Child of a Dead God (9 page)
South
.
.
Time slipped by like water rippling over stones. Chane woke upon the floor near the entryway’s hearth. Welstiel would soon expect him upstairs to begin his nightly vigil.
Chane could not bring himself to go just yet. Pushing up on all fours, he listened to hungry cries rolling down the stairway from above. They always grew louder at dusk.
Longing for a hunt grew inside him at each muffled wail—and false hunger grew as well. He snatched a small twig from the hearth with a clinging bit of flame, climbed to his feet, and stepped through the passage to the back workroom. A lantern rested upon the nearest table beneath hanging branches of drying herbs. He lit it and then snuffed out the smoldering twig.
Several nights earlier, he’d noticed dark archways in the workroom’s rear, but he’d felt no desire to pass through any of them to explore the monastery further.
Tonight, he could not bring himself to go upstairs just yet, so he turned toward the workroom’s rear left corner and slipped through the dark opening in the wall.
Part of him recoiled from going farther and learning what he already feared . . . that this monastery might be more than some forgotten cloister of deluded priests.
Doorways lined the passage, but before he paused to open even one, his gaze caught on the darkness at the passage’s end where his lantern’s light did not reach. He saw a doorless opening, and a dark space beyond it.
Chane slowed with each step as his light pierced the portal and illuminated an old corner table. A rack anchored on the wall displayed rows of tiny bottles, vials, and clay containers, all of varied shape and height and sealed with cork stoppers or hinged pot-metal lids. A pile of small leather-bound books sat on the table, along with a scroll on an aged wooden spindle.
He froze at arm’s length from the opening, staring at these bits of paraphernalia.
At first, the odor of the place, so faint and overmixed, made it difficult to pick out individual scents. Herbs, floral oils, burned wax, old leather, musty dry paper and parchment . . .
He did not want to enter, but he could not turn away, and finally he forced himself into the room.
Other small tables lined the side walls, each covered in a disorder of implements, metal vessels, and varied texts. Chane’s attention fell upon a wide table at the room’s left end with a worn, slat-backed chair behind it.
He was in a study, perhaps the chamber of whoever headed this place, and he spotted a grayed wooden door just beyond the bookshelf against the right wall. It stood slightly ajar, as if someone in a hurry had forgotten to close it completely. But Chane turned back to the makeshift desk, circling around beside its chair.
Loose parchments, aged bound sheaves, and even older scrolls lay scattered across the tabletop. He settled in the chair and opened a small text directly in front of him—a thick journal written in an old Stravinan dialect. As he turned page after page, reading entries that had little to do with practices of healing, he found whole chapters in other languages. Each such was written in a singular hand, as if the journal had passed from one person to another over many years.
This forgotten stone enclave housed an order of healers. More monks than actual priests, they followed the teachings of some long-forgotten patron saint, a healer who had wandered this continent long ago. This was the sanctuary of the Sluzhobnék Sútzits—the Servants of Compassion.
Chane stared about the room, and his gaze returned to the gray wood door left ajar. He had come this far and knew he could not turn back until he had seen all that lay here. He lifted the lantern, rounded the table, and pulled the gray door open wide. Dim light spilled into the space beyond.
Bookcases were arranged in rows with their ends against the back wall so that both sides of the shelves could be used, and their tops had been anchored to the stone ceiling.
The library was not large, little more than what he had seen in smaller noble houses during his living days. But he was not looking at handsomely bound volumes, most of which would never be read by the great lord or lady of the manor. No, everything here had an aura of age and sanctity, carefully preserved and arranged, from cylinders protecting scrolls to plain leather overlaps shielding the page edges of books. These were all meant to be used—had been used—treasured and guarded.
Chane’s eyes passed over endnotes of sheaves, book spines, and faded labels on scroll cases, picking out what he could read in Belaskian or contemporary Stravinan.
The two easiest to catch were
Process of Distillation and Infusion
and
Spices of the Suman Lands—Properties, Verified & Fallacious
. With effort he deciphered
The Early Works of Master Evar Voskôviskän,
then . . . something
upon the Meadow,
and a thin book called
The Seven Leaves of
. . . its final word wasn’t clear. The last thing he spotted was a multivolumed set in a case labeled
The Antithesis Tome, with Commentaries, Volumes 1 through 8.
Process of Distillation and Infusion
and
Spices of the Suman Lands—Properties, Verified & Fallacious
. With effort he deciphered
The Early Works of Master Evar Voskôviskän,
then . . . something
upon the Meadow,
and a thin book called
The Seven Leaves of
. . . its final word wasn’t clear. The last thing he spotted was a multivolumed set in a case labeled
The Antithesis Tome, with Commentaries, Volumes 1 through 8.
Chane backed up until his shoulder thumped the door frame. He spun away into the outer room, sliding down the wall to the floor, and the lantern slipped from his fingers.
It tottered over and rolled away. Melted wax spattered around its glass, spilled over the wick, and snuffed out the light.
How many moments had Chane fancied himself in a faraway place in Wynn’s world, filled with intellect and knowledge? Someplace just like this small forgotten monastery—until madness and a monster broke in upon it one night.
Chane pulled up his knees, curling his arms up over his aching skull. Drowning in sorrow, he could not shed a single tear.
The dead could not weep.
Avranvärd, the Meadow’s Song, ran through the dark streets of Ghoivne Ajhâjhe, her thick braid bouncing against her back as she hurried for her ship.
Twice since reaching harbor, the hkomas—the ship’s master—had chastised her for dawdling while on errands. She had no wish to hear his tiresome rant again. Given any other option, she would tell him to find a new steward and keep his tedious lectures to himself.
Tonight, she had made good time in her tasks, procuring his precious quills, ink, and parchment—and at a reasonable trade of one short rope and six candles. That should keep him quiet this time. With a moment to herself, she stopped and anxiously scanned the streets.
On errands this day, she had seen three clad in forest-gray escorting two humans and a half-blood. Their presence in Ghoivne Ajhâjhe had spread talk through the city faster than she could scurry about, but Avranvärd had no interest in humans. She hoped only for another glimpse of the Anmaglâhk.
The youngest of the three had been only a handful of years older than her, but he looked dull, clumsy, and overall unimpressive. The second was an extreme of another kind—a Greimasg’äh!
Brot’ân’duivé was a towering man who filled Avranvärd with so much awe she almost stared too long and missed the third entirely. Then she recognized the last of that gray-clad trio.
Sgäilsheilleache . . . Sgäilsheilleache á Oshâgäirea gan’Coilehkrotall— Willow Shade, born of Sudden-Breeze’s Laugh, from the clan of the Lichen Woods.
When Avranvärd closed her eyes, she still saw his narrow, smooth face, and his gray-green cloak hanging perfectly across his shoulders. She had met and even briefly spoken with him once. Her own clan’s ship had taken him to the shores of Bela, one of the humans’ reeking cities. Unlike the ship’s crew, Sgäilsheilleache had disembarked to explore strange lands and to study other races. Watching the skiff carry him to shore in the dark, Avranvärd knew she would do whatever was necessary to become Anmaglâhk.
Tired of serving aboard ships, either her own clan’s or training upon those of another, she wanted to walk foreign lands and see them with her own eyes. Only the Anmaglâhk were so privileged.
She knew she was too old to request admittance. Most started training shortly after their name-taking before the ancestors. Although the calling came late for her, it was no less potent and overwhelming—as was despair at Most Aged Father’s denial. But three of the caste had now appeared from nowhere, staying at an inn in Ghoivne Ajhâjhe. Two had even been spotted upon the docks the same evening her ship made harbor.
It was a sign—her fate had to change. If only she could muster the courage to approach the Greimasg’äh, he would see the passion in her eyes and understand. She could not bear any more service aboard ship, and the boredom of inland existence was worse. But if the great Brot’ân’duivé spoke for her before Most Aged Father, the patriarch of the caste could not refuse her again.
The streets were nearly empty. Avranvärd saw no green-gray cloaks. She trudged the avenues back toward the bayside road, passing a tannery and a smokehouse. The savory scent of fish reminded her that she had not eaten supper yet. She passed a darkened cobbler’s shop with a sense of longing. Her own boots were too large. Like her shirt and breeches and tunic, and even her hemmed cloak, they were hand-me-downs from an elder brother. But she had nothing worthy of trade for new ones.
When she was finally accepted as Anmaglâhk, this would change. They wore flat, soft boots for speed and silence, sewn just for them. And they traded for nothing. All their needs were fulfilled just for the asking.
She saw the lanterns hanging over her ship’s deck out in the harbor beyond the beach. She wandered down the road and onto the docks, down to her small skiff tied off at the pier’s end. She rifled one last time through her packages, checking for everything the hkomas had requested, and then crouched to untie her skiff.
“Please wait,” someone called.
Avranvärd jumped in fright and whirled about.
A cloaked figure stood on the shore road to the docks, as if appearing from nowhere. The figure stepped toward the dock and passed beneath a hung lantern, and she saw a man in a gray-green cloak.
“You are Avranvärd?” he asked, and strode down the dock, pointing out into the bay. “The steward from that cargo vessel?”
Avranvärd was struck mute. She had never seen him before, but he was Anmaglâhk. He knew her by name. How? Why? And her thoughts raced to her dearest hope. Had Most Aged Father reconsidered her request?
“Yes . . . I am,” she finally stammered.
He was quite small-boned, his young and plain face glistening with sweat. Loose, white-blond hair stuck to his temples and cheeks. Leaves and wild grass clung to his cloak. He glanced around, as if making sure they were alone, and then took a long, tired breath.
“I come with a request from Most Aged Father.” He stepped close enough that she could smell his earthy scent. “It is not a difficult task but requires discretion. Are you willing to hear me?”
She nodded, and the motion sent a shudder running up her spine and neck.
“You are aware that two humans and a half-blood will board your ship for the next voyage?”
“What . . . no,” she stuttered. “That is not—”
“Yes, as soon as your ship is loaded for departure.”
How could a human be allowed on an an’Cróan ship? Would any anmaglâhk join them, or were her crewmates expected to control these savages?
“Some of our caste will follow from a safe distance on another vessel,” the weary messenger continued. “A Greimasg’äh and several others chosen by him. He must be kept informed of your stops, changes in course, or anything unusual regarding the humans.”
He took a small box from his cloak and held it out.
“This contains a word-wood from the ship that will follow. With it, you will report to the Greimasg’äh. Do you understand?”
Avranvärd hesitated for an instant. Word-wood from ships was only for hkomas—or hkœda, the Shapers who served and cared for a ship’s existence. How had such an item come to the hands of an anmaglâhk?
It did not matter. She had been called to do a service for the Anmaglâhk.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Does this mean I am accepted as an initiate?”
The young-faced anmaglâhk shook his head.
“I am instructed to tell you that if you accept this task . . . this purpose . . . then Most Aged Father may reconsider you.”
Avranvärd snatched the box from him. “When do I begin making reports?”
With pursed lips, he stepped back and turned down the dock.
“At dusk the first day at sea. The Greimasg’äh will expect contact each dawn and dusk, when and if you are able to slip away to privacy. No one must know what you do, not even your hkomas. Simply place the word-wood against your ship and speak. The Greimasg’äh will hear and answer into your thoughts.”
The anmaglâhk stopped briefly as he reached the shore road, his soft voice carrying clearly to her.
“Do not fail,” he called, and then he was gone.
Avranvärd stood shaking, sweat spreading beneath her tight grip upon the box. By now, her hkomas would surely reprimand her for tardiness, but she did not care. She had a mission—a purpose, as it was called among the caste.
Once completed, and upon her return, she would be Anmaglâhk.
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