In Shade and Shadow

by Barb Hendee

  He was driven to finish it, even beyond his own strength.

  Upon arriving at the barracks, he’d gone to his room and looked in a mirror. A few thin strands of light gray ran through his hair, and more laced his trim beard. Remembering what had happened to Nikolas, Rodian wondered how he was still even conscious and on his feet. Perhaps the brief touch he’d received was less than what the young sage had suffered.

  And now he sat poised with quill in hand, trying to find words to explain it all to the royal family, via the minister of city affairs. The threat to the guild was over. The murderer had been destroyed. Yet what could he possibly say of the details?

  What would the minister think upon reading of a black spirit that killed by touch as it sought out texts supposedly written by other “undead”? And all of it concerned a war that most believed never happened. Indeed, what would the duchess or Princess thelthryth have to say if he wrote such words? They trusted him to maintain order, peace . . . and sanity.

  Rodian choked on a dry throat and sipped some water.

  Garrogh was dead, and young Lúcan was unconscious in the infirmary with a fractured leg, looking little better than young Nikolas. They deserved to have the truth told, even if it would never be believed.

  Rodian leaned forward, and a sharp pain grew in his chest.

  He didn’t know he was crying until sparse entries on the report suddenly blurred in the spots where tears fell. He crumpled the sheet and pulled a fresh one from his desk to begin again.

  Attachment: Final Report

  From Siweard Rodian, CAPTAIN of The Shyldfälches, Calm Seatt

  To Lord Mikel Eävärwin, Minister of City Affairs, Calm Seatt

  IN regard To events surrounding The Guild of Sagecraft, beginning with The deaths of Two journeyors, followed By A bulgary and Two subsequent deaths, The matter was resolved The night of The 26Th of Billiagyth.

  Assisted By Two of My men—Lt. Leäf Garrogh and Guardsman Taln Lúcan—I Attempted To apprehend and arrest A suspect outside The UPRIGHT Quill scriptorium. IN The ensuing Conflict, LT. Garrogh was killed and GM. Lúcan was severely injured, both from combat wounds and other injuries consistent with those of previous VICTIMS IN this case. No arrest of The perpetrator was possible.

  During The Conflict, while attempting AN arcane practice, The perpetrator—presumed To Be A mage of unknown practices—may have miscalculated. He was rendered To ashes. No specific motive or identification IS possible; IT has been determined that The perpetrator IS deceased. I conclude that this individual and The murderer sought IN The deaths of sages, who sought information being translated By The guild, are one and The same. Refer To related reports previously filed IN this case.

  I request that both LT. Garrogh and GM. Lúcan Be cited for gallantry, with The according marks engraved upon their Sword sheaths. I will deliver Garrogh’s personally To his next of KIN. I further request that The maximum monetary death compensation Be awarded To Garrogh’s immediate family.

  I hereby declare this case closed AS of The 27Th of Billiagyth, 483 of our common era.

  It was the sparsest, most unspecific—unprofessional—report he’d ever written.

  Scores of questions were left unanswered, and the omissions would be plain to anyone who cared. But no one would ask. The report would be promptly filed, and he would be commended for settling this disturbing matter.

  His future was intact.

  Closing his eyes, Rodian saw Wynn’s defiant face glowering at him, challenging him to believe in her.

  He buried his face in his hands.

  “It is time,” someone whispered.

  Wynn awoke with a start upon the couch and found Domin il’Sänke leaning over her.

  She sat up quickly. By the light filtering through the one curtained window, it was well past dawn. She’d slept too late.

  “You seemed to need it . . . by your snoring,” il’Sänke said. “Breakfast will have to wait.”

  She didn’t even remember falling asleep. As she lay in the dark upon the couch, her mind had filled with all the pieces of these past days, some of which didn’t yet fit together.

  Shade stirred on the floor beside her and stretched out with a yawn before rising to all fours. Her shoulder seemed better by the way she paced. Perhaps she healed as quickly as her father. Shade finally settled at the chamber’s front door.

  “All right,” Wynn said. “I’ll take you out in a moment.”

  Shade whined.

  Wynn headed immediately to the rear door and peeked in at Chane.

  He lay on his back, stretched out upon the bed, completely still with his eyes closed. His reddish brown hair was a mess around his face, but he seemed peaceful enough. The brief respite of such a sight slipped away when she noticed that his chest didn’t rise and fall. He lay there as still as a corpse.

  “Come,” il’Sänke whispered, and on their way out he locked the door.

  After Shade finished her morning business in the bailey’s northern grove, they headed straight to the keep’s main doors. The council chamber was on the third floor, and Wynn led the way in silence. Whatever might happen this morning, she had already grown certain of her path for the future.

  She was tired of submission, obediently waiting until others allowed her answers.

  They reached the double doors of the council’s chamber, but before Wynn could knock, il’Sänke rapped lightly on the wood with one knuckle.

  “You may enter,” Premin Sykion called from inside.

  Wynn shoved the doors open, stepping in first. This stone chamber had once been the master bedroom of the king and queen when the ancestors of the royals had resided in the first castle. In place of any large bed, chests, or wardrobes, only a long, stout table sat before the room’s far end. It was surrounded on the far side and two ends by plain high-backed chairs, all of which were filled with the five members of the Premin Council.

  Wynn was barely halfway into the room when her determination faltered.

  Premin Adlam, in the sienna robe of naturology, sat at the table’s left end. He was turned a bit away, speaking in a low voice to portly Premin Renäld of sentiology, robed in cerulean, who sat on High Premin Sykion’s left. And Sykion, head of the council, seated at the table’s center, was studying a document.

  On her right, Premin Jacque of conamology had his elbows on the table. With both hands laced together, his forehead rested against them, hiding his face. The sleeves of his teal robe had slipped down, exposing muscular forearms.

  Last, at the table’s right end, sat Premin Hawes of metaology. She glanced sidelong at the visitors, and the cowl of midnight blue revealed hazel eyes almost the color of the wall’s stones. Her stern glaze slipped coldly from Wynn to il’Sänke as the domin stepped forward in his like-colored robe. Then she glanced down at Shade, but her expression didn’t change.

  And Wynn was startled at the sight of one last person in the room.

  Domin High-Tower stood near a window behind the council.

  He wasn’t looking outside or at the council or even at her. His head hung forward, beard flattened against his broad chest. He seemed almost cowed, or something well beyond weary.

  Had he also been called before the council?

  As much as il’Sänke and High-Tower didn’t care for each other, their paranoia over involving outsiders had led to several ill-conceived ploys. Miriam and Dâgmund had lost their lives, and Nikolas was a mental invalid.

  Wynn swallowed hard.

  The council could do no worse to her than what she’d already suffered since her return home.

  Premin Jacque raised his head. His blockish features filled with sadness as Premin Sykion began.

  “We recognize your good intentions in what happened last night, but soundness of judgment has been . . . lacking in conduct. Our actions should not be driven by fear, or our security is sacrificed in such ill-conceived attempts to protect it.”

  High-Tower turned fully away toward the window.

&nbs
p; “However,” Sykion added, “as the cause of our great losses has finally been put to rest, we can move forward.”

  High Premin Sykion settled back. She carefully folded her hands in her lap, out of sight.

  “Domin il’Sänke, you have been invaluable in our efforts. Our sibling guild branch in the Suman Empire should take pride in you. Having fulfilled our need, your stay should not be further drawn out. You are free to return home to family and friends.”

  Wynn squeezed her eyes closed. She heard not a sound from il’Sänke at those delicately phrased words. Her one confidant within these walls was politely being told to get out. Had they done the same to High-Tower? No, he wouldn’t have remained if that had happened.

  “Journeyor Hygeorht . . .”

  Wynn’s eyes snapped open, but Premin Sykion faltered with a sad frown. Wynn’s resolve waned again in the dead silence.

  “Considering your exploits in the Farlands,” the premin finally continued, “you have accomplished much more than most journeyors in such a short time. But there is still concern over your well-being.”

  Wynn’s anger returned. After all that had happened, and here in private where no one else could see or hear, she was still treated as mentally unfit. The lie was perpetuated, regardless that they knew the truth of what she’d told them all along.

  “We wish you to take Domin Tärpodious as your new master,” Sykion said.

  Wynn’s mind went blank. She wasn’t being cast out?

  “As he is a close friend of your former master, Domin Tilswith,” Sykion continued, “Tärpodious’s tutelage would further shorten your steps to master’s status in the guild. Your experience in far cultures, with new languages and knowledge, would be a great—”

  “No!” Wynn cut in loudly.

  Premin Sykion’s eyes fixed upon her as High-Tower spun about. The worry on his face confirmed Wynn’s suspicion.

  “What are you doing?” il’Sänke whispered. “Do not give them a reason to be rid of you!”

  He didn’t see what this was really about, but Wynn did.

  They offered her a new journeyor’s assignment, to continue her training. To sweeten it further, they dangled a carrot before her, hinting that she might achieve master at a younger age than any before her. But there was a price.

  Stuck in the archives, cataloguing and referencing with old Tärpodious, she would be well out of sight, with no need to ever leave the guild grounds. They could keep her under watchful eyes, controlling everything she did . . . everything she had access to.

  “I’m interested only in the texts,” Wynn said. “Where are they?”

  Premin Jacque exhaled heavily, leaning his head on his hands once again.

  Premin Hawes’s hazel eyes narrowed as if in warning. “This will never work,” she snapped.

  “The debate is over,” Adlam responded. “Leave it alone!”

  Hawes leaned on the table, glaring along its length at Adlam. Sykion raised a hand before either spit another barb, but her gaze had never left Wynn.

  “The texts are not your concern,” Sykion answered. “Captain Rodian has assured us—again—that no charges will be brought against you for your interference. But if seeking suit to regain the texts is still your intention, it will do you no good, considering—”

  “That the texts are not even here?” Wynn finished.

  Sadness washed from High-Tower’s face. His dark pellet eyes fixed on her. He was always so stern and self-possessed, but Wynn could swear she saw fright in his stony expression.

  “Your lack of good judgment is reason enough,” Sykion said.

  That wasn’t an answer to her question. And along with High-Tower’s reaction, it confirmed Wynn’s belief: What she wanted wasn’t even being kept inside the guild.

  Wherever the texts were, they were being brought in and out, so no offered journeyor’s “assignment” would ever get her near them.

  She was now an unnecessary pawn in their little safety game—their hope that they could forestall facing an opponent returning from the Forgotten History. Wynn couldn’t help remembering wayward friends whom she’d longed for often in the past two seasons.

  Magiere had been born in the worst of ways to be the leader of forces for the Ancient Enemy. Leesil, raised and trained by his own mother, was to be the instrument of dissidents among the Anmaglâhk and strike at that Enemy they knew almost nothing about. And Chap . . .

  Having chosen to be born into flesh to guard them both, he had no idea how much his own kin, the Fay, had kept hidden from him. Beneath lies and omissions, all the Fay had truly expected from him was to keep Magiere and Leesil from taking any action at all.

  And now it seemed the council wished the same for Wynn.

  All this caution, this driven paranoia to do nothing for fear of doing the wrong thing—what did it amount to?

  Wynn knew what each of her dear friends had done in the end.

  “Give me the key to your study,” she said to il’Sänke. “I need to get my things left there if I’m to proceed.”

  The domin looked at her with doubt and then appeared relieved that she no longer fought the council’s plans for her. He handed over the key, and Wynn reached into her own pocket.

  She pulled out her cold lamp crystal—the emblem of journeyors and higher ranks among the guild.

  Wynn approached the council, directly in front of High Premin Sykion, and tossed her crystal upon the table.

  Sykion’s eyes widened at the implication even before Wynn said a word.

  “I resign,” she whispered.

  It was still loud enough to hear in the chamber as the crystal’s tumble finally came to a halt.

  Wynn finished gathering her things from her own room. She arranged it all inside her pack, leaving behind the gray robe in favor of the elven clothing she had worn all the way from the Farlands. Wearing the robe would be a lie, for she was no longer a sage.

  Shade watched her, occasionally following her around the small room or sniffing in the trunk.

  Wynn tried not to think as she finished up.

  This was too much like facing a death, and yet still left walking the world. She tried to keep her mind on one thing—Dhredze Seatt, the “Sea-foam Stronghold” of the dwarves across Beranlômr Bay.

  The only “outsiders” who’d come and gone unseen from the guild—who seemed to possess real knowledge of the texts—were High-Tower’s brother and the other elder hassäg’kreigi.

  The translation project would go on without her—had proceeded without her. Hopefully, since she’d said nothing of her plans, the guild would see no need to change the current location of the texts. Wherever the texts truly were, the city of dwarves was the only place to begin her search.

  She picked up Magiere’s old battle dagger from where she’d tossed it on the bed. The sheath was seriously weathered, and the blade itself needed tending. She’d never cared for weapons and knew little of caring for them. Chane would have to teach her.

  Wynn lashed the dagger’s sheath straps to her belt and retrieved the sun crystal, gripping its staff. Then she remembered to check for one thing—the pewter-framed spectacles. She found them still in her cloak’s pocket.

  After all of il’Sänke’s effort and the expense to the guild, she had no business taking the staff as her own. The notion of walking off with it, before anyone could stop her, didn’t sit well, but neither had many recent necessary choices.

  And she would be traveling with an undead.

  “Come, Shade,” she said, and opened the door.

  Shade trotted out, and Wynn glanced one last time around her old room. She could’ve stayed until nightfall, when it would be safe for Chane to go outdoors. But another long day in this room, no longer hers, was too much to bear. No, it was better to wait in il’Sänke’s study until Chane awakened.

  She shut the door and headed down the passage. One door along the way was open.

  As she traipsed by, a cluster of apprentices sitting on the floor insi
de looked up. Wynn tried not to glance their way. Soon enough the whole guild would know they no longer had to put up with Witless Wynn Hygeorht and her fantastical tales.

  She passed others as she came out into the courtyard. A couple of craftsmen, perhaps wheelwrights, made their way to the main building. Young initiates and a few apprentices scurried about, heading every which way to whatever tasks, lessons, or gatherings were planned for the day by their superiors.

  Wynn stopped midway in heading for il’Sänke’s quarters. Upon hearing lively voices in the crisp air, she turned, strangely mesmerized by a common sight.