Between Their Worlds_A Novel of the Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee

  Then he looked down into Premin Hawes’s piercing hazel eyes.

  They had not seen each other since the previous autumn, when Chane had left with Wynn to journey south to the Lhoin’na, this continent’s elven people. With Hawes’s midnight blue cowl pulled back, her cropped ash gray hair bristled across her head. Any lines of her true age were faint in her even, small features. Below her small mouth, her jawline narrowed to the soft point of her chin. She might have caught some men’s attention if not for her stoic demeanor and severe, penetrating gaze.

  “Master Andraso,” she said with no inflection.

  She was the only one who called him that. Then again, Chane rarely spoke to anyone but Wynn. Hawes’s eyes watched him without wavering, and she showed no surprise at his arrival. In the brief times that Chane had interacted with her, nothing ever seemed to catch her unawares.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” he apologized, and then quickly wondered why, as he had never been given to apologizing, even in his mortal life. “But . . . I am leaving for a while . . . tonight. I wished to speak with you first.”

  A flicker of something, though it was not surprise, flashed across Hawes’s face. It vanished with a brief twitch of her left eye.

  “Leaving? Why?”

  This question was unexpected, and Chane had no intention of telling her more.

  “I am taking city lodgings, rather than burden the guild further as a guest.” Before she pressed him, he went on. “I wanted to know if you have continued with one of the . . . the projects we discussed.”

  “The healing concoction?” she returned bluntly.

  Neither subtlety nor manners would help Chane here, and he simply nodded.

  Hawes shook her head slightly. “It would be pointless, as I don’t have the components.” She cocked her head slightly. “You’d best come in.”

  Chane was uncertain how much he should tell—show—the premin of metaology.

  She turned down the short entryway, and he stepped inside and closed the door. When he followed her, in three strides, her study filled his view. He had been here several times, always wishing for a stolen moment to explore it.

  Stout, narrow tables and squat casements were stuffed with more texts, as well as odd little contraptions of metal, crystal, glass, wood, and leather. A rickety old armchair of worn blue fabric was stuffed into the back right corner beyond the messy, dark, and aged desk that contained a dozen or more little drawers. Atop the desk’s corner sat a dimming cold lamp next to an array of brass articulated arms that each held a framed magnifying lens.

  “How much have you gained in this pursuit?” Hawes asked.

  Again Chane wavered, but he would learn nothing if he kept his progress from her. She was the only one capable of helping him, though he had no idea why she did so.

  Unshouldering one of his packs, he pulled out a book with which they were both familiar: The Seven Leaves of Life. It was only two leather-covered flats with one long sheet of old paper between, folded back and forth into seven panels. To this he added two small, cloth-wrapped bundles.

  Hawes looked at the latter as he laid them on her desk and unwrapped the first. Its contents riveted her attention, but for only an instant. The strange gray mushrooms had gray caps that spread in branched protrusions, each branch splayed and flattened at the end in a shape a little like a leaf.

  “Muhkgean,” Hawes said, clearly needing no confirmation from Chane. “These dwarven mushrooms will do no good unless you’ve managed to . . .”

  Her gaze shifted to the other small bundle.

  Chane pulled open its cloth.

  Tiny pearl-colored petals—or leaves, judging by their shape—shimmered like silvery white velvet in the cold lamp’s light, though they were as delicate as silk. The remaining stems and leaves beneath them, though wilted, were a dark green, nearly black even in the light.

  “Anamgiah . . . the Life Shield,” Hawes whispered, and then looked up at him. “Where did you get these?”

  “In the open plain on the way into the Lhoin’na’s forest and their capital. I did not steal them. They grow wild there.”

  Why did he feel the need to defend himself? It was none of her concern where he had gotten them.

  “Can you assist me now?” he asked. “Give me further instructions to make the concoction in the text?”

  This time, he wanted something conclusive, something he could put into practice. His own body was nearly indestructible; Wynn’s was not. He needed anything that might keep her whole and sound, no matter the cost.

  Hawes glanced at the book in his hand, and her brow creased. “I don’t . . . Healing is not one of my fields. Premin Adlam would be more able—”

  “No.”

  Besides Wynn, he trusted no one here with this exploit other than Hawes, and he barely trusted her. He had not even told Wynn of what he was doing.

  “I was not suggesting that you go to him for assistance,” Hawes said, and a bit of annoyance slipped into her tone. “But he knows more of these matters than I.”

  She looked down at the two open bundles for a long moment, and then held out her narrow hand without even looking at him.

  “Leave the book and the components with me,” she instructed. “I will look into testing the process.”

  “No.”

  Hawes’s head barely turned, but her nearer thin eyebrow arched, and her gaze could have struck like a winter cold snap.

  “If you thought to manage this yourself,” she said evenly, “you would not have come to me. I will keep your secret and provide you with the result of my efforts. In exchange, I will take a portion of these components, not more than a fifth, for my own interests.”

  Chane’s throat tightened. He feared—no, more than feared—leaving one of his precious books, as well as these rare ingredients. There was no telling how soon he could reenter this place, but she was correct in one thing: if he did have any notion of how to attempt what was written in this text, he would not be standing here.

  And strangely, Hawes’s attempt to bargain made him less reluctant. She would gain something from this, as well.

  “Agreed,” he rasped, and laid the book in her hand, which had not lowered or moved since she had extended it.

  “Where will you be staying?” she asked.

  He would not go that far, and shook his head. “I will contact you in a few days.”

  A long pause followed, and then she nodded.

  Chane wanted to thank her but did not know how. So he simply turned and left the study, closing the door behind him. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way out and stepped into the courtyard. His thoughts once again turned over which route he should use to get out of the guild. He had taken only six steps into the courtyard before he stopped cold.

  Four sages stood before him, two wearing brown robes and the other pair in the midnight blue of metaologers. They were not gathered as a group but spread in an arc, all facing him. One brown-robed sage was a small, pretty woman. Chane had never spoken to her, but through Wynn he knew who she was. Ginjeriè was the youngest sage ever in the Order of Naturology to be appointed as a domin.

  “Please stay where you are,” she told him, and the two metaologers stepped forward.

  They were waiting for him. How had they known he was coming? Had someone seen him go inside?

  “Is there a problem?” Hawes’s voice sounded behind him.

  Chane glanced back and found her standing outside the door he had just exited.

  “No, Premin,” Ginjeriè said, bowing her head slightly. “Premin Sykion wishes to speak with this man. We were sent to bring him.”

  Chane wanted to wince. The Premin Council knew he had returned, and he was being called before them, likely to give his own account of the long journey south with Wynn. Both he and Wynn had expected them to corner her first, though not quite in the way it had been done. The situation had suddenly changed again. Perhaps in questioning him first, they thought to gain something to trip her up.r />
  Chane glanced back at the other four sages.

  Could he refuse to go? Unless he had broken a law, the council had no legal hold over him. But he guessed that the council had not been adhering to the law of late, and the fact that two of the four sages were metaologers struck him as suspicious.

  He would avoid hurting a sage for almost any reason; he had self-sworn this upon returning tonight and while waiting for Wynn. Flawed as the guild might be, those who lived, worked, and studied here were still far above the common cattle of mortals.

  Yet he still carried the scroll.

  That meant everything to what Wynn saw for the future. He could not allow himself to be hauled before the Premin Council, or, worse, to be locked inside a room by Hawes’s potent thaumaturgy. He knew firsthand what she was capable of.

  Chane tensed as the two metaologers took another step, and he heard Hawes approaching from behind.

  Wynn waited in her room for Dorian to return with Shade, but sitting still grew too much for her. She began taking stock of her belongings, wondering what to hide should the council decide to confiscate anything. Not that she had many places to hide something in this little room.

  She’d already passed the content of all her old journals to Shade via memory-speak and then burned them. Memory-speak was as easy as talking for Shade, and she never forgot anything once it was soundly lodged in her understanding. She was the perfect vessel for secrets that no one could open, even if someone ever figured out that she held them.

  Wynn’s one remaining journal contained only convoluted encryptions of a few key notes to help her as needed. Even sages fluent in the Begaine syllabary would need a long time to decipher it. But there were other items here that Wynn feared losing.

  In the far corner beyond the door, a long staff leaned against the wall. Its upper end was covered in a leather sheath a half foot long and bound in place by a cinched cord, making it easy to pull free in an instant. Beneath the covering was a crystal like no other, for unlike those used in cold lamps, this one produced a light like the sun.

  The sun crystal was all Wynn had besides her knowledge and wits in facing the undead. But, really, where could she possibly hide a staff in this little, sparsely furnished room? Even if she did, any search would uncover it quickly enough.

  “Please stay where you are.”

  Wynn froze as she heard those words in the courtyard outside. Surely it had nothing to do with Chane. Plenty of time had passed—enough that he could’ve twice over reached the library’s window and the keep’s back wall. She rushed to her window and peered out, and her breath caught at the sight below.

  Down in the courtyard, Chane faced four sages, with Premin Hawes coming up behind him. One of the sages was Domin Ginjeriè, a gentle young woman who most often tended to the initiates. Ginjeriè said something but spoke too softly for the words to reach Wynn. What was Chane doing still inside the courtyard? And why had Ginjeriè intercepted him . . . with others present?

  The two metaologers took another slow step, not toward Chane but to either side of him. Wynn’s small fingers pressed against the sill’s stone as she realized they were going to try to take Chane. And if he fought back . . .

  Premin Hawes waved one hand in a sweep, and both metaologers halted. Ginjeriè took a half step, but Hawes cocked her head slightly, uttering something that made Chane spin around toward her. Ginjeriè appeared to hesitate and then bowed her head. Wynn couldn’t hear anything that was said, but the young domin of Naturology turned away with the other sage dressed in brown. Both headed toward the keep’s main doors.

  Reduction in the numbers around Chane didn’t relieve Wynn—quite the opposite. Premin Hawes had dismissed everyone but the metaologers. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good. Was Hawes up to something she didn’t want anyone but her own order to know about? Or did she simply wish to . . .

  Wynn whirled around, looking about her room for any options. Metaologers were certainly not defenseless, though they rarely displayed abilities in plain sight. Chane was facing only three, but Hawes was worth a dozen of them. The last time Wynn had been called before the council, Hawes had driven and shut out Chane with barely two gestures.

  Chane could be in serious danger.

  About to run for her door and try to get to the courtyard, Wynn glanced out the window again. Movement near the keep’s main doors caught her eye.

  Shade came trotting out as a frustrated Dorian held the door, and then he rushed after her. Both of them halted when they spotted the others in the courtyard. Wynn hesitated, as well, in watching.

  Leesil crouched in an alley’s mouth across the road that looped around the guild’s grounds. Magiere and Chap were close behind him. From his vantage point, he studied the keep’s front in wondering how they were going to help Wynn—if Wynn was in any real danger.

  His stomach growled and he tried to ignore it. Chap was probably hungrier than he, as none of them had eaten since breakfast. In their haste to reach the city and Wynn, they’d pressed hard, expecting to find food, beds, and even a bath waiting for them. None of that had been forthcoming.

  At present, they had no lodgings at all. In addition to the travel chest, they were still carrying their packs, and Leesil didn’t care to be so weighed down amid a possible crisis. He twisted about in his crouch, but Magiere now stood above him, her gaze wandering over the keep in the dark.

  “Magiere . . .” he began, lost as to how to best suggest the obvious. “Maybe we should—”

  The sound of multiple hooves on cobble cut him off, and Chap quickly shoved in beside him as they both peered up the road.

  Five riders appeared from out of the mainway that led directly into the city, and they were heading toward the bailey gate. All wore red tabards and swords. The leader rode a white horse. Likely they were armored, though Leesil couldn’t be certain from a distance.

  “Constabulary?” Magiere whispered, echoing his own silent question.

  Leesil didn’t think so, not by their uniforms and mounts. Those were too military for civilian constables.

  “Something else,” he answered.

  Perhaps they were a special unit attached to the city or the rulers here. But again, why had they shown up at the sages’ castle in the middle of the night? This place was filling up with too many things they didn’t understand, and it was no place to go snooping about until they did.

  Leesil glanced back along the cutway. He gestured to the main road, away from the bailey gate toward where the castle road’s southern corner met a side street. A faded sign in dim lamp light read LEAFUL STREET. At least he’d learned enough Numanese to read it.

  When he slipped out, heading toward it along the near side of the looping road, Magiere and Chap followed without a word. When they reached the meeting of that side street, Chap slipped ahead, but Magiere grabbed Leesil’s arm and jerked him around.

  “Wait. Where are we going?” she whispered. “I thought you were just moving us farther back.”

  He didn’t pull away but kept his voice firm. “To find an inn. We need food, a place to store our gear, and time to figure this out.”

  “We’re not done here. We should at least check all sides and get the lay of it.”

  “That wasn’t just some local constabulary,” he argued, and he looked back at Chap, who waited for them. “Did you pick up any memories, especially from the leader on the white horse?”

  Chap studied them both, and finally huffed once. Leesil’s mind instantly flashed to numerous memories. Chap could show Leesil only his own memories, so at first he wasn’t certain of their meaning as an answer to his question.

  First came an image of a tall young man in Voldran armor. He rushed out of a city gate with his men to defend peasants fleeing for the city across the border in the Warlands, Leesil’s birthplace. The second memory, farther back in time, was more to the point.

  Over a chain vestment, a tall, beefy, bulky man wore a white surcoat emblazoned with two sea hawks, the roy
al crest of Belaski, far across the world. Upon the table sat his helmet, which had three ridges, the center one rising from a nose guard and decorated with a plume of feathers. With a blunt nose and a mass of dark brown curls that hung from his head, he had eyed Magiere a little too affably for Leesil’s taste.

  It was Captain Chetnik of the city guard in Bela.

  Leesil scoffed and turned to Magiere. “Chap thinks they’re military, a contingent for the city’s safety and law enforcement . . . like Chetnik, back in Bela.”

  Another memory rose in Leesil’s head. He saw Wynn . . . and then the rider on the white horse. Leesil looked back to Chap.

  “That one knows Wynn?” he asked in surprise. “The one on the white horse was remembering her?”

  Chap huffed once again for “yes.”

  Magiere released Leesil and stared up the road toward the bailey gate. That was enough for Leesil, and he reached for her arm. She jerked it away at the first touch of his fingers.

  “Did his memories seem threatening . . . angry?” she asked without turning.

  Again, Chap hesitated, but he huffed twice for “no.”

  Although relieved, Leesil wondered about Chap’s pause. Was Chap just saying this to keep Magiere in check? Leesil waited, but Chap raised no more memories for him. Then the loud, creaking sound of the rising portcullis carried down the street, suggesting the contingent was being allowed inside.

  “This is more than we can deal with,” Leesil said, and stepped in close at Magiere’s side. “We won’t figure it out by skulking here in the dark.” He carefully gripped her hand. “We need to find lodgings, stow our gear, eat something . . . and talk in private.”

  Magiere still gazed up the road toward the gatehouse, but then dropped her head with an exhalation. She didn’t argue again.

  Leesil looked to Chap for support. “Agreed?

  Chap immediately huffed once and wheeled to head off down Leaful Street.

  When Leesil pulled on Magiere’s hand, she resisted slightly before giving in.