A Wind in the Night

by Barb Hendee

  Chane dropped his eyes from the elf to her. Some time ago she had made him swear never again to feed on a sentient being. He had kept that promise so far, and she believed he subsisted on the blood of livestock and large wild game.

  This was half-true.

  “I’ll cook the fish,” she said. “You go while you have time.”

  She was correct, though it felt as though he was being dismissed. Still, before they reached the duchy, he needed to be at full strength.

  When traveling, he always carried two packs: one was his own, and the other had belonged to his old mentor, Welstiel Massing, now dead for the final time. No matter how long Chane possessed that second pack, he would always think of it as Welstiel’s.

  Without another word, Chane grabbed the second pack from the wagon’s back and walked off into the trees. He felt Wynn’s eyes upon him but did not look back.

  • • •

  Osha watched Chane vanish into the woods, and he fought to keep his own expression still.

  Wynn ran a hand over her face. When her hand dropped, her eyes flashed with anger.

  “You did that on purpose,” she accused. “You tried to humiliate him.” Then her tone softened. “That’s not like you.”

  No, it was not, but it was unthinkable that one such as she would keep company with that thing. Obviously she had also changed.

  “Where is he going?” Osha asked in his own tongue, perhaps too sharply. “What is he doing?”

  “Hunting for himself,” she answered, keeping to Belaskian.

  Osha knew that was not the whole truth.

  She stepped closer, looked at the fish he held, and sighed. “Nikolas is already asleep. We should cook and eat some ourselves, saving one for when he wakes. I’ll share mine with Shade.”

  Grateful for a simple focus, Osha nodded. While she stoked the campfire, he scavenged and whittled until he had forked branches planted at the fire’s sides and a thicker green bough stripped of bark for a skewer. He cleaned one fish and handed it to her, and while she skewered and set it over the flames, he started on the second one.

  “You always were good at catching fish,” she said.

  He looked up. “It is not difficult,” he answered in an’Cróan Elvish.

  “Not for you.” She glanced away, lingering in looking to the wagon.

  His curved bow rested on the wagon’s end with his quiver.

  “You’ve become quite the archer,” she said. “But that’s not the bow of a . . .”

  Osha turned his attention back to cleaning the fish. No, it was not an anmaglâhk’s bow, which would be assembled from parts hidden away in the back of a forest gray vestment beneath a matching cloak. He no longer possessed any of those things.

  He had told her most of his story, at least for what had happened before he left his people. But he was uncertain that it had done her any good. It had not done anything for him.

  “Why did you leave?” she asked, and then hesitated. “Why did you come all the way here . . . with Brot’an . . . after what he did and . . . What possible reason could you and Brot’an have for bringing Leanâlhâm?”

  “What is it you want?” he snapped, growing angry now. “After all that I have told you—the shame of it—and still you want more from me?”

  Her face calm, she rocked back on her heels. “Yes, I want all of it.”

  Frustrated, he let his mind roll back to what had happened the night his ship reached Ghoivne Ajhâjhe.

  “When I left the ship and was about to step off the dock, I saw Brot’ân’duivé standing there in the sand . . . waiting for me! He was the one who forced me to answer that summons, who sent me to the Chein’âs! And there he stood. But before I could curse his name, I heard someone cry out . . . and I looked down the shore to see Leanâlhâm being assaulted by three of my caste.” He gazed into Wynn’s shocked face. “Yes, they attacked her. One of them lifted her off the ground.” He shook his head. “They were willing to hurt one of our own people, a helpless girl.”

  “Why?” Wynn gasped.

  “Because of Brot’ân’duivé! I did not know at the time, but a small team of the loyalists had murdered Gleannéohkân’thva. In retribution the greimasg’äh made an attempt on Most Aged Father’s life. This sent the loyalists into madness. They were going to take Leanâlhâm hostage and use her against Brot’ân’duivé.”

  Wynn’s mouth fell open. “Anmaglâhk murdered Gleann? Oh, poor Leanâlhâm. Why would they do such a thing?”

  There Osha paused. He could not bring himself to tell her that the old healer was killed over a journal that Wynn herself had sent—a journal that Most Aged Father had desperately wanted, as he believed it contained information about the first orb.

  “Gleannéohkân’thva was a dissident,” he answered flatly, instead of giving her the whole truth. He hoped she would stop questioning him. He had questions of his own that she needed to answer.

  “So Leanâlhâm was attacked there on the shore?”

  “I went to rescue her, and . . . I had to accept help from the greimasg’äh, for I could not take three of them alone without my weapons. The greimasg’äh had wounded all three before I went for Leanâlhâm’s captor. Once I had her, Brot’ân’duivé drove off the trio. But by then . . . it did not matter.”

  Every scar upon Osha stung anew, as if burned by the memory, as he turned his eyes again on Wynn. “Leanâlhâm is now seen as an enemy of Most Aged Father, and, through his lies, an enemy of the people. I marked myself the same in attacking my . . . the anmaglâhk . . . in company with the greimasg’äh.”

  “So you had to run,” Wynn whispered, “from your own caste, your people.”

  “Because of Brot’ân’duivé! He had a new purpose—to hunt those who hunted Magiere and Léshil, and to kill them. I joined the greimasg’äh on his journey and later . . . had no choice but to join in his purpose, for I had to protect Leanâlhâm from his obsession.”

  Osha fell silent, idly turning the fish on the skewer—and still Wynn would not relent.

  “What happened on the voyage . . . to my homeland?”

  He could not even bring himself to look at her; it was a moment before he said another word, and finally he began to speak. . . .

  • • •

  Osha, along with Leanâlhâm, followed Brot’ân’duivé, who somehow gained them passage on a civilian an’Cróan vessel willing to sail into human waters. If that crew had only known what the greimasg’äh had done, would do . . . but they did not. And who among the people would deny aid to an anmaglâhk, let alone the great Brot’ân’duivé, greimasg’äh and master of silence and shadow?

  The people were grateful, for the Anmaglâhk served them, protected them. So it was said and believed. The ship took them around the point and south toward the Outward Bay and Bela, capital city of the human nation of Belaski. That voyage unto itself was painful.

  For all that Osha had suffered, he stayed inside a cabin on board as much as he could, for Leanâlhâm would not leave the place, even for meals. Whenever he left to seek out food and water, when he brought such back, he saw panic in her eyes, as if she feared he might not return. Also, he noticed that she flinched every time he said her name.

  It was longer still before Osha suspected there was more to this than Leanâlhâm’s loss of home, Sgäilsheilleache, and then Gleannéohkân’thva, but he did not press her.

  There were some things one did not demand—or take. So Osha cared only for her needs and did what he could for her suffering. Yet even amid this, Brot’ân’duivé insisted upon examining Osha’s “gifts”—as he called them—from the Chein’âs and the black séyilf.

  As Leanâlhâm looked anxiously between her companions, Brot’ân’duivé demanded that Osha tell him what happened in the fire caves.

  Osha said nothing. And so the greimasg’äh took the sword only and left the
cabin that all three of them shared. Osha did not care whether he ever again saw that human thing that had severed him from the life he had wanted in service to his people.

  Brot’ân’duivé came back without the sword . . . until the fifth following day, when it was in his hand again. He thrust it at Osha.

  The hilt strut had been fitted with tawny, smooth, and shimmering wood like that of the living ship of their people that carried them—a Päirvänean. The same wood was used for the hilts of Anmaglâhk blades, though it was not always grown out of a ship. Those hilts were also wrapped tightly in straps of leather, obscuring what was beneath the wrap, for a sure grip.

  “It is yours,” the greimasg’äh declared, “made for you by the Chein’âs. You must learn to use it . . . though I cannot be your teacher for this.”

  Osha wanted nothing to do with that cursed thing. He touched it only long enough to wrap and hide it from his sight. More than once he thought to cast it overboard, but each time he faltered, unable to do so.

  Once the ship reached Bela, Brot’ân’duivé learned that the team hunting Magiere and Léshil had already set sail.

  It took two days to arrange passage and board a human ship sailing to the central continent. Osha balked at that, though the thought of Leanâlhâm alone in some foreign land with only the tainted greimasg’äh was more than he could tolerate. Even if he had not cared for her as if she were of his own blood, she was the last kin of his jeóin, his teacher.

  He tried to consider any option besides forcing her onto a ship bound for another continent.

  “She cannot stay here among humans,” Brot’ân’duivé stated flatly, “and you cannot take her home. You would both be seized for treason.”

  And why? Because they both had ties to the greimasg’äh, and thereby they were both of use to Most Aged Father.

  So they boarded the human vessel and crossed the ocean.

  That journey over seemingly endless water felt like a lifetime. Osha found some comfort in caring for Leanâlhâm and in the fact that Brot’ân’duivé often left them alone. It gave Osha a reason—a purpose—not to think on all that had happened to him.

  When they landed in a stinking and teeming human city on the central continent’s eastern coast, Brot’ân’duivé’s demeanor changed. He settled Osha and Leanâlhâm in an inn and vanished for a while that night. The following dawn he returned . . . with a longbow, a number of bare arrow shafts, black crow feathers, other odd materials, and even some steel arrowheads.

  “The loyalists head west, across land,” he said. “We will track them.”

  Osha did not know or care how Brot’ân’duivé learned this. But he could not help thinking that if the loyalists hunted Magiere and Léshil, they might also hunt any of the pair’s past companions . . . such as Wynn. She had written the journal via which the greimasg’äh and Most Aged Father had started open war among the people.

  That fear goaded Osha into obedience to the greimasg’äh. The next day began another long journey, this time overland. And Brot’ân’duivé would not leave Osha in peace.

  As they made camp at the end of their first day, the shadow-gripper stood over him and demanded, “Give me the white metal bow handle.”

  Osha was confused, not knowing what the greimasg’äh meant. When he did not respond, Brot’ân’duivé went to Osha’s belongings and began searching. Osha was on his feet in an instant, for he had had enough meddling for a lifetime.

  The greimasg’äh rose, and in his hand was the split tube of white metal that was slightly curved.

  Osha stared at the thing.

  “It was likely made to fit the handle of a bow carried by our ship’s soldiers,” the greimasg’äh explained. “I did not realize this soon enough.”

  He crouched again and retrieved the curved bow he acquired in that long night in the city. With a bit of pressure, he snapped the tube over the back side and around the bow’s handle. “It is not a proper fit, but it will do once it is properly wrapped.”

  Brot’ân’duivé settled to the earth, dug in his own pack, and pulled out a long strip of thin black leather. He began by packing the strip’s end in between the tube and the handle with the tip of a stiletto, so that the tube was not loose. Then he set to wrapping and binding the white metal tube around the handle.

  Osha settled to the ground. Not wishing to watch, he looked away to where Leanâlhâm had fallen asleep upon her bedroll. He hoped she did not dream of the recent past as much as he did.

  “You will learn to use this bow,” Brot’ân’duivé said.

  “No,” Osha replied.

  Even if he could not cast aside the burdens given to him, he would not use them. He would not submit to more loss of himself in what had been put upon him as well as taken from him.

  “It will be unfamiliar,” Brot’ân’duivé went on, as if Osha had not spoken. “The bow arms are longer and far more curved than those of an Anmaglâhk bow. It has greater range and power but will be more difficult to draw, and hence—”

  “No,” Osha repeated.

  Something cracked sharply across his chest and upper right arm. Pain made his sight flash white as he toppled over, and then anger brought him around in a crouch.

  Brot’ân’duivé sat cross-legged on the earth with his left arm outstretched to the side, and he still gripped the unstrung bow he had used to strike. The greimasg’äh’s eyes, one caged by the four slashing scars, fixed on Osha.

  “Enough self-pity!” he ordered. “The stretch we must cross for more than a moon is called the Broken Lands by those in the city who speak adequate Belaskian. There are creatures out here that neither of us has ever seen. Any merchant caravan crossing either way travels heavily armed and guarded. And we are only three.”

  “Then we turn back and find a caravan!”

  “I will not lose time in tracking my quarry or have them double back to find you, should you think to turn back on your own. You have one choice, here and now.”

  Osha clenched all over as his fingers dug into the earth. Only a fool would assault a greimasg’äh, but he was beyond caring.

  “If not for yourself,” Brot’ân’duivé whispered, “then what of the girl?”

  Osha froze before he could lunge and glanced toward Leanâlhâm’s sleeping form.

  “When a moment comes when I cannot protect you both,” the greimasg’äh added, “how will you protect her? If not for yourself, that is a reason to accept what you have been given.”

  Osha hung in stillness.

  “And since I cannot teach you the sword . . .” And the greimasg’äh’s extended arm whipped forward.

  Osha scrambled back out of reach, but instead of striking him again, the bow tumbled to his feet.

  “You will make yourself useful,” Brot’ân’duivé said.

  Again Osha found he had no choice. He could not let Leanâlhâm suffer for his burdens or the bloodlust of Brot’ân’duivé. But he burned inside at the way the greimasg’äh manipulated him through using someone else . . . like Most Aged Father so often did.

  In the following days, when they stopped before dusk, he learned how to fletch, but he would work only with the steel arrowheads and the black crow feathers that Brot’ân’duivé had brought. Osha would not touch the white metal heads or the five black feathers dropped by the séyilf. As he fletched, Leanâlhâm watched him. Once, she tried to offer to help, but the greimasg’äh forbade her, saying that only Osha should attend his own weapons.

  However, while Osha worked upon the arrows, often starting over for mistakes, the greimasg’äh frequently slipped away, sometimes not returning until dawn. Brot’ân’duivé said nothing of where he had gone, though Osha knew the greimasg’äh was tracking the team of loyalists.

  When Osha finished with the steel arrowheads and would still not touch the five from the Chein’âs—or the black feathers from the séyi
lf—Brot’ân’duivé fashioned those himself in less than an evening.

  “Do not use these in battle unless necessary,” he instructed. “There is some purpose to them that I—you—have yet to understand. But you will learn to use them.”

  Osha had no intention of doing so. When the moment came to learn the bow, he strung it with only a little effort, for he had been “adequate” with an Anmaglâhk bow. As he reached for a steel-tipped arrow from his quiver on the ground . . .

  “That is not an anmaglâhk bow,” Brot’ân’duivé said, “but you will learn as if it was, and by what is taught later to even those who . . . barely managed to gain a jeóin.”

  Osha heated under that slight.

  “You will learn what Sgäilsheilleache did not have the days to teach you,” Brot’ân’duivé said.

  Osha was at a loss as to what that meant. Yes, he had lost his teacher too soon after gaining the only one he had wanted—and the only one who might have accepted him. More baffling was that this new training did not begin with an arrow.

  It began with a lit candle.

  At first he wondered whether he was to shoot at it. Even Leanâlhâm blinked and frowned at this strangeness.

  “Sit ten strides off and watch the flame,” Brot’ân’duivé instructed as he lit the candle and set it upon the ground. “Listen to everything around you, but keep your eyes on the flame at all times.”

  And so Osha did, but only on those evenings when the wind was no more than a breeze that could not snuff the candle out. How many dusks and dawns did he do this each time until the greimasg’äh told him to stop? And one morning, instead of fluttering in the changing breeze, the flame blew out.

  A trail of smoke from the wick quickly dissipated.

  “What did you hear?” the greimasg’äh asked.

  Osha scowled. “Wind, a breeze . . . in the grass . . . in the trees.”

  “What did you feel on your body, your exposed skin, your hands and face?”

  “Wind!” Osha snapped.

  “Enough to blow out a candle?”

  “Yes, enough to . . .” Osha paused, staring at the wick ten strides off. “No . . . not enough.”