Between Their Worlds_A Novel of the Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee

  Wynn crept around another corner, always peeking ahead before she led the others onward. Shade remained silent at her side the whole way. Wynn looked back once or twice, checking that everyone was still with her. Now Chap remained at the rear.

  Shade never looked back once.

  Much as Wynn wished there was something she could do for Chap concerning Shade, a much bigger problem clouded her thoughts and filled her with fear.

  It wasn’t that she was worried about running into other sages along the way. True enough: visitors shouldn’t be found wandering the halls at this time of night. And she, of all people, being their escort, wouldn’t count for much. No, even encountering Domin High-Tower or High Premin Sykion didn’t worry her.

  The only place Wynn could take Chap, Magiere, and Leesil at this time of night might be the last place they should go: her room. And that would also be the first place Chane would wait if he found she and Shade weren’t there.

  Wynn fervently hoped that Chane hadn’t returned yet. Or perhaps had come back early and after waiting all this time, he might have gone on to his own guest quarters.

  She led her companions all the way to the keep’s front and stopped in the main entryway, holding everyone back again. Her eyes lowered to an unexpected object sitting to one side of the entryway: a small travel chest. Leesil hefted it up and over his left shoulder.

  “You left your chest up here?” Wynn asked softly.

  He shrugged. “Why not? It was getting heavy. I figured it would be safe among sages. Now, you’ll be finding us rooms here, I’d guess.”

  “Well . . .” Wynn began to answer. “Yes, of course.”

  Normally, the sages welcomed visitors, especially ones from far off that might offer useful information about the world at large. But how could she explain to Leesil, standing here in the entryway, that she was practically a renegade among her own kind, and anyone with her would be treated with equal suspicion by her superiors. The mood of the whole guild had changed over the past six moons, partly because of her.

  There wasn’t time to explain it all, let alone all the other questions everyone had.

  Wynn glanced left and then right down the long passage running along the front of the keep. Then she stepped forward and cracked open one of the great double doors and peeked out into the courtyard.

  It was empty, but this didn’t reassure her. She looked left toward the barracks and up to its last window slit at the far end of the top floor. No light shone there, but that didn’t mean anything; Chane never minded the dark. At that thought, Wynn grew frantic, looking about the courtyard for anywhere else to go.

  There simply wasn’t any place to take strangers at this time of night. She couldn’t possibly just tell them to leave and come back tomorrow. Could she? The high premin was already waiting for her, and who knew what trouble she was in now. If it was as bad as the last time, she might not get to speak with her long-lost friends for days, and there was far too much catching up to do.

  “What’s the problem?” Magiere whispered.

  Wynn turned her head quickly, straining her tense neck. Magiere was flattened against the passage’s nearer side, with Leesil just behind. Chap lingered farther back beyond them. Magiere scowled and settled a hand on the hilt of her falchion. That certainly didn’t help Wynn’s state of mind.

  “It’s . . . nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” she whispered.

  Before Wynn could say more, Shade thrust her head through the cracked door and forced it open as she wriggled out. There was nothing Wynn could do but wave the others on as she stepped out, as well. She only hoped she could make them all wait downstairs from the barracks, on whatever pretense, until she checked her room. And if Chane was there . . . then what?

  Wynn hurried onward, waving her companions along, though Shade led the way.

  “Journeyor Hygeorht.”

  Wynn was barely halfway to the barracks door when she spun about at the sharp call of her name.

  CHAPTER 2

  IF WYNN THOUGHT HER panic couldn’t get any worse, she was wrong. From out of the northwest building that housed storage, guest quarters, and sublevels of laboratories came five sages, and High Premin Sykion was in the lead. Right behind the tall, willowy, and stern elder of Wynn’s order of cathologers came Premin Hawes of Metaology in her midnight blue robe, and Domin High-Tower, Wynn’s most direct superior, in gray. Last came two other metaologers that she couldn’t place at the moment. The entire group walked straight at her with tense determination on their faces.

  Wynn briefly wondered what Sykion had been doing in the northwest building, since she’d been told to go to the high premin’s office in the main keep’s upper floors.

  Shade wheeled and rounded in front of Wynn as Magiere and Chap halted at the approaching entourage of sages. Leesil watched them, as well, as he stepped closer to Wynn.

  “What’s going on?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  “Shush!” she answered, glancing anxiously at Magiere. “Let me do the talking.”

  High Premin Sykion stopped four paces off, not even looking at the night visitors with Wynn.

  “What were these people doing in the catacombs?” she demanded. “And why did you violate another rule by letting outsiders into our archives?”

  Wynn blinked, thrown by the sudden question, and a hollow formed in the pit of her stomach. How had the premin learned so quickly about trespassers? Even Domin Tärpodious hadn’t known and only chastised her for leaving the archive unlocked—which she hadn’t. That was Leesil’s doing. Wynn almost blurted out that she hadn’t let them in, but the truth would do no good for her friends.

  Lady Tärtgyth Sykion, once a minor noble of nearby Faunier, was aging and slender but tall and straight. A single braid of her long, silver-gray hair hung out the side of her cowl and down the front of her pristine gray cathologer’s robe. She always maintained a temperate and motherly veneer to obscure whatever she truly thought, but she’d long since given up that maternal pretense in dealing with Wynn.

  “And you can skip your usual denials,” Domin High-Tower added to Sykion’s demand.

  As the only dwarf in any branch of the guild, he stood out. Tall enough to look Wynn in the eyes, he was an intimidating hulk, stout and double-wide under his gray cathologer’s robe. Coarse, gray-laced reddish hair hung barely past his shoulders, the color matching his thick beard with its small end braid. His broad, rough features made his people’s black-pupiled eyes look like iron pellets embedded in pale, flesh-colored granite.

  Considering how good-natured dwarves generally tended to be, an angry or resentful one was something to worry about. High-Tower’s warning troubled Wynn even more. How much did her superiors know about what was happening here? And how did they know?

  Shade backed toward Wynn but remained between her and Sykion. That, too, wasn’t a good sign. Worse again, Wynn heard Magiere’s slow, hissing breath and took a furtive glance.

  Magiere eyed only High-Tower. Chap let out a brief rumble, but his gaze wandered over the entire entourage, one by one. Suddenly, Leesil stepped out with a lighthearted smile.

  Wynn tried to grab him, but she stumbled over Shade’s rump before she could get a grip. Leesil, balancing the travel chest on his shoulder with his left hand, held out his right hand to Sykion and spoke in Belaskian.

  “Forgive our rudeness. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  He probably assumed most sages would understand him, which they wouldn’t. That language was almost unknown on this side of the world, and only those sages traveling to the Farlands would work to learn it.

  Wynn’s stomach knotted, for she knew what Leesil was doing. More than likely, he didn’t care about the actual words. He was just using disarming charm in playing the ignorant foreigner.

  It wasn’t going to work, and Sykion ignored his extended hand.

  Wynn knew something was very wrong here. Outsiders weren’t allowed in the archives without special prior arrangements, but visitors were never treat
ed with this kind of open hostility.

  All five sages looked Leesil up and down, from his slightly slanted amber eyes, white-blond hair, and tan face, to his battered leather hauberk with some of its rings badly scarred, the strange winged punching blades strapped to his thighs, and his cracked and worn calf-high boots.

  Wynn could only guess what he looked like to them—some outcast elven mercenary, if they didn’t catch that he was only half-elven. As the sages assessed him, Wynn took stock of the two others flanking Premin Hawes.

  Both were metaologers, and both men in their early twenties, so likely journeyors. Positioning and demeanor made them look more like bodyguards. Wynn knew firsthand that the premin of metaology didn’t need protection, but then she recognized one of the journeyors.

  The one on the left . . . what was his name? Dorian?

  He was wide shouldered, with dark, straight hair, and Wynn hadn’t seen him around the keep since before she’d first left for the Farlands with Domin Tilswith. He’d been a third-year apprentice back then, and likely he’d been off on his first journeyor’s assignment while she was away. But when journeyors returned, it was either for a new assignment or to attempt the arduous petition process to achieve master status. Later, should an official position open up, one might achieve the official rank of domin.

  Here were two journeyor metaologers at the same time, neither one tucked away preparing for petition and examinations or a new assignment. It didn’t make sense, and Wynn turned her eyes on Premin Hawes.

  Frideswida Hawes was late middle–aged, judging by her short-cropped hair, which was as fully grayed as dull silver. But her narrow features were smooth, from her cold hazel eyes down to the clean, tapered jaw that ended in a slightly pointed chin. Her expression rarely betrayed mood or thought, only calculating awareness.

  Right now, Wynn definitely thought Premin Hawes looked . . . tense.

  She pushed all of this aside. She needed to get her friends out of the courtyard to someplace where they could speak alone. And then she’d have to face whatever Sykion wanted from her.

  “Premin,” Wynn began, as deferentially as she could. “These are friends of mine from the Farlands. They don’t know our ways or—”

  “Go to your room immediately,” Sykion cut in, and she turned to Leesil, though her words were still for Wynn. “Tell them to leave. Now.”

  Wynn’s mouth fell open.

  “Then Wynn leaves with us,” Magiere said, her voice barely shy of a growl.

  At that, Leesil’s head swiveled toward Magiere with worry plain on his face.

  Magiere’s foreign accent was heavy, but her Numanese was good enough to catch all five sages’ attention.

  “Out!” High-Tower barked at her, taking a pounding step and pointing toward the gatehouse tunnel. “You do not tell us how things will be!”

  And the realization hit Wynn that Sykion and High-Tower must know exactly who these visitors were. Wynn had written extensively of Magiere, Leesil, and Chap in her journals, which Sykion and High-Tower had once taken from her. This was all escalating too quickly, and by Magiere’s reaction, it was going to turn ugly.

  Sykion dropped a slender hand to her side and snapped her narrow fingers, and Dorian quick-stepped straight toward Wynn.

  Shade growled at him, but he ignored the dog. The instant the journeyor raised a hand toward Wynn’s shoulder, Shade clacked her teeth at him. Still, Dorian’s hand came down on Wynn’s shoulder.

  Chap lunged three quick steps, baring his teeth.

  Magiere gripped her falchion’s hilt. “Get your hand off her!”

  Leesil rushed into Magiere’s way, but she pressed forward against him, almost driving him off his feet as he struggled with the chest.

  “No!” Wynn shouted, and shifted in front of Dorian to block Shade. “It’s all right.”

  Even with her friends in such trouble, Wynn couldn’t risk being thrown out of the guild. The archives were her only resource for information regarding the remaining two orbs. If her friends were driven out, at least they would be nearby somewhere.

  Wynn looked to Chap and slowly shook her head.

  He was silent, as opposed to Shade’s continued growls, but his voice didn’t rise in Wynn’s head. He kept eyeing Dorian, his jowls quivering, but his gaze flicked more than once toward Sykion . . . and then fixed on Hawes.

  Leesil appeared even more hesitant, still holding Magiere back, but even his expression had gone flat as he scanned the courtyard and all within it. Magiere’s state was always plain to read, but there was no telling what scheme Leesil was concocting even now.

  “Chap!” Wynn whispered in desperation, turning all of her attention upon him.

  She tried to pull a memory to the forefront of her mind, hoping he would catch it. She pictured all of those shelves of old texts she had searched through in the guild’s archives. She pictured the open books, bound sheaves, papers, and her journals as she sat in alcoves late into the night amid her search. And lastly, she pictured the first orb they had all found together, not knowing what it truly was as they prepared to leave the ice-bound castle hidden in the heights of the Pock Peaks.

  Chap’s tall ears pricked up.

  Hopefully, he understood she had to stay where she was. But as Wynn dropped her eyes to look at Shade, she realized the dog had gone silent.

  Shade looked up, and another memory rose in Wynn’s mind.

  Wynn saw in her mind Chane’s blacked-out scroll unrolled before her. It was from a memory of when she had once sat upon the cold stone floor of her room, trying to figure out what had been blotted out on that restored parchment.

  Blind fear swept through Wynn.

  She squelched the memory before it led to one of Chane, and when she looked at Chap again, he was still watching her. Had he seen the scroll in the memory Shade had recalled? Shade fully understood what was necessary. But had Chap caught anything more that Wynn had let slip into her thoughts?

  All that mattered was that Wynn remained here. The archives were her only hope for figuring out whatever was left to find in that scroll. After all, no matter what happened here, she was in no danger from her own superiors.

  But where was Chane?

  Chane Andraso stood in the darkness of Wynn’s room, watching the courtyard below through the one narrow window. He had only just returned from Dhredze Seatt, the stronghold of the dwarves on the peninsula across the bay. The orb that he and Wynn had found was now safe with Ore-Locks, taken into the depths of the dwarven underworld in the care of Stonewalkers. Having found Wynn’s room empty, Chane knew Shade must be with her. With that little comfort, he had decided to await their return.

  It was getting late now, and as his patience waned, his worry grew. Then, standing at the window, he spotted Wynn and Shade suddenly emerge from the keep doors. At the sight of them, his worry drained, replaced by relief.

  But then he clutched the window’s deep ledge; his hardening fingernails grated upon its stone.

  Following Wynn out the doors were Magiere, Leesil, and Chap.

  His initial shock faded, replaced by hate-fueled hunger, all of it fixed upon Magiere. Wynn’s true companions were back. Where did that leave him?

  He dropped a hand to his sword’s hilt. Back on his home continent, these three had hunted him like an animal—like a monster. They viewed any undead as an enemy without question. This had culminated one night in which he had hesitated in killing Magiere, at Wynn’s pleading.

  In turn, Magiere had not hesitated. In one swipe of her falchion, she had taken his head.

  Although Chane had managed to come back from that second death, his hatred for Magiere now almost overrode his love for Wynn. If Magiere started anything, he would not hesitate again. He would be the one to finish it this time. But all his rage wavered as five sages came out of the far building, with Premin Sykion in the lead.

  Chane’s gaze paused at the sight of Premin Hawes, and he grew even more lost as to what was happening down there.

>   Should he go down? No, that would only make things worse . . . for Wynn.

  Chane did not believe Wynn could ever be in physical danger from her own people, so for the moment, he stood there and watched.

  Leesil grew more alarmed and uncertain with each breath. As soon as the dark-haired sage in the dark blue robe went at Wynn, he realized he’d lost control here. Magiere, Chap, and Shade had reacted instantly, not that Leesil blamed any of them. There had to be a way to get Wynn out of here. But when Wynn shouted for all of them to stop, she’d focused on Chap, and both dogs had gone suddenly quiet.

  Leesil watched the dogs, waiting for some memory to rise at Chap’s urging that might tell him what was happening. What did Wynn want them to do?

  “Remove her,” ordered the tall, aged woman with the long braid.

  The dark-haired sage took hold of Wynn’s upper arm and started pulling her toward the building where Wynn had first been heading. Before Leesil could even look back, he teetered as Magiere’s pressure vanished. Dropping the chest quickly, he tried to grab for her, but she slapped away his hand and went straight at the dark-haired sage.

  Chap snarled in warning, rushing in on the outside of Magiere, but he spun to face away from her. As Leesil bolted in, he saw what Chap faced.

  Only one sage, the woman with bristling steely hair, had stepped out beyond the others. She stood poised three strides beyond Chap. With one hand outstretched, palm down with her narrow fingers relaxed in an arch, it looked as if she might gently lay that hand upon Chap’s head if she drew closer. But the eyes in that passive, stern face were fixed on Magiere as Leesil caught up.

  Wynn twisted in her escort’s grip and shoved a hand straight into Magiere’s sternum.

  “No!”

  Both Leesil and Wynn’s voices came in the same instant as Leesil grabbed the shoulder of Magiere’s cloak.

  “I’m not leaving you!” Magiere growled, the words slurred too much.

  Leesil grew more anxious. If Magiere lost control here, everything would go straight to all seven hells at once.