He—Leanâlhâm—saw Wynn back when the young journeyor had first visited the girl’s land with Magiere, Leesil, and himself. Then came flashes of the moment Osha had arrived with Brot’an ... and Wynn’s journal.
Chap had already been through too much this night. But now he was isolated with a pensive, lonely girl cast adrift without a destination of her own. Another opportunity like this might not come anytime soon.
—Brot’ân’duivé said—Wynn sent—him—a journal—through—Osha—
Leanâlhâm’s gaze turned farther from him. “He told you this?”
—What—became of—the journal?—
She turned fully away from the book and him. “Do not ask me. I cannot break my promise—my oath—to the greimasg’äh.”
The question still worked, though this brought Chap no pleasure and only more guilt and shame in reigniting Leanâlhâm’s painful memories....
In the three days after Osha departed with Brot’ân’duivé, Leanâlhâm hardly left her home. She had no interest in baking grain bread or working on embroidery. It was difficult enough not to weep.
Sgäilsheilleache had gone to the ancestors. It seemed impossible that Léshil would ever return. Now even Osha had been taken from her. She even grew fearful whenever Grandfather, so weary himself, left their home. But she could not bear to go after him and hid away from a world that grew ever smaller with each loss.
Grandfather was also in pain, yet somehow performed his daily tasks. He spoke to other clan members about the weather or goods that had arrived or were sent off for trade. She did not know how to do this, though he would rise from bed the next day to do the same.
She knew that anger was a sign of bad manners, but deep inside she was angry. Not with Osha, who had left her like this, but with Brot’ân’duivé, who had forced him away.
Cuirin’nên’a was the closest thing Leanâlhâm had to another woman in her life, but Léshil’s mother was quiet, guarded ... and cold. She had not loved Sgäilsheilleache and viewed death as a part of life—part of the way of the Anmaglâhk. Leanâlhâm wondered whether the woman even understood grief.
As a result of buried anger and sorrow, Leanâlhâm began doing odd things.
Besides spending most of her days in bed, when she did get up, she carried the bottle with Sgäilsheilleache’s ashes into whatever room in which she settled. Those ashes needed—deserved—to be carried to the ancestors’ burial grounds, but she did not want to let go of that last part of him. While in bed, fearful of falling asleep and losing sight of the bottle, she placed it beside her mat.
On the third day, Grandfather woke her earlier than she wished and would not leave until she rose. He insisted that she bathe and dress, and she could not believe what more he expected of her. He wanted her to attend a celebration.
Reavrahkrijha—Heart of Spring—had arrived, and the Coilehkrotall, like all clans, celebrated the true birth of a new year. A feast would be prepared with smoked fish brought from the coast to be served with the most tender first growths of the harvest and the last of winter’s stores. All in the enclave would sit together at tables upon the green and visit and offer good wishes to one another. This was a common tradition of the an’Cróan; it would be taking place in enclaves throughout their land.
But it did not feel like a day of new beginnings for Leanâlhâm, as she stood in the main chamber of her home with Grandfather under the watchful eyes of Cuirin’nên’a. All she had to cling to was the small bottle of her uncle’s ashes tucked inside her tunic against her stomach.
“Come, my child,” Grandfather said. “It will do you good.”
How could he think this? How could he force her to mingle among people who did not believe she belonged here, who knew Sgäilsheilleache was gone. She had no one but Grandfather now to stand between her and their judgments.
“I do not think—” she began.
“We are going,” he interrupted firmly, and then looked to Léshil’s mother. “And you, too.”
Cuirin’nên’a raised one feathery eyebrow. She had never shown interest in the company of anyone outside this home. Grandfather was head of the household and a clan elder whose presence was required on such occasions. Even Sgäilsheilleache had never dared disobey Grandfather in anything but his caste duties. This was the way of their people.
But Leanâlhâm hoped Cuirin’nên’a would decline. That might give her a chance to do so as well. Instead Léshil’s mother nodded respectfully, and Grandfather shooed them both out and off to the feast.
Everyone was dressed finely, with tiny colored cords of shéot’a cloth woven into their braided hair. Long tables set out were laden to their edges with honey cakes, spring berries, fresh mushrooms, dried fruit stores, and leafy greens. There was barely room for cups, plates, and utensils, and it should have been a pleasant sight.
Leanâlhâm shied away from anyone, from accepting their polite but brief condolences or their well-mannered but halfhearted wishes.
She busied herself at the oven only to carry food to tables and get away from anyone trying to approach her. When there was no more to be done, she sat between Grandfather and Cuirin’nên’a and pretended to eat. Grandfather offered blessings and formal wishes and smiled forcefully and carefully at every jest, friendly chat, or raised cup. After a while he looked at Leanâlhâm sadly.
“Is this so difficult?” he asked.
“Could we go home?” she whispered.
The look on his wrinkled old face, so broken and disappointed, made her regret even asking. But he immediately rose. And even Cuirin’nên’a’s controlled expression betrayed relief as they followed him and left the feast long before anyone else would consider doing so.
They made their way past the other tree dwellings, to the outskirts where their large one awaited. Leanâlhâm ached to rush ahead and return to her room.
A strange birdlike whistle rose sharply out in the forest as she reached the curtained doorway of her home. A chirp followed three times after that.
Leanâlhâm stopped because her grandfather was no longer beside her. She looked back to find that he had turned—and they both stared at Cuirin’nên’a.
She was frozen in place farther back with her head tilting slightly.
Leanâlhâm stiffened as those beautiful but cold eyes suddenly narrowed. She followed that gaze out among the trees but saw nothing.
Cuirin’nên’a rushed straight at Leanâlhâm and snatched her wrist. Before she could even think to resist, she was whipped around away from the doorway and shoved down into the brush at the base of an oak.
“Stay!” Cuirin’nên’a ordered in a whisper.
Leanâlhâm cringed, and her wide-eyed grandfather trailed Léshil’s mother in a rush through the curtained doorway. Too much had happened lately that Leanâlhâm did not understand. This time she would not be shut out.
She climbed out of the brush, hurried to follow, and pulled aside the doorway’s curtain. Then she halted, her thoughts blank in confusion.
She barely noticed Grandfather or Cuirin’nên’a, each standing to one side of the doorway and partially blocking it. Leanâlhâm’s eyes fixed on the main chamber of their home, torn apart and in complete disarray. Dishes had been knocked from shelves. Seating mats were cast aside in rumples. Pillows had been shredded or cut open and their grass or feather stuffing scattered about, some still floating on the air. But most of all Leanâlhâm stared at ...
Two tall figures in forest gray, with matching cloaks tied up around their waists, stood at the chamber’s rear. Inside their hoods both wore wraps over the lower halves of their faces. The anmaglâhk on the left, nearest to Cuirin’nên’a’s guest chamber, held something in his hand.