Between Their Worlds

by Barb; J. C. Hendee

  Neither Leesil nor Magiere would understand him, but Chap did, as well as Wynn. She didn’t look at Osha or answer him. She didn’t need to.

  Magiere took a step toward Wynn. “There’s an undead loose in the city, and you didn’t tell us.”

  “I didn’t have time,” Wynn answered, standing to face her. “And I told him to stay away from you.”

  “You told him . . . ?” Magiere choked on her words.

  Chap saw her irises enlarge, turning black, and he glanced at Leesil with a huff of warning.

  Leesil put a hand on Magiere’s shoulder and whispered, “Easy.”

  The room fell silent.

  Chap did not know what to think. It seemed Chane had been with Wynn—and Shade—for nearly half a year, so he must have gone to . . .

  He was with you in that lost dwarven stronghold.

  “Yes,” Wynn answered aloud.

  Chap saw hints of the old Wynn in her face—lonely, lost, and uncertain.

  “I had to find the next orb,” she continued, still facing Magiere. “I couldn’t travel alone, and Shade wasn’t enough protection. Chane is . . . He is more than . . . He is nothing like what you remember.”

  This was the wrong thing to say to Magiere. Even Chap suddenly lost his anger as Magiere wrenched free of Leesil’s grasp.

  “Nothing like?” she said right into Wynn’s face. “No more killing to feed . . . or just for the pleasure of it?” Her voice lowered to a threatening growl. “And what do you think it took for him to reach you again? How many died along the way for him to cross an ocean and a whole continent alone? How many men, women . . . even children—”

  “No.” Wynn shook her head.

  “You couldn’t count them for that distance! You couldn’t even imagine it.”

  Wynn shrank back, looking into Magiere’s suddenly glistening face. Chap stood poised to lunge into Magiere, who was visibly shuddering before Wynn.

  “This time I’ll see his ashes,” Magiere whispered, “after I take his head a second time.”

  “Enough!” Leesil shouted, and he grabbed Magiere, wrenching her away.

  Magiere spun away, unable to look at Wynn anymore. She bit down, clamping her jaws hard against the hunger that her rage called up. Of all the things Wynn had done, of the foolish choices she’d ever made, harboring that monster was too much. Magiere stood facing the wall, trying to hold on to reason.

  “Get it under control,” Leesil whispered in her ear. “Now!”

  She was trying, but all she could think of was that undead—that thing called Chane—who had come at her and those she loved more than once. Now he was here . . . again because of Wynn. She couldn’t stop shaking, even as she tried to focus on breathing and nothing more. And as she half turned from the wall, she saw large, slanted green eyes in a young, frightened, tanned face.

  Leanâlhâm stood only a few steps to Magiere’s left, and the girl was watching only her. The girl didn’t belong in the middle of all this. After what she’d likely seen in Brot’an’s company, what she’d seen earlier this night . . .

  Magiere shriveled inside at the way Leanâlhâm looked at her. She turned away and buried her face in the crook of Leesil’s neck. She had to stop this, to find any way to let go of all the anger Wynn caused. She felt Leesil’s hands grip her upper arms, holding her there. His grip suddenly tightened, and she heard him whisper.

  “Leanâlhâm . . . no, don’t!”

  Magiere stiffened and flinched at another touch upon her back.

  “Is the wound . . . not truly healed?” Leanâlhâm asked softly.

  There was no way the girl could think that what she’d seen was caused by a wound. Not even a scar remained on Magiere’s thigh for how it had been willfully closed. And that small hand on Magiere’s back pressed flat and firm.

  “Are you . . . ill . . . again?” Leanâlhâm asked.

  The lie in the girl’s question, so blindly forgiving, was too much to bear. Magiere still couldn’t look at Leanâlhâm, though her hunger vanished.

  “She’s all right. . . . She’ll be fine,” Leesil lied, as well.

  “No matter what you think,” Wynn suddenly said, “I had to reach the orb. You, of all of us, should understand that, Magiere.”

  Leanâlhâm’s hand remained as Magiere turned her head to look at Wynn.

  Chap could not guess what Wynn had been through and that still needed to be uncovered. But it changed little where an undead was concerned.

  “That’s all that matters now—gaining the rest of them,” Wynn continued, “before the Enemy’s minions do so. And if not for Shade—and Chane—I would’ve been dead . . . more than twice.”

  “How could you accept protection from him?” Magiere returned.

  “Because you weren’t there!” Wynn answered, her voice quavering slightly, and she looked at Leesil and then Chap. “None of you. You left me, and I had to reach the next orb once I discovered there was more than one.”

  In spite of Wynn’s accusation, Chap’s anger did not fade.

  Chane had murdered countless people to sustain himself . . . or, as Magiere said, for the pleasure of the kill. He had helped Welstiel slaughter a remote outpost of healer monks, turning some of them into feral vampires. He had helped burn to death a ship of the elves, and perhaps was the one responsible for throwing a female an’Cróan hostage over the side as a diversion. He had tracked Magiere to the Pock Peaks and fought at Welstiel’s side, even if he had betrayed Welstiel in the end.

  Now Wynn had induced Chap’s daughter to accept the company of that sadistic undead.

  Chap would not allow this.

  There was no excuse, no reason, that Wynn could give that would keep Chap from finishing Chane the instant the chance came. But his anger over these transgressions was cut cold by one question.

  “What next . . . orb?” Brot’an asked quietly.

  Chap’s fear of discussing anything in front of these elves doubled. Brot’an knew only what Wynn had foolishly written in a journal that she’d sent off with Osha on the young elf’s return to his homeland. Oh yes, Chap knew of that journal, though by what he had gleaned from Wynn’s memories, it had not been specific regarding what they had found. There was only a reference to an “artifact.”

  Chap huffed twice at Magiere with a clack of his jaws and then turned on Wynn with a snarl.

  We will speak of this later. Brot’an knows too much as is . . . because of you!

  Wynn flinched but ignored him, and stepped closer to Magiere.

  “There are more important things at stake than your hatred for the undead,” Wynn insisted. “Chane retrieved a scroll from that castle, the very one Li’kän was trying to get me to read. Without Chane, we’d all be stumbling blindly about, more clueless than the Enemy’s minions!”

  Chap growled and snapped his jaws more loudly this time.

  “Don’t make excuses,” Magiere shot back. “He is one of the Enemy’s minions. You, of all people, know that!”

  Chap glanced sidelong at Brot’an, who remained fixed on the two women. What would it take to keep these two quiet? And if Wynn kept this up, Magiere’s calm might break again.

  “The scroll has the only hints to finding all five orbs!” Wynn argued.

  That pushed Chap over the edge, and he lunged off the bed, snarling at both of them. There seemed nothing to be done short of biting one of them, though all he did was snap and snarl.

  Wynn, enough!

  But Wynn’s words finally caught Magiere, as well. “He took a scroll from the castle? Did you know when we left that place? What else have you been holding back?”

  “I didn’t know until he found me here in Calm Seatt,” Wynn countered. “When you arrived, I didn’t have time to tell you before we got separated.”

  “Tell us where he is,” Leesil ordered, “before he kills again.”

  Wynn stared at him as if he were a stranger.

  Chap did not know what to do to keep this from escalating further. He agreed
with Leesil, but the secrets Wynn was spilling had gone too far—much too far.

  “Where is this scroll?” Brot’an asked, his voice still quiet.

  Wynn glanced his way, as if really seeing him for the first time. “What are you doing here? What are any of you doing this far from your homeland?”

  “Protecting Magiere,” Brot’an answered. “Protecting the . . . orb she has from Most Aged Father.”

  Wynn studied him. “Truly . . . you’re here to help us?”

  “Yes.”

  Chap turned his rumbling toward Brot’an, but when he looked back, the expression of finality on Wynn’s face terrified him.

  “Good,” she said. “Chane has the scroll.”

  Wynn, shut your mouth!

  “No,” she said flatly, looking down at him. “We’re in no position to ignore any help we can get—from anyone—and that includes someone as experienced and skillful as Brot’an.”

  She glanced over at Leesil, who was no more pleased than Chap.

  “But not from anyone who isn’t honestly trying to help,” she added.

  Leesil’s eyes brightened with some of Magiere’s fury, but before he could respond, Wynn pulled up her hood and drew her cloak around herself.

  “I’m going to Shade . . . and Chane,” she added. “If we’re to locate the remaining orbs, we need that scroll, and we need both of them.”

  “No, you’re not,” Leesil said, and he stepped in her way before Magiere could make a move.

  “Yes, she is,” Brot’an said.

  Chap stood stiff. He was not fooled by the butcher’s willingness to help, and he did not need to wait to catch any of Brot’an’s well-hidden memories. This was a ruse, another twist and manipulation, like the one Brot’an had used in a final moment to get Leesil to kill Lord Darmouth.

  As soon as the shadow-gripper learned what he needed, he would go after the other orbs himself—alone. The worst part was that Chap still needed to learn the same for himself, and Wynn had hidden that knowledge with Chane.

  And worse, the last thing he needed was Brot’an and Leesil assaulting each other, forcing all present to take sides.

  “I will keep her safe,” Brot’an added. “Léshil, you must accept that she is right . . . in this, at least. If there are more of these artifacts, and Most Aged Father and his agents do not know of them yet, it must remain so. That is the purpose here that comes before all personal issues.”

  Chap had his own concerns, and he closed on Wynn.

  I am going with you, as well.

  She looked down at him in surprise, and then sudden relief, but that expression quickly vanished, replaced by suspicion.

  “Only if you mean to help,” she said.

  It was not a request . . . and you are not going alone with Brot’an.

  She crouched down, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.

  “We need Chane on this. If you hurt him, Shade won’t be the only one unable to forgive you.”

  He could not believe what he heard. But neither could he let her leave without him. This was not the Wynn he knew.

  She rose and turned to Leesil and Magiere. “I’m sorry you’re angry, but there is no time for more explanations . . . ones you wouldn’t accept, anyway.”

  Leesil shook his head and looked away.

  “Just go,” Magiere breathed.

  Something had broken between those three, and Chap doubted it would ever be mended. And though he hated to admit it, Wynn was correct about one thing.

  What mattered most was gaining the orbs. That took precedence over outrage . . . and betrayal.

  Osha and Leanâlhâm still watched in quiet confusion, though for Osha there was also pain in his long features. Chap thought Wynn might go to him, for the way she looked at him, almost longingly, with equal sadness over not having seen him in so long.

  But then Wynn turned quickly and left. Chap waited just long enough to trail Brot’an out the door.

  After walking away from Sykion and High-Tower, Rodian felt an unwanted wave of exhaustion. He tried to remember the last time he’d slept.

  As he made his way toward the gatehouse tunnel, he saw Corporal Lúcan at the far end, standing before the portcullis beams. In the last day and night, the corporal hadn’t looked much better than Rodian himself felt, and four of their comrades were now recovering in the guild’s hospice. He paused near the small tower that contained the gatehouse’s mechanics.

  “Lúcan,” he called out. “I’ll have the portcullis up in a moment. Ride back to the barracks and tell Branwell to gather four men and come relieve us. Then you get some sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After Rodian reached the gear room, he gave his orders. By the time he returned to the courtyard, Lúcan was gone. Events of the evening rolled through his mind, and he wondered what would come next with the dawn. Would Sykion come at him with some unexplained charge against Wynn? Would he finally get any hint as to what was actually going on here?

  His thoughts wandered too much as time passed quickly. He heard horses’ hooves and headed down the gatehouse tunnel to the open portcullis. There had been little point to closing it until reinforcements arrived.

  Branwell came riding through the bailey gate, followed by four men. The lieutenant dismounted and strode up to face Rodian. He held out a folded piece of paper with a royal seal.

  “I was told to give you this immediately, sir.”

  Something in Branwell’s voice sounded a little too satisfied. With reluctance, Rodian took the message and broke the wax seal.

  It was a summons to the royal castle.

  * * *

  “Owain is dead, and you took no prisoners?” Fréthfâre asked from her chair.

  Dänvârfij had no illusions about this moment, now that she had returned and begun her report. They had gone back for Owain’s body. It now lay in the room’s corner, wrapped in a scavenged blanket and spare cord and awaiting rites. Dänvârfij did not know how that would be accomplished here in this stinking human city. Fréthfâre would use tonight’s failure to her own advantage, feeding her own hunger for vengeance as well as seizing more control over their purpose.

  The room felt small and hot, though the fire had gone out. Rhysís, Én’nish, and Eywodan stood in uncomfortable silence.

  “Where is Tavithê?” Fréthfâre continued, resting her head against the chair’s tall back and looking down her nose.

  “Still on watch at the port,” Dänvârfij confirmed.

  “So . . . we are six now and have not a thing to show for it.”

  Dänvârfij nodded, though only five were of active use. In the rest, Fréthfâre was not wrong. This mission had been a slowly escalating set of failures since the beginning, as Brot’ân’duivé shadowed them across the world, picking them off one by one. While Fréthfâre had made most decisions along the way, this night’s failure—and loss—rested on Dänvârfij alone.

  Even with their numbers so diminished, the success of their purpose was all that mattered. She braced herself, not wishing to allow Fréthfâre any more of this self-righteous indulgence.

  “We need to disperse and relocate our quarry,” Dänvârfij said, ignoring Fréthfâre’s last accusation. “And we cannot discount the guild. We cannot confirm whether they freed the sage.”

  Her focused tone had the desired effect, drawing attention from Rhysís and Eywodan and even Én’nish. All appeared to welcome the prospect of new orders. None of them wished to stand here with Owain’s body lying only a few steps away and yet so far from their people’s ancestors. They would have no more idea how to address that than she did. But at least Owain would not be found by humans, and his weapons and belongings were safe among his own caste.

  “Rhysís and I will watch the guild,” Dänvârfij continued. “For now, Tavithê remains on the port watch. Én’nish and Eywodan will begin covering areas with public lodging. Sweep the streets, as well, but keep hidden as much as possible. We will locate our quarry by process of elimination.�
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  “Should we not report?” Fréthfâre asked. “Most Aged Father will want to know our status. I’m sure I could manage to make my way out of the city to the nearest free trees.”

  Dänvârfij glanced down at the crippled ex-Covârleasa. This was another problem they rarely spoke about.

  The Shapers among their people had not produced any new word-wood for the Anmaglâhk, specifically made from Most Aged Father’s own tree home, so that his caste could communicate with him. Not one new word-wood had been finished since the death of the healer named Gleannéohkân’thva, leaving only one member of Sgäilsheilleache’s family: Leanâlhâm.