“Is there something you two want?” Brot’an asked in fluent Belaskian.
—Go—at him—with—what—we know— ... —Force him—off guard—for me—
To Leesil’s credit, he didn’t flinch or betray that Chap had said anything with memory-words. Chap did not even need to guide him in the first assault. Leesil fired back in Belaskian, so that no one nearby would understand.
“Tell me how—and why—you were talking to my mother. What in seven hells have you gotten her into now?”
Brot’an would first see only a son who’d suffered a long life of guilt and a long journey, years back, to find and free his mother. Nein’a—Cuirin’nên’a—in being suspected as a dissident had been imprisoned for more than a decade in a remote glade. Brot’an, amid defending Magiere during her trial before the an’Cróan’s council of elders, had a hand in freeing her. But Leesil—and Chap—never forgot one more fact.
Brot’an did nothing unless it served his own ends.
It wasn’t easy to surprise him. Perhaps one of his amber eyes—the one between those four scars—twitched once at Leesil’s first assault. Leesil didn’t let up.
“Magiere told us Most Aged Father sent a ship after Osha ... to bring him in like some criminal, and that you went to Origin-Heart to find out why. What did they do to Osha? What was in that journal Wynn gave him, and what does it have to do with anything?”
Brot’an, still silent, glanced down at Chap—this also was no surprise. Brot’an was no fool. He knew well that Chap could feed Leesil questions to ask aloud. Brot’an knew which of the two he now faced was the greater danger.
Still, Chap was frustrated that he couldn’t penetrate the shadow-gripper’s mind, let alone speak to him directly.
The old assassin could have reacted any number of ways to Leesil’s interrogation. He could have turned the tables and demanded more of what had happened in the Wastes before offering anything in exchange. Leesil would have given him nothing for that. Brot’an could have tried to walk away, though Chap would have cut him off.
Instead Brot’an turned his back to the sea, leaned leisurely against the rail, and closed his eyes.
It was so submissive that Chap became wary, though Leesil grew visibly angry.
“You’ve started killing your own kind,” Leesil said. “What have you pulled my mother into with all this bloodshed between you and your caste?”
Chap would have cursed aloud, if he could have.
—No— ... —Press—him—about—Osha— ... —Stay focused—on—what leads to—the journal—
Brot’an opened his eyes and regarded Leesil tiredly. “Léshil,” he sighed.
Chap knew they had faltered. Leesil put himself at a disadvantage in focusing on his mother; that was not the way to put Brot’an in a corner.
—Osha—not—Nein’a—is—the way—to make—him—slip—
Leesil took a hissing breath through clenched teeth, and Chap almost shouted into his head again.
“What happened to Osha when he got back?” Leesil asked.
The question came out with much reluctance, and Brot’an would not miss this.
“I freed him,” Brot’an answered flatly, “and took him from Most Aged Father and out of Crijheäiche. But I did not know how determined the patriarch would be to gain the journal.”
“What was in the journal?”
Brot’an glanced away and down, shaking his head.
Brot’ân’duivé hesitated. Léshil likely viewed his questions as easy to answer—and they were not. Cuirin’nên’a’s mother, the great Eillean and Brot’ân’duivé’s secret love, was one founder of the dissident movement. Cuirin’nên’a had followed in her mother’s ways and sacrificed much to bring her half-blooded son into this world and train him beyond the caste’s reach.
It was necessary that Léshil remain outside the influence of any one people, culture, or division, so that none could cast blame or claim success in the face of any other faction. It would also be easier to keep him free for what would come, and to direct—control—him amid his feelings of being cast adrift in the world.
At least all of this could have been, if Léshil had not fled his parents and run into Magiere. And the one who orchestrated that meeting was obvious.
Brot’ân’duivé did not look at Chap in this moment. No one could have known back then what hid within a majay-hì puppy that a grandmother delivered secretly through a mother to a lonely half-blooded boy.
Only after Eillean’s watchful suspicions were satisfied had Brot’ân’duivé even been allowed contact with other dissidents. But he believed that Léshil should now be privy to some of the truth. The mixed-race grandson of the one Brot’ân’duivé loved—and had lost—had a pivotal role in their plans, should the worst come and the Ancient Enemy of many names return. If nothing else, giving Léshil some information might be one step to pulling him back on course until a destination could be found for him.
But Léshil was not the only one listening—nor truly the one asking these questions.
Brot’ân’duivé feared sharing anything with the deviant majay-hì.
“So, you got Osha out of Origin-Heart?” Léshil pressed again. “Was he all right?”
“No,” Brot’ân’duivé answered. “But nothing adverse happened in his meeting with Most Aged Father.”
Perhaps this was the place to start, on a course that could divert Chap to something superficially satisfying. And it might put this pair in his debt. A debt he could collect from Magiere.
“Osha was exhausted,” he continued, “from many days of travel ... and the loss of his jeóin, Sgäilsheilleache.”
The aggression on Léshil’s face faded slightly. “I know he was.”
Brot’ân’duivé knew that he had underestimated how heartsick Osha had been. At times he wondered whether he felt things to the same degree as others. Perhaps a life of discipline automatically disallowed this. When it came to even those who mattered to him, this had more than once caused him to be shortsighted where they were concerned.
He recounted to himself the details of that day when he had led the weary, emotionally damaged young anmaglâhk through the forest on a long journey to the main enclave of the Coilehkrotall clan. Simply knowing that they headed to the home of Gleannéohkân’thva appeared to give the young one strength. Osha might recover among people who cared for him—the family of his jeóin, who shared his loss just as deeply.
“I led him through our land, making certain we were not followed,” Brot’ân’duivé began. “He told me in detail of what happened between Hkuan’duv and Sgäilsheilleache. I do not need to repeat this ... as you were there.”
Léshil’s gaze hardened. Perhaps he, as well, had suffered the loss of Sgäilsheilleache.
From sheer exhaustion, Osha had fallen silent for the remainder of that day until they made camp. Sitting by the fire, he finally began to speak, telling Brot’ân’duivé more that would shake the foundation of their caste. Hkuan’duv and Sgäilsheilleache were not the first to die in an effort to steal the artifact from Magiere. Most Aged Father had sent a team of four after her. Along the way, two skilled senior anmaglâhk—A’harhk’nis and Kurhkâge—had been lost in the Pock Peaks.
Brot’ân’duivé could barely account for the ramifications: four of their finest dead because of Most Aged Father’s paranoia. No one outside the patriarch’s closest circle had learned of this until Osha’s return. Even then less than a handful knew the truth.