He froze in stillness, clearing his mind ... until it was as still and quiet as a shadow.
The last year had taken something from him. Before, he would not have allowed himself to be “rattled,” as humans would say. In slow, deep breaths, he shifted across the roof toward the street below, recounting the few facts available to him.
Most Aged Father was aware of the existence of only one orb, or “anchor”—that of Water—but did not know to even call it by its proper reference. He knew it only as an artifact of unknown purpose created and wielded by the Ancient Enemy. He was willing to do anything to acquire it or, short of that, remove it from human hands.
Most Aged Father did not know of the other four orbs.
Brot’ân’duivé did, though he had yet to see one.
He knew the one of Earth had been hidden in the dwarven underworld of Dhredze Seatt. Chap had hidden Water and Fire somewhere along the coast of the northern wastes of this central continent. And even now, Wynn Hygeorht was likely somewhere in Malourné seeking the orb of Spirit.
These ancient “anchors of creation” must have unmeasured power if they had served the Ancient Enemy. How much power and to what purpose, Brot’ân’duivé did not yet know. If they had a use in whatever was coming, he would learn it and, if possible, place that use in the hands of one person.
A name had been placed on that individual by one of his people’s sacred ancestral spirits, by Léshiâra—“Sorrow-Tear.”
Leesil ... Léshil ... Léshiârelaohk—“Sorrow-Tear’s Champion.”
Léshil had been named as the champion of the ancestors.
For this, Brot’ân’duivé had refused to be shaken off, even when Léshil—or especially Chap—had made it clear they wanted him gone or worse. He had protected them all from anmaglâhk, spilled the blood of his own caste, and would not be severed from his agenda.
If such devices would not serve Léshil’s purpose, they might still serve Brot’ân’duivé in removing Most Aged Father forever.
In either case, he had to first locate and free Léshil, as well as Magiere and Wayfarer, and even Chap.
Movement in the street below stilled his thoughts and fixed his attention.
Dänvârfij and Rhysís walked rapidly away into the city. Such haste marked a strange desperation that puzzled and restrained Brot’ân’duivé. That Dänvârfij kept returning to her vigil before the palace gates meant that she at least believed Magiere and the others still lived. Brot’ân’duivé’s reason and instinct told him that she knew little more of use.
Perhaps she was now embarking on a new strategy, one that might even serve him, and that was all that kept her alive for now.
He could have broken into their inn earlier that evening, tortured Én’nish and Fréthfâre for information, and made them tell him what they knew. But they might know little more than what he had already uncovered, and such drastic action would have ended their use to him.
Brot’ân’duivé remained upon the rooftop until Dänvârfij was well down the way, and then he scaled down the building to follow.
Shortly before dusk, Ghassan again slipped away from his sect’s ensorcelled sanctuary. Heavily cloaked, he walked softly through the darkening streets, somewhat relieved by a few moments to himself. The afternoon had been straining.
Once he and Wynn had put away newly purchased food stores, she immediately began pressing him about his plans to free Magiere and the others. Sharing news of his alliance with Prince Ounyal’am—over half the prince’s lifetime—should not be done until necessary. Ghassan had managed to put her off.
In addition, among the most unwanted complications, he had also noticed something unspoken between her and the quiet an’Cróan archer. Wynn seemed almost manically determined to fill every moment with some sort of activity. It had taken Ghassan only a little while to realize she did so in order to avoid speaking to Osha. In the end, she’d asked Ghassan to tutor her in colloquial Sumanese. He had readily agreed, if only to keep her from badgering him further.
And then ... there was the chest in the second room on the floor beside one of the beds.
He longed to study the orb of Spirit, but it was always watched, and he knew it was too soon to safely ask Wynn for permission. Trust had to be gained first, and if it was not, there were other ways. More bizarre was the guardian of that chest.
Chane Andraso lay on his back, fully clothed and not breathing, appearing dead for all practical purposes on the bed beside the chest. Ghassan had spent other afternoons of his life in stranger settings—but not many. Once dusk was pending, he donned his cloak while assuring Wynn that he would not be gone long.
The streets were still busy in the early evening, now that the day’s heat had subsided. Numerous people conducted business and errands to get out of their homes and into the relatively cooler air. As he began looking for a side street, cutway, or alley with fewer passersby, he was suddenly startled—and then troubled.
The medallion inside Ghassan’s shirt grew suddenly warm.
He had not expected the prince to be the one to establish their agreed contact. Caught unprepared, he looked around carefully, and then hurried into a narrow space between an eatery and a tea vendor’s shop. He went all the way to the back corners of the buildings and, with one quick look for any nearby watchers, hooked the chain around his neck with one finger. He barely drew out the medallion and gripped it before ...
Ghassan, are you there?
At the soft voice in his thoughts, he fixed his will upon the medallion before answering.
Yes, my prince.
I do not have much time. I am dressing for dinner and found a reason to send my personal attendant on an errand.
Ghassan knew the prince’s duties sometimes made privacy difficult. As they were both pressed for time, he went straight to the point.
An unexpected change of circumstances has arisen. If we both act quickly, I might gain needed ... unique ... assistance to locate and destroy Khalidah.
This would stun his prince at first, and so he waited. Once the prince understood or accepted this, explanations might be easier.
Assistance? I thought all in your sect were dead.
Yes, in all likelihood. When Ghassan had returned from Bäalâle Seatt and rushed to the deep underground chambers of his sect, he had found only bodies ... but one was missing.
Tuthâna had been the last to whom he had spoken while away, for all wore a medallion tuned specifically to each. He had not found her among the dead, and there could be only one reason for her absence.
Khalidah, amid his escape, had taken flesh again—Tuthâna’s flesh.
She was by far the most trusted and most loved among the Suman metaologers, whether part of the sect or not. Her calm and kindness to others were widely admired, for most knew her as one of the few Suman metaologers who had studied thaumaturgy instead of conjury. She was an extraordinary healer favored by the elite of the imperial court.
Khalidah would have known this. All members of the sect had long been part of extracting the lost secrets of sorcery from him, including Tuthâna. And with her body, that monster could go nearly anywhere.
Ghassan feared she had not lived more than a few days after the escape. She would have been a vessel of transport until that ancient thing shifted to someone far more prominent. And who knew what had even happened to her body.
Ghassan? Answer me!
He gathered himself, for he could not think upon her now. He needed the prince to take a great risk.