Child of a Dead God (15 page)
“He also told them no one is to touch us,” Wynn added, “and that he would take such as a sign of disrespect to him and his oath of guardianship. It must never happen again.”
Magiere eased a little, and when Sgäile glanced her way, she nodded to him.
The hkomas looked frustrated, but he grabbed the angered crewman and pulled him away, shouting at his crew. All began slowly returning to their duties. In spite of Sgäile’s declaration, a few cast puzzled glances at Chap—and Magiere caught more hostile ones tossed her way.
She didn’t care. Let them come at her, if they wanted.
Sgäile turned to her. “You will leave such problems to me!”
“There won’t be any problems,” Magiere spit back, “if they keep their hands to themselves.”
“How often must I remind you,” Sgäile returned, “all of you, that you do not understand our culture and ways. Your ignorance and continued lack of heed for my—”
“They understand us even less!” Wynn cut in.
The sage’s sharp tone startled Magiere.
“For all the time you must have spent,” Wynn added, “sneaking about human cultures, perhaps it is time you and your people learned some tolerance . . . before jumping to rash conclusions. Bigotry betrays
your
ignorance.”
your
ignorance.”
Sgäile was stunned voiceless, but resentment surfaced quickly through his stoic features, signaling an incensed reply on its way. Wynn gave him no opportunity and pushed past him.
“Come, Chap,” she said. “Let us check on Leesil.”
Chap hopped down to follow her, his head swinging as he watched the crew with twitching jowls. But as they passed Osha, Wynn brushed a hand lightly across his forearm and spoke softly.
“Alhtahk âma âr tú.”
Osha eased with a soft smile and bowed his head.
It wasn’t hard for Magiere to understand Wynn’s words as thanks.
Sgäile cast one last hard glare at Magiere as he headed up the aftcastle stairs.
Magiere merely snorted and turned toward the ship’s side, not satisfied enough to go below and take her eyes off the crew. But her gaze settled on the open sea ahead—south.
Night after night of pushing his ferals through the mountains left Welstiel weary of the constant vigilance required to control them. But they had to reach the eastern seacoast, hopefully well ahead of Magiere.
He longed for a solitary existence. Dawn approached, and he stood watching as Chane set up tents for the day. The cold rocky range was harsh and held little life, and the sky seemed interminably dismal even at night.
Each time Welstiel scried for Magiere’s position, she had moved an impossible distance southward, closing on his own trajectory to the coast. Sometimes she seemed not to move for several days. This confirmed his suspicion that she was traveling by ship, making port calls along the way.
Chane proved useful again, finding rock outcrops or solitary stands of thick trees in which to pitch tents and keep their band safely under cover. He made tea every few nights, and eventually succeeded in getting the ferals to drink it—after setting an example a few times. Welstiel could not get them to do anything unless he gave a direct order. But Chane’s sullen demeanor had increased until he barely spoke at all.
Welstiel did not care, so long as his companion helped keep the ferals moving. And they were quickly reaching the point of needing a fresh kill.
The two younger males shifted restlessly on hands and feet, sniffing the air in eager, unfulfilled hope. The elderly woman paced among the massive boulders surrounding their camp, and whispered aimlessly to herself. Her emaciated, silver-haired follower stayed right on her heels.
The curly-headed man crouched on his haunches, rocking on the balls of his feet at the camp’s edge. Sometimes his eyes rolled in his head over a gaping mouth. Once, when Welstiel looked away and then turned back, he found that one watching him intently.
Only the young dark-haired female, whom Chane had insisted was worth saving, retained any hint of reasoning. She never spoke but often assisted Chane in setting camp or building fires when fuel could be found.
Welstiel was exhausted by perpetual vigilance, and he too was feeling the pressing need for life force. Normally, after feeding using his arcane method, he functioned comfortably for nearly a moon. Perhaps the potions with which he drugged himself, or lack of dormancy, or maintaining control over so many, had taken their toll on him. He felt as if he were starving.
Welstiel dug through his pack, searching for the brown glass bottles filled with life force taken from the living monks. When he found them at the bottom, he tensed, reluctant to even touch them.
Aside from his white ceramic container in the box with the brass cup, he found only two bottles. There should have been three. None of the ferals knew his feeding practices—only Chane.
Welstiel rushed to the nearest tent and ripped aside its flap.
Chane sat inside, beside the young female, with a parchment out, and he was showing it to her.
“You have taken something of mine,” Welstiel said.
Chane’s own pack and canvas sack rested beside him. He reached into the pack without hesitation and pulled out a brown glass bottle.
“Here,” he rasped, and tossed it up at Welstiel.
Welstiel caught it. He did not need to pull the stopper. He could tell by the weight that it was empty.
“Did you drink it?” he asked.
“No,” Chane answered.
He turned back to pushing the parchment in front of the woman, but she looked at it and then him, as if unsure what he wanted from her.
Welstiel’s confusion increased. The ferals knew nothing of his artifacts or the contents of the bottles. Chane finally dropped the parchment.
He pushed past Welstiel out of the tent and stood up, eyes hard as he pointed to the elderly woman and her silver-haired companion.
“I fed them. They needed it.”
Welstiel remained still, absorbing those calm words. Chane’s past disobediences had normally been restricted to foolish risks involving Wynn Hygeorht. This was more blatant, and a sign that Chane had forgotten his place.
A lesson was required.
Without a word, Welstiel strode across camp with dawn glowing along the eastern horizon. He headed straight for the elderly female.
She saw him coming and backed against the massive stone outcrop rising from the sloped bank above their camp. Her gaunt companion clutched at her leg in fear.
“Be still!” he commanded. “All of you!”
Tendons in the elderly woman’s neck protruded as her body went rigid. Her eyes widened as Welstiel jerked his sword from its sheath. The crouching man began squeaking helplessly.
“What are you doing?” Chane demanded.
Welstiel lashed out with his blade.
Its edge collided with the elderly woman’s throat. In predawn’s half-light, sparks erupted as metal clanged against the stone behind her. The wall of stone turned dark as her black fluids spattered over it.
Welstiel whirled away before her head thumped upon the ground. Her crouching companion began screeching unintelligibly. And there was Chane, his own blade in hand.
“Another step,” Welstiel said, calm and clear, “and I will set them all on you.”
Chane stood his ground, not moving. He never looked to the other ferals frozen in place around the camp. One of his eyes twitched in rage and open hatred.
Welstiel did not care. Obedience was restored, and he stepped purposefully toward Chane.
“Remember,” he said. “When I have what I seek, you will still be waiting for what you desire. Whether I have reason to compensate you for service is all in your hands. Obey me or leave . . . if you wish.”
Rage drained slowly from Chane’s eyes, or perhaps it merely crawled into hiding. His gaze shifted above Welstiel as the sky grew lighter.
“Get under cover,” Chane rasped.
Not a true answer, but Welstiel was satisfied for the moment. A costly lesson, but one that perhaps even Chane could learn. Welstiel turned his back.
The silver-haired man still howled. Frozen in place by Welstiel’s command, his fingers were locked tight about the calf of the elderly woman’s corpse.
“Quiet!” Welstiel shouted, and the screeching voice strangled in the man’s throat.
Welstiel reached down, snatched the woman’s head by its graying hair, and heaved it out into the wilderness. When he turned back, Chane had already ducked into his tent. The young female peeked out, one round eye staring at Welstiel around the tent flap’s edge.
With Chane’s enraged face still fresh in Welstiel’s thoughts, he stared into that one near-colorless pupil and wondered . . .
Did he indeed now have only five ferals? Or were there still six, the last one not chained to his own will?
Hkuan’duv silently slipped out of his quarters just before dawn so as not to disturb Dänvârfij. He made his way through the ship’s passages to its "heart-room” at the stern. Avranvärd 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 hkœda—“caregiver-journeyer”—the Shaper who lived with each vessel through its life. In order to speak with Avranvärd, he needed to be in the place from which this vessel’s hkœda 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 Päirvänean— 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’Cróans’. She sat with her back flush against the hull.
“Easàille . . . 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 hkœda rarely left anyone alone in a heart-room, and his frequent requests were a severe imposition. But Easàille stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders with a smile.
“More secret talks with some other ship’s hkœda,” 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?”
Easàille 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 hkœda . . . to slumber in the depths and in the dreams of a Päirvänean.
Avranvärd’s voice disrupted his thoughts.
Are you there?
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?”
Sgäilsheilleache . . . 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
.
.
Avranvärd 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.
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