“Did you hear me?” she demanded, grasping at Brot’an’s cloak.
Anmaglâhk were difficult to read, and more so with the so-called masters among them, such as Brot’an and Urhkar—but not today. Brot’an’s stoic expression bore a silent plea for assistance.
Magiere couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Wynn, leave Brot’an alone. You’ve dragged him about enough for one day.”
Chap growled with a short bark of agreement and thumped his haunches down on the dock beside Magiere. Wynn glared back in disbelief.
“Elves were using a strangely shaped clay oven to smoke-dry salmon in a fish house. I have never seen the process work so quickly. This is useful information to record . . . and I foresee no opportunity to return here anytime soon. Do you?”
“She was—” Brot’an cut in sharply then regained his polite tone. “She was asking many questions. I felt it best that we leave.”
Magiere understood both their frustrations. Neither she nor Wynn nor even Leesil could walk about unescorted. No human had ever been welcome in this part of the world, let alone left it again. Wynn was a scholar and a sage, and thus fluent in the elven dialect from her own continent. But she always had to stick her little nose into everything new and strange that she stumbled upon.
“Look, there’s our ship,” Magiere said, and pointed, hoping to distract the sage.
Wynn’s scowl faded. “The large one?”
Chap pricked up his ears, and Magiere scratched between them. He whined and looked back toward the city. Or was he peering to the forest beyond it? He’d done that a good deal of late, often disappearing for long periods and leaving Magiere to wonder what he’d been up to. Chap swung his long muzzle back toward the approaching ship, and sunlight caught in his blue crystalline eyes and silvery fur.
“Beautiful . . . ,” Wynn whispered. “Look at its sails! How does a cargo vessel ride so high and swift?”
More questions, and Brot’an let out a deep sigh.
“Beautiful?” Leesil scoffed. “We’ll see how beautiful it is . . . after you’ve sloshed about in it for a few days.”
Wynn arched an eyebrow at him. “I never get seasick. I enjoyed the voyage across the ocean to Belaski.”
Leesil’s mouth tightened, and Magiere wished Wynn would just stop talking.
“You will adjust, Léshil,” Sgäile said, pronouncing Leesil’s name in Elvish. “It took days for me as well. But after enough voyages, I no longer succumb to a vessel’s rocking at sea.”
Brot’an slipped around to Magiere’s far side, perhaps using her as a barrier against Wynn. Chap slunk the other way around Leesil and wrinkled his jowls at Brot’an. The dog still didn’t care for the master anmaglâhk’s presence.
Magiere lifted her chin to meet Brot’an’s large amber eyes. Up close, his scars were as light as human skin. He seemed troubled by more than Wynn’s pestering.
“What?” she asked.
“The council of elders,” he began, “promised a ship to deliver you wherever you wished to go, but so far, you have named no destination. I must give instructions to the ship’s master.”
Magiere had known this moment would come—and had dreaded it. Brot’an frowned, waiting for an answer.
“I don’t exactly know,” she said. “Only that we must head south . . . along the eastern coast.”
Even to her, the explanation sounded vague.
“There is nothing along that route,” Sgäile said. “No settlements beyond our territory, not even for humans, except far south . . . the Ylladon States.”
She didn’t know the place he mentioned, but Sgäile’s voice held a less than subtle malice. Surprising, since he took great effort to remain ever polite. Magiere’s frustration increased. She didn’t know what to say without revealing that her only guides were a dream and the pull of her instinct.
“Magiere . . . ,” Wynn whispered. “There is no other way.”
“Wynn, don’t—” Leesil began.
“We are not looking for a settlement,” Wynn cut in, and pushed him aside, peering around Magiere at Brot’an. “Rather an object, hidden in ice-capped mountains, in a castle on this continent. Long forgotten and guarded by old ones . . . which likely means undead.”
Leesil tried to grab her. “Wynn, that’s enough!”
The little sage swatted his hand aside and kept on talking, even as Chap growled and grabbed the hem of her cloak.
“My guild believes this artifact is from what we call the Forgotten History. And that Magiere may be the only one who can retrieve it . . . considering she was born a hunter of the dead.”
Rising anger choked off Magiere’s rebuke, but the small sage only glared back at her.
“They must be told,” Wynn said. “How else can Brot’an arrange a voyage without a destination? After all that has happened in Crijheäiche, we have few secrets from him.”
“Cork it, Wynn!” Leesil snapped.
“He will know best how much to relate to the captain,” Wynn snapped back, and jerked her cloak from Chap’s jaws. “Besides, our task is no threat to his people—perhaps just the opposite, if we keep this artifact from the wrong hands.”
Magiere’s mouth hung partly open, shocked at what Wynn blurted out in front of two anmaglâhk. Brot’an, as well as Sgäile, had risked his life and more to protect Magiere and those she cared for. But still, Magiere had an urge to toss Wynn into the bay.
Yet what was the alternative—to leave Brot’an with no instructions for the captain? Neither she nor Leesil knew the eastern coast, so faking a destination was impossible. Magiere raised a warning finger before Wynn started up again and turned to Brot’an.
“We have to find this thing, whatever it is, and take it to the sages. We promised that much, but we don’t know exactly where it is—only what Wynn said, and that we must travel south along the eastern coast.”
Brot’an’s unblinking amber eyes stared down at Magiere. Sgäile remained silently attentive.
“Who are these sages?” Brot’an suddenly asked.
It wasn’t among the first questions Magiere had expected, but Wynn’s people had arrived on this continent less than a year past. Even the Anmaglâhk might not know of them as yet. Magiere cocked her head toward Wynn.
“Scholars, like her. Their guild is in Bela.”
“One branch of our guild, actually,” Wynn corrected. “The Guild of Sagecraft. We build and care for repositories of knowledge. Places of learning where sages like myself live and work. Good people, Brot’an. They preserve what they gather, that which should not be forgotten or lost again. And they can discern what this object is and how to keep it safe.”
Magiere wasn’t about to let the Anmaglâhk know from whom she’d learned of this artifact—the same person she was trying to keep it from. The sun had slipped down the sky toward the faraway Broken Range, and dusk was settling in.
“I will speak to the ship’s hkomas,” Brot’an said finally. “I am uncertain how well he will respond to a journey with no destination, especially beyond our own waters. But do not repeat what you have told me to anyone.” He nodded to Wynn. “I hold and value your trust.”
Another awkward silence followed, until Sgäile spoke. “Brot’ân’duivé, would you see them to their lodging? I have duties to attend.”
“Yes, certainly,” Brot’an replied, ushering everyone down the docks.
Magiere wondered what duties Sgäile could have here, besides his sworn guardianship. She was still annoyed with Wynn but also a little relieved, though she’d never confess it.
Everyone stepped off the dock onto the sandy shore, and Chap whined, dancing sideways a few steps toward the city. Magiere knew he really wanted to run for the forest beyond it.
“He’s been doing that every day,” she muttered.
Wynn pulled tangles of loose hair out of her face. “Oh, stop whining and just go.”
Chap bolted upslope, disappearing between a tall stone building and a taller elm.
Magiere trudged the shore road until it turned inland across sandy earth, winding toward their temporary home. She glanced over her shoulder at the sea, feeling some ease that they would soon be on their way. But when she turned back, facing south by southeast, the pull within her grew stronger.
Sgäile’s thoughts tumbled as he darted through the trees, deeper into the forest beyond Ghoivne Ajhâjhe. From the instant he first intercepted Léshil entering his people’s lands, Sgäile had sworn guardianship to protect the half-blood and his companions.
Léshil had somehow managed to pass the Broken Range amid brutal winter and walk straight into the forest, unhindered. He had come to free his mother, Cuirin’nên’a, from imprisonment imposed by her own caste. And in the end, he had succeeded. But so much more had happened during Léshil’s time among Sgäile’s people, the an’Cróan—Those of the Blood.
Sgäile had guided Léshil to Roise Chârmune, the Seed of Sanctuary, in the sacred burial place of the an’Cróan’s most ancient ancestors. There he had watched in awe as Léshil was given—rather than chose—his true name.
Léshiârelaohk—Sorrow-Tear’s Champion.
The ancestors accepted a half-blood as an’Cróan and saw fit to call him a champion—but for what reason? Even more, they had
shown
themselves to Léshil—despite Sgäile’s improper presence, for name-taking was always done alone.
None of this had ever happened before.
Puzzled, Sgäile could only guard Léshil until the whole truth became clear.
For days, he had wavered over whether or not to accompany Léshil in returning to his home, to make certain he arrived safely. Now it appeared that Magiere was steering Léshil elsewhere toward an uncertain future. Or was this also part of Léshil’s destiny?
Sgäile sank to his knees before a wide beech tree. He desperately needed guidance.
Coastal forests differed from the inland and his clan’s own lands. Trees grew farther apart, and the earth was gritty rather than soft and loamy. Cool air blew in the branches, and Sgäile drew his cloak close as he took a small oval of word-wood from his pocket. It had been “grown” from the great oak home of Aoishenis-Ahâre, Most Aged Father, the leader of the Anmaglâhk.
Sgäile placed it against the beech tree’s trunk and whispered, “Father?”
All anmaglâhk called Aoishenis-Ahâre by this name. The world was silent but for the wind-stirred leaves overhead, until a welcome voice, thin and reedy, filled Sgäile’s mind.
Sgäilsheilleache, my son.
“Yes, Father, I am here . . . still at Ghoivne Ajhâjhe.”
Has there been a delay?
Sgäile hesitated. “The ship arranged by the council of elders has only just arrived. Cargo must be exchanged before it leaves port, but . . .”
What troubles you?
“Léshil is not traveling home. Magiere has requested that they be taken south along the eastern coast . . . in search of an artifact sought by their human scholar.”
Most Aged Father did not respond at first.
What artifact?
“They know only that it is ancient, possibly as old as the lost days of the enemy you have warned us against . . . from what Wynn calls their Forgotten History. She mentioned a castle in ice-capped mountains to the south . . . somewhere. And they believe Magiere is the one to obtain it. Brot’ân’duivé will ask the ship’s hkomas to follow her request.”
Sgäile tried to be precise, hoping for wise counsel. But Most Aged Father’s silence drew out so long that Sgäile’s hand cramped with tension where he held the word-wood to the tree’s bark.
Do not worry, my son. I will see to the matter. Once Brot’ân’duivé has instructed the ship’s master, have him return to Crijheäiche at once. You will remain to see the humans off.
“See them off?” Sgäile repeated in confusion. He had expected more.
Yes . . . then I believe you wish time in your clan’s central enclave, with your grandfather and cousin? It is good to return to family and see firsthand all that we are sworn to protect.
Sgäile stiffened. Was Most Aged Father reminding him of his duty?
Send Brot’ân’duivé to Crijheäiche . . . tonight.
Most Aged Father’s voice faded from Sgäile’s thoughts, and he knelt there a moment longer in confusion before finally lifting the word-wood from the beech’s bark. Sgäile rose to head back to the inn, but froze at a shadow’s shift on his left.
“Be at ease,” a voice said.
Brot’ân’duivé stepped into sight from beneath an elm’s sagging branches. His first movement in the tree’s shadow had been but a polite announcement of his arrival.
“You have reported to Most Aged Father?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sgäile answered, “and he requested that you return to Crijheäiche, tonight. I am to stay and see Léshil and the others off.”
“To see them off?” Brot’ân’duivé asked, his tone hard but quiet.
Sgäile watched his face. Brot’ân’duivé was more than Anmaglâhk. He was Greimasg’äh—Shadow-Gripper—one of the remaining four who had stepped beyond even the most highly trained of Sgäile’s caste.