Barb Hendee: Child of a Dead God

Welstiel stepped out of the stairwell.

He was dressed in black breeches and faded white shirt, and carried water skins and small sacks that smelled faintly of old bread. He approached the first door on the right, opened it, and tossed in a water skin and a sack. Before anyone within could speak or move, he slammed the door and reinserted its wood brace. He repeated the process twice more.

How often had he done this?

"We must keep them alive," Welstiel said absently and then tilted his chin toward the stairs.

Chane's night watch ended once more, and he slipped down the stairwell.

Each dawn, he'd discovered small oddities about the entry room. Nothing extraordinary, but something different each time. One night, Welstiel's pack had rested by the fireplace. Strange rods of differing dark tones peeked out the side of its top flap, but Chane was too mentally worn to be curious. Later, he had noticed the old tin teapot near the hearth, but no cup in sight and no lingering aroma of brewed tea.

On the fourth night, the room was more orderly but smelled of crushed herbs-and something fishy and sweet that Chane could not identify.

Tonight, Welstiel's pack sat upon the bench, and beside it rested a small bottle and a leather-bound box, longer and narrower than the walnut one which held his brass feeding cup.

Chane had never seen this box before.

A few times in their journey he had wondered what items an artificer of conjury like Welstiel might carry. All he knew of were the brass cup and Welstiel's "ring of nothing," which shielded him and anyone he touched from those who could sense the undead.

Chane crept closer. As he crouched down, a fishy-sweet odor rose around the leather-bound box. When he picked up the bottle, it was strong with the same scent. He returned the bottle to its place and reached for the pack's top flap.

Someone shifted in the upper passage of cells.

He froze, his hand poised above the pack, and glanced toward the stairs as his hearing widened. Welstiel shifted upon the stool in the upper passage. Chane clenched his hand into a fist and lowered it.

If he could hear Welstiel, then the mad undead might just as easily hear him.

And mingling with the fishy odor was the scent of herbs, just as he had smelled in the back workroom.

What had Welstiel been doing down here all through the night?

Chane rose slowly. He paused at each step, listening for movement in the upper passage, until he rounded the second turn into the workroom. The scent of herbs was strong. He ducked and wove his way between the tables and dangling bundles of drying plants, searching for anything odd or out of place.

And on one table, he found a mess.

Among knives and pestles and scraps of wax paper was a tin dish, blackened inside as if a substance had been boiled within it. Then he spotted the dried flowers. He leaned closer and caught the faint residue of color-pale yellow but darkening to plum at the centers-and he lifted a fragile dry petal, taking a careful whiff. The sweet, fishy scent was powerful, and he quickly pulled the blossoms from his face as recognition hit him.

It was Dyvjaka Svonchek, called "boar's bell" in Belaskian, after the shape of its yellow flowers and the superstition that only wild boars and the heartiest beasts could eat it. It had other folk names, with meanings like Flooding Dusk, Nightmare's Breath, and Blackbane.

In other words, poison-toxic and mind altering, if inhaled too deeply by the living.

Chane turned a full circle, looking around.

What use would a Noble Dead have for poison?

What had Welstiel been doing in here?

"Magiere, look there," Sgaile said, pointing past her. "Your ship comes to harbor."

Magiere stepped to the dock's end beside him and shielded her eyes with one hand against the bright sun.

"That large one?" she asked.

Sgaile nodded, still watching the ship. "Yes."

Even from a distance, the tawny-hulled vessel appeared to glide across the waves as it headed for port at the elven city of Ghoivne Ajhajhe-Front of the Deep. It rode strangely high, as if moving from one wave top to the next. Iridescent shimmers reflected from its sails like white satin under the late winter sun-or what should have been winter. Here on the Elven Territories' northern shore, the air felt more like early spring.

An ocean breeze whipped a tendril of Magiere's black hair across her eyes. She brushed it aside and peered intently at this strange vessel come to carry her and her companions away. Long and sleek, its prow stretched to a point like a headless spear, and the hull's lip seemed lightly curved like a holly leaf's edge. For an instant, she thought a ripple of dark green flickered across its hull from light reflected off the water, but the color quickly returned to rich golden tan.

Other vessels, both small and large, sailed in and out of the vast bay or were already harbored in its waters and at the long docks. Various barges that had come down inland rivers were tied off at the piers. Elves upon the docks unloaded and reloaded goods to be exchanged with city shops and outbound vessels.

"Ah, seven hells!" someone muttered. "We're actually going to board that thing?"

Magiere glanced back, and Leesil grimaced as he stepped in beside Sgaile. She looked them over.

Sgaile was full elven and an anmaglahk-a trained assassin and spy, who'd sworn to protect Leesil and his companions, including Magiere herself. She hadn't known him long and could rarely read his subtle expressions.

Leesil was only half-blooded.

With oblong ears less peaked than those of a full-blooded elf, he shared other traits with Sgaile's people, from silky blond hair-white-blond, in his case-to amber eyes and tan skin. Leesil's eyes were smaller than a full-blooded elf's, though still slightly larger than a human's, and his complexion was lighter. Above average height for a human, like Magiere, he was short by elven standards. Beardless-as were all male elves-his wedged chin looked blunt compared to Sgaile's.

"My dinner's coming up just looking at it," Leesil added, glowering at the approaching vessel.

"There's no other way," Magiere said. "Unless you care to cross the mountains on foot again."

She was in no mood for his whining. They'd only been on one short sea voyage, to Bela, and Leesil had been sick the entire journey. With a dramatic sigh, he shouldered around Sgaile to grasp her gloved hand.

After traveling downriver on a barge from Crijheaiche-Origin-Heart-they'd spent only one night and day here, but Magiere was anxious to be off again. Sgaile had brought her to the docks the moment he heard their ship neared harbor.

"When can we leave?" she asked.

Sgaile lowered his eyes to hers. "The ship returns from its run along our eastern coastal settlements. Once cargo is exchanged, it will be ready to depart."

"How long will that take?"

"Several days, perhaps. It depends on the cargo to be acquired."

More delays.

But compared to everything Magiere had been through since entering the Elven Territories, arriving at the city had brought some relief. It was good to see ocean again and breathe sea air, as in Miiska, her faraway home, but it was still elven land. She peered back at Ghoivne Ajhajhe stretching along the coastline.

Inland elves resided in cultured wild groves of living tree dwellings, but this one and only city was constructed partly of ornately carved wood, partly of stone, and partly of other materials she couldn't name. A wild array of structures spread along the shore above the beach amid sparse but massive trees, not only behind her, but also where the shore continued on the far side of the Hajh River's wide mouth spilling into the bay.

Various shops, dwellings, tents, and inns bustled with activity. She could just make out the tawny roof of the tall inn where she and Leesil were lodged-along with their companions, Chap and Wynn. It rose three stories high around a giant elm with branches spread like a second roof over the building.