“And you believe him?”
Cuirin’nên’a glanced at Brot’ân’duivé. “He gave me his cloak, let me go, and told me to find you.”
The ramifications of everything set in.
Most Aged Father had sent four of their caste, including a greimasg’äh, after the journal. They must have watched the enclave for some time, likely even while Brot’ân’duivé had been there. Urhkarasiférin had waited for a clear opportunity with no complications, no unwitting harm to anyone. When Brot’ân’duivé had left, taking Osha as well, perhaps the overly quiet shadow-gripper had not been satisfied, and so followed.
If Brot’ân’duivé had been given such a purpose—and accepted it—this was what he would have done. Urhkarasiférin would do no more or less.
Most Aged Father would have known this, so it begged two more questions.
Why was Urhkarasiférin selected for this? And had the others of his team been given a second purpose unknown to him, or simply chosen to act on their own?
Whether the three had waited for an opportunity or had been secretly ordered to act mattered little. There could be only one reason for Urhkarasiférin’s presence.
Most Aged Father had known where Brot’ân’duivé would be and had sent another greimasg’äh in ignorance to deal with him, if necessary. That ancient worm in the wood of his people had used a shadow-gripper as an unwitting accomplice in his subterfuge.
Most Aged Father’s loyalist fanatics had broken into the home of one of their people. They had stolen from an elder of the clans and killed him.
“Where is Urhkarasiférin now?” Brot’ân’duivé asked.
“On his way back to Crijheäiche for ... clarification.”
No doubt he would receive only more lies. This time Urhkarasiférin would not be fooled, but what he would do then had yet to be seen.
“And Leanâlhâm?”
Cuirin’nên’a closed her eyes. “She was gone when I returned for her ... before coming for you.”
“Gone?”
“I found no sign of a struggle and so searched. I tracked her path for a ways before deciding to come for you.”
Yes, though one word did not make sense. “What path and to where?”
“Not where ... but after whom.”
Brot’ân’duivé shook his head in puzzlement.
“I am not fully skilled in the wild,” she explained. “It is not my expertise. For as far as I went, her course remained true north alongside the paw prints of a majay-hì. To my eyes, its tracks were as fresh as hers. She may have even been following the sacred one directly.”
This troubled Brot’ân’duivé even more, but he had to act. Too much time had been lost. He needed to hunt Most Aged Father’s agents and retrieve the journal before it reached Crijheäiche. Failing in that would necessitate drastic measures to remove it from Most Aged Father’s possession.
The journal had become a tool of fear. Amid bloodshed, it could serve either him or the old worm in pulling down the other.
With its hints of an artifact from the time of the Ancient Enemy, the journal could be used to sway the caste in one of two directions. Worse, that it had been found secreted in the home of the old healer and in the hands of Cuirin’nên’a—once imprisoned as a traitor—would make it proof for Most Aged Father to do as he wished in hunting down every dissident.
If Brot’ân’duivé could not retrieve it, then Most Aged Father had to die.
“Can you travel?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Find Leanâlhâm and get her to safety.”
“And where would that be?” Cuirin’nên’a asked dryly, sounding more herself.
Thinking, he tilted his head. “Take her to Urhkarasiférin’s clan. He has proven he will not turn you over to Most Aged Father, regardless of his allegiances. He would never allow an innocent to come to harm, so he will protect the girl. Once she is safe, spread the word through our cells. Every dissident must go into hiding and wait for instructions. Most especially all among the Coilehkrotall.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I have to.”
He thought she might argue, insist upon coming with him. Instead she nodded. A moment later she was gone, and he stood gazing at the spot where she had vanished. But before beginning his hunt, he had one more thing to do—an unavoidable, undesirable task.
On the edge of dusk on the third day after leaving Osha, Brot’ân’duivé walked silently into the home enclave of his lost old friend. He made his way unseen to Gleannéohkân’thva’s tree dwelling and slipped inside.
The interior was in shambles, with blood dried on the moss floor, but the body of the anmaglâhk whom Cuirin’nên’a killed had been removed. The people here would know to send for one of the caste to retrieve it, and so would prepare it for return with their own hands. Brot’ân’duivé could only imagine their dismay at finding an anmaglâhk slain in the home of one of their own.
They would have already seen to the body of Gleannéohkân’thva, their treasured elder.
Brot’ân’duivé had not even been present for this. Gleannéohkân’thva had been more than an ally. Perhaps aside from the lost Eillean, the old healer had been Brot’ân’duivé’s only friend in a life that did not leave room for such things.
He swallowed down that pain and buried it. Within a few steps, it resurfaced against his will, but he had come here for more than a last farewell.
This tree had belonged to a Shaper turned healer. It was one node in a living and hidden method of communication traditionally reserved for the Anmaglâhk and the council of clan elders. And now this enclave would be watched by Most Aged Father’s agents. This home would be stripped for further evidence that worm-in-the-wood of his people could use to vilify any dissident—or anyone charged as such—before the council of elders.
Brot’ân’duivé knelt in shame for what he was about to do. After taking out his flint and one stiletto, he paused.
It was not enough to make certain that Most Aged Father’s agents found nothing of use. He went into the guest chamber, where Cuirin’nên’a had stayed, and he began tearing up the living moss carpet to dig into the earth until he found what he sought.
Earth-stained oval nodules lumped out of the base of one great root—new word-woods not quite ready for those who would need to communicate with this tree. Brot’ân’duivé gouged them off the root with his blade and returned to the main chamber, then searched the place for lantern oil and found two small bottles.
Once the torn pillows, wall hangings, and blankets were burning, he tossed the unfinished ovals of wood into the fire and waited until the flames grew enough that smoke filled the room and stung his eyes. When he turned to leave with both oil bottles in hand, he spotted Gleannéohkân’thva’s satchel against the wall near the door.
It was always there, waiting for when the old healer’s skills were desperately needed. Brot’ân’duivé picked it up, a foolish and sentimental act, but he could not let it perish.
He stepped out of the home of his old friend with smoke already billowing around the doorway’s drape. He pulled the drape aside enough to heave the oil bottles in and hear them break.
Someone would soon spot the blaze in the night.
The enclave would be roused and cleared as some took to controlling the fire. The damp spring would do most of that for them. All that truly needed to be destroyed was whatever was inside the tree’s hollow part at its broad base.
Still, to murder a living home was something he could not take lightly.
Brot’ân’duivé ran into the night forest, not bothering with stealth as he headed for Crijheäiche. He did not—could not—look back.