Such information was more evidence to wrest control of the caste from that too-long-lived madman—and Most Aged Father had known this. But sitting by the fire that night with Osha, Brot’ân’duivé kept all of this to himself, as well as the message stone from the Chein’âs delivered by a séyilf.
Osha had been too raw, broken, and unprepared for another purpose.
“Spit it out!” Léshil barked. “What was in that journal?”
“Little of use,” he answered. “But Most Aged Father did not know that.”
Late that night in camp, once Osha had rested, he had suddenly grown wary and glanced about the forest.
“There is no one here but us,” Brot’ân’duivé had assured him.
Still hesitant, Osha had pulled a small book from inside his tunic, held it out, and explained how he came by it.
Brot’ân’duivé looked directly at Léshil and ignored Chap.
“The irony was that Wynn intended the journal for only me,” he said, “and Osha would have rather died than fail her. She wanted me to know the basics of what happened in the Pock Peaks.”
“Wynn did this?” Léshil asked in mixed surprise and anger.
“Not everyone doubts me as you do,” he answered dryly. “She is as aware as any of you—perhaps more—that Most Aged Father is mad with fear.”
No, Wynn’s sending him information had not surprised him. What had was Osha’s reluctance to speak of the sage at all, as if any mention of her caused him pain. The young one had simply delivered the journal as he had sworn to do.
“Wynn intended to place information in my hands, should I need it,” Brot’ân’duivé added. “And as it was so intended, it is at my discretion to tell you anything within it ... or not.”
Léshil’s expression turned livid. Chap began to rumble, his hackles rising as his ears flattened.
Brot’ân’duivé softened his voice as he looked Léshil in the eyes and remembered the first of many times he had paged through Wynn’s delivered journal.
“It was difficult to read, between her hurried scrawl and the strange dialect she used, but it became easier with effort. The account was not long and simply covered the basic events of your journey ... from the beginning.”
Skimming toward the end, he had carefully read a brief account of what happened inside a six-towered castle in the Pock Peaks, and how the artifact had been carried out. When he reached the passages describing the Everfen, he had stopped and tucked the journal inside his shirt for later study. He had gained the basics, and for the remainder of that night he had focused on tending Osha.
“Wynn gave away no deep secrets,” he said. “Again, she only gave me the basics of what happened, perhaps in case Most Aged Father attempted to twist the truth ... which he will ... which he has. Who beside me could stand against him in that? Certainly not her ... or you.”
“You told Magiere the journal was at the heart of whatever changed Osha and Leanâlhâm from the people we knew.”
“It was, for them and others,” Brot’ân’duivé answered. “Most Aged Father believed the journal held information pertaining to the artifact—the first orb. I did not realize until too late how far he would go.”
Léshil frowned and glanced down at Chap, perhaps to formulate his next question ... or for Chap to give him one. The majay-hì never looked at Léshil. Chap’s gaze remained fixed on Brot’ân’duivé, but it would do him no good.
How could the majay-hì hope to snatch a memory from a shadow-gripper?
For one who could use his will to sink in silence and in shadow, in both thought and flesh, memory could be as willfully hidden. As long as Chap was watching, Brot’ân’duivé would always be hiding, even—especially—in plain sight of this majay-hì. He would bury Chap in darkness if he had to.
The ship lurched up another swell and this time fell sharply.
Brot’ân’duivé looked up. The overcast sky had darkened and so had the sea. The waves were mounting higher.
“All passengers below,” Captain Bassett shouted from the aftcastle. “Might be some rough weather ahead.”
Suddenly weary, Brot’ân’duivé left the rail and headed for the stairs below the aftcastle.
“What next?” Léshil called after him. “Did you get Osha back to the enclave?”
“Yes,” Brot’ân’duivé answered without halting. “And that is enough for now.”
He could have told Léshil more, but that did not serve his need. Simplified truths were always the most undetectable of lies.
Leesil watched Brot’an walk away as Chap snarled and took a step after the master anmaglâhk. He quickly reached down to grab the dog by the scruff.
“No,” Leesil whispered. “Let him go ... for now.”
Unless Brot’an felt like talking, they wouldn’t get anything more out of him. Since he had the excuse of the rising storm, chasing him down would get them nowhere, especially after he locked himself away in his cabin. Better to try again later, but soon, when they could catch him off guard.
Even when Brot’an did talk, he gave away so little, and Leesil had more than once wanted to turn the talk back to his mother. But Chap had kept at him about Osha as the way to learn more of what happened due to Wynn’s journal.
Leesil wanted to kick Wynn in the seat of her pants for that stupid book.
The whole time he’d been trying to get at Brot’an, he’d had a lingering feeling—no, a certainty—that the shadow-gripper said less than he knew. Sighing, Leesil took his hand from Chap’s fur.
“Too bad you can’t get inside his head.”
Chap’s rumble sharpened into a sudden snarl—and the ship bucked again.
Leesil’s lunch threatened to come up. He grew miserable, thinking the storm might put him back in his bunk.
“Come on,” he choked out. “Let’s see how Magiere and Leanâlhâm are doing.”
Leesil pulled himself along the rail to within reach of the aftcastle’s forward wall. Chap crept along ahead of him and more than once lost his footing as the deck dampened with sea spray. They ducked into the steep steps leading below, and Leesil jerked the deck door closed. When he stepped down into the lower passage behind Chap, Magiere slipped out of Leanâlhâm’s cabin as Brot’an was about to enter.
“She’s resting,” Magiere told Brot’an quietly. “I don’t think she slept well last night. If she wakes and this weather scares her, tell her she can come to our cabin.”
“She will be fine with me,” Brot’an returned, and before Magiere could argue, he slipped into the cabin and shut the door.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, spotting Leesil down the passage.
“Tell you later. Let’s get back to our room ... before I re-enjoy my lunch.”
As he came toward her with one hand against the wall, she grew visibly concerned and reached for him. Chap was not beside him, and he looked about.
There was Chap, sitting on his rump and glaring at Brot’an’s cabin door.
“Are you coming in?” Leesil asked.
—No—
The ship rocked sharply and didn’t right itself quickly enough.
Chap slid backward, and his butt hit the passage’s wall. Leesil slid, too, struggling to stay on his feet. He was getting too sick to care about Chap’s foul temper in trying to sit vigil at Brot’an’s door.
Magiere grabbed Leesil’s wrist and pulled him into the cabin. Once inside, Leesil left the door open in case Chap changed his mind. The door kept swinging on its own with every roll of the ship.
“What’s going on?” Magiere asked, as Leesil stumbled onto a bunk.
Her hair was in a single braid, but long strands had escaped to hang and float around her pale face. Groaning, he tried to answer in between the roiling in his stomach. He managed to relate what little Brot’an had said.