Osha dropped the bow and backed away.
“What?”
He flinched at the greimasg’äh’s demand, too loud in his ears, and Brot’ân’duivé now stood beside him.
“It ... moved,” he whispered. “It grew hot ... and then moved.”
“Pick it up!”
Osha did not move, and Brot’ân’duivé barked at him, “Now!”
He reluctantly did so. Nothing happened until the bow was fully upright, and then he felt the warmth growing. Before he could drop it again, the greimasg’äh’s hand clamped over his grip on the bow’s handle.
“They would not give you something that would cause enough harm to be useless.”
Osha was not so certain, but the bow’s handle warmed only a bit more.
“Now turn both ways in holding it upright.”
He did so, first back toward the tree, and he felt the bow try to tilt to his right. As he turned the other way, the force of its torque lessened.
“Let it lead you ... and follow it.”
He did so, turning as it urged him, and when that feeling of a tilt stopped altogether, Osha was nearly on top of a bramble. The greimasg’äh stomped and ripped at the thorny vines.
There inside the bramble was the lost arrow.
Brot’ân’duivé picked it up and eyed the white metal point. “Partially useful, as at least you will not lose one gift in learning to use the other.”
Osha did not see what real use this could be. Why would the Burning Ones force such a thing upon him ... a thing that was so clearly not of the Anmaglâhk?
Each day became too much like the last as they walked onward. Much as Osha watched the land around them, out to the craggy, barren mountains to the north, he never saw a sign of anything. Whatever the humans feared in these so-called Broken Lands, it had yet to make itself known.
He divided time between practicing with his bow and caring for Leanâlhâm, who had been sheltered all of her life by Gleannéohkân’thva and Sgäilsheilleache. In spite of the shame forced upon him—that he was no longer Anmaglâhk—he would protect her as they had.
He did notice that she had begun to flinch less often when he used her name, but he remained determined not to ask her about this until she herself wanted to tell him.
There was one evening when he returned from practice that he found the greimasg’äh sitting cross-legged on the ground and facing Leanâlhâm. Brot’ân’duivé leaned in close to her, though she had her hands over her face as she wept.
“What have you done?” Osha shouted, closing quickly on the greimasg’äh.
Brot’ân’duivé ignored him, though Leanâlhâm turned her face away, hiding from everyone. The greimasg’äh rose on one knee, gripped the girl by the shoulders, and gently settled her upon her bedroll to cover her with a blanket. But when he stood and turned, Osha stepped in his way.
“Answer me!” Osha demanded.
Brot’ân’duivé eyed him in silence, and then said, “I have done nothing but listen. As to what, that is her confidence with me—unless she tells you otherwise. It is not your place to even ask.”
It was another moon before Osha saw the city of Calm Seatt in the distance, though even then he was not certain whether that city was the one until they entered late one night. But along the way, he cared for Leanâlhâm and waited for her to say something about the night he found her crying before the greimasg’äh. She never did.
As well, each morning there was always training.
Osha, whose name meant “a sudden breeze,” shot arrows through the wind until he lost count of how many struck a tree without his ever missing.
Wynn was at something of a loss after all Osha said. She didn’t know what to say about all that had happened between him and Brot’an. And so ...
“Back in Calm Seatt, you let Leanâlhâm leave with Brot’an. If you were protecting her, why did you leave her with him?”
It was a mistake, though she realized it too late.
Osha looked stricken. “I did not leave her with Brot’ân’duivé! I left her with Léshil and Magiere, and Chap ... and Magiere had sworn to Sgäilsheilleache to protect Leanâlhâm. My place was to protect you ... from everything that greimasg’äh started with Most Aged Father. Even if Brot’ân’duivé fulfills his chosen purpose, it will not end Most Aged Father’s desires.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, dropping her gaze. “That was a stupid question. I think it is hard for me to understand all that you have been through ... all of the changes.”
“Then instead of questions, what are your answers?”
She looked up to find him watching her.
“Tell me of your life since we parted,” he said, tilting his head. “I know I am not the only one who has suffered.”
This wasn’t the first time he’d stunned her since he’d reappeared in her world. No one had ever asked her about this—though Chane didn’t need to. He’d been there since she’d first uncovered the truth that there was more than one orb.
“What did it cost you to find this orb of Earth?” Osha asked. “I can see its cost ... in everything about you.”
Wynn grew more uncomfortable under his gaze. “I don’t know where to start.”
“When you left me on the waterfront of Bela.”
The mention of their parting made her flush. She reached out and turned the spitted fish over, as on nights long gone when they had huddled by the fire in sharing their pasts.
Out in the forest Chane wrenched a young stag by its tineless antlers.
He threw it to the ground, pinned its neck with his knee, and struck once with full force against the back of its head. The animal went limp upon the damp forest mulch, though it was still alive, as he wished. He then went back to where he had stowed Welstiel’s pack before his hunt. When he returned, he dug inside of the pack, pulled out an ornate walnut box, and opened it beside the limp stag.
Inside were three hand-length iron rods with center loops, a teacup-sized brass bowl with strange etchings, and a white ceramic bottle with an obsidian stopper. All of these rested in burgundy padding. Every time he performed this act, he remembered Welstiel instructing him....
There are ways to make the life we consume last longer.
Welstiel had used the cup to feed upon humans, and Chane had taken the process a step further by his word to Wynn. He intertwined the iron rods into a tripod stand and placed the brass cup upon it before lifting the white bottle with its precious content—thrice-purified water. Pulling the stopper, he half filled the cup and remembered Welstiel’s clinical explanation.
Bloodletting is a wasteful way to feed. Too much life is lost and never consumed by our kind. It is not blood that matters but the leak of life caused by its loss.
Chane glanced at the deer.
The very idea of the cup revolted him, aside from the unwelcome necessity of feeding upon animals. But he needed life to continue protecting Wynn, and he could not risk feeding on a human: she might hear of someone missing or worse.
Chane drew the dagger he kept in his pack and made a small cut on the stag’s shoulder. Once the blade’s tip had gathered a bead of blood, he carefully tilted the steel over the cup.
A single drop struck the water. The blood thinned and diffused.
He began to chant, concentrating upon the cup’s innate influence. When finished, he watched the water in the cup for any change.
Nothing happened at first.
The stag let out a low sound. It was nothing more than the last bit of air escaping its lungs as its hide began to dry and shrivel. Its eyes collapsed inward, and its jawbone began to jut beneath withering skin. In moments it was only a dried, shrunken husk as vapors rose briefly over its corpse.