Free Child of a Dead God by Barb Hendee, J. C. Hendee Page A

bound sheaves, and even older scrolls lay scattered across the tabletop. He settled in the chair and opened a small text directly in front of him—a thick journal written in an old Stravinan dialect. As he turned page after page, reading entries that had little to do with practices of healing, he found whole chapters in other languages. Each such was written in a singular hand, as if the journal had passed from one person to another over many years.

    This forgotten stone enclave housed an order of healers. More monks than actual priests, they followed the teachings of some long-forgotten patron saint, a healer who had wandered this continent long ago. This was the sanctuary of the Sluzhobnék Sútzits—the Servants of Compassion.

    Chane stared about the room, and his gaze returned to the gray wood door left ajar. He had come this far and knew he could not turn back until he had seen all that lay here. He lifted the lantern, rounded the table, and pulled the gray door open wide. Dim light spilled into the space beyond.

    Bookcases were arranged in rows with their ends against the back wall so that both sides of the shelves could be used, and their tops had been anchored to the stone ceiling.

    The library was not large, little more than what he had seen in smaller noble houses during his living days. But he was not looking at handsomely bound volumes, most of which would never be read by the great lord or lady of the manor. No, everything here had an aura of age and sanctity, carefully preserved and arranged, from cylinders protecting scrolls to plain leather overlaps shielding the page edges of books. These were all meant to be used—had been used—treasured and guarded.

    Chane’s eyes passed over endnotes of sheaves, book spines, and faded labels on scroll cases, picking out what he could read in Belaskian or contemporary Stravinan.

    The two easiest to catch were Process of Distillation and Infusion and Spices of the Suman Lands—Properties, Verified & Fallacious . With effort he deciphered The Early Works of Master Evar Voskôviskän, then . . . something upon the Meadow, and a thin book called The Seven Leaves of . . . its final word wasn’t clear. The last thing he spotted was a multivolumed set in a case labeled The Antithesis Tome, with Commentaries, Volumes 1 through 8.

    Chane backed up until his shoulder thumped the door frame. He spun away into the outer room, sliding down the wall to the floor, and the lantern slipped from his fingers.

    It tottered over and rolled away. Melted wax spattered around its glass, spilled over the wick, and snuffed out the light.

    How many moments had Chane fancied himself in a faraway place in Wynn’s world, filled with intellect and knowledge? Someplace just like this small forgotten monastery—until madness and a monster broke in upon it one night.

    Chane pulled up his knees, curling his arms up over his aching skull. Drowning in sorrow, he could not shed a single tear.

    The dead could not weep.

    Avranvärd, the Meadow’s Song, ran through the dark streets of Ghoivne Ajhâjhe, her thick braid bouncing against her back as she hurried for her ship.

    Twice since reaching harbor, the hkomas—the ship’s master—had chastised her for dawdling while on errands. She had no wish to hear his tiresome rant again. Given any other option, she would tell him to find a new steward and keep his tedious lectures to himself.

    Tonight, she had made good time in her tasks, procuring his precious quills, ink, and parchment—and at a reasonable trade of one short rope and six candles. That should keep him quiet this time. With a moment to herself, she stopped and anxiously scanned the streets.

    On errands this day, she had seen three clad in forest-gray escorting two humans and a half-blood. Their presence in Ghoivne Ajhâjhe had spread talk through the city faster than she could scurry about, but Avranvärd had no interest in humans. She hoped only for another glimpse of the