by Barb Hendee
He kept pacing a circle around and around the empty courtyard.
The sight of Wynn in that dark robe still made him uncomfortable, but she and he were allowed back into the guild, though there had been no warm welcome. As soon as Hawes and Wynn uncovered any hints to the possible location of the orb of Spirit, he and Wynn would be gone again, and perhaps that was best.
As he walked, the soft clap of his boots seemed to echo too much. He paused at the strange sound, and only then did he hear the second set of steps. Raising his head, he followed the sound to the mouth of the gatehouse tunnel.
A tall figure came toward the courtyard from within the tunnel’s darkness.
Chane wondered who could possibly be visiting here at this time of night. The obvious answer was Captain Rodian, though after the council’s long meeting with Hawes, they had dismissed his guards and reopened the portcullis. Still, the captain had not been fully satisfied with what Wynn had told him about elves, assassins, and the escape of her hunted friends.
Something was not right about that figure inside the tunnel.
Rather than the hint of a red tabard or the glint of mail sleeves, the visitor’s clothing was too drab and dark to make out. Then it drew nearer to the tunnel’s inner end and the great braziers burning on the gatehouse’s inner wall.
It was cloaked and hooded, with a bow in hand and a quiver of darkly feathered arrows protruding above its shoulder. Some other narrow bundle stuck out beside the quiver. Even when the figure stepped fully from the tunnel, Chane was not certain who it was. Then he looked at the bow again.
Osha paused as he entered the courtyard and brushed back his hood.
Flames in the iron brazier above him made his white-blond hair shimmer with flickers of fiery orange. Amber eyes in his long, dark face matched that same burning intensity as he stood there.
Chane had not missed the way Osha had looked at Wynn, and more so, the way she had responded. His hands shook slightly, lowering to his sides, but since returning to the guild, he had left his swords in his room. It was improper to walk in this place bearing weapons.
Osha was supposed to have rejoined the others and fled the city.
As Chane locked eyes with Osha, he knew there was only one reason why the young elf had not done so. . . .
Wynn.
EPILOGUE
ON THE THIRD DAY AT sea, as Magiere stood alone at the ship’s bow rail, the Isle of Wrêdelyd came into sight. There they would have to find a ship heading south for the Suman Empire and its westernmost nation, called il’Dha’ab Najuum, the seat of the emperor and home to the Suman branch for the Guild of Sagecraft.
Magiere wondered if she should tell the others to pack up, but at a guess, the ship wouldn’t make port for a while. Leesil was suffering his usual seasickness, and she didn’t want to drag him from his bunk too soon. Besides, ministering to his moans and groans gave Leanâlhâm something to do while Chap kept an eye on both of them.
On the first night aboard, when Leanâlhâm had learned that Osha hadn’t returned with Brot’an, Magiere had been forced to stop the girl from rushing for the skiff. After that, Leanâlhâm had fallen into a state of dark, silent sorrow. Regardless of how Brot’an matter-of-factly assured them all that Osha was alive and well, it did little to soothe the girl.
If Osha was all right, they all knew where he had gone: to Wynn. That Leanâlhâm’s sorrow remained, even in believing he was safe, meant just as much.
Magiere wasn’t certain how to keep the girl safe, let alone how to deal with Leanâlhâm’s broken heart. She only hoped it went no further than that, and not as far as whatever had happened long ago between Osha and Wynn. But all this wasn’t what had set Magiere—and Leesil and Chap—on edge concerning Brot’an’s claim that Osha was all right.
Something else was missing in Brot’an’s assurance.
What had Osha been doing that only Brot’an seemed to know? Had it been Brot’an who’d given Osha instructions that the young elf had disobeyed in part or whole?
By midday, the isle drew closer beyond the peninsula of the dwarfs, and Magiere turned to head below. She stopped short, flinching on instinct, in finding Brot’an standing silently off behind her.
She hadn’t heard him approach, let alone come up on deck. How long had he been standing there watching her?
His hood was down, and his long, streaked hair blew about his face in the wind, whipping over the four scars that jumped his eye. For all of Leesil and Chap’s hatred and mistrust of him, Magiere had been willing to give the master anmaglâhk some benefit of doubt. Brot’an was nothing if not capable. He had fought for her life before his own people and had helped Leesil get them all out of Calm Seatt.
No, Magiere had no issue with Brot’an’s abilities, as long as a common purpose was shared between them. But what truly motivated him? For whatever war he might be waging against his own caste, he was still Anmaglâhk and a so-called shadow-gripper. Nothing changed that.
The sailors were busy prepping for harbor, and Brot’an stepped to the side rail a few paces off. Magiere realized this was the first moment that he and she had been completely alone together.
“What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly. “It’s more than keeping me out of Most Aged Father’s reach. What else drove you so far from your people? And why would you ever allow Leanâlhâm, let alone Osha, to come with you?”
He gripped the rail, leaning against it as if weary, and looked down on the water rushing past the hull. Magiere couldn’t help noting how large his hands were for an an’Cróan, with long, tan fingers and thick sinews and a few age spots.
“What happened to you up in the cold wastes of the north?” he asked in turn. “Something about you—between you and Léshil—has changed, as well as in the majay-hì, Chap.” Finally, he looked over at her. “What did you have to do to gain that orb of . . . Fire, was it?”
Magiere held her tongue.
This was something she hadn’t told anyone. Even she and Leesil had spoken almost nothing about it, and Chap only watched her with as much suspicion as she now watched Brot’an.
The old assassin believed in doing whatever was necessary. Of all people, he might understand—or not. Was it possible his secret was even uglier than hers?
Sooner or later, one of them would make the first slip.
Perhaps he knew, as she did, that this might cause a fall, a shattering of an alliance from which they might not recover. And what had happened to Leanâlhâm’s grandfather, that old healer, Gleann, with his biting sense of humor? What had driven Osha to follow Brot’an, considering the young one no longer looked with blind awe at the shadow-gripper? What had happened to make Brot’an start killing his own kind?
In the bargain he’d just tried to strike, his tale for hers, who would gain the advantage?
They now traveled with the mutual goal of finding the orb of Air and keeping it from falling into the wrong hands at any cost. But whose hands were worse than others by each of their separate judgments?
Magiere glanced again at the scars skipping over Brot’an’s right eye. She wasn’t ready to make such a deal with him. But she knew she couldn’t avoid it much longer—not long at all.
