Child of a Dead God Read online

  “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.

  Brot’ân’duivé was a master of silence and shadows.

  “Perhaps . . . it is better that you accompany Léshil and his companions, ” Brot’ân’duivé added, more composed. “Alone among the ship’s crew, they will have only young Wynn to translate for them.”

  At first, the suggestion stunned Sgäile, but relief quickly followed at someone else voicing his own wish. But, not for the first time, Brot’ân’duivé placed him in a difficult position.

  “Most Aged Father feels otherwise,” Sgäile answered carefully.

  “Had he heard Wynn, I am certain he would agree with me. The crew—our people—will never be at ease with humans in their midst. When I return to Crijheäiche, I will explain this . . . face-to-face with Most Aged Father.”

  Sgäile suspected a polite ruse in those final words, but he had already made his own choice. And perhaps the Greimasg’äh merely wished to give him the excuse to do so.

  “I will travel with Léshil,” Sgäile said. “I will continue my guardianship.”

  "Good, then I will stay to see you off ”—and before Sgäile raised concern, Brot’ân’duivé shook his head. “Do not worry. Most Aged Father will understand my dela
y when I speak with him.”

  With a parting nod and a half-smile, Brot’ân’duivé turned away and melted into the forest’s dusky shadows.

  Sgäile disliked being caught between Most Aged Father and Brot’ân’duivé—again. But with his decision made, he breathed deeply in relief and turned eastward toward the Hâjh River. Taking the longer way to the shore would give him a few more moments alone in peace.

  Soon, he came upon the docks beyond the river’s mouth where barges with no seaward cargo tied off. Such a barge was just arriving, though unusual for after dark. About to pass on and turn into the city’s near side, Sgäile spotted the green-gray of an anmaglâhk cloak as someone stepped ashore.

  Had another of his caste been sent? He veered back through sparse aspens along the river, but even before he cleared the trees, the figure turned and called out.

  “Sgäilsheilleache!”

  Sgäile halted in surprise as Osha jogged toward him with a youthful grin on his long face. He was taller than Sgäile, and his lanky arms were too long for his torso.

  “Why are you here?” Sgäile asked. “Did Most Aged Father send you?”

  This hardly seemed possible. Osha had accompanied Sgäile in guardianship of Léshil on their journey through the forest. He was young, still in the early stages of training, and had an open and honest manner that leaned toward naïve.

  “No,” Osha answered, still grinning, his large teeth exposed. “Gleannéohkân’thva, your grandfather, sent me the day after you left. He said you planned to return home, and that I was invited—so you could continue my training! I came so that we might travel together.”

  Sgäile’s brief peace shattered. For one thing, he was no longer going home, and for the rest . . . Truly, he intended to help Osha, but he had never thought of formally accepting the young man as a student. That was impossible.

  As an anmaglâhk, Osha had shown himself to be . . . adequate.

  Competent with a bow and sufficient in hand-to-hand, his stealth was poor. His ability with foreign languages was questionable, and he was far too open and trusting.

  “I cannot go home,” Sgäile said quietly. “I continue guardianship of Léshil and his companions, and leave tomorrow to travel with them by sea.”

  Osha’s grin vanished.

  Clearly he had thought that an invitation to winter with Sgäile’s family was a prelude to something more. It pained Sgäile to add to Osha’s many disappointments, but he had more important matters at hand.

  Osha reached up his sleeves and jerked both of his stilettos free.

  Sgäile slid back out of reach, apprehension rising.

  Osha spun the blades, gripping them with blades pointed earthward. Before Sgäile could protest, Osha fell to his knees and slammed both blades into the forest floor. Sgäile’s heart dropped in his chest.

  The young anmaglâhk placed both hands flat on the sandy earth and bowed his head.

  “Sgäilsheilleache, I beg the honor . . . ,” Osha began softly, but his voice shook with desperation. “I beg acceptance into your tutelage. Be my guide to achieve my place among our caste.”

  Sgäile had no wish to further harm Osha, who acted properly but presumed too much. It was far too soon for Osha to make such a request. But Sgäile faltered before he could utter his denial.

  Had that time already passed? Had he somehow given the impression that he would consider such a relationship? Was this his fault? And if he now refused, what would become of Osha?

  Sgäile took a step, and each following one grew heavier under the weight Osha had thrown upon him. He reached down, gripped the hilts of Osha’s blades, and pulled them from the earth.

  Without a seasoned anmaglâhk as teacher to complete Osha’s training— and one with exceptional patience—the young man had no future. Initiates fresh from rudimentary training and of lesser years had sought and gained a formal teacher, but Osha had not.

  Osha remained still, waiting with head bowed.

  Sgäile suppressed a sigh. “Will you follow my teaching, until your need is fulfilled?”

  “I swear,” Osha answered.

  “Will you heed my word and my way, until our bond is fulfilled?”

  “I swear.”

  “And upon that night, when you step into silence and shadow among our caste, what purpose will my effort in you have attained?”

  “I will serve the defense of our people and the honor of the Anmaglâhk.”

  Sgäile flipped both blades, catching their tips. As he held out the stilettos, Osha lifted his head.

  Osha’s large wide eyes filled with relief, but his hands shook as they closed on the offered hilts.

  “It is a great privilege,” he whispered, and stood up, unsteady on his feet.

  At Sgäile’s silence, Osha bowed once, turning toward the city. Sgäile fell in beside his one and only student.

  Something struck Chane’s leg hard, jerking him awake. He lay by the hearth in the monastery’s entryway, and Welstiel stood over him.

  “Time to feed them . . . ,” Welstiel said. “Just a morsel to fight over.”

  Chane did not like the sound of this.

  “Search the front passage,” Welstiel ordered, heading for the stairs. “We need something to bind any resistant candidates.”

  Still groggy from dormancy, Chane watched Welstiel disappear above. He snatched a burning stick from the hearth for light and walked down the front passage.

  Small storage rooms lined the hallway, each containing varied items from barrels of dried goods to stacks of blankets and clothing. He saw little of interest until he passed through a doorless opening at the far end, which led into a larger room.

  Long, low tables were bordered by benches instead of chairs—a communal meal hall. Tall, unlit lanterns decorated each table. He picked one up, lifting its glass to light the wick with his smoldering stick.

  He spotted another door in the far back corner and approached to crack it open. Beyond it, he found a kitchen and scullery, neither likely to have any rope, so he turned away, intent upon scavenging further among the outer storerooms. Before he got two steps, he paused.

  A sheaf of papers bound between plain wood planks lay on a rear table.

  Part of Chane did not want to learn any more of this place, but curiosity held him there. He jerked the sheaf’s leather lace, slid aside the top wood panel, and stared at more strange writing.

  Old Stravinan—but mixed with other languages, each passage apparently written by a different author, and with a date above each entry. He flipped through several sheets, finding headings in Belaskian and contemporary Stravinan.

  The entries he could read appeared to be notes regarding treatment of the ill and injured. One set of scribbles explained efforts against a lung ailment spreading through several villages in a Warland province. In places, the notes went beyond accounting, with detailed observations of what had been tried and failed, or had succeeded in caring for the ailing. In some cases, the authors had stated or suggested conclusions concerning future remedies.

  Chane was reading the field notes of healers.

  He shoved sheets aside, scattering them as he paged toward the stack’s bottom. Entry dates below names and places only went back seven years. Yet this place was far older than that. So where had this sheaf come from, and were there more?

  He had already been gone too long. Welstiel would grow agitated by the delay. He had no more time to search.

  Chane hurried to the storerooms. Finding a stack of blankets, he tore one into strips and sprinted for the stairwell to the second floor.

  Welstiel stood scowling with impatience before the first door on the right—the doors of the living. With a sharp jerk, he pulled the wood shard from the handle and opened it. Three monks cowered inside.

  “Why are you doing this?” an elderly man asked in Stravinan. “What do you want with us?”

  White-peppered stubble shadowed his jaw, though he did not look so old. Welstiel ignored him, turning his eyes on th
e other two in the cell. Both were male and younger than their vocal companion. Welstiel stepped in and snatched one by the neck of his robe.

  The young man tried to pull Welstiel’s fingers apart, but his attempt to dislodge the grip was futile.

  “Where are you taking him?” demanded the elder, rising up.

  Welstiel slammed his free palm into the man’s face.

  The elderly monk toppled, one leg swinging from under him as he fell against a narrow, disheveled bed. The other young one scrambled away into the room’s far corner.

  Chane took half a step toward Welstiel’s back, then choked down the sudden anger he couldn’t understand. He held his ground as Welstiel wheeled and flung the one he was choking into the passage.

  The young monk tumbled across the floor, slamming against the stone wall between the first two iron-barred doors. A flurry of screeching and battering rose up beyond both those portals.

  “Bind him!” Welstiel snapped, and slammed the door shut on the remaining two monks, returning the wood shard to its handle. “I want no excess difficulty when we take him away from those we feed.”

  Chane did not understand what this meant, but he fell on the groveling young monk, pinning him facedown and pulling the man’s arms back to tie his wrists.

  “No, please!” the man shouted. “Whatever you want, I will give you! Violence is not our way!”

  Chane hardened himself against the young man’s pleas and declaration— as anyone who refused to fight for his own life disgusted him.

  “Gag him as well,” Welstiel ordered. “I do not want him speaking to his lost companions awaiting him.”

  Chane wrapped a blanket strip three times around the young man’s head and pulled it tight. An iron bar scraped free of a door handle. Chane whirled about in panic as he heard Welstiel shout.

  “Get back! Both of you!”

  Welstiel stood before the open door, his face twisted in a grimace as he hissed. Chane stepped along the middle of the passage, peering around Welstiel.

  The door’s inner surface was stained and splintered, as if gouging claws had left dark smeared trails. A pool of viscous black fluid had congealed on the cell’s floor. One monk lay in the mess, or what was left of her.