CHAPTER FOUR
Nine days had passed since their ship harbored, and to the best of Wynn’s knowledge, no human had ever boarded an an’Cróan vessel. Today they would finally set sail, and it left her emotions tangled as she climbed from the small skiff and up the rope ladder.
Magiere had grown more desperate by the day, and so Wynn did feel glad for her companion’s relief at embarking. But for herself, time in the elven city had been far too short and had left her disheartened, as she might never see this place again. Domin Tilswith would be disappointed with her scant journal entries concerning Ghoivne Ajhâjhe.
Wynn reached the ladder’s top, stepped through the rail-wall’s open gate, and planted her feet firmly on the smooth deck.
Leesil grunted behind her, and she turned.
He climbed with one hand, the other arm wrapped behind to support Chap on his back. Wynn grabbed Leesil’s arm and helped him gain the deck. Before he made it all the way, Chap scrambled over his head. The dog nearly knocked Wynn over and flattened Leesil on the deck’s edge.
“You’re welcome,” Leesil grumbled, clambering up.
Magiere, Brot’an, Sgäile, and Osha followed. Only then did Wynn take her first good look about the ship, instantly wishing she had quill and paper in hand.
The strange sidewall—in place of a rail—with its shallow swoop-and-peak edge had caught her eye as she climbed the ladder. But up on the deck, its most striking aspect was a complete absence of planks.
The deck’s glistening wood was as smooth as the rainwater barrels she had seen in an’Cróan homes—fashioned from inert wood by elven Makers born with an innate gift for thaumaturgy. Longer but narrower than any three-masted vessel she had seen, the entire hull appeared to have been melded into one solid piece, without a single crack or seam in its smooth, tawny surface.
The masts, rigging, and other fixtures were separate pieces, judging by the way weather had aged them. Wynn wondered even more how the deck remained comparatively smooth and richly colored. Halfway between center mast and forecastle was a meshed grate over a large raised opening.
“What is that?” she asked.
“The deck hatch to the cargo bay,” Osha answered in Elvish.
Wynn tilted her head back to see the bulges of furled sails hanging from pale yellow masts. The fabric was almost iridescent white, as if made from
shéot’a
cloth, the elves’ equivalent to satin. But this did not seem likely, for where would they find enough cocoons to weave so much material?
“Ah, dead deities!” Leesil moaned.
The ship was still anchored in the bay’s calm water, but Leesil already wore a sickly glower.
“Finally,” Magiere sighed under her breath.
Wynn knew that nine days was not an unusual length of time for cargo ships to harbor at port—and she and the others lived at the whim and charity of these elves. She could not help note how foreign, though lovely, Magiere appeared on an an’Cróan ship.
Her black hair sparked wildly with red from the bright sun glinting off open water. She seemed even paler than usual, surrounded by the vessel’s rich color and the wide blue sky. In black breeches and a white shirt recently tailored within the city, she had donned her studded leather hauberk and strapped on her falchion. And recently, Magiere had taken to constantly wearing gloves.
The crew stared at Magiere as well, but their expressions did not echo Wynn’s appreciation. Neither Leesil nor Magiere seemed to notice these angry looks, and Wynn was reminded of one clear fact.
Magiere had to leave elven lands and never return.
Chap had learned why and passed it through Wynn. Magiere, born in a blood rite, had been made for a purpose.
Unlike an undead or just a normal human, she could enter elven land. Its natural safeguards could not stop her. Worse still, she fed upon the forest by her very presence, as her undead father had fed upon the living. Magiere had been made to breach any place that the undead had not been able to enter during the long-forgotten war. This knowledge left Wynn fearful of what might come in the future. Magiere’s very presence and creation suggested that war—like in the time of the Forgotten—would come again.
A tall, thick-armed elf in a brown head scarf dropped from the aftcastle and plodded toward them. Most likely, this was the hkomas—the “able authority” or ship’s captain. Brot’an met him halfway, and Wynn tried to edge close to catch their words.
A stab of nausea took her by surprise.
Why do Sgäile and Osha remain with us
?
Chap’s words flooded Wynn’s head, spoken simultaneously in every language she knew. She had grown accustomed to snatching meaning from the tangle of tongues. Glancing behind, she found Chap eying the two elves suspiciously.
More than a dog, Chap was an eternal Fay, born into the body of a majay-hì—a colloquial term, loosely meaning “hound of the Fay.” The breed had descended from the long-forgotten times when wolves were inhabited by Fay during the war of the Forgotten History. This made Chap doubly unique, and only Wynn could hear him in her head.
This was not supposed to happen.
Two seasons past, she had meddled with a mantic ritual to help Magiere track an undead. The attempt had gone horribly wrong, and over the passing moons Chap had tried more than once to cleanse her. But the taint remained and kept manifesting in new ways.
“I do not know,” she whispered to Chap. “Sgäile said the hkomas would be uncomfortable having humans aboard without an escort.”
No—the an’Cróan council of clan elders requested this ship. Sgäile’s continued presence is something else . . . and too sudden. Something more has happened since the ship’s arrival—and your babbling our plans to Brot’an.
“Oh, drop that already!” Wynn whispered, but her feelings were mixed.
She too wondered why Sgäile chose to continue his guardianship into this voyage, but part of her was glad. A respected member of his caste, when Sgäile spoke, people listened. Osha’s presence was another matter, and left Wynn unsettled in ways she did not understand. Their travels and ordeals in an’Cróan lands had brought out the best and worst in him. In the end, she counted him as a friend. But when they said farewell on the river’s shore at Crijheäiche, she had never expected to see him again.
Osha caught Wynn watching him and raised thick eyebrows, making his horselike face appear even longer. Wynn turned away, but Chap continued studying the young elf.
He is profoundly relieved . . . concerning something to do with Sgäile.
“You see that in his mind?” she whispered, surprised.
Within his line of sight, Chap could pick out surfacing memories from a sentient being’s conscious thoughts, but she was not aware he could sense emotions.
No, it is plain on his face . . . and the way he follows Sgäile about, waiting to fulfill any command in an instant. Osha could not long hide a secret, unless he pulled that cowl over his entire head.
“Stop being so pompous!” Wynn said too loudly.
Slightly raised voices pulled her attention back to Brot’an and the ship’s hkomas, and she tried to decipher their rapid Elvish. From what she could follow, the captain’s inhospitable manner with Brot’an came from the vague instructions concerning the destination of his “passengers.” Wynn had expected this. Moments later, a troubled Brot’an walked past Wynn straight toward Magiere, and Wynn hurried to follow.
“Did he refuse?” Magiere asked.
Brot’an shook his head. “The hkomas will take you south, but the elders did not choose the best ship for you.”
Magiere’s pale brow wrinkled as she crossed her arms.
“Why?” Leesil asked, already gripping the deck’s rail-wall, as if growing more unsteady on his feet by the moment.
“This vessel serves coastal an’Cróan communities,” Brot’an answered. “From here, it sails east around the point before it turns south down the coast.”
“How long?” Magiere asked.
“Five or six days at a run . . . but this is a main cargo vessel. It will stop at every harbor, especially those of other rivers reaching the coast, where the barge clans bring goods from the inlands.”
Leesil’s eyes widened as Magiere’s mouth fell open. Wynn braced herself for the coming storm.
“What?” Magiere growled. “We were promised a ship to take us anywhere we asked to go!”
Osha fidgeted slightly in alarm, glancing about the ship. Several of the crew glared in Magiere’s direction. They might not understand her words, but her rising tone was clear.
“Magiere . . . ,” Sgäile warned softly.
“You led us onto that barge, and all the way to the coast,” she snarled, “promising to get us out of here. But we’ve been trapped in this city, waiting. Now our ship’s stopping at every town along the way? You—you’re—”
Magiere turned away toward the rail-wall beside Leesil.
“We need to go south—now.” Her voice weakened to a whisper as she closed her eyes. “Please . . . now.”
Leesil slid his hand across her back, glancing at Sgäile.
Wynn shared Leesil’s concern over whatever had whispered to Magiere in her dream and showed her the six-towered castle coated in ice. But in their travels, they had uncovered no other clues regarding the whereabouts of the artifact. Wynn felt they should do everything possible to help Magiere, and not continue questioning the lead they had.
“This is the only ship,” Sgäile said, his voice tight, “unless you wish to linger here even longer. The elders arranged passage once—they would not do so again. It is either this vessel, or we travel back across the Broken Range on foot . . . by whatever way you found to reach us. And then head south. What is your choice?”
Magiere slowly turned her head toward him.
Wynn lost sight of her companion’s pale face, but she saw Sgäile’s large eyes narrow. He crossed his own arms. Magiere turned away again, staring out over the bay, and Wynn knew Magiere’s answer.
“Their belongings have arrived,” a crew member called out to Brot’an.
Another skiff pulled in beside the ship, and two elves in the small vessel hoisted up baggage. Wynn hurried to help Osha as he began hauling in their belongings, which had increased during their visit in Ghoivne Ajhâjhe.
Magiere’s comment about being trapped was not precisely correct. They had used their time in the city to prepare for the coming journey. Magiere was not certain about their path, but she knew their destination lay in a mountain canyon so high up it was locked in snow and ice all year.
“Ah, here are your new coats,” Osha said in Elvish, and tapped Leesil’s shoulder as he pointed down to the skiff.
“In Belaskian,” Wynn chided without thinking. “You need the practice.”
Osha gave her a sheepish smile and repeated in broken speech that Leesil and Magiere could understand.
Wynn had not spoken much to Osha since his arrival. It seemed they easily fell back into a pattern in which she insisted he speak an appropriate language that her companions could understand.
One elf in the skiff below climbed halfway up to hand off their new coats. Magiere had specifically requested these garments.
Made of sheepskin with the woolly side inward, they were also lined with a thick layer of rough-spun cotton fabric. The outer hide had been deeply oiled against bad weather, something Brot’an added to their specifications. The new garments would maximize body heat retention in a cold climate.
Meanwhile, Wynn and Leesil had arranged for smoked meats and dried fruits, water flasks, tea, and other goods. They had little to trade, but Sgäile handled the negotiations, ushering them out of any shop to await him. Wynn had an uneasy feeling that most of the items had been donated, since an anmaglâhk had requested them.
The hkomas’s harsh voice called out for sails to be set. Wynn watched the crew scramble into the rigging to ready the ship. And it struck her that they were truly leaving. She sighed and returned to her companions. Magiere appeared calmer, but Leesil swallowed hard, looking more uncomfortable.
Wynn heard Brot’an talking in low tones to Sgäile as the master anmaglâhk prepared to descend to the waiting skiff. Then Brot’an handed something to Sgäile. Both his words and gift, if that was what it was, passed too quickly for Wynn to catch.
Sgäile glared at Brot’an with his fists closed tightly on the hidden object.
Osha tensed up, his expression aghast. Sgäile seemed about to argue or question, but Brot’an raised a finger and his lips moved in one brief phrase.
“Chein’âs?”
Osha whispered too loudly.
“Tosajij!”
Sgäile hissed at him.
The younger elf cringed in embarrassment. His wide amber eyes flicked toward Leesil, who wavered as he tried to lift baggage from the deck.
Wynn wondered at the word Osha spoke, and why Sgäile ordered him into silence.
Chein’âs—the . . . “burning” ones?