Child of a Dead God

by Barb Hendee

  “What are you doing?” Chane demanded.

  Welstiel lashed out with his blade.

  Its edge collided with the elderly woman’s throat. In predawn’s half-light, sparks erupted as metal clanged against the stone behind her. The wall of stone turned dark as her black fluids spattered over it.

  Welstiel whirled away before her head thumped upon the ground. Her crouching companion began screeching unintelligibly. And there was Chane, his own blade in hand.

  “Another step,” Welstiel said, calm and clear, “and I will set them all on you.”

  Chane stood his ground, not moving. He never looked to the other ferals frozen in place around the camp. One of his eyes twitched in rage and open hatred.

  Welstiel did not care. Obedience was restored, and he stepped purposefully toward Chane.

  “Remember,” he said. “When I have what I seek, you will still be waiting for what you desire. Whether I have reason to compensate you for service is all in your hands. Obey me or leave . . . if you wish.”

  Rage drained slowly from Chane’s eyes, or perhaps it merely crawled into hiding. His gaze shifted above Welstiel as the sky grew lighter.

  “Get under cover,” Chane rasped.

  Not a true answer, but Welstiel was satisfied for the moment. A costly lesson, but one that perhaps even Chane could learn. Welstiel turned his back.

  The silver-haired man still howled. Frozen in place by Welstiel’s command, his fingers were locked tight about the calf of the elderly woman’s corpse.

  “Quiet!” Welstiel shouted, and the screeching voice strangled in the man’s throat.

  Welstiel reached down, snatched the woman’s head by its graying hair, and heaved it out into the wilderness. When he turned back, Chane had already ducked into his tent. The young female peeked out, one round eye staring at Welstiel around the tent flap’s edge.

  With Chane’s enraged face still fresh in Welstiel’s thoughts, he stared into that one near-colorless pupil and wondered . . .

  Did he indeed now have only five ferals? Or were there still six, the last one not chained to his own will?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hkuan’duv silently slipped out of his quarters just before dawn so as not to disturb Dänvârfij. He made his way through the ship’s passages to its "heart-room” at the stern. Avranvärd would soon try to contact him.

  He was disturbed that she possessed a word-wood from this vessel. Such were reserved for a ship’s hkomas or its hkœda—“caregiver-journeyer”—the Shaper who lived with each vessel through its life. In order to speak with Avranvärd, he needed to be in the place from which this vessel’s hkœda had grown the word-wood.

  The passage turned right across the ship’s breadth, and the hull’s rhythmic thrum sharpened as he stopped before three oval doors at the stern. The doors to either side provided access to the ship’s twin rudders; he stepped up to the center one.

  After his decades of service and a too-long life, only a few things still entranced Hkuan’duv, like the wonder of these vessels, the Päirvänean— Wave-Wanderers. He tapped two fingers lightly upon the door to the ship’s heart-room and waited.

  “You may enter . . . Hkuan’duv,” said a soft voice from within.

  He gently cracked the door open and looked inside the room. His eyes settled on its central feature.

  The floor flowed up from the chamber’s sides into a hulking mound of tawny wood, like the back of an infant whale arching beneath the belly of the ship. Its smooth, glistening surface rippled faintly like the root of a great tree. This was where the vessel’s root-tail trailed out into the waters below. Its constant snaking could drive the vessel at speeds difficult for a human ship to match.

  Along both side walls, ledges grew from the hull, but the room contained little else, except for its occupant.

  A woman in a plain canvas tunic and breeches, her feet bare, sat on one ledge. Her hair was pleated tightly across her skull in neat curling rows, further exposing skin paler than most an’Cróans’. She sat with her back flush against the hull.

  “Easàille . . . you do not sing to your ship?” he asked, and settled beside her.

  “It slumbers for a while,” she answered, “and its dreams run deep in the ocean.”

  “I must ask again for a private moment here,” he said, “but I will try not to disturb the ship’s rest.”

  A ship’s hkœda rarely left anyone alone in a heart-room, and his frequent requests were a severe imposition. But Easàille stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders with a smile.

  “More secret talks with some other ship’s hkœda,” she teased in a soft voice, and leaned her face toward him in mock jealousy. “Or is it some female hkomas you court so covertly?”

  “I am too old for such things,” Hkuan’duv answered. “And why would I seek such company elsewhere . . . if I come here?”

  Easàille rolled her eyes at his faltering attempt to return her flirtation. She patted his leg and left quietly.

  Alone, he stood up and lightly placed his bare hands against the great arch of the root-tail’s base. He slid his fingers over its smooth, vibrating surface, and wondered what it would be like to be hkœda . . . to slumber in the depths and in the dreams of a Päirvänean.

  Avranvärd’s voice disrupted his thoughts. Are you there?

  Resentment, rather than relief or anticipation, welled in Hkuan’duv. “Report.”

  My hkomas is troubled. Tomorrow, we make an unscheduled stop, and he is angry that he was not previously informed.

  Hkuan’duv frowned. “Who requested this?”

  Sgäilsheilleache . . . but he will not explain why, only that it is necessary.

  Hkuan’duv puzzled over this unexpected change. “Does he plan to go ashore?”

  I do not know this either. He will say nothing of his purpose . . . not even to the hkomas.

  Avranvärd sounded petulant, and her lack of respect left Hkuan’duv cold toward her difficulties. Why had Most Aged Father entrusted such a juvenile outsider to function as informant?

  “Report tomorrow at noon and after the evening meal,” Hkuan’duv said.

  Without waiting for acknowledgment, he lifted his hands from the root-tail’s base.

  All these changes meant the hkomas of his ship would need to stop and linger until the other vessel moved on. As he left the heart-room, Easàille came down the aft starboard stairs. He nodded quickly at her coy smile and headed back toward his quarters.

  As the ship had slowed and anchored, Chap looked over the starboard rail-wall at a wild shore of gray-tinged sand and beached seaweed with nothing but a thick tree-line behind.

  No harbor. Not even a small enclave. And only a rise of high mountains beyond granite foothills broke the skyline.

  Chap perched on a storage chest with Wynn behind him and watched the skiff being lowered into the water. He grew more puzzled and unsettled with each passing moment. The day before, Sgäile had announced this unscheduled stop.

  “What is he up to?” Wynn asked.

  I do not know.

  Sgäile, Osha, Leesil, and Magiere came up the stairwell below the aftcastle, seemingly all talking at once. Osha looked openly confused, but Magiere appeared angry.

  “What are you hiding?” she demanded. “Leesil’s just supposed to go ashore with you, and you won’t tell us why?”

  Leesil stood behind her, waiting for an answer. He and Magiere had dressed for cold weather with new coats over their hauberks and weapons strapped to their backs. Sgäile shouldered a canvas pack with a coil of rope lashed down its side and his open distress surprised Chap.

  “You were not even to come!” Sgäile said to Magiere.

  “That’s done with, already,” she answered, “and not open to debate.”

  Leesil, caught between the two of them, let out a deep sigh.

  “I have told you all that I am permitted to,” Sgäile returned. “This voyage was arranged by Brot’ân’duivé—and Cuirin’nên’a, Léshil’s mother. I
know little of their intentions, but I swore to Brot’ân’duivé that I would carry out his instructions.”

  Chap caught the strain in Sgäile’s voice, driven by more than Magiere’s bullying, and wondered at Sgäile’s reluctance for whatever task was at hand. Letting Magiere, or any human, become involved in the affairs of his people was no new burden for Sgäile.

  “It is not something I can speak of,” Sgäile added. “And not just because of human presence. Before now, this task has only been for the Anmaglâhk. Even Léshil’s involvement is unprecedented.”

  “Yes?” Magiere answered. “All the more reason for me to come along.”

  “All right,” Leesil sighed. “It’s settled, so leave it alone.”

  Sgäile slowly shook his head. “We will travel inland from here.”

  “How long?” Magiere asked.

  “Days.”

  “Sgäile!” she warned.

  He pursed his lips. “Three days in, three days out—considering extra precautions for your presence. The hkomas and crew will wait with the ship.”

  “Six days,” Magiere whispered, turning away.

  Chap realized he had witnessed the tail end of an extended argument, and he tried to dip into Sgäile’s memory. He caught a flash of a dark place where only a glimmer like lantern light reflected off a strange sheer wall of silver. Then came a brief glimpse of a tan elven hand holding a dull black oblong of stone, perhaps ground smooth by the tides over years. For an instant, Chap thought he saw marks scratched into its surface.

  The memories sank from Sgäile’s thoughts and beyond Chap’s awareness.

  Chap’s companions were not the only ones who had changed during their time among the an’Cróan; Sgäile had been altered as well. The mind of a seasoned anmaglâhk should have been nearly blank of rising memories. These brief glimpses showed that Sgäile’s self-control was wavering. It was not a good sign.

  Wynn closed on Magiere, and Chap looked them both up and down. No one had asked Wynn to pack for this journey.

  The little sage had hardened much in two seasons, but not enough. A time might come when she would be left behind for more than six days. Although Chap’s foremost concern was watching over Magiere and Leesil, the thought of Wynn left unguarded worried him more and more.

  He had tried now and then to goad Wynn playfully, to make her assert herself. That day on the deck he had not anticipated her grabbing his tail and sending them both spinning into a tangle. In retrospect, he should have considered the crew’s reaction to a human tussling with a majay-hì. What came of that was his fault—his foolishness—born of concern for Wynn. Still, it was all he could think of to continue her slow climb to greater internal strength.

  “If you are going inland,” Wynn said bluntly, “then I am going as well.”

  Sgäile finally noticed the little sage, and Osha’s long face clouded over in silence.

  “No,” Sgäile answered flatly. “It is enough that I relented to Magiere’s . . . request.”

  Magiere glanced about the ship. “We’re not leaving Wynn with this crew.”

  “Osha will watch over her,” Sgäile countered, and turned to his young companion. “Do you accept this purpose?”

  Brief shock washed over Osha’s face, and he nodded. “Yes, I accept.”

  “I do not!” Wynn retorted. “Where are you going? And why did you wait until now to tell us any of this?”

  Sgäile’s jaw muscles tightened as he turned back to Magiere.

  “We travel swiftly. Even if I were of a mind for another outsider, the scholar would slow us. She stays . . . but I give my word she will be safe with Osha.”

  “Wynn . . . ,” Magiere began but trailed off.

  Wynn’s expression drained, losing even indignation. “You want to travel quickly.”

  “I want to get back as soon as possible,” Magiere corrected. “And move on.”

  Leesil settled a hand on Wynn’s shoulder. “I know this sounds insane, but Sgäile wouldn’t ask unless it was important, and I—”

  “You want to know what Brot’an arranged,” Wynn finished.

  “Brot’an can rot for all I care!” Leesil snapped, and then calmed himself. “But if my mother’s involved in this . . .”

  “I understand,” Wynn said, looking down at the deck.

  Chap sympathized with her, but he had larger issues to worry about— particularly if all this was more of Brot’an’s scheming. He tried again to dip into Sgäile’s memories.

  This time he caught flickering images of Wynn in Crijheäiche and Ghoivne Ajhâjhe, asking questions, nosing about . . . and then perched upon the city’s shoreside embankment, scribbling in one of her journals.

  Indeed, Sgaile’s composure was slipping. He did not want Wynn on this journey, but not for the reason he had given. Once again, Sgäile was caught between his caste’s ways and whatever Brot’ân’duivé had pressed him into—something Sgäile did not want Wynn recording.

  I will go with them, Chap projected, stepping in beside her, and tell you everything when we return.

  A bit of mischief at such a notion filled Wynn’s eyes as she crouched and cupped his face in her hands. She began to say something, but Chap cut her off.

  Stay with Osha.

  Wynn looked up at the others. “You should get started.”

  Magiere frowned, as if wondering at Wynn’s sudden compliance, and glared down at Chap. It was clear to Chap that she knew exactly what had passed silently between them.

  Magiere turned and headed for the rail-wall. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  The hkomas crossed his arms, and Sgäile would not even look at him. Osha stepped in protectively behind Wynn as Chap trotted off behind Magiere.

  A young woman with a thick braid and oversized boots gazed at him with anxious eyes. But Chap ignored her and arched up, hooking his forepaws on the rail-wall’s top near the rope ladder. There he waited so he might climb onto Leesil’s back.

  Leesil raised his feathery eyebrows. “No, you stay here.”

  Chap wrinkled a jowl. Since when was he to be treated like a dog? He was the guardian of his charges, and neither of them had anything to say about it. He barked twice, loudly, for “no.”

  Magiere stepped through the rail-wall gate, one foot settling on the ladder. “You can’t climb down by yourself, and we’re not carrying you.”

  She swung her other leg over and began climbing down. Chap barked a succession of angry yips.

  Leesil followed Magiere, and Chap considered biting the back of his breeches. Sgäile looked uncomfortable as he stepped through the rail-wall gate.

  “Apologies,” he said to Chap. “We will return soon.”

  Magiere was right about one thing. Chap could not climb down by himself. But it was time he reminded them of their position as his charges. He watched until Magiere settled in the skiff, and then backed a few feet along the deck.

  “What are you doing?” Wynn called in alarm.

  Chap rushed through the rail-wall gate and leaped out into the air at the last instant. He hit the water just beyond the skiff and sank amid the loud sound of his own splash. The sea was far colder than he had expected.