In Shade and Shadow nd-7

by Barb Hendee

  "No, you do not!" he answered sharply. "Not without my supervision. If only I could find a way to remove your… talent."

  At that Wynn turned narrow-eyed herself.

  He was the only one here who knew of her malady, and she noticed the glistening of his brow. Shutting off her mantic sight hadn't been easy on him, even as an adept mage. Not as it had been for Chap, with his Fay nature.

  When she'd first told il'Sänke, he'd seemed anxious and angry, immediately suggesting he try to «cure» her. She'd hesitated, and then refused. That didn't please him, and he insisted she not tamper with her sight except under his supervision.

  He'd said «could» and not «should» concerning removing her mantic sight. Had he been trying something behind her back?

  Il'Sänke placed a hand behind her shoulder and propelled her toward the door.

  "Your work can wait. Come."

  Annoyed at being forced from privacy, Wynn couldn't think of a polite refusal. Not after all his efforts on her behalf. She allowed herself to be escorted into the outer stone passage.

  Along the hallway they passed other doors to small chambers of other apprentice and journeyor sages. They headed down the far narrow stairs and out an old oak door. Entering the castle's inner courtyard, il'Sänke herded her to the same double doors she'd watched from her window. When the domin pulled one door wide, warm air with a thin taint of smoke, and the sounds of voices, spilled out around Wynn.

  Even in her hesitation, il'Sänke waited patiently until she stepped into the entryway. She followed as he headed left down the passage leading into what had once been half of the castle's old great hall.

  In spite of everything since Wynn's return, she loved this place—this old fortress. Over four centuries past, the first rulers of Malourné had resided here, when Calm Seatt had barely been a city. But they'd embarked upon plans for a new and greater castle. The royal court moved in, and this first castle became a barracks for the country's armed forces.

  Two centuries later, Queen lfwine II saw a need for something more. Several scholars of history thought she desired a more lavish residence, while others claimed that—like her descendants—she wanted a place where she could view the sea. Those of the royal bloodline had always shown a strange attraction to the open waters, even unto tragedy. To this day no one knew why the sea called to the family of reskynna. Even their name meant "kin of the ocean waves."

  lfwine II oversaw designs of an elaborate castle closer to Beranlômr Bay. The nation's armed forces, including a newly established city guard to augment the constabularies, moved to the vacated second castle. The first castle—by far the oldest and smallest—was given over to the early beginnings of the Guild of Sagecraft.

  And since that time, with the help of the dwarves across the bay in Dhredze Seatt, who had lent their legendary stonecraft to the building of all three fortifications, the first castle was modified to meet the sages' needs. New buildings were attached to the main keep's exterior in its inner bailey.

  The keep of the guiled p of thd's castle was a hollowed square, its inner courtyard surrounded by the outer walls, with inner buildings flush against them. The round corner towers were now used for the offices and studies of domins and premins. Wynn's room was located on the second floor of the old barracks to the courtyard's southeast side.

  "Perhaps some cinnamon bread is left over from this morning?" il'Sänke mused, stepping ahead of her.

  Wynn almost smiled. The Suman sage had a fondness for spiced cakes and breads, perhaps missing his homeland more than he acknowledged. Down the passage, they rounded a main archway into a great hall.

  Here the royals of Malourné once entertained guests of high birth and visiting dignitaries. But the space was now the guild's common hall, filled with a variety of mismatched tables and chairs, stools and benches. It was used for everything from off-hour meals and light studies to leisure pursuits and social gatherings. As a child Wynn had spent happy evenings here, with the enormous hearth in the back wall blazing with piled logs. The royal family was generous in increasing the guild's yearly budget.

  Tonight, twenty-plus sages of lesser rank milled about the hall. Most were initiates in their plain tan robes, while others were likely apprentices, garbed in the colors of their chosen orders. It was difficult to know if anyone was a journeyor like Wynn, but few such remained at the guild unless awaiting assignment abroad.

  Nearly everyone looked up as Wynn entered with Domin il'Sänke. No one called a greeting, and Wynn wished she'd stayed in her room.

  Aside from those who thought her somewhere between addled and half-mad, others considered her "above herself" as a journeyor. Even sages weren't beyond envy, considering that she'd returned home bearing the greatest scholarly find in the guild's history. And worse, no one but the domins and premins even knew what the find entailed.

  Wynn had few, if any, friends here, and privacy was becoming a standing habit. Her gaze settled for an instant upon a stooped young sage wearing the gray robes of a cathologer.

  "Nervous" Nikolas Columsarn sat reading by himself in the hall's near right corner. Even sitting, he kept his shoulders turned inward, as if he curled into himself. Straight, unkempt brown hair fell forward to nearly cover his eyes and shadow his sallow features.

  How could he read like that? Wynn knew his name only from hearing it, but she'd noticed him a few times. His only companions were two young journeyors he occasionally tagged along behind. More often he kept to himself, as Wynn did.

  Il'Sänke ignored all the staring or averted eyes and headed straight through for the hearth.

  "We shall pull chairs by the fire," he said, "and arrange for tea. Hopefully something other than the weak stuff you drink here in the north."

  Wynn sighed, about to follow, and a voice like grating granite rose behind her.

  "Ghassan, you are back."

  Wynn flinched, reluctant to even turn about.

  There in the arched entryway stood the broad form of Domin High-Tower. It wasn't his family name; dwarves preferred to be called by their given names, usually translated into Numanese to keep inept humans from bumbling over the Dwarvish language.

  Wynn had read ancient folklore of the Farlands that spoke of dwarfish beings as diminutive. She knew better firsthand, having grown up in Calm Seatt.

  High-Tower, like all of his people, was an intimidating hulk compared to such myths. Though shorter than humans, most dwarves could look her directly in the eyes. What they lacked in height they made up for in breadth. High-Tower had to turn sideways to get through any standard human doorway. His shoulder width was more than half again that of a man.

  Stout and wide as he was, even under a gray robe he showed no hint of fat. Coarse, reddish hair laced with gray hung to his shoulders, blending with his thick beard braided at its end. His broad, rough features made his black-irised eyes seem like iron pellets embedded in his pale and lightly freckled face. Wynn always thought of a moving column of granite whenever she heard his voice or heavy footsteps.

  Though she would never say so aloud, she thought that long, straight-cut wool robes were hardly flattering to the dwarvish form. High-Tower's people were more impressive in their breeches, iron-shod boots, and thick leather clothing.

  "Back?" il'Sänke replied politely.

  High-Tower entered like a war machine, moderate but steady, and no one would dare step in his way. He glanced at Wynn with scantly concealed disapproval and folded his barrel-like arms to look up at il'Sänke. The master cathologer made no secret of his dislike for the visiting Suman sage.

  "Yes, I saw you go out earlier," High-Tower said, "and was wondering if you had seen Jeremy or Elias about. They were due back a while ago with a folio."

  Il'Sänke blinked once and seemed to contemplate his answer, and Wynn wondered why he'd gone out after dark. Upon returning he must have gathered the crystal and come straight to her room.

  "I saw no one from the guild while out," he answered. "I was hurrying to reach th
e docks with a letter to my home branch. But I arrived too late. The port office was closed, and there was no way to find any ship going as far as the Suman coast."

  Domin High-Tower frowned. "You waited to take it yourself? Why not send an apprentice earlier?"

  Il'Sänke didn't need to answer. He'd been called to assist with translating Suman passages of the texts Wynn brought back, but he'd come to Calm Seatt with no apprentices or attendants. High-Tower knew this but goaded him just the same.

  Il'Sänke smiled with another cock of one eyebrow. "The walk was welcome after a long day in stillness. You might consider it yourself—or even a night's row in the bay."

  High-Tower snorted, and Wynn glanced away.

  Really, such a jest was in poor taste. Dwarves walked everywhere they went, as few mounts could hold them upces hold t. As for a leisure boat trip, no dwarf cared to be on water. Even without armor or weapons, they sank.

  Before either could exchange another barb, two apprentices in gray bolted through the entry. Wide-eyed and panting, they never got out a word before someone strode in purposefully on their heels.

  Tall with long, tangled hair, the man wore a red tabard over his chain mail vestment and padded hauberk. As frightened as the apprentices appeared, his expression was twisted somewhere between anger and anguish. The man's sword sheath was embellished with an inlaid panel of silver engraved with the royal crest and a panorama of Calm Seatt.

  His red tabard marked him as military, but the silver plate suggested more. This one was an officer in the Shyldfälches—the "People's Shield" — the contingent of the city guard.

  Wynn had no idea why he was chasing two apprentice sages of her order.

  "Where is the premin of cathologers?" he demanded.

  Both young sages stepped aside as Domin High-Tower closed on the officer.

  "Why do you seek the premin?" the dwarven sage demanded with twice the officer's force.

  The man calmed slightly. "Pardon… I'm Lieutenant Garrogh. Captain Rodian sent me to bring either the premin… or a domin of the cathologers. Two bodies were discovered in an alley. The master of the nearby scribe shop identified them, but only knew their given names… Elias and Jeremy."

  Murmurs of shaky voices rose in the common hall, and Wynn heard a stool scrape as someone stood too quickly.

  "Bodies?" High-Tower growled. "They are dead?"

  Wynn's mind blanked as others in the hall drew nearer. She barely noted the varied degrees of shock and fright on their faces. She didn't recognize the names mentioned, even when a frightened, breathy voice repeated them.

  "Jeremy… Jeremy Elänqui… and Elias Raul?"

  Nikolas surged from his corner stool, his face paler than usual. At the lieutenant's continued silence, his gaze wandered and he began to shiver, backing toward his corner. When he dropped upon the stool he teetered, nearly slipping off. His jaw clenched as tears rolled down, shaken out of him by his shudders.

  Wynn's thoughts cleared. Nikolas knew them both, likely the same two she had seen him with. But try as she might, she couldn't remember their faces.

  Lieutenant Garrogh licked his lips nervously at all the attention he'd drawn in his haste.

  "My condolences," he said quickly to High-Tower. "But the captain requires an authority from the guild. By your robe, you'll do as well as the premin."

  High-Tower's dark glower broke. He turned his iron eyes on one apprentice who'd led the lieutenant inside.

  "Find Premin Sykion immediately. She may be in tht G may bee new library. Inform her where I have gone… and why."

  He waved Garrogh out and followed.

  Without a word, Domin il'Sänke went after High-Tower, and Wynn didn't hesitate to tail him. But when they reached the wide doors into the courtyard, High-Tower realized they were following. He planted himself, and a vibration shuddered through the courtyard's stones.

  Wynn pulled up short as the lieutenant slid to a halt. But she had no intention of being left behind.

  "One of us is not enough," il'Sänke said quietly. "I am the only other of rank at hand. There will be much to deal with in this grave matter."

  It made sense, though Wynn knew that if High-Tower were less pressed, he would've chosen someone else.

  Lieutenant Garrogh backed toward the castle's gatehouse tunnel. Still seething, High-Tower resumed following. Wynn sneaked along behind il'Sänke, a little more than relieved. Trying to get past a dwarf, once he was planted upon the earth, was harder than battering through a stone wall with one's own head.

  Two young sages returning a translation folio had been found dead in an alley. And that folio had contained material from the texts she'd brought back. She didn't want to see the bodies, to learn how they'd died or why.

  She had to—her fears demanded it.

  Chapter 2

  Siweard Rodian, captain of the Shyldfälches, rocked on his heels as he stared down into a young, ashen, dead face. Another body lay crumpled nearby in the dead end's corner. Neither victim bore any cuts or bruises, and he saw no signs of a struggle, except a piece from the robe's shoulder of the nearest body had been torn off.

  The eyes of both young sages were open wide, and their faces…

  Both expressions were locked in similar twisted fear—no, outright terror—with mouths gaping, as if their last scream had never come out. Their hair looked faintly grayed, aged in an instant. Though he'd seen sudden fright and trauma produce such symptoms in men, particularly after the worst of battles, he'd never seen this in ones so young.

  Rodian was at a loss for where to begin. He wasn't even certain how much he should disturb the scene.

  Murders happened in most large cities. Unlike petty crimes, left to district constabularies, the dead always fell in his lap. At twenty-eight, he was notably young for his position. He knew it, though he'd certainly earned the honor. And in the three years since taking command of the Shyldfälches, he'd learned that most murders were motivated by revenge or passion. Only a few came from panic, when some unfortunate stumbled upon a culprit engaged in criminal undertakings.

  Serious poverty wasn't rampant in Calm Seatt. Even pickpockets and muggers were less common than elsewhere. The royal family kept the people's welfare at heart. Funding to help the poor and homeless was made available whenever possible.

  But Rodian had never seen anything like this.

  He would have to report these deaths by dawn to the minister of city affairs. By noon at the latest the king and queen would hear of it. Malourné's royals took pride in the guild, founded by their ancestors.

  Shaken, angry, even anxious, he felt overwhelmed. He needed to resolve this quickly.

  And where was Garrogh?

  Guards of the local district's constabulary had blocked both alley entrances. Two of his own men stood at the turn into the dead end. And one more stood close, holding a lantern to light the scene.

  There were also two civilians present.

  Master Pawl a'Seatt, owner of the nearby scriptorium, had found the bodies. Behind him, clinging to his arm, was a dark-haired girl named Imaret—in his employ. She wept in silence, her eyes locked wide as she stared at the bodies. Now and then she looked up to her tall employer, who ignored her.

  Rodian felt sick inside that he had to keep the girl this close for so long.

  "You found them… just like this?" he asked. "You didn't move or touch anything?"

  Master a'Seatt seemed neither shocked nor unsettled by the sight.

  "I touched nothing," he answered. "I found them and sent word to the constabulary. In turn, they called for the guard."

  Rodian lowered his head, studying the bodies in their long gray wool robes. They wore the color of an order as opposed to the bland tan of initiates. But he couldn't remember which order. Too young to be masters, they were still old enough to be apprentices, perhaps even journeyors.

  And as to how they had died…

  His best guess was poison. Something quick, but cheap and common, considering they'd
died in such agony. But why would anyone poison two would-be scholars? And why poison, if this was murder spawned by the culprit's panic at being discovered? It wasn't done with some toxin-laced weapon, since he could find no wounds.

  "Sir?"

  Rodian lifted his head at the familiar voice rolling along the alley walls. Garrogh pushed through, ushering in three robed figures.

  Lieutenant Garrogh was a good man, quick and efficient, though waiting here had eroded much of Rodian's patience. Perhaps now he could begin finding answers. Then he spotted Pawl a'Seatt watching the newcomers.

  The hint of a serious frown spread across a'Seatt's features—the first real expression Rodian had observed on the man's face.

  A determined, solid-looking dwarf in a gray robe led the new trio, followed by a tall, slender man with dark skin in a deeper-colored robe. As the latter entered the lantern's light, Rodian spotted him as Suman, and his robe was a blue shade near to black. The last of the trio was a younthrio was g woman in gray. As the dwarf's gaze settled upon the bodies, sorrow broke his stern features, then quickly turned to frightened anger.

  "Bäynæ, vastí ág ad," he whispered like a prayer.

  The Suman released a long sigh and held his arm back.

  "There is nothing for you to see here," he said, beginning to turn.

  But the young woman shoved his arm aside and peered into the alley's dead end.

  "No… not here!" she breathed, each word rising in force. "Not so far from…"

  She lunged into the dead end and fell upon the first body before Rodian could stop her. Grabbing its head, she tore back the robe's cowl.

  "Wynn, no!" the dwarf commanded.

  Everyone flinched at his thunderous voice in the alley's small space—except for the young woman. Rodian reached for her as she wrestled to tear open the robe's neckline. The instant he touched her shoulder she lashed wildly at him, striking his hand away.

  "Wynn!" the Suman snapped. "This is not the way!"

  Rodian glanced at the man, but his attention shifted to Pawl a'Seatt.

  The scribe master had stepped closer. As he peered around the two elder sages, his stoic expression filled with intensity. He watched the young woman's furious struggles with the body, and her actions seemed both to surprise and fascinate him.