by Barb Hendee
With little choice, Wynn pulled open the barrack’s door, stepping inside with Dorian tight on her heels. She shifted right, climbing the stairs paralleling the lower passage that went through the keep wall to the initiates’ barracks built in the bailey. With every stair she took, she wondered exactly what Dorian was supposed to “handle.” Her puzzlement grew even more as she crested the stairs and turned into the upper passage.
There was light at its typically dark far end. One of the Shyldfälches in a red tabard stood there outside her door, with a standard oil lantern at his feet. He turned his head, and his eyes locked on her without blinking, his face expressionless. Wynn walked a bit too slowly, at a loss for what this meant.
“What are you doing here?” Dorian called out.
Only the guard’s eyes shifted, as if looking above—beyond—Wynn. It was hard to make out his features until she drew nearer. His sword sheath had the typical engraved plate but was not made of steel, or silver like Rodian’s. It appeared to be brass. He was young, clean-shaven, and somehow familiar, but Wynn couldn’t place him until she noticed . . .
His hair was gray, and yet he looked young in the passage’s dim light.
This one had come with Rodian the night that she, Chane, Shade, and Domin il’Sänke had taken on the wraith, Sau’ilahk, outside a scribe shop. The captain had called him Lúcan.
“Your men were told to watch the gate and walls,” Dorian stated, as if he’d given the order himself.
Lúcan still peered over Wynn at Dorian. He turned his torso slightly, and his off hand settled on his sword hilt. Closer now, Wynn thought she saw the faintest crow’s-feet around his eyes.
“I have orders to take charge of the prisoner,” Lúcan said flatly, “until ordered otherwise by the captain.”
“You have no authority inside the guild,” Dorian answered.
Something happened in Lúcan’s eyes in the following long, cold moment. Whatever it was almost made Wynn back up.
It was a change in the feel of him more than anything she could see, as if he’d been cast into all seven hells of the Farlands’ folktales and come back. Wynn had once seen the horror in the face of a young sage who’d survived being struck down by the wraith. In place of that horror, she saw something else in Lúcan’s young-old expression.
He stood there, his sharp glare never wavering, as if nothing in this world could ever make him flinch again.
“Captain Rodian is now in charge of security in this place,” he said to Dorian. “You’re dismissed.”
Lúcan turned a little more, his off hand and sword now more toward Dorian. Though his gaze never shifted, he reached out with his sword hand and deftly opened the door to Wynn’s room.
“If you please, miss,” he said.
Wynn quietly stepped in, though she turned about in the opening.
Lúcan’s off hand was now fully wrapped around his sword’s hilt, his sword hand still holding the door open. Though Wynn couldn’t see the sheathed blade behind him, Lúcan’s hard grip had tilted the sword’s hilt, as if readied and aimed at Dorian’s head. Wynn had once seen Magiere draw her falchion off-handed and strike instantly with the hilt.
Dorian’s mouth opened slightly as Wynn’s mind raced.
Rodian had been placed in charge of guild security? She didn’t know if she was better off in that or not, but at least she knew what to expect from a Shyldfälche under the captain’s command.
“I will speak with my superiors about this,” Dorian said coldly.
“You do that,” Lúcan answered. “And they can speak with my captain.”
Dorian swung about and headed off, but Lúcan’s gaze didn’t turn away until Wynn heard Dorian take the steps down at the passage’s end. Lúcan looked down at Wynn with a slight lowering of his head.
“Do you need anything, miss?”
She wasn’t even sure what to say, so she shook her head.
“If you do, I will be here, miss . . . at all times.”
He waited until she stepped back before even trying to close the door. She suddenly felt the urge to say something.
“Guardsman Lúcan—isn’t it?” she asked.
“Corporal Lúcan, miss.”
Wynn faltered. “Promoted, then . . . congratulations.”
“Thank you, miss.” Lúcan gave a slight bow of his head and quietly closed the door.
Wynn was alone again—truly alone, without even Shade for company. A man stood outside her door, both protector and warden, who’d suffered in a way she couldn’t fathom. So many had suffered in her wake.
Tension and fear broke, leaving only exhaustion. Wynn backed up until her calves hit the small bed, and she dropped onto its edge. Now she had no way even to get a message to Chane. She was stuck in this little room until the council or Rodian or both decided what to do with her. This was her whole world for now, and she was so tired she could barely open her eyes to look at it.
She did open her eyes, and then she stiffened, clenching the bed’s edge. Her gaze fixed on the far corner to the right of the door. The sun-crystal staff was gone.
She looked frantically about the room. Had she moved it and forgotten? But it was nowhere in sight, and her little desk table also looked wrong. The journal with her cryptic notes, as well as the new one from which she’d ripped pages to speak with Chane, were gone. Her small travel chest was missing. Only the larger one near the bed remained.
Wynn scrambled over to flip open the chest. Her spare clothing was in complete disarray, as if someone had rifled through it. All that was left of her personal belongings were a few sheets of blank paper, her elven quill with the strange white metal tip, and her cold lamp on the desk. She looked to the room’s barren corner again.
They’d taken the sun-crystal staff, her only weapon, and she didn’t know whether to scream in fear, anger, or anguish. At a knock at the door, she whipped around on her knees.
At first she thought it must be Dorian. Upon hearing of Rodian’s changes, the council might have even more questions for her. Then again, why bother knocking? Or had the corporal intervened?
Wynn rose, but before she grabbed the handle, the door cracked open. The gap seemed to grow too slowly, and she grabbed the edge, jerking it wide.
Lúcan looked at her in surprise—as he was still gripping the door’s outer handle—but Wynn’s gaze fixed on someone else. Just behind the corporal stood Nikolas Columsarn, holding a tray with a plate of food and a pot of tea.
Any harsh words died on Wynn’s lips.
“Is this all right, miss?” Lúcan asked.
Nikolas was probably the only friend Wynn had left in the guild, and he also wore the gray robes of a cathologer. He wasn’t much taller than she was, with a slender build, a twitchy expression, and straight brown hair that always seemed to be half hiding his face. He was also, like Lúcan, one of the few people to have survived an attack by the wraith, Sau’ilahk.
Unlike the corporal, Nikolas’s brown hair was shot with streaks that were nearly pure white. Perhaps in spotting a fellow survivor, Lúcan hadn’t questioned this particular visitor as he might’ve any other.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Nikolas said, and the tray trembled slightly in his grip. “They told me I could bring you something.”
Such a small kindness in the middle of the night from two victims left in Wynn’s wake broke her defenses. She couldn’t stop the tears.
Nikolas’s constantly nervous eyes widened in alarm, and he looked up at the corporal.
“Can I go inside?” he asked.
Lúcan frowned, but he nodded. “I must leave the door open . . . a little.”
Nikolas stepped in, taking the tray to the desk, and the corporal closed the door to a gap no wider than his hand. The pot of tea was steaming, and the plate held buttered bread, a bowl of soup, and a sliced apple. He’d even wrapped her utensils in a fresh cloth napkin.
“Thank you,” was all Wynn could get out. In spite of the corporal’s consideration, he w
as still a city guard standing within earshot outside her door.
Nikolas said nothing, though he glanced at the slightly open door and swallowed hard. She could tell he had something to say, but it never came.
“I’ll be back in a while to pick up the tray,” he finally got out.
Wynn studied his face. “All right . . . thank you again.”
He turned and stepped out, closing the door, and Wynn dropped in the chair before her desk. Even those who offered her kindness couldn’t do much; they all had their duties and orders. Thirsty and hungry after a grueling, tense night, she poured some tea, nearly burned her mouth taking too large a swallow, and then picked up the napkin to unroll it for her spoon.
A small piece of paper fell out as the cloth unraveled. It slipped off the desk’s edge into her lap.
Wynn paused before picking it up and opening its one fold.
Let me know what I can do.
That was all that was written, but it had obviously come from Nikolas. However powerless he might be, at least Wynn had one true ally inside the guild.
CHAPTER 6
CHANE PACED IN HIS small attic room at Nattie’s inn as the consequences of his actions sank in, deeper and deeper. Shade lay on the bed, head on her paws, her eyes following him back and forth across the floor.
When he had agreed to leave Wynn, so she could stay within reach of the archives, neither he nor she knew the Shyldfälches would descend upon the guild. Nor had he any notion that Shade might abandon Wynn to protect the scroll. Worse still, Premin Hawes now possessed Chane’s precious muhkgean, anasgiah, and The Seven Leaves of Life.
Chane cursed himself for what he had done.
As he began pacing again, Shade let out a grumbling exhale.
The room was as shabby as he remembered, with its small, sagging bed and the slant of the ceiling with the building’s roof overhead. But no one would find him here except Wynn—if she were able. He suddenly remembered how Shade had stared at those metaologers in the courtyard, including Premin Hawes. Perhaps she knew more than he did.
“Did you catch any memories from those sages?”
Again, she looked at him, as if uncertain how to answer. Finally, she hopped off the bed and huffed three times.
“Not certain?” he returned. How could Shade not know if she had caught any memories from people directly in her line of sight?
Of all sagecraft orders, or anyone else, it made sense that metaologers would be highly disciplined, mentally or otherwise. Practitioners of any form or method of magic would not allow errant thoughts—especially unwanted memories—to break their focus. Perhaps Shade had seen or felt something she did not like or had not been able to grasp?
“Do you think Wynn may be in danger?”
Shade instantly huffed once for “yes.”
That was enough for Chane. He had been debating one possible course of action since they had arrived here.
Digging through one of his packs, he found a quill, ink, and paper. He penned a quick note, folded it up, and shoved it into his pocket. As he donned his cloak, pulling the hood forward as much as possible to hide his face, Shade looked expectantly at the door.
“You are too unique-looking,” he said, hoping she fully understood. “You would be noticed, even at night. I will be back soon.”
He headed for the door, fully expecting her to argue in her own way, as always. But when he gripped the door’s handle, she snarled and rushed him. He swung the pack off his shoulder to use as a shield and backed against the corner wall beside the door.
Shade did not come at him. Instead, she huffed angrily twice and growled as she clawed at the door.
Chane was not about to try to grab her and pull her away. She had bitten him more than once, and those bites had burned like nothing else, except Magiere’s falchion.
“Do you want to help Wynn?” he asked.
Shade stopped growling and eyed him, her jowls twitching.
“Then let me go alone. I might pass unnoticed . . . but you cannot be spotted or you could give me away. I have an errand that might help Wynn.”
He waited for his words to sink in. Shade’s jowls curled back, baring teeth, but she reluctantly backed away.
Chane nodded to her, trying not to show relief, and slipped out and down the stairs to the inn’s back door. Once out in the night streets, he began jogging wherever the way was clear as he headed toward Calm Seatt’s great port.
Leesil worried about money as he led the way through the streets of Calm Seatt. They’d passed a few inns, but by their upscale exteriors, every one was far beyond affordable.
Years back, he’d lifted a heavily jeweled necklace from a vampire Magiere had beheaded. He sold it for less than it was worth, but its jewels had still garnered what some would call a small fortune. Certainly it was more than the hefty bounty they’d also been paid by the council of Bela back home. But in their travels across two continents, even a small fortune had its limits. The last year had eaten away nearly all of their funds.
He’d counted on the guild’s hospitality; that was certainly out of the question now. Usually, he was free enough with a coin—too free for Magiere’s penny-pinching, as she had once watched every groat or shil he spent. But there was a far cry between “cheap” and “short of funds.”
Yet even his worrying about it marked another way in which they’d traded places after what had occurred up in the Wastes. She had become the rash and impulsive one, while he was forced into greater caution and wariness. And now, their dwindling resources rarely occurred to Magiere, unless she actually saw him take out the coin pouch.
Leesil slowed in the street, forcing Chap to circle back.
“What?” Magiere asked, and he found her studying him. “I thought you wanted a room and something to eat.”
He started to bite his lower lip and then stopped.
What was wrong with him? Cunning people never let their worries show to anyone, even those they loved—especially those they loved. Wandering a foreign city was witless, as well, but he’d expected to be safely housed at the guild. It seemed he’d lost some of his edge in worrying about losing her . . . to that other her, the one who had shown herself at the end of their journey into the northern Wastes.
Magiere’s hand closed on his arm. “Leesil?”
He took a deep breath to clear his head. “We need directions from someone who might know of a cheap inn . . . and that someone is certainly not in this kind of neighborhood.”
But where else could they look? Maybe he’d have to ask someone here, but there were so few people out at night. He turned all ways before spotting a possible prospect.
A lamplighter half a block back was unloading a ladder from a mule-drawn cart.
Leesil snorted. “Well, that one doesn’t look like a local.”
Magiere stepped around him. “I’ll go. You still don’t speak Numanese worth a wit.”
Chap rushed in two steps, but Leesil grabbed Magiere’s arm first—too sudden and firm. He quickly loosened his grip and faked a smile.
“I can manage,” he said. And at Magiere’s suspicious glare, he added, “When else am I going to get the practice?”
“This isn’t the time,” she argued.
“Wait with Chap. We don’t need you terrorizing the locals. Save that for any ruffians invading our tavern, my dragon.”
Magiere scowled over the pet name that only he called her. It was the right kind of scowl—or so he hoped—as in the old days, when he purposefully goaded her.
He passed her the travel chest and took off down the street. Keeping his hands in plain sight and feigning his lost-traveler demeanor, he approached the elderly man in a floppy canvas hat who was about to climb up and replace a lantern wick.
Again, Leesil flashed a smile. He slowly pulled out the nearly empty coin pouch, shook it gently, and then pointed to the two lavish inns within sight.
“Room?” he asked in Numanese. “Little coin?”
The old man squ
inted a bit at Leesil’s thick accent, but his eyes brightened with a smile as he pointed northeast. Leesil nodded deeply as he touched a hand to his heart and then extended it toward the old man. The lamplighter tipped his floppy hat in return.
Leesil returned to Magiere and Chap, and they were off again. But as they headed northeast down street after street, he noticed fewer and fewer lit lampposts along the way. The streets began to change bit by bit.
Buildings became smaller, more worn, and then outright shabby. Shake and shale roofs were replaced by ones of irregular planks and sometimes even thatch. The mixture of structures grew until he couldn’t be sure if any one of them was a shop, domicile, both, or something else. The only life in the street came from taverns or public houses, which weren’t always marked with a sign.
A sailor stumbled out of a broad, run-down building. The noise of loud voices spilled out around him before the door swung shut.
Magiere grumbled under her breath when the man wobbled to a street side and threw up on the cobble. Chap gave the drunkard a wide berth, and if Leesil hadn’t looked over, he would’ve been spared Magiere’s sidelong glare.
“Well,” he said. “I did ask the man for something cheap. He must have taken me at my word.”
“Yes,” she answered dryly, “he must have . . . if he understood you.”
Leesil hadn’t seen a single dwelling that resembled an inn. In too many places, the cobblestones were cracked, broken apart, or sunken. The remaining holes were filled with grime and rain like scattered pots of muck, all the way up the street.
This area was below even Magiere’s “thrifty” standards, and Leesil didn’t care for it himself. Even Chap grumbled, his head low, and he usually wanted all of them well off the mainways. Leesil had almost given up hope when he glanced into an empty side street.
Two blocks down, light leaked from the open-shutter windows of a two-story building. Two stories weren’t common here, and lit lanterns actually hung under a roofed front landing. By a trail of smoke caught in the light, Leesil spotted a bear-sized man in a full cloak puffing on a long-stemmed pipe. Two people came out the front door. Though Leesil couldn’t make them out as they turned away up the road, neither one was stumbling. No interior ruckus had followed them before the door swung closed, just after the pipe puffer strolled inside.