Барб Хенди - A Wind in the Night

Dänvârfij lost her composure for an instant and stared. They were an’Cróan ... and not an’Cróan.

Her people did not carry swords, and the anmaglâhk kept their weapons hidden. Her people did not dress in accoutrements that sparkled and drew such attention. As the men, walking proudly, strode closer toward her, one slowed while staring at her with equal surprise. His skin was not as dark as hers or any of her people’s, though she was tall enough to look him in the eyes.

This continent possessed its own people, somehow akin to hers, called the Lhoin’na, but she had never encountered any of them in her travels. Perhaps this port was closer to their territory than that of other humans. And this pair’s matching garb hinted at some kind of military.

A sliver of anxiety crept in as both men closed the distance, walking right up to her ... studying her as if they were uncertain whether she was one of them.

Dänvârfij knew that by her own people’s standards she was not a beauty. Her nose was a bit too long and her cheekbones a bit too wide, and then there were her scars. All anmaglâhk had scars. Worse, she was dressed like some vagabond human in faded breeches, a shirt and vest, and a worn cloak over the top.

It was not a wonder that these two stared at her.

The one on the left, slightly taller and more angular of face than his companion, bowed his head slightly.

“May we be of service?” he asked. “Are you searching for something?”

It took Dänvârfij a moment to understand him. His accent was thick and strange. Some of his words were disordered and incorrectly constructed, but his voice held a tone of authority. His expression was openly concerned, like some guardian meeting one of his own alone in a human settlement.

When she did not immediately answer him, his expression grew even more concerned, then uncomfortable, followed by a hint of embarrassment. He bowed his head again quickly and put his hand to his chest.

“Forgive me. I am Arálan of the a’Ghràihlôn’na Shé’ith,” he said, and then gestured to his companion. “Gän’wer.”

Dänvârfij was on uncertain ground. Did Arálan feel he had breached some code of manners by not introducing himself? She merely nodded to each of them, and the first appeared confused and more than a little curious about her. She had no intention of telling him where she was from, but one word he had said clung in her thoughts.

Shé’ith.

It was halfway familiar, for in her tongue—the true tongue of her people—the root word séthiv meant the state and nature of “tranquility” or perhaps “serenity.” If it meant the same in their dialect, then that word for these Lhoin’na might place them in their culture as a guardian caste similar to the Anmaglâhk ... a term that meant “thief—or thieves—of lives.” The mandate of the Anmaglâhk was to take back the people’s way of life from any who would steal it from them.

She had to say something, and she glanced up and down the waterfront as if she was lost.

“Harbormaster?” she asked, hoping the one word was close enough to how they would say it and that her accent did not sound too strange to them.

Both men frowned slightly. The second lifted his head with furrowed eyebrows, but the first turned and pointed down the way to a narrow building jutting out slightly between a warehouse and what might be either a tavern or place of prepared foods.

“There,” he said, and then he took a quick breath. “Where are you from?”

Dänvârfij had to disengage immediately.

“My thanks,” she said with a nod, and moved on, walking past them. She felt their eyes on her but heard no hurried steps trying to catch her. And there were enough people crowded around the spot she sought that she quickly blocked herself from sight. Only when she neared the harbormaster’s office and stepped in beside its door did she glance back.

The two Lhoin’na—Shé’ith—were moving onward again. Stranger still, most of the little humans of the place showed them deference or even smiled and greeted them warmly. For one moment the pair paused to speak with a young woman with two children clinging to her skirt. And the first one, who had spoken to Dänvârfij, bowed his head with a hand over his heart.

These Shé’ith were respected here and even welcomed.

An idea came to Dänvârfij.

She turned back through the crowd to follow the pair. A visit to the harbormaster could wait briefly until she finished one new task.

With a stab of guilt, Wynn sighed with a welcome sense of renewed freedom. Gripping the railing of The Thorn , she looked out across the waves at midmorning. She loved to journey, whether by land or sea, but, given the reason for this voyage, taking pleasure in the wind in her face still felt wrong.

“It is good to see you happy,” someone said in Elvish from behind her.

Wynn turned to find Osha, his hair loose and waving in the breeze, standing a few paces off. Dressed in breeches and a dark brown vestment, he hardly looked like the young anmaglâhk she’d once traveled beside. Unfortunately she liked the look of him better this way.

Chane was dormant below in his bunk, and Shade had stayed in the cabin as well, possibly in case Nikolas came knocking. And since Osha had come up by himself, Nikolas was probably still in their cabin.

Wynn couldn’t help feeling too alone with Osha, even though the sailors were going about their duties. Suddenly she didn’t feel so happy anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she said without thinking, “considering what we are investigating. I just felt so ... confined at the guild.”

Osha stepped up beside her. “Do not be sorry. I felt the same. There is no shame in happiness when it becomes rare.”

At least he appeared less angry now—less intent on trying to dredge up the past. Although, at the moment, she was not so inclined to completely avoid all elements of the past. The memories Shade had shown her rose in her thoughts: of Osha’s being shown a smooth stone and forced to leave Leanâlhâm and Gleann.

Wynn was careful not to betray any of this in her expression as Osha pointed behind her. When she looked, two barrels rested against the thick center mast, but there was a space between them.

“Do you remember our voyage down the eastern coastline of my continent?” he asked, his voice even softer now. “And how we sat in little spaces on the ship of my people and played at Dreug’an ... or talked?”

Wynn swallowed hard. She remembered all too clearly passing the time with him and listening to him tell her things he’d never told anyone. She also knew exactly what he was doing now.

He had questions of his own for her—about her—and topics that he wanted to discuss. Perhaps in his current mood that would not be such a bad thing. Without a word, Wynn turned toward the mast, sank down between the barrels, and only then looked up at Osha.

Osha froze as Wynn turned away, and then grew confused as she simply settled between the barrels and looked up at him.

He had been angry the previous evening when that undead thing had forced his way into sharing her cabin. Instinct screamed at him to intervene, but, as Wynn had not openly objected, there had been nothing he could do.

In the night he had realized that an open conflict with that monster would not serve him where she was concerned. Such behavior would only push her further away.

Upon waking this morning, while the young sage, Nikolas, still slept fitfully, Osha realized he had one new advantage: Wynn would no longer spend her days in study or hiding away with Premin Hawes. And Chane would lie dead for the day and unable to get in the way.