Between Their Worlds

by Barb; J. C. Hendee

  You have sentries on all city exits?

  “No, only on the port and the guild’s castle. The others are sweeping the city, trying to gain a location.”

  Pull in everyone. Focus on the guild and all ways out of the city. You will not find Brot’ân’duivé until he chooses to show himself. Wait, and take your quarry in the open, once they are encumbered with too many to protect. This is the only way to keep the traitor from slipping away.

  “Yes, Father.”

  His guidance made her settle at ease once more. Perhaps now was a chance to ask how he was, how efforts at home progressed . . . but a shadow shifted among the branches around her arm.

  Dänvârfij’s heart hammered as a shimmering white stiletto thrust through the branches for her heart. She twisted out of its path at the last instant. A booted foot shattered the branches and smashed the side of her head.

  She rolled blindly away, trying to regain her feet. In her blurred sight, she saw a glint and kicked out as she rose on one knee. Her foot never connected, though that spark on white metal vanished.

  Lunging backward and up to her feet, she reached for her own blades. She knew whom she faced even before her sight cleared, and she could not help being afraid. The very shadows of the fir’s branches appeared to cling and glide over a tall, broad form like a second cloak as it—he—stepped out from between the trees.

  Brot’ân’duivé, the traitor, stood fully in the dawn’s light.

  This was the first time in the long, dark journey from Dänvârfij’s homeland that she had seen him face-to-face, seen those scars that skipped over his right eye. She was no match for him. Another greimasg’äh might not have taken him.

  Brot’ân’duivé took another silent step, not even disturbing the leaves and needles on the earth.

  She jerked out her stilettos and almost instantly realized her failure. As much as the traitor had been killing her brethren, killing her was not truly why he had come, for she held a stiletto in both hands.

  Dänvârfij had dropped her word-wood at the tree. That was what he had come for.

  Her life would be only a secondary gain next to that. She had lost even before she had a chance to strike at him. Her thoughts raced to scavenge anything from this moment.

  Dänvârfij did not fear death; she feared failure of purpose, of her people . . . of her beloved patriarch, Most Aged Father. What was life to her other than service in silence and in shadow?

  She quickly backed all the way to the open road and stood there in plain sight of any guards at the city gate. Even dull-witted humans would fix on a fight on the open road. Brot’ân’duivé would never call such attention to himself.

  The greimasg’äh followed only to the last tree off the road and came no farther into the open.

  Dänvârfij grew sick inside for her loss but sheathed her weapons, jerked off her face scarf, and pulled her hood back. With her face fully exposed, like any other visitor to the city, she turned and walked slowly toward the gates.

  For a moment, she almost expected to hear a blade spinning through air.

  It never came, and one military guard merely smiled at her as she passed through, into the city.

  Now there was only Fréthfâre’s word-wood, and it had to be guarded. Without it, they would be cut off from Most Aged Father and lost alone in this foreign land far from home.

  Brot’ân’duivé watched through a tree’s branches as Dänvârfij slipped back into the city. Killing her would have been an additional advantage. He did not admire her wisdom of retreat. He noted only that she was after all an anmaglâhk; she knew when, where, and how to cut her losses.

  Turning back through the trees, he crouched beneath the branches of that one fir. There upon the needle-coated ground at its base lay the tawny oval of word-wood. He picked it up, prepared to destroy it, and then hesitated. There had been too many times in the past year when he had failed within himself, as he did so now when his spite and fury rose.

  Brot’ân’duivé pressed the word-wood against the fir’s trunk.

  “Do you hear me, old worm in the wood of my people?” he whispered. “One day, I will come for you . . . again!”

  No voice entered his thoughts, and after the longest moment, he was about to pull the word-wood from the bark and crack it.

  Unlikely . . . but if ever, then I will be waiting again, dog . . . in the dark.

  CHAPTER 22

  Two mornings later, before the sun had risen, Wynn knelt by the back door of Nattie’s inn and fastened a note to Shade’s collar. Chane stood right behind both of them.

  “Remember, give it only to Rodian,” she said, and stroked Shade’s neck as she drew up memories of the captain and the second castle of Calm Seatt. “Try to find him at the barracks first.”

  She wished Shade didn’t have to be the one to put events in motion. Hopefully the dog could locate the captain somewhere other than the guild, as that place was likely watched by anmaglâhk.

  Shade huffed and scratched the door.

  With reluctance, Wynn cracked it open, and Shade slipped out and took off up the alley. When Wynn turned about, Chane looked troubled.

  Dawn was close, and he needed to get back to their room.

  Chane had a cloak—provided earlier by Brot’an—draped over his arm. It was not the drab cloak that the master anmaglâhk had been wearing as his traveler’s disguise, but instead, it was the forest gray cloak of an anmaglâhk. Wynn didn’t want to know where Brot’an had gotten it.

  “Is everything else set?” Chane asked. “The trunks, the wagons . . . the inserts for the boots?”

  “Yes, yes,” she answered, nervous now that the first step had been taken. “Ore-Locks arranged everything and kept me out of sight. I wish he was coming with us tonight, but he can’t risk being seen in the middle of all this. There can be no oddities to put off the anmaglâhk.”

  “I will be there,” he reminded her. And then he added grudgingly, “Leesil’s plan should work, though he should not have involved you.”

  Wynn stifled a sigh. Chane had been fretting enough for both of them about her part in what was to come. But yes, the plan should work. Getting Rodian to agree to what she asked in Shade’s message would help in that. All they could do now was wait.

  “We should get you to the room,” she said.

  Chane didn’t move.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “There is something I haven’t told you. Shade knows . . . but for some reason, she did not pass you any memories or try to tell you of it.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Chane glanced away, and then blurted out, “I have managed to create a concoction, a potion, that allows me to remain awake during the day. I cannot go outside, but I will not fall dormant. I wish to be awake today, to help with preparations.”

  Wynn stared at him. “A potion? What . . . how long have you . . . ?

  He raised one hand to ward off questions. “For some time. I feared telling you because some of the components are questionable, and I based my experiments on a sample I obtained from Welstiel.” He looked her straight in the eye before she could say anything about the last part. “You are the one who said we can no longer afford to refuse help on our side . . . from wherever it is offered. My being awake today will be helpful.”

  Wynn just stood there, taking this in. Chane could be awake during the day?

  Once, she would’ve exploded at him for touching anything, using anything, that had ever belonged to Welstiel. She couldn’t deny that the pack of toys Chane had taken from Magiere’s undead half brother had been of some use. From the brass ring he now wore to the etched steel hoop that conjured heat, there had been more than one moment when they wouldn’t have succeeded in past endeavors. But the thought of Chane re-creating anything uncovered by Welstiel and then consuming it . . .

  To her surprise, though she was concerned, she wasn’t angry. She’d never admit it, but the thought of having his help all day brought relief. One part wa
s almost unbelievable, though.

  “Shade has known about this?” Wynn asked.

  “For a short while, just after she and I escaped from the guild.”

  “Why would Shade ever keep a secret for you?”

  “I have wondered,” he said. “It might be the ways of the majay-hì. Or . . . she’s more pragmatic than you know.”

  Wynn started slightly as the implications sank in. “So, yesterday, all day, you were just lying there on the floor, pretending to . . . sleep . . . and she knew it?”

  Chane nodded once. Of all that Chane or Shade had ever done in Wynn’s company, this struck her as the most unsettling. They’d both been a pain in her backside with their separate overprotectiveness. Now they were in actual collusion about it.

  “And there are side effects to this potion, aren’t there?” she said. “That’s what all that hiding away on the sea voyage to the Lhoin’na was about. You were . . . sick . . . every time you finally came out of your cabin.”

  He didn’t—couldn’t—deny it.

  “It is nothing that will hinder me,” he replied. “I am accustomed to it now, so long as I do not prolong its use too far. I simply wanted you to know.”

  Shade was well on her way to Rodian, and right now, they had a great deal to accomplish. Wynn walked past Chane and headed for the stairs.

  “Let’s get to work on those boots.”

  But soon enough, Wynn was going to make Chane show her everything—including anything else he was hiding in Welstiel’s pack of twisted little toys. And Shade had better not be in on any more of it.

  * * *

  Rodian stepped from the barracks that housed his office and walked out into the courtyard of the second castle that housed Malourné’s military. The sun was just cresting the keep’s forward wall, and he knew it was too early to check in with the High Advocate.

  It was the morning of the third day since he’d been summoned before Prince Leäfrich, and he hadn’t slept all night.

  So far, Rodian had been unable to convince the High Advocate to grant him a general warrant, but this didn’t surprise him. The prospect of Shyldfälches pounding on doors was disruptive to the peace, yet Rodian hadn’t given up. Last evening, he’d succeeded in convincing the advocate to send word to the royal family about his request. He had a feeling it would be granted.

  Prince Leäfrich was likely under great pressure from the Premin Council to find Wynn.

  Rodian slowed as he passed through the courtyard and watched the shadows of the keep’s wall creep away as the sun rose higher. Even without the warrant, he’d not been idle.

  His men swept the city on double duty, even gaining some of the military’s regulars for assistance. All district constabularies had been alerted and given descriptions of Wynn Hygeorht and her wolfish black dog, with orders to detain either. So far, it seemed as if the little, precocious sage had just vanished.

  Rodian rubbed his tired eyes, and then the sound of barking cut through his overburdened thoughts.

  “Here! Stop that!” someone shouted. “Wait . . . isn’t that . . . ? Get it!”

  The barking only increased, mixed with snarls that echoed up the gatehouse tunnel.

  It took only an instant before Rodian bolted into the tunnel.

  The outer portcullis was already raised, and he doubled his pace. As he rushed out the tunnel’s other end, he found three of the regulars trying to encircle a tall, charcoal black dog, which was snarling and snapping as it evaded them.

  Shade was quick and agile, and gave them a lot of trouble.

  One soldier spotted Rodian and held back for an instant. “Sorry, Captain. We can’t get a grip on it . . . without getting bit.”

  Shade spun around, and at the sight of Rodian, she froze. Her racket dropped to a steady rumble.

  He had no idea why his appearance would halt the dog in her place, and then he spotted one oddity. Wynn’s dog had never worn a collar that he’d ever seen, yet a strip of gray wool was tied around Shade’s neck. There was a piece of paper wrapped around that fabric.

  “Back off, all of you!” Rodian ordered.

  The three regulars exchanged confused glances but obeyed, standing poised around Shade but well out of reach. Slowly, cautiously, Rodian took two steps.

  “Easy, girl,” he said.

  Shade continued to tremble and rumble, but she stood there watching him. Stranger still, she took a step toward him, though it made him hesitate in turn. Much as he wanted to know what was on that paper, he had no desire to get bitten. Shade was rather a large animal, and easily had the advantage of height over any common wolf.

  The closer Rodian came, Shade matched him in slower steps, and grew quiet. Reaching down, he ripped the note off the collar and took a step back. He peeled open the torn paper, quickly reviewing its contents. He’d already guessed whom it was from. The note was short, but when he finished reading, he was left mentally numb.

  Part of him wanted to curse; another part nearly melted in relief. He read the brief note again and weighed the scales of what Wynn was asking him to do—with no explanation and no promise on her part.

  What choice did he have?

  He could certainly pin down and lock up Shade, and make Wynn come to him to get the dog back. But that wouldn’t get him the answers he wanted—needed—for what was going on inside the guild and between its Premin Council and the royals.

  No . . . he had no choice. But he needed a quill and paper if he was to answer Wynn’s note. He looked down at Shade, who tilted her head.

  Backing toward the gatehouse tunnel, Rodian said. “Come?”

  Shade trotted after him.

  Chane knelt on the floor, working on the heel of a boot. He remained externally passive, but how he felt on the inside was another matter.

  Telling Wynn the truth this morning about the concoction—or at least the one he had completed so far—took away one burden. He still hid the secret of the white flower petals and dwarven mushrooms—the anasgiah and muhkgean—and the hint of their use in The Seven Leaves of Life. He was also worried about the risks Wynn would undertake tonight.

  He had no contention with the plan that Leesil had devised, only with the fact that Wynn was actively involved. If Leesil was so clever, why not come up with a plan that kept Wynn out of danger?

  Chane was also unhappy about a visitor due to arrive any moment, and it was not long before that hesitant knock came at the door.

  Wynn looked up from sewing padding into the shoulders of the forest gray cloak Brot’an had provided.

  “It me,” a soft voice said through the door.

  Wynn swallowed and tried to clear her throat. “Ore-Locks, would . . . would you . . . ?” she stuttered.

  The dwarf went to unlatch the door, and a tall, cloaked elf immediately stepped in. His amber eyes quickly found and locked on Wynn. This one was younger than Brot’an, with a long face, and loose, white-blond hair. Chane had seen him before and hated him at the time.

  Once, in the Pock Peaks, this one had offered his full protection to Wynn—and she had accepted. Much later, when he had been injured, she had watched over him to the point of threatening Chane to keep away, though he had had no harmful intent in that moment.

  “Osha,” Wynn said tentatively, clearly aware of the strain in the room. “Come . . . in.”

  Chane still did not like him.

  Osha did not even glance at Chane, either avoiding contact or because he was too fixated on Wynn. As he stepped closer to her, she put down the cloak and picked up Leesil’s stained and tattered green scarf. Reaching up, she put her hand on Osha’s arm.

  “Let’s see how this looks,” she said. “Can you show me how he ties it up?”

  Osha knelt beside her, taking the scarf.

  Chane paused in his own work and had to fight to keep his hands from clenching.

  “I think I hear Shade,” he said, and hurried out the door.

  He had heard no such noise but would have taken—made—any excuse t
o leave. He descended the steps two at a time to get away from that room.

  Cracking open the inn’s back door only a fraction, he hid behind it, against the daylight. A short while later, when Shade did arrive, she did not need to scratch. She poked her head inside, peeking around the door at him, and he widened the door for an instant, then shut it after she slipped in.

  Shade trotted up the stairs and Chane followed, though not quickly enough; his reprieve from what waited in that room was far too short. Shade was already scratching at the room’s door, and in her makeshift collar was a folded slip of paper, though not the one Wynn had sent.