First and Last Sorcerer Read online

  “Are you injured?” he rasped. “I can carry you.”

  She huffed no twice but slowed in looking back at him. She saw what he had done, though it had been to save her. The injury to her head taken over a moon ago might have weakened her more than anyone realized. She had been injured again, perhaps, though she would not let him check for wounds.

  Either that, or she did not want to be coddled anymore, or . . .

  She huffed no once more, though much softer this time.

  “Very well,” he answered as quietly. “Let us find Wynn.”

  * * *

  Wayfarer struggled as her legs threatened to give way even while leaning upon Chap. She did not know how long she could keep this pace as cutways, alleys, and dimly lit streets blurred by in the night. The few people they passed never said a word, and most only glanced their way. The dusky-skinned man continued to stop and look back to whisper to Wynn at the mouths of various alleys. Wayfarer welcomed these brief respites.

  She was lost in a haze as to how any of this had come about or how Wynn could possibly be here. At least Magiere’s eyes opened more often as she held on to Léshil and Wynn in their flight. And then Wynn stopped and left Léshil to hold Magiere alone as she went to an alley’s mouth.

  “We’re almost there,” she whispered, pointing ahead.

  Wayfarer spotted a large building with a center spire rising high above its domed roof. Light within that place flickered behind ornate peaked windows of yellow, green, and violet glass panes.

  “We’ll be well hidden but easy for the others to find,” Wynn continued, hurrying back to help Léshil with Magiere. “One last dash across the street. Everyone ready?”

  When no one answered, the Suman man stepped out and something about his face was familiar. Wayfarer could not place him, though she was certain she had seen him before. There was no time to remember as Chap started forward and memory-words rose in her mind.

  —Not far now . . . and then I will insist . . . that we rest longer—

  That was a little comfort.

  She clung to his fur as they hurried into the street, and she saw a narrow path along one side of the shrine between it and a smaller building. A few hard breaths later, she followed Chap down the narrow way behind Wynn. Behind the shrine was an alley with room for all to press up against the long building’s back and out of sight. Once there, Léshil and Wynn lowered Magiere down the wall, and Wayfarer collapsed to her knees beside Chap.

  “We rest now?” she asked.

  —Yes—

  Léshil suddenly jerked up his head, looking about. Wayfarer’s breath stopped as his right hand went to one of the winged blades strapped on his thighs.

  A tall form dropped from above, landing in a crouch.

  Wayfarer saw only locks of white-blond hair dangling out of a deep, dark hood. She almost scrabbled over the top of Chap as one thought filled her head: Anmaglâhk!

  Chap spun up to all fours and swerved around her, snarling.

  Léshil pushed off the wall and stumbled as he tried to get in behind the dog.

  The tall figure rose up, back-stepped, and held out both hands. “No . . . it . . . me,” he whispered in broken Belaskian.

  Wayfarer spotted the end of a bow over one of his shoulders and a quiver above the other. She was too shocked to even say his name.

  “Osha?” Léshil whispered.

  Wayfarer’s emotions churned like a storm tearing leaves off trees.

  Osha had once been her only comfort in a darkening world. He had cared for her after she had lost everything and everyone she had ever loved. He became her only family . . . until he had left her without a good-bye, without even telling anyone what he would do. The ship he was supposed to meet had carried her and the others southward to this land.

  And now he was here.

  Osha had chosen to remain in Calm Seatt . . . with Wynn.

  Wayfarer turned numb inside. Osha’s hooded head turned toward her. What must she look like after a moon of suffering and near starvation?

  “Leanâlhâm . . . I . . .” he barely breathed.

  She had no peace to offer him, if he felt guilty.

  “Do not call me that,” she whispered. “My name is Wayfarer.”

  How cold her voice sounded to her own ears. After too many unwanted names, this would be the last that anyone would call her—including him.

  “Next time,” Léshil grated through his teeth, “don’t drop on us like some gangly spider in the dark.”

  Wayfarer could not see Osha’s face or eyes in the dark, and he said nothing more at first. His hood sagged as if he dropped his head in turning a little toward Léshil.

  “Sorry,” he whispered.

  Wayfarer understood Osha enough to know that he was upset . . . and by more than Léshil’s annoyed chastisement.

  * * *

  Wynn watched both Osha and Wayfarer, uncertain of what had passed in the few words between them. She knew him well enough to guess that something more than mere guilt—at facing the girl—was troubling him. Wynn was about to squeeze past to go see him when Chap lunged around Osha’s side with a loud snarl.

  “Quiet,” Wynn whispered in alarm. “You’ll bring the guards!”

  His snarl only settled to a low, throated growl, and Wynn spotted someone coming up the narrow space behind Osha.

  Osha barely turned his hooded head, perhaps hearing something, but that was all.

  Wynn was panicked enough to call out a warning, but Osha didn’t turn, as if he knew who had come. And there was only one person tall enough to peer at everyone over Osha’s shoulder.

  Leesil pulled a winged blade, though Wynn doubted he had the strength to use it.

  “Quiet that dog,” Ghassan ordered from behind her.

  “Please, Chap,” Wynn whispered. “Stop it!”

  Chap fell silent, though he remained facing Osha with his hackles bristling.

  Wynn took in the sight of Brot’an standing behind Osha. The old shadow-gripper carried a large pack over one shoulder and a travel chest in his hands. In the dark, his ashen blond hair looked gray, though some remaining white-blond would have shown in daylight. She barely made out the four scars skipping across his right eye.

  Brot’an’s gaze passed over everyone in the alley and came to rest on Leesil and the weapon in his hand.

  “Do you intend to use that?” Brot’an asked softly.

  “Get out of here,” Leesil spat. “You left us to those guards on the docks!”

  To Wynn’s surprise, Brot’an’s brow might have wrinkled in the dark. “Yes . . . and no,” he answered.

  Wynn struggled forward in the narrow space, hurrying to get between them. “This is not the time, and we’re still missing Shade and Chane!”

  At that last name, Leesil turned on her instead of Brot’an, his mouth half open.

  Wynn flinched away from Leesil’s stare and glanced back. In the alley’s back end, Magiere was slumped to the ground with her head hanging where she leaned against the building. Wynn pushed past everyone to the narrow path’s front.

  Peering around the huge shrine’s corner, at first she saw nothing. She grew frantic and even thought to go out and search. In a half-conscious step, she froze.

  Down the way they had come, part of a building’s dark silhouette appeared to bulge for an instant. That blackness separated and stalked out into the street.

  Wynn almost ran out as first Shade and then Chane came toward the shrine, but something was wrong.

  Shade was limping.

  When she reached the shrine’s outer wall, Wynn could no longer keep back. She ducked out, scurrying to Shade, and dropped to her knees in relief. She put her arms around the dog’s neck and held on for an instant as Chane closed on both of them.

  “It is all right,” he said. “We were not followed. Most of the guards out so far are to the west, where Shade drew them.”

  “What happened?” Wynn asked.

  Chane hesitated.

  —N
ot . . . now—

  Wynn started at those memory-words.

  With her hands still on Shade, she peered at the dog. As she was about to argue or ask about the limp, Shade wormed around her and headed for the path leading to the alley behind the shrine. And still Chane said nothing.

  Wynn should have told them—him—how much she valued what they’d done. Instead, she rose up to follow Shade and, turning, found both Brot’an and Leesil watching around the corner. Shade slipped past them behind the shrine, and Wynn thought of Magiere.

  It seemed Wynn was forever trapped by the hatred, or worse, that so many here had for one another.

  Chap and Leesil wanted Brot’an gone. Leanâlhâm—or Wayfarer, wherever that name had come from—felt abandoned and betrayed by Osha, who in turn had his own reasons for hating the anmaglâhk master. Then there was Chane . . . and Magiere.

  Ghassan’s little hidden sanctuary, still a ways off, would make everything worse, once they were all packed in there.

  The domin stepped out from behind the sanctuary before she could enter.

  “There are too many to travel together,” he said, looking less than pleased. “I will take the escapees and perhaps Osha by another route. You will follow the planned route with the others. If you arrive before me, use the pebble as I taught you. And this time do not leave again for any reason.”

  Wynn felt Chane hovering silently behind her. On top of everything else, he didn’t care for the domin. She had her own different doubts about Ghassan, but she nodded to him.

  “Give us a brief head start,” she said.

  * * *

  Én’nish sat in the single chair of their small, shabby room with her small hands clenched upon the side of the chair’s seat. It was long past when either Rhysís or Dänvârfij should have returned.

  Fréthfâre sat on the bed off to Én’nish’s right. The two had never felt the need to fill silence with meaningless words and often passed half a day or night without speaking. This did not mean they were content.

  Again Én’nish peered around at the faded gray walls and cobwebs in the high corners. A wave of sadness struck her as she thought of home in the vast an’Cróan forests half a world away. When she closed her eyes, she saw its bright green trees, the deeper greens of the underbrush, all splashed with color from wildflowers, fungi, clear streams, and moss-coated clearings. She imagined the taste of proper grain bread baked in communal ovens and sweet juice from peeled bisselberries fresh off the bush.

  Self-indulgent thoughts were not suitable to an anmaglâhk.

  Én’nish could not stop herself.

  “Too much time has passed,” Fréthfâre said, breaking the silence.

  Én’nish started from her wandering thoughts. “I know.”

  The two so different in nature were often left to guess what was happening beyond this room . . . this filthy, dark room that stank of humans. Not long in the past, Én’nish had burned with such rage that she was aware of little beside her own hate. And now . . .

  She knew fear but did not understand it. Not fear of death, for no anmaglâhk feared that.

  Her wound should have healed—had healed—and yet she still could not fight. Her body no longer functioned with the ease she had once known. What would become of her? She had never desired to be anything other than anmaglâhk. She was not like Fréthfâre, whose counsel and leadership was still valued by Most Aged Father.

  Én’nish had always been a tool for her caste.

  “What should we do?” she asked.

  “If you are able,” Fréthfâre answered, “then go. Check in with the others and report back.”

  Én’nish sat rigid in the chair. Since arriving in this city, she had not been given any task. She had been left to feel useless.

  “Yes, I am able to . . .” And she trailed off, suddenly cold without the heat of rage. “What is wrong? Do you have a feeling?”

  Fréthfâre was given to dark forebodings that often proved true. “Perhaps,” she finally answered.

  Én’nish wanted to ask for more, but no words would come.

  “Go,” Fréthfâre repeated. “But be cautious.”

  After a blink of hesitation, Én’nish pushed up to slip out the window and climb to the roof. She could still walk and climb, but she could not run far. The speed she once so depended upon in battle had abandoned her.

  That filled her with regret and self-loathing. She would have given anything for rage once more. Anger had kept her alive and fueled her with purpose.

  Without that, what was she?

  Bracing, she leaped to the next rooftop and landed soundly on its edge without wavering. It was not a long jump, but for an instant she reveled in this. Crossing that roof and another and another, she leaped again and again. She tried not to think on Fréthfâre’s foreboding, but she had not even reached the imperial grounds when she knew something had gone wrong.

  The shouts of men rose from the streets below. She flattened to crawl to the rooftop’s edge and peeked down. Five imperial guards in gold sashes appeared to be conducting a roaming search. Two more came running, carrying a blanket between them overburdened with something long and heavy.

  It looked like a covered body.

  The one at the blanket’s front began prattling in Sumanese and was harshly questioned by one among the five. Én’nish spoke so little Sumanese that she could not follow what they were saying. By tone and gesture, the five were more than agitated by what the two related. More shouts rose from the south down the street.

  All expressions of those below grew more startled as they turned and ran toward those other voices. Cold grew in Én’nish’s core as she followed along the rooftops, growing weary as the guards veered into a side street.

  Én’nish turned the rooftop’s corner and slowed instantly.

  Halfway down the side street below, three more guards stood over a body. Confused arguing erupted once more. From above and across that street, Én’nish had to cover her mouth to keep silent.

  Dänvârfij, her mouth slack and eyes staring up at nothing, lay motionless with her head at an unnatural angle.

  The guards grew more agitated until one pointed back the way they had come. The two carrying the heavy burden laid the blanket down and opened it.

  Én’nish’s legs shook and then buckled. She collapsed upon the roof, perhaps making noise, though no one below looked up.

  Rhysís lay within the unfolded blanket, a broken arrow protruding from his chest. His face was partially crushed.

  Én’nish fought to keep her gasping breaths quiet and began to shake.

  She had never known his passing would affect her, even after all he had done for her. In fury, the mourning madness of her people had burned so long since the death of her betrothed at Léshil’s hands. Én’nish had never considered what Rhysís had come to mean to her.

  She had lost him too.

  Dänvârfij was gone as well. There was no one of able body left to fulfill the team’s purpose. Brot’ân’duivé had won.

  Imperial guards still chattered angrily below, but Én’nish could only curl up on the roof, twitching in choked sobs as she begged her people’s ancestors to give back her fury.

  It did not come back, and she lay there clawing at the roof tiles with her fingernails. By the time she could breathe and push herself up, the street below was empty. There were no bodies to retrieve, render to ash, and bring home.

  The return to the inn took far longer than leaving it.

  Once there, in halting words, she told Fréthfâre what she had seen.

  The ex-covârleasa listened without reaction until she finally whispered, “Dänvârfij possessed our only remaining word-wood.”

  “I did not see the soldiers find it or take it, and I could not have—”

  “You should have retrieved it at any cost! Without it, we . . . are . . .” Fréthfâre sagged as she succumbed to another fit of coughing.

  Én’nish waited for that to subside. “If the traitor killed
them, he would have taken or destroyed it. Most Aged Father will know when he does not hear from us by dawn. He will know we failed . . . our purpose. He will know the artifact was not recovered.”

  Fréthfâre’s left eye twitched. “Yes.”

  “We must return home,” Én’nish said. “We must make the report ourselves.” Yes, the journey would be long and difficult, but that was the only path to honor their sworn oaths and their fallen. “I will find us a ship headed north,” she went on, “and then in Calm Seatt a caravan headed to the eastern coast, where we will find a ship making the cross to—”

  “No.”

  Én’nish grew fearful in waiting, but Fréthfâre remained silent. Én’nish would never abandon the ex-covârleasa.

  “This . . . empire . . . on the edge of sands,” Fréthfâre finally began, “spans all the way to the eastern coast. There must be merchants and other caravans that make the journey at any time of year. We will travel directly to the eastern shore . . . and then find a ship.”

  Én’nish considered this as something else occurred to her. “Once we reach the eastern continent, how will we get home? We have no word-wood to call for one of our people’s vessels.”

  Human ships were not allowed in an’Cróan waters. Only a few smugglers took such risk, and most never returned home.

  “There are others of our caste in the Port of Bela,” Fréthfâre said. “You would not know this. Few would. You will make contact when we arrive . . . as I direct you.”

  Én’nish was aware that many of their caste ranged widely, but she had not known that any were permanently stationed among the humans. If nothing else, at least she and Fréthfâre could strive to report to Most Aged Father. And yet, even if they fulfilled that much in their failure, what then lay ahead for her?

  Eleven of her caste had departed with a joint purpose, by far the largest team ever sent out by Most Aged Father. All were trained and skilled, but only a crippled ex-covârleasa and one broken anmaglâhk would return.

  It should have been the worst of shame and sadness, but it was not, for Én’nish thought of Rhysís most of all. And in acknowledging him too late, she could not even return his ashes to the ancestors.