Child of a Dead God

  The boy was lost . . . all here were lost, one way or another. Only what they had accomplished remained, and even that would fade, forgotten by the world in this hidden place.

  Chane’s fingernails grated down the wall.

  An impatient Welstiel was waiting outside, but Chane’s mind was elsewhere. He ran down the stairs and raced for the back study and its library. Then he froze in the doorway, panic overwhelming his senses.

  His gaze ran along the shelves, over and over, and he shook his head. All the books and scrolls, volumes and sheaves—he could not just leave them. And he could not carry them all away. How could he choose what to take with so much to leave behind?

  Time would not work in his favor.

  He snatched one book, and then another. He chose texts he had seen before, their titles vaguely familiar, and some so thick with fine script that they seemed to hold the greatest content. He shoved as many as he could into a canvas sack scavenged from the outer study. Even when the sack was full, he looked wildly about at all that was left. He finally turned to run out of this lifeless place.

  Outside, Welstiel stood watchfully over his six children as they scrubbed their naked bodies with snow. He then dressed them in fresh robes and armed them with utility and kitchen knives tucked in their belts. The curly-headed man took up an iron bar as a cudgel.

  “Take the baggage,” Welstiel ordered them, and like puppets jerked by their strings, the obedient ferals twitched into motion.

  Chane winced at this, for he knew what it felt like. His own maker, Toret, had used such a voice on him when he grew reluctant to obey. When a Noble Dead created another of its kind, that newborn was forever doomed to abide by any willfull order from its maker.

  Unless—until—that maker was destroyed.

  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.

  “He also told them no one is to touch us,” Wynn added, “and that he would take such as a sign of disrespect to him and his oath of guardianship. It must never happen again.”

  Magiere eased a little, and when Sgäile glanced her way, she nodded to him.

  The hkomas looked frustrated, but he grabbed the angered crewman and pulled him away, shouting at his crew. All began slowly returning to their duties. In spite of Sgäile’s declaration, a few cast puzzled glances at Chap—and Magiere caught more hostile ones tossed her way.

  She didn’t care. Let them come at her, if they wanted.

  Sgäile turned to her. “You will leave such problems to me!”

  “There won’t be any problems,” Magiere spit back, “if they keep their hands to themselves.”

  “How often must I remind you,” Sgäile returned, “all of you, that you do not understand our culture and ways. Your ignorance and continued lack of heed for my—”

  “They understand us even less!” Wynn cut in.

  The sage’s sharp tone startled Magiere.

  “For all the time you must have spent,” Wynn added, “sneaking about human cultures, perhaps it is time you and your people learned some tolerance . . . before jumping to rash conclusions. Bigotry betrays your ignorance.”

  Sgäile was stunned voiceless, but resentment surfaced quickly through his stoic features, signaling an incensed repl
y on its way. Wynn gave him no opportunity and pushed past him.

  “Come, Chap,” she said. “Let us check on Leesil.”

  Chap hopped down to follow her, his head swinging as he watched the crew with twitching jowls. But as they passed Osha, Wynn brushed a hand lightly across his forearm and spoke softly.

  “Alhtahk âma âr tú.”

  Osha eased with a soft smile and bowed his head.

  It wasn’t hard for Magiere to understand Wynn’s words as thanks.

  Sgäile cast one last hard glare at Magiere as he headed up the aftcastle stairs.

  Magiere merely snorted and turned toward the ship’s side, not satisfied enough to go below and take her eyes off the crew. But her gaze settled on the open sea ahead—south.

  Night after night of pushing his ferals through the mountains left Welstiel weary of the constant vigilance required to control them. But they had to reach the eastern seacoast, hopefully well ahead of Magiere.

  He longed for a solitary existence. Dawn approached, and he stood watching as Chane set up tents for the day. The cold rocky range was harsh and held little life, and the sky seemed interminably dismal even at night.

  Each time Welstiel scried for Magiere’s position, she had moved an impossible distance southward, closing on his own trajectory to the coast. Sometimes she seemed not to move for several days. This confirmed his suspicion that she was traveling by ship, making port calls along the way.

  Chane proved useful again, finding rock outcrops or solitary stands of thick trees in which to pitch tents and keep their band safely under cover. He made tea every few nights, and eventually succeeded in getting the ferals to drink it—after setting an example a few times. Welstiel could not get them to do anything unless he gave a direct order. But Chane’s sullen demeanor had increased until he barely spoke at all.

  Welstiel did not care, so long as his companion helped keep the ferals moving. And they were quickly reaching the point of needing a fresh kill.

  The two younger males shifted restlessly on hands and feet, sniffing the air in eager, unfulfilled hope. The elderly woman paced among the massive boulders surrounding their camp, and whispered aimlessly to herself. Her emaciated, silver-haired follower stayed right on her heels.