He took another long breath before continuing in Elvish.
“It has been hard to find one who was willing enough for me to even ask. But when Sgäilsheilleache said I should come to stay with his family, I knew my search was over.”
Wynn was careful to smile happily at this. Judging by what she had seen and heard, the lanky young elf was not like the rest of his caste, perhaps not even suited to their calling, and yet he would not give up. But inside, she was not happy at all over this news. Osha had found someone to take him in, and Sgäile would apprentice him.
As an assassin, among other things.
“I am glad for you,” Wynn said and reached for her tea, contemplating some other topic. “Tell me of . . . your family, where you grew up.”
Osha blinked. “My family? You wish to hear about my life?”
Her smile was sincere this time. “Has no one ever asked you this before?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Never?” She sat upright in surprise. “Yes, I wish to know about your life.”
Osha seemed to gather his thoughts for a long moment.
“I am of the Âlachben”—he switched briefly to Belaskian—“the Rock-Hills clan . . . a place not like Crijheäiche or Ghoivne Ajhâjhe. My people live simply, raising goats in the foothills to be shorn for their hair.”
“And the hides for our new coats?”
“Yes,” he answered, then hesitated. “But my father was not well . . . a difficulty with his heart.” Osha placed a hand over his chest, and his gaze drifted. “Our healers could not mend it, and he died young, only sixty-three years of age. My mother fell into mourning and could not rise again.”
“I am sorry,” Wynn said. “You must have felt alone.”
He looked at her, amber eyes clearing in the cold lamp crystal’s light.
“No, I have three siblings, and my brother and sisters took charge of the herds, but I was the youngest by many years. Even Chionntaj, my sister closest to me in age, saw me as one more duty among others.”
He dropped his eyes to the untouched meal between them, and Wynn gleaned a small glimpse of Osha’s youth. A lonely childhood at best. And it appeared he had been given little to no responsibility, which might account for his lack of self-confidence or practical abilities. She wanted to take his hand.
“Both my parents passed over,” she said, wishing to distract him. “I grew up an orphan in the sages’ guild in Malourné.”
Osha raised his head. “No clan?”
Wynn smiled again. “Not as you think of it, but I was never alone. The sages became my family, and a good one at that, as I was privileged to grow up among them instead of in the orphanage. I attended one of the public schools they established in the king’s city, and something new and interesting was always happening on the guild’s grounds. Or I would just listen while my elders sank into one of their perpetual debates, which never seemed to be settled. They taught me history and languages. Later, Domin Tilswith, an elder of the Order of Cathologers, took me as his apprentice. I traveled with him to this continent. I have been most fortunate in my life.”
But Wynn felt an ache of longing for her days in the guild, for lentil and tomato stew, for the caring company of scholarly comrades.
“This is why you became a . . . a ‘sage’ yourself?” Osha asked. “Because you value their way of life?”
She was uncertain how to answer. “Yes, in part. I wanted to learn and explore, to share knowledge and teach others.” She tilted her head. “Why did you join the Anmaglâhk?”
Startled by this sudden shift back to him, Osha swallowed.
“Three seasons before I went for name-taking, two of the caste came to my enclave with a message for our clan elders. This had never happened before. And such a pair—two Greimasg’äh at once—Great Eillean, Léshil’s grandmother, and Brot’ân’duivé. Everyone was in awe of them, and I had never seen anyone treated with such respect. I could barely bring myself to peer from around the tree of my home, and with all my body, I wished to be like them.”
Osha lowered his head, lifting only his eyes at Wynn with a halting whisper, “Not an honorable reason.”
Wynn swallowed her reservations and reached for his hand. “To strive to excel . . . especially in service to others . . . is always honorable. Your family should be proud of you.”
Through the glow of the cold lamp crystal, Osha stared at her. His hand started to tremble, and he slowly pulled it from hers. Long muscles in his forearm clenched tightly. Wynn realized she had never seen his bare arms before.
“But,” she began, “are there not other ways you could have earned the respect you desire . . . other ways to serve your . . .”
She trailed off as puzzlement spread across Osha’s long face.
“Never mind,” she finished.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“No, I do not think so.”
He nodded and stood up. “Then you should rest. I will sit vigil.”
Was he not going to sleep? Wynn knew it was pointless to argue.
She unrolled one of the mats and a blanket on her bunk ledge, realizing she was tired. When she settled there, Osha had dropped back to a cross-legged position in the middle of her cabin.
Wynn had assumed he would be outside in the hall, or in the next cabin over, with his own door wide to keep an eye on things—but not in the middle of her own room. Suddenly sheepish, she pulled the blanket up and rolled toward the cabin’s hull wall.
A few moons past, Wynn would have been shocked at the prospect of sleeping in the belly of a living ship with an anmaglâhk just beyond arm’s reach. But she closed her eyes, feeling safe, and quickly drifted off.
Sgäile awoke the following dawn, dreading every step to come. He breathed in the fresh air, trying to center himself, but the name the ancestors had given Léshil was always in his thoughts.
Léshiârelaohk—Sorrow-Tear’s Champion.
A half-blood had been recognized as a full an’Cróan. But even such an honor from the ancestors did not justify what Brot’ân’duivé asked—no, insisted upon.
Only Anmaglâhk and clan elders went to the hidden place of the Chein’âs—the Burning Ones.
Sgäile’s own grandfather, Gleannéohkân’thva, had once gone to them, but only in the company of Brot’ân’duivé.
Léshil stirred in the bedroll he shared with Magiere and gently gripped her shoulder. Chap remained curled up at their feet.
Sgäile got up and looked about, wandering a short distance from their camp. Years had passed since his last journey through the southern coastal region of his people, but he had always appreciated the terrain. Coarser than the inlands, this place held its own beauty.
Once beyond the shoreline trees, the granite shelves of the foothills climbed like behemoth steps toward the mountains. Their deep shade of blue-gray was dotted with stands of evergreens and patched dusky moss. The occasional firs or aspens grew at subtle angles from sea winds. The forest here was not as thick and varied as in the heart of his homeland. With a vast sky overhead, he could see for leagues, until he looked upslope to those stepped foothills. Thankfully, they would not go as far as the peaks. With his back to the camp, Sgäile fished into his tunic’s front and pulled out what Brot’ân’duivé had forced on him.
A lump of basalt, worn smooth by river water.
He turned it in his palm, studying its hand-etched patterns and swirls, and not one mark repeated. Between the tangled lines were dots and independent strokes, but he had no idea what the markings meant, and the Greimasg’äh’s instructions for its use did not yet make sense.
“Breakfast?” Léshil called from the dead campfire. “Or should we travel a ways first?”
Magiere was already reaching for her hauberk and sword. Chap stood up, yawned widely, and stretched all his limbs, one by one.
Sgäile sighed, tucked away the stone, and returned to his charges. Another unpleasant task awaited before they could move on.
“What’s wrong?” Magiere asked.
Sgäile found her watching him suspiciously. He went to his pack and retrieved two long strips of black cloth and unbound the rope tied to the pack.
“Another requirement . . . one you will not like.”
Magiere tensed, and Léshil’s eyes fixed on the rope.
A direct approach, clean and quick, was best with Magiere. Sgäile held up the strips of cloth.
“We did not travel far before making camp. Our true journey begins today, but only if you adhere to what I require. The place we seek is a guarded secret, known only to some elders of the Äruin’nas and the an’Cróan . . . and those who have proven themselves among the Anmaglâhk. I cannot allow you to know its location.”
“What are you talking about?” Léshil asked.
“You must wear blindfolds,” Sgäile answered. “All of the way, both in and out. You will swear on your honor not to remove them . . . or I will not take you another step.”
Magiere snorted, black hair loose around her pale face and hard eyes.
“This just keeps getting better,” she muttered. “You think we’d ever agree to this?”
Chap crept in without a sound.
As Sgäile looked into the eyes of this strange majay-hì from the outside world, he felt even more uncertain than when the dog had faced him down in the skiff. More than once, Chap had demonstrated ways to communicate his expectations. But would the majay-hì now support him in gaining what he needed from Magiere and Léshil?
Sgäile had no wish to defy one so deeply touched with the element of Spirit.
“You will have a guideline,” Sgäile said to Léshil, holding up the rope. “The going will be slow, but it will be your loss if I am forced to turn back. So choose now if you will trust me once more, as you did outside my home enclave, when you relinquished your weapons.”
“Yes, and that turned out so well!” Magiere snapped. “We were nearly attacked by your clan.”
“I protected you then,” Sgäile said calmly. “I will protect you now. This journey is for Léshil, and if he agrees, you will abide by it as well. Or we turn back.”
Magiere faltered and glanced at Léshil.
Sgäile knew that on some level, in spite of her volatile fits, Magiere could bring herself to trust him. She had done so before.
Léshil had not donned his hauberk yet, and the wind rippled his over-worn shirt. He stood looking from Magiere to Sgäile in doubt, until Chap circled around behind Sgäile.
The majay-hì released a low rumble ending in a snort. He lifted his muzzle and huffed once at Léshil.
Léshil inhaled. “All right . . . but we’ll need walking staves as well.”
He reached out and took the blindfolds. Magiere turned away, hands on her hips, but offered no refusal.
Sgäile swallowed hard and glanced down at Chap. The majay-hì wrinkled his nose.
“I must speak to him as well . . . alone,” Sgäile added.
“To Chap?” Léshil asked. “What about?”
“I understood his agreement,” Sgäile answered. “I have learned that much in our time together, as well as how much he understands . . . and that he has his own reasons in all things.”
Magiere looked over her shoulder, though she said nothing concerning this open admission that Sgäile was aware of Chap’s unique nature. Léshil simply turned away to gather blankets and bedrolls.
Sgäile stepped off toward a cluster of pines and motioned Chap to follow. He dropped to one knee, his back to the camp, and waited as Chap circled around to face him.
“Hear me,” Sgäile whispered. “Your kind . . . or those who at least share your form . . . have guarded my people as far back as any can remember. On their blood, you will swear.
“Reveal nothing of the path we take—or what you learn—to anyone. The place we seek must remain hidden and guarded. I take Léshil this way because I gave my word to do so, but I do not know why we are here. If you would have him continue, as you seem to wish, then do not hinder me in this. Swear to me.”
Chap shifted his weight, glancing around Sgäile toward his companions. When his eyes turned back on Sgäile, his jowls quivered slightly—almost a snarl but not quite. Finally, he blinked and huffed once.
Sgäile had witnessed this enough times to know what it meant, and he sighed in relief.
“My thanks.”
He stood up, looking upslope through the granite shelf foothills. He focused upon the shortest peak and barely made out its sheared and ragged top—the mouth of an old volcanic vent at its crest. From any farther distance, it looked no different from the others.
Chap had already returned to camp by the time Sgäile walked back.
Chane lost track of the passing nights. They trudged east through the Crown Range, into valleys and gorges, and up through saddles and passes between the high peaks, one after another. They paused only when the sky lightened ahead, quickly setting up camp and crawling into their protective tents to fall dormant. They rose each dusk to move on, over and over again.