Between Their Worlds_A Novel of the Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee

  “What?” Wynn asked, staring at him.

  Perhaps too many thoughts showed on his face, so he quickly redirected her attention. “Do you remember the inn I stayed at before? Nattie’s, in what people here call the Grayland’s Empire?”

  “Yes . . . though I avoid such labels for the poor districts.”

  “You can find me there. Send word when . . . as soon as you can.”

  Chane kept his expression passive, but he could not help rejoicing inwardly at the relief on Wynn’s face. She did not want to lose contact with him, either.

  “Good,” she said, nodding.

  And yet she had still not said a word about . . .

  Chane turned, about to slip out with nothing left to say—not until she did. Then he felt her small hand grab the back of his cloak, and he half turned to look down at her, but she did not release him.

  “Chane . . .” she began, faltering. “How much did you see?”

  There it was.

  She watched him carefully. Perhaps she had seen him glance at the window.

  “You mean Magiere,” he whispered—or tried to—but he could hear the malice in his own voice.

  Instead of being startled, she took a quick breath, held it for an instant, and then said, “Stay away from her—away from all of them.”

  Anger made the beast within Chane stir. The scar that ringed his entire neck and throat began to itch and then burn. It was the only mark he bore from any kind of wound since he had first risen from death. Magiere had done this to him with her strange falchion.

  “You were there,” he hissed, “when she took my head!”

  “Because you tried to kill her first,” Wynn countered.

  “And whom did you protect?”

  She winced, but he did not take back his words, uttered so sharply in his nearly voiceless rasp. They both knew how his voice had been forever maimed. Wynn had thrown herself in front of him, begging him to stop when he had the upper hand and was about to kill Magiere. At Wynn’s plea, he had faltered, but Magiere had not even hesitated.

  Chane still did not know why he had risen again. There was only the following night, when he awoke in a shallow open grave. He was covered in bodies and blood, and Welstiel Massing looked down upon him, as if waiting for him to rise.

  Wynn closed her eyes, perhaps reliving that terrible moment between him and Magiere, but her silence did not last long.

  “Leave her alone, Chane.”

  This was not an answer to his question. “And did you give her the same warning? To leave me alone?”

  Her eyes opened, and she blinked several times without a word. He understood.

  “She does not know. None of them do,” he accused. “You did not even tell them . . . that I have been here, while they abandoned you.”

  “And I’m keeping it that way,” she shot back, “as long as possible. I don’t want you and Magiere going at each other again—not now, not ever. And, like me, they had something critical to accomplish.”

  “Such as?” he asked angrily. “What happened to the first orb? What did they do with it?”

  “There’s no time. Put any thought of vengeance out of your head. Promise me you’ll stay away from her—them. Swear it, Chane! Please.”

  He had no intention of going after Magiere—at present. Even if he had, he was all the more angry, even hurt, that Wynn would put this on him. He had promised her that he would never feed upon a sentient being again; he had kept that promise, by the word of it, at least.

  He gazed into Wynn’s face more deeply and saw only worry and fear. When she looked into his eyes, it was clear that her worry was focused upon him. But what of the fear? Whom did she fear for the most—him or Magiere?

  “I swear,” he whispered.

  Wynn sagged slightly, loosening her hold on his cloak. “Then you’d better go. Keep the scroll safe.”

  Chane needed no reminder. He hoisted his two packs and turned, grasping the door’s handle. Wynn grabbed the side of his cloak again.

  “You’ll hear from me as soon as I can—I promise,” she said softly.

  Her grip lingered an instant longer, and then finally released.

  With one last wave of regret—the feeling that leaving her was wrong—Chane slipped out the door and down the passage.

  Siweard Rodian, captain of the Shyldfälches—the “People’s Shield”—worked long past supper in his office within Calm Seatt’s second castle. This castle had once housed the royal family more than a century past. After construction of a newer, larger third castle nearer the sea, the nation’s military had taken over the second, leaving the first castle of Malourné to be turned over to the Guild of Sagecraft.

  The city guard was officially a contingent of the military, but it served autonomously for domestic defense in conjunction with civilian constabularies. It was complicated, but the system worked, for the most part.

  Rodian took his duty seriously and kept meticulous records of which complaints or possible crimes needed investigation and who’d been arrested, charged, and scheduled to stand before the High Advocate in court. And who had already been sentenced or exonerated and set free. This too was complicated; more so than he’d imagined when he took his oath of service years ago.

  Not all who slipped from justice were innocent. In turn, some who might have legally broken the law did not deserve to be branded criminals. He’d never wished for such complications, but service forced them upon him. In recent times, he’d grown weary of it.

  Rodian set down his quill, rubbed his eyes, and realized he’d forgotten to eat again. Rising from his desk, he began unfastening his sword.

  An engraved silver panel on the blade’s sheath bore the royal crest and a panorama of Calm Seatt. His tabard, worn over a chain vestment and padded hauberk, marked him as military. But unlike the regulars, attired in sea greens and cyans, his tabard was red. Combined with that sheath, it clearly declared him as captain of the Shyldfälches.

  Some thought the position a high honor. Others considered it a dead end in a military career. But Rodian knew neither was wholly true.

  Appearances were important to him. He was as meticulous with his grooming as he was with his records. He kept his hair cropped short and his beard close-trimmed, sculpted across his jaw above a clean-shaven neck.

  He’d commanded the Shyldfälches for nearly four years, yet he was not quite thirty years old. Rumors spread by the envious didn’t bother him. He was ambitious, and success was more important than being liked, but that didn’t mean he cared nothing for the law.

  Rodian had sworn his service oath upon the Éa-bêch, the first book of law from Malourné’s earliest times some four-hundred-plus years ago. The nation’s laws continued to grow until they could fill a small library of their own, but this first volume was the heart of it all. On the day he’d placed his sword hand upon it, his father, a plain timber man on the eastern frontier, had beamed with pride.

  “Honorable service and strong faith,” his father proclaimed with an unrestrained grin. “What more could a father hope for his son?”

  Rodian hadn’t known how to smile back.

  He now glanced at all of the stacked papers carefully arranged on his desk, but for one. A letter he’d opened lay refolded on the desk’s far corner. He was too tired to think about it and needed to start remembering to eat. Heading for the office door, sheathed sword still in hand, he’d almost escaped from that letter when someone knocked.

  “Sir?” a familiar voice called from outside.

  Rodian opened the door to find Corporal Lúcan in the outer passage. The corporal kept himself almost as carefully groomed as his captain. However, right behind Lúcan stood a young male sage in a midnight blue robe. Rodian had to fight back a frown.

  The last time a sage had come looking for him, he’d been forced into an investigation involving the guild. He looked back at Lúcan.

  The previous autumn, Rodian, Lúcan, Lieutenant Garrogh, and others of the guard had hunted an unknow
n black-robed mage that Wynn Hygeorht had called a wraith. After the deaths of multiple young sages and several of the Shyldfälches, Garrogh had been killed in the final conflict with that figure. Lúcan, only a guardsman at the time, had been severely injured in a strange way.

  Taln Lúcan looked no older than his early twenties, if not for the color of his hair. Since that night in the street, it had turned almost fully steel gray. His beard was the same if he didn’t keep it cleanly shaved, and if one looked closely, faint crow’s-feet framed his eyes.

  Rodian had had difficulty accepting Garrogh’s death, more than he’d expected, as had the men under his command. Garrogh, slovenly as he had been, was liked as well as respected. But within a moon, Rodian had been forced to select a replacement.

  He’d been sorely tempted to elevate Lúcan straight to lieutenant, thus skipping him over several orders of rank. He would’ve willingly faced the uproar from those with seniority in rank or years, but regulations wouldn’t permit it, so Lieutenant Branwell became his second-in-command. After all that had happened, Rodian still felt more comfortable with Lúcan, and promoted him from guardsman to corporal.

  It had been a year of deaths, letters, and reports to write. Perhaps it was no more so than any other, but this year had wounded Rodian, even unto his faith.

  Lúcan glanced sidelong at the sage and frowned as he looked at his captain. He shook his head, perhaps to express that he had no idea what the sage wanted here.

  Rodian fixed on the visitor. The young man was panting from a hard run—not a good sign.

  “Yes?” Rodian asked, not really wanting an answer.

  The sage simply held out a folded paper—yet another letter—and Rodian was slow in taking it. Once in his grip, he broke the wax seal with its imprint from the guild’s Premin Council. He snapped open the sheet and quickly scanned its content.

  To Captain Siweard Rodian,

  Shyldfälches Command, Calm Seatt, Malourné

  Rodian took a breath and let it out slowly. The official address and the reminder of his position were another bad sign.

  Your immediate assistance is required at the guild. Please bring an appropriate number of city guards to secure the grounds.

  Lady Tärtgyth Sykion, High Premin

  Guild of Sagecraft at Calm Seatt, Malourné

  Short and to the point, if utterly vague, the message’s dismissive and commanding tone was insulting. He was not some lackey at the high premin’s beck and call. Rodian’s gaze returned to the signature.

  Did Sykion think to impress—intimidate—him with a reminder of her noble rank from her homeland of Farien?

  He sighed. He entertained a good deal of respect from Malourné’s royal family. But for generations, the family had always favored the guild.

  “Sir?” Lúcan asked, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

  Rodian didn’t even look up, though he almost crushed the letter into a ball.

  “Find Lieutenant Branwell and meet me at the stables,” he instructed. “Bring Angus and Maolís, as well. I’ll have the horses saddled.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lúcan answered, not even asking where they were going or why.

  As the corporal strode off down the corridor, Rodian studied the young sage dressed in a dark, dark blue robe—a metaologer. He didn’t care for the company of sages—well, most of them—but he wouldn’t send one off alone on foot at night.

  “Come with me,” Rodian ordered. “You can ride with us.”

  The sage stepped away. “I can see myself back, Captain.”

  Typical. Rodian frowned; sages isolated themselves from “common” folk, regardless of the guild’s public works and charitable institutions. As he turned to step out and close his office door, he suddenly felt lost as his gaze lingered on the other letter, across the room on his desk.

  It had come two days ago, and he still hadn’t answered it.

  All the burdens here kept him from doing so. His father would have understood. In part, a father’s pride was why Rodian took his duty as seriously as his faith in the Blessed Trinity of Sentience. But his uncle had sent this letter.

  How could Rodian say—write—that he couldn’t come home now? Not even to pay last respects at the grave of his adoring father.

  Rodian shut his office door.

  Without a glance at the sage, he led the way down the corridor and out into the open courtyard. The sage headed off for the gatehouse tunnel, and Rodian promptly strode for the stables. Upon stepping through the large stable doors, he found Branwell already saddling his huge roan stallion.

  Half a head taller than his captain, with a clean-shaven head as well as jaw, Percier Branwell looked twice as wide and at least six years older. His red tabard had been specially tailored to fit his broad shoulders.

  “I passed Lúcan heading for our barracks,” the lieutenant said. “He told me we were riding out. Where to?”

  Rodian didn’t answer. Promoting Branwell had been the correct choice; he was a competent, experienced veteran of the regulars who could read and write. Had Rodian chosen anyone else to replace Garrogh, discontent would’ve sprouted among his men. But Rodian didn’t care for Branwell, didn’t trust him, and never had.

  Percier Branwell was among those whose resentment was rather open concerning Rodian’s early rise in position, to the point of making speculations on how it had been achieved.

  Turning away, Siweard Rodian headed for his white mare, Snowbird.

  “To Old Procession Road, to the sages’ guild,” he finally answered, still wondering what he was about to ride into.

  Chane slipped silently downstairs, peeked out the barracks door, and found the courtyard empty. Several options ran through his mind.

  As Wynn had suggested, he could make his way through the keep to the new library, as its back met the bailey wall’s rear. Slipping out a window and dropping over the twenty-foot wall was not a challenge for him, and he knew the path well enough. But the chance of being spotted was high if he tried going through the keep this early at night.

  He had no idea what might result if he was spotted. He was only a guest here, but with Wynn under constant suspicion, the council’s mistrust might also spread to him and anything he did. Not to mention, the very fact that she had been banished to her room, with a guard at the door, gave him pause.

  Chane glanced toward the gatehouse tunnel, framed by its two small inner towers. Of three old portcullises along the tunnel’s length, only the outer one was ever used by the sages. Its controls were likely in one of the outer gatehouse towers, but he had no notion of which side. The other side would be unmanned.

  He could go there, climb to the two-story tower’s top, and risk a jump down into the bailey. But if he guessed wrong about which side to enter, he might run into more sages, and his sudden appearance would cause alarm.

  Another worry had nagged Chane since agreeing to flee the guild. Wynn had refused to leave with him because she feared losing her resources here. She did not know that he faced the same unfortunate prospect. There were means here that he needed, as well. Chane considered the risk of one stop before making his escape.

  Across the courtyard lay the northwest building, flush with the keep’s wall. A passage had been built through the wall behind it that connected to a newer building in the bailey. This was where the guest quarters, his quarters, lay. But in the sublevels below that building was something more useful to him. The guild laboratories were in the first and second subfloors there, along with the office or study of Premin Frideswida Hawes of the Order of Metaology.

  Chane stepped quickly across the courtyard and through the northwest building’s central door. But just as he pulled the door closed behind him, voices drifted up from below. Slipping into the first chamber on his left, he rounded its upward stairs to hover at the top of the ones that descended below. The pair of voices floating up the stairway grew slightly clearer.

  Chane recognized only one: that of Premin Hawes.

  “The need is
critical now,” she said. “Besides the archives, the passageways here, and the main corridors of the keep, where else have you managed placement?”

  “Placement isn’t the issue,” a frustrated female voice answered. “Can’t you explain to Premin Sykion how long it takes to create even one of these?”

  “That isn’t her concern,” Hawes answered. “You will place more eyes as quickly as possible. Requisition anyone and anything you need. I will handle the cost. Do you understand?”

  A long pause followed, and then, “Yes, Premin.”

  “I’ll check in later. Prepare a detailed report on how many are still under construction and those that have been distributed.”

  The voices fell silent. One pair of footsteps upon stone began growing fainter.

  Chane tensed, ready to run should another pair of steps come toward the stairs. When he finally heard the second pair, they were brief, followed by the ringing thud of a closing metal door. He stood there, wondering. . . .

  What was meant about “eyes,” “construction,” and “distribution”? According to Wynn, the sage’s cold-lamp crystals were made here in the lower levels. What were the metaologers making now and to what purpose?

  Time pressed upon him, and he had a more urgent reason for coming here.

  Descending, Chane found the first sublevel’s passage empty but for the six handleless iron doors, three on each side, and a portal at the far end on the right. He stepped quickly and quietly to the last one still ajar and nudged it inward a little farther.

  “Premin?”

  If she was inside, there would be no mistaking his maimed voice and who had come. She would be unable to ignore him, as she might ignore someone knocking. Light footsteps sounded against stone, and the door was pulled open wider.

  For an instant, Chane’s gaze caught on what lay beyond the narrow inner passage that was barely three strides long. All he could see were shelves pegged in the chamber’s left wall in line with the entryway. The rest of the room, which opened up to the right, was hidden. Those pegged shelves were filled with books; plank-bound sheaves; and narrow, upright cylinders of wood, brass, and unglazed ceramic.