Between Their Worlds

by Barb; J. C. Hendee

  With a trembling hand, the young man held out a folded piece of paper.

  There was nothing written on the outside, but at the sight of it, Chane forgot everything else. He grabbed the note and shook it open. It was written in Belaskian, his own language.

  This messenger is a trusted friend to be protected by all means. Official representatives of the law have assumed control of my confinement, but I remain where I am.

  Without formal charges made before the people’s High Advocate, my imprisonment may end soon enough. Give events another day and see what happens. If I haven’t regained access to what I need, it will be pointless to stay. Do nothing—either of you—until you hear from me again.

  If you haven’t heard from me in two days, do what you must.

  The tone and words were clinical and cryptic, but Chane knew their intention. No names or places were mentioned, so Wynn was still concerned about anything written down falling into the wrong hands. This time, she was likely taking precautions in case the messenger was intercepted and questioned. The young man would know little to nothing about what Wynn was really after, and almost no one would even be able to read the letter.

  Chane read the note again slowly, trying to determine its full meaning.

  Her reference to “official representatives” could only mean the city guard, likely Captain Rodian. That she remained where she was must mean the captain had not removed her; she was still in her room at the guild. The final cryptic line seemed clear.

  Magiere, Leesil, and Chap would not know how or where to reach her—and, in truth, Chane preferred it that way. But Wynn was well aware that if all else failed, Chane was the only one who knew the lay of the keep and the exact location of her room. He would be the one to retrieve her.

  He raised his eyes the young man. “What is your name?”

  “Nik . . . Nikolas . . . Columsarn.”

  “How did you know where to come, who to give this to?”

  Nikolas raised his head slightly. “Wynn is my friend and I bring her meals. She slipped me this note and made a passing comment about Nattie’s inn.” He paused. “I’ve seen you with her, so I knew who to look for . . . to describe to the innkeeper.”

  Chane frowned. This was not the safest method for communication, but he could think of nothing better.

  “Can you carry an answer to her without detection?”

  Nikolas nodded.

  Even amid Chane’s suffering, he felt an unexpected—unwanted—twinge of gratitude. The young man must be braver than he looked.

  Chane tore Wynn’s note into tiny pieces and shoved the remains into his own pack for later disposal. He pulled out a small writing charcoal and a journal with notes he had taken on the Begaine syllabary. Since almost no one here wrote or spoke Belaskian, he thought that Nikolas might be asked no questions if he was caught carrying a note simply written in Begaine, the compressed syllabic symbols of the sages. Even so, Chane’s grasp of the syllabary was a work in progress with a long way to go.

  It took him a while to stroke the symbols for words in his own language, acknowledging Wynn’s instructions—and without using her name. Once he finished and folded the note, he rose from the floor and then hesitated in studying Nikolas Columsarn.

  “What excuse did you give when you left the grounds?” he asked.

  “An errand to the Upright Quill.”

  Chane winced. He had had a few dealings with “Master” Pawl a’Seatt of that private scriptorium. It was doubtful anyone besides him—and Wynn and Shade—knew the man was an undead. Even Wynn was doubtful after having seen a’Seatt visit the guild in daylight.

  What if someone later asked at the scriptorium about Nikolas’s “errand,” only to find the young man had not been seen there? When Chane said as much, Nikolas shook his head.

  “There actually is something I can pick up,” he said, “so I won’t look suspicious when I return.”

  Chane did not like the idea of any sage getting near Pawl a’Seatt, especially while carrying a note to Wynn. But he could not accompany Nikolas unless he covered himself fully, including with that mask and the glasses. That would only attract attention, even if he could last long enough to finish the escort.

  Pawl a’Seatt hated other undead. The only way Chane had gotten clear of the strangely potent man had been by Wynn promising to remove Chane from this city. But Chane would never let a sage go into danger, especially not one that Wynn had asked him to protect.

  He glanced at Shade and then back at Nikolas.

  “Wait a moment,” he said, closing the door.

  Chane crouched before Shade, held up his left hand, and touched the brass ring that he wore to warn her. Then he slipped off the ring. The whole room appeared to shimmer like heat on a summer plain, and then his senses sharpened without the ring’s influence on him.

  “Shade,” he said, cocking his head toward the door. “Go and protect that sage, but try not to be seen by . . .”

  He was at a loss, uncertain if Shade would know Pawl a’Seatt by name. Instead, he closed his eyes and focused on the night when they had assaulted Sau’ilahk, the wraith, outside the Upright Quill. Chane had had to flee into the shop when Wynn had ignited the sun-crystal staff. Therein they had all been taken by surprise, finding Pawl a’Seatt in hiding, watching everything that had transpired in the street.

  A’Seatt had seen Shade with Wynn, and Chane did not want him associating Nikolas with Wynn—not while Nikolas was acting as go-between. The young man hardly seemed capable of defending himself.

  As Chane opened his eyes, Shade growled softly.

  “You understand?” he asked.

  She huffed once.

  “When you get Nikolas back to the guild, return here. Lose anyone who might follow you. I will be waiting to open the back door.”

  She huffed again, and Chane surprised himself by saying, “Good girl.”

  He slipped the ring back on, then put on his gloves and cloak, pulling the cloak’s hood forward to shadow his face. As he opened the door, Shade rushed past him toward the stairs, startling Nikolas.

  Taking in the sight of Chane’s cloak, Nikolas’s expression shifted to alarm.

  “You can’t come with me,” he warned. “I heard what happened last night, and if Captain Rodian sees you, he’ll—”

  “I am not coming with you,” Chane interrupted, handing Nikolas the note and motioning the sage down the stairs.

  Confused, Nikolas led the way. When they reached the bottom, Chane held the young man back, pointing to where Shade waited down the short passage to the back door.

  “She is going with you,” Chane said, “and do not argue with me. She will protect you and see you safely back to the guild.”

  Nikolas blinked. “Oh.”

  “Go out the front door,” Chane instructed. “Head halfway down the street and wait for her to join you.”

  Nikolas blinked again but obeyed, turning to leave.

  Chane immediately headed the other way. Reaching the back door, he checked his hood and averted his face.

  “I will be waiting.”

  Bracing himself, he shoved open the door. Even under his cloak, he felt his skin tingle and sting. Shade bolted out, and he jerked the door shut, after which he slid slowly down the wall to sit on the passage floor. A thin crack of light seeped in from beneath the back door.

  Chane inched a little farther up the passage. There was nothing more he could do for Wynn besides sit here and wait.

  CHAPTER 10

  Pawl a’Seatt didn’t often go to his shop during the day. Uncomfortable as sunlight was, this was not the reason. In truth, his ability to walk in daylight remained a mystery to him.

  He understood why the undead chose populated places in which to settle and hunt; he had done so, as well. Unlike them, a thriving city fed him to a degree, merely by his presence among so many. Though hunting was no longer a necessity for him, unlike other undeads, the longer he remained in close proximity to the living, the weaker
and more listless they became.

  In his earliest days—or, rather, nights—it had not been so. He’d once had to feed and exist only in the darkness.

  He never discovered what had changed for him. It had happened gradually, over hundreds of years, though he did not always consider it a blessing. He now had to take great care in monitoring how much time he lingered in close company with others—especially the few people with which he interacted regularly. There were times when necessity, need, desire, or something else dictated otherwise.

  Today, he had already made his habitual dawn visit to open the shop. When he entered a second time for this morning, this time through the back door, his late reappearance caused an immediate stir in the workroom. Perhaps his employees interpreted this as a harbinger of reprimand for not completing Premin Renäld’s contracted project the day before.

  Gangly and bony, Tavishaw took several furtive glances over the slanted top of his scribing desk, the rhythm of his scripting breaking each time like a stutter in the scratching upon the paper.

  Even old Teagan glowered openly at being disturbed while inspecting Tavishaw’s work. The scribe master was accustomed to running things his way during the days. Scrawny, shriveled, and half-bald, he peered at Pawl through round, thick-lensed glasses. His amplified pupils above his extended nose gave him the look of a gaunt hound spotting another canine sniffing about his yard.

  And Liam began working so hastily that Pawl feared for the quality of the script.

  Only Imaret appeared untroubled. Her pace never altered. She rarely even glanced at the content reference sheet beside her, as if the page was already imprinted in her young mind. Hers was a rare gift or talent possessed by only one other person Pawl had ever met. She quietly and efficiently scribed the index for the transcribed copy of the journeyor’s journal submitted by Premin Renäld.

  “How is it proceeding?” Pawl asked the girl, though this wasn’t really why he’d returned.

  “Almost done,” Imaret answered without looking up. She was likely still cross that he’d been unable to tell her anything about Nikolas or what was happening inside the guild.

  The tinkle of the front door’s bell carried into the back room. Pawl grew mildly relieved at the prospect of anything that might distract him from his state of unrest. Master Teagan automatically headed for the front room, but paused at finding Pawl close on his heels.

  “I’ll see to it,” Pawl said, ignoring Teagan’s scowl.

  Teagan followed him, anyway. But before they reached the door out into the shop’s front, it swung inward, and there stood Nikolas Columsarn in his usual anxious state.

  “Nikolas!”

  Pawl stiffened at Imaret’s outcry. He’d barely glanced back when she dropped her quill, and he frowned at the possible ruin of the index page. Imaret nearly knocked fragile old Teagan into the wall as she wormed through the short passage, past Pawl.

  “Are you all right? Is the guild still locked up?” she asked, her voice too loud. “Why were the city guards called? Are they still there? How did you get out?”

  Nikolas flinched repeatedly, as if every question were her little fist poking him in the arm. Pawl heard only silence behind him, and when he looked, Tavishaw and Liam were both staring.

  “The guild is closed?” Tavishaw asked in surprise.

  Pawl immediately placed a hand on Imaret’s back and herded her and Nikolas into the shop’s outer room. He would never get Imaret back to work while Nikolas was here.

  “How did you know about the guild?” Nikolas asked.

  “I was there last night,” Imaret said. “I was worried for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” she echoed indignantly. “Because you were locked inside!”

  Since the deaths of Elias and Jeremy in a nearby alley, Imaret grew frantic whenever she didn’t know the whereabouts of the remaining few she cared about. On a more practical consideration, Pawl was concerned by how this affected her work. The only way to stabilize that was to allow this meeting to play out—and perhaps gain some insight for himself.

  Nikolas frowned. “Imaret, I’m fine in there. No one even notices me.”

  At this evasion, Pawl seized control.

  “What has happened?” he asked pointedly. “Why were the Shyldfälches summoned?”

  Nikolas looked up at him. A sudden desperation turned the young sage pale just before he looked away.

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

  “You don’t know?” Imaret asked.

  Pawl raised one finger at her, and she fell silent. His centuries of experience with people told him that the young man was dying to speak, to pour out his personal troubles. When Imaret was about to go at Nikolas again, Pawl rested his hand on her fragile shoulder. She looked up at him, possibly annoyed, but remained quiet.

  “Journeyor Hygeorht has been confined,” Nikolas finally offered.

  “Why?” Pawl asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Pawl’s frustration began to match Imaret’s, but this time the truth of Nikolas’s answer was plain on his troubled face. The young sage was at a loss.

  “Why did you come here?” Pawl asked.

  Nikolas still wouldn’t look at him. “I thought to check and see if Premin Renäld’s project was finished, maybe bring it back, and . . . I just needed to get out for a while.”

  Pawl could see this was not true. Why would Nikolas lie?

  “The transcription is not quite finished,” he said. “I’ll have it delivered late this afternoon.”

  His words appeared to make Nikolas only more miserable. He was tempted to use intimidation to force Nikolas to talk, but he resisted. Whatever had happened with Wynn Hygeorht, Nikolas—if he knew anything more—would eventually tell Imaret something. And Pawl would hear of it.

  “All right,” Nikolas replied, turning away, but he stopped briefly to look at Imaret. “I have to get back, but I’ll try to see you—both of you—as soon as I can.” He attempted a weak smile. “If nothing else, Captain Rodian won’t last much longer. He’s been at it with one or another premin since last night and looks like he’s eaten nothing but raw lemons for days.”

  Nikolas slipped out the front door.

  “Bye, Nikolas,” Imaret called after him.

  “Back to work,” Pawl ordered.

  She shuffled through the opened counter section and into the back room.

  Pawl walked to a front window and watched Nikolas head south along the street. Once the sage was out of the line of sight, Pawl stepped out the shop’s front door. He spotted Nikolas’s gray robe a block down and followed until the young sage turned the corner. When Pawl reached that intersection and peered around the candle shop there, he stopped.

  A dark shadow emerged from the mouth of an alley running behind the shops. Pawl watched a long-legged black wolf, taller than any he’d seen, fall in beside Nikolas.

  It was the same animal that had been with Wynn on the night she’d faced that black-robed undead outside his shop. Another undead had been there with her, one that Pawl should’ve dispatched for invading his city. But doing so with Journeyor Hygeorht present would have raised questions from her about him.

  Pausing there in the street, Pawl let his thoughts turn.

  Wynn Hygeorht had been confined. The guild had been locked down by the city guard, likely at the request of the Premin Council. All work on the translation project had ceased. Nikolas was full of something he was dying to speak of and yet would not. Now Wynn’s black wolf escorted the nervous young sage out and about the city.

  Wynn was the source, though not the cause, for both Pawl’s reignited anger and his determination for its remedy, to seek answers regarding the white woman, his murderer and maker. Wynn had been the one to return with those ancient texts from afar. Whatever was happening—whatever had halted the translation project—it was somehow all wrapped around her. And she was beyond reach inside the guild’s keep.

  Pawl walked back toward his
shop in silent, cold tension.

  Chap and Leanâlhâm lingered by a street corner one block up the mainway from the guild’s bailey gate, and he was itching all over.

  Leesil was going to pay for this, one way or another.

  Chap dropped on his haunches and pulled up one rear leg to scratch himself again.

  “Bârtva’na!” Leanâlhâm whispered in panic, slipping into her own tongue. “Do not!”

  A little cloud of black dust rose as Chap scratched. He tried to rub his itching face with a forepaw. All that did was raise a puff of soot around his face, and he sneezed.

  “Please, Ch—majay-hì,” Leanâlhâm insisted. “You will rub it off and be noticed.”