“No, you are wrong! He is not an unknown variable, though we do not know his true place in what will unfold. But Osha can be trusted, even on his own. He will never give us away.”
Brot’an paused again, and his voice softened. “I am right in this. Now you must stay safe. If possible, use our inside agents to learn what you can of this team that follows me. I have eliminated half of them and know some that remain, but until the rest are delivered to our ancestors, you must try to gain any hints of what they relate to Most Aged Father. You will hear from me again when I can get away from the others.”
Brot’an’s eyes closed briefly, and he slumped as if wincing in pain or some deep sorrow.
It all left Chap wondering what Leesil’s mother had said.
“Yes, still ... always,” Brot’an whispered, perhaps confirming something, and he finished with, “In silence and in shadow.”
Chap swallowed back a growl at that litany. No matter how Brot’an dressed, no matter whom among his own caste he murdered, he was—and always would be—anmaglâhk.
Brot’an’s hand slid tiredly off the spruce. He tucked the oval of tawny wood back into his tunic before he rose.
Chap belly-crawled in against the base of a tree as Brot’an passed right by where he hid.
Returning toward the waterfront of Berhtburh, Brot’ân’duivé walked purposefully through the rocky shore’s woods. He could not stop thinking of all that he had left back home, all he had left Cuirin’nên’a and the other dissidents to face without him.
His adamant response to her questioning of Osha’s trustworthiness had surprised him. Even he did not truly know what lay ahead for the young man. Pausing, he put his hand against a tree to give himself a moment to just breathe.
Osha was not a dissident, Anmaglâhk or otherwise. He was also not one of Most Aged Father’s inner circle of loyalists. Osha appeared to fit nowhere in the scheme of things that could be clearly perceived.
Brot’ân’duivé did not like unknown factors or being left in the dark. Perhaps it was best that Osha had disobeyed and remained behind with Wynn Hygeorht. Perhaps this was somehow intended.
Brot’ân’duivé no longer regretted having been forced to take Osha from his people. Not after it was clear that Most Aged Father would turn loyalists against other anmaglâhk in pursuit of his goals. Osha would have been caught in the middle.
Closing his eyes and feeling his age bearing down on him, Brot’ân’duivé leaned harder against the tree. The weight of it was as heavy as his fatigue on that night he had stepped into the heart-root of the ancient oak where Osha was alone and “counseled” by Most Aged Father....
Brot’ân’duivé never glanced back to see whether any sentries still standing followed him. He rapidly descended the steps into the earth, but he questioned the wisdom of a recent decision.
Upon arriving in Crijheäiche a full day ago, he had considered pressing on via the Hâjh River to Ghoivne Ajhâjhe on the coast. If he had, he might have intercepted Osha before the young one reached Most Aged Father. But he had not known whether Osha would be brought by barge or on foot at a run through the forest. So he had waited, and it had not been as long as he had expected.
By the time one of Brot’ân’duivé’s dissident anmaglâhk came to him out in the trees beyond Crijheäiche, Osha was already approaching the settlement by barge. Brot’ân’duivé had not been quick enough to intercept the barge before it landed, and though exhausted, he now descended into Most Aged Father’s domain in full haste.
Osha had no idea what had happened in his absence, that the caste was divided in more ways. Even among the Anmaglâhk there had been a handful of active dissidents for many years before Brot’ân’duivé had joined them after Léshil’s birth. Now there were others—the loyalists, as he called them—who swung the other way in secret as well.
These fanatics had become more than a counterfaction to the dissidents.
The dissidents among the people—anmaglâhk and not—disapproved of Most Aged Father’s using the caste to start civil wars and seed political discord among the human nations. More than a thousand years ago, it was said—mostly by Most Aged Father—that the Ancient Enemy had used and harnessed humans and then turned them against the allied forces.
Most Aged Father believed that enemy would return—was returning.
Directing the human nations’ suspicions upon each other was no longer about turning their curious eyes away from the people’s territories. It had become something more.
Most Aged Father sought to decrease the humans’ numbers before that enemy rose again.
Brot’ân’duivé harbored no love for humans. Neither did he believe in some subtle attempt at genocide. What would happen should any powerful faction among the humans learn of the new goal of the Anmaglâhk, the loyalists?
Retribution.
Most Aged Father’s paranoia endangered his own people, but the loyalists among the Anmaglâhk followed him in this, even unto turning upon their own caste. Among the few clan elders who sympathized with the dissidents enough to be warned by them, none were yet alarmed enough to openly pull down Most Aged Father.
Yet more of the people at large were beginning to silently, secretly take sides.
Brot’ân’duivé did not know where all of this would lead. He knew only that Most Aged Father was mad and must be removed. But more than this, if the Ancient Enemy did return, it would only drive the people to fear. And they would turn to Most Aged Father for protection.
Then there would be no end, no limit, to what they would let him do.
The answer was not a matter of killing one or the other. Both the Enemy and Most Aged Father had to die ... at the right moment. And if the Enemy died by the hand or intent of a half-blood, an outsider, neither human nor an’Cróan could claim that victory in turning their remaining ire on the other.
As to Most Aged Father ...
Brot’ân’duivé emerged into the large earthen chamber of the great oak. Hearing an angry, reedy voice, he headed straight for the opening into the heart-root chamber.
“You must have learned more, my son,” Most Aged Father pleaded. “You were there when she found the artifact!”
“No, Father, I was not there when Magiere found ... what she called an ‘orb,’” Osha answered in a strained, exhausted voice. “I did not even see the place from where she took it. I was injured and lay unconscious in an ancient library, while Wynn tended—”
“But after—later—you must have seen it! What did it look like? What is its purpose?”
Brot’ân’duivé stepped into the heart-root, and Most Aged Father’s milky eyes fixed instantly upon him.
Any feigned sympathy beneath the ancient one’s fervent questioning vanished as his eyes widened slightly. Shock was then replaced by a glint of hatred.
Osha looked up in equal surprise from where he knelt upon a cushion.
“Greimasg’äh?” he breathed.
Brot’ân’duivé saw the strain on Osha’s face. Had the young one even been given rest or food after the long journey here?
“My elder son,” Most Aged Father cut in, eyeing Brot’an. “You have not been called. I am receiving a report. Leave us until we are finished.”
An order, not a request, but Brot’ân’duivé was far past pretending to follow either.
Juan’yâre suddenly appeared at the heart-root’s opening; alarm twisted his bland features.
“Father, should I have him removed?”
Brot’ân’duivé contemptuously ignored the new Covârleasa. “By all means,” he told Most Aged Father, “call a few of our brethren down and have them try to remove me.”
Most Aged Father hesitated at that taunt. The prospect of attempting to physically remove a shadow-gripper would end only in humiliation—if not death—for those who tried. Word of it would spread too quickly to be contained.