Between Their Worlds

by Barb; J. C. Hendee

  Dänvârfij opened her eyes as she turned from the window.

  Fréthfâre—Watcher of the Woods—sat bent forward in a corner chair, a heavy walking rod leaning against her right thigh. As the true leader of the team, she was the only other who had remained behind with Dänvârfij. But she was not fit to lead, in body or in mind.

  Once the Covârleasa—Trusted Advisor—to Most Aged Father, Fréthfâre was a fanatically loyal anmaglâhk and a sometime cunning strategist. Dänvârfij had never wanted the crippled Covârleasa included in this current mission, and her doubts grew with every passing night.

  Fréthfâre’s appearance was somewhat unique among the an’Cróan. Her hair was wheat gold, not the white blond of their people. It hung in waves instead of silky and straight. In her youth, she had been viewed as slender and supple. Approaching only middle age, somewhere shy of fifty years, she appeared beyond such a reckoning and almost brittle.

  “Tea?” Fréthfâre repeated.

  “It is likely gone,” Dänvârfij answered. “I will make more.”

  She went to the room’s small hearth, built above the one below on the inn’s main floor, and set a blackened kettle in the remaining coals.

  Fréthfâre nodded and then coughed, and a cough turned to a spasm as she grimaced. She buckled even more where she sat and pressed a hand against her abdomen. That hand remained there until her shudders ceased.

  Dänvârfij watched this in silence. Her concern was not all for her companion’s state.

  Fréthfâre had aged quickly in the past two years, since the night that Magiere had run her sword through the Covârleasa’s abdomen. Fréthfâre had spent long moons recovering under the constant care of healers, but she had been crippled for life . . . however long that would last. Her suffering only fed her hatred and obsession for the one who had done this to her.

  Dänvârfij knew passionate emotion had no place in service to a purpose. But there had been nights since Hkuan’duv’s death when she doubted even herself in this.

  “Would you prefer the mint,” she asked, “or savory?”

  “The savory,” Fréthfâre whispered with effort. She finally settled back in her chair, her breaths coming quick and shallow. A sheen had developed on her strained face.

  Lately, they spoke of nothing of import, if at all. There was little to say until sound information had been gained to fulfill their purpose.

  When the water began to hiss, Dänvârfij scalded leaves in a clay cup and held it out. Fréthfâre nodded and took it, and Dänvârfij prepared a cup for herself. It would be another long night of waiting.

  “I know,” Fréthfâre said. “I tire of this, too. But we will have our revenge.”

  There the truth slipped, and Dänvârfij said nothing. She returned to watching and poking at the floating leaves steeping in her own cup.

  Fréthfâre seemed driven only by a need for vengeance. The crippled Covârleasa should never have been assigned to this purpose, this mission—and likely she had not. At a guess, she had demanded it of Most Aged Father.

  Dänvârfij would not succumb to rage or hunger for revenge, though she had reason for both. Instead, shame and sorrow burned inside her. She had failed Most Aged Father once. She had lost a secret treasure of her own in Hkuan’duv. And her caste was tearing itself apart.

  When Most Aged Father had asked her to prepare a team and sail to a foreign continent, she had not hesitated. Their purpose was direct and clear on the surface: locate Magiere or Léshil or the tainted majay-hì, learn anything possible concerning the mysterious artifact they had recovered, and then eliminate all three.

  She had balked at the thought of killing a majay-hì until Most Aged Father convinced her the one the humans called Chap was an abomination, like the pale-skinned monster he guarded. She would always follow Most Aged Father’s counsel—as had Hkuan’duv.

  “Perhaps we could go over the city’s layout again?” Fréthfâre suggested. “Has anything further been added in scouting?”

  “Nothing,” Dänvârfij replied, though she would take any excuse to fill the nagging silence. “I will get it just the same.”

  As straightforward as their purpose was, its execution had proven anything but simple. Even as the rift among her caste had grown, she could not have foreseen—

  The window opened from the outside.

  “Fréthfâre,” a voice breathed, as someone climbed into the room.

  Dänvârfij was not alarmed and calmly turned her head. She knew the sound of every member’s movements, like a second voice. But when Én’nish landed lightly on the floor, she wore a makeshift bandage around her upper left arm. Three tall forms—Rhysís, Eywodan, and Tavithê—followed after Én’nish before Dänvârfij’s stomach tightened and she rose to her feet.

  Rhysís was bleeding from a head wound, and Tavithê took a moment to check it. Tavithê’s cloak and tunic had been slashed open across his chest, and a slow stain spread into the forest gray cloth at his shoulder.

  Wy’lanvi and Owain were missing.

  “What happened?” Fréthfâre demanded.

  “Where are Wy’lanvi and Owain?” Dänvârfij asked.

  Én’nish hesitated, as if not knowing which question to answer first. She was another team member for whom Dänvârfij held great reservations. The smallest and youngest of the team had a blemished history among the caste. She had even been cast aside by her own jeóin.

  Én’nish was rash, overrun by her own emotions of hatred, born from an even deeper grief than Dänvârfij could truly imagine. All here knew that Én’nish had mated with her bóijtäna—prebetrothed—before their true betrothal and subsequent bonding. As with all an’Cróan, intimacy linked two people in a way that any ritual of bonding could never represent. It was why a period of waiting was always required before commitment or the actual pairing. Én’nish would now suffer the loss of Groyt’ashia like a sickness that could never be cured.

  It had been Fréthfâre who had brought Én’nish back into the caste. All Én’nish wanted, her whole reason for hounding Fréthfâre to be included, was the blood of Léshil.

  “Answer—now!” Dänvârfij commanded.

  “Wy’lanvi was in position, but he never appeared.” Én’nish said quickly. “Owain circled back to look for him, in case—”

  “Position?” Fréthfâre cut in. “For what?”

  Én’nish shook her head hard, as if to clear it. “We spotted our quarry. All three of them, leaving the guild’s castle.”

  “Here?” Dänvârfij said, taking a step toward Én’nish. “In the city?”

  Én’nish’s eyes shifted several times to Fréthfâre and back before she answered.

  “Yes. We decided to follow. When they headed into one of the more barren, decrepit districts, it was decided to try to take them before—”

  “It was decided? You mean you decided!” Dänvârfij returned, for she knew how this had truly come about. “And when were you given lead in our purpose? You were to watch . . . and report!”

  “Dänvârfij, enough,” Fréthfâre said. “Continue, Én’nish.”

  Én’nish turned fully to Fréthfâre, ignoring Dänvârfij.

  “We thought to capture one or more of them—tonight—and bring them to you,” Én’nish went on. “Our position was as good as could be . . . in a narrow, nearly deserted street. Four of us blocked the street’s ends, prepared to drive them into a side path, where Wy’lanvi would cut them off. Owain stayed on the rooftops to cover us, but . . .”

  She trailed off, and Dänvârfij knew what she was about to say.

  “Again . . . Brot’ân’duivé,” Fréthfâre whispered.

  Dänvârfij briefly closed her eyes; Owain would never find Wy’lanvi.

  When they had left their homeland, they had been eleven in count. Dänvârfij had counseled Fréthfâre in choosing three trios of their caste. Never before had so many of the Anmaglâhk taken up the same purpose together. Their task had been that dire in the eyes of Most Aged Father, who grea
tly feared any device of the Ancient Enemy remaining in human hands.

  Eleven had left together, but someone else had shadowed them. Even along the way, after the second death and before they knew for certain, Dänvârfij could not bring herself to believe it. Only on the night when she had seen his unmistakable, immense shadow with her own eyes did she acknowledge the truth.

  Eight had reached this city, and now seven remained. The traitorous Brot’ân’duivé had been picking them off one by one, across half the world. A greimasg’äh, a master among them, was killing his own.

  There had been no deaths among them since a moon before they reached Calm Seatt. Dänvârfij had hoped they had lost Brot’ân’duivé. It had been a very desperate hope.

  She glanced at Rhysís. He appeared oblivious of his head wound as he met her gaze. Of all she had selected with Fréthfâre, she knew him best and had never seen him openly angry before. He was slender and thin-lipped, always wore his hair loose; it was now matted on his forehead with his own blood. His eyes smoldered in his silence. Rhysís had liked Wy’lanvi, the youngest of their team, and had often played “elder brother” when the need arose.

  Dänvârfij took a step back, but he moved closer, looking into her face as he whispered, “In silence and in shadows.”

  She did not need his words, the creed of their caste, to remind her of their purpose. The mission was all that mattered. Their targets were here in the city. Though only six of her remaining team were still able—as Fréthfâre was not—that would be enough.

  “Let me see to your head wound,” she said. “Fréthfâre, will you tend Tavithê’s shoulder? Én’nish, how bad is your arm?”

  Én’nish was not listening, and began pacing, exhaling hissing breaths.

  “I had him,” she spat. “I had my wire around his throat.”

  “Brot’ân’duivé?” Fréthfâre asked in surprise.

  Dänvârfij almost scoffed at such a notion. “Léshil,” she guessed out loud, watching Én’nish with growing concern.

  Vengeance was like a disease, and Brot’ân’duivé was the carrier that kept spreading it among them. Dänvârfij looked warily upon Rhysís again.

  “That is not all,” he said quietly. “He was not alone. An archer on the rooftops hit Én’nish and then fired at Owain.”

  Dänvârfij grew cold and shook her head. “No . . . besides Brot’ân’duivé, who would fire on their own caste?”

  No one answered her, but Rhysís would not have said it unless he was certain. Dänvârfij took a clearer look at Én’nish’s arm as Fréthfâre unwrapped it.

  “Are you disabled?” she asked.

  “No, it was only through the skin. Eywodan broke and pulled the arrow easily.”

  “Did you double back to follow their escape?” Dänvârfij asked.

  Rhysís glanced away, and even Én’nish remained silent. Tavithê settled in a chair to suffer Fréthfâre’s ministrations and shook his head.

  “We could not,” he said bluntly. “With three of us injured and Wy’lanvi missing, our only course was to retreat . . . with the majay-hì harrying us. Only Owain turned back, once we lost the majay-hì.”

  Dänvârfij nodded. Tavithê had broad shoulders for an elf. His grasp of human languages had never been strong, but he was almost unparalleled in hand-to-hand combat. Dänvârfij could only assume he had been fighting Brot’ân’duivé to take a wound like that.

  Tavithê had been correct. Better to regroup and plan rather than to counterstrike blindly in defeat.

  “This will have to be sewn up,” Fréthfâre said, peering at Tavithê’s wound.

  Tavithê grimaced. He would fight four armed opponents at once but did not care for needles. Dänvârfij decided further questions, ones that Fréthfâre had not seen fit to ask, could wait.

  Pieces of the evening were still missing. She needed to learn everything as quickly as possible and reestablish a watch on the guild’s castle. Then it would be time to report to Most Aged Father. All that mattered now was acquiring their targets.

  Eywodan, the oldest of the team, had not spoken so far. He kept glancing out the window, perhaps watching for Owain’s return. Something needed to be done, and questions were all Dänvârfij had left, regardless of the wounded.

  “Tell me everything, step by step,” she said to Eywodan, “beginning at the Guild of Sagecraft.”

  Chane stood on the docks of Beranlômr Bay, watching two sailors near a small, two-masted schooner unloading crates from a wagon. One of them stumbled getting down out of the wagon and then staggered, thumping the crate against the wagon’s tailboard. Clattering and clinks of glass sounded from inside the crate.

  “Easy with that!” a third, wide man ordered. “There’s a score of bottles of spiced mead for a thänæ in there. Break ’em, and you’ll be making up the cost for the next season!”

  Both sailors flinched, taking greater care as they crept up the plank onto the schooner’s deck.

  The mention of a thänæ—an honored one among the dwarves—was fortunate for Chane.

  “Are you the captain of this ship?” he asked, approaching the wide-chested man. “And bound for Dhredze Seatt?”

  The man looked him up and down.

  Chane was well aware that he no longer resembled a well-dressed young nobleman, much as he once had. His boots were too dusty and more worn than even his clothes. He spoke Numanese well, but his accent and maimed voice would always draw some attention.

  “And if I am?” the man challenged.

  “I am a friend of Shirvêsh Mallet at the temple of Bedzâ’kenge,” Chane explained. “I need a letter to reach him as quickly as possible.”

  Chane pulled out his coin pouch and loosened its tie. There were few coins in it, and he was not about to show them until he heard the cost. It should not be much, considering the captain already headed for the needed destination.

  The captain’s expression shifted with concern. “Mallet? Is the letter important?”

  “Yes.”

  The captain held out his hand. “I’ll make sure he receives it, soon as we reach port.”

  Chane took a little relief as he tilted the pouch to pour out coins. “How much?”

  The captain shook his head. “Mallet’s done me a good turn more than once. Gained me business among the clans of his tribe.”

  Chane blinked in hesitation. As the son of a harsh father, a noble in his homeland during his life and later as an undead in hiding, preying on the living, he had been given little in his life that had not cost him in the end. Certainly, rarely, had it ever come from a stranger.

  He did not know what to say, at first, but he had no wish to be obliged to anyone.

  “I have dwarven slugs of no use to me,” he offered. “Take some.”

  The captain shrugged with a half smile. “As you wish.”

  Chane counted out three copper slugs with holes in their center, not truly knowing what they were worth. The captain took them along with the folded-up paper, and he looked it over.

  “No addressment?” the captain asked, for Chane had not marked the outside wrapping sheet.

  “Not necessary,” he answered. “Shirvêsh Mallet will understand.”

  “He’ll get by midmorning,” the captain said with a nod, and tromped off up the ramp to his ship.

  Indeed, Chane had not addressed the letter, for he could not. Its ultimate destination was not the hands of Shirvêsh Mallet. He needed help, and this was his only method of sending for it, and hopefully Mallet would quickly pass it on to the true recipient.

  CHAPTER 8

  Pawl a’Seatt crossed the small front room of his scribe shop, the Upright Quill, and locked the door for the night. The space was neat and sparse, with only an old counter across the room’s back and a few wooden display stands supporting open books with ornate examples of the shop’s script work. He flipped the counter’s folding section to step behind it and checked that everything beneath it had been stored away in orderly fashion. Finally, he tur
ned to head through the right door behind the counter and into the workroom.

  The rear of any scriptorium was quite different from the outer room for customers. That of the Upright Quill was filled with tall, slanted scribing tables and matching stools, along with one large desk and a chair.

  Although it was halfway to night’s first bell, lanterns still hung about, filling the space with saffron-colored light. Stacks and sheaves of blank, crisp paper and a few of the more expansive and traditional parchments were piled on shelves lining all the walls, except for the space where there was a heavy rear door. There were also bottles of varied inks, jars of drying talc and sand, binding materials, and other sundry tools and supplies. Everywhere lay scattered quills, blotting pads, bracing sticks to keep a scribe’s hand off the page, and trimming knives.