Child of a Dead God (59 page)
“I have lost their trail,” he said flatly, crouching beside her.
She still looked pale and drawn. Her hood down, her thick hair fell around her shoulders. She leaned on her hands, close to his face.
“If they wish to deliver the artifact in Belaski, they will head straight across this range, trying to reach the western coast. Even if we cannot find them in these mountains, we can track them once they leave the snowy heights. They must come out above the Everfen, and I know that region well.”
Hkuan’duv calmed at her words.
“Of course,” he answered. “It is only a delay.”
Magiere lost track of the days and nights as their supplies rapidly dwindled. By the time they reached the range’s western side, Chap spent nearly half of each day hunting with Sgäile or Osha for anything to eat. Roasting mice and squirrels ferreted from hibernation became the low point in their scant and meager meals. But as the air grew warmer and any snowfall became rain in the foothills, they fared a little better each following day.
One day, spouts of light green wild grass appeared along a muddy path. And then spring greeted them as they stood upon a high crest looking down over the Everfen.
The marshlands stretched west beyond sight. Magiere began descending quickly, until Wynn took a step, and her boot was sucked off in the deep mud. Leesil helped retrieve it, as Wynn teetered on the other foot, and then everyone trod more carefully.
Even when the rain broke for a short spell, the constant drip from the trees soaked them. But the air was no longer frigid.
“If it was not so wet, I would leave my coat behind,” Wynn joked.
Magiere was glad to see her in better spirits. The journey down through sharp foothills had been grueling for little Wynn. At one point, her limp was so severe that Sgäile suggested carrying her on his back. Wynn adamantly refused, though Osha took away her pack, slinging her heavy bundle of books over his shoulder.
Sgäile had changed since the night he and Osha had placed the dead anmaglâhk in the cave. He would have preferred to cremate the bodies and carry their ashes home. But Magiere felt that something else was troubling him. He’d become cautious in covering their trail whenever possible, and often looked anxiously back along their way.
She asked him about his strange behavior, but he only said she read too much into his vigilance. Perhaps this was true, and in any case Magiere had other concerns.
Her dreams had ceased completely—a relief on one hand, and yet disturbing on the other.
She never wanted to hear that hissing voice again, but felt this was only a reprieve—it might come again. And having reached the Everfen, they would soon have to find a way to cross it.
So far, they’d found adequate solid ground, but Magiere had heard accounts of this region. As they crossed its eastern end toward Droevinka, the dry islands and ridges would grow sparse, and then vanish for leagues beneath the swamps.
Sgäile led with Leesil, Chap trotting beside them, until the day grew late. Magiere wasn’t sure why, but Sgäile had become even more laconic than before, had been withdrawn and preoccupied since they’d come out of the foothills. She knew she’d never get an answer out of him and didn’t try.
Chap pulled up and barked once.
Leesil stumbled under the orb’s swinging weight as Sgäile halted. “There is a dwelling up ahead.”
“Who would live out here?” Leesil asked.
Wading through the last few yards of mucky water, they stepped up a dry knoll to a small, thatched shack. Its hint of a garden had long gone fallow and an empty chicken coop rotted away along its side. One soggy, aging willow tree stretched up over the roof.
Chap sniffed about the chicken coop as Leesil knocked on the door.
“Hallo?” he called halfheartedly.
Barely waiting for an answer, he shoved the door open, dragging Sgäile along as he entered. Magiere followed and quickly covered her nose and mouth. A fetid stench filled the shack’s one room.
“What is that smell?” Wynn said.
Leesil pointed. “Over there.”
An old man lay in a ramshackle bed beneath burlap blankets pulled to his chin. He was clearly dead, and his sallow skin had shriveled upon his face beneath thinned, straggly hair.
“He must have died here alone, in his sleep,” Wynn said, gasping for air. “A sad thing.”
Magiere guessed the man had been dead less than a moon, and she agreed—it would be sad to die alone.
“Oh, thank goodness!” Wynn exclaimed.
Magiere spun about. The little sage looked upward in exhausted relief.
Burlap sacks hung from the rafters and down the walls to keep them free of excess moisture and scavengers. One high shelf above the hearth held tin canisters and an unglazed clay jar. Wynn went straight for the hearth and began digging through the odds and ends. Her brow wrinkled as she inspected a blackened iron pot.
“No rust that I can see,” she reported. “Let us hope there are oats and grains or dried peas in those sacks.”
She set down the pot, grabbed the clay jar, and lifted its lid.
“Oh,” she groaned as if finding a lost treasure. “Honey . . . honey for biscuits!”
Leesil shook his head. “Just get some water boiling, while we find a better place for the owner to rest.”
Magiere looked over at the old man. “We’d better scrap the bedding as well.”
Though it felt wrong to invade a dead man’s home, no one balked at the prospect of sleeping inside and eating something besides wild game. Leesil and Sgäile rolled the old man up in his bedding and carried him out back to bury him. Magiere shifted the orb to the back corner, then sat on the floor while Osha played assistant to Wynn.
“Go look for rain barrels outside,” Wynn told him pointedly. “And do not bring swamp water in its place.”
A scowl spread down Osha’s long face. He looked thoroughly snubbed as he headed out the door, pot in hand. After some time, Sgäile and Leesil returned, but Sgäile hesitated in the doorway.
“I should scout the area,” he said. “So we may choose a final path.”
“Forget it,” Leesil said, settling beside Magiere. “Just rest, and we’ll do that in the morning.”
But when Magiere looked back, Sgäile was gone.
Most Aged Father lay deeply troubled in the bower of his great oak. Half a moon past, he had received word from Hkuan’duv, the first in a long while. But the report was worse than expected—beyond displeasing.
Magiere had indeed acquired the artifact.
But A’harhk’nis and Kurhkâge were dead, and Hkuan’duv and Dänvârfij had lost her trail. The Greimasg’äh and his favored student guessed at Magiere’s most likely route and were in pursuit. There had been no further word from Hkuan’duv, and Most Aged Father was left wondering. How did a reckless human woman and her companions continue to elude two of his best anmaglâhk?
Perhaps it was Sgäilsheilleache’s intervention.
Not that Most Aged Father blamed him. He only held to his oath of guardianship and sense of honor. No, the blame lay with the deceitful Brot’ân’duivé—not the misled Sgäilsheilleache.
If Magiere reached these human “sages,” it would be harder to retrieve the artifact, and the consequences could be dire. Something so ancient had no place in human hands.
Most Aged Father grew agitated in anticipation of better news.
A soft hum rose in the oak’s heart-root surrounding his bower chamber, and he leaned back, closing his eyes in relief. Hkuan’duv had finally called to report.
Father?
The voice threading through the oak into Most Aged Father’s mind did not bear Hkuan’duv’s cool dispassion. Lyrical but strained, it made Most Aged Father’s frail heart quicken.
“Sgäilsheilleache?”
A brief pause followed. He had not heard from Sgäilsheilleache since the ship had sailed from Ghoivne Ajhâjhe.
Father, forgive my long silence . . . much has happened.
Most Aged Father’s first instinct was to rebuke him for his lack of contact. His second was to order Sgäilsheilleache to seize the artifact and return. But this was a precarious situation, and he heard pain and doubt in Sgäilsheilleache’s voice. Whatever had kept him from contact, the dilemma clearly troubled him.
This anmaglâhk was balanced on the edge of a knife. He needed reassurance.
“How do you fare, my son? Are you well?”
I am well, Father. . . .
His voice broke off and then returned.
I still travel with Léshil and the humans. Brot’ân’duivé felt they would fare better on our ship with an interpreter, and I have . . . continued my guardianship. But so much has happened . . . now my thoughts turn circles.
His voice broke off and then returned.
I still travel with Léshil and the humans. Brot’ân’duivé felt they would fare better on our ship with an interpreter, and I have . . . continued my guardianship. But so much has happened . . . now my thoughts turn circles.
In the mountain peaks, I found A’harhk’nis and Kurhkâge slain. I could neither transport nor burn their bodies. I could only ask that the ancestors reach out and guide their spirits home.
Another pause, and a strange edge filled Sgäilsheilleache’s words when he spoke again.
Do you have knowledge of their mission in that region?
Most Aged Father took his own moment of hesitation. He preferred not to lie outright to one of his own.
“Your news will bring mourning to Crijheäiche. My heart is heavy at their loss. Perhaps your brothers tried to pass over the range and veered off. Kurhkâge often coordinated efforts with Urhkarasiférin. They had discussed plans to scout the Ylladon States for potential ways to complicate the Droevinkan civil war. I will speak with Urhkarasiférin, as he may be able to enlighten us.”
Yes, Father
. Relief filled Sgäilsheilleache’s voice.
That would be appreciated.
. Relief filled Sgäilsheilleache’s voice.
That would be appreciated.
“How does your journey fare?”
Magiere has succeeded . . . but a good distance remains before we can deliver her find to its destination.
Most Aged Father stifled frustration.
Osha and I will travel on to Bela. I will contact you then, on the chance that one of our ships might be near. If not, it will take us longer to return home.
“Ah yes, you have taken young Osha as your student. I was surprised, but you often see promise and potential where others do not. How goes his training?”
He has faced harsh times but remains unwavering in duty and purpose. What he lacks in aptitude, he counters with devotion. I believe, in the end, he may find a place of value among us.
Sgäilsheilleache sounded glad to speak of caste matters and the everyday trials of tutelage. It reassured Most Aged Father that he had taken the correct approach.
Sgäilsheilleache was fiercely loyal to the caste, but between Brot’ân’duivé and that half-dead human woman, he followed a misguided path. Someone else needed to step in and relieve him of his burden.
“I am pleased to hear you fare well, my son,” Most Aged Father said warmly. “And what is your current location?”
Our location?
“To gauge the days until you reach Bela . . . and if possible, dispatch a military vessel to meet you.”
That would be most welcome, Father. We are southwest of the mountains below Droevinka . . . at the inland end of what the humans call the Everfen.
“In the swamplands? That will not be pleasant going. How far in?”
Barely a morning’s travel due west. We were fortunate to find an empty dwelling and will pass this one night in better comfort
.
.
Most Aged Father could not extend his awareness beyond his people’s forest. But he could feel a sense of place when one of his caste spoke to him through word-wood. In touching such to a living tree, the speaker’s voice was altered subtly by what the word-wood pressed against.
“And you call me from a willow tree?” he said. “In the middle of that swamp? Ah, a hardy tree it is.”
He played this little game with a few of his oldest or dearest children— to see if Most Aged Father could name the caller’s tree.
Yes, Father, you rarely miss.
Another pause followed.
It is so good to speak with you again.
Another pause followed.
It is so good to speak with you again.
“And with you, my son.”
I will contact you again when we reach Bela.
“I look forward to your return . . . and will do what I can to hasten it.”
In silence and in shadows, Father
.
.
The connection faded.
Most Aged Father had put Sgäilsheilleache’s troubled mind at ease, and this situation would soon be over. He clicked his fingers against his bower, waiting a long time, until another voice threaded through the oak’s wood.
Father, I fear that I have little—
“Wait, Hkuan’duv . . . and listen carefully.”
The next morning, Leesil had barely stepped outside to stretch when Sgäile called from around the shack’s rear.
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