by Barb Hendee
Juan’yâre straightened. “I will not fail.”
Most Aged Father pointed toward the outer chamber. “In my private stores you will find a cedar box marked with the etching of a mast and sail. Inside is a word-wood from the ship Hkuan’duv will use. Give it to Avranvärd.”
Elven ships were older than any who walked upon their decks. Some as old as the forest’s great trees, for it took many years to create one. They outlasted any vessel sailing in human waters. Over the years, Most Aged Father had thoughtfully acquired many selected items, and most of his acquisitions eventually proved useful.
“Father,” Juan’yâre said with a bow, “I will report from Ghoivne Ajhâjhe as soon as I complete my task.”
Most Aged Father closed his weary eyes, hoping his new attendant could live up to his reputation.
By the dim light of a candle on the side table, Leesil lay awake in bed at the inn with Magiere shifting restlessly against him. She mumbled softly in fitful sleep, and he tried to remain still and not wake her.
After supper, he’d had to coax and goad her into returning to their room for rest. Unlike the elven forest’s depths, the city didn’t feed her with enough life to go without sleep. Still, she had slept little since their first night here, and she’d suffered too much for him in coming to this land.
Leesil relished once more sharing privacy with Magiere, but five nights had passed since Sgäile first pointed out their ship. Its crew still loaded cargo this day, and Magiere was losing patience. Her anxiousness to leave had grown to an obsession to head south. And Leesil’s concern for her disturbed him even more than a name that the ancestors—elven ghosts—had tried to force on him.
Léshiârelaohk.
The night he’d freed his mother, and led her back to Crijheäiche, he’d sent Magiere, Wynn, and Chap off to rest. He stood vigil outside Nein’a’s private tree dwelling, as she rested in her first night of freedom in long years.
And Brot’an came—that devious, manipulating butcher—leading an elderly elven woman in a maroon robe and matching cloak.
“Do you remember me?” she asked. “From the hearing before the council of clan elders?”
Her elven accent was a bit strong, but her Belaskian was surprisingly precise. Few elves but the Anmaglâhk spoke any human language.
“I am Tosân’leag,” she added, “an elder of the Ash River clan.”
Leesil nodded his recognition. She had stood among a clan of “scholars” upslope behind him at Magiere’s hearing. Taking Brot’an’s hand, Tosân’leag carefully kneeled down, studying Leesil’s face.
"Tell her what you saw at Roise Chârmune,” Brot’an said; "... the faces of the ancestors . . . what they said to you.”
Leesil had no interest in telling Brot’an anything, but the old woman reached out and touched the top of Leesil’s elongated ear. The movement was so startlingly quick for one so old that he didn’t pull away until too late. She shook her head with a sigh, as if dissatisfied with his ear, then nodded to him.
“Tell me what you saw and heard. I can help you understand.”
Leesil didn’t want to understand any of their superstitious nonsense. But she kept staring at him, studying him. Finally, he spoke just to put an end to all this.
“There was a woman . . . with scars down her left upper arm . . . and war daggers on a belt. Human ones, not elven. And she carried a short spear with a shaft of steel. Her hair and eyes were wild, and . . . she smiled at me.”
Tosân’leag’s brow wrinkled with disapproval, but she smiled as well.
“That was likely Hoil’lhân, whose name means ‘Bright Ray.’ She is thought to have been a great warrior . . . and possibly the first of the Anmaglâhk, long before the title was even used. Did she speak to you?”
“No,” Leesil answered, and his mind conjured images of other spirits he’d seen in a clearing around a naked ash tree. “A man spoke to me first, a tall warrior with a scar near his temple. Said his name was Snaw . . . Snaw-ha . . .”
“Snähacróe . . . ‘Threading the Needle’s Eye.’ ” And the old woman nodded as the light in her filmy eyes sharpened.
“There was another woman standing with him,” Leesil added, “dressed like you. The two stayed close together . . . and spoke the name they put on me.”
“That was Léshiâra,” Tosân’leag whispered. “She was a great healer and teacher, and eventually . . . what you would call ‘consort’ to Snähacróe. I knew you had seen her when I heard your name. She is believed to have been one of the last of the High Council in long-forgotten times. Her name means ‘Sorrow-Tear.’ ”
Even with Leesil’s weak comprehension of Elvish, he couldn’t miss how close the female ghost’s name was to the one she’d put on him.
Tosân’leag leaned slightly toward Leesil. “Your name means ‘Sorrow-Tear’s Champion’ . . . or ‘Savior’ . . . or close to that in human tongues. Do not forget this. Your name . . . you . . . have meaning to your people.”
Leesil shrank away from her.
These weren’t his people. He wanted to hear no more. He only wanted to stand vigil for his mother.
Tosân’leag raised a hand, and Brot’an assisted her up. Long after the pair had left Leesil in the dark, that name kept echoing in his head.
Léshiârelaohk—Sorrow-Tear’s Champion . . . savior.
If only it meant something else, something other than a half-veiled fate born of spirits and nonsense.
In the dimly lit room of the elven inn, Leesil pushed aside all these thoughts in the only way he knew how. He gazed down at the woman sleeping against his chest.
Magiere lay naked with her white hand upon his arm.
Leesil pushed back her thick black hair to see her beautiful face. She murmured more loudly and frowned in half-slumber. Though he wanted her to sleep when she could, he couldn’t help thinking of pleasant ways to wake her.
Magiere heaved a sudden breath, and her fingertips arched, digging into his arm.
“Youch . . . Magiere!”
She thrashed, rolling halfway over the bed’s edge before he locked his arms around her torso.
“Magiere, it’s all right. Wake up!”
Magiere twisted about, and her fingers dug into the straw mattress. She twitched, arching her back, and her irises flooded black. And when she saw Leesil, she quickly retreated down the bed.
The sight pained him.
She had taken so long to accept that her dhampir nature was no threat to him. When it became too strong for her, he was the only one she recognized, the only one she let near her. But somewhere deep inside, a part of her still feared harming him.
Leesil grabbed her forearms and pulled her back against himself. She was shivering, and her skin felt cold and clammy.
“You’re all right,” he whispered.
“I saw it again . . . ,” she hissed out. “The ice . . . the castle . . . we have to go south.”
Magiere’s eyes wandered until her gaze locked on the shuttered window across their room. She got up, pulling one blanket around herself, and Leesil didn’t try to stop her. She opened the shutters and leaned out, looking left.
Leesil knew she was staring at the harbored ship again, as she’d done a dozen times each day.
“When will we ever get out of here?” Magiere said.
“Soon,” Leesil answered, desperate to give her ease. “Sgäile said just a few more days.”
“I . . . we need to go,” she whispered, and hung her head.
Leesil came up behind her at the window, not knowing what else to say or do. He pressed against her back and slipped his arms around her waist, his hands sliding inside the blanket across the curves of hipbones and stomach.
Magiere straightened, hands tight on the sill. Then she leaned back, and he buried his face in her hair. He finally lifted his face as she rolled her head to the right, and he found her staring into the dark—but not toward the bay. Her lips parted in one soundless word.
South.
; Time slipped by like water rippling over stones. Chane woke upon the floor near the entryway’s hearth. Welstiel would soon expect him upstairs to begin his nightly vigil.
Chane could not bring himself to go just yet. Pushing up on all fours, he listened to hungry cries rolling down the stairway from above. They always grew louder at dusk.
Longing for a hunt grew inside him at each muffled wail—and false hunger grew as well. He snatched a small twig from the hearth with a clinging bit of flame, climbed to his feet, and stepped through the passage to the back workroom. A lantern rested upon the nearest table beneath hanging branches of drying herbs. He lit it and then snuffed out the smoldering twig.
Several nights earlier, he’d noticed dark archways in the workroom’s rear, but he’d felt no desire to pass through any of them to explore the monastery further.
Tonight, he could not bring himself to go upstairs just yet, so he turned toward the workroom’s rear left corner and slipped through the dark opening in the wall.
Part of him recoiled from going farther and learning what he already feared . . . that this monastery might be more than some forgotten cloister of deluded priests.
Doorways lined the passage, but before he paused to open even one, his gaze caught on the darkness at the passage’s end where his lantern’s light did not reach. He saw a doorless opening, and a dark space beyond it.
Chane slowed with each step as his light pierced the portal and illuminated an old corner table. A rack anchored on the wall displayed rows of tiny bottles, vials, and clay containers, all of varied shape and height and sealed with cork stoppers or hinged pot-metal lids. A pile of small leather-bound books sat on the table, along with a scroll on an aged wooden spindle.
He froze at arm’s length from the opening, staring at these bits of paraphernalia.
At first, the odor of the place, so faint and overmixed, made it difficult to pick out individual scents. Herbs, floral oils, burned wax, old leather, musty dry paper and parchment . . .
He did not want to enter, but he could not turn away, and finally he forced himself into the room.
Other small tables lined the side walls, each covered in a disorder of implements, metal vessels, and varied texts. Chane’s attention fell upon a wide table at the room’s left end with a worn, slat-backed chair behind it.
He was in a study, perhaps the chamber of whoever headed this place, and he spotted a grayed wooden door just beyond the bookshelf against the right wall. It stood slightly ajar, as if someone in a hurry had forgotten to close it completely. But Chane turned back to the makeshift desk, circling around beside its chair.
Loose parchments, aged bound sheaves, and even older scrolls lay scattered across the tabletop. He settled in the chair and opened a small text directly in front of him—a thick journal written in an old Stravinan dialect. As he turned page after page, reading entries that had little to do with practices of healing, he found whole chapters in other languages. Each such was written in a singular hand, as if the journal had passed from one person to another over many years.
This forgotten stone enclave housed an order of healers. More monks than actual priests, they followed the teachings of some long-forgotten patron saint, a healer who had wandered this continent long ago. This was the sanctuary of the Sluzhobnék Sútzits—the Servants of Compassion.
Chane stared about the room, and his gaze returned to the gray wood door left ajar. He had come this far and knew he could not turn back until he had seen all that lay here. He lifted the lantern, rounded the table, and pulled the gray door open wide. Dim light spilled into the space beyond.
Bookcases were arranged in rows with their ends against the back wall so that both sides of the shelves could be used, and their tops had been anchored to the stone ceiling.
The library was not large, little more than what he had seen in smaller noble houses during his living days. But he was not looking at handsomely bound volumes, most of which would never be read by the great lord or lady of the manor. No, everything here had an aura of age and sanctity, carefully preserved and arranged, from cylinders protecting scrolls to plain leather overlaps shielding the page edges of books. These were all meant to be used—had been used—treasured and guarded.
Chane’s eyes passed over endnotes of sheaves, book spines, and faded labels on scroll cases, picking out what he could read in Belaskian or contemporary Stravinan.
The two easiest to catch were Process of Distillation and Infusion and Spices of the Suman Lands—Properties, Verified & Fallacious. With effort he deciphered The Early Works of Master Evar Voskôviskän, then . . . something upon the Meadow, and a thin book called The Seven Leaves of . . . its final word wasn’t clear. The last thing he spotted was a multivolumed set in a case labeled The Antithesis Tome, with Commentaries, Volumes 1 through 8.
Chane backed up until his shoulder thumped the door frame. He spun away into the outer room, sliding down the wall to the floor, and the lantern slipped from his fingers.
It tottered over and rolled away. Melted wax spattered around its glass, spilled over the wick, and snuffed out the light.
How many moments had Chane fancied himself in a faraway place in Wynn’s world, filled with intellect and knowledge? Someplace just like this small forgotten monastery—until madness and a monster broke in upon it one night.
Chane pulled up his knees, curling his arms up over his aching skull. Drowning in sorrow, he could not shed a single tear.
The dead could not weep.
Avranvärd, the Meadow’s Song, ran through the dark streets of Ghoivne Ajhâjhe, her thick braid bouncing against her back as she hurried for her ship.
Twice since reaching harbor, the hkomas—the ship’s master—had chastised her for dawdling while on errands. She had no wish to hear his tiresome rant again. Given any other option, she would tell him to find a new steward and keep his tedious lectures to himself.
Tonight, she had made good time in her tasks, procuring his precious quills, ink, and parchment—and at a reasonable trade of one short rope and six candles. That should keep him quiet this time. With a moment to herself, she stopped and anxiously scanned the streets.
On errands this day, she had seen three clad in forest-gray escorting two humans and a half-blood. Their presence in Ghoivne Ajhâjhe had spread talk through the city faster than she could scurry about, but Avranvärd had no interest in humans. She hoped only for another glimpse of the Anmaglâhk.
The youngest of the three had been only a handful of years older than her, but he looked dull, clumsy, and overall unimpressive. The second was an extreme of another kind—a Greimasg’äh!
Brot’ân’duivé was a towering man who filled Avranvärd with so much awe she almost stared too long and missed the third entirely. Then she recognized the last of that gray-clad trio.
Sgäilsheilleache . . . Sgäilsheilleache á Oshâgäirea gan’Coilehkrotall— Willow Shade, born of Sudden-Breeze’s Laugh, from the clan of the Lichen Woods.
When Avranvärd closed her eyes, she still saw his narrow, smooth face, and his gray-green cloak hanging perfectly across his shoulders. She had met and even briefly spoken with him once. Her own clan’s ship had taken him to the shores of Bela, one of the humans’ reeking cities. Unlike the ship’s crew, Sgäilsheilleache had disembarked to explore strange lands and to study other races. Watching the skiff carry him to shore in the dark, Avranvärd knew she would do whatever was necessary to become Anmaglâhk.
Tired of serving aboard ships, either her own clan’s or training upon those of another, she wanted to walk foreign lands and see them with her own eyes. Only the Anmaglâhk were so privileged.
