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

Anmaglâhk.

    The youngest of the three had been only a handful of years older than her, but he looked dull, clumsy, and overall unimpressive. The second was an extreme of another kind—a Greimasg’äh!

    Brot’ân’duivé was a towering man who filled Avranvärd with so much awe she almost stared too long and missed the third entirely. Then she recognized the last of that gray-clad trio.

    Sgäilsheilleache . . . Sgäilsheilleache á Oshâgäirea gan’Coilehkrotall— Willow Shade, born of Sudden-Breeze’s Laugh, from the clan of the Lichen Woods.

    When Avranvärd closed her eyes, she still saw his narrow, smooth face, and his gray-green cloak hanging perfectly across his shoulders. She had met and even briefly spoken with him once. Her own clan’s ship had taken him to the shores of Bela, one of the humans’ reeking cities. Unlike the ship’s crew, Sgäilsheilleache had disembarked to explore strange lands and to study other races. Watching the skiff carry him to shore in the dark, Avranvärd knew she would do whatever was necessary to become Anmaglâhk.

    Tired of serving aboard ships, either her own clan’s or training upon those of another, she wanted to walk foreign lands and see them with her own eyes. Only the Anmaglâhk were so privileged.

    She knew she was too old to request admittance. Most started training shortly after their name-taking before the ancestors. Although the calling came late for her, it was no less potent and overwhelming—as was despair at Most Aged Father’s denial. But three of the caste had now appeared from nowhere, staying at an inn in Ghoivne Ajhâjhe. Two had even been spotted upon the docks the same evening her ship made harbor.

    It was a sign—her fate had to change. If only she could muster the courage to approach the Greimasg’äh, he would see the passion in her eyes and understand. She could not bear any more service aboard ship, and the boredom of inland existence was worse. But if the great Brot’ân’duivé spoke for her before Most Aged Father, the patriarch of the caste could not refuse her again.

    The streets were nearly empty. Avranvärd saw no green-gray cloaks. She trudged the avenues back toward the bayside road, passing a tannery and a smokehouse. The savory scent of fish reminded her that she had not eaten supper yet. She passed a darkened cobbler’s shop with a sense of longing. Her own boots were too large. Like her shirt and breeches and tunic, and even her hemmed cloak, they were hand-me-downs from an elder brother. But she had nothing worthy of trade for new ones.

    When she was finally accepted as Anmaglâhk, this would change. They wore flat, soft boots for speed and silence, sewn just for them. And they traded for nothing. All their needs were fulfilled just for the asking.

    She saw the lanterns hanging over her ship’s deck out in the harbor beyond the beach. She wandered down the road and onto the docks, down to her small skiff tied off at the pier’s end. She rifled one last time through her packages, checking for everything the hkomas had requested, and then crouched to untie her skiff.

    “Please wait,” someone called.

    Avranvärd jumped in fright and whirled about.

    A cloaked figure stood on the shore road to the docks, as if appearing from nowhere. The figure stepped toward the dock and passed beneath a hung lantern, and she saw a man in a gray-green cloak.

    “You are Avranvärd?” he asked, and strode down the dock, pointing out into the bay. “The steward from that cargo vessel?”

    Avranvärd was struck mute. She had never seen him before, but he was Anmaglâhk. He knew her by name. How? Why? And her thoughts raced to her dearest hope. Had Most Aged Father reconsidered her request?

    “Yes . . . I am,” she finally stammered.

    He was quite small-boned, his young and plain face glistening with sweat. Loose, white-blond hair stuck to his temples and cheeks. Leaves and wild grass clung to his cloak. He glanced around, as if