by Barb Hendee
Rodian pointed at her. “You stay.”
Wynn froze, staring at him. She gently pushed Nikolas after the others before taking her seat.
With so many in a frenzy about the hall, Ghassan was uncertain whose thoughts to reach for next. As the room cleared, Premin Sykion nodded to the messenger.
“Please show the duchess in.”
Before the boy even moved, Duchess Reine Faunier-reskynna swept into the common hall with her full entourage.
Three female attendants in rich gowns of varied and dignified hues, and one tall elven male in a white robe, surrounded the duchess. Or rather princess, for that was her true title.
Duchess Reine was niece to the king of Faunier, one of Malourné’s neighboring countries and a staunch ally. She had married Prince Freädherich of the reskynna, the royal family of Malourné—though he no longer lived. For some reason she preferred her original title rather than the one gained by marriage. And she was guarded by three of the Weardas.
These tall warriors in their polished steel helms, chain vestments, and long crimson tabards each wore a long sword sheathed upon a wide belt of engraved silver plates. They carried short spears with heads shaped more like a leaf-bladed short sword.
The leader, Captain Tristan, walked beside the duchess. An emotionless soldier, there were some rumors that he had trained with the Suman emperor’s personal guard. But this was all Ghassan knew of the man.
And everyone in the entourage towered over Duchess Reine.
She was no taller than Wynn, perhaps less, with a tiny waist and slightly wide hips beneath a long sea-foam satin skirt. Her matching vestment scooped beneath her jutting bosom covered in a white linen shirt. In the common hall’s somber and earthy colors, she stood out like an emerald tinted by a blue sky. Her dark chestnut tresses were pinned back on each side by twin combs of mother-of-pearl shaped like waves—the only jewelry adornments she wore.
By her early arrival and attire, Ghassan guessed the duchess had risen at dawn, putting her three attendants hard at work in order to achieve such a seemingly simple elegance.
Duchess Reine smiled warmly at Rodian and stretched out one hand.
“Captain Siweard Rodian . . . at your duties already. Do you never tire?”
Ghassan watched the pair carefully. He caught a flicker in those matched gazes. And as the captain took the duchess’s hand with a slight bow, his formal—yet familiar—gesture suggested a connection between them. She was about five years Rodian’s elder, something Ghassan had not noticed at first. Perhaps her diminutive stature conjured the illusion of youth.
And the effect of Ghassan’s spell was lost.
He began his mental work again, eager to reach for the captain’s thoughts—and those of Duchess Reine.
“Your Highness,” Rodian said, clearly confused. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Ghassan finished the sigils, shapes, and glyphs in his mind’s eye, but behind Rodian’s spoken words he picked up only a muffled sound in the man’s mind—like a far-off voice, muted and unintelligible behind a closed door.
He instantly let the spell wane and scanned the room.
Something—or someone—had interfered. It was not strong, and likely he could have broken through. But if it were an active intervention, rather than some emplaced work or hidden device, whoever held it by will might have felt his effort.
Who else here could even have knowledge or skill like his?
Ghassan’s attention was pulled back as Duchess Reine spoke to Sykion.
“Lady Tärtgyth, it has been too long. I trust the latest endowment arrived without complication?”
Rodian turned startled eyes upon the premin, as did Ghassan. The duchess referred to Sykion by her first name—and as “lady”?
“Yes, we’re honored, and thank you for visiting,” Sykion answered. “The captain was inquiring about an unfortunate break-in at a scribe shop.”
“I heard,” the duchess replied. “Very unfortunate.”
Another surprise. How had word of a mere burglary so quickly reached the royal family?
Duchess Reine glanced sidelong at Rodian. “Surely searching among our sages will help you little in finding the criminal.”
The captain shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Highness, I believed the royal family would be most concerned over the deaths of two young sages. And certain guild documents have gone missing twice in two nights. I simply wish to inquire about the nature of those documents . . . to guard against another such loss.”
“You have evidence that the guild’s project is the target of these crimes?” the duchess asked, and she seemed to work too hard at keeping her tone light.
Rodian glanced at Premin Sykion and struggled for an answer. “Not specifically, but it seems clear—”
“The translation project is important to the guild’s masters,” Duchess Reine went on. “And they are important to our land and people, yes?”
At the duchess’s turn, the folds of her skirt twisted. A long slit down the front separated, revealing darker breeches and a pair of glistening, polished riding boots.
This attire was out of place for a royal of the Malourné, but not so for a noble of Faunier. Descended from horse people, they were skilled riders, their high-bred mounts prized even in Ghassan’s homeland.
“For now, could you not pursue other leads—until certain of a connection?” the duchess asked. “I remain confident you will solve both these crimes long before such invasive tactics are necessary.”
“Your Highness?” Rodian asked.
“The royal family would be grateful for your good faith.”
The captain fell silent. With a long side glance at Premin Sykion, he finally dropped his eyes and nodded deeply.
Duchess Reine returned a nod of lesser depth. “Thank you, Siweard . . . you have my faith as well—in your abilities. Baron Twynam will join us at dinner on the next full moon. I understand he is a friend of yours. We would be most pleased if you could attend as well.”
Rodian lifted his eyes and nodded again.
Ghassan had not missed the duchess’s slip. She had called the captain by his first name, something far too familiar for the public venue and their disparate social ranks.
Duchess Reine turned back to Premin Sykion. “Lady Tärtgyth, would you and Domin High-Tower favor me with a tour of the new library’s improvements? I have meant to come for so long, but . . . time has simply passed too quickly.”
Premin Sykion tilted her head politely to the captain and then led Duchess Reine’s entire entourage toward the northeastern passage. High-Tower was the last to follow, with a derisive grunt at Rodian.
Ghassan watched them leave—with a long study of the tall elf walking close in the duchess’s wake. The cut of that one’s robe was the same, or nearly so, as that of a sage. But white was not the color of any guild order. And the notion of interference with his spell from that source was preposterous. As much as his art was little known among humans, it was less likely to be found among the Lhoin’na—those “of the Glade.”
Guild domins and premins would go to great lengths to restrict specific knowledge of translations from the texts. But royal intervention had come too quickly. Had Sykion asked the monarchy for help? And if not, did Duchess Reine or the royal family know something of the text’s content, wishing to keep it hidden, even from the captain of the Shyldfälches?
Ghassan exhaled in frustration. One of the royal family had appeared at precisely the right moment, referred to a premin by a noble title, and betrayed a connection to the one man digging too deeply into guild affairs.
And Captain Rodian came straight at Ghassan’s table, his jaw clenched. He was obviously unaccustomed to having his leash jerked in, no matter how politely done by such a gentle hand.
“Journeyor Hygeorht,” Rodian said through his teeth. “Would you be good enough to walk me to my horse?”
It was not a request, and Ghassan stood up. While considering these new tangles,
he had almost forgotten Wynn sitting right across from him.
“You cannot find your horse alone?” he challenged.
“It’s all right, domin,” Wynn said, swinging her legs over the bench to rise beside the captain. “I’ll walk out with him.”
Glowing lines and marks flashed across Ghassan’s sight, and he reached for her thoughts.
. . . and all Nikolas’s foolishness . . . and all this mess around Jeremy and Elias . . .
A wave of anxiety flooded Ghassan. What had Nikolas to do with anything? He tried reaching deeper.
Wynn put a hand to her temple and looked around the hall.
Ghassan immediately severed contact. Had she felt him? No, not possible; she had no training or experience. He watched carefully as Wynn followed Rodian out the wide archway.
Perhaps too many spells, cast too quickly, with lost attempts due to new random pieces he had just gathered. For whatever reason, Ghassan felt a twinge building in his own head.
“You know the duchess?” Wynn asked, taking two steps for Rodian’s one.
His position as captain was well respected. But even so, members of the Shyldfälches didn’t have dinner with the royal family—certainly not at the invite of the wife of a prince, even a deceased one.
“I assisted her once,” he said bluntly, but he stared ahead, focusing on nothing.
Wynn didn’t press further. She suddenly realized that she knew part of this story. Even in self-imposed seclusion, rumors reached her. The higher they came from, the more momentum they gathered as they rolled downward through all levels of society.
About two years ago Prince Freädherich of the reskynna had died, and his body was never found.
The tale was that he and his wife, Duchess Reine, had gone out in a small sailboat one evening. Not even members of the Weardas had accompanied them. The boat was found adrift late the next morning with only the hysterical Duchess Reine aboard.
As a Faunier, she knew nothing of sailing and had been unable to bring the small boat ashore. It was said that when she was found she was half-mad with grief, and couldn’t—or wouldn’t—explain what had become of her husband. Strangely, not one of the royal family raised charges against her, but just the same, an inquest was required by law.
A young captain of the Shyldfälches, newly promoted when his predecessor retired, investigated the disappearance. The inquest was held privately in the royal court. No one ever learned what the young captain had uncovered.
Though the duchess was never proven wholly innocent in the eyes of the people, neither was she charged in any way. The king and queen still held her dear, as if she were one of their own children by blood rather than marriage. Prince Freädherich’s death was officially cited as accidental. And all because of a report presented by the newly appointed captain of the Shyldfälches.
Wynn glanced up at Rodian.
She’d never cared enough about the rumor to put a face to the city captain who accomplished this feat. No wonder Duchess Reine had invited him to dinner.
“Was anyone hurt during the break-in?” she asked.
“No.” He glanced down at her. “It happened after closing.”
The captain hesitated, and his brows gathered as he scrutinized her, perhaps judging whether to say more.
“Whoever did it,” he finally went on, “got into the shop and then broke out. Would any of your people know how or why?”
Wynn was confused by the captain’s brief explanation. So many of Calm Seatt’s citizens viewed sages as possessing arcane knowledge rather than just as hardworking scholars.
“I don’t think so.”
Then she mulled Rodian’s words more carefully. The thief managed to gain access, but then had to break out?
“You might ask Domin il’Sänke,” she added.
“Why?”
“He is a master of metaology, metaphysics and the like, which includes the scholarly study of magic.”
When they reached the courtyard, Rodian’s white mare stood waiting near the open inner gate, not even tied to a post. She nickered at the sight of the captain.
“A pretty thing,” Wynn said as they approached, and she reached up to stroke the animal’s velvet nose. “And so gentle.”
“Unless I’m threatened,” Rodian said, and then his voice softened as he patted the horse’s neck. “Then she is fierce. Her name is Snowbird. I trained her myself.”
“Do your people raise horses?”
His expression closed up, as if he’d given away something private. Wynn knew he hadn’t asked her out here to discuss Duchess Reine or his horse. She waited quietly.
“What was your real reason for going to Master a’Seatt’s scriptorium?” he asked.
Flustered, she wasn’t certain how to answer. She’d kept stoutly to her lie of seeking out a grief-stricken Imaret. But the captain had certainly heard too much when he caught up to her.
“To learn what truly happened to Jeremy and Elias,” she finally answered.
“So, then you would believe their deaths and the break-in are tied . . . to this project of your guild?”
“Yes,” Wynn answered.
“Then help me,” he said. “Even if you don’t know what was in those folios, what did you bring back from the Farlands?”
Wynn stared at him, remembering their seemingly casual chat on the ride back to the guild. The first words that came to mind were . . . you conniving bastard!
She bit her tongue. This was why he’d been so innocently curious about sages and journeyors and assignments. All his polite questions were nothing more than a way to get into her head. She stopped petting Snowbird.
“My first loyalty is to the guild,” she replied coldly, “as well as to any agreement of confidence requested of them by the royal family. But I have other information you should know.”
“And what is that?” he returned.
“Jeremy was working—without guild knowledge—for a moneylender under investigation by the high advocate.”
All the morning’s trials and frustration faded from Rodian’s face.
He slowly shook his head. Wynn guessed that he might’ve known of such a case, as head of the city guard. But obviously a link to the deaths hadn’t occurred to him—not without the connection she’d just provided.
Rodian patted Snowbird once more. He pointed toward the lone stone bench to the courtyard’s left, and Wynn followed to sit with him. She repeated what Nikolas had shared concerning Selwyn Midton and the forged account books. For now she kept Nikolas’s involvement to herself. Rodian listened carefully to every word.
“Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?” he asked.
“I just found out last night. But please be discreet. Even you can see how badly this might damage the guild’s reputation . . . and the memory of a dead apprentice.”
“Even I?” he returned, but he let the barb pass. “Who told you this?”
Wynn shook her head. “I cannot say.”
Rodian’s ire began to spread across his face again.
“There’s more,” she said.
She wasn’t certain how to begin, as Duchess Reine had mentioned one of the parties involved.
“Do you know Baron Twynam’s son, Jason?”
“Why?” he asked cautiously, which implied “yes” to her question.
“He and Elias were courting the same girl, a merchant’s daughter named Elvina. Jason caught Elias one night and threatened to kill him if he didn’t stay away from her. I think Elias was going to meet her the night he died.”
Rodian’s blue eyes widened, and his voice rose. “Where did you hear that?”
She shook her head. “I’m not even certain it’ll be helpful,” she replied. “What you do next is your own business, but remember discretion . . . if you expect anything more from me.”
Wynn got up and headed across the courtyard, and the captain didn’t try to stop her.
Rodian had to investigate all possible leads, but he’d been “royally” w
arned off of pressing the sages—at least for now.
Wynn fought to remain rational. She had to at least entertain the possibility that Jeremy and Elias had died for some reason other than the folio they’d carried. And the burglary at Master Shilwise’s was just a coincidence. But a feeling in the pit of her stomach said otherwise.
Entering the common hall, she found Domin High-Tower and Premin Sykion speaking quietly by the great hearth. Whatever tour they were giving Duchess Reine seemed to have been interrupted, and il’Sänke was nowhere in sight. Wynn willed herself calm as she went to her superiors.