by Barb Hendee
“It’s all right,” he whispered gently in her ear, not knowing what else to say.
Then Chap began growling.
Leesil looked over to find the dog staring toward the window. He felt the smallest breeze and quickly rolled over on the bed’s edge and reached to his thigh for a blade.
Brot’an’s head hung down in the open window. One arm followed as he grabbed the upper edge of the window’s interior, squirmed through, and dropped lightly to the floor.
Leesil didn’t let go of his winged blade’s handle.
Brot’an rose to his feet, glancing first at the bed and then at Leanâlhâm, who still cowered behind Osha. When he took off the wrap, a frown already covered his face.
“Why does she have no bandage yet?” he demanded.
“I . . . I could not,” Leanâlhâm stammered. “She is no longer—”
“I’ll deal with it,” Leesil shot back, suddenly angry but uncertain at whom. “Leanâlhâm, get some water.”
“You find . . . them?” Osha asked in Belaskian, turning on Brot’an. “Find hiding . . . place?”
Still half focused on Magiere, Brot’an shook his head. “No.”
Osha turned away, bent down, and picked up the tin pitcher. He placed it carefully in Leanâlhâm’s hands. She started out of her frightened trance and turned for the door, but her wide-eyed gaze remained on Magiere until the door closed after her.
Leesil had had enough and stood up.
“Osha, what are you all doing here? Why have those other anmaglâhk come all the way here after Magiere? And don’t tell me ‘not now’!”
Something about Osha had changed since Leesil last saw the young elf more than a year ago. His feelings, sometimes even his thoughts, had always been so plain on his face, but not anymore.
“Protect you,” Osha finally answered. “Protect you from them. Most Aged Father . . . he send—”
“I was against his strategy,” Brot’an interrupted.
“Against?” Osha spit out, and wheeled on Brot’an. He cut loose with an angry stream of Elvish.
Brot’an spit out one harsh word in Elvish, and Osha fell mute. There was no awe left in the young elf’s expression for the elder of his caste. In spite of their outbursts at each other, Leesil wasn’t letting any of this drop.
“Protect us?” he nearly shouted. “From your own kind? What do they want?”
Nobody needed to answer.
Leesil wasn’t even sure why he’d asked. Most Aged Father had sent some of his caste after them when they went to find the first orb. Sgäile died defending them and killed one of their shadow-grippers—like Brot’an. Most Aged Father wanted the orb, or at least to know what they had and where it was. None of that decrepit old elf’s assassins had ever seen it.
That still didn’t explain why Brot’an, or maybe Osha, had dragged Leanâlhâm along. The girl could hardly be of any use to “protect” Magiere. Worse than that, Leanâlhâm was in danger because she was with Brot’an—and now with Magiere.
Leesil glanced sidelong at Chap. He knew exactly how to get some solid answers—or, rather, how to make sure Chap got them. But the dog wasn’t watching Brot’an.
Chap was staring at the long, wrapped bundle Osha had tossed in the corner. Anything that held Chap’s concern more than Brot’an’s presence began to worry Leesil.
“Chap,” Leesil said.
Chap didn’t look up.
Chap barely heard Leesil. He became vaguely aware of the others when Leanâlhâm returned with a full pitcher of water. Even as the girl crept hesitantly toward Magiere’s bed, his thoughts were elsewhere. He had been trying to understand the consequences of what he had heard in Osha’s Elvish rant just before Brot’an silenced the young elf.
Brot’an had tried to kill Most Aged Father.
The implications were too varied to even guess, but had Brot’an started a war, this time among his own kind, between dissidents and other anmaglâhk loyal to Most Aged Father? Had he done this on purpose? Oh, yes, even failure could be an intentional tool for that deceiver.
And as much as the Anmaglâhk had come after Magiere for the orb or its whereabouts, without actually knowing what it was, this situation was also about Brot’an. It was about them getting to Magiere before Brot’an did. That much Chap could deduce.
Now that deceitful butcher stood in the same room with her.
If only Osha had stood up to Brot’an, kept arguing, then Chap might have learned more. But he had also picked up something confusing connected to the bundle Osha had tossed in the corner.
A fleeting memory had flashed through the young elf’s mind. It seemed to take place only a moment after Osha’s memory of the dark, searing-hot cavern. Chap recognized that place, as he had once been there. It was where Sgäile had taken Magiere, Leesil, and him before they had headed south from the Elven Territories in search of the orb.
Osha had knelt on ragged stone somewhere still dim and dark but not quite as hot. Perhaps it had been in one of the outer passages leading into the cavern. Osha’s hands shook as he held a hiltless blade, a sword made of the same white metal as anmaglâhk stilettos. The same metal as the winged punching blades Leesil now carried. The same metal as the burning dagger Magiere wore on her hip opposite her falchion.
The Chein’âs—the Burning Ones—had somehow called for Osha and given him a sword like none Chap had ever seen.
Anmaglâhk did not use swords, so what did this mean?
The last glimpse Chap saw in that memory was a flicker of Osha’s face reflected in the sword’s metal. Looking at the blade, his long features twisted in overwhelming grief, as if he had lost someone precious to him.
That blade was now in the cloth-wrapped bundle in the room’s corner.
Chap wheeled around as he heard Brot’an take a step. As soon as Brot’an reached the bed’s foot and looked down at Magiere, tension filled the room to the rafters. This close to Magiere, the tall elf once again had Chap’s full attention as he crept in on the bed’s near side.
Why were Brot’an and Osha dressed as traveling civilians—humans?
“Is she all right?” Brot’an asked.
Leanâlhâm was cleaning the blood from Magiere’s leg. The more she removed, the more her fright grew, for there was no wound—not even a scar. She did not answer Brot’an.
“She’ll be fine,” Leesil cut in, just as attentive and watchful as Chap.
Osha was not the only one who seemed different to Chap. Back in the an’Cróan homeland, Leanâlhâm had nearly fawned over Leesil. He was the only other elf of mixed blood she had ever met—ever even heard of. Now she barely spoke to him or to anyone. Perhaps Leesil noticed this, as well.
“Leanâlhâm,” Leesil said softly. “Where is Gleann?”
Chap glanced at the girl just in time to see her wince at her own name. A long pause followed before she answered quietly.
“With our ancestors . . . with Sgäilsheilleache.”
For the span of a breath, everyone in the small room went still. Gleann, the kindly old healer with biting humor who had taken in three humans and a wayward majay-hì was dead.
Osha whirled angrily and rushed toward the window. He stopped and looked back, as did they all, at the sound of a whisper.
“Oh, Leanâlhâm.”
The girl froze as Magiere tried to sit up and failed, and then reached for Leanâlhâm’s hand on her leg. Leesil came out of his shock.
“Gleann, dead?” he breathed. “How can he be . . . where is my mother?”
“She is well and safe,” Brot’an answered instantly, but even he appeared unsettled by the turn of this discussion.
Leanâlhâm’s gaze drifted to Leesil, and all of her fright of Magiere had drained from her expression. Chap waited for what else the girl might say.
“We cannot tell you more for now,” Brot’an said, staring hard at Leanâlhâm. “Your mother is safe with her kind, Léshil.”
Chap suddenly wondered who had taken on the painful task of t
elling Leanâlhâm that Sgäile was dead. Had Osha been the one? She had loved Sgäile, worshipped him as a hero. He had been highly honored by their people and respected by all factions of his caste—even Most Aged Father.
Osha suddenly took a few steps at Leesil, still angry.
“You ask question,” he growled. “I ask question. Where Wynn? Why she not here?”
That was all they needed with everything else so complicated. Osha’s feelings for Wynn were no secret. Still, Chap was surprised it had taken this long for the subject of Wynn’s whereabouts to come up.
“Trapped in the guild’s keep,” Leesil answered tiredly, perhaps reeling in relief that his mother was safe. Or perhaps hoping—as did Chap—that answering Osha’s question might gain some answers in turn.
“We’re not sure why,” Leesil added, “but we’ll get her out.”
“Then perhaps we can help,” Brot’an said.
Yes, Chap thought. I’m sure you would.
“Osha speaks the truth,” Brot’an went on, and looked at Magiere. “We are here to protect you. To protect . . . what you carry.”
They were not carrying the orb—orbs—anymore. Chap took some satisfaction in that, though he wondered if Brot’an knew anything more than the other anmaglâhk about what they had been carrying. Chap had insisted on hiding both orbs in a place neither Magiere nor Leesil knew of. That decision now appeared more important than ever.
None of the Anmaglâhk—not even Brot’an—would ever find those orbs or learn their whereabouts.
“Magiere should rest,” Leanâlhâm said quietly, and her fear had waned, for she held Magiere’s hand. “Léshil says she will need food. Can we not eat and rest for one night? Not speak of these things?”
The girl dropped her head.
Leesil’s expression became shadowed for an instant. As badly as Chap wanted answers, cueing Leesil with memories to ask the right questions would not get him anywhere in this moment.
“I will take first watch on the roof,” Brot’an pronounced. “Everyone else . . . eat and rest.”
He pushed past Osha, and an instant later, he was gone out the window. Another awkward silence passed until Osha announced flatly that he would go in search of food. As Leesil settled on the bedside, Leanâlhâm retrieved a blanket to cover Magiere.
Chap went to lie in the corner near Osha’s hidden sword. He had no intention of going to sleep. It was simply the best place from which to watch the door . . . and the window for Brot’an’s return.
As Chane made his way through the dark streets toward Nattie’s inn, he could not escape his numerous worries. Every time he blinked, he saw an image of Wynn on the backs of his eyelids. She must be asleep by this time, or so he hoped. But she would wake in the morning to face . . . what?
It troubled him—no, it ate at him—that he would lie dormant all day while events closed in on her. Even if she found a way to send him word, he would be beyond receiving it until dusk tomorrow night, unless . . .
Once Chane reached the inn and his room, he opened the door slowly to let Shade see that it was him. She wrinkled her nose and growled softly, but appeared more frustrated than hostile. Likely she needed to be fed and let out for her “business,” as Wynn called it.
He realized he had to start paying more attention to Shade’s needs if she was to remain his somewhat unwilling ally. His only ally, as of yet, and he would need her help. Perhaps she could even advise him on his notion.
Chane dropped his second pack from his shoulder—the one Wynn would always think of as Welstiel’s pack—and set it down.
“Shade,” he began, and then faltered, for though she comprehended spoken words, he was uncertain how much. “Outside, and then food. But first . . .”
He hesitated, and Shade tilted her head, watching him. There was only one thing he could do: show her. He dug into his second pack.
Chane pulled out a long velvet box and opened it to reveal the six glass vials that had carried a noxious violet concoction deadly to the living. It served another purpose for the undead, one that he had painstakingly—and painfully—unraveled for his own need. He was now running low on this concoction.
The ingredients to make more were almost impossible to acquire, but one dose, less than a third of one vile, could stave off his dormancy for several days. Still, he hesitated to use it, for the side effects were horrible. He would remain awake during the day but trapped inside by the sun unless he donned his cloak, face mask, and the eyeglasses that could block out sunlight’s worst effects. Even then, he could tolerate direct sunlight for only a brief period, and he would be dressed like some abhorrent executioner. Anyone who saw him would stop and stare—and not forget the sight.
The thought of being awake, trapped by the sun, locked in this shabby room all day was a torture Chane would rather avoid.
“In here, I have a method . . .” he began, looking into Shade’s watchful eyes. “A way that will let me stay awake in daylight; but I still cannot go outside. Should I use it?”
She glanced at the pack, at the door and the curtained window, and then back to him. Though she could be more expressive than any animal Chane had ever known, he could not tell what she was thinking.
Shade huffed once for “yes.”
“Very well,” Chane said, and he rose to open the door. “First we go out for food and ‘business’ . . . and be quick about it.”
CHAPTER 9
THE NEXT MORNING, Wynn awoke to sunlight spilling through her window. Everything felt normal, and she reached over the bedside for Shade. Her hand found nothing, though she reached all the way to the braided rug on the stone floor. She sat up, looking about, and her gaze came to rest on the far corner beside the door.
Her sun-crystal staff was still gone. Shade was nowhere to be seen. She was still a prisoner inside her room.
Wynn had so often believed that almost any situation looked better in the morning. Not now, not this time, sitting there alone.
Grabbing her gray robe off the bed’s end, she pulled it on over her shift and leggings and smoothed out the wrinkles. A part of her was tempted to open the door, check the passage and see if Lúcan was still outside. Of course he would be, for nothing else had changed.
A soft knock sounded at her door. It would only be Nikolas with her breakfast, but at least this made her feel less isolated. She stood up, prepared to let him in, but she had taken only a step when . . .
“Journeyor? May I come in?”
Wynn froze at the low voice coming from the other side of the door. She knew that voice, and it certainly didn’t belong to Nikolas. She had to respond in some fashion, so she just went and opened the door.
There was Captain Rodian standing outside, with Lúcan at attention just left of the doorframe. The captain’s red tabard looked freshly pressed. His close beard was evenly trimmed, and his neck looked as if it had been shaved early that morning. But his expression was uncertain, and just a hint of dark rings encircled his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept well.
Wynn remembered a night last autumn when Rodian had locked her in a cell at the second castle. He’d come later that same night, asking permission to enter, as well. Why even bother, since she had no choice? Even here, this wasn’t really her room anymore. Mild hysteria grew as she wondered what he’d do if she just told him to go away.
When she didn’t speak, Rodian’s brow wrinkled. He glanced at Lúcan, who said nothing, and the captain whispered something to his corporal. Lúcan nodded and turned away, and Wynn heard him heading down the passage to the stairs.
“Please,” Rodian said, still waiting in the passage.
Wynn sighed, leaving the door open as she took a few steps back. He entered and then glanced back at the door, as if caught between leaving it open or not. Finally, he closed it, and they were alone.
“Journeyor,” he said again, and then paused.
This did not seem like a good thing to Wynn.
Rodian had always struck her as almost comically det
ermined to present a professional front, as if the scuffle with Chane last night and the sight of Dorian dragging her off had never occurred.
Wynn had no idea what he was doing here. With no intention of helping him or offering any encouragement, she just stood there beside the bed, waiting.
“Why has the council confined you?” he asked.
“You’d have to ask them.”
“I have.”
“Well, then, you know more than I do.”
His gaze was intense, and Wynn wavered. He’d sounded concerned, as if worried about her. If that was true, then why had he done everything the council asked of him, aside from taking over control of her confinement? Why had he locked down the guild grounds?
Rodian shook his head and stepped closer. “You must have done something—or something must have happened connected to you—for the council to call me.” His patience suddenly vanished. “Wynn, talk to me! What happened here last night?”
What could she tell him—that a dhampir, a half-elven ex-assassin, and a Fay-born majay-hì returned to her and panicked the Premin Council? And then she’d been forced to sneak out the vampire who’d been hiding in her room?
Oh, yes, that would just fix everything.
Even if Rodian believed any of it—if he didn’t ask a hundred more questions in turn—she didn’t believe those things had anything to do with why she’d been locked up.
“I returned from a long journey south,” she finally answered. “While there, I went farther than ordered in my own exploration, without guild sanction or knowledge. I think now they know more than I realized, and they want me to admit everything . . . and I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because of dark comings they don’t want to acknowledge. And the more I tell them, the more they’ll be able to get in my way. You, of all people, should understand that.”
“If you won’t give them what they want, then why haven’t they just dismissed you, thrown you out?”
Wynn smiled at him without a trace of humor. “Because they’d lose control over me.”
