In Shade and Shadow

by Barb Hendee

  This time outrage flushed High Premin Sykion’s face. It quickly faded, as fear overwhelmed the head of Wynn’s order and the guild branch as a whole.

  The following morning Rodian paced around a lavish sitting room in the royal castle overlooking the bay. He’d received a summons at the barracks and was now uncertain what to expect. Perhaps the royals wished for a personal report on his progress—or rather, his failure.

  Three of his men were dead. The costs of repairs to a’Seatt’s shop were growing, for apparently the roof and front counter had been damaged as well. A member of the royals’ favored Guild of Sagecraft had been caught in his trap, but not the perpetrators. And all he had to add to this, concerning the actual investigation, was that at least one of the suspects possessed a mage’s skills the like of which he’d never thought possible.

  Rodian halted in place.

  He had to plan out the most logical and succinct account of events. Certainly the royal family couldn’t hold him accountable for facing down someone with rare arcane skill. He could redirect his account to restore confidence in his ability. And now he had a new chance to learn what all of this was about—the texts of the guild’s translation project.

  Wynn Hygeorht, troublesome as she was, had given him that much.

  After he’d released her last night, the trio of sages went off together, none of them speaking to one another. He’d suffered a short sleepless night wondering what might come of Wynn’s demand. Would Sykion, as head of the Premin Council, legally challenge Wynn’s claim? Would the journeyor back down if the premin refused to concede?

  More than anything else, Rodian hated uncertainty. Wynn’s determined, angry face kept slipping into his thoughts, and he pushed it aside. He still had this meeting with the royal family to get through, and he began pacing again.

  He barely noticed the thick carpets and deeply polished furnishings tended with great care. Some had likely been in the reskynna family for generations. Couches of walnut were upholstered in silks, refined or raw, mostly dyed in shimmering sea greens and cyans, and embroidered in variegated patterns. The plastered walls were painted a rich shade of cream offset by golden yellow curtains and draperies around the entrance. The double doors were carved with the large crest of the royal family—an upright longsword upon a wide square sail over a troubled sea.

  This was a world far removed from the eastern grasslands and farms of his youth, and he’d clawed his way to his current position on ability and merit. He wasn’t about to fall because of some mage murdering sages over bundles of old texts.

  The ornate doors opened wide.

  Rodian stared into the large amber eyes of an old elf in a white robe with poorly disguised contempt on his tan face. More than the elf’s age, the robe bothered him. It was cut much like that of the sages, but white wasn’t a color of any of the five orders.

  “Princess thelthryth reskynna and Duchess Reine Faunier-reskynna,” the elf announced, stepping in and to the side.

  Rodian breathed quickly through his nose.

  From the outer crossing passage, Duchess Reine rounded through the entrance first.

  Her chestnut hair hung loose, pushed back above each ear with a mother-of-pearl comb shaped like a foaming sea wave. She wasn’t wearing a frontal-split gown, only her people’s preferred riding boots and breeches along with a matching vestment over a white shirt of shimmering fabric. And a rider’s saber hung upon her left hip from a white satin sash lashed about her waist. The effect made her look almost roguish and younger than her years.

  “Captain,” she greeted him. “Are you all right? You were not injured last night?”

  “No, I’m well, Highness,” he answered carefully, still wondering why he was here. “But I cannot say as much for my men.”

  Princess thelthryth glided in next, a sharp contrast to her sister-in-law.

  Rodian had seen her only a few times in his life. Nearly as tall as him, she was as slender and upright as a young aspen tree. She shared the wheat-gold hair of the royal bloodline, as well as their aquamarine eyes, narrow features, and a blade-thin nose stretching down to a pale pink and thin-lipped mouth. Her pastel teal gown was simple and long-sleeved, but no one would ever mistake her for a minor noble. Where Reine always exuded an aura of quiet inner strength edging upon wildness, thelthryth filled any room with somber, intense reserve and detached awareness of everything.

  Rodian dropped to one knee, bowing his head, and waited to be acknowledged.

  “Captain,” the princess said quietly, and he raised his head just enough to see the subtle tilt of her head.

  “Come and sit,” the duchess added. “We require a service from you.”

  Rodian rose as the duchess settled on a couch, pointing to another across from her. Then she stretched a hand up to the princess.

  “Come, sister.”

  The royals and highest nobles always referred to the wives or husbands of brothers and sisters in this manner. It upheld the impression of unity before the people, a politically sound presence for the rulers of a nation. But as thelthryth approached, she lightly grasped and squeezed Reine’s hand once, then took position standing behind the duchess like one of her family’s Weardas, the Sentinels.

  There was more than solidarity here. Rodian could see that the reskynna shared genuine affection with Reine. He settled on the couch across from them.

  The tall elf closed the doors and took a place a few steps off from the two ladies of the royal house.

  “We received a distressing report,” the duchess began. “A young guild journeyor was involved in last night’s tragedy.”

  Rodian blinked. What report, and from whom?

  “Not involved,” he corrected. “She’d heard a folio was not returned and went to check on its safety, not knowing of my arrangements with Domin High-Tower and the master of the shop. Her presence was unfortunate but happenstance.”

  Princess thelthryth frowned. It startled him to see any expression whatsoever break her serene exterior.

  “You are certain?” she asked without emotion. “She bears no guilt in these events?”

  Rodian grew wary.

  The royal family defended their precious sages to a frustrating degree. Yet now the princess seemed almost to insinuate culpability upon a young journeyor of the guild.

  Indeed, Wynn was somehow connected to one of the murdering thieves. But she wasn’t directly involved in the thefts, not that Rodian could see. He’d released her to Sykion and High-Tower in the hope that he might still learn more through her.

  But if the royals had already heard of Wynn’s involvement, had they also heard of her claim upon the texts? Were they looking to discredit her, one of their sages, and keep the texts in hiding?

  “She bears no guilt that I’m aware of,” he answered carefully.

  Reine sighed softly, but thelthryth’s slight frown returned.

  “We have heard this journeyor is making a personal claim,” the duchess continued, “upon the texts she brought to the guild . . . even to taking it before the people’s court. This would halt the guild’s work on translation.”

  Rodian kept his expression placid. Only two of the guild knew of Wynn’s claim—High-Tower and Sykion. And only the latter had direct contact with the royal family—“Lady” Tärtgyth Sykion, the duchess had called her.

  Rodian’s frustration began to mount.

  “We have spoken with the high advocate,” Princess thelthryth added. “It appears that Journeyor Hygeorht may have a legitimate claim. But if she takes full possession of these texts, there is no telling what might become of them . . . who might gain access to the contents. We are told the material is of a sensitive nature.”

  It took all of Rodian’s effort to remain calm. What was the royal family fighting to protect—or at least keep hidden—to a degree that they would let their sages be murdered in the dark?

  “The project must continue,” the duchess said, leaning forward, “and thereby the texts must remain in guild
hands. We wish you to go to Premin Sykion, as an unofficial arbiter, and seek a compromise.”

  “A compromise?” he repeated.

  thelthryth took up where Reine left off. “We wish you to ask Premin Sykion to grant Journeyor Hygeorht access to all completed work—pages that have already been translated—but under controlled circumstances that will keep the texts protected from the public. If the journeyor will agree not to pursue full possession, she may see all translations since her return from the Farlands.”

  “Siweard . . .” the duchess began anxiously, dropping any pretense of formality, “do you think this will appease the young sage?”

  The princess glanced down at the duchess’s familiar use of his given name. Then she, too, turned expectant eyes on Rodian.

  “Perhaps,” he answered shortly.

  Wynn had expressed interest in seeing which folios were being targeted. She knew there was something specific being sought in those pages. The culprit—one who could apparently walk through solid walls—hadn’t tried to gain the original works, or at least not as far as anyone knew. But higher-ranking sages had shown nothing but contempt for Rodian’s demands.

  “Why me?” he asked. “Surely Sykion would be more amenable if she heard this from you, Duchess?”

  Reine shook her head slowly. “It would not look well if the royal family intervened in this case. It might draw undue attention to the guild’s sensitive work. It might even be seen as royal interference with the law, and push Journeyor Hygeorht to rash action. You have always shown good judgment and discretion . . . both in upholding the peace and in serving your people’s best interest.”

  Rodian studied her. Did she expect him to use the power of his office if Sykion refused?

  “Do you have any leads on who escaped last night?” thelthryth asked abruptly.

  The change of focus caught him off guard, and he hesitated. The black-robed figure appeared taller than Ghassan il’Sänke, but the Suman sage had something of a reputation as a true mage within his own guild.

  “One,” he answered. “But I won’t name a suspect without more concrete evidence.”

  The princess’s frown vanished. As her features settled to their ever-placid state, Rodian caught an instant of relief in her aquamarine eyes.

  “We desire you to stop these murders,” she said, “but keep the guild’s project protected at the same time. If you can do this, we would be grateful . . . most grateful, Captain.”

  Rodian thought his heart stilled as he held his breath.

  Her words were as close to an open admission as he might ever hear. The royal family wanted him to keep Wynn’s ancient texts buried in secret. This veiled request left him caught between duty, faith, and ambition.

  He knew lives depended upon him as the highest officer of the Shyldfälches, even the lives of these well-intended, if deluded, sages. But he also knew the rewards of royal gratitude.

  Rodian took a slow breath. “I will not fail.”

  By late morning Wynn still lay in bed. Drained by last night’s turmoil, she’d drifted in and out, but true sleep never came. Finally she swung her legs over the bedside, her small feet settling on the cold stone floor.

  What had she done with her meddling and threats?

  Certainly she’d jeopardized her place in the guild. Neither Sykion nor High-Tower spoke a word to her on the walk home. Since returning from the Farlands she hadn’t been happy here, but life as a sage was all she knew. What would she do if she were dismissed and cast out?

  Still, the thought of lives lost, the persistent denials of her superiors, and what her wayward friends might’ve done in her place convinced her there was no other choice than the one she’d made.

  But at a soft knock on her door, Wynn shrank in apprehension. She had to force herself up to go crack open the door.

  Domin il’Sänke stood in the outer passage. The wrinkle of his dark brow might’ve been worry—or scorn, if he’d already heard what she’d done.

  “Get dressed,” he said. “The Premin Council has called a general assembly.”

  Wynn’s throat tightened. Was she to be cast out in front of everyone?

  It didn’t matter. She would still go after the texts by whatever means necessary.

  Il’Sänke shook his head once. “I do not believe this concerns you,” he said, perhaps reading the worry on her face.

  Wynn realized she was standing there in her night shift—not that he seemed to notice. She held up a finger, telling him to wait, and closed the door to dress. Without bothering to brush or tie back her hair, she hurried out to join him. She found him staring intently down the hall.

  Wynn glanced along his sight line. The passage was empty all the way to the landing above the stairs to the courtyard door.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Il’Sänke started like someone interrupted from listening closely to a nearby conversation. He nodded, and she followed him to the stairs. When they finally reached the common hall, a surprising sight awaited Wynn.

  The place was nearly bursting at the seams.

  Every initiate, apprentice, journeyor, master, and domin in residence had been summoned. All five premins of the orders stood before the massive hearth, facing the gathered assembly. But more puzzling was the presence of scribe masters or shopowners from every scriptorium hired within the past half year—the Gild and Ink, the Inkwell, the Feather & Parchment, and Four Scribes in House. They all stood closest among the crowd before the council, all except for those of the Upright Quill.

  Masters Pawl a’Seatt and Teagan stood off at the hearth’s left end.

  Wynn continued scanning. Anyone not a robed sage stood out in the mass. Captain Rodian stood near the hall’s back, close to the wide entrance archway. As she crept in beside il’Sänke, the captain turned, arms crossed over his red surcoat, and his gaze briefly met hers. Then it locked on il’Sänke, and his expression hardened.

  Last night in the cell the captain had specifically asked about il’Sänke’s whereabouts. But why hadn’t Rodian asked about anyone else?

  Premin Sykion raised her hands to quell the buzz in the hall from too many speculating discussions. She stepped up on the hearth’s frontal ledge. Domin High-Tower stood nearby, below on her right.

  “After much consideration,” she began in a clear voice, “regarding recent events, the council is forced to make changes that will affect those involved in the translation project . . . and indeed everyone residing at the guild.”

  She paused and looked around the quiet hall.

  “We wish no speculation to cloud our intent, so we have called this gathering. It has been decided that no further folios, nor any work related to the project, will leave these grounds for any reason. Therefore, we will engage scribes from only one shop to come each day to accomplish their contracted work . . . here within our walls.”

  Soft whispers grew to murmurs among the crowd, until Wynn couldn’t hear the hearth fire’s crackle. Relief showed on many faces, but a rumble among the scribe masters began to rise above the noise.

  “Which shop?” demanded Master Calisus of the Feather & Parchment.

  Premin Sykion cleared her throat. “We have engaged Master a’Seatt’s staff of the Upright Quill. In a recent attempt to assist the city guard his shop was damaged, and we feel partially responsible.”

  “My shop was ransacked before his!” shouted Master Shilwise of the Gild and Ink. “And far worse, from what I’ve heard. But I don’t see the guild offering me compensation.”

  “All scriptoriums have done worthy service for the guild,” Sykion returned, “but Master a’Seatt’s kept the best schedule and often provided additional assistance . . . beyond the commonly shared high standards you have all shown.”

  “Standards be damned!” Shilwise snapped, and even discontented Calisus appeared startled by his vehemence. “I’ve put aside too much other work trying to meet the guild’s requirements and schedules—and you still have a contract with my shop! I wo
n’t be pushed out like this. My scribes should be brought in as well.”

  At this, Calisus and the other two scribe masters chimed in with a cacophony of demands and accusations. Sykion put narrow fingers to her temple and had to shout over them.

  “All scriptoriums have performed well in their task. We intend no slight by this decision, and you will be compensated for the sudden change.”

  “Not good enough!” Shilwise returned. “There’s more than just coin involved—my shop’s reputation is at stake.”

  “Your reputation is why you were originally chosen,” Sykion responded.