Dog in the Dark

Chapter Eighteen

As Leanâlhâm disappeared down the stairs, Chap, concerned about her and overwhelmed by what he had learned from her memories, started to hurry after her.

“Did you get it back?” Magiere demanded. “Did you get Wynn’s journal before it reached Most Aged Father?”

Chap stalled, waiting on the reply.

“No,” Brot’an answered.

Chap had been distracted for only moments by Leanâlhâm’s memories. He did not think he’d missed much of Brot’an’s story. Much as someone should go after Leanâlhâm, Magiere’s question and Brot’an’s answer held him in place. He needed to hear more.

“What happened when you got to your caste’s settlement?” Leesil asked.

Brot’an closed his eyes. “I started a war.”

He paused for a long moment, and then began to speak again....

If Brot’ân’duivé had known he would not catch the loyalists on foot, he would have headed for the river and taken a barge. For much of the year an anmaglâhk could travel faster overland, so long as he or she did not stop to rest. But in mid – to late spring, when mountain runoff was strongest, river currents became swift, smooth, and strong.

Taking a barge would have been faster, as the living vessels swept along with their small crews rotating both day and night. But Brot’ân’duivé sought to catch his quarry—and the journal—before they reached Crijheäiche. If he did not, the journal would be in Most Aged Father’s hands, so he ran, always checking for tracks.

His quarry remained out of reach all the way to the outskirts of Crijheäiche.

Brot’ân’duivé lingered in the forest outside the settlement. It would gain him little to let his presence here be known—except as a last resort to make his enemies scurry in a hasty frenzy. For the present it was best to stay hidden until he obtained more information.

If Urhkarasiférin had returned here by now, Most Aged Father would know that his prime enemy would come for the journal. In that event, “Father” would keep the journal hidden elsewhere until it was needed, for Brot’ân’duivé would have done no less if they exchanged places.

The small book was important as a tool, rather than for what little it held. Only when the time was right would it be thrown in the faces of the council of elders as proof of the patriarch’s paranoia....

That humans posed a great danger to all an’Cróan.

That Magiere should have never been allowed to live.

And that she, who shared part of a nature with the undead, had sought out and obtained a device likely fashioned by the Ancient Enemy itself.

Brot’ân’duivé could imagine how that worm-in-the-wood of his people would use Wynn Hygeorht’s naïve words to justify more unspeakable acts. For Brot’ân’duivé himself had carried out some of those acts in service to his caste, his people, before he had met Eillean.

Not all of this he regretted, and of what he did regret, most was due to the excess of what Most Aged Father had “requested.” This excess would only become more extreme once the journal was exposed to the council. Already, carefully manipulated wars were spreading in patches throughout the Farlands’ inland and southern reaches.

Brot’ân’duivé slipped from the shadow of one ringed oak to the next, until he reached the rearmost position behind Most Aged Father’s massive oak. There he climbed, working his way through the interlinked branches above, until he gained a clear view of the entrance into Most Aged Father’s massive oak.

Settling there, he watched and waited. Over the following two days, his confusion and suspicion grew.

Few in Crijheäiche ever came or went from the great oak, for the old worm preferred to cultivate his image of mystery. But over those two days, his home was as busy as a workday morning in a port. It was not the number of anmaglâhk who arrived and later left that caused the most concern, but rather who was coming and going.

On the first day, Dänvârfij spent half the morning within Most Aged Father’s home. When she reemerged, another named Rhysís, whom Brot’ân’duivé knew only slightly, came to meet her.

“We will have a team of eleven,” she told him. “Gather supplies for a long trek following our ocean voyage to the central continent. Get started on basic necessities and have them barged up to the coast.”

Brot’ân’duivé remained still among the leaves as Rhysís left. Eleven anmaglâhk were to cross the ocean to the central continent, but to what purpose? He was even more taken aback by the next visitor’s arrival.

Crippled Fréthfâre, once Covârleasa to Most Aged Father, hobbled into the green between the encircling oaks. An attendant followed, always tensely ready should she falter or lose her grip upon her short staff. Fréthfâre entered the tree, left her attendant outside, and did not emerge for the rest of that morning.

With what little Brot’ân’duivé had heard earlier, he wondered of what use she could be.

In midafternoon, an old comrade named Eywodan arrived, followed shortly by the tempestuous young Én’nish—who had recently been cast aside by her jeóin, Urhkarasiférin. How she had first attracted the attention of that greimasg’äh still puzzled Brot’ân’duivé.

Anmaglâhk of various aptitudes continued to appear throughout the next day. Most Aged Father’s sycophant and new Covârleasa, Juan’yâre, busily shuffled them in and out. It was unprecedented, and Brot’ân’duivé’s frustration grew.

He had learned nothing of the journal’s whereabouts, though he suspected all of this activity was connected to it. It was not difficult to reason that Most Aged Father was in a panic. Something more had happened for him to summon such disparate members. What were the connections?

Én’nish could be linked to Léshil, who had killed her betrothed.

Fréthfâre was linked to Magiere, who had crippled her.

Dänvârfij could be linked to Magiere, Léshil, and Chap through her failed mission to intercept and seize the “artifact”—and through the death of Hkuan’duv.

These facts combined with Dänvârfij’s orders to gather supplies for a long journey left Brot’ân’duivé with only one conclusion: Most Aged Father was sending a large team after the artifact. Worse, he had chosen members motivated by personal vengeance.

At the second day’s end, all who had visited were long gone and had not returned. Brot’ân’duivé knew they were on their way to Ghoivne Ajhâjhe to catch a ship. His urgency grew, but he waited, remaining focused on his own purpose.

Of all who had entered the tree, only one had not reemerged this day.

Juan’yâre was still inside with Most Aged Father.

Brot’ân’duivé counted two sentinels before the great oak’s entrance. No others were in sight, and this disturbed him. If the journal was within, there should be more guards, but he had no more time to waste.

It took him longer than expected to work along the branches of the ringed oaks and leap to the lowest limbs of Most Aged Father’s home. As he landed, the branch’s leaves shivered and rustled. He quickly turned inward to flatten against the tree’s immense trunk.

One anmaglâhk sentinel rounded the trunk below him and peered about.

Brot’ân’duivé stilled both mind and flesh ... and let the shadows take him.

The anmaglâhk below tilted his head toward the branches above and stared upward for too long. Finally he turned, lowering his head, and looked out across the green to the ring of other oaks.

Brot’ân’duivé waited, though he was so tired that his mind lost its stillness. The only sentinels “Father” would have near him now were those most loyal to him—like those who had not hesitated in killing Gleannéohkân’thva.

Brot’ân’duivé would not hesitate either and did not risk the sound of drawing a blade as he stepped off the branch.

Something caused the anmaglâhk to look up.

Brot’ân’duivé landed with one foot on his target’s shoulder and folded his leg upon impact. His other knee struck as his weight crushed his target to the ground face-first. At a muffled crack of ribs breaking, he struck with one fist into the back of his target’s neck.

A crackle of vertebrae made his target go limp.

Brot’ân’duivé heard fast footfalls coming the other way around the tree. Amid too much hatred and anger to let shadow take him again, he ripped down the wrap across his face.

A greimasg’äh came to kill his own, and in exhaustion, he did not even try to hide. When the other sentinel appeared, he lunged from his crouch.

The fast rhythm of the anmaglâhk’s feet barely faltered at the sight of him, but it was enough. Brot’ân’duivé dropped low at the man’s delayed thrust.

A stiletto’s tip entered the side of his cowl instead of his chest. He straightened before the tip fully pierced the cloth. The forward edge of his right elbow rammed upward into his target’s jaw. The anmaglâhk’s head had not fully whipped back when Brot’ân’duivé’s left hand struck the man’s throat with two rigid fingers.

It all took less than a breath.

Brot’ân’duivé stepped back as his target fell prone upon the ground.

One anmaglâhk lay dead, and the other mutely struggled for air through a collapsed throat as he choked on blood filling his mouth. In a time to come, Brot’ân’duivé would look back and question which death was worse.

Even then he would not care. All that would disturb him in reflection was his loss of self-control. Without a sound, he rounded into the great oak and down the stairs toward the large chamber surrounding the heart-root. When he was halfway down the steps, a voice carried from inside the heart-root.

“I will not be long, Father, and I will bring fresh tea when I return.”

It was the sycophant, Juan’yâre.

Brot’ân’duivé froze with nowhere to hide. Immediately the boyish form of Juan’yâre appeared out of the heart-root and trotted for the stairs—and he stopped at the sight of Brot’ân’duivé six steps above. His lips parted below widening eyes. There was more fear there than in the last one who died.

Brot’ân’duivé descended six stairs in a single step.

The Covârleasa’s right hand flashed up on instinct to block—and failed.

Brot’ân’duivé’s fingertips struck the soft hollow of the sycophant’s throat. Juan’yâre toppled down the remaining stairs, and Brot’ân’duivé did not wait.

Secrecy was lost, and he dropped off the stairwell’s side to run for the entrance to the heart-root’s chamber. He halted before the heart-root’s opening and looked in.

Inside, Most Aged Father lay in his bower of living wood and dead moss, and stared out through milky irises. There was not a trace of surprise in his eyes at the sight of Brot’ân’duivé.

“My son!” the old one bit off in his creaking voice. “You are ever predictable.”

Brot’ân’duivé’s right hand flashed to the sleeve of his left wrist to pull a stiletto.

“Your too-long years end ... Father,” he said. “And the ancestors will not take you in as they have Gleannéohkân’thva.”

Most Aged Father smiled, exposing yellowed teeth in their shrunken gums.

In the corners of Brot’ân’duivé’s sight, the walls of the outer chamber began to move ... and silver glints appeared from three directions.

He lunged rearward as three anmaglâhk melted from the main chamber’s walls: two anmaglâhk on the left, one on the right, all holding bows with nocked arrows pointed at him. Each had a stiletto gripped between his teeth, at the ready once their shots were fired. A fourth figure stepped out of the heart-root chamber’s rear wall with a single blade in hand as he stood beside Most Aged Father’s bower.

Brot’ân’duivé had not seen any of them upon entering. None of them were greimasg’äh, and he looked to that old worm still smiling at him. How all this had been done, he did not know, but who had managed it was obvious.

He had been so focused on reaching Most Aged Father that he had not thought to sense for anything else.

“I am of the ancestors,” Most Aged Father said softly. “I was one of them, led here long ago to our land. You are the one who will never meet them when you die.”

Brot’ân’duivé’s mind went still, his heart and breath slowed, and calm returned.

He could take any one archer, but not all three, before a shot was fired. If he turned to run, he would not make it to the stairs without being hit by one, if not all three, arrows. Standing in the open, he had no opportunity to let shadow take him without his opponents still firing upon his position.

“Shoot,” Most Aged Father whispered in the silence.

At the sound of bowstrings releasing, Brot’ân’duivé twisted and snatched the edge of his cloak.

He tore it loose from around his waist in a spinning arc. A rush of air passed below his chin as the first arrow missed. His cloak jerked in his grip as the second arrow pierced it below his left arm at chest level. He finished that twist as the sound of a third bowstring released.

But Brot’ân’duivé felt—heard—no arrow strike him.

“Run, you old fool!” a female voice shouted.

One of the archers to his left, nearest to the stairs, whirled around as the other slid limply down the chamber’s wall. An arrow protruded from the center of the second’s chest.

Cuirin’nên’a stood atop the steps with another arrow drawn back, and she fired again, hitting the first one, who had whirled toward her.

That one fell as she reached for another arrow.

Most Aged Father stared out through the heart-root’s entrance at Brot’ân’duivé still standing there. Then the ancient creature shrieked in rage as the anmaglâhk beside him rushed toward the heart-root’s opening.

Brot’ân’duivé heard an arrow’s release and glanced to the right as the third archer—the only remaining archer—fired. The arrow flew past toward the stairs, and Brot’ân’duivé flung his stiletto.

It cracked against the anmaglâhk’s bow. In reflex, the man dropped the bow in a back step, and Brot’ân’duivé drew his second blade. Then he heard Cuirin’nên’a suck in a sharp breath behind him on the stairs.

Before he could glance back, the anmaglâhk in the heart-root chamber came through the opening and collided with him. The impact drove him back as he grabbed the blade thrust at his throat. Its edge bit into his palm. Before he could counterstrike, his opponent grabbed his other arm at the elbow and tried to puncture the joint with a thumb.

Brot’ân’duivé met his opponent’s eyes.

There was no fear of death, not even in facing him, in this one. This was a true anmaglâhk but with a twisted purpose. He would willingly die to kill one of his own simply because Father had told him this was right.

Brot’ân’duivé had long mourned the decline of his caste and the corruption of it by their patriarch. It was no longer defiance or even hate that drove him. There was only overwhelming grief in looking into the amber eyes of a fanatic.

He saw no sacrifice and service to the people in those eyes. He saw only the death of Anmaglâhk virtue, murdered by Most Aged Father.

And he heard the one who had dropped the bow coming in on his right. It did not matter whether he died, so long as he ended this here and now.

Brot’ân’duivé slammed his forehead into the fanatic’s face, and the man’s head lashed back. Brot’ân’duivé twisted aside the stiletto blade he still gripped, and it bit deeper into his palm. Wheeling away, he kicked into the knee of the archer charging in on his right. As that one stumbled, Brot’ân’duivé rammed his stiletto through the throat of the fanatic and then slung his impaled opponent at the archer.

He put aside all else, exposing his back as he looked into the heart-root chamber, still gripping the hilt of his own stiletto with one hand and the blade of a dead anmaglâhk’s in the other.

Not the slightest trace of fear haunted Most Aged Father’s milky eyes.

Brot’ân’duivé knew he had failed on one count. The journal was not here; it was beyond his reach. It would not matter if someone else put the journal before the council of elders, for he would silence the one voice that could truly twist Wynn Hygeorht’s words.

Most Aged Father smiled.

This was one of the only moments in which Brot’ân’duivé had ever truly hesitated, and he would regret it for the rest of his life. The entrance to the dark wood of the heart-root trembled like a mouth made of flesh.

It snapped closed before Brot’ân’duivé’s eyes.

“No!” he shouted, and slapped his bloodied hand against the wood as he dropped one blade. Even the pain of that did not break through the shock.

“Do not move!” Cuirin’nên’a shouted.

Only that violent command broke through to him. He turned to see the last archer, the last anmaglâhk, rising as he pushed off the corpse of his ally. Both other archers lay upon the chamber floor; both with arrows dead-center in their chests. The feathers of those arrows were not those of an anmaglâhk.

This one remaining anmaglâhk, with the lower half of his face still obscured by a wrap, continued backing away to the main chamber’s far side. But his eyes were focused on someone else.

Brot’ân’duivé followed the path of that gaze.

Cuirin’nên’a crept in around him with a stiletto in her right hand and the feathers of an anmaglâhk arrow protruding from below her left shoulder.

“What part of ‘run’ did you not understand?” she hissed at him, and then looked beyond him to the heart-root.

Brot’ân’duivé could not look at it again. Astonishment passed quickly across Cuirin’nên’a’s face and was replaced by a trace of anguish.

“We are undone,” she whispered. “You have ruined and exposed us. There is now no doubt that we stand against him.”

He said nothing. There was only the need of this moment to which he could attend. They must flee and warn all those who stood with them to go deeper into hiding, and Cuirin’nên’a was wounded.

Brot’ân’duivé turned away, reaching for her, but she lifted her blade to point the stiletto at the last anmaglâhk backed against the far wall.

“I know your eyes, Mähk’an’ehk!” she said. “Do not follow us ... and you may live a little longer.”

Brot’ân’duivé pulled her away, and, leaping over Juan’yâre’s slumped form, they fled up the stairs.

There was no one outside in the green between the great oak and those who ringed it. He bolted north, leading the way deep into the forest and putting as much distance as possible between them and Crijheäiche. Later he was unsure how far they had run when he heard Cuirin’nên’a stumble behind him.

Slowing, he forced her to rest, hidden beneath the low branches of a fir tree while he backtracked to make certain they were not pursued. Returning, he knelt beside her to inspect the arrow she had taken in defending him.

“What did you think, if anything?” she asked. “That you could break in there, into his home ... and kill him? Why do so with so many present? Even you could not have reached past them to him in such a space.”

It had not occurred to him until then that she had not seen what he had. When he told her of anmaglâhk stepping out of the walls like spirits, she only stared at him.

“And what were you thinking,” he added, “when you killed an anmaglâhk in Gleannéohkân’thva’s home?”

She glanced away.

Brot’ân’duivé sighed. The situations were not truly comparable, for she had probably had little choice—unlike him. But there was still the question of the sentinels hidden like greimasg’äh in the shadows of the walls.

“How could we ... at least you ... not have known this?” she asked, as if knowing his thoughts.

Brot’ân’duivé had no answers for her. Most Aged Father was too long-lived. It appeared that time and the tree of his home allowed him to do more than thrive beyond his fair share of years.

“It is done,” he said, “and we have killed our own, regardless of the fact that they are counted as enemies. Any uncovered dissident, anmaglâhk or otherwise, will suffer for that as much as we will ... if we are caught.” He paused. “And I may also have killed a Covârleasa.”

“Juan’yâre still breathes,” she replied flatly. “I checked him on my way in to make certain.”

Brot’ân’duivé raised an eyebrow.

“I left him alive for the fear he may spread,” she explained before he asked. “The dead do not spread that as well as the terrified living. I knew what you attempted before I entered. Juan’yâre, sycophant that he is, will know fear in that Father could not protect him ... from us.” Cuirin’nên’a looked up at him. “And that lackey will chatter,” she added, her voice turning bitter. “So will Mähk’an’ehk. Let them fear us even in failure. For the sake of the others we have now exposed to open persecution, let them flinch at every shadow in the silence.”

Brot’ân’duivé grew still, watching Cuirin’nên’a glare off into the dark.

The war in silence and in shadow had begun this night, yet she thought of those she was born to protect. Like his lost Eillean, she thought of her people, and in that she was her mother’s daughter. For all of his failures this night, he could not have had greater pride in her if she had been his daughter as well.

Brot’ân’duivé turned his attention to Cuirin’nên’a’s wound and peeled away layers of shredded and earth-stained cloth. The arrow had gone through but, judging by its angle, had only pierced flesh and not bone. Gripping the shaft’s front close to her skin, he snapped off the protruding point at her back and jerked out the shaft all in one movement. She barely flinched.

“I will dress it with moss and try to stop the bleeding,” he said.

They were both quiet while he tended her. When he finished, he rocked back on his heels and was uncertain what to say.

“We cannot risk a fire,” he finally said.

She tilted her head to one side, and some of her anger had faded. Like him, she understood that the past could not be changed. What was done was done.

“Were you truly going to kill him?”

Puzzled by such an afterthought, Brot’ân’duivé studied her. “I came for the journal and failed in that, but knowing he would use it against us ... yes.”

He was still stunned by the sight of the heart-root’s entrance closing before him.

Cuirin’nên’a struggled to sit up, and he almost stopped her. All she did was reach behind herself and dig beneath her cloak. When she withdrew her hand and settled back, she thrust something at him.

It was the journal, and in all his long life he had seldom been at such a loss for words.

“How ... Where?”

“From Juan’yâre,” she said. “I told you I checked him. He was carrying it.”

In near disbelief, he slowly reached out for the book. She did not release it when he pulled.

“I did not do this for you, but for those who walk with us,” she said, and then let go.

When he fully held the journal, he felt an awkward bulge in its worn cover. Flipping it open, he found a small polished oval of dark wood ... a word-wood.

“A number of dissidents sought haven with the Âlachben clan,” she said. “They are with us and have escaped suspicion so far. One of their Shapers could rival Gleannéohkân’thva in her skills. As with all of our groups, she has been making these from a tree home in one of their own outer enclaves.”

He closed his hand around the word-wood. There was at least some relief in the fact that they might still communicate as needed.

“You and Gleannéohkân’thva knew of this?” he asked.

She had the good grace to pause before saying, “He felt it best to keep such knowledge limited, for the protection of individual factions among us, especially the Âlachben. Of all the dissident factions, those among that clan have succeeded in escaping Most Aged Father’s scrutiny.”

Though troubled by being kept ignorant of this, Brot’ân’duivé turned his thoughts to greater matters.

“Did you find the girl and get her to safety?”

Another pause followed. “Yes.”

Her hesitation meant not all had gone as planned. “Did you see Urhkarasiférin?”

“No. His sister and brother offered their assistance. They took the girl without reluctance but clearly desired me to leave.”

“Why?” he asked, and when she did not answer, “What happened?”

She looked closely at him, and it was clear that the answer troubled her.

“Urhkarasiférin denounced all sides in this conflict,” she answered. “He will not allow either dissidents or loyalists in his clan’s territory. He has left the caste, and only because I delivered an innocent was I tolerated among his clan.”

Brot’ân’duivé could not see all that this meant other than that their people had begun to fracture even further. Perhaps Cuirin’nên’a was the wise one, and he had indeed been a fool. It was possible now that many of the clans would turn against both dissidents and loyalists.

“Listen to me,” he said. “There is more that I have learned.”

He told her what he had seen and overheard while watching Most Aged Father’s tree for the past two days. As she listened, her alarm increased.

“A team of such size ... going after my son!” She pushed herself up. “They must be stopped at any cost.”

He had to step in her way, and she tensed as if she might go at him. He held up his empty hands.

“I will leave for Ghoivne Ajhâjhe tonight,” he assured her. “They are already well ahead and will likely be gone before I reach our port. But I will pursue them ... alone.”

“No! Now get out of my way!”

“Cuirin’nên’a!”

Though she stalled, he knew that his next words, both a truth and a trick, were all he had to keep her from the one thing that mattered more to her than pulling down Most Aged Father.

“Someone must remain—an anmaglâhk must remain—to coordinate those from inside the caste who have joined us with the greater number of dissidents among the people.”

“There are others!” she snarled at him and tried to push past. “This is about my son and our greater hope in him.”

Brot’ân’duivé did not relent. “Anmaglâhk have killed their own! And they have killed a healer, a Shaper ... an elder of a clan. Among those who have joined us, what will they think of this? They will look upon any anmaglâhk with suspicion as their world fractures around them. There is only one among us they would trust.”

Cuirin’nên’a’s jaw clenched as she shook her head.

“You were imprisoned for ten years,” he went on, “yet Father gained nothing from you ... not even enough to hold you once your son returned. You are known—and trusted—for this among our own.”

Her fury escaped in harsh breaths through her nostrils.

“You must hold us together in my absence,” Brot’ân’duivé whispered, and he watched her face as his words sank in. “Spread word of what truly happened among the Coilehkrotall ... and why I acted as I did.”

Cuirin’nên’a’s breath hissed out between her clenched teeth. It was not at all like an anmaglâhk to be so affected, but on this night he was unsuited to admonish her.

“You may reach me among the Âlachben,” she whispered, “by the word-wood you now have.”

In relief Brot’ân’duivé nodded and began to turn away. A hand latched on to his arm.

“Find my son—protect him! And if the chance comes, guide him to his purpose ... or whatever happens here will not matter.”

Brot’ân’duivé offered a slow bow of his head. Then he turned, running north for Ghoivne Ajhâjhe.

On the deck of the Cloud Queen, Brot’ân’duivé fell silent. He could recall every detail of what had come next, but he said no more. He had not related all the finite details in his story, only the general truth of what had happened. He had not mentioned anything concerning ...

Léshil was not ready, as yet, to face his fate.

“You sent my mother back among your dissidents?” Léshil asked in shock. “You left her there in the middle of what you’d stirred up?”

Brot’ân’duivé did not answer. Along the run to Ghoivne Ajhâjhe, he had hoped fervently that word of his “treachery” would not reach the port by the time he arrived.

“You left her,” Léshil pressed, his anger growing, “in the middle of a civil war ... that you started!”

Brot’ân’duivé looked upon the grandson of Eillean.

In retrospect, he wondered whether all their efforts to train Léshil in secret, away from all ties, could serve the purpose they intended. They had attempted to cultivate someone capable of cunning, with skills outside of any allegiances, to be the weapon of their need. Léshil was not as skilled as most anmaglâhk but skilled enough. Unlike the Anmaglâhk, his mind was undisciplined, thereby creative, ungrounded, and unbiased—as a living weapon should be.

Brot’ân’duivé still did not believe in portents, omens, and revelations, but he was learning to in the hardest of ways. And perhaps, if necessary, another way, another weapon might yet be found.

The orbs.

Perhaps the weapon needed to kill the Ancient Enemy was one of its own making. What other reason could have led Brot’ân’duivé to this moment? But as he looked upon Léshil, another uncertainty flickered through his subtle machinations. Perhaps the weapon that had been made, the one standing before him, would need to use the weapon that had yet to be found?

He knew now that he would have to follow Magiere, go through her to procure this artifact, this key, this orb. And that itself might be enough. With it he might find a way to claim the other orbs that had been hidden away. He might have a weapon suitable to Léshil’s final purpose.

“Well?” Léshil demanded.

Magiere was silent, just watching, but Chap circled slowly, threateningly around Brot’ân’duivé.

“Your mother is strong,” he answered. “She is needed where she is. We must all follow our separate paths, each to our separate purpose.”

Léshil turned away, as if overwhelmed by all that had been said ... and all that had not been said.