Between Their Worlds_A Novel of the Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee

  She merely looked up at him, studying him dispassionately. “Journeyor Hygeorht will be returned to her room soon, but she may not leave it without the benefit of an escort.”

  “Without an escort?” The ramifications began to sink in. “She may be a member of the guild, but she’s also a citizen. Her rights as such override any jurisdiction of the guild.”

  For the first time, the slightest flicker of emotion lit up Hawes’s hazel eyes. Perhaps it was concern, but Rodian couldn’t quite read it.

  “Captain,” she said slowly. “I believe you will find that the council has the full support of the royal family in this matter. Under the protection of the reskynna, we called you to provide security for the guild.”

  Rodian backstepped unintentionally. There it was, like some fixed game of gambling tiles. Whenever pressed, the council always played the same tile: unquestioning patronage from the royals of Malourné.

  Hawes moved around Rodian and headed toward the main keep. She called out once as she opened one of the doors.

  “All will be clear soon, Captain.”

  Once again, Rodian found himself hobbled in something murky, like everything to do with the sages. Unlike the last time, he wouldn’t be fooled into accepting Wynn Hygeorht as their scapegoat. Wynn might be up to something, but she certainly was not the only one scheming within these walls. However, she appeared to be alone in whatever conflict was playing out between her and the premins.

  Rodian stalked down the gatehouse tunnel to where his men still waited. Angus rubbed at his shoulder, but his armor must have protected him, as he didn’t seem injured. Branwell stood there with a hard scowl, holding Snowbird’s reins.

  “Sir?” he asked.

  His tone set Rodian’s teeth further on edge. Every time Branwell used that word, it sounded like a subtle curse of disdain. Something had to be done to jerk him into line soon. For now, Rodian had larger questions and concerns.

  There was only one place to seek a remedy: from the royal family, in person. He snatched Snowbird’s reins from the lieutenant’s hand and swung into the saddle.

  “Lock this place down until I say otherwise,” he commanded. Before Branwell started questioning, Rodian shouted, “Lúcan!”

  The corporal was limping slightly but otherwise seemed unhurt. He’d barely drawn near when Rodian spoke loud and clear for all present.

  “I have a singular duty for you, Corporal. No one is to relieve you for any reason, unless you hear it directly from me.”

  At that, Branwell’s scowl deepened, but Lúcan’s features were set in certainty. Before Rodian even explained, Lúcan nodded sharply.

  “Done, Captain.”

  Wynn stopped struggling or trying to reason with Dorian once he’d dragged her inside the main keep. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d gotten loose; there were two more just like him right behind her.

  Once through the keep’s double doors, Dorian turned left and pulled Wynn down the front passage. He turned right toward the end and on to the stairway leading up, and she realized where he was taking her: to Premin Sykion’s office for questioning. Without meaning to, she slowed, putting more tension on Dorian’s grip.

  Perhaps she had miscalculated in sending off Leesil, Magiere, and Chap, and then Chane. Now Shade was gone, as well, likely seeing what was necessary to get Chane and the scroll out of the guild. Before any of this, Wynn had thought herself at least safe here, but she began to question that assumption. She was cut off from anyone who understood anything about what she’d been trying to do in stopping another great war from coming. She was cut off from all who cared about her.

  However, she’d seen Rodian’s face when Dorian grabbed her, and she well knew his feelings toward the domins and premins here. She probably couldn’t expect help from his quarter, but he had not looked happy with the situation. Why would Sykion call for him over a few unexpected guests in the archives?

  “Dorian,” a familiar voice called from behind.

  As Wynn’s procession slowed, Premin Hawes walked quickly past them.

  Wynn refused to even look at Hawes as the premin took the lead up the stairs. Once, Wynn had considered Hawes a potential ally, but no more—not after tonight. When they reached the landing for Sykion’s office, Hawes walked right past Sykion’s door and onward.

  Wynn’s stomach knotted as she realized she was being taken to the council chamber. Sykion wasn’t the only one Wynn would have to face.

  After everything she’d been through tonight, she wasn’t prepared for this. Hawes walked right through the open chamber doors, and Dorian slowed to push Wynn in after the premin. All four of the other premins were already seated behind the long council table.

  Hawes glanced back to Dorian. “Close the doors and wait outside.”

  Wynn stood there as she heard the doors shut behind her, and Hawes took her place at the council table. The premin silently settled in the smoothly crafted, high-back chair at the table’s right end. All five such chairs were now filled with the members of the Premin Council, each in the robes of their own order.

  Premin Adlam, in the light brown of Naturology, sat at the table’s left end. Next, on High Premin Sykion’s left, sat portly Premin Renäld of Sentiology in cerulean. Sykion, as head of the council, sat at the table’s center, dressed in the gray of Cathology—Wynn’s own order. On her right, Premin Jacque of Conamology had his elbows on the table, as was his habit.

  And Hawes sat at the far right end, not even looking at Wynn.

  There was one other person present, just like the last time Wynn had been hauled before the council. No real surprise there, since he’d always been present for her interrogations.

  Domin High-Tower stood beyond the table, at the chamber’s rear, staring out one of the narrow windows. Someone else might have thought these proceedings didn’t interest him. Wynn knew he simply wouldn’t look at her until he had to.

  She was so bone weary as she faced her superiors that she didn’t care anymore. All that mattered was how long she’d have to stand here before they’d give up.

  “Journeyor Hygeorht,” Sykion began, “Tell us how and why your visitors this evening entered our archives without our consent or knowledge.”

  With the exception of Hawes—and possibly High-Tower—the others all looked equally self-righteous. Anger—at their self-deceptions, at their ignorance and arrogance—began to feed Wynn a little strength.

  “My friends came a long way to see me. They had no idea they needed permission. They’ve never been to a full guild branch and don’t know our ways.”

  Sykion’s brows arched. “You will verify who they are.”

  Had the situation been less dire, Wynn would’ve rolled her eyes—“verify,” not “identify.” She simply remained silent.

  Her journals from travels in the Farlands had been confiscated upon her return, along with the ancient texts she’d brought back from where the first orb had been uncovered. Likely the entire council had read everything she’d written. But unlike with Chane, Wynn hadn’t foreseen the need to hide the identities of Leesil, Magiere, or Chap in her writing.

  Premin Jacque cleared his throat. “Then you admit these were the same people who accompanied you on the journey in which you recovered the ancient texts?”

  Yet another obvious question that Wynn wouldn’t answer. Where was all of this going?

  “Why did they follow you here?” Sykion asked.

  “You threw them out before I could ask,” Wynn finally responded. “Is this why I’ve been called before the council—to account for a few visitors who didn’t know our rules?”

  Sykion’s mouth tightened. “You’ve been called to account for your recent assignment to the south . . . in which you were required to complete only two tasks: to deliver one message to our guild annex in Chathburh and a second to the premin of the Lhoin’na guild branch. Apparently, you traveled much farther south, as your journey took longer than it should have.”

  The high premin stop
ped briefly, as if weighing her next words, and Premin Renäld leaned over to murmur in her ear. She nodded, and in turn whispered softly to Premin Jacque as she shuffled through three separate papers on the table before her.

  Wynn’s breath caught for an instant.

  Beneath that small stack of sheets was an aquamarine ribbon, the kind always used to bind royal communications from the reskynna family. Wynn could swear she’d seen the remnants of a broken green wax seal on one other document. If so, that one likely had come from the guild branch of the Lhoin’na, the elves of this continent.

  Her anger began to fade, replaced by growing anxiety.

  Premin Renäld looked out at Wynn. “Do not doubt that we know you traveled much farther than your assigned duty required.”

  Wynn kept silent, but her anxiety sharpened more when he glanced down at the paper stained by green sealing wax. Of course she’d used the pointless assignment they’d given her to serve her own goals, but she wasn’t giving them even a clue that she’d gone in search of Bäalâle Seatt, let alone found it.

  “After leaving the Lhoin’na guild,” Renäld went on, “you traveled south along the Slip-Tooth Pass. That leads to few destinations, and it ends at the Rädärsherând, the Sky-Cutter Range above the Suman desert. Why did you take this route?”

  Wynn felt herself being boxed in, and anxiety shifted to panic. How could the council know even this much?

  Domin il’Sänke had appeared inside Bäalâle Seatt. He knew she’d made it all the way. The hinted origins of the papers before Sykion didn’t suggest a connection to il’Sänke’s guild branch in the Suman Empire. But what of the one with a broken green wax seal?

  Wynn doubted il’Sänke would volunteer any information to Premin Sykion, let alone share it with the Lhoin’na. But upon emerging from the underground tunnel leading out of the Bäalâle, she and Chane had found three abandoned horses with their elven saddles lying nearby.

  Who among the Lhoin’na might have followed her? Based on the first letter that had been bound with that aquamarine ribbon, who else might have connections to the royal family? Only one name fit both possibilities. Wynn was loath to even think it. One of the Lhoin’na had always been in the company of Duchess—Princess—Reine Faunier-reskynna.

  Chuillyon. A white-robed elf who appeared to serve both the Lhoin’na guild and the royal family of Calm Seatt, but whom Wynn suspected mainly served himself.

  “Journeyor Hygeorht!” Sykion snapped. “What were you seeking in that mountain range?”

  Wynn was terrified that they already knew, and this was some ploy to see how much she would lie.

  “I had no return schedule,” she answered. “It was my first time in that region. I simply wished to explore and take notes that might be of use to our guild. Isn’t that what a journeyor does, if without a specific assignment?”

  Sykion’s pale skin tinged red.

  “So you were not seeking one little known Bäalâle Seatt?” Premin Jacque barked.

  It was over—they knew—but Wynn blinked innocently. “And what is that?”

  High-Tower turned from the window and glowered at her. “Then you deny that you traveled in the company of a stonewalker—my . . . brother?”

  It was beyond a breach of decorum for a domin to speak here unless first spoken to by a member of the council. No one reproached him. The premins watched Wynn, and only Hawes showed no sign of anger, suspicion, contempt, or outrage at Wynn’s evasions. Her face held no expression at all.

  Wynn simply shook her head once.

  “I was lucky enough to actually see the Stonewalkers,” she answered High-Tower, “at a funeral during my last visit to Dhredze Seatt. Which one is your brother?”

  The room fell deadly silent.

  Wynn stood waiting for the next question—and the next—that she wouldn’t answer.

  * * *

  Rodian passed through the royal castle’s courtyard without challenge, for he was well-known here. Though the first bell of quarter night had rung before he arrived, not even the gatehouse guards had asked his business. They’d immediately raised the outer portcullis, and a stableboy had appeared to tend to Snowbird. But as Rodian stepped up the tall, broad granite steps and more guards opened the castle’s main doors, he found two Weardas—“the Sentinels”—standing at attention in his path.

  Both wore polished steel helms and glittering chain vestments beneath crimson tabards—which were a brighter shade of red than Rodian’s Shyldfälches. Each bore a sheathed longsword on a wide belt of engraved silver plates. Each held a short spear with a head shaped like a leaf-bladed shortsword.

  Neither displayed any reaction to his presence, but he knew one of them slightly.

  “Lieutenant Saln,” he said with a polite nod. “I need to speak with the king or queen immediately.”

  Royal audiences were rarely allowed at night, but he counted on the Weardas knowing he was aware of this. His time of arrival implied urgency.

  “They have retired,” the lieutenant answered. “Could you return in the morning?”

  Rodian stalled at this attempt to put him off. It wasn’t the first time some arrangement between the family and the sages had placed him at odds with the law and his oath of duty. He was about to press for admittance when a low voice carried from an archway to his left.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Tristan, captain of the Weardas, stepped into view. He was a tall man with a dark tuft of beard on his chin and thick eyebrows to match. The rest of his head and face were partially hidden by his helm. Rodian had never seen him without it.

  “No, sir,” Saln answered.

  “Tristan,” Rodian said instantly. “There is more trouble at the Guild of Sagecraft . . . something to do with interlopers. The family will want to know.”

  He intentionally used the captain’s first name, leaving off rank. They were not friends, as the Weardas had no friends, but they held the same military rank, regardless of their differing contingents. Rodian thereby made the point that he expected to be acknowledged as an equal.

  “I must speak with King Leofwin tonight,” he added. “Or Queen Muriel. Either would wish to guide me in anything concerning the guild.”

  Captain Tristan’s expression changed only a little. Perhaps it was a brief flicker of worry that cinched his brows. It hadn’t come at mention of the sages, but a moment after. That frown vanished as he nodded once and turned down the long hall.

  Rodian followed as the captain took the long way through the main floor to the castle’s back nearer the seafront. The stairs here were narrow, with regular guards all the way up. When they stepped out into an upper arched passage, there were only pairs of Weardas at either end. Halfway down the passage, Tristan opened a door to a lavish sitting room.

  “Wait here,” he commanded, and pulled the doors shut the instant Rodian stepped in.

  Rodian paced the floor. He’d been in this room before, in almost this same situation. Walnut-legged couches were perfectly fitted in refined or raw silks or elven shéot’a cloth dyed in shimmering seafoam green and cyan. All of this was set off by walls in rich cream shades and golden yellow curtains and draperies. The entrance was carved with a large royal crest spanning both doors—an upright longsword upon a wide, square sail over a troubled sea.

  He’d once admired the luxury here. Tonight it was all a distraction. He kept pacing in waiting—and waiting. After what felt like a quarter night had slipped by, the doors opened again.

  Out in the passage, Captain Tristan stood aside and announced, “His Highness, Prince Leäfrich reskynna.”

  Rodian was caught off guard as the prince walked in. Leäfrich was the second born of the royal family.

  Even if the first heir, Princess thelthryth, had appeared instead, Rodian would’ve still been confused. Why hadn’t the king or queen come to meet him? He didn’t know Leäfrich well but had seen him enough to make a few observations. For one, Rodian had never noticed any resentment between the two remaining
heirs.

  Leäfrich didn’t appear to mind that his elder sister would one day take the throne. He often trained with the Weardas or fulfilled limited duty among the regulars, being far more interested in military arts than in ruling a nation. His elder sister, thelthryth, was the one who took in all aspects of politics and rulership. And their youngest brother, Freädherich, the husband of Duchess Reine Faunier-reskynna, had been lost in Beranklifer Bay years ago. A tragedy that Rodian himself had been called on to investigate.

  Still, Rodian grew a little irritated. If neither the king nor the queen could see him, then why hadn’t they sent their daughter, their heir, in their place? Where were the king and queen?

  Like all reskynna, Leäfrich was tall and slender with wheat-gold hair and aquamarine eyes. Tonight, he was fully dressed in a tunic, breeches, and dress boots, so obviously he hadn’t been roused from bed. He didn’t look pleased at the intrusion.

  “It’s late, Captain,” the prince said in place of any greeting. “What is this matter that could not wait?”

  Rodian hesitated in answering, for another figure suddenly appeared in the open doorway.

  The man was overly tall and slender and was dressed in elven breeches; high, soft boots; and a smock beneath an open-fronted, dun-colored robe. Rodian knew it was one of the Lhoin’na even before the man brushed back his hood. But he was a bit surprised at the change of attire when he recognized this lurker outside the sitting room.

  Chuillyon had most often been in the company of Duchess—or Princess—Reine Faunier-reskynna, widow of the late Prince Freädherich. The elf’s golden-brown locks hung well past his overly sharp chin and were faded in age streaks. Prominent creases lined the corners of his large, slightly slanted amber eyes. His other features sometimes looked smallish, but that was only because of his long, narrow nose.

  Leäfrich didn’t sit nor invite Rodian to do so, and Rodian struggled to find his voice.