Child of a Dead God

CHAPTER EIGHT

Welstiel poured most of the monastery's coins into his own pouch, but he kept out a small sum of silver pennies.

Chane watched in puzzlement. "How did monks obtain that much?"

"A wealthy patron, perhaps," Welstiel suggested, but he did not care.

He filled the emptied pouch with small stones, adding the pennies on top so the pouch would clink when jostled.

"What are you doing?" Chane asked.

"Just follow me."

Welstiel led the way around the cliff until they found gradual sod shelves leading down to the beach. During their descent, he contemplated the best way to approach these marauders.

Though he could pick out a few words of the mishmash Ylladon tongue, he could not truly speak it. Perhaps they'd once had a central language, or several, from whatever long-forgotten descendants had first come to this continent's shores. Now they spoke a conglomeration of differing dialects fostered among their individual city-states. Some factions spoke old Droevinkan as well.

In his living youth, Welstiel had only had brief contact with the Ylladon, when his father came to seek his fortune on this continent. They stayed in one city-state, but his father had quickly realized that the lack of a stable hierarchy offered little opportunity for him. The Ylladon raided each other's territories as often as they raided any outsiders' they could reach.

They were parasites. Slavers, pirates, and thieves by the very make of their fragmented culture, but to call them unintelligent was rash. Their way of life had survived as long as the continent's western nations, and perhaps longer.

Still, he could think of only one reason these sailors might travel so far north. And trying to hit the lower settlements of the Elven Territories marked them as foolhardy, from Welstiel's perspective.

"Keep your sword sheathed unless I say otherwise," he advised.

Chane followed in silence as they stepped onto the beach above the cove, and Welstiel rounded the point until he spotted the campfire. He called out a greeting in old Droevinkan.

Men scurried around the beached skiffs, then poised, waiting as he entered the firelight's reach. All six drew cutlasses and thick knives, except the one with the horn bow aimed at him. In their mismatched attire and oiled-down hair, each was nonetheless dressed for efficiency in duty. Most wore leather vestments or tunics and either hide or heavy canvas breeches. Half had studded or steel-ribbed bracers on their forearms.

They were surprisingly robust; none appeared malnourished or inebriated. They quickly shifted positions, two flanking Welstiel on the shoreward side to back him and Chane into the water if needed.

"Be at ease," Welstiel called, and held up both gloved hands.

The pebble-filled pouch dangled by its string hooked around his fingers, but the Ylladon did not lower their weapons. One sailor between the skiffs glanced toward the campfire as another man stepped forward from beyond the flames.

Somewhere in his late twenties, he wore a close-trimmed beard and was rather short of stature. He barked at the others, but his gaze never left Welstiel. This man had not drawn a weapon. The sheath on his hip was too narrow for a sailor's cutlass, perhaps made for a saber instead. The sleeves of his azure shirt beneath the quilted and padded leather vest were a cleaner cut than the rest.

"Stop there," he said in the old Droevinkan, his words strangely sharpened by the accent of his native tongue.

Welstiel halted, as did Chane.

"You are the captain?" Welstiel asked, and jingled the pouch. "We seek passage on your vessel."

"Passage?" the man repeated.

He looked Welstiel up and down, snorted, and then cocked his head toward one of the two who had flanked Welstiel at the beach top.

"He captain," the young man said in his broken speech. "But he not speak your words. I am helm."

"Helmsman?" Welstiel corrected politely.

The short helmsman said nothing as the captain took a few steps down the sloping sand.

He was the tallest and bulkiest, and shirtless beneath his cloak and tunic. His thick leather vestment was adorned with spaced steel studs shaped like diamonds. Heavy armor for a seafarer.

His hair and face were hidden beneath a helm of hardened, shaped leather, with three evenly spaced flat iron strips across its skull top. The long nose guard and wide cheek and jaw wings were reinforced as well. This left only two eye loops connected to the narrow opening exposing the middle of his mouth and the front his chin. Welstiel found it difficult to gauge the man's expression.

The captain never looked at the pouch-only at Welstiel-and inched forward with a thick short sword poised in his grip. Clearly these men thought it easier to take Welstiel's money, and his attempt at barter was not even worth amusement.

Welstiel flipped the pouch up with his fingers and caught its falling bulk in his palm.

The captain paused, but still his gaze did not shift. Welstiel opened the pouch, pinching out silver coins into plain sight.

"We need passage for seven."

"Seven?" the helmsman repeated, and rattled off something to his captain.

The captain growled a few words to the man behind him. That sailor scurried off the way Welstiel had come. Another bolted along the cove's southern curve.

"Welstiel!" Chane hissed. "What are you doing?"

He stepped in, pushing back his cloak to expose his longsword, and kept shifting his head, watching all the sailors still in sight.

Again the captain appeared unimpressed, but he took a few quick glances. Not at the pouch and coins but toward the cove's far reaches, where his two men had run off.

Welstiel slowly pushed back his cloak to expose his own sword.

The captain did not seem foolish, and the mention of seven in Welstiel's party had made him wary. A piercing whistle carried from the north, and then another from the south. The captain clenched the shortsword's hilt hesitantly.

Welstiel took another step forward. The helmsman closed quickly on him, but Chane moved in to block his path.

"Let him come," Welstiel instructed.

Chane backed up one step and held his ground with a soft hiss.

"I offer more as well," Welstiel said, waiting as the helmsman translated for his captain. "Something rarer than coin."

He slowly swung his pack off his shoulder and dug inside it. At the glimmer rising from the opened pack, the captain raised his sword, its point reaching out.

Welstiel lifted his globe of three flittering lights.

"Tell him the lights never go out," he said, and waited while the helmsman explained.

The captain reached out and wrapped thick fingers around the globe. He lifted it before his face.

Its light flooded the shadowed openings of his helm. He did not appear remotely awed, but his interest was clear. A good light source requiring no fire was useful to a seafarer.

Welstiel held up both pouches and shook the one from the monastery, so that its few silver pennies made noise.

"A third now… the rest when we reach the first port on your route."

The helmsman repeated, and the captain returned a question.

"Why is you out here, where is nothing?" the helmsman asked.

"Not your concern," Welstiel returned. "My people will stay below deck, and we are not to be disturbed. We have our own food and water, so we will be no more burden than the rest of your… cargo. Passage is all we require."

The captain and helmsman broke into a quick and sharp exchange, and then the captain looked at Welstiel and nodded once. The helmsman held out his hand, and Welstiel rendered up his smaller pouch containing nearly all his true coin. When he reached for the globe, not offered as down payment, the captain curled it back in his grip and turned away.

The helmsman merely smirked.

Welstiel understood this game. The captain accepted the bargain, but now he would wait. Once his passengers were aboard in the hold, it would be far easier to take all of their possessions. No one would even find the bodies, sunk to the sea bottom.

"My name Klatas. You get people," the helmsman encouraged. "We leave soon."

Welstiel decided to stay and keep his eyes on these men. He also knew how Chane longed for real blood.

"Bring the others," he told Chane, "but only as far as the turn into the cove. Keep them away from the camp until it is time to board."

Welstiel found it puzzling that his ferals obeyed Chane in most things, especially the young female. As Chane disappeared down the beach, passing a returning Ylladon scout, Welstiel backed toward the water and away from the skiffs to consider his options.

Magiere traveled south, but she had not come this far, judging by her position in his last scrying. Whatever might come, he could not allow her to get away from him. If she stopped short and headed inland, he would have to force the Ylladon ship to turn back north. But that was not likely, since the impassable Blade Range separated the eastern from the western coast. Magiere was far more likely to sail onward beyond the range's southern end, where it broke into the scattered rugged terrain of the Pock Peaks. It was the only place he could think of that she might enter the high mountains on foot. If that was her plan, her ship might eventually catch up to Welstiel's, and then he would have harder decisions to make.

Sgaile pulled in the oars and stood up as the skiff floated in beside the ship. No one had spoken since they pushed off the beach, and both Magiere and Leshil had been unusually quiet during their three-day return. Chap was fully recovered, much to Sgaile's relief, but he dwelled on the gifts that the "burning" one had brought-and for whom the last two were intended.

Leshil had not taken his new blades from their canvas wrap. Those weapons, so like his own, were disturbing enough to Sgaile, but they were nothing compared to the items presented to Magiere: a war blade made of Chein'as metal and a strange heavy circlet.

Sgaile had thought long and hard on this as he led Leshil and Magiere out of the granite foothills. Brot'an'duive could not have known Magiere would force her way into this journey, for the Greimasg'ah's instructions only concerned Leshil. Yet somehow the Chein'as had known she would come.

What was the hidden meaning behind these strange gifts, and the way that dark little one had looked at her with such pain? Its expression had reflected that of the seyilf who had appeared at Magiere's hearing before the clan elders and claimed an impossible shared heritage with her.

One night in the granite foothills, Sgaile had heard Magiere mutter fitfully in her sleep and then sit up, breathing hard. He remained silent, watching her through the slits of his eyelids, until she finally curled up under the blanket with Leshil.

They were all traveling south to find an object for these human "sages," but Magiere was much more involved than she admitted. Sgaile now felt as though he were the one being dragged along blindfolded.

"They are back!" a glad voice shouted from above. "Osha, quickly- come help!"

Sgaile glanced up to see Wynn's smiling face hanging over the ship's rail-wall. Osha appeared beside her an instant later.

"Hold on," Osha called, and a crewman tossed down lines.

Sgaile stepped around Chap to secure the skiff's prow. When he turned back, Magiere had done the same at the stern. About to reach down for his pack and the canvas bundle of gifts, he saw Leshil had already picked up the latter.

It was the first time he had touched them since leaving the tunnels. Sgaile could not comprehend Leshil's reluctance.

Leshil handed off the bundle to Magiere and crouched as Chap approached him.

"I will carry him," Sgaile said quickly.

Leshil's face clouded, but he nodded. "I'll head up and help haul him over. Magiere, go ahead."

Magiere climbed up, and then Leshil, and Sgaile crouched to offer his back to Chap.

"Please allow me to assist you," he whispered.

With a soft rumble, Chap hooked his forelegs over Sgaile's shoulders, bracing his rear paws on Sgaile's belt. The dog was heavy and made climbing the rope ladder precarious. When they reached the top, Wynn scrambled into Sgaile's way.

"I will get him," she said cheerfully, reaching out.

At the sight of her, Chap lunged.

The dog's push-off flattened Sgaile onto the deck's edge. When Chap's weight lifted from Sgaile's back, he climbed through the rail-wall's opening and paused at the sight before him.

Wynn sat with legs splayed where she had toppled, and clutched the majay-hi's neck. Chap lapped at her face as she laughed.

"I missed you!" Wynn said, grabbing his face by the jowls.

Sgaile shook his head. At least it was heartening to see this ancient one's hidden burdens lifted for a moment.

"Greetings, Sgailsheilleache," Osha said. "It is welcome to see you."

"Osha!" Wynn grumbled at him.

He groaned with a roll of his eyes and repeated his welcome in Belaskian.

The hkomas strode over, displeased as ever, and Sgaile steeled himself to remain polite. The ship and its keeper had remained idle for six unexpected days on this well-kept route between the coastal communities.

"We pull anchor," the hkomas said. "We are far behind schedule for our next stop."

"Of course," Sgaile answered. "If I can assist in-"

The hkomas turned on his heel and began shouting to his crew.

A cold gust rolled across the deck, and Wynn crossed her arms with a shiver as she stood up. Osha immediately opened his cloak, stepping closer, and Wynn slipped in against his side as he pulled the cloak's edge about her.

Sgaile stared silently, as did Magiere and Leshil, but the two young ones did not notice everyone's attention fixed upon them.

"Hungry?" Wynn asked, peering from beneath Osha's gray-green cloak. "Have you had supper?"

In the lingering silence, both Wynn and Osha finally noticed the tension around them.

"We need to get below," Magiere said, still holding the bundle of gifts. "Now, Wynn."

Some of the crew paused amid their duties, casting displeased and troubled glances at the returned foreigners. One stopped altogether to watch them. The continued interest of this young woman, the hkomas's steward, did not escape Sgaile's awareness.

Osha swept back his cloak as Wynn hurried after Magiere. Leshil and Chap followed. Sgaile watched with mixed feelings as they headed for the aft hatch. He prayed that Chap would keep his oath.

Uncertainty was a foreign state of mind for Sgaile, and lately he had been perpetually lost in it. He believed in his self-chosen purpose to protect Leshil. But Magiere's presence nagged at him. Between the seyilf's claims at Magiere's hearing and the gifts and actions of the emissary at the fissure's edge, Sgaile wondered what role Magiere played in Leshil's future.

She was a monster. She could be irrational and consistently ill-mannered. But she also possessed attributes Sgaile found admirable-fortitude, courage, and an unshakable loyalty to those she cared for. He had once asked her to watch over young Leanalham, and she agreed without hesitation. And two of the ancient races expressed mysterious interest in her.

Sgaile grew weary of thinking.

"What happened," Osha asked, "when you took them before the Chein'as?"

Perhaps Osha had spent too much time with these outsiders. He had many shortcomings that made Sgaile doubt his suitability to be Anmaglahk. It would not serve the young man to sympathize with humans.

"Wynn is safe," Sgaile said. "You served your purpose well."

"Purpose?" Osha blinked, and his gaze wandered toward the aft hatch. "Yes, Sgailsheilleache… a pleasant duty."

Sgaile stiffened.

"There is no pleasant or unpleasant for Anmaglahk," he said coldly. "There is only your purpose to fulfill for your people. If you cannot hold this above all else, you have no place among us."

Osha's jaw dropped slightly, like an ignorant boy regretting an error he did not understand. "Forgive me," he stammered. "I meant no… I live in silence and in shadows. I am Anmaglahk."

Sgaile offered no reassurance. Putting Osha at ease would be no kindness.

"See to our charges," he said. "Bring them supper."

"Yes, Sgailsheilleache."

As Osha walked to the hatch, Sgaile turned to the rail, watching the coastline and dwelling on Magiere. Perhaps he should chastise himself as well.

Most Aged Father rested within the root chamber of his great oak. Alone for a moment, he tried to quiet his restless mind.

Father?

He opened his eyes at Hkuan'duv's voice and placed a hand on the living wood of his bower.

"I am here," he replied, concerned, for Hkuan'duv would need a tree for his word-wood to function. "Where are you?"

I halted the ship to go ashore so we could speak. Hkuan'duv hesitated. I have been in contact with the informant you arranged. Sgailsheilleache's ship anchored for six days, and he took Leshil and the human called Magiere ashore. By the location described, I believe Sgailsheilleache took them to the haven of the Chein'as.

"What?" Most Aged Father tried to sit up.

When they returned, Magiere bore a canvas bundle, which the informant had not seen when they departed. It was of sizeable bulk.

Most Aged Father had been shocked when he first learned that Sgailsheilleache had continued to accompany Leshil. But guardianship was a difficult burden to put aside, especially for one such as Sgailsheilleache, who clearly felt his oath was not yet fulfilled, misplaced as it was.

Father? Hkuan'duv asked. Is there more concerning this purpose… that I should know?

Most Aged Father was troubled. Since leaving Ghoivne Ajhajhe, Sgailsheilleache had made no reports. Now he had made an unscheduled stop near a place no human should ever know. Had Sgailsheilleache taken Leshil and that undead woman into sacred fire?

Father, are you still with me?

Most Aged Father's frail body flushed with indignant heat. Oh, the answer was obvious.

Brot'an'duive-the Dog in the Dark-betrayer of his people. But why would the deviant Greimasg'ah want Sgailsheilleache to do this? Why, when he knew what it would cost once the truth came out?

This breach was all Most Aged Father needed to begin planning the swift end of Brot'an'duive.

Father?

"Yes, I hear you!" Most Aged Father hissed, and then calmed, weighing his next words. "Sgailsheilleache's loyalty is unquestionable, but his purpose has been twisted by one among our caste who works against us… like that traitor, Cuirin'nen'a. If he now serves a purpose that neither he nor we know fully, then this object the humans seek has greater import than I first thought. Upon your return, speak of it to no one, even among our caste. You will bring it only to me."

Another pause and Hkuan'duv replied, You have no reason to doubt.

Most Aged Father leaned back shakily in his bower. "In silence and in shadows," he whispered.

Was there no limit to Brot'an'duive's treachery?

"What is wrong?" Wynn asked, closing the cabin door. "What has happened?"

Chap dropped his haunches to the floor, but he sent no words into her head.

Magiere roughly tossed her coat onto a bunk. She dropped on the bunk's edge, looking tired and drawn, as Leesil sank to the floor beside Chap.

Daylight had faded, and Wynn took out her cold lamp crystal, rubbing it briskly until a glow filled the small room. Her curiosity-and worry- sharpened with the light, and she glanced over at the strange bundle in the corner by the door.

"What is in there?" she asked.

Magiere leaned back, her jaw working beneath tightly pressed lips, as if uncertain how to answer.

"Talk to me!" Wynn demanded.

"Ooeer-ish-ga," Leesil whispered.

Wynn spun toward him. "What?"

uirishg, Chap corrected for Leesil's badly spoken Elvish.

Leesil sighed. "I think we met another one of your forgotten mythical people."

Wynn stared at him, but she flooded with excitement.

uirishg was an ancient Elvish name she had learned from recorded myths gathered by her guild-a legend of five races matched to the five elements of existence. Of these, Elves and Dwarves were known. Wynn had considered the other three no more than fancy, until…

She had followed Leesil and Magiere into Droevinka, and they had uncovered the hidden crypt below the keep of Magiere's undead father. And one of the Seyilf-the Wind-Blown-had appeared at Magiere's trial before the an'Croan's council of clan elders.

Spirit, Earth, Air, Fire, and Water.

Essence, Solid, Gas, Energy, and Liquid.

Tree, Mountain, Wind, Flame, and Wave.

Elf, Dwarf, Seyilf… and…

"Which race?" Wynn asked.

"The one left in the iron crate," Magiere said.

In the hidden crypt, Leesil had discovered one set of remains near an age-crusted iron crate. Beneath the grime and dried rust, Wynn had found gouges in the metal. Whatever it had held had tried to claw its way out. The skeletal remains near the crate were as dark as its iron, and the bones of its toes and fingers ended in curved obsidian points. Its skull was small, with sharpened charcoal gray ridges in place of teeth.

"Just listen," Leesil said, but he faltered, looking to Magiere. "I don't even know how to start."

"Show her," Magiere said.

Wynn did not wait. She rushed for the bundled canvas and tumbled it open upon the floor.

"Sgaile took us down… somewhere under a mountain," Magiere began. "A small, black-skinned creature came out of a deep fissure, carrying those things. The winged blades were for Leesil, but it tossed the other two at me."

Wynn was spellbound by the four objects. A pair of winged blades, not unlike Leesil's, yet made of unmistakable metal. The other two left for Magiere-a long and heavy hiltless dagger of the same material, and… a thorhk?

But the engraved characters upon it were not Dwarvish, although it was shaped like one of the collar adornments worn by some of their warriors. Wynn turned her frustration on Chap.

"Well, say something! You were supposed to be my eyes and ears."

Chap dropped his head upon his paws. Chein'as-the Burning Ones.

But then Magiere began recounting all she remembered, and Wynn listened intently.

"Before we could leave with Leesil's blades," Magiere said softly, "it shrieked at me, and left those things."

"Sgaile wasn't happy about it," Leesil added. "He had no idea, and I don't think Brot'an and my mother had anything to do with those."

"It knew me…," Magiere whispered. "The gift-bearer was hurting… or in mourning."

Wynn glared at Chap, but he remained silent. What was wrong with him? He had made her a promise. She turned back to Leesil.

"We have already learned that you and Magiere were created by opposing sides," Wynn said, "for a conflict yet to come, though the sides of that conflict are somewhat ignorant of each other. And the Fay seem to want neither of you involved. The an'Croan ancestors saw Leesil as a future savior, and Chap believes Magiere is to lead an army for the long-forgotten enemy that Most Aged Father fears. Both of you have rejected these paths, but now… with these things…"

Wynn looked down at the items and lingered upon the ruddy-colored circlet.

"Perhaps these old peoples, Chein'as and Seyilf, do not care how or why either of you were made. They either offer their help… or are asking you for help."

"Help with what?" Leesil snapped. "Enough already! We'll find this orb thing, keep it from Welstiel… and then we're done!"

Magiere stretched out a hand to Leesil, and he rose to join her on the bunk.

Wynn shook her head in resignation. She had no wish to upset them nor to make them think she wished either to succumb to a purpose others thought they should serve. She only wished she had been in that cavern to understand more of what happened.

"You had better start explaining," she growled at Chap.

No.

Wynn's stomach rolled, more at his denial than at his voice in her head.

I can only clarify what Magiere and Leesil can tell you. That is my word to Sgaile.

His rebuke stung, for Chap had made a promise to her. And now, that meant nothing compared to his word to an anmaglahk?

Wynn could not even spit out a retort, so she snatched up the circlet- or tried to. She nearly toppled off her knees at its weight, and then slammed it down before Chap's nose. He flinched.

"What is this thorhk for?" Wynn demanded.

Leesil wrinkled his brow at the strange term.

I do not know, Chap answered. Sgaile did not recognize it either.

"What about the chein'as?" Wynn pressed. "And do not tell me that you did not delve its memories… I know you!"

"Enough!" Magiere warned. "And where did you get the name for the hoop? A torc?"

Wynn ignored her.

Chap fidgeted on the floor, reluctant to look at the object. Wynn's ire waned at the suffering in his eyes. He shuddered.

I saw the gift-bearer's memory of a loss, when one of its own… one that meant something to it… was taken by Ubad.

Wynn repeated Chap's words for the others, and Magiere sat upright with widened eyes.

"That… fiend came to the chasm?" she whispered sharply. "How? We barely survived a short time on the plateau."

Leesil tried to pull her back but she resisted. Chap recounted all that he had seen in the forlorn being's memory as Wynn reiterated for the others.

I could not tell the gift-bearer that Ubad is already dead.

Chap's blue crystalline eyes strayed to the hiltless dagger-as did Magiere's-then he laid his head down, gazing at the thorhk.

It seemed the blade given to Magiere had been some plea for justice, but the thorhk brought Wynn only doubts and questions.

"Let me know," she grumbled at Chap, "if there is anything more you can tell… that might help."

Chap lifted his head, and his doggish brows wrinkled in an echo of Magiere's perpetual scowl.

Wynn put a hand on his head. He bucked it sharply off with his snout, but then lapped his long tongue between her small fingers.

"Wynn," Magiere said, "how do you know what to call that thing?"

"Thorhk?" she answered hesitantly. "It is an old Dwarvish term for a circlet shaped somewhat like your open-ended loop. They are made of semi-flexible braided metal, and often worn by a Thanae-an elite dwarven warrior, sometimes in service to one of their high lords."

A knock sounded. Wynn climbed to her feet, stepping over Leesil's shimmering new blades, and opened the cabin door.

Osha stood outside with a tray of food, and the aroma of roasted fish and herb-garnished potatoes surrounded Wynn.

"Thank you, Osha. Will you join us?"

He would not meet her eyes and merely handed over the tray.

"Whatever is wrong?" she asked.

Osha turned away, heading back for the hatch stairs. Wynn stared after him.

Six days alone with him and she had finally begun to think they were friends. Now he would not eat or speak with her? It seemed that no matter how much they learned of each other, as elf, an'Croan, or anmaglahk, Osha might always be a stranger.

Wynn closed the door with her elbow and turned as Magiere slid to the floor, leaning her head against Leesil's leg. Sadness welled inside Wynn-or was it loneliness?

She reached back in her memory, seeking a moment of intimate comfort. All she recalled were evenings sitting close to Chane over a parchment, drinking mint tea, his strong hands tight around his cup. During the battle in Toret's house, he had abandoned the fight and thrown her over his shoulder to flee. She had fought and kicked him, until she realized his true intention was to remove her from harm's way.

Chap was watching her sternly.

Wynn flinched, hoping he had not been wandering in her memories. But when she settled beside him, handing out small wooden plates, her stomach rolled once more.

And I think of Lily.

She reached out to softly stroke his back.

Magiere took the plate Wynn offered, and another knock sounded at the cabin door. She waved Wynn back down as the sage started to rise and went to the door herself.

The last face she wanted to see outside was Sgaile's.

He averted his eyes and clutched at a long and narrow paper-wrapped bundle. He also held a seamless wooden tube about the length of his forearm. The narrow container looked much like the wood of the rain barrels in elven homes-one perfect piece, except for the unadorned pewter cap.

"May I enter?" he asked.

Magiere almost slammed the door in his face. Six days with Sgaile, most of it blindfolded, left her with little patience, but she stepped back. He entered with a respectful nod and crouched near the pile of gifts.

"Before our ship left Ghoivne Ajhajhe," he said, "Brot'an'duive gave me things for you, Leshil."

Both Leesil and Chap narrowed their eyes at the master anmaglahk's name.

"I did not understand their purpose," Sgaile went on, setting down the wooden tube, "until I saw what the Chein'as gave to you."

He tore open the paper bundle, exposing a matched set of long padded bars of leather.

Magiere was mildly curious. Before she could ask, Sgaile picked up one silvery winged punching blade in the pile and then rolled one bar of padding over. Its backside was split cleanly down the center between its edge stitching.

Sgaile spread the slit with his thumb and carefully slid the back of the blade's wing into it. There was a narrow ledge of metal along the wing's back that Magiere hadn't noticed before, and it slid smoothly into the leather. The padded bar settled perfectly along the back of the wing.

Magiere remembered the day Leesil had bolted across the border at Soladran.

He'd viciously assaulted Darmouth's forces hunting down peasants who fled for safety. When he returned to the city, a blow from a sword had smashed one of his blade's wings into his forearm, leaving him black and blue for days.

But with the padding, and those half-hoop braces sprouting midpoint from the wings, these new blades would be far more stable and sure on Leesil's forearms. Still, she knew he wouldn't touch them.

Magiere had no doubt who'd designed and requested those blades from the Chein'as. And who better to improve on Leesil's original blades than someone who'd been killing all his long life?

Brot'an was up to something-again.

Before Leesil spit out his rejection, Chap snarled and rose on all fours. Head low, he growled at Sgaile, and clacked his jaws sharply as he barked twice for "no."

"Stop it!" Wynn said.

Chap ignored her, closing on Sgaile, who froze at the dog's rage.

"Don't bother," Leesil added. "I prefer my own weapons."

Sgaile stared at Leesil in bewilderment, as if he'd been insulted for no reason. He turned his eyes back on Chap and asked, "Why?"

"Because those are Brot'an's doing," Wynn said tiredly.

"Shut up, Wynn!" Leesil growled.

Magiere grabbed his arm, and Leesil turned his angry gaze on her.

"Brot'an's the one who tricked Leesil," Magiere explained, "into finishing his mission to kill Darmouth. And Leesil… doesn't want anything to do with him. Neither does Chap."

"Do you not understand?" Sgaile said and held up one silvery winged blade, turning it slowly in the air. "No such thing has ever been made by the Burning Ones… only anmaglahk blades and rare items for elders and other honored ones. Brot'an'duive may have requested Leshil's new blades- but that is all! No one tells the Chein'as what to make."

Magiere wasn't sure she believed that, no matter that Sgaile did. But weapons were only tools, and these new blades looked better than Leesil's own.

"They're just weapons," she said to him. "You choose how to use them… nobody is going to make you do anything."

"Ah, so you're perfectly comfortable with your 'gifts, are you?" he returned.

Magiere clenched her teeth. She wanted to smack him for turning things back on her-and because she couldn't think of a way around his counter.

She twisted about, looking to the hiltless dagger and that thing Wynn called a torc.

"The dagger needs a hilt," she said suddenly.

Sgaile looked down at the blade and then to Chap, waiting.

Chap shook himself all over. With one last snarl, he circled away around Wynn.

Sgaile let out a deep breath as he set down Leesil's new blade. He picked up the long dagger and, with a nod to Magiere, turned and left.

"Happy now?" Magiere asked Leesil.

He glared back at her. "Oh, I'm overjoyed."

"But what about this?" Wynn said. "Sgaile brought something more for Leesil."

Magiere glanced back to find Wynn had retrieved the wooden cylinder that Sgaile had left with the other items. The sage popped the pewter cap and peered into the narrow tube, then she frowned, glancing nervously at Leesil.

"Well?" Magiere asked.

With a sigh, Wynn tilted the tube, and out slid a narrow shaft of wood-a bare length of branch. And Magiere recognized it immediately- the branch of Roise Charmune.

When Leesil had gone with Sgaile to the burial place of the an'Croan ancestors, he'd been given more than a new name. Leafless and barkless-yet somehow alive-the slick, fine-grained slip of branch had been needed to prove Magiere's innocence in the face of Most Aged Father's claims against her. And here it was again.

Magiere heard Leesil's groan even before she looked back to find him with his face buried in his hands.

Sgaile closed the cabin door and paused in the hallway. Between Leshil and Chap's deep hatred of Brot'an'duive and the rejection of gifts he himself could not fathom, he felt at a loss. Magiere's contentious nature had broken the stalemate, but the whole exchange had left him exhausted.

He stepped down the passage to the hatch stairs, and when he reached the deck, he headed for the aftcastle stairwell. As he passed under the lanterns hanging there, his gaze caught on the dagger glinting in the light. He noticed a crack down the blade's center.

No, a seam.

It ran perfectly straight, ending well short of the tip and the cross-guard. Sgaile studied it more closely.

The black-filled seam was so thin he could barely run a fingernail along it, and the char-colored material that filled it was as hard as the blade itself. He lifted it closer to his face and caught a whiff of cinders-or perhaps it was just the lingering smell of the heated cavern.

Sgaile headed onward for the one place a proper hilt could be made. When he reached the center of three doors in the ship's aft, he knocked gently upon it.

"Enter… Sgailsheilleache," a deep voice answered from within.

Sgaile had not met the ship's hkoeda, yet the man called him by name. He grasped the latch, peering around the door's edge.

Inside the ship's heart-room chamber was a tall elf dressed in plain canvas tunic and breeches. His feet were bare, and he stood beside the large bulge in the floor that was the root-tail of the vessel, this living Pairvanean.

By the lantern's light, he appeared gaunt but young. With his own hands, he massaged the root-tail's base with fresh seawater. Sgaile smelled the strong aroma of herbal oil permeating the chamber.

"What do you need?" the hkoeda asked.

But Sgaile was looking beyond him.

Below the side walls' higher ledges, two long tanks stretched the full length of the heart-room. From forewall to the stern, their shorter walls flowed out of the floor, and each was filled with seawater. Within those two containers, something moved beneath the water's surface.

Like the ship's own tawny root, yet ending in roundly pointed heads, their tails undulated and flexed, making the tanks' waters ripple gently.

"You have 'swimmers'?" Sgaile asked, distracted from his purpose.

"Yes." The hkoeda's soft smile faded. "I once served on a military Pairvanean and grew accustomed to their company."

Sgaile hesitated. Hkoeda lived out their lives on the Pairvanean with which they bonded. If this one had once served another vessel, then he had suffered a great loss-no less than one suffered in the loss of a life-mate, and not all survived such a loss. But Sgaile had never seen "swimmers" except on vessels guarding the open waters of his people.

Perhaps they were an added blessing, but he hoped there would be no need of such on this journey.

"I would ask you to grow wood for a hilt," he said, and held up the long dagger.

The hkoeda's melancholy faded. He stepped closer, bare feet slapping wetly across the floor, and took the blade, raising one eyebrow slyly at Sgaile.

"Well… this is unusual." His smirk only rankled Sgaile more. "Not a typical blade for an anmaglahk."

Sgaile had never cared for the inappropriate joviality of hkoeda.

"Just the same," he said shortly, "please treat it as such in preparation. And when the wood is fitted, wrap it thoroughly in gut-hide, so the wood is not exposed."

The hkoeda nodded and turned away. He placed a hand on the bulge in the floor, still shimmering wet with seawater, and laid the blade atop the root-tail's center.

"We have something new to do," he whispered to it, and then, seeing Sgaile still in the doorway, he flipped a hand in dismissal. "Off with you. We will let you know when your new toy is ready."

Sgaile shook his head as he left. And perhaps he closed the door a little too hard.

This had been a very, very long day.