Child of a Dead God

CHAPTER SIX

Hkuan'duv silently slipped out of his quarters just before dawn so as not to disturb Danvarfij. He made his way through the ship's passages to its "heart-room" at the stern. Avranvard would soon try to contact him.

He was disturbed that she possessed a word-wood from this vessel. Such were reserved for a ship's hkomas or its hkoeda-"caregiver-journeyer"-the Shaper who lived with each vessel through its life. In order to speak with Avranvard, he needed to be in the place from which this vessel's hkoeda had grown the word-wood.

The passage turned right across the ship's breadth, and the hull's rhythmic thrum sharpened as he stopped before three oval doors at the stern. The doors to either side provided access to the ship's twin rudders; he stepped up to the center one.

After his decades of service and a too-long life, only a few things still entranced Hkuan'duv, like the wonder of these vessels, the Pairvanean- Wave-Wanderers. He tapped two fingers lightly upon the door to the ship's heart-room and waited.

"You may enter… Hkuan'duv," said a soft voice from within.

He gently cracked the door open and looked inside the room. His eyes settled on its central feature.

The floor flowed up from the chamber's sides into a hulking mound of tawny wood, like the back of an infant whale arching beneath the belly of the ship. Its smooth, glistening surface rippled faintly like the root of a great tree. This was where the vessel's root-tail trailed out into the waters below. Its constant snaking could drive the vessel at speeds difficult for a human ship to match.

Along both side walls, ledges grew from the hull, but the room contained little else, except for its occupant.

A woman in a plain canvas tunic and breeches, her feet bare, sat on one ledge. Her hair was pleated tightly across her skull in neat curling rows, further exposing skin paler than most an'Croans'. She sat with her back flush against the hull.

"Easaille… you do not sing to your ship?" he asked, and settled beside her.

"It slumbers for a while," she answered, "and its dreams run deep in the ocean."

"I must ask again for a private moment here," he said, "but I will try not to disturb the ship's rest."

A ship's hkoeda rarely left anyone alone in a heart-room, and his frequent requests were a severe imposition. But Easaille stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders with a smile.

"More secret talks with some other ship's hkoeda," she teased in a soft voice, and leaned her face toward him in mock jealousy. "Or is it some female hkomas you court so covertly?"

"I am too old for such things," Hkuan'duv answered. "And why would I seek such company elsewhere… if I come here?"

Easaille rolled her eyes at his faltering attempt to return her flirtation. She patted his leg and left quietly.

Alone, he stood up and lightly placed his bare hands against the great arch of the root-tail's base. He slid his fingers over its smooth, vibrating surface, and wondered what it would be like to be hkoeda… to slumber in the depths and in the dreams of a Pairvanean.

Avranvard's voice disrupted his thoughts. Are you there?

Resentment, rather than relief or anticipation, welled in Hkuan'duv. "Report."

My hkomas is troubled. Tomorrow, we make an unscheduled stop, and he is angry that he was not previously informed.

Hkuan'duv frowned. "Who requested this?"

Sgailsheilleache… but he will not explain why, only that it is necessary.

Hkuan'duv puzzled over this unexpected change. "Does he plan to go ashore?"

I do not know this either. He will say nothing of his purpose… not even to the hkomas.

Avranvard sounded petulant, and her lack of respect left Hkuan'duv cold toward her difficulties. Why had Most Aged Father entrusted such a juvenile outsider to function as informant?

"Report tomorrow at noon and after the evening meal," Hkuan'duv said.

Without waiting for acknowledgment, he lifted his hands from the root-tail's base.

All these changes meant the hkomas of his ship would need to stop and linger until the other vessel moved on. As he left the heart-room, Easaille came down the aft starboard stairs. He nodded quickly at her coy smile and headed back toward his quarters.

As the ship had slowed and anchored, Chap looked over the starboard rail-wall at a wild shore of gray-tinged sand and beached seaweed with nothing but a thick tree-line behind.

No harbor. Not even a small enclave. And only a rise of high mountains beyond granite foothills broke the skyline.

Chap perched on a storage chest with Wynn behind him and watched the skiff being lowered into the water. He grew more puzzled and unsettled with each passing moment. The day before, Sgaile had announced this unscheduled stop.

"What is he up to?" Wynn asked.

I do not know.

Sgaile, Osha, Leesil, and Magiere came up the stairwell below the aftcastle, seemingly all talking at once. Osha looked openly confused, but Magiere appeared angry.

"What are you hiding?" she demanded. "Leesil's just supposed to go ashore with you, and you won't tell us why?"

Leesil stood behind her, waiting for an answer. He and Magiere had dressed for cold weather with new coats over their hauberks and weapons strapped to their backs. Sgaile shouldered a canvas pack with a coil of rope lashed down its side and his open distress surprised Chap.

"You were not even to come!" Sgaile said to Magiere.

"That's done with, already," she answered, "and not open to debate."

Leesil, caught between the two of them, let out a deep sigh.

"I have told you all that I am permitted to," Sgaile returned. "This voyage was arranged by Brot'an'duive-and Cuirin'nen'a, Leshil's mother. I know little of their intentions, but I swore to Brot'an'duive that I would carry out his instructions."

Chap caught the strain in Sgaile's voice, driven by more than Magiere's bullying, and wondered at Sgaile's reluctance for whatever task was at hand. Letting Magiere, or any human, become involved in the affairs of his people was no new burden for Sgaile.

"It is not something I can speak of," Sgaile added. "And not just because of human presence. Before now, this task has only been for the Anmaglahk. Even Leshil's involvement is unprecedented."

"Yes?" Magiere answered. "All the more reason for me to come along."

"All right," Leesil sighed. "It's settled, so leave it alone."

Sgaile slowly shook his head. "We will travel inland from here."

"How long?" Magiere asked.

"Days."

"Sgaile!" she warned.

He pursed his lips. "Three days in, three days out-considering extra precautions for your presence. The hkomas and crew will wait with the ship."

"Six days," Magiere whispered, turning away.

Chap realized he had witnessed the tail end of an extended argument, and he tried to dip into Sgaile's memory. He caught a flash of a dark place where only a glimmer like lantern light reflected off a strange sheer wall of silver. Then came a brief glimpse of a tan elven hand holding a dull black oblong of stone, perhaps ground smooth by the tides over years. For an instant, Chap thought he saw marks scratched into its surface.

The memories sank from Sgaile's thoughts and beyond Chap's awareness.

Chap's companions were not the only ones who had changed during their time among the an'Croan; Sgaile had been altered as well. The mind of a seasoned anmaglahk should have been nearly blank of rising memories. These brief glimpses showed that Sgaile's self-control was wavering. It was not a good sign.

Wynn closed on Magiere, and Chap looked them both up and down. No one had asked Wynn to pack for this journey.

The little sage had hardened much in two seasons, but not enough. A time might come when she would be left behind for more than six days. Although Chap's foremost concern was watching over Magiere and Leesil, the thought of Wynn left unguarded worried him more and more.

He had tried now and then to goad Wynn playfully, to make her assert herself. That day on the deck he had not anticipated her grabbing his tail and sending them both spinning into a tangle. In retrospect, he should have considered the crew's reaction to a human tussling with a majay-hi. What came of that was his fault-his foolishness-born of concern for Wynn. Still, it was all he could think of to continue her slow climb to greater internal strength.

"If you are going inland," Wynn said bluntly, "then I am going as well."

Sgaile finally noticed the little sage, and Osha's long face clouded over in silence.

"No," Sgaile answered flatly. "It is enough that I relented to Magiere's… request."

Magiere glanced about the ship. "We're not leaving Wynn with this crew."

"Osha will watch over her," Sgaile countered, and turned to his young companion. "Do you accept this purpose?"

Brief shock washed over Osha's face, and he nodded. "Yes, I accept."

"I do not!" Wynn retorted. "Where are you going? And why did you wait until now to tell us any of this?"

Sgaile's jaw muscles tightened as he turned back to Magiere.

"We travel swiftly. Even if I were of a mind for another outsider, the scholar would slow us. She stays… but I give my word she will be safe with Osha."

"Wynn…," Magiere began but trailed off.

Wynn's expression drained, losing even indignation. "You want to travel quickly."

"I want to get back as soon as possible," Magiere corrected. "And move on."

Leesil settled a hand on Wynn's shoulder. "I know this sounds insane, but Sgaile wouldn't ask unless it was important, and I-"

"You want to know what Brot'an arranged," Wynn finished.

"Brot'an can rot for all I care!" Leesil snapped, and then calmed himself. "But if my mother's involved in this…"

"I understand," Wynn said, looking down at the deck.

Chap sympathized with her, but he had larger issues to worry about- particularly if all this was more of Brot'an's scheming. He tried again to dip into Sgaile's memories.

This time he caught flickering images of Wynn in Crijheaiche and Ghoivne Ajhajhe, asking questions, nosing about… and then perched upon the city's shoreside embankment, scribbling in one of her journals.

Indeed, Sgaile's composure was slipping. He did not want Wynn on this journey, but not for the reason he had given. Once again, Sgaile was caught between his caste's ways and whatever Brot'an'duive had pressed him into-something Sgaile did not want Wynn recording.

I will go with them, Chap projected, stepping in beside her, and tell you everything when we return.

A bit of mischief at such a notion filled Wynn's eyes as she crouched and cupped his face in her hands. She began to say something, but Chap cut her off.

Stay with Osha.

Wynn looked up at the others. "You should get started."

Magiere frowned, as if wondering at Wynn's sudden compliance, and glared down at Chap. It was clear to Chap that she knew exactly what had passed silently between them.

Magiere turned and headed for the rail-wall. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

The hkomas crossed his arms, and Sgaile would not even look at him. Osha stepped in protectively behind Wynn as Chap trotted off behind Magiere.

A young woman with a thick braid and oversized boots gazed at him with anxious eyes. But Chap ignored her and arched up, hooking his forepaws on the rail-wall's top near the rope ladder. There he waited so he might climb onto Leesil's back.

Leesil raised his feathery eyebrows. "No, you stay here."

Chap wrinkled a jowl. Since when was he to be treated like a dog? He was the guardian of his charges, and neither of them had anything to say about it. He barked twice, loudly, for "no."

Magiere stepped through the rail-wall gate, one foot settling on the ladder. "You can't climb down by yourself, and we're not carrying you."

She swung her other leg over and began climbing down. Chap barked a succession of angry yips.

Leesil followed Magiere, and Chap considered biting the back of his breeches. Sgaile looked uncomfortable as he stepped through the rail-wall gate.

"Apologies," he said to Chap. "We will return soon."

Magiere was right about one thing. Chap could not climb down by himself. But it was time he reminded them of their position as his charges. He watched until Magiere settled in the skiff, and then backed a few feet along the deck.

"What are you doing?" Wynn called in alarm.

Chap rushed through the rail-wall gate and leaped out into the air at the last instant. He hit the water just beyond the skiff and sank amid the loud sound of his own splash. The sea was far colder than he had expected.

When he resurfaced, sucking breath through his nose, both Magiere and Leesil were shouting at him. He paddled quickly to the skiff's side. Magiere pursed her lips tight in anger, and reached for him. Leesil just looked worried and both of them hauled him in over the skiff's side.

Chap shook himself hard, spraying seawater everywhere. Both Magiere and Leesil tried to shield their faces, as Sgaile fought to steady the skiff.

"You misbegotten mutt!" Magiere shouted and grabbed for Chap's scruff.

He turned on her, snarling.

Magiere lost her footing and fell back into Leesil, seated in the skiff's prow. The skiff rocked wildly, and both their expressions turned blank with shock.

"What has gotten into you?" Leesil said.

Chap glared back with a low rumble in his throat and then spun to face Sgaile.

"Have you got him?" Wynn called from above.

Chap did not look up, and no one answered Wynn. He remained in place before Sgaile, rumbling a low threat. Elves never interfered with a majay-hi, and Sgaile's behavior had always suggested he knew Chap was much more than even that.

Sgaile slowly raised both hands, palms out. "As you wish," he whispered and reached for the oars.

Chap ceased rumbling and glanced over his shoulder at Leesil and Magiere.

"Fine!" Magiere grumbled, swatting off the droplets of seawater running down her coat.

Chap lifted his muzzle, looking up for Wynn, but instead he spotted the young elven girl with the thick braid. She gripped the rail-wall near the ship's stern, watching as the skiff turned toward the shore. Chap looked past Sgaile, rowing hard, and out over the skiff's prow.

Chattering seagulls circled overhead, and Chap wondered what lay beyond the shore.

Wynn settled on the cabin's floor that night, warming the cold lamp crystal in her hands. Its light increased, glowing brightly between her fingers, and she set it on her bunk ledge. Osha sat cross-legged nearby, arranging their dinner tray of dried apricots, grilled halibut, and elven tea.

The crystal provided their only light. Sea air wafted through the open porthole, and the ship sat steady at anchor. The cabin seemed a cozy and welcome place.

"I am sorry you had to stay behind because of me," she said in Elvish. No one else was present, and Elvish was easier for Osha, even with their differing dialects.

Osha poured two cups of tea. "I am glad to fulfill such a purpose in service to you."

Wynn settled across from Osha, both dressed in their loose elven garments-he in his anmaglahk tunic and pants, more charcoal gray than green in the low light, and she in the dusty yellow and russet of Sgaile's clan. They had never shared a meal in private, and as they ate, Wynn grew curious. For one, how much did Osha know of where Sgaile had taken Leesil and Magiere-and why?

"Do you know where they are going?" she asked.

Osha rocked backward slightly, trying not to meet her eyes.

"Please do not ask such questions," he said, though it sounded like a plea. "Sgailsheilleache has put his faith in me. I cannot fail him."

Wynn sighed and leaned against the bunk's edge, feeling a little guilty for tempting Osha to betray a confidence.

"Why are you here, Osha?" she asked. "Why did Sgaile bring you?"

Then she wanted to cringe. That had not come out right. It sounded as if she thought Osha would have been the last of all possible choices. But he appeared oblivious to her slip. He took a breath and exhaled, as if he had achieved something which brought him long-sought relief.

"He is now my jeoin."

"Your…," Wynn began, puzzling over the title, and finally had to continue in Belaskian. "Your… 'assenter'?"

Osha cocked his head. "It is the word for what he is, my… " He, too, had to turn to Belaskian as well. "I find my teacher!"

He took another long breath before continuing in Elvish.

"It has been hard to find one who was willing enough for me to even ask. But when Sgailsheilleache said I should come to stay with his family, I knew my search was over."

Wynn was careful to smile happily at this. Judging by what she had seen and heard, the lanky young elf was not like the rest of his caste, perhaps not even suited to their calling, and yet he would not give up. But inside, she was not happy at all over this news. Osha had found someone to take him in, and Sgaile would apprentice him.

As an assassin, among other things.

"I am glad for you," Wynn said and reached for her tea, contemplating some other topic. "Tell me of… your family, where you grew up."

Osha blinked. "My family? You wish to hear about my life?"

Her smile was sincere this time. "Has no one ever asked you this before?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Never?" She sat upright in surprise. "Yes, I wish to know about your life."

Osha seemed to gather his thoughts for a long moment.

"I am of the alachben"-he switched briefly to Belaskian-"the Rock-Hills clan… a place not like Crijheaiche or Ghoivne Ajhajhe. My people live simply, raising goats in the foothills to be shorn for their hair."

"And the hides for our new coats?"

"Yes," he answered, then hesitated. "But my father was not well… a difficulty with his heart." Osha placed a hand over his chest, and his gaze drifted. "Our healers could not mend it, and he died young, only sixty-three years of age. My mother fell into mourning and could not rise again."

"I am sorry," Wynn said. "You must have felt alone."

He looked at her, amber eyes clearing in the cold lamp crystal's light.

"No, I have three siblings, and my brother and sisters took charge of the herds, but I was the youngest by many years. Even Chionntaj, my sister closest to me in age, saw me as one more duty among others."

He dropped his eyes to the untouched meal between them, and Wynn gleaned a small glimpse of Osha's youth. A lonely childhood at best. And it appeared he had been given little to no responsibility, which might account for his lack of self-confidence or practical abilities. She wanted to take his hand.

"Both my parents passed over," she said, wishing to distract him. "I grew up an orphan in the sages' guild in Malourne."

Osha raised his head. "No clan?"

Wynn smiled again. "Not as you think of it, but I was never alone. The sages became my family, and a good one at that, as I was privileged to grow up among them instead of in the orphanage. I attended one of the public schools they established in the king's city, and something new and interesting was always happening on the guild's grounds. Or I would just listen while my elders sank into one of their perpetual debates, which never seemed to be settled. They taught me history and languages. Later, Domin Tilswith, an elder of the Order of Cathologers, took me as his apprentice. I traveled with him to this continent. I have been most fortunate in my life."

But Wynn felt an ache of longing for her days in the guild, for lentil and tomato stew, for the caring company of scholarly comrades.

"This is why you became a… a 'sage' yourself?" Osha asked. "Because you value their way of life?"

She was uncertain how to answer. "Yes, in part. I wanted to learn and explore, to share knowledge and teach others." She tilted her head. "Why did you join the Anmaglahk?"

Startled by this sudden shift back to him, Osha swallowed.

"Three seasons before I went for name-taking, two of the caste came to my enclave with a message for our clan elders. This had never happened before. And such a pair-two Greimasg'ah at once-Great Eillean, Leshil's grandmother, and Brot'an'duive. Everyone was in awe of them, and I had never seen anyone treated with such respect. I could barely bring myself to peer from around the tree of my home, and with all my body, I wished to be like them."

Osha lowered his head, lifting only his eyes at Wynn with a halting whisper, "Not an honorable reason."

Wynn swallowed her reservations and reached for his hand. "To strive to excel… especially in service to others… is always honorable. Your family should be proud of you."

Through the glow of the cold lamp crystal, Osha stared at her. His hand started to tremble, and he slowly pulled it from hers. Long muscles in his forearm clenched tightly. Wynn realized she had never seen his bare arms before.

"But," she began, "are there not other ways you could have earned the respect you desire… other ways to serve your…"

She trailed off as puzzlement spread across Osha's long face.

"Never mind," she finished.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"No, I do not think so."

He nodded and stood up. "Then you should rest. I will sit vigil."

Was he not going to sleep? Wynn knew it was pointless to argue.

She unrolled one of the mats and a blanket on her bunk ledge, realizing she was tired. When she settled there, Osha had dropped back to a cross-legged position in the middle of her cabin.

Wynn had assumed he would be outside in the hall, or in the next cabin over, with his own door wide to keep an eye on things-but not in the middle of her own room. Suddenly sheepish, she pulled the blanket up and rolled toward the cabin's hull wall.

A few moons past, Wynn would have been shocked at the prospect of sleeping in the belly of a living ship with an anmaglahk just beyond arm's reach. But she closed her eyes, feeling safe, and quickly drifted off.

Sgaile awoke the following dawn, dreading every step to come. He breathed in the fresh air, trying to center himself, but the name the ancestors had given Leshil was always in his thoughts.

Leshiarelaohk-Sorrow-Tear's Champion.

A half-blood had been recognized as a full an'Croan. But even such an honor from the ancestors did not justify what Brot'an'duive asked-no, insisted upon.

Only Anmaglahk and clan elders went to the hidden place of the Chein'as-the Burning Ones.

Sgaile's own grandfather, Gleanneohkan'thva, had once gone to them, but only in the company of Brot'an'duive.

Leshil stirred in the bedroll he shared with Magiere and gently gripped her shoulder. Chap remained curled up at their feet.

Sgaile got up and looked about, wandering a short distance from their camp. Years had passed since his last journey through the southern coastal region of his people, but he had always appreciated the terrain. Coarser than the inlands, this place held its own beauty.

Once beyond the shoreline trees, the granite shelves of the foothills climbed like behemoth steps toward the mountains. Their deep shade of blue-gray was dotted with stands of evergreens and patched dusky moss. The occasional firs or aspens grew at subtle angles from sea winds. The forest here was not as thick and varied as in the heart of his homeland. With a vast sky overhead, he could see for leagues, until he looked upslope to those stepped foothills. Thankfully, they would not go as far as the peaks. With his back to the camp, Sgaile fished into his tunic's front and pulled out what Brot'an'duive had forced on him.

A lump of basalt, worn smooth by river water.

He turned it in his palm, studying its hand-etched patterns and swirls, and not one mark repeated. Between the tangled lines were dots and independent strokes, but he had no idea what the markings meant, and the Greimasg'ah's instructions for its use did not yet make sense.

"Breakfast?" Leshil called from the dead campfire. "Or should we travel a ways first?"

Magiere was already reaching for her hauberk and sword. Chap stood up, yawned widely, and stretched all his limbs, one by one.

Sgaile sighed, tucked away the stone, and returned to his charges. Another unpleasant task awaited before they could move on.

"What's wrong?" Magiere asked.

Sgaile found her watching him suspiciously. He went to his pack and retrieved two long strips of black cloth and unbound the rope tied to the pack.

"Another requirement… one you will not like."

Magiere tensed, and Leshil's eyes fixed on the rope.

A direct approach, clean and quick, was best with Magiere. Sgaile held up the strips of cloth.

"We did not travel far before making camp. Our true journey begins today, but only if you adhere to what I require. The place we seek is a guarded secret, known only to some elders of the aruin'nas and the an'Croan… and those who have proven themselves among the Anmaglahk. I cannot allow you to know its location."

"What are you talking about?" Leshil asked.

"You must wear blindfolds," Sgaile answered. "All of the way, both in and out. You will swear on your honor not to remove them… or I will not take you another step."

Magiere snorted, black hair loose around her pale face and hard eyes.

"This just keeps getting better," she muttered. "You think we'd ever agree to this?"

Chap crept in without a sound.

As Sgaile looked into the eyes of this strange majay-hi from the outside world, he felt even more uncertain than when the dog had faced him down in the skiff. More than once, Chap had demonstrated ways to communicate his expectations. But would the majay-hi now support him in gaining what he needed from Magiere and Leshil?

Sgaile had no wish to defy one so deeply touched with the element of Spirit.

"You will have a guideline," Sgaile said to Leshil, holding up the rope. "The going will be slow, but it will be your loss if I am forced to turn back. So choose now if you will trust me once more, as you did outside my home enclave, when you relinquished your weapons."

"Yes, and that turned out so well!" Magiere snapped. "We were nearly attacked by your clan."

"I protected you then," Sgaile said calmly. "I will protect you now. This journey is for Leshil, and if he agrees, you will abide by it as well. Or we turn back."

Magiere faltered and glanced at Leshil.

Sgaile knew that on some level, in spite of her volatile fits, Magiere could bring herself to trust him. She had done so before.

Leshil had not donned his hauberk yet, and the wind rippled his over-worn shirt. He stood looking from Magiere to Sgaile in doubt, until Chap circled around behind Sgaile.

The majay-hi released a low rumble ending in a snort. He lifted his muzzle and huffed once at Leshil.

Leshil inhaled. "All right… but we'll need walking staves as well."

He reached out and took the blindfolds. Magiere turned away, hands on her hips, but offered no refusal.

Sgaile swallowed hard and glanced down at Chap. The majay-hi wrinkled his nose.

"I must speak to him as well… alone," Sgaile added.

"To Chap?" Leshil asked. "What about?"

"I understood his agreement," Sgaile answered. "I have learned that much in our time together, as well as how much he understands… and that he has his own reasons in all things."

Magiere looked over her shoulder, though she said nothing concerning this open admission that Sgaile was aware of Chap's unique nature. Leshil simply turned away to gather blankets and bedrolls.

Sgaile stepped off toward a cluster of pines and motioned Chap to follow. He dropped to one knee, his back to the camp, and waited as Chap circled around to face him.

"Hear me," Sgaile whispered. "Your kind… or those who at least share your form… have guarded my people as far back as any can remember. On their blood, you will swear.

"Reveal nothing of the path we take-or what you learn-to anyone. The place we seek must remain hidden and guarded. I take Leshil this way because I gave my word to do so, but I do not know why we are here. If you would have him continue, as you seem to wish, then do not hinder me in this. Swear to me."

Chap shifted his weight, glancing around Sgaile toward his companions. When his eyes turned back on Sgaile, his jowls quivered slightly-almost a snarl but not quite. Finally, he blinked and huffed once.

Sgaile had witnessed this enough times to know what it meant, and he sighed in relief.

"My thanks."

He stood up, looking upslope through the granite shelf foothills. He focused upon the shortest peak and barely made out its sheared and ragged top-the mouth of an old volcanic vent at its crest. From any farther distance, it looked no different from the others.

Chap had already returned to camp by the time Sgaile walked back.

Chane lost track of the passing nights. They trudged east through the Crown Range, into valleys and gorges, and up through saddles and passes between the high peaks, one after another. They paused only when the sky lightened ahead, quickly setting up camp and crawling into their protective tents to fall dormant. They rose each dusk to move on, over and over again.

The five remaining ferals were weakened with starvation. Chane fed them tea every few nights, and less often, Welstiel rationed out small spoonfuls of life force hoarded in his brown glass bottles. And then the terrain began to change.

The sight of dried, bent trees became more common, as well as open ground between the patches of snow. Clumps of grass and weeds and thickets soon filled the landscape, until the monotony of frozen earth and broken rock was almost forgotten.

"The coast cannot be far," Welstiel said one night, gazing ahead through a rocky saddle between two mountainsides. "Stay with the others and make camp. I will scout ahead a little ways."

Chane did not bother answering and turned about, searching for an optimal place to pitch their tents. The dark-haired young woman hovered behind him, always of more use than the others. He wished she could speak, perhaps tell him of her scholarly pursuits before…

Welstiel barked at the others to stay in their places and headed off.

Chane pushed away his wandering thoughts, but hunger for intelligent discussion quickly returned. He closed his eyes, envisioning Wynn's oval face and bright eyes.

A patting sound jerked him from his fantasy, and he opened his eyes. The woman had crawled halfway up a rock-strewn slope and was crouching before a sheer outcrop. She slapped the stone to get his attention. Some semblance of wit still remained within her.

Chane headed upslope. She had found a place where he could tie off their canvas in a lean-to against the stone and make them shelter from the sun. She took one folded canvas from him, and they set to work. He had nearly finished when she reached for a piece of rope in his grasp to lash it around a spike driven into the ground.

He suddenly pointed to himself, his voice more rasping and hollow than usual.

"Chane… I am Chane."

He did not expect a response. He was only desperate for some intelligible sound after another night of the ferals' animal noises and Welstiel's long silences. But she stopped struggling with the rope and looked up at him.

Her hair was a disheveled tangle, and in the death-pale skin, he spotted hints of a smattering of freckles. She pointed at herself.

"Sa… bel…"

Those slow syllables, spoken with such difficulty, startled Chane. He crouched down, and she shifted away from him.

"Sabel…," he said, "that is your name?"

A hundred questions filled Chane's head, but he held them at bay. She sniffed the air around him, head tilted, then flicked a hand toward the eastern sky and went back to struggling with the rope.

Chane did not need to look. Gray light grew behind him over the peaks.

The other ferals were fidgeting. The curly-headed man began trying to crawl across the ground with muffled whimpers of frustration. At first, Chane thought they were agitated by the coming sun, but then he saw what the man was crawling toward-and froze in surprise.

Welstiel's pack sat propped against a spindly gray tree.

The well-traveled undead sometimes set it down within sight, but he never left his belongings in any unsafe place. Even in Venjetz, when they had been locked out of the city and lost nearly everything, Welstiel had held on to his pack.

The stocky feral struggled on the ground, watched closely by the others, but he made no more than an inch or two of headway. Exhaustion and starvation drove him against the power of Welstiel's command, as he knew where the bottled life force was kept.

In their time together, Chane and Welstiel had maintained the courtesies and formalities of two noblemen-now turned Noble Dead. Chane had once respected Welstiel's privacy. But he had begun to see Welstiel's pretense of cold-blooded intellect as nothing more than illusory posturing. And as for Chane…

He might be nothing more than a beast beneath his own veneer, but he had never sunk to believing his own pretense. Not as Welstiel did.

Chane had willingly served Welstiel's madness in that monastery, but he could not stop seeing these ferals for who they had once been. Like the ghosts of lost scholars haunting dead flesh now filled with nothing but longing and hunger.

A worthless concern just the same. They were lost.

But Chane still did not care to watch Welstiel butcher another one. He jogged downslope, snatched up Welstiel's pack, and turned away.

A hand latched onto his ankle, closing tight enough to make him buckle in pain.

Chane tried to pull free of the crawling monk, but the man would not let go. The feral lay on his stomach, muscles taut and shaking as he fought against his maker's command, but his colorless eyes were locked on the pack in Chane's arms.

Chane stomped down on the man's wrist with his free foot. The feral squealed, and Chane wrenched free of its grip.

All the crystal-eyed ferals around the clearing watched him. When he headed up toward the lean-to tents, even Sabel's gaze fixed on what he was carrying.

Chane felt the bulge of hard objects in the pack, too many to be just the brown glass bottles. His curiosity turned once more to Welstiel's long-hidden possessions.

The closest Chane had come to uncovering their secrets was the night he first saw Welstiel's extra bottles sitting beside the pack. He had not summoned the nerve to dig into it with Welstiel sitting vigil just up the monastery stairs. And the later night on this journey, when he had stolen one brown bottle, he was in too much hurry. He did not hesitate this time, and threw back the cover flap.

Beneath two remaining bottles, wrapped in Welstiel's spare clothing, Chane saw other items. The first three were already familiar.

The walnut box held Welstiel's feeding cup, along with the looped tripod rods and white ceramic bottle. Beside this rested the domed brass plate, which Welstiel used to scry for Magiere, and his frosted light-orb with its three glowing sparks like incandescent fireflies. Chane set these carefully aside.

For the moment, he ignored the two books and a leather-wrapped journal. But the next item he gripped was cold metal, and he glanced nervously toward the glowing horizon. He pulled out a hoop of steel with etched markings.

Its circumference was slightly smaller than a dinner plate. At a loss, he was about to set it down when he smelled an odor akin to charcoal. He turned the steel hoop and dim light from the sky reflected upon its surface-except for the deeply etched lines and symbols. Their inner groves remained black, and he sniffed the object. The charred odor definitely came from the hoop.

He had little time left, for certainly Welstiel would return before full dawn breached the horizon, but Chane's curiosity nagged him. Holding the hoop to his lips, he licked an etched line running evenly around its outer side. It tasted of bitter ash and char. He set the hoop with the other items and peered into the pack. He caught a glint of copper or brass on one rod, and then movement caught his eye.

Sabel crept in, just out of reach, and pointed east as she sniffed the air. She whined and pointed more forcefully.

Welstiel must be returning.

Chane quickly stuffed all the items into the pack, leaving the clothing-wrapped bottles to place on top. He was about to return the pack to its resting place when Welstiel appeared over the top of the saddle ridge, looking haggard and drained. Chane scrambled to the nearest lean-to with Sabel on his heels. He crouched in front of its open end, setting the pack down.

As Welstiel entered the clearing, he gave no notice to the ferals cringing around him in the half-light, and went straight for the spot where he had left his pack. When he discovered it gone, he spun about.

"I had to move it," Chane rasped. "Even under your command, one of them tried to get to it."

Welstiel looked upslope and spotted his pack beside Chane.

"You took your time," Chane added. "Any longer, and you would be greeting the sunrise."

Welstiel frowned, but seemed satisfied.

"Get inside," he ordered, and waved the ferals up to the tents.

They scrambled for cover like dogs, and he picked his way up the slope to Chane.

"We are not far from the coast," he said. "A few more nights at most."

It was good news, but Chane's mind was elsewhere.

Aside from the three short rods he had not had time to inspect, he had heard a dull knock when he set the pack down. Something else rested in its bottom; something that he had not yet seen.