Child of a Dead God (32 page)
Chap scrambled among the crew who were digging for clams. He sniffed about the beach, barking loudly now and then. At his call, crewmen came to dig where he stood. This morning, Sgäile’s people did not seem to mind humans, half-bloods, or a wayward majay-hì in their midst. He was about to join in the foraging when the hkomas’s young steward cautiously approached him.
“I am called Avranvärd,” she said.
“I know who you are,” Sgäile replied and finished pulling on his boots.
The girl’s eyes widened briefly. “May I speak with you . . . Sgäilsheilleache?”
He stopped, suddenly uncomfortable. Something in this young woman’s tense manner troubled him.
“Of course,” he answered.
She gestured toward the clearing’s edge, away from the camp. “In private.”
He had little strength left for intrigue, but he followed her beyond earshot. At first she would not look him in the eye.
“I must come with you on your journey.”
Sgäile’s discomfort increased. “Your place is with your crew and hkomas. But do not fear. One of our ships will come for all of you.”
Avranvärd shook her head. “I am not concerned for my safety. I . . . I was sent by Most Aged Father to watch the humans and report.”
“That is impossible,” he stated flatly. “You are not Anmaglâhk.”
“I will be,” she answered and finally raised her eyes to his. “Most Aged Father sent me—gave me this
purpose
. I must come with you.”
purpose
. I must come with you.”
She was so plainspoken and steadfast that Sgäile almost believed her. He felt the blood drain from his face. How could Most Aged Father place an untrained girl in this position? And why send someone to report on those under Sgäile’s guardianship . . . as if he could not be trusted?
Avranvärd’s young face grew troubled. “Sgäilsheilleache?”
He glared down at her until she began to fidget.
“Listen carefully,” he said, exerting calm into his voice. “You will remain with your crew and make your way with them back to our lands. Do otherwise, and I will expose you to your hkomas. Do you understand?”
“But . . . I have a purpose . . . from Most Aged Father! There is another—”
“You will serve no purpose at all,” Sgäile cut in sharply, “should your hkomas and all the seafaring clans learn of your subterfuge among them. Your duty is to your hkomas and crew!”
He grabbed her by the wrist, prepared to haul her back to camp, but she broke free before he took three steps. She shifted toward the beach, watching him with a pained shake of her head as if her world had turned over and was not as it should be.
Sgäile remained silent and stern. Avranvärd turned and ran.
He had no patience left for hero worship or shattered illusions. Perhaps now he understood why Brot’ân’duivé and other caste elders so often shied from the people. An’Cróan saw their protectors in the garb of the Anmaglâhk, but they knew little of what that life required.
And now he, too, was left in ignorance.
Sgäile had tried to ignore the growing animosity between Most Aged Father and Brot’ân’duivé. It seemed both had expectations for his current purpose—and neither had fully related these to him. He did not know who to trust, and this left him reeling.
All Anmaglâhk must trust in each other, or their people would suffer from the discord.
He scanned the beach, spotting the hkomas near the hidden skiffs. The man must still be wondering why two anmaglâhk would abandon a stranded crew for humans and a half-blood. But Sgäile had no time for guilt-driven explanations, as he headed over.
“Your steward is more traumatized by the death of your ship than the rest of your crew,” he began. “Keep her close, and be certain she remains under watch for a few days.”
The hkomas studied him and then slowly turned sad eyes to the empty sea.
"I never thought to see any Päirvänean, who blessed my clan, murdered by humans. Yes, Avranvärd is young, and such a loss might be worse for her . . . I will watch over her.”
Sgäile nodded with gratitude and walked back toward the campfire, but the exchange did nothing to ease his mind.
Magiere and Léshil had finished repacking and stood talking quietly. Léshil had suffered only minor scorches on his face and hands. In all other respects, he was well enough, but Sgäile remembered the state of Magiere’s gloves. She no longer wore them.
Her bare hands were pale and unblemished—with no sign of burns.
Sgäile looked up quickly at her face, but she did not seem to notice. Dressed in breeches, hauberk, and coat, she hefted one pack.
“Can we get started?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, still staring at her.
Magiere returned her habitual scowl. “What?”
“Nothing.”
A tall elven sailor hurried upslope, stopping in front of Sgäile.
“The hkomas says you go south . . . with the humans.” And before Sgäile could respond, the sailor pulled off his thick cloak and held it out. “Take this and my gloves. I will not need them, as our people will come for us.”
The cloak was deep brown, not dark shifting green-gray. Sgäile’s exhaustion mounted at this sacrifice. The sailor did not know him; the man saw only a revered member of the Anmaglâhk.
“I cannot.”
“Please,” the man said. “Do me this honor.”
Sgäile almost flinched. His thoughts slipped once to a strange lesson his own
jeóin
, his teacher, had once told him.
jeóin
, his teacher, had once told him.
What are we beyond how our people see us?
Young and ignorant, and still full of awe for his teacher, Sgäile had been unable to think of an answer. Years later, he overheard Brot’ân’duivé reiterate this lesson to a handful of new caste initiates, all still years away from seeking out their own
jeóin
.
jeóin
.
We are more, we are less,
Brot’ân’duivé admonished,
and we are nothing but silence and shadow. All we can do is accept their hope in us with the humility it deserves.
Brot’ân’duivé admonished,
and we are nothing but silence and shadow. All we can do is accept their hope in us with the humility it deserves.
This was the truth behind the litany of Anmaglâhk—in silence and in shadows.
To serve, and not to place oneself above or below that service, no matter what shape or form it took. To be the silence of peace that surrounds duty, and the one who guards it from within the shadows.
Sgäile slowly reached out and grasped the cloak and gloves. “Thank you.”
The sailor smiled with great relief and headed back for the beach. But the man’s reverent act of kindness left Sgäile more burdened—more uncertain.
He wanted to slip away with his word-wood and speak to Most Aged Father, to somehow understand the patriarch’s sudden lack of faith in him. Then he thought on Brot’ân’duivé’s silent scheming and the Chein’âs’s gifts given to Léshil—Léshiârelaohk, so named by the ancestors. And a majay-hì, like those of ancient times, had thrown itself into the lives of a half-blood and a pale monster of a woman.
Stretched between too many paths, Sgäile had to choose one to follow.
“Are we going or not?” Magiere demanded.
Sgäile turned toward the beach. “Chap, it is time!”
Not long ago, the thought of calling a sacred majay-hì by a personal name would have shocked him.
Chap loped upslope, looking over Magiere and Léshil as Wynn and Osha joined them as well. The majay-hì glanced at the cookfires burning along the beach, where the crew prepared a good catch of clams. He released a groaning whine.
“We will find breakfast along the way,” Sgäile assured him.
Chap grumbled and trotted off, and Magiere followed. As Léshil stepped in behind her, Sgäile noticed the tips of the Chein’âs’s winged blades peeking from his pack. Léshil’s continued discomfort regarding the weapons was clear.
“May I wear your old blades?” Sgäile asked cautiously. “The new ones should take their place, and you will walk more easily with less weight.”
Léshil cast a narrow-eyed glance over one shoulder. “Why don’t
you
wear the new ones?”
you
wear the new ones?”
It was more of a challenge than a question.
“I could not.” Sgäile shook his head. “They were given to you.”
“Oh, just do it, already!” Magiere snapped at Léshil. “You’re the one who insisted I accept the dagger.”
“They don’t fit my sheaths,” Léshil argued.
“I can make alterations,” Sgäile countered, “while we walk.”
For all the bitter ire in Magiere’s voice, none showed on her face as she looked intently at Léshil.
“They’re only weapons—nothing more,” she said. “You choose what to do with them.”
“Fine!” Léshil growled and dropped his pack. He jerked the tie straps of his old blades, pulled the gifted ones from his pack, and thrust both sets at Sgäile.
Sgäile took them, and Léshil hoisted his pack and pushed past Magiere after Chap.
Sgäile slipped Léshil’s old blades from their sheaths. He handed both sets of blades to Osha, and, as they walked along the shore, he drew a stiletto and began altering the sheaths.
As he worked, he pondered this next leg of their journey—born not from hope but determination. He was tired of Magiere’s and Léshil’s ill-mannered petulance. Their mood proved infectious, and Sgäile grumbled under his breath as he cut leather.
By midday, Hkuan’duv was pacing the deck.
Avranvärd had not contacted him at dawn, and he had called for anchor, not knowing how far ahead the other ship might be. Soon his concern gave way to open worry.
Dänvârfij leaned with one hip against the rail-wall, watching him. “Can you not contact her instead?”
“No . . . I cannot risk revealing her presence, even to that ship’s hkœda and hkomas.”
“Then cease stomping on the Päirvänean’s back,” she said. “You will disturb it.”
He glared at her calm face, her skin like tea tinted with goat’s milk. “Something is wrong.”
“I know we cannot be seen,” she returned, “but neither can we lose track of their ship.”
“Inform the hkomas,” he said. “But make certain our pace is cautious.”
Dänvârfij pushed off the rail-wall and headed for the aftcastle.
Hkuan’duv turned his gaze down the coast, feeling trapped by the constraints of his purpose. He was not accustomed to hiding from his people or those of his own caste.
Kurhkâge emerged from the hatch below the forecastle, followed by A’harhk’nis. As always, the latter appeared deceptively spindly in his oversized cloak. Kurhkâge fixed his one eye upon Hkuan’duv.
“We are moving,” he said. “Have you received communication?”
Hkuan’duv shook his head. “We must attempt to locate the ship ourselves.”
Dänvârfij rejoined them, and all four headed up to the bow, scanning the waters ahead. Several crew members glanced at them, but no one spoke. The hkomas’s strained voice rose in orders to his crew.
A’harhk’nis looked up into the rigging. “I should relieve the lookout and watch for myself.”
His voice was so quiet that it was difficult to hear, but Hkuan’duv agreed. “Yes. Good.”
A’harhk’nis stepped upon the rail-wall, snatched the rope ladder to the mainmast, and clambered upward.
His sharp eyes might be no better than those of a seasoned crewman, but should they close too quickly upon the other ship, Hkuan’duv felt more secure in A’harhk’nis’s judgment. But as the day wore on, no word came from above.
“What if the girl was discovered?” Kurhkâge asked. “What would Sgäilsheilleache do?”
Hkuan’duv turned away from the prow, not wanting to answer. Indeed, what would he himself do if one of his own caste were sent to spy on him? He did not wish to even think about it. He must focus on his purpose, for the sake of his people.
“Greimasg’äh!” A’harhk’nis called from high above. “Look to the beach!”
Hkuan’duv turned to lean upon the shoreward rail-wall.
Even at this distance, their hair glowed in the afternoon sun. Tall figures moved up the coastline and became distinct as they approached. He realized he was looking at an an’Cróan ship’s crew, but why were they ashore, and where was their Päirvänean?
“Are there outsiders with them?” Hkuan’duv called up.
“No . . . I see only an’Cróan.”
Amid the captain’s call and the crew’s shouts, they began preparing a skiff. Several people onshore saw the oncoming ship. They waved their arms and cloaks in the air.
Hkuan’duv leaped down the forecastle stairs, closing on the skiff being lowered over the side.
“A’harhk’nis, come down,” he shouted.
He scanned the sea, but saw no sign of the other Päirvänean. What had become of Sgäilsheilleache, Osha . . . and the humans?
As the ship came to anchor, Hkuan’duv stepped to the rail-wall gate, taking up the skiff’s anchoring line. The hkomas rushed in and jerked it from his hand.
Other books
The Sun Between Their Feet by Doris Lessing
The Nine Tailors by Dorothy L. Sayers
Pendragon by Catherine Coulter
Nehru by Shashi Tharoor
Castro's Daughter by David Hagberg
The Southern Po' Boy Cookbook by Todd-Michael St. Pierre
The I Ching or Book of Changes by Wilhelm, Hellmut
Madness Ends by Beth D. Carter
The Society of S by Hubbard, Susan
