neither had Magiere. For all Chap’s hatred of the old butcher, he hadn’t tried to argue against Brot’an in any way.
Leesil realized how hard this night must have been for Chap. Chap cared deeply for Wynn, and he’d lost a daughter because of it.
They couldn’t go to Chane’s inn and drag Wynn away.
“What . . .” Leesil tried to say. “What now, then?”
“A plan,” Brot’an answered, “to escape this city, once we have a destination.”
Leesil closed his eyes. Another journey, another orb, another journey, and then what? How many times would it repeat, the next time getting harder than the last? Even succeeding wouldn’t make anything better, likely only worse.
He felt Magiere’s fingers sliding into his palm, and he gripped her hand.
“If you are going to plan,” Leanâlhâm said almost too quietly to hear, “then Brot’ân’duivé and the majay-hì should eat while you talk.”
Again, the girl’s plain manner cut the tension by half.
Leesil pulled Magiere toward the hearth. Osha joined them next, and finally Brot’an. But Chap lay down in the middle of the room, facing away toward the door. Leanâlhâm brought him a plate, but he didn’t even sniff at it. Slowly, while Brot’an ate, they all began to talk.
“The city guard won’t be a problem,” Leesil said. “Those anmaglâhk are something else.”
Osha nodded. “They watch all . . .” He faltered, switching to Elvish as he spoke to Brot’an.
“Exits,” Brot’an finished for him. “If they have enough, they will have someone watching any way out of the city.”
Leesil reached over and grabbed his pack and pulled out the talking hide, though at present, Chap showed no interest in conversation.
“Where will the anmaglâhk focus now?” Leesil asked, and then shook his head. “No, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Wherever we’re headed will likely be a long way off. That means a ship or a long trek over land. There’s only so much we can do until Wynn gets back.”
Brot’an nodded once. “The numbers of the anmaglâhk on your trail have dwindled, though I do not know their actual count. Another issue is that they will have word-wood devices—one or more. If so, once we are free of the city, and should they learn of our direction, they could report it to Most Aged Father. Though my people are a long way from here, he could still deploy more of his loyalists to intercept us . . . again, depending upon our destination.”
Leesil hesitated at that one unique word—“loyalists.”
Brot’an, and even Leesil’s mother, Nein’a, were part of a long-standing and silent, dissident faction among the an’Cróan, including some among the Anmaglâhk. Had the situation in the Elven Territories now escalated further? It seemed unlikely that Brot’an would make such a slip. Or had it been intentional? And what was Leesil’s mother doing even now, somewhere across the world?
“Wynn said there are two orbs left,” Magiere put in. “We don’t know which one we’ll go after first. We’ll need to pick one before we even know where we’re going.”
“Unless we go after both,” Leesil added.
Magiere and Brot’an focused intently on him.
He already knew how this suggestion would affect Brot’an. Even now, the shadow-gripper was calculating what to do should they split into two groups. Leesil didn’t look at Magiere, as that would’ve invited another argument. He went on before she could start in on him.
“We have to get this over with,” he said. “And whichever orb is closest, those who go after it will have to stall for those who will make the longer journey.”
“How?” Osha asked. “Decoy?”
“No, at least not like the last,” Brot’an answered. “We gave them something hidden in plain sight that they could not resist looking into, something obvious to uncover. That will not work a second time.”
“Or . . . we could be even more obvious,” Leesil countered. “Give them something so plain to see that in their panic, they won’t think to second-guess it.”
Magiere sighed in frustration, and Leesil knew she was sick of this roundabout approach. But Brot’an’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
Only Leesil would’ve caught it while looking into those old eyes. As the master anmaglâhk nodded slightly in agreement, Leesil grew sick inside.
Once again, he found himself thinking too much like the old butcher—and he hated that. But if it got Magiere out of here alive, he could live with it.
CHAPTER 21
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Wynn sat on the floor, tearing roasted mutton into small bits for Shade. Chane refused to let anyone leave the room, since only he had been seen around the inn. He brought back prepared food for the rest of them. Strangely, Ore-Locks ate little. Well, little for a dwarf.
Wynn had slept much of the day in the bed with Shade, as they were both exhausted. Ore-Locks had merely laid out a cloak in the corner of the room on which to rest. Fortunately, he didn’t snore much. Once, when Wynn had stirred, perhaps in the midafternoon, she’d glanced over the bed’s edge at Chane lying dormant directly in front of the room’s door.
She couldn’t help feeling there was something odd about him. He didn’t appear quite so . . . dead, as he lay there. She’d then noticed his hand shift slightly where it rested on the hilt of his dwarven longsword still sheathed and laid out beside him. She’d never before seen Chane move in dormancy, not even slightly.
She was already awake again before sunset, as was Shade, who also glanced at Chane more than once. The moment it became almost fully dark at dusk, Chane sat up, rose, and went to wake Ore-Locks.
Shade wasn’t even startled. However, Wynn was.
She’d looked at Shade resting with her head on her paws. Although Wynn had nothing to base her suspicions upon, she couldn’t help wondering if Shade knew something about Chane that she didn’t—a silly thought. Of course, she didn’t ask either of them about this. What could she ask?
Then Chane had stepped out to see to the food, and the evening had moved on.
Shade wolfed down a whole pile of mutton bits in one bite.
“Don’t eat so fast,” Wynn scolded.
She didn’t care for mutton, but there were roasted potatoes, goat cheese, and dark forest bread to choose from. Chane stood at the window, looking down into the street, as Ore-Locks sighed and fidgeted in the corner.
“Do you think she’ll come?” Wynn asked.
“She will come,” Chane answered. “If the message reaches her.”
It was still difficult for Wynn to believe that Premin Hawes was willing to help. Though she kept such doubts to herself, a tiny part of her worried this might just be a way to track her down. But Chane seemed convinced, and he had a penchant—an actual gift—for knowing when someone lied, if he could focus on such detection.
Chane lifted the canvas curtain’s edge with a fingertip, and a streetlamp outside lit his pale features. Wynn studied his clean, long profile.
She’d always liked it, from the first night they’d met back in Bela at the shabby guild annex she was trying to help establish. Standing there in the dim lig
ht, he looked like the young nobleman she’d first taken him for, before she knew . . . what he really was. But he wasn’t the only one who now filled her thoughts.
Wynn was still stunned by the ache that stabbed her inside when she’d seen Osha. All else had flushed from her mind. She thought only of his companionship in the long journey into the Pock Peaks in search of the orb. More had happened after that.
Days after Magiere and Leesil’s wedding, when they’d all reached Bela, the capital of Belaski, Osha had to leave early from the inn. One of the an’Cróan’s living ships, a Päirvänean, lay in wait up the coast to take him home. She’d followed him to Bela’s bustling docks, not yet ready to lose him—though another part of her reason was to give him a journal she’d written of certain events to pass on to Brot’an.
All along the journey out of the Pock Peaks, Magiere had warned Wynn about any intimacy with an an’Cróan. It was a warning that had once been given too late to Magiere concerning Leesil, who was a half-blood.
An’Cróan bonded for life, and some were unable to survive the loss of a mate.
Even when Osha said good-bye, turning up the busy waterfront through the crowd to head north out of the city, the way he’d looked at Wynn made her ache. He didn’t want to leave her, and she hadn’t been ready to let him go. Any warning was forgotten as she ran after him.
Wynn had shouted for him, though he hadn’t heard her until she’d almost caught up. When he did stop and turn, she threw herself at him, grabbing for his shoulders to pull herself up.
“Do not forget me,” she’d whispered as his arms closed around her.
Wynn lifted her head, clumsily thrusting her mouth against Osha’s. Then she’d turned and run, fearing to even look back. Until last night, that day on the docks had been the last time she’d seen him.
Chane was not the only one who had followed her across the world, and Chane was not the only one who had stood as her guardian.
Chane turned from the window, gazing down at her.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For coming back to us. For not staying with them.”
