They were both quiet while he tended her. When he finished, he rocked back on his heels and was uncertain what to say.
“We cannot risk a fire,” he finally said.
She tilted her head to one side, and some of her anger had faded. Like him, she understood that the past could not be changed. What was done was done.
“Were you truly going to kill him?”
Puzzled by such an afterthought, Brot’ân’duivé studied her. “I came for the journal and failed in that, but knowing he would use it against us ... yes.”
He was still stunned by the sight of the heart-root’s entrance closing before him.
Cuirin’nên’a struggled to sit up, and he almost stopped her. All she did was reach behind herself and dig beneath her cloak. When she withdrew her hand and settled back, she thrust something at him.
It was the journal, and in all his long life he had seldom been at such a loss for words.
“How ... Where?”
“From Juan’yâre,” she said. “I told you I checked him. He was carrying it.”
In near disbelief, he slowly reached out for the book. She did not release it when he pulled.
“I did not do this for you, but for those who walk with us,” she said, and then let go.
When he fully held the journal, he felt an awkward bulge in its worn cover. Flipping it open, he found a small polished oval of dark wood ... a word-wood.
“A number of dissidents sought haven with the Âlachben clan,” she said. “They are with us and have escaped suspicion so far. One of their Shapers could rival Gleannéohkân’thva in her skills. As with all of our groups, she has been making these from a tree home in one of their own outer enclaves.”
He closed his hand around the word-wood. There was at least some relief in the fact that they might still communicate as needed.
“You and Gleannéohkân’thva knew of this?” he asked.
She had the good grace to pause before saying, “He felt it best to keep such knowledge limited, for the protection of individual factions among us, especially the Âlachben. Of all the dissident factions, those among that clan have succeeded in escaping Most Aged Father’s scrutiny.”
Though troubled by being kept ignorant of this, Brot’ân’duivé turned his thoughts to greater matters.
“Did you find the girl and get her to safety?”
Another pause followed. “Yes.”
Her hesitation meant not all had gone as planned. “Did you see Urhkarasiférin?”
“No. His sister and brother offered their assistance. They took the girl without reluctance but clearly desired me to leave.”
“Why?” he asked, and when she did not answer, “What happened?”
She looked closely at him, and it was clear that the answer troubled her.
“Urhkarasiférin denounced all sides in this conflict,” she answered. “He will not allow either dissidents or loyalists in his clan’s territory. He has left the caste, and only because I delivered an innocent was I tolerated among his clan.”
Brot’ân’duivé could not see all that this meant other than that their people had begun to fracture even further. Perhaps Cuirin’nên’a was the wise one, and he had indeed been a fool. It was possible now that many of the clans would turn against both dissidents and loyalists.
“Listen to me,” he said. “There is more that I have learned.”
He told her what he had seen and overheard while watching Most Aged Father’s tree for the past two days. As she listened, her alarm increased.
“A team of such size ... going after my son!” She pushed herself up. “They must be stopped at any cost.”
He had to step in her way, and she tensed as if she might go at him. He held up his empty hands.
“I will leave for Ghoivne Ajhâjhe tonight,” he assured her. “They are already well ahead and will likely be gone before I reach our port. But I will pursue them ... alone.”
“No! Now get out of my way!”
“Cuirin’nên’a!”
Though she stalled, he knew that his next words, both a truth and a trick, were all he had to keep her from the one thing that mattered more to her than pulling down Most Aged Father.
“Someone must remain—an anmaglâhk must remain—to coordinate those from inside the caste who have joined us with the greater number of dissidents among the people.”
“There are others!” she snarled at him and tried to push past. “This is about my son and our greater hope in him.”
Brot’ân’duivé did not relent. “Anmaglâhk have killed their own! And they have killed a healer, a Shaper ... an elder of a clan. Among those who have joined us, what will they think of this? They will look upon any anmaglâhk with suspicion as their world fractures around them. There is only one among us they would trust.”
Cuirin’nên’a’s jaw clenched as she shook her head.
“You were imprisoned for ten years,” he went on, “yet Father gained nothing from you ... not even enough to hold you once your son returned. You are known—and trusted—for this among our own.”
Her fury escaped in harsh breaths through her nostrils.
“You must hold us together in my absence,” Brot’ân’duivé whispered, and he watched her face as his words sank in. “Spread word of what truly happened among the Coilehkrotall ... and why I acted as I did.”
Cuirin’nên’a’s breath hissed out between her clenched teeth. It was not at all like an anmaglâhk to be so affected, but on this night he was unsuited to admonish her.
“You may reach me among the Âlachben,” she whispered, “by the word-wood you now have.”
In relief Brot’ân’duivé nodded and began to turn away. A hand latched on to his arm.
“Find my son—protect him! And if the chance comes, guide him to his purpose ... or whatever happens here will not matter.”
Brot’ân’duivé offered a slow bow of his head. Then he turned, running north for Ghoivne Ajhâjhe.
On the deck of the Cloud Queen, Brot’ân’duivé fell silent. He could recall every detail of what had come next, but he said no more. He had not related all the finite details in his story, only the general truth of what had happened. He had not mentioned anything concerning ...
Léshil was not ready, as yet, to face his fate.
“You sent my mother back among your dissidents?” Léshil asked in shock. “You left her there in the middle of what you’d stirred up?”
Brot’ân’duivé did not answer. Along the run to Ghoivne Ajhâjhe, he had hoped fervently that word of his “treachery” would not reach the port by the time he arrived.
“You left her,” Léshil pressed, his anger growing, “in the middle of a civil war ... that you started!”
Brot’ân’duivé looked upon the grandson of Eillean.
In retrospect, he wondered whether all their efforts to train Léshil in secret, away from all ties, could serve the purpose they intended. They had attempted to cultivate someone capable of cunning, with skills outside of any allegiances, to be the weapon of their need. Léshil was not as skilled as most anmaglâhk but skilled enough. Unlike the Anmaglâhk, his mind was undisciplined, thereby creative, ungrounded, and unbiased—as a living weapon should be.
Brot’ân’duivé still did not believe in portents, omens, and revelations, but he was learning to in the hardest of ways. And perhaps, if necessary, another way, another weapon might yet be found.
The orbs.
Perhaps the weapon needed to kill the Ancient Enemy was one of its own making. What other reason could have led Brot’ân’duivé to this moment? But as he looked upon Léshil, another uncertainty flickered through his subtle machinations. Perhaps the weapon that had been made, the one standing before him, would need to use the weapon that had yet to be found?