Something to do with the ancestors.
They all knew what the name Leanâlhâm meant: Child of Sorrow. How any mother could do that to her child was beyond understanding. She had lived with that name on top of being one-quarter human among a people who distrusted—or hated—anyone who wasn’t purely an’Cróan.
If she could choose a new one, what could be worse than that name?
To Leesil’s best reckoning, aside from his own experience, all who went for name-taking in the ancestors’ burial ground saw visions by which they chose a name to replace the one given at birth. He hadn’t been so lucky; those damn ghosts had put a name on him.
Leshiârelaohk—Sorrow-Tear’s Champion.
“It is time ... Sheli’câlhad,” Brot’an whispered.
Leanâlhâm stiffened all over and screamed something in Elvish at Brot’an.
“Yes, now,” Brot’an returned flatly. “You can no longer run from who you are.”
Leesil couldn’t possibly pronounce the name Brot’an had just spoken. Out of everyone here, someone else had been holding back, and Leesil turned on Chap.
“Out with it! What do you know about this?”
Chap retreated a step. —Not—my—place—to—
“Don’t give me that,” Leesil cut in. “You’ve been digging around her memories. Now, what did Brot’an call her?”
“To a Lost Way,” Brot’an supplied.
Leesil looked up in bafflement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It is her name,” Brot’an answered, “rendered in your tongue.”
Leanâlhâm buried her face in her hands, and Magiere grabbed the girl by the upper arms.
“Look at me!” Magiere said, but the girl wouldn’t. “Don’t you listen to those ghosts. There’s nothing in a name, especially from them. You don’t have to be anything—anything—you don’t want!”
The girl wouldn’t lift her head.
“It is her name,” Brot’an said, “given by—”
“Shut up!” Leesil shouted.
This was why Leanâlhâm had run from her people—the ancestors had driven her out. She was lost in a world not her own, lost between a name that cursed her from birth and another that banished her. Yet she was still an’Cróan, a people for whom taking a name meant everything about their identity.
And Brot’an had done nothing for her suffering.
Leesil had to find her a way out quickly, and he turned on Chap again. “You give me something else!”
Chap blinked, looking between him and the girl, and not a word rose in Leesil’s head.
“Don’t play dumb with me, mutt!” he warned. “All those years with my mother, being born among those elves, you speak their tongue as well as they do. Give me something better than Brot’an’s meaning!”
Chap snarled at him, clearly no happier about this, but as much at a loss as Leesil. Something had to be done if Leanâlhâm was to find even temporary peace.
—Way— ... —to—a way— ... —Way—toward—
“What?”
Magiere looked at Chap as her head filled with his fumbling attempt to find another meaning. Then she turned back to the girl and shook her once.
“Listen to me, please,” she whispered.
“No names!” the girl cried.
Magiere knew what it was to be exposed for something she didn’t want to be—that other half inside of her. Even the old word from her land’s folklore revolted her—dhampir.
Everywhere that she went, it followed her. Any stranger who learned of it, and understood it, looked upon her as only that. It was what she saw whenever she glimpsed her own reflection.
She didn’t want this for Leanâlhâm, and “To a Lost Way” was worse than “Child of Sorrow.” But to the an’Cróan, that second name they chose—or had forced upon them, as Leesil had—meant everything about who they became. They couldn’t let go of it.
Like Leesil and then Chap, Magiere wanted some better meaning for a name the girl couldn’t bear or deny. She ran through every name or title she could remember. All she could think of from Chap’s failed suggestions was an old word in Droevinkan, her native tongue. She carefully pulled the girl’s hands down.
“Listen to me ... Chi’chetash,” she whispered.
The girl’s tear-streaked face wrinkled in confusion, but there was still fright in her reddened eyes. Magiere faltered, and then Chap barked.
—Yes but—too—foreign— ... —Simpler—
Magiere kept her eyes on the girl as she explained. “Chi’chetash are wanderers with purpose. They find new or even lost paths ... and some map their travels. They find ways so others do not become lost. They’re way finders ... who can always find their own way home.”
Leesil and Chap were quiet, but Magiere didn’t dare look away. The girl everyone called Leanâlhâm opened her eyes wider, though tears still ran down her tan cheeks.
“Wayfarer,” Leesil said.
Magiere didn’t know that word. At her glance, he nodded, and she hoped her fumbling had led him to something better.
“You’re not lost ... Wayfarer,” Magiere said, still holding the girl’s face. “I will never let that happen ... by any name.”
The girl was still too much an an’Cróan and still too young to see she could make any choice she wanted. She didn’t have to be shackled by a bunch of ghosts, and almost anything had to be better than what Brot’an ... what she had called herself.
“Wayfarer?” the girl whispered.
Magiere grabbed hold of her and pulled her close.
“Yes,” she answered in exhaustion. “Not to a lost way but toward a new one ... that you find for yourself ... starting from me. I am your home now, to always return to.”
Magiere cast a dark glance at Brot’an. All he did was look out over the water rushing by the ship’s hull.
“You will call me this?” the girl whispered. “Only this name?”
“Only this ... Wayfarer,” Magiere assured her.
Chapter Twenty
As the Bashair entered the harbor in Drist, Dänvârfij kept her expression impassive, though she was tense. All of her team except Fréthfâre was up on deck and awaiting her orders. Dusk had come, and daylight was fading quickly.
On the journey from Chathburh, they had passed several large cargo vessels but from too far to read the names painted on their hulls. She had delayed her team from taking this ship and staked everything on beating the Cloud Queen to this destination. If she had miscalculated, the ramifications could be severe.
Fréthfâre would likely wrest control from her with the support of all but perhaps Eywodan. Dänvârfij cared nothing for herself in that, but Fréthfâre would lead them only to failure in their purpose.
As the Bashair drifted into the docks, Dänvârfij focused on what lay ahead. Under the light of massive pole lamps, six long piers jutted from the waterfront, and vessels filled nearly every available space. A massive ship flying a yellow-and-green flag was docked at the third pier’s end, and its name was painted on the prow—the Bell Tower. She had rarely seen ships so large allowed to dock rather than anchor farther out and use skiffs for transport. Other differences here became readily apparent.
Chathburh had been a sprawling port city; this place was compact but unnervingly busy, even with nightfall coming. Dockworkers and sailors clambered along piers, ramps, and decks: hauling cargo to and from vessels, teaming the moorings and riggings as they shouted over the general dull din. The milling crowds might prove an advantage or obstacle.