First and Last Sorcerer Page 21

  “Chap, what’s wrong? Did I get soap in your eyes?”

  Chap opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them.

  Wynn studied him as Wayfarer tried to dry him with a blanket, and he had not even felt it. He began to tremble.

  Wynn’s brow wrinkled. “Chap?”

  Are you finished?

  “No, you’re still a bit wet.”

  I am fine.

  Chap shrugged off the dampened blanket and Wayfarer’s small hands. Stepping away, he paused at the sight of Magiere trying to comb out Leesil’s hair.

  For a moon, he had waited for her to stop screaming—for all of it to end. Knowing Leesil and Wayfarer would never have been freed, he would wait for them to pass, giving them what little comfort he could offer. And finally, he would force the guards to kill him.

  No one would have ever found the orbs he had hidden.

  The life of this world meant more than a paw’s count of lives here in this hidden place—but those lives meant something to him. For what he had done—would have done—he should not have asked forgiveness. That Magiere had given it to him so quickly in understanding what was necessary had brought him no relief. It was another shame among many he bore.

  And now this Domin il’Sänke wanted them to hunt the undead who had questioned Magiere.

  Chap agreed.

  In life versus death, this was the only action to be taken. Perhaps Magiere would be safe only once this specter, Khalidah, was destroyed. But could Chap ever again make a choice between the world and those he had come to love?

  * * *

  Wayfarer helped gather up blankets and damp sheets, and then tried using the least damp blanket to mop up the floor. The simple action brought a kind of comfort.

  On the inside, she did not exactly feel better, but this short time had comprised nothing more than bathing and dressing and speaking of things that didn’t matter and helping to wash Chap. This reprieve made her believe that, in time, she might feel better. She might put the terror of that dark cell behind her.

  Last night, when she had first seen Wynn, anger like she had never before felt rose up within her.

  Wynn had been the reason Osha had abandoned her.

  But after the night’s flight to this hidden place, Wynn had paid no special attention to Osha, and this left Wayfarer wondering.

  Wynn was never impolite to Osha but barely spoke to him either. She had remained focused mostly on caring for the others. This morning, she had returned with warm food and clean clothes, and again turned her full attention to caring for others.

  Wayfarer wallowed in guilt. She had judged her old friend wrongly, for Wynn was not to blame.

  Osha had made his own choice—and he had not chosen her.

  Now he stood near the door, as if uncertain what else to do. When her gaze swept in his direction, she found his eyes locked on her, and surprise filled them.

  “Leanâl—” he began, and stopped short, but the damage was done. He kept calling her by that hated name—“Child of Sorrow”—only slightly less awful than the one the ancestors had put upon her: Sheli’câlhad, “To a Lost Way.” Everyone else had accepted the final name that Magiere, Léshil, and Chap had given her, but not Osha.

  Wayfarer turned away. Why had he been staring at her at all? She knew how little she meant to him compared with . . .

  She looked up at Chap’s sudden snarl.

  The others had begun talking among themselves, and for some reason, Chap was glaring and bearing his teeth at Brot’ân’duivé. Whatever the greimasg’äh had said to anger the majay-hì again, she had missed it. Then she noticed Léshil had turned his head with a hard look toward the room’s rear corner.

  Shade stood there, seeming to guard over Chane.

  Tension hung in the air.

  Although Magiere was healing faster than anyone, Wayfarer did not see how they would all manage to live in this small, hidden place until Magiere grew strong enough to fight. The prospect was almost unbearable. Perhaps out of habit, she glanced over her shoulder and caught Osha watching her again.

  He instantly looked away, and the walls felt too close.

  “Léshil,” Wayfarer breathed. “I . . . I need . . . some air. Please, even in the alley for a few moments. Please.”

  He frowned at her in puzzlement; she knew her request sounded foolish and was an unnecessary risk. Magiere, sitting above him in the chair, patted his shoulder, and he got up.

  They might not understand what she felt, but at least they understood a simple need: to leave this close and crowded place, even for a moment, after having been imprisoned for so long.

  “Of course,” Léshil answered. “I’ll get us cloaks and take you out back of—”

  “No, I . . . will,” Osha interrupted in Belaskian. “No one see us, promise.”

  Wayfarer cringed and ducked her head.

  “All right, I should stay with Magiere anyway,” Léshil said. “Keep out of sight and knock on the fake window’s frame when you come back up.”

  Wayfarer kept her eyes down. It was right that Léshil stay with his wife, so she either accepted Osha as her escort or she remained here—and that thought was unbearable.

  She could not look at Léshil as he handed her a cloak and tossed another to Osha somewhere behind her. When she turned, she looked at only the door. If Osha wished to offer excuses or pretend he had done no wrong, then that was fine.

  Wayfarer had nothing to say to him.

  * * *

  Watching Wayfarer and Osha leave, Leesil almost wished he could go with them. A bit of air might be welcome. However, those two had something to work out, and the sooner the better. Besides, he did want to remain with Magiere.

  After washing up and changing clothes, followed by Magiere combing his damp hair, for a short while his world had almost begun to make sense again. Only moments later that feeling vanished as reality took hold.

  Brot’an was here, as was Chane. They were all stuck in this place, and when they left, they’d have to hunt an undead like no other they’d ever dealt with. Leesil didn’t even see how they could kill something that had no flesh of its own. And all because some fallen Suman sage had more secrets than he’d shared.

  Leesil glanced again at the blanketed form beyond Shade in the room’s dim back corner.

  What was going to happen when that blood-soaked undead rose again at nightfall? Magiere was in no condition to deal with Chane, at least not alone. Brot’an might help if something started. And if Magiere wanted to finish it, Leesil would . . .

  —No—

  He twisted his head to look at Chap.

  —Leave Chane alone— . . . —For now—

  Leesil couldn’t argue without alerting the others to what Chap had said. Turning away, he crouched down before Magiere, who was still sitting in a chair facing the open area around the table. She was a little thin but still beyond lovely, and he was grateful to have her back. They simply always seemed to have another battle to fight that couldn’t be avoided.

  “So, it seems we have another undead to hunt down,” he said. “I hope that domin was serious about having a plan.”

  Wynn came closer and dropped her bundle of blankets into an empty chair. “Well, whatever his plan is,” she put in, “it will have to take place at night, as we’ll need Chane.”

  Leesil rose up, unable to hold back. “No, we won’t.”

  “Oh . . . Leesil!” she shot back. “Who fought off guards at the front gates and again in the streets when we were about to be caught? I wouldn’t have that orb in the bedchamber if not for him . . . and Shade would have died if he hadn’t rescued her. Even Osha is able to work with him.” Half turning away, she added over her shoulder, “So spare me your self-righteous indignation. Whatever the past, you—we—will need his help when the time comes.”

  After snatching up the blankets, she stormed off toward the bedchamber, passing through the sheet that still hung in the doorway.

  Leesil glanced at Chap, then loo
ked to Magiere. She was staring at nothing, though her hands were clenched on the side of the chair’s seat. Magiere hated Chane as much as anyone, maybe more for her inner nature. She’d once even taken his head, but he’d somehow come back.

  Leesil expected her to be as angry as himself, but she was quiet, as was Chap.

  Didn’t either of them see what was happening here? They couldn’t accept help from an undead who had murdered countless people.

  Leesil started after Wynn.

  “Leave her be,” Magiere growled at him.

  “Not this time.”

  Nearing the bedroom, he heard steps behind him and looked back. It was only Chap following, so he kept on. When they passed through the sheet curtain and stepped into the bedchamber, Wynn sat on the floor stroking Shade’s neck—which was a surprise.

  Leesil hadn’t even seen Chap’s daughter leave the outer room’s back corner—and her vigil there. It was still unbelievable that a majay-hì guarded an undead, but at the sight of Wynn petting the dog, some of Leesil’s anger faded.

  “If what Ghassan says about this specter is true,” Wynn said quietly, “we need everyone we have.”

  Leesil didn’t know what to say to that. How could she justify using one murdering undead to hunt down another?

  “I dislike any of us being used as bait,” said a deep, quiet voice.

  Chap snarled, and Leesil spun to find Brot’an’s hulking form inside the doorway.

  The aging shadow-gripper too often showed unsettling concern for Magiere’s safety. So where was that when he’d abandoned everyone on the docks? Either way, it couldn’t be true concern, not from him. Even Chap hadn’t uncovered Brot’an’s true motives, even now that Most Aged Father’s loyalists had been removed.

  “I don’t like it either,” Leesil replied. “But the domin says we don’t have a choice.”

  Brot’an blinked slowly. “Magiere is not the only possible bait. Perhaps not even the most effective.”

  Wynn rose to her feet. “What do you mean?”

  “This Khalidah wants to take Magiere alive,” Brot’an continued, “or he would have killed her already. So long as she lives, that goal remains attainable. If the domin’s sect imprisoned this specter long ago, and all are dead but him, would the specter not want to finish what it started with the domin as a potential obstacle?”

  In the following moment of silence, Leesil felt a chill; Brot’an had a way of making the coldest reasoning sound . . . reasonable.

  “I’ve been wondering what you thought of all this,” Wynn said, studying the master assassin with a frown. “For the most part, you’ve been awfully quiet.”

  “I have been listening.”

  —Listen to him— . . . —Something is . . . missing . . . in the domin’s plan—

  As usual, Chap was annoyingly right, but Leesil disliked siding with Brot’an.

  Wynn let out a tired sigh. “Ghassan is no coward. I can vouch for that. So . . . why use Magiere when he’d be the better bait himself?”

  There was little Leesil wouldn’t do where Magiere was concerned. He looked up at Brot’an.

  “Perhaps we should find a creative way to ask him?”

  * * *

  Osha followed Leanâlhâm—Wayfarer—out the back door into the rear alley. He watched as she leaned against the wall, folded her arms together, and looked away from him.

  They were alone and out of sight with their hoods pulled forward and low. There was little chance of anyone noticing them, but that was no longer his main concern.

  She had neither spoken to him nor looked at him since leaving the sanctuary, and the weight of his choice back in Calm Seatt was crushing him. Worse, he was painfully aware of not having given enough thought to how that would affect her—had affected her.

  Upstairs, when she had come out of the bedchamber with her long hair still damp and lying over one shoulder of her red tunic, he had been startled, as if seeing a stranger. What could he say to wipe away the damage he had inflicted upon her?

  Along with her dead grandfather and uncle—the kind healer Gleannéohkân’thva, and the great and honorable anmaglâhk Sgäilsheilleache—she had once treated him as family.

  “Lean—” Osha began, choking on that name. “Wayfarer . . . forgive me.”

  Still, she did not look at him, so he stepped out in the alley to face her.

  “I beg you for . . . I am so sorry . . . so very sorry that I remained behind without telling you first.”

  Her large green eyes instantly fixed on him, as if an apology was the last thing she had expected. Did she think so little of him now?

  With a pained expression, she dropped her chin, and though her small mouth opened slightly, she did not speak.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  One tear ran halfway down her cheek and drowned him in more guilt.

  “Do?” she whispered. “I lost my only family. I was driven out by our own ancestors’ spirits and then forced to leave all I knew by Brot’ân’duivé. I would have withered and died . . . if not for you caring for me.” She choked once. “And you left me with the greimasg’äh . . . without a word.”

  Osha could barely breathe, as if he again stood in the fiery cavern of the Chein’âs, where his own weapons had been burned off his wrists. That pain, which had almost killed him, seemed as nothing here and now.

  “I did not think . . .” he began. “Did not know that you would be so . . .”

  “How could you not know?” she nearly cried.

  He knew she should lower her voice, but he did not dare warn her.

  “You stayed for Wynn,” she said flatly.

  Osha hesitated. “Yes.”

  She did not appear eager to continue, but he took no relief when she sank down the wall to sit.

  He slowly crouched to face her and, not wishing to spare himself the truth, he asked, “Was it horrible, being left in the care of Brot’ân’duivé?”

  “Horrible?” she repeated. “No . . . lonely. Magiere and Léshil are so kind, but they are bonded and must come first for each other. The greimasg’äh was never unkind, though he only saw to my welfare, and that was all.”

  She looked at him before continuing.

  “Our people would find this shocking—perhaps profane—but the majay-hì has been more to me than anyone else, even for how unsettling it is to hear him in my mind. Once, up in Chathburh, when I felt so alone, he stayed up all night with me looking through a book about artisans among the others of our kind . . . the ones called the Lhoin’na.”

  Osha would have found this shocking in the past. Though he still saw the majay-hì as sacred guardians of his people, he had learned to see Shade as more . . . as Wynn’s companion and confidante. Wynn had called Shade “sister” more than once in recent times.

  “When we arrived here . . . in this city,” Wayfarer went on, dropping her gaze again, “only then did everything become horrible . . . and I would have let myself die . . . if not for . . . for Chap.”

  The guilt almost broke Osha. “I should have been here . . . should have stopped it.”

  She raised her chin slightly, perhaps to look at him . . . his legs, his hands, his chest. But not his eyes.

  “I am free,” she said quietly, “and Wynn has said that she would not have recovered the orb of Spirit without you. That matters greatly to Magiere.”

  “I will not leave you again,” he promised. “I swear.” He pivoted to drop and leaned against the wall beside her. “Can you . . . will you . . . tell me how you came by your new name?”

  After a short silence, she nodded.

  * * *

  Ghassan’s venture outside confirmed exactly what he expected. City guards—mixed with a few imperial guards—patrolled the outer areas of the city, and all exits had been blocked, including the port. Anyone leaving was examined and questioned first.

  Whoever Khalidah now inhabited was either in a position of power inside the imperial guard or had the ear of their highly placed officer
s. Useful as this might seem, the problem was that it still left a number of possibilities.

  Even outside the imperial court, there were those who had influence over its policies and actions as well as the imperial guards, such as High Premin Aweli-Jama. Ghassan wished he could converse with the prince and ask who had been making recent military suggestions. But Ounyal’am had not initiated contact, and Ghassan would not risk doing so yet, as he had no idea what was going on inside the palace.

  He was still trapped in such thoughts when he arrived at the tenement.

  He had used this place for so long now that he no longer gave much notice to the poverty-stricken people along the street. He had also taken to dressing as shabbily as them, to blend in. After pressing the latch on the crooked front door, he stepped inside to find the entryway empty. Closing the door, he paused in the quiet to still his mind.

  The hidden sanctuary upstairs had become too crowded, as it was never intended to house so many occupants at once. In this brief solitude, he pondered how soon to reveal more of the plan he had devised. The others could not be given too little, or they might question him, and if given too much, this might invite changes, suggestions, or demands. And how much longer would it take for Magiere to recover adequately?

  With a deep breath, he headed onward, but he barely neared the turn upward when someone stepped out around the corner of the stairwell. He halted in the dim passage but had no chance to make out a face inside the cloak’s hood. He did not exactly hear someone else drop behind him but rather felt the weight through the floor.

  The white metal glint of a stiletto appeared in the hand of the one before him, and he recognized the overly tall elder an’Cróan.

  “Don’t turn around,” Leesil said from behind him.

  Though slightly shaken—but only at having been caught off guard—Ghassan raised one eyebrow and tried to sound amused. “How dramatic. I assume you wish to speak with me alone . . . though you could have asked.”

  “We are curious why you wish to use Magiere as bait,” Brot’an said. “By our reasoning, you would be the more immediate concern to the specter.”