by Barb Hendee
An ocean breeze whipped a tendril of Magiere's black hair across her eyes. She brushed it aside and peered intently at this strange vessel come to carry her and her companions away. Long and sleek, its prow stretched to a point like a headless spear, and the hull's lip seemed lightly curved like a holly leaf's edge. For an instant, she thought a ripple of dark green flickered across its hull from light reflected off the water, but the color quickly returned to rich golden tan.
Other vessels, both small and large, sailed in and out of the vast bay or were already harbored in its waters and at the long docks. Various barges that had come down inland rivers were tied off at the piers. Elves upon the docks unloaded and reloaded goods to be exchanged with city shops and outbound vessels.
"Ah, seven hells!" someone muttered. "We're actually going to board that thing?"
Magiere glanced back, and Leesil grimaced as he stepped in beside Sgaile. She looked them over.
Sgaile was full elven and an anmaglahk-a trained assassin and spy, who'd sworn to protect Leesil and his companions, including Magiere herself. She hadn't known him long and could rarely read his subtle expressions.
Leesil was only half-blooded.
With oblong ears less peaked than those of a full-blooded elf, he shared other traits with Sgaile's people, from silky blond hair-white-blond, in his case-to amber eyes and tan skin. Leesil's eyes were smaller than a full-blooded elf's, though still slightly larger than a human's, and his complexion was lighter. Above average height for a human, like Magiere, he was short by elven standards. Beardless-as were all male elves-his wedged chin looked blunt compared to Sgaile's.
"My dinner's coming up just looking at it," Leesil added, glowering at the approaching vessel.
"There's no other way," Magiere said. "Unless you care to cross the mountains on foot again."
She was in no mood for his whining. They'd only been on one short sea voyage, to Bela, and Leesil had been sick the entire journey. With a dramatic sigh, he shouldered around Sgaile to grasp her gloved hand.
After traveling downriver on a barge from Crijheaiche-Origin-Heart-they'd spent only one night and day here, but Magiere was anxious to be off again. Sgaile had brought her to the docks the moment he heard their ship neared harbor.
"When can we leave?" she asked.
Sgaile lowered his eyes to hers. "The ship returns from its run along our eastern coastal settlements. Once cargo is exchanged, it will be ready to depart."
"How long will that take?"
"Several days, perhaps. It depends on the cargo to be acquired."
More delays.
But compared to everything Magiere had been through since entering the Elven Territories, arriving at the city had brought some relief. It was good to see ocean again and breathe sea air, as in Miiska, her faraway home, but it was still elven land. She peered back at Ghoivne Ajhajhe stretching along the coastline.
Inland elves resided in cultured wild groves of living tree dwellings, but this one and only city was constructed partly of ornately carved wood, partly of stone, and partly of other materials she couldn't name. A wild array of structures spread along the shore above the beach amid sparse but massive trees, not only behind her, but also where the shore continued on the far side of the Hajh River's wide mouth spilling into the bay.
Various shops, dwellings, tents, and inns bustled with activity. She could just make out the tawny roof of the tall inn where she and Leesil were lodged-along with their companions, Chap and Wynn. It rose three stories high around a giant elm with branches spread like a second roof over the building.
The elves here still treated Magiere like a savage outsider-a human- though more discreetly than their inland brethren. She had long since grown accustomed to thinly veiled loathing, but the greater part of her drive to leave came from something more unsettling.
A dream-and the polite urgency of an old sage in Bela.
The journey's next leg was a search for a long-forgotten artifact. Magiere was determined to keep it out of the hands of a murdering Noble Dead- her half-brother, Welstiel. Wynn's old master sage, "Domin" Tilswith as he was titled, was the one who'd first requested help from Magiere and Leesil. He feared letting an ancient device from the Forgotten History fall into any such hands.
Until recently, Magiere had put aside the master sage's concern. In addition to not knowing where to search for the artifact, she'd had other goals which meant more to her. Then black-scaled coils appeared in her dark dream on the first night within the city.
Taller than a mounted rider, the creature showed her a six-towered castle locked in ice, and a voice whispered…
Sister of the dead, lead on.
Magiere had awoken in a cold sweat, crying out for Leesil.
She'd seen the coils once before in far-off Droevinka, but she'd been awake that time, outside the dead village of Apudalsat. She and her canine companion, Chap, fought to escape from the decrepit necromancer Ubad. When they gained the upper hand, that madman had called upon something by name.
il'Samar.
Turning black coils materialized ghostlike among the dank trees around the clearing. The voice that came like a whisper throughout the forest ignored Ubad's plea and left him to Chap's savagery. Earlier that same night, while Magiere had been lost within her dead mother's spirit-memories, she'd witnessed her half-brother, Welstiel, whispering in the night… as if to something no one else could see or hear.
Perhaps that something was the same black-scaled thing that had whispered in Magiere's dream-and in the clearing with Ubad. Perhaps it was the same ancient force behind the old necromancer's scheming of her birth by Welstiel's undead father. In the days following her dream, Magiere remembered a few words Wynn and Domin Tilswith had translated from an old scroll out of the Forgotten. It mentioned an ancient enemy called "the night voice."
And Wynn had translated "il'Samar" as a name or title akin to "conversation in the dark."
In Magiere's time in the Elven Territories, she'd learned that no undead had ever entered elven land, not even in the faraway sanctuary on Wynn's continent, where the last of the living had fled in the war of the Forgotten. But she, daughter of a Noble Dead, had entered here. Her very touch drained life from its trees, and she had taken to wearing gloves, avoiding any direct contact with the elven forest.
Magiere feared all these connections closing in on her. And since the night of her dream, she'd learned to fear sleep as well. As always, fear made her angry-enough to find this forgotten artifact, be done with it, and go home.
And in the dream's wake, she knew where to go, or at least in which direction to start. It pulled at her from within. Magiere hoped the elven ship's crew finished quickly with their cargo.
"We were not in the shop too long! I barely had time to glance about before you pushed me out the door!"
The familiar high-pitched voice drew Magiere from her heavy thoughts to see a silver-gray dog and a tall elf in dark gray-green coming down the dock. Chap led the way, tail high but head low as he glared blankly ahead with an occasional twitch of jowl that exposed sharp teeth. Brot'an walked behind him.
Unlike his people, Brot'an was broad and solid, built almost like a human, but tall even for an elf. His white-blond hair was rather coarse, and its gray streaks turned silvery under the sun. As he neared, four long scars stood out upon his faintly lined face. They ran down his forehead's right side, jumped his eye, and continued across his cheekbone. He was dressed like Sgaile in the monotone cloak, tunic, and breeches of the Anmaglahk, the caste of elven spies and assassins-though they wouldn't describe themselves as such.
Anmaglahk feared little, yet Brot'an strode swiftly, as if trying to flee pursuit without being obvious. Even Chap quickened his lope at the berating voice harrying them both.
"We must go back!" the high female voice insisted. "I have not finished my notes. Are you listening to me?"
Brot'an's large stature blocked his pursuer from view-until Wynn Hygeorht scurried around his side, try
ing to catch up.
"And stop calling me 'girl'! Just because you are longer-lived-and a hulk among your own kind-does not make me a child by comparison."
The little sage took two quick steps for every one of Brot'an's, and her head barely reached his midchest. Somewhere past twenty years of age, Wynn's light-brown hair hung loose and blew wildly about her oval, olive-toned face. Dressed in borrowed yellow breeches and a loose russet tunic made for a youth of Sgaile's clan, her pant legs were rolled up to keep her from tripping. The faded man's cloak she wore, with its poorly hemmed bottom, made her attire even more ridiculous.
"Did you hear me?" she demanded, grasping at Brot'an's cloak.
Anmaglahk were difficult to read, and more so with the so-called masters among them, such as Brot'an and Urhkar-but not today. Brot'an's stoic expression bore a silent plea for assistance.
Magiere couldn't suppress a smirk. "Wynn, leave Brot'an alone. You've dragged him about enough for one day."
Chap growled with a short bark of agreement and thumped his haunches down on the dock beside Magiere. Wynn glared back in disbelief.
"Elves were using a strangely shaped clay oven to smoke-dry salmon in a fish house. I have never seen the process work so quickly. This is useful information to record… and I foresee no opportunity to return here anytime soon. Do you?"
"She was-" Brot'an cut in sharply then regained his polite tone. "She was asking many questions. I felt it best that we leave."
Magiere understood both their frustrations. Neither she nor Wynn nor even Leesil could walk about unescorted. No human had ever been welcome in this part of the world, let alone left it again. Wynn was a scholar and a sage, and thus fluent in the elven dialect from her own continent. But she always had to stick her little nose into everything new and strange that she stumbled upon.
"Look, there's our ship," Magiere said, and pointed, hoping to distract the sage.
Wynn's scowl faded. "The large one?"
Chap pricked up his ears, and Magiere scratched between them. He whined and looked back toward the city. Or was he peering to the forest beyond it? He'd done that a good deal of late, often disappearing for long periods and leaving Magiere to wonder what he'd been up to. Chap swung his long muzzle back toward the approaching ship, and sunlight caught in his blue crystalline eyes and silvery fur.
"Beautiful…," Wynn whispered. "Look at its sails! How does a cargo vessel ride so high and swift?"
More questions, and Brot'an let out a deep sigh.
"Beautiful?" Leesil scoffed. "We'll see how beautiful it is… after you've sloshed about in it for a few days."
Wynn arched an eyebrow at him. "I never get seasick. I enjoyed the voyage across the ocean to Belaski."
Leesil's mouth tightened, and Magiere wished Wynn would just stop talking.
"You will adjust, Leshil," Sgaile said, pronouncing Leesil's name in Elvish. "It took days for me as well. But after enough voyages, I no longer succumb to a vessel's rocking at sea."
Brot'an slipped around to Magiere's far side, perhaps using her as a barrier against Wynn. Chap slunk the other way around Leesil and wrinkled his jowls at Brot'an. The dog still didn't care for the master anmaglahk's presence.
Magiere lifted her chin to meet Brot'an's large amber eyes. Up close, his scars were as light as human skin. He seemed troubled by more than Wynn's pestering.
"What?" she asked.
"The council of elders," he began, "promised a ship to deliver you wherever you wished to go, but so far, you have named no destination. I must give instructions to the ship's master."
Magiere had known this moment would come-and had dreaded it. Brot'an frowned, waiting for an answer.
"I don't exactly know," she said. "Only that we must head south… along the eastern coast."
Even to her, the explanation sounded vague.
"There is nothing along that route," Sgaile said. "No settlements beyond our territory, not even for humans, except far south… the Ylladon States."
She didn't know the place he mentioned, but Sgaile's voice held a less than subtle malice. Surprising, since he took great effort to remain ever polite. Magiere's frustration increased. She didn't know what to say without revealing that her only guides were a dream and the pull of her instinct.
"Magiere…," Wynn whispered. "There is no other way."
"Wynn, don't-" Leesil began.
"We are not looking for a settlement," Wynn cut in, and pushed him aside, peering around Magiere at Brot'an. "Rather an object, hidden in ice-capped mountains, in a castle on this continent. Long forgotten and guarded by old ones… which likely means undead."
Leesil tried to grab her. "Wynn, that's enough!"
The little sage swatted his hand aside and kept on talking, even as Chap growled and grabbed the hem of her cloak.
"My guild believes this artifact is from what we call the Forgotten History. And that Magiere may be the only one who can retrieve it… considering she was born a hunter of the dead."
Rising anger choked off Magiere's rebuke, but the small sage only glared back at her.
"They must be told," Wynn said. "How else can Brot'an arrange a voyage without a destination? After all that has happened in Crijheaiche, we have few secrets from him."
"Cork it, Wynn!" Leesil snapped.
"He will know best how much to relate to the captain," Wynn snapped back, and jerked her cloak from Chap's jaws. "Besides, our task is no threat to his people-perhaps just the opposite, if we keep this artifact from the wrong hands."
Magiere's mouth hung partly open, shocked at what Wynn blurted out in front of two anmaglahk. Brot'an, as well as Sgaile, had risked his life and more to protect Magiere and those she cared for. But still, Magiere had an urge to toss Wynn into the bay.
Yet what was the alternative-to leave Brot'an with no instructions for the captain? Neither she nor Leesil knew the eastern coast, so faking a destination was impossible. Magiere raised a warning finger before Wynn started up again and turned to Brot'an.
"We have to find this thing, whatever it is, and take it to the sages. We promised that much, but we don't know exactly where it is-only what Wynn said, and that we must travel south along the eastern coast."
Brot'an's unblinking amber eyes stared down at Magiere. Sgaile remained silently attentive.
"Who are these sages?" Brot'an suddenly asked.
It wasn't among the first questions Magiere had expected, but Wynn's people had arrived on this continent less than a year past. Even the Anmaglahk might not know of them as yet. Magiere cocked her head toward Wynn.
"Scholars, like her. Their guild is in Bela."
"One branch of our guild, actually," Wynn corrected. "The Guild of Sagecraft. We build and care for repositories of knowledge. Places of learning where sages like myself live and work. Good people, Brot'an. They preserve what they gather, that which should not be forgotten or lost again. And they can discern what this object is and how to keep it safe."
Magiere wasn't about to let the Anmaglahk know from whom she'd learned of this artifact-the same person she was trying to keep it from. The sun had slipped down the sky toward the faraway Broken Range, and dusk was settling in.
"I will speak to the ship's hkomas," Brot'an said finally. "I am uncertain how well he will respond to a journey with no destination, especially beyond our own waters. But do not repeat what you have told me to anyone." He nodded to Wynn. "I hold and value your trust."
Another awkward silence followed, until Sgaile spoke. "Brot'an'duive, would you see them to their lodging? I have duties to attend."
"Yes, certainly," Brot'an replied, ushering everyone down the docks.
Magiere wondered what duties Sgaile could have here, besides his sworn guardianship. She was still annoyed with Wynn but also a little relieved, though she'd never confess it.
Everyone stepped off the dock onto the sandy shore, and Chap whined, dancing sideways a few steps toward the city. Magiere knew he really wanted to run for the forest be
yond it.
"He's been doing that every day," she muttered.
Wynn pulled tangles of loose hair out of her face. "Oh, stop whining and just go."
Chap bolted upslope, disappearing between a tall stone building and a taller elm.
Magiere trudged the shore road until it turned inland across sandy earth, winding toward their temporary home. She glanced over her shoulder at the sea, feeling some ease that they would soon be on their way. But when she turned back, facing south by southeast, the pull within her grew stronger.
Sgaile's thoughts tumbled as he darted through the trees, deeper into the forest beyond Ghoivne Ajhajhe. From the instant he first intercepted Leshil entering his people's lands, Sgaile had sworn guardianship to protect the half-blood and his companions.
Leshil had somehow managed to pass the Broken Range amid brutal winter and walk straight into the forest, unhindered. He had come to free his mother, Cuirin'nen'a, from imprisonment imposed by her own caste. And in the end, he had succeeded. But so much more had happened during Leshil's time among Sgaile's people, the an'Croan-Those of the Blood.
Sgaile had guided Leshil to Roise Charmune, the Seed of Sanctuary, in the sacred burial place of the an'Croan's most ancient ancestors. There he had watched in awe as Leshil was given-rather than chose-his true name.
Leshiarelaohk-Sorrow-Tear's Champion.
The ancestors accepted a half-blood as an'Croan and saw fit to call him a champion-but for what reason? Even more, they had shown themselves to Leshil-despite Sgaile's improper presence, for name-taking was always done alone.
None of this had ever happened before.
Puzzled, Sgaile could only guard Leshil until the whole truth became clear.
For days, he had wavered over whether or not to accompany Leshil in returning to his home, to make certain he arrived safely. Now it appeared that Magiere was steering Leshil elsewhere toward an uncertain future. Or was this also part of Leshil's destiny?
Sgaile sank to his knees before a wide beech tree. He desperately needed guidance.
Coastal forests differed from the inland and his clan's own lands. Trees grew farther apart, and the earth was gritty rather than soft and loamy. Cool air blew in the branches, and Sgaile drew his cloak close as he took a small oval of word-wood from his pocket. It had been "grown" from the great oak home of Aoishenis-Ahare, Most Aged Father, the leader of the Anmaglahk.
