Wycaan Master: Book 03 - Ashbar

by Alon Shalev

  Sellia could not help herself. She kicked the bowl from Uncle’s hands. Still he did not move or look up to acknowledge her. Others rose, perplexed and angry. Sellia had grown up here under the great elf’s protection. She was family.

  Chamack moved between her and Uncle, gently pushing her back from the seated leader. She glared into his eyes and he met her gaze, eyes locked. When he spoke, his firm voice was meant only for her.

  “He grieves, Sellia. What possesses you? Ilana’s death is still fresh for us, if not for you.”

  “I grieve for her every day,” she hissed back, knowing that all were listening. “I curse the gods every night for taking her and not me. I have no father and no lover–only a dear friend who is denied to me, as well.”

  “He’s her father,” Chamack said, his voice soft and bewildered.

  “And he is a leader. What has he done? What did he concede to the Wycaan?”

  Chamack stood there, clearly confused.

  “Move aside,” she snapped and pushed the big man away.

  A surprised Chamack stumbled and fell over another elf, bringing two more down with him. He sprung up instantly, eyes burning. His hand moved to his short knife, but a thick, hairy arm clamped onto him.

  “Enough,” Uncle growled. “Sellia. Walk with me.”

  He moved away from the others, but did not speak. After a few minutes, he sat on a thick log on the ground. Sellia sat next to him, and, as she looked at his face, her anger dissolved.

  “I’m sorry for what I said back there,” her voice was soft again. “She’s your daughter. She’s my. . . It’s so hard.”

  Uncle forced a smile and opened his massive arms. As she had many times as a young elfe, she fell into his strong embrace.

  “You’re like a daughter to me, too, Sellia. You and Ilana grew up together, and you are my blood in thought, if not reality.”

  “I need to be strong,” she said, her voice muffled in his chest. “He is the most powerful person in Odessiya, an elf who can set our people free, who can bring down mountains and emperors. But he is so fragile. Do you know what gave him the strength to continue, what was the anchor he clung to when madness raged around him?”

  She pulled back and stared at Uncle. “It was Ilana. She was–still is–the world to him. She gave him confidence, vision, morals, strength, and bravery. She gave him everything, and now, she gives him me.”

  “You’re wrong,” Uncle said and put a huge finger to her lips when she tried to respond. “I spoke with him deep into the night. There are no secrets between us, I believe–not concerning my daughter. And I have determined that it was not Ilana who fueled him.

  “She was merely the carrier. It was love. A young, elven healer destined to kill many thousands more than he will heal needs more than air, food, and water. He needs love, and, through love, he receives the values and strength that you mentioned.”

  Sellia stared at him. “She made me swear.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not Ilana.”

  “I know that, too, and so does Seanchai.”

  “I cannot replace her. I’m very different.”

  “In many ways, yes, you are. I speak as the one who watched you both grow from wailing brats to fine young elfes. You are different, but not where it matters. You both strive for honor, embrace duty, and crave freedom.”

  He rose and gently pulled her to her feet. They walked away from the camp, arms around each other.

  “If you go to him now, you go by your own choice. If you wish to stay with us, with your family here, and prick pins in the butts of the Emperor’s army, you’re very welcome to, and you may do so free from your oath.”

  “But . . . I swore in the ancient language. I said the word: Ashbar.”

  “One cannot be compelled in matters of love, and neither can the ancient language hold you in servitude. Love is too pure. Seanchai knows that. He told me.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yes,” Uncle stroked his beard. “He’s a Wycaan. He knows that kind of thing.”

  Sellia stopped walking and stared at him. “But Ilana didn’t. And neither did I when I spoke the word. Why did he not tell me?”

  “I suspect he wanted to bring you home and it is right that from here, where you are most tempted to stay, that you should make your decision.”

  Two big, powerful hands rested on her shoulders. His swollen eyes stared at her. “You may stay and we’ll welcome you back to our group, though you might need to let Chamack push you to the ground a few times.”

  They both laughed. Chamack would take an arrow for both of them without a second thought. He was a noble and brave elf.

  “But if you go, then you go freely to Seanchai with my blessing. Know that he’s stronger than you think, Sellia. He will survive and fulfill his destiny with or without you, if the gods so decide.

  “The Wycaan has decreed that you cannot go to him out of obedience to an oath that never was, nor out of guilt for Ilana. Now I tell you, as the father I want to be for you: if you go to Seanchai, go in love or friendship, not pity. There’s no room for guilt and self-recrimination for those of us who rise again from the depths of our sorrow and continue to fight.”

  “Is that how you survived when your mate was taken from you?”

  “There is not a day or night that I do not grieve her, and now Ilana will be by her side in my thoughts every day for the rest of my life.”

  Sellia took a step back. “I must go to Seanchai.”

  “Why?”

  She thought for a moment. “Because I want to be by his side. Because I want to help him fulfill his destiny. Because I want to restore the elven pride and set the other races free.”

  She saw Uncle smiling.

  “What is it?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

  “My other daughter said that to me when she followed the Wycaan. I pray that you find the love that she did. It is as precious as freedom itself, more precious even than life.”

  And Uncle turned his back on her and walked away, his shoulders shaking with grief.

  Chapter Eleven

  Seanchai had spent his youth foraging in Morthian Wood with his mother, the village healer. He knew exactly where the burdock roots, the sages, and the artemisia grew.

  He stopped to fill his canteen at the river by a deep gully. It was a favorite fishing hole that his father had shared with him and where he had caught his first trout. He smiled to himself as he remembered the strain on the rod. The fish had been enormous to his five-year-old eyes, though it had barely been enough for him to snack on. Still, he had been so proud.

  As he led his horses along, he glanced over his shoulder. He had been right to release Sellia from her obligation to Ilana. He didn’t want her to be bound to him out of duty instead of desire.

  He was sure he had hidden his feelings from her. Perhaps she was attracted to him, but it would not have been appropriate during the mourning period. It occurred to Seanchai that Ilana might have known of their mutual admiration. Sellia was beautiful and graceful. Her dark skin; flowing, black hair; and arched cheekbones made her exotic. Her demeanor made Seanchai want to run from her and to her at the same time. Ilana had joked with him about her friend on many an occasion. She was secure in his love and Sellia’s sisterly bond, but as she foresaw her own death, she earnestly encouraged them to be together if they both wanted to.

  He was recognizing every tree now and knew he was near his village. A pit formed in his stomach. The decision to come here had been impulsive. Facing Uncle and bringing him the tragic news, had consumed Seanchai. He had not realized how close he was until he had seen the borders of Morthian Wood from the mountain peak where Uncle had sat with him.

  Since leaving Uncle’s camp, Seanchai’s thoughts had dwelt almost entirely on Sellia and his decision to release her from her oath. Now, as he walked along the road to the mouth of the village, he began to realize exactly what he was doing.

  He stopped in his tracks and stared. Eve
rything in the small village was smashed and burnt almost to the ground, marked by charred bricks or a corner of a foundation. He walked slowly to his own house near the edge of the village. It had been totally flattened and the debris removed–the only property that had been so completely obliterated. The message was clear: Seanchai and his family had never existed.

  He stood there for what seemed a long time, trying to remember how the small hut had looked. There had been three rooms: the living area with kitchen, fireplace and an area to both relax and treat patients, his parent’s room and the tiny room that had been his. He wanted to remember it all. It was the least he could do.

  A small green shoot poking out of the ground caught his attention as he surveyed the remains. He stared at it. Garlic. He had helped his mother plant herbs and food, and the garlic had always been the hardiest. He smiled to himself. They had not succeeded in erasing his past life in its entirety. The earth had not allowed it. He began to laugh and suddenly was laughing hysterically, without reserve. He was alone and didn’t care. He laughed and laughed and laughed. . . until he cried.

  He fell to his knees and sobbed. His cries echoed eerily through what was left of his village. He found himself propelled back on his feet by a wave of anger. He looked up to the sky and screamed.

  “You missed me! You bastard! I escaped, so you destroyed all these innocent elves. You killed my parents. Did that make you feel powerful? It’s the act of a weak bully? But I’m back. This is where it started. Here, come finish it. Come and get me now, if you dare. You coward!”

  He closed his eyes and brought his heavy breathing back under control.

  “It be better they not hear you,” a female voice said.

  Seanchai turned, startled, to find an old elfe in rags, a thin shawl over her head. She held a skin of water and offered it to him. He felt suddenly ashamed.

  “Marta? I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I was alone. How did you. . .”

  He knew the old woman but not well. She had, he recalled, always been old.

  “My husband and I be away visiting our daughter to help with the birth of her first child. When we returned, it be like this. The wood be still charred and smoking, but no one be here alive.

  “We buried everyone by the river where the earth be soft. No one be spared.”

  “My parents?”

  “No one. I be sorry. Please come with me. I recently buried my husband there as well, may his soul find peace with his ancestors.”

  She turned and shuffled to a house at the other end of the village that he had overlooked. She went in and came out with two bowls of a watery stew. Seanchai rummaged through his bag and produced some bread and cheese. They sat outside in the shade of the house.

  “A feast,” the old elfe said, and cackled. After a few bites, she sighed. “Winter be soon coming when we returned and we rebuilt our house from the rubble of the others. At first, I be feeling guilty, using their property, but now it brings me comfort. As we continued to build, I made sure to take something from every one of our neighbors, so there be a little of each of them in our house with us. There be only one house where we couldn’t find anything, where nothing be left.”

  “Why do you stay?” Seanchai asked after a few moments of silence broken only by the old elfe slurping her soup.

  “There be nowhere to go now. The Emperor’s taxmen don’t bother me because they don’t know I be here. It be peaceful, a good place to die. I be with my husband and our village folk.

  “And you, Seanchai? Why you be coming back?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I hoped. . .” He did not finish the sentence. There was nothing left to say. “I’m sorry I brought this on you, on the village. I didn’t know. It seems like such a waste, such a waste.”

  “Seanchai. Will you bring freedom to the elves and the other races as the legends be telling?”

  “I’ll try,” he replied. “I must unite the races into an alliance and learn how to defeat the Emperor.”

  “But you be doing it?” she persisted.

  “I think so,” he replied, feeling the weight of the expectation.

  “Can you do it?” she asked again, her voice earnest now.

  Seanchai looked into the eyes of the old elfe. He did not see hate or resentment. He saw only hope.

  “Yes,” he said with as much determination as he could muster. “Yes, I can and will free Odessiya.”

  “Then all this be not in waste, I think,” she said.

  They smiled at each other and Seanchai felt contentment emanating from the old elfe.

  “We are very similar,” he said. “We are both alone.”

  “I think not,” the old woman said. “I be having my husband and friends buried nearby, and you be having that beautiful, young elfe over there, who be waiting patiently for you.”

  Seanchai turned and saw Sellia standing outside the gate into the old woman’s garden. He stood and stared at her.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “I am,” she replied. “I come of my own volition.”

  Seanchai threw his arms around her and drew her close, though the gate was pressed between them. His voice quivered. “Then you are most welcome.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ahad rode steadily through the Great Valley, vast fertile land that fed the capital. It took two days to pass through, even with two horses and the minimal breaks he allowed himself. Nobody stopped him, though he carried papers from the Emperor in case an alert sentry demanded identification.

  Ahad knew that wearing black was only conveyed on masters of their trade and the blackened clasp of the assassins, the small crossbow, was enough to suggest to anyone who got close enough that he was not one to be trifled with.

  The Great Valley ended at the Forest of Delweith. Still a mighty gathering of trees, the forest was now carefully cultivated to provide wood for the Empire, and, in particular, the ever-growing capital. Ahad, ever the academic, had studied this area as part of a school field trip, learning about the ecology and how to sustain the natural habitat while still taking from its resources. He remembered being impressed with the people who lived and worked here. Now he realized that the Emperor had cultivated not only the land, but also the people here, to serve him. He felt a wave of admiration.

  He also felt that he was no longer riding alone. He did not look around, but was able to determine three riders from the hoofbeats. He eased out the clip of his sword and his dirk in slow, unobtrusive movements. He shook his sleeves slightly to loosen poison-tipped stars in one and dart-like blades in the other.

  One rider, hooded and armed, was now trotting alongside Ahad. A knife handle protruded from a boot, and a light green gem glinted from its hilt.

  “Well met, Prince Phineus,” Ahad said, grinning with pride that he had identified his friend’s disguise so easily, “though I was beginning to wonder if you would ever join me.”

  “How?” the Crown Prince’s voice was sharp.

  “Your green-gemmed dirk.” Ahad tried to curb his smile, which he was sure oozed smugness. “Was it hard to get away?”

  “No, surprisingly uneventful. My father went away this morning. He even deigned to give me an audience first and made the point that he might be detained a while.” Phineus laughed. “If only he knew.”

  “He knows,” Ahad said with ease.

  “How? You told him?”

  “No. But he anticipated it and told me so. He asked if I planned to request your company. I told him I wouldn’t; that I think it wrong you come, given the danger of the mission.”

  “Do you still think it wrong?”

  “Yes. But I’m glad you ride by my side.”

  “I am the Crown Prince of Odessiya, Master Assassin Ahad Tarlach. You ride by my side.”

  Ahad turned his head and smiled. “I think out here, your majesty, we should not flaunt your title.”

  “Good point, my friend. We ride together, then.”

  They both laughed with bonded ea
se. But after a few moments, Phineus spoke. “Still, what makes you think he suspects I would join you?”

  “He told me about your uncle’s secret society and that he believed you would try to form such an organization, yourself. I told him that if you did, then I’d be honored to be the first enlisted.”

  “That was very brave, Ahad, or very stupid. Did he get angry at you?”

  “No. He thanked me.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t underestimate your father, Phineus. He is always several moves ahead of everybody else. Did you not advise me several times with these very words?”

  Phineus laughed. “Yes, I did. If I recall, the first time was just before your first audience with my father. You were almost wetting yourself with fear.” He laughed some more, but then stopped abruptly. “But you aren’t as many moves behind him now, I suspect. You’re very smart, Ahad–very smart, indeed.”

  “Thank you. I believe that this was the reason the Emperor brought me to serve you. Shall I test you on some botany while we ride?”

  “Only if you want this gem-hilted dirk thrown at you,” Phineus joked. “You are no longer my tutor, Master Assassin.”

  “I think,” Ahad continued, “that your father would be happy for you to bind the best of our generation to your side. He looks ahead and probably sees great strategic value in you creating your own power base as long as it doesn’t challenge him. What say you, Phin–” he paused a moment and looked around. “We should give you a different name, and suggest in our interactions with people that I am the leader, if only because I’m older.”

  “I want an impressive name, especially after the one I’ve been stuck with these past seventeen years.”

  “Shadow,” Ahad suggested, and they both nodded. “Not sure it will attract the ladies, though,” he added.

  “That’s never been a problem,” the prince boasted.

  It occurred to Ahad that while his friend was fairly good-looking, he wouldn’t have his crown to fall back on here outside the Empire’s walls. From his friend’s sudden brooding, he suspected Phineus was thinking along similar lines.