Brot’ân’duivé saw all of this reflected in the old one’s eyes.
“No, my Covârleasa,” Most Aged Father said. “Your concern is admirable but misplaced. Leave us.”
With clear reluctance, Juan’yâre backed out of sight.
Brot’ân’duivé immediately gestured for Osha to rise.
“Where is Sgäilsheilleache?” he asked.
The question’s suddenness had its intended effect, and Osha’s strained expression twisted into pain.
“Dead,” he answered weakly. “I burned his body and performed the rites.”
“Osha!” Most Aged Father cried in alarm. “You were not to speak of this yet.”
Brot’ân’duivé merely stood there as Osha’s words fell on him like a sudden chill. Sgäilsheilleache represented that which could not be replaced: an anmaglâhk, neither dissident nor loyalist, who put the people and their ways before all else. He defended both in action and in self—in all ways and at any cost.
This is what it meant—should have meant—to be Anmaglâhk. To take back the way of life of his people from any who would steal it from them.
“How?” Brot’ân’duivé asked.
“A greimasg’äh ... Hkuan’duv ... came after us,” Osha answered, and anger began leaking into his voice. “He demanded Sgäilsheilleache take the orb from Magiere and surrender it. Sgäilsheilleache refused to break his oath of guardianship. They fought and killed each other in the same instant.”
Brot’ân’duivé stood there in silence. One of their highest, a shadow-gripper, had gone after one of the caste. Of all the things he feared hearing here, this had not been among his speculations. This could have only happened because ...
He looked long and hard at Most Aged Father, but the old one met his gaze without a twitch or blink.
Sgäilsheilleache had killed a greimasg’äh in single combat, in defending one of the oldest of the people’s ways. How much more could he have become? How much had they lost in his death?
For an instant Brot’ân’duivé succumbed to a silent rage. If Hkuan’duv had survived, it would not have been for long.
“Brot’ân’duivé!” Most Aged Father snapped. “This information is not to be spread, even among our caste. Not until they have been prepared for such tragedy.” His voice turned coldly polite. “And of course your wish is always to serve the needs of your caste as well as the people.”
Brot’ân’duivé studied him. “Is Osha under arrest?”
“Arrest?” Most Aged Father echoed, feigning surprise. “Of course not. He is simply giving me his report.”
“Then let us both hear anything further. As a caste elder, who should be informed when a member returns without his team, I would be most interested.”
Brot’ân’duivé played a dangerous game and knew it. Most Aged Father had not finished his interrogation but would certainly have no desire to continue it with a witness who could not be dismissed. It was a long moment before the old one answered.
“I think we are finished here, for now.”
Brot’ân’duivé half turned, gesturing Osha toward the exit.
“How far will you take him?” Most Aged Father asked, and Osha halted in the opening, looking back.
“He is hungry and tired from his journey,” Brot’ân’duivé answered. “He is in pain from having lost his jeóin. I will take him wherever he needs to go, for without proper rest, grief might drive him to purge it, and its cause, with the wrong people.”
This veiled threat made the obvious clear. If Most Aged Father interfered further with Osha, Brot’ân’duivé would make the truth of these events known to all.
“Very well,” Most Aged Father said slowly.
Brot’ân’duivé gripped Osha’s arm and turned to usher the young one out of the heart-root.
“Osha, my son,” Most Aged Father called out, “I meant to ask about a book which Dänvârfij saw in your possession ... written in our tongue with a human scrawl. Can you tell me what it is?”
Brot’ân’duivé felt the muscles in Osha’s arm clench. The insinuation in Most Aged Father’s voice was like a stench in the chamber. Brot’ân’duivé did not look back, but he watched as Osha turned his head.
“It is ... it is nothing, Father,” the young one stuttered out. “A gift, a token given to me by a human woman.”
Most Aged Father tutted like an amused parent. “A gift? I hope you have not taken to consorting with this woman. May I see the token?”
Brot’ân’duivé felt the sinews in Osha’s arm tighten harder, but the young one’s voice turned lighter this time when he replied.
“It is personal to me, Father. May I go now?”
In that instant Brot’ân’duivé knew that since the last time he had seen this most inept of anmaglâhk, Osha had somehow learned to lie. It might have saddened those who knew his unique innocence in all things, including service.
It only sharpened Brot’ân’duivé’s curiosity about this book.
“Of course, my son,” Most Aged Father answered. “Go and rest and heal your wounds.”
Taking the lead, Brot’ân’duivé pushed Osha out and led the way toward the stairs. He did not see Juan’yâre along the way. Halfway up the steps, he whispered back to Osha.
“We are leaving Crijheäiche now. Are you able to travel?”
“As far as you can get me from here,” came the answer, and then, as they neared the top, “Greimasg’äh?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Brot’ân’duivé raised his eyes in the woods north of Berhtburh’s waterfront and wondered what had pulled him from this memory. Something, a living presence in the night.
He felt it like a shift of air not quite a breeze. Carefully maintaining his fatigued demeanor, he looked out to the ocean, and then turned all the way around, as if at a loss for where he would go next.
In that turn his eyes never focused on any one thing.
He took in everything that passed through his field of sight. He saw nothing, but he knew he was not wrong. Something was out there watching him.
He strode away toward the waterfront. No one could follow him for long if he chose not to allow it. But he did nothing to lose whatever, whoever, was there. Not until he neared the first warehouse before the piers.
Turning into the broad cutway at the warehouse’s far end, he emptied his mind completely and let shadow swallow him even as he broke into a jog. Amid the total inner silence, he heard nearly mute steps following him.
At the cutway’s rear, he turned right into the adjoining alley, rushing one block south behind the warehouses to the next side street before turning back to the waterfront. He stood there at the corner, watching along the warehouses by the light of dim lanterns.
Something darted out of the previous cutway, as if having lost track in following him. It looked both ways and finally froze, peering straight at Brot’ân’duivé.
Chap stood glaring at him; lantern’s light shimmered on the majay-hì’s fur as his hackles rose. What light sparked in Chap’s crystal-blue eyes soon caught on his near-white teeth as he snarled.
Had the majay-hì overheard anything out in the woods?
Brot’ân’duivé was too tired to care and did not have the energy for any more of Léshil’s and Chap’s insistence upon treating him like an enemy. He simply walked away, casually heading out along the pier to the Cloud Queen.
The following dawn, Chap stood waiting on deck for the first sign of Leesil and Magiere’s return. He had little to tell them, and it seemed the war to extract any truth from Brot’an was to be fought in feints and skirmishes rather than in outright battles. But there was one thing, one name spoken in the night, that Leesil would want to hear.