Chane eyed Welstiel as the elderly undead headed for the switchback trail, glancing once at the sack bundled in Chane’s arms.
“Soon enough, you will have all the books you could want,” Welstiel said, and stepped down the first leg of the narrow path.
Chane waited as the ferals ambled after their master. About to follow, he looked back once more to the monastery carved from the gorge wall. The door was still open.
He grabbed the handle and pulled, making certain the door was soundly closed. If only he could so easily shut away all memories of this place—as if he had never come here.
“In time, you will have your own place among your beloved sages as well,” Welstiel called out from below.
The beast inside of Chane lunged excitedly against its chains, as if clutching at some offered and coveted morsel.
“Fulfill your obligation,” Welstiel added, his words seeming to rise from the dark, “and then I will fulfill mine.”
At those last words, something snapped sharply inside of Chane.
The beast inside him backed warily into a corner. It saw no choice joint of meat in its master’s hand. It smelled nothing for its longing hunger. It only heard a spoken promise.
That twinge made Chane whip about and stare at the top of the switchback path.
He had never felt this before. It left him startled, even panicked.
At dawn, half a moon into the voyage, Avranvärd held back near the bow. She watched Sgäilsheilleache standing with the dark-haired human woman.
He leaned on the port-side rail-wall and pointed ahead, speaking some ugly guttural language Avranvärd could not understand. She did not need to in order to know what he was saying. They had reached the peninsula and would now turn south along the eastern coast.
Relief flooded the woman’s pale features. Sgäilsheilleache nodded, as if glad to offer her such welcome news.
His reputation among the an’Cróan was so pure. Not as revered as Brot’ân’duivé or the great Eillean, he had still traveled foreign lands and faced humans to protect all the an’Cróan. Now he stood with one of the savages, and Avranvärd swallowed hard in revulsion.
Perhaps his attempt to appease this woman was pretense, for Sgäilsheilleache must have a good reason. When Avranvärd joined the Anmaglâhk, then maybe she would understand.
Predawn’s first yellow streaks glowed at the base of the horizon. Avranvärd looked to the hkomas standing behind the helm, busy directing the crew to change sail for the southern run. She slipped quietly into the near stairwell beneath the forecastle, and climbed below to find a private place among the cargo. Her oversized boots caught once on the bottom rung, but she righted herself before stumbling.
Most of the crew was on deck, along with some of the “passengers.” She hesitated in the passage, staring at the door where the humans and the half-blood lodged. But it was too risky to nose about in there, so she headed along the starboard passage toward the cargo bay. Once there, Avranvärd crouched behind the barrels of drinking water and pressed her word-wood against the ship’s hull.
“Are you there?” she whispered.
Report.
The voice in her head was cold, emotionless. She did not even know his name, only that he was a Greimasg’äh and deserved her obedience. Still, he treated her like a necessity and no more—not like a comrade.
“We have reached the peninsula and turn south. The crew changes sails as we speak.”
When is your next stop?
“Four days at most—we exchange cargo at Énwiroilhe.”
What have you learned of this artifact the humans seek?
The question surprised her, as he had not asked this before. “I should be listening? I cannot speak their language.”
Do not risk suspicion, but anything of use you overhear, report to me
.
She hesitated. “Sgäilsheilleache is too protective . . . it seems as if he cares for them.”
The Greimasg’äh was silent for too long, and Avranvärd began to wonder whether he was still listening. His voice came again, far colder than before.
You will not speak of him with disrespect. Unless the unexpected occurs, report in four days.
Avranvärd waited, reluctant to answer after this rebuke. Her silence drew out until she knew he was gone.
She had angered him, and it was the last thing she wanted. A Greimasg’äh’s discontent would not sit well when it came time to present herself to Most Aged Father. She stood up, taking a deep breath.
Most Aged Father had given his word. If she succeeded, she would be an initiate, and this eased her worry. After all, she had been given a purpose for the Anmaglâhk. She reported directly to a Greimasg’äh, one of their greatest. As far as she knew, no initiate had ever done this before.
Avranvärd hurried out before the hkomas missed her. As she emerged below the forecastle, half the sun peeked above the eastern horizon, dusting the ocean with sparks of light. When she stepped farther out and glanced upward, Sgäilsheilleache stood gazing down at her with unblinking eyes.
For an instant, Avranvärd could not take her eyes from his. Then she scurried off toward the stern, where her hkomas waited beside the helm. But Avranvärd could not shake the sight of Sgäilsheilleache’s steady gaze.
Twelve more days past their southward turn, Magiere paced the deck, wearing her new coat and avoiding the rail-walls.
She should’ve felt grateful to be traveling by sea instead of land. But surrounded by this living ship, her thoughts wandered too often to the dead marks her hands had left upon an elven birch tree. Awareness made the vibration inside her sharpen to a shudder. She laced her fingers together, smoothing the lambskin gloves over her hands.
The season had passed into late winter, but at sea and just beyond the shore of the Elven Territories, it seemed colder.
Wynn sat on the deck talking softly to Chap—something they did more often these days. Leesil and Osha were still below, though Leesil was much improved. He ate almost normally, and as Sgäile had suggested, he was acquiring his “sea legs.” Not that Leesil didn’t still grumble and whine now and then.
Yes, Magiere should’ve been grateful. The Blade Range separating Belaski and Droevinka from the continent’s eastern coast was impassable. She would’ve had to trek all the way down through Droevinka amid its civil war, then crossed the Everfen’s vast swamplands into the Pock Peaks to reach the eastern coast. The journey would’ve taken another season, more likely two.
And yet Magiere was helpless to speed up their current pace.
She had suffered two more dreams of the six-towered castle on its snow-blanketed plain, and being blown through the night sky. With each dream, the pull south grew stronger. The only thing missing from those recent night journeys was the black-scaled coils circling about her.
The hkomas called for a stop at each harbor settlement, and Sgäile kept recounting the importance of this vessel. Dockhands unloaded supplies onto large skiffs, which were transferred onto inland-bound barges. The stops always took a day or more.
Several times, Magiere asked to go ashore. Any short reprieve away from the ship would’ve been welcome, though it meant walking on elven land again. Sgäile refused each time, claiming their presence would cause discord in any an’Cróan settlement. Magiere knew he was right, but it didn’t help.
She forgot herself in frustration and almost grabbed the rail-wall. Even with gloves on, she panicked and jerked her hand back at the last instant. The unnerving sensation she felt aboard this strange living vessel was less severe than what she’d suffered inside the elven tree dwellings. But this time she knew what her touch could do. The last thing Magiere wanted was to inadvertently draw life from the ship or injure it in any way.
At times, Magiere had to bite down to keep from shouting at the hkomas to sail more quickly.
“Yes, it is,” Wynn said loudly. “Why do you always argue with me? I can clearly see mats starting on your haunches.”
Magiere turned her troubled gaze on Chap and Wynn. The sage fished a brush from her pack, but Chap rumbled, swinging his rear out of reach.
“There is plenty of rope about to tie you up,” Wynn warned, “like any other dog.”
Chap wheeled and made a run for it.
“Get back here!”
Wynn snatched hold of his tail as her brush clattered upon the deck. With a yelp more indignant than pained, Chap swung his head over his shoulder and bared his teeth.
“As if you would dare,” Wynn growled back.
With a lick of his nose, Chap dug in with all fours and lunged away.
“No . . . wait!” Wynn squealed.
She flopped forward on her belly, refusing to let go, and Chap’s paws scrabbled on the deck as he gained momentum. Wynn’s eyes popped wide as she slid along behind him.
Magiere sighed, starting after them. “Stop it—both of you!”
Then Chap rounded the back side of the cargo hold’s grate.
Wynn flipped onto her back, still hanging on. Her little body whipped around the corner behind the dog and then rolled, swinging sideways toward the stern. Chap’s paws scrabbled wildly as her weight suddenly threw him off balance. He flattened hard on his belly with a grunt, his legs splayed in all directions.
Both sage and dog spun across the deck. With a last yelp from Chap, they tumbled askew toward the aftcastle’s wall. Magiere panicked as the two collided into a stack of coiled rigging rope and spare sailcloth.
Wynn sat up quickly, thrashing about as she tried to untangle herself. Chap rose on three legs, attempting to shake the fourth free of a knotted loop of rope.
“You two . . . ,” Magiere called out. “Stop acting like a couple of—”
“He started it!” Wynn yelled.
Chap shot a yip and snarl straight into her round face.
“Yes, you did!” Wynn growled back through clenched teeth. “And I have
not
brushed you since we left, you . . . you pig!”
She grabbed Chap’s tangled leg and began jerking on the knotted rope to get him free.
An elven crewman leaned over the aftcastle above them.
Magiere caught sight of him just as he vaulted the rail-wall. His booted feet hit the main deck as he dropped directly in front of Wynn. The sage stiffened with a sharp inhale. Before she could move, the man snatched her by one wrist.
His amber eyes filled with anger as he jerked her up, until she almost stood on her toes. He hissed one quick string of Elvish at her. The only word Magiere caught was “majay-hì.”
Chap twisted around and snapped at the man’s shin, but the rope cinched tight around his leg and pulled him up short.
Magiere vaulted the hold’s grate, shouting, “Get off of her!”
The tall crewman’s hard and lined face turned toward her as she swung.
The back of Magiere’s right knuckles caught his face, and she bored her left fist into his gut. He buckled, and one foot slipped from the deck as he careened back into the ship’s rail-wall.
His grip on Wynn tore loose but jerked her against Magiere’s shoulder. Magiere tucked her arm around the sage to catch her. Sunlight intensified all around Magiere.
The world turned searingly bright. Her eyes began to tear as her irises expanded to full black.
“Magiere!”
Sgäile appeared beside her with Osha right behind, holding off the angry sailor. The hkomas slid down the handrails from the aftcastle.
“He grabbed Wynn!” Magiere snarled and pointed at the sailor, trying to gain control before her dhampir nature spilled out.
“I saw,” Sgäile answered quickly, “but you must stop this!”
The sailor struggled up, flailing off Osha’s grip with bitter words. He shook his head, blinking rapidly. Blood trickled from the split skin over his cheekbone.
Wynn grabbed Magiere’s arm, her small hands gripping tightly.
Chap appeared, lunging to the cargo grate’s edge. He snarled and snapped at the elven crewman. The anger washed from the man’s face in sudden shock. Even Osha backed away from Chap in wariness as the hkomas cautiously slowed his approach.
“Enough!” Sgäile said, and followed with a long stream of Elvish.
“What’s he saying?” Magiere asked Wynn.
The hkomas answered as rapidly. Other crew members drew closer, putting aside their duties as they listened in.
Wynn stepped around to Magiere’s side, whispering, “The sailor thought I disrespected a majay-hì. Sgäile is telling them that this is only a game Chap and I play.”
“That’s how he explains this?” Magiere snipped, anger rising again.
The number of elven voices increased, but Sgäile stood firmly in front of Wynn and Magiere, and Osha remained rooted before Wynn’s assailant. Chap watched in silence, but did not back away.