“They could be gone already,” she replied. “Off on another ship.”
Rhysís remained silent for a moment. “Or they could still be here ... with the traitor.” His amber eyes narrowed. At times he could not bring himself to speak the traitor’s name.
A year and a half earlier, when Most Aged Father had asked Dänvârfij to prepare a team and sail to this foreign continent, she had not hesitated. Their purpose then had been direct and clear. They were to locate the pale-skinned monster, Magiere, her half-blood consort, Léshil, and the tainted majay-hì who ran with the pair. Magiere and Léshil were to be captured, and tortured, if necessary, for information concerning the “artifact” they had carried off. Then they were to be eliminated—along with the majay-hì, if possible.
The last of that had not sat well with her team.
When they had left their homeland, they had been eleven in count. Never before had so many jointly taken up the same purpose. Their task had been of dire importance in the eyes of Most Aged Father, who feared any device of the Ancient Enemy remaining in human hands.
Eleven had left together, but one more had shadowed them across the world.
After the first and second deaths among them, before they knew for certain, Dänvârfij could not believe who that one had to be. Only on the night when she had seen his unmistakable shadow with her own eyes did she acknowledge the truth.
The traitor, Brot’ân’duivé, stole their lives one by one until only six remained.
A greimasg’äh—a master among their caste—was killing his own. Of the remaining six, including Dänvârfij, only five were functional to any degree.
“How soon can we disembark?” a strained female voice asked from behind her.
Dänvârfij looked back.
Leaning heavily on a wooden walking rod as she slid one foot after the other, Fréthfâre—Watcher of the Woods—struggled to make her way across the deck. Though she held the status of shared leader of the team, she was not fit in either body or mind. Perhaps not even in spirit.
Her wheat-gold hair, versus white-blond, hung in waves instead of silky and straight, making her somewhat unique among an’Cróan. In youth she had been viewed as slender and supple. Now approaching middle age, she was unseasonably brittle.
Once Covârleasa—“Trusted Advisor”—to Most Aged Father, as well as a sometimes cunning strategist, Fréthfâre was fanatically loyal to him and the caste.
Dänvârfij had never wanted the crippled ex-Covârleasa on this mission, and her reasons grew more solid with each passing moon.
Fréthfâre was nearly useless in their present situation. Even with his shoulder healing, Rhysís could still run swiftly and silently. He could fight with his feet and one hand. Fréthfâre could barely stand, and at times simply eating was a battle she did not win.
More than two years ago, Magiere had run a sword through Fréthfâre’s abdomen. The wound should have killed her, but a great an’Cróan healer had tended her. Even so, she had barely survived, and the damage could not be wholly undone. Now moon after moon of hard travel was weakening her further—though her physical limitations were overwhelmed only by her bitterness and hunger for revenge.
Dänvârfij was ever vigilant in showing respect, both in words and actions, for the ex-Covârleasa, but revenge was no proper motive for fulfilling their purpose.
“Soon,” Dänvârfij answered politely. “The crew is tying off. I will gather the rest of us from below.”
“Our quarry must not be allowed to escape again,” Fréthfâre said. “Begin the search immediately.”
The one word, “allowed,” carried the weight of blame, as if Dänvârfij had simply stood by and watched Magiere slip away.
Dänvârfij was accustomed to this criticism and paid it no attention. She had other concerns as her gaze ran over Fréthfâre’s traditional forest gray cloak of an anmaglâhk. Such attire served them well in silence and in shadow, but not here in the open before so many eyes.
“It would be best,” Dänvârfij began, “for one of us to locate an inn where you might be settled. We must track Magiere and the traitor, but we have other needs as well.”
Fréthfâre’s gaze shifted from Dänvârfij to Rhysís, and she perhaps noted that neither wore their standard cloaks. This was all they could do at present. The team needed other clothing if they were to travel in daylight without the appearance of a uniform.
Fréthfâre’s mouth tightened, and Rhysís merely looked away.
This exchange had become too common: Fréthfâre’s rash orders, followed by Dänvârfij’s careful countering, along with sound suggestions that did not openly question the team’s other leader.
“Very well,” Fréthfâre agreed, leaning more heavily on her rod. “I will establish a base while you see to our needs.”
In poorly hidden relief, Rhysís nodded to Dänvârfij. “I will gather the others. Eywodan was napping when I left. I will wake him and tell him he is getting too old for such a mission.”
His attempt at a jest only made Dänvârfij feel tense. Rhysís never joked, so he must be speaking from the strain of pretending that the rift in their command structure was not growing worse.
Dänvârfij nodded once. “We will disperse as soon as the ramp is lowered.”
As Rhysís headed off, she watched the busy dock below. All that mattered was that she had neutralized one more thoughtless order from Fréthfâre. Perhaps eventually the ex-Covârleasa would become irrelevant.
Soon enough Dänvârfij, followed by her team, descended the ramp. Once on the dock, she waited as the others disembarked. Rhysís came first, followed by Eywodan, the oldest of their team. Tavithê came next, wearing his forest gray cloak with the hood thrown back.
Dänvârfij almost frowned as she objectively scrutinized the three men.
They were slender and tall—taller than any human male—with tan skin, white-blond hair, and large, slanted amber eyes. Even disguised in human clothes, they would stand out. Something more had to be done. But before she considered what, the last two descended the ramp.
With an audible groan, Fréthfâre managed to remain upright, but her double grip on the rod was not the only thing supporting her. The sixth and final member of their team came with her. Én’nish, the other female among them, held on to Fréthfâre’s arm and waist.
At least one of them had to go find lodging with Fréthfâre, who had been on her feet too much and would not last much longer. It would be embarrassing beyond words for the ex-Covârleasa to have to be carried. She would never ask this, but it would become necessary soon enough.
For an instant Dänvârfij considered letting that happen. It was an unworthy notion that she quickly pushed aside as Én’nish guided Fréthfâre’s hobbling steps onto the dock.
Én’nish was small for an an’Cróan and slight of build. Deceptive, as both could work to her advantage in a fight. But she was young, reckless, and suffered from their kind’s mourning madness over the loss of her betrothed—at the hands of Léshil. Her hunger for revenge easily matched the ex-Covârleasa’s. Though Dänvârfij had opposed Én’nish’s inclusion in their purpose, Fréthfâre had convinced Most Aged Father otherwise.
For now, Dänvârfij wanted off this busy dock. The others followed her at a creeping pace to match Fréthfâre’s, as Dänvârfij took in their surroundings.
The port was much larger than expected—and louder and more crowded. Humans moved about everywhere, speaking in loud voices to be heard over others rushing past in all directions. Flocks of seagulls sailed overhead, occasionally smothering all voices with their piercing shrieks. Many locals glanced more than once at the tall, tan-skinned, white-haired elves in matching attire who were heading toward the shore.