Child of a Dead God

CHAPTER TWO

"Magiere, look there," Sgaile said, pointing past her. "Your ship comes to harbor."

Magiere stepped to the dock's end beside him and shielded her eyes with one hand against the bright sun.

"That large one?" she asked.

Sgaile nodded, still watching the ship. "Yes."

Even from a distance, the tawny-hulled vessel appeared to glide across the waves as it headed for port at the elven city of Ghoivne Ajhajhe-Front of the Deep. It rode strangely high, as if moving from one wave top to the next. Iridescent shimmers reflected from its sails like white satin under the late winter sun-or what should have been winter. Here on the Elven Territories' northern shore, the air felt more like early spring.

An ocean breeze whipped a tendril of Magiere's black hair across her eyes. She brushed it aside and peered intently at this strange vessel come to carry her and her companions away. Long and sleek, its prow stretched to a point like a headless spear, and the hull's lip seemed lightly curved like a holly leaf's edge. For an instant, she thought a ripple of dark green flickered across its hull from light reflected off the water, but the color quickly returned to rich golden tan.

Other vessels, both small and large, sailed in and out of the vast bay or were already harbored in its waters and at the long docks. Various barges that had come down inland rivers were tied off at the piers. Elves upon the docks unloaded and reloaded goods to be exchanged with city shops and outbound vessels.

"Ah, seven hells!" someone muttered. "We're actually going to board that thing?"

Magiere glanced back, and Leesil grimaced as he stepped in beside Sgaile. She looked them over.

Sgaile was full elven and an anmaglahk-a trained assassin and spy, who'd sworn to protect Leesil and his companions, including Magiere herself. She hadn't known him long and could rarely read his subtle expressions.

Leesil was only half-blooded.

With oblong ears less peaked than those of a full-blooded elf, he shared other traits with Sgaile's people, from silky blond hair-white-blond, in his case-to amber eyes and tan skin. Leesil's eyes were smaller than a full-blooded elf's, though still slightly larger than a human's, and his complexion was lighter. Above average height for a human, like Magiere, he was short by elven standards. Beardless-as were all male elves-his wedged chin looked blunt compared to Sgaile's.

"My dinner's coming up just looking at it," Leesil added, glowering at the approaching vessel.

"There's no other way," Magiere said. "Unless you care to cross the mountains on foot again."

She was in no mood for his whining. They'd only been on one short sea voyage, to Bela, and Leesil had been sick the entire journey. With a dramatic sigh, he shouldered around Sgaile to grasp her gloved hand.

After traveling downriver on a barge from Crijheaiche-Origin-Heart-they'd spent only one night and day here, but Magiere was anxious to be off again. Sgaile had brought her to the docks the moment he heard their ship neared harbor.

"When can we leave?" she asked.

Sgaile lowered his eyes to hers. "The ship returns from its run along our eastern coastal settlements. Once cargo is exchanged, it will be ready to depart."

"How long will that take?"

"Several days, perhaps. It depends on the cargo to be acquired."

More delays.

But compared to everything Magiere had been through since entering the Elven Territories, arriving at the city had brought some relief. It was good to see ocean again and breathe sea air, as in Miiska, her faraway home, but it was still elven land. She peered back at Ghoivne Ajhajhe stretching along the coastline.

Inland elves resided in cultured wild groves of living tree dwellings, but this one and only city was constructed partly of ornately carved wood, partly of stone, and partly of other materials she couldn't name. A wild array of structures spread along the shore above the beach amid sparse but massive trees, not only behind her, but also where the shore continued on the far side of the Hajh River's wide mouth spilling into the bay.

Various shops, dwellings, tents, and inns bustled with activity. She could just make out the tawny roof of the tall inn where she and Leesil were lodged-along with their companions, Chap and Wynn. It rose three stories high around a giant elm with branches spread like a second roof over the building.

The elves here still treated Magiere like a savage outsider-a human- though more discreetly than their inland brethren. She had long since grown accustomed to thinly veiled loathing, but the greater part of her drive to leave came from something more unsettling.

A dream-and the polite urgency of an old sage in Bela.

The journey's next leg was a search for a long-forgotten artifact. Magiere was determined to keep it out of the hands of a murdering Noble Dead- her half-brother, Welstiel. Wynn's old master sage, "Domin" Tilswith as he was titled, was the one who'd first requested help from Magiere and Leesil. He feared letting an ancient device from the Forgotten History fall into any such hands.

Until recently, Magiere had put aside the master sage's concern. In addition to not knowing where to search for the artifact, she'd had other goals which meant more to her. Then black-scaled coils appeared in her dark dream on the first night within the city.

Taller than a mounted rider, the creature showed her a six-towered castle locked in ice, and a voice whispered…

Sister of the dead, lead on.

Magiere had awoken in a cold sweat, crying out for Leesil.

She'd seen the coils once before in far-off Droevinka, but she'd been awake that time, outside the dead village of Apudalsat. She and her canine companion, Chap, fought to escape from the decrepit necromancer Ubad. When they gained the upper hand, that madman had called upon something by name.

il'Samar.

Turning black coils materialized ghostlike among the dank trees around the clearing. The voice that came like a whisper throughout the forest ignored Ubad's plea and left him to Chap's savagery. Earlier that same night, while Magiere had been lost within her dead mother's spirit-memories, she'd witnessed her half-brother, Welstiel, whispering in the night… as if to something no one else could see or hear.

Perhaps that something was the same black-scaled thing that had whispered in Magiere's dream-and in the clearing with Ubad. Perhaps it was the same ancient force behind the old necromancer's scheming of her birth by Welstiel's undead father. In the days following her dream, Magiere remembered a few words Wynn and Domin Tilswith had translated from an old scroll out of the Forgotten. It mentioned an ancient enemy called "the night voice."

And Wynn had translated "il'Samar" as a name or title akin to "conversation in the dark."

In Magiere's time in the Elven Territories, she'd learned that no undead had ever entered elven land, not even in the faraway sanctuary on Wynn's continent, where the last of the living had fled in the war of the Forgotten. But she, daughter of a Noble Dead, had entered here. Her very touch drained life from its trees, and she had taken to wearing gloves, avoiding any direct contact with the elven forest.

Magiere feared all these connections closing in on her. And since the night of her dream, she'd learned to fear sleep as well. As always, fear made her angry-enough to find this forgotten artifact, be done with it, and go home.

And in the dream's wake, she knew where to go, or at least in which direction to start. It pulled at her from within. Magiere hoped the elven ship's crew finished quickly with their cargo.

"We were not in the shop too long! I barely had time to glance about before you pushed me out the door!"

The familiar high-pitched voice drew Magiere from her heavy thoughts to see a silver-gray dog and a tall elf in dark gray-green coming down the dock. Chap led the way, tail high but head low as he glared blankly ahead with an occasional twitch of jowl that exposed sharp teeth. Brot'an walked behind him.

Unlike his people, Brot'an was broad and solid, built almost like a human, but tall even for an elf. His white-blond hair was rather coarse, and its gray streaks turned silvery under the sun. As he neared, four long scars stood out upon his faintly lined face. They ran down his forehead's right side, jumped his eye, and continued across his cheekbone. He was dressed like Sgaile in the monotone cloak, tunic, and breeches of the Anmaglahk, the caste of elven spies and assassins-though they wouldn't describe themselves as such.

Anmaglahk feared little, yet Brot'an strode swiftly, as if trying to flee pursuit without being obvious. Even Chap quickened his lope at the berating voice harrying them both.

"We must go back!" the high female voice insisted. "I have not finished my notes. Are you listening to me?"

Brot'an's large stature blocked his pursuer from view-until Wynn Hygeorht scurried around his side, trying to catch up.

"And stop calling me 'girl'! Just because you are longer-lived-and a hulk among your own kind-does not make me a child by comparison."

The little sage took two quick steps for every one of Brot'an's, and her head barely reached his midchest. Somewhere past twenty years of age, Wynn's light-brown hair hung loose and blew wildly about her oval, olive-toned face. Dressed in borrowed yellow breeches and a loose russet tunic made for a youth of Sgaile's clan, her pant legs were rolled up to keep her from tripping. The faded man's cloak she wore, with its poorly hemmed bottom, made her attire even more ridiculous.

"Did you hear me?" she demanded, grasping at Brot'an's cloak.

Anmaglahk 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, Leshil," Sgaile 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 anmaglahk'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," Sgaile 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 Sgaile'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 Crijheaiche, 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 anmaglahk. Brot'an, as well as Sgaile, 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. Sgaile 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 Anmaglahk 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 Anmaglahk 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 Sgaile spoke. "Brot'an'duive, 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 Sgaile 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.

Sgaile's thoughts tumbled as he darted through the trees, deeper into the forest beyond Ghoivne Ajhajhe. From the instant he first intercepted Leshil entering his people's lands, Sgaile had sworn guardianship to protect the half-blood and his companions.

Leshil 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'nen'a, from imprisonment imposed by her own caste. And in the end, he had succeeded. But so much more had happened during Leshil's time among Sgaile's people, the an'Croan-Those of the Blood.

Sgaile had guided Leshil to Roise Charmune, the Seed of Sanctuary, in the sacred burial place of the an'Croan's most ancient ancestors. There he had watched in awe as Leshil was given-rather than chose-his true name.

Leshiarelaohk-Sorrow-Tear's Champion.

The ancestors accepted a half-blood as an'Croan and saw fit to call him a champion-but for what reason? Even more, they had shown themselves to Leshil-despite Sgaile's improper presence, for name-taking was always done alone.

None of this had ever happened before.

Puzzled, Sgaile could only guard Leshil until the whole truth became clear.

For days, he had wavered over whether or not to accompany Leshil in returning to his home, to make certain he arrived safely. Now it appeared that Magiere was steering Leshil elsewhere toward an uncertain future. Or was this also part of Leshil's destiny?

Sgaile 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 Sgaile 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-Ahare, Most Aged Father, the leader of the Anmaglahk.

Sgaile placed it against the beech tree's trunk and whispered, "Father?"

All anmaglahk called Aoishenis-Ahare by this name. The world was silent but for the wind-stirred leaves overhead, until a welcome voice, thin and reedy, filled Sgaile's mind.

Sgailsheilleache, my son.

"Yes, Father, I am here… still at Ghoivne Ajhajhe."

Has there been a delay?

Sgaile 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?

"Leshil 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'an'duive will ask the ship's hkomas to follow her request."

Sgaile tried to be precise, hoping for wise counsel. But Most Aged Father's silence drew out so long that Sgaile'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'an'duive has instructed the ship's master, have him return to Crijheaiche at once. You will remain to see the humans off.

"See them off?" Sgaile 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.

Sgaile stiffened. Was Most Aged Father reminding him of his duty?

Send Brot'an'duive to Crijheaiche… tonight.

Most Aged Father's voice faded from Sgaile's thoughts, and he knelt there a moment longer in confusion before finally lifting the word-wood from the beech's bark. Sgaile rose to head back to the inn, but froze at a shadow's shift on his left.

"Be at ease," a voice said.

Brot'an'duive 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," Sgaile answered, "and he requested that you return to Crijheaiche, tonight. I am to stay and see Leshil and the others off."

"To see them off?" Brot'an'duive asked, his tone hard but quiet.

Sgaile watched his face. Brot'an'duive was more than Anmaglahk. He was Greimasg'ah-Shadow-Gripper-one of the remaining four who had stepped beyond even the most highly trained of Sgaile's caste.

Brot'an'duive was a master of silence and shadows.

"Perhaps… it is better that you accompany Leshil and his companions, " Brot'an'duive added, more composed. "Alone among the ship's crew, they will have only young Wynn to translate for them."

At first, the suggestion stunned Sgaile, but relief quickly followed at someone else voicing his own wish. But, not for the first time, Brot'an'duive placed him in a difficult position.

"Most Aged Father feels otherwise," Sgaile 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 Crijheaiche, I will explain this… face-to-face with Most Aged Father."

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

"I will travel with Leshil," Sgaile said. "I will continue my guardianship."

"Good, then I will stay to see you off "-and before Sgaile raised concern, Brot'an'duive shook his head. "Do not worry. Most Aged Father will understand my delay when I speak with him."

With a parting nod and a half-smile, Brot'an'duive turned away and melted into the forest's dusky shadows.

Sgaile disliked being caught between Most Aged Father and Brot'an'duive-again. But with his decision made, he breathed deeply in relief and turned eastward toward the Hajh 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, Sgaile spotted the green-gray of an anmaglahk 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.

"Sgailsheilleache!"

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

"Why are you here?" Sgaile asked. "Did Most Aged Father send you?"

This hardly seemed possible. Osha had accompanied Sgaile in guardianship of Leshil 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 naive.

"No," Osha answered, still grinning, his large teeth exposed. "Gleanneohkan'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."

Sgaile'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 anmaglahk, 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," Sgaile said quietly. "I continue guardianship of Leshil 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 Sgaile's family was a prelude to something more. It pained Sgaile 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.

Sgaile slid back out of reach, apprehension rising.

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

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

"Sgailsheilleache, 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."

Sgaile 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 Sgaile 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?

Sgaile 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 anmaglahk 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.

Sgaile 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 Anmaglahk."

Sgaile 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 Sgaile's silence, Osha bowed once, turning toward the city. Sgaile 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 the 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.

Her throat was a shredded mass, and her robe and undergarments had been ripped into tatters, exposing pale skin slashed and torn down to sinew. Worse still, she tried to move. Her head lolled toward the door, and her colorless crystalline eyes opened wide at Welstiel, not in fright or pain but in hunger.

Her expression filled with bloodlust that echoed in Chane as he stared at her. Her mouth opened, her own black fluids dribbling out its corner.

Two others crouched beyond her, one upon the spattered bed and the other behind a tiny side table, clinging to one of its stout wooden legs. Both shuddered continuously, muscles spasming, as if they wanted to rise but could not.

Chane knew that state well. He had felt the same struggle against the commands of his own maker, Toret.

Their glittering eyes, set deep in pale and spatter-marked faces, were locked on Welstiel. And their black-stained lips quivered with soft animal mewling.

"Take a long look, Chane," Welstiel whispered. "Look upon yourself! This is what you are, deep inside-a beast hiding beneath a masquerade of intellect. Remember this… with your one foot always poised upon the Feral Path. It is your choice whether or not to succumb and follow them. Now bring me the food."

Those words cut through Chane's rapt fixation on the cell's inhabitants. He reached down with one hand and jerked up the bound monk.

The young man made one attempt to struggle, but his whole body locked up at what he saw in the cell.

Welstiel ripped the monk from Chane's grip and shoved the man inside. The monk toppled, hitting the floor, and immediately tried to wriggle back toward the door. Welstiel lifted a foot and shoved him back.

"Feed," he commanded.

The two monks still functional leaped upon their living comrade.

Both made for his throat. The larger male slashed the smaller one's face, driving him off, then wrapped straining fingers across the living monk's face and pulled his jaw upward. A high-pitched scream filled the stone cell, muffled by the victim's gag. The sound broke into chokes as the large male's teeth sank into the squirming monk's throat.

The smaller undead let out a pained yowl and hissed in frustration. Bobbing behind his larger companion, he tried to find an opening to get at the victim's throat. He finally scurried in to sink his teeth through the robe into the young monk's thigh. And beyond them, the female's nails scraped on the stone floor as she tried to pull herself to the feast-and failed.

The smell of blood grew.

The two males had barely settled in, their "food" thrashing beneath them, when Welstiel's shout rang through the cell.

"Enough… back away!"

Both males flinched as if struck. The smaller squirmed across the floor, clutching at the bed's dangling covers. Blood was smeared all around his mouth.

The larger male pulled his mouth from the monk's throat, swiveling his cowled head and turning maddened eyes upon Welstiel. His jaws widened threateningly, blood spilling out between fangs and elongated teeth.

Welstiel kicked him in the face. "Get back!"

The male's head snapped sideways, and he backed over the mangled female to crouch against the wall. Chane felt an empathetic spasm as the male fought his own body's demand to obey.

Welstiel reached down and seized the ankle of the "food." The young monk's head lolled with eyes rolling up, unaware, as Welstiel jerked him to the door.

Chane's gaze lowered to the young woman still clawing at the floor. Her colorless eyes filled with panic as she watched the monk, once her comrade, slide farther beyond her reach.

"What of her?" Chane rasped.

"She is too far gone," Welstiel answered. "Recovering her is a wasted effort."

Chane fought to remain passive. Something in his mind told him not to speak, but it strained against his instincts.

"You said six risen among ten was fortunate," he argued. "If you need them… enough to go through all of this… why forgo even one who requires extra effort?"

Welstiel returned him a suspicious side glance.

"Very well," he answered and dropped the monk's leg. "See to it yourself."

Chane looked down at the half-conscious young monk. The memory of a book of poetry and a sheaf of notes nagged at him. He finally pulled his dagger, crouched and flipped the monk facedown, and gripped the man by the back of his bloodstained robe.

As he dragged the monk toward the maimed female, she reached up with clutching fingers, trying to grab hold. The large male beyond her took a step toward Chane.

"Stay back!" Welstiel shouted.

The robed hulk retreated with narrowing eyes.

Chane slashed the dagger deep across the monk's throat and dropped him atop the female. He hurried out the cell door without glancing back.

Hunger roiled inside him, restless at the smell of blood and the warmth of it that had spilled over his hand. Another part of him almost cringed with loathing.

And finally he heard the door shut.

Welstiel slid the iron bars through the handle at the sounds of angry screeching growls and tearing cloth.

"Get more bindings for another of the living," he said. "And be quick this time. I have other tasks to attend."

Chane descended the stairs in slow steps, trying to empty his mind.

When he returned, he bound another living monk. The process repeated for the remaining undead who had not yet fed. And again, Welstiel allowed his new minions only a brief taste before snatching away their meal.

"There are not enough of the living to last," Chane said. "Not enough to truly feed all your minions."

"Yes," Welstiel answered. "Their hunger continues… as does your nightly vigil."

He walked away down the stairs.

Chane stood in the hallway, resentment mounting inside him. These newly risen undead were starving, and hunger unhinged their minds. But still Welstiel would not relent in this disquieting exercise. His newborns were becoming little more than beasts driven to feed. Was this the Feral Path that Welstiel had hinted at?

Was this what gnawed at Chane's insides beneath the ecstasy of a true hunt?

He slumped upon the stool beside the stairwell. The passage grew quieter, filled with only discontented rumblings within the cells of the undead.

Chane's gaze wandered to the passage's far end and locked upon the book of poetry he had tossed away. Then his eyes settled upon the cell doors of the living.