by Barb Hendee
Osha sighed and raised his eyes. “When I am alone, if I wish, I have . . . can . . . pass unnoticed to most.”
She didn’t like that any better, though this sounded lonely more than anything else. It made her ache inside. Before she said more, Osha stripped off a short rope around his waist, hidden beneath his tunic’s lower half, and crouched before Shade.
“May I . . . please?” he asked her, holding out a loop at the rope’s end.
Shade looked up at Wynn and then back at Osha. With a wrinkle of her jowls, she huffed once at him. Osha slipped the loop around Shade’s neck and rose up, still looking at the dog.
“If you would perhaps make yourself . . . noticed . . . when we pass through?” he asked, closing his eyes briefly and bowing his head to Shade.
Shade grumbled but huffed consent, but Wynn was a little put out. Obviously Osha had thought this through long before saying anything. It was even more off-putting that Shade went along so easily.
“Stay to the outside stalls,” Osha instructed Wynn. “And if—when—others turn to look, do not do so. We will meet you where the market reaches the next cross street, and we will keep sight of you at all times.”
With that, he walked off toward the corner, though Shade trotted ahead to the end of the makeshift leash.
Wynn stood there, still fuming. She was so tired of those around her treating her like . . . like she was made of glass! No matter how many times she put them in their place, they just kept doing it.
With a low hiss, she took off for the corner but paused long enough to peek around it. So much the worse, for she spotted Shade and Osha strolling right between the small tents, carts, and makeshift stalls. And worse again, because people did turn to stare at a tall elf with a bow strung over one shoulder and a huge black wolf on a rope leash.
Wynn ceased watching and slipped along the street side, looking for anything they could bring back to eat. From one outer stall to the next, she paused in searching among what was offered. She slowly filled a burlap sack with plump dates, apricots, flat bread, a brick of cheese, and dried goat’s meat. She moved along swiftly in her shopping and, thankfully, also found two leather-capped clay urns of fresh water.
Soon she reached the little market street’s far end.
When she looked about and peered down the left run of the next main street, she didn’t spot either Osha or Shade until she heard Shade’s low huff. Looking the other way to the side street’s far corner, there they were. Both barely peeked around the corner watching her. She hurried across but pulled up short at what she saw in Osha’s hand . . . instead of on his shoulder.
The bow.
Wynn went straight to him. At least he hadn’t pulled an arrow and fitted it. He slipped the bow back to his shoulder, took her burdens without asking, and insisted on carrying them for her.
“Oh, come on . . . both of you!” she whispered.
Not long after, they returned to the end of that upper passage and Ghassan’s secret chambers. Wynn lost her annoyance staring at the false window that looked out over the street. Getting back inside the hideaway was something she hadn’t done yet on her own. The domin had given her something rather strange to do so.
He had handed her a small stone, the size of a pebble.
Though accustomed to various esoteric tools of metaologers, Wynn had never heard of anything quite like this. Remembering his instructions on how to use the pebble, she dug it out of her coin pouch. It looked like any other she might have picked up off the ground. It was supposed to be used only “just in case.” None of them was supposed to leave until he returned . . . unless absolutely necessary.
Well, food was necessary.
From what Ghassan had told her, all she was supposed to do was grip the pebble tightly in her hand until it hurt a little. That it was a pebble instead of something more obvious—more arcane-looking—made her doubt grow.
“Have you tried?” Osha asked from behind. “Do you see the door?”
“No, not yet,” she muttered, and stepped closer to the passage’s end.
One thing she wasn’t going to do was stick her hand through that false window first . . . and see it go through, the way Chane had. Nor was she going to use her mantic sight to see the element of Spirit and, if she could, whatever had been done to the end of this passage. Chane hadn’t needed to warn her off from that. It might cost her more than peeking through the wall and getting sick.
“Wynn . . . do you wish me to do this?” Osha whispered.
“No.” She gripped the pebble tightly in her hand, until the pressure hurt. That little wave of pain changed everything before her eyes.
The shadow overlay of the door’s frame appeared in the end wall. Its wooden planks were . . . ghosts of planks across the view through the window. Low to one side, near the window frame’s bottom left corner, was a plain iron handle with no keyhole in its mount plate, as if locking that door was unnecessary.
And apparently, it was.
Before Chane had retired, they’d stepped aside to speak in private. She’d asked what he’d felt when he inspected the passage’s end, after Ghassan had vanished through it. Chane said he’d felt nothing but the wall and the window.
Exactly what kind of magic could hide something from touch as well as sight?
This was more than an illusion constructed through thaumaturgy and light.
Wynn hesitated as her free hand hovered near that semitransparent iron handle. Then she grabbed it. The handle felt as solid as if fully there. With a quick twist on the handle, she shoved the door open.
The door became suddenly real as it swung inward.
The window around it—through it—had vanished. She saw the other supposedly real window directly ahead at the hideaway’s rear, as if the window had leaped away from her. It was so disorienting that she froze until she heard a creak of metal.
“Stop the door!” Osha ordered.
It was already swinging shut on the force of its springs.
Wynn stopped it with one hand and almost jumped through rather than be caught halfway in. And then she stepped back right into Osha, who was carrying all her purchases. Whatever half-spoken exclamation he started was cut off, for Ghassan stood off to the left near the table and high-backed chairs.
Wynn was caught between hoping the domin had learned something and worrying about being caught outside the hideaway. But he didn’t even turn to look at her.
Ghassan stared down at the floor with his hands folded together behind his back, and his expression was both angry and troubled.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, forgetting everything else. “Has something happened? Did you find no help for Magiere and the others?”
His left eyelid fluttered. “Not now, Wynn,” he half whispered.
He blinked several times as if then realizing he’d spoken to someone. Raising his head, he looked over, and his half scowl vanished in a flattening of his expression.
“Pardon me . . . No, I have not failed, only been postponed,” he went on. “I must go out again at dusk, but I will gain assistance to rescue Magiere.” Then he looked past her at Shade and Osha as she heard the door finally close.
“What have you been doing?” Ghassan demanded. “I told you to remain hidden unless it was necessary to flee.”
“We needed food,” Wynn answered. “And I couldn’t find anything in here.”
Wynn wondered what he had been eating. She was under the impression he’d been staying here for some time. And then she spotted a bag not unlike her own behind him on the table.
“I brought some things as well,” he said, looking past her again, likely at the bag Osha was holding. “Bread, goat’s cheese, figs, and some olives.”
Without a word, Osha went to the table and began unpacking their own food. But now Wynn couldn’t stop thinking about Magiere, Leesil, and Chap, and Leanâlhâm.
“You’ll find help tonight?” she pressed. “Some way to get them out of that prison?”
“
I begin to see why your own high premin loses patience with you,” he chided. “Still always thinking you know what is most important when you are out of your elements.”
At that, he glanced sidelong at Osha and down to the food Wynn had acquired. Shade came up beside Wynn with a slowly growing rumble. As Wynn settled her hand on Shade’s back, Ghassan took a deep breath and let it out.
“But yes,” he said more evenly. “I will find a way to free your friends.”
CHAPTER FOUR
At dusk that evening, Dänvârfij crouched with Rhysís on a rooftop in sight of the main gates to the imperial grounds. They had been there since dawn.
“I do not believe any guards will leave the palace after dark,” Rhysís whispered.
Dänvârfij did not answer. They had held their vigil together rather than in shifts and rarely moved about alone, for Brot’ân’duivé was in the capital somewhere. Only she and Rhysís together stood a chance against a greimasg’äh who had eliminated more than half of their team across half a world. And their task for today—tonight—had been to capture an imperial guard for interrogation.
Should one such emerge alone, Dänvârfij thought it best to have two to track and silently steal away their target. But not a single guard wearing a gold sash had gone farther than the main gates all day. She now second-guessed her strategy, wondering whether she had ever seen a member of the imperial forces alone outside the palace grounds.
Of course they would accompany the emperor or the prince should either have reason to leave, but how often did that happen? Not once since she had arrived in this stinking human city. The emperor was bedridden, and the prince was reputed to love his garden and books and seldom ventured out. What had seemed a plan with some potential had become an exercise in futile waiting . . . like so many other plans of late.
Far too many days and nights had passed since she arranged for the “arrest” of Magiere and Léshil by Most Aged Father’s instructions. As of yet, she had not found a way to learn even where her quarry was being held. Failure after failure began to take its toll.
Looking at her hands, Dänvârfij found both unconsciously clenched into fists.
“Remaining after dark will not profit us,” Rhysís pressed. “There was little food or water in our room when we left. We need to purchase provisions before the last of the shops close.”
Dänvârfij shifted only her eyes toward him. He still watched the gate, his expression flat and emotionless with his uncombed white-blond hair hanging loose around his face. Loyal, composed, and highly skilled, his less than subtle challenge was another sign of failing discipline.
They had been away from home and Most Aged Father’s guidance for too long.
Anmaglâhk thought nothing of going without food or water for days. Their task, their mission, their given purpose was all that mattered. Rhysís now suggested leaving their chosen watch because one day had passed without success.
He thought of Én’nish.
Not of Fréthfâre, the spiteful and crippled ex-consul to Most Aged Father, waiting to hear of at least one task fulfilled. No, Rhysís thought only of Én’nish, the still wounded member of their team. His growing need to care for her had become a problem, which had started even before she had been so badly wounded.
Dänvârfij’s lips parted as anger sparked. She stopped before uttering a word.
Of what remained of her team, Rhysís was the last able member besides herself. She needed him. Half a world away from home, the four of them had no one but one another. Perhaps he understood that better than she did.
“Do you have coin?” she asked him.
He nodded once, though he still watched the gate and walls. He had been resupplying their money by robbing people in alleys and leaving no witnesses.
Dänvârfij looked to the gate and wondered whether Rhysís was correct. There seemed little chance any imperial guards, let alone one, would emerge after dark. Yet simply leaving felt like another defeat after so many others.
“As you say,” she whispered. “We will purchase supplies before the shops close. Once we see to the needs of Én’nish and Fréthfâre, we return to our purpose here.”
Dänvârfij did not need to look at him again. She heard the soft shift of his cloak’s hood from one nod. In this way, she consented to his indirect request without abandoning their task completely. Taking the lead, she slipped off the roof’s edge and dropped soundlessly to the back alley’s floor.
* * *
Brot’ân’duivé lay flat atop a roof three structures behind his quarry. He watched as Dänvârfij and Rhysís dropped into an alley below. He did not move at losing sight of them.
They would not try to gain entrance to the imperial grounds, so they would have only one other destination in abandoning their chosen post. But other details remained a mystery.
Dänvârfij had changed tactics.
She had spent the entire day on a rooftop with Rhysís. Both had watched the main gates, waiting for something. For what, and why? And was she no longer allowed inside?
Brot’ân’duivé hated being in ignorance of even whether or not Léshil and Magiere still lived. He had sacrificed too much to fail and would accept no outcome other than their eventual rescue.
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.
