by Barb Hendee
Rodian rubbed his brow and turned a circle, as if wishing to pace but finding the small room too confining.
“Are you going to keep on doing what they want?” she asked. “Keep on serving them in this?”
She should’ve known better than to try turning all of this on him. He was now one of her obstacles.
“Have they mentioned any formal charges to be made against you?” he asked.
“Not to me. I wouldn’t know what they’ve mentioned to you.”
Rodian didn’t respond to this. “There’s more to this than your errant mission,” he said. “Something happened here last night. Even if small events seem irrelevant, you need to tell me what led to—”
The door slammed open, and High Premin Sykion stood in the opening, her wide eyes instantly fixed on Rodian.
“Captain,” she said with surprising calm. “May I have a word with you . . . outside?”
Rodian’s carefully constructed professionalism flickered.
Wynn wondered if he might not drag Sykion into the room and demand answers here and now. But the flicker passed, and his staunch professionalism resurfaced.
He nodded politely to the premin and then turned back to Wynn. “One of mine will be outside your door at all times. Should you ever find that this has changed without hearing from me first . . . do your best to let me know, if I do not hear of it myself in short order.”
Sykion’s eyes narrowed with a twitch.
Rodian spun about, facing the premin, but he didn’t move until she turned away down the passage. He followed the premin and shut the door.
The truth of the situation struck Wynn in the face. Rodian had no respect for the Premin Council, only formal politeness and ethical conduct, and he didn’t care for sages in general. Their ways went against his spiritual beliefs and philosophy, yet he was faithful to his oath of service above all else.
She had seen evidence of this more than once, though she hadn’t always understood it for what it was. Now he once again acquiesced to the council . . . or rather to others, as he had been pressured into two seasons ago when she had been hunting the wraith.
This was not be the first time she had seen this contradiction in Rodian’s conduct—nor the first time someone else had intervened in favor of the Premin Council. That had to be the only answer.
Captain Rodian was being pressured again by the royals of Malourné, perhaps Duchess Reine Faunier-reskynna directly. And the royals would protect the guild’s . . . protect Sykion’s interests at any cost.
In spite of it all, and Rodian’s likely being pressed into actions that bent his oath of office, Wynn felt strangely bereft with the captain gone. What was her world coming to if she started thinking of the captain as even a tentative ally? Was she that alone now?
She rushed to the door and pressed her ear against the wood, straining to hear whatever was taking place out in that passage. It seemed Sykion had moved them both too far down the passage toward the stairs. Wynn only picked up the muffled sounds of Rodian’s short, clipped words and Sykion’s longer, soft responses.
Rodian’s voice grew suddenly sharp, and Wynn heard him bark, “As I see fit!” Silence followed that, though she remained pressed against the door in uncertainty.
The captain had obviously disliked, rejected, whatever the premin had said. She’d somehow pushed him too hard, and he’d shoved her back. But he was clearly under pressure from more than just the guild. He wouldn’t bend completely to whatever Sykion had said, but neither was he willing to break loose from what the royal family expected. Until that latter part changed, Wynn could expect little help from Rodian.
She abandoned all thoughts of him as an ally and hurried to her desk. No matter how she might feel, she wasn’t completely on her own, not so long as she had quill, ink, and paper. She scribbled a quick note and folded it up, but wrote no address on its outside. It wasn’t long before another knock came at her door. Either it was the captain returning for some reason or the one other person she expected.
Crossing quickly, Wynn opened the door to find Nikolas standing there with her breakfast tray. There was a new city guard outside in place of Lúcan, and she didn’t even try to close the door after ushering Nikolas inside.
“Anything good this morning?” she asked.
“Porridge and tea,” he answered, “but I scavenged some honey, as well.”
As he set the tray on the desk, she rounded him, glancing toward the open door. The angle from that side of the room was good, for the guard wouldn’t be able to see them unless he leaned around the doorframe’s edge.
Wynn wanted to get this done now and not wait for Nikolas to return to collect the dishes. She grabbed the front of his robe, jerking him around between her and the door.
Nikolas’s eyes instantly widened.
“Thank you. The porridge still looks warm,” Wynn said a little loudly, and she held up the folded paper before him and slipped it into the front split of his robe.
Nikolas stiffened, reflexively trying to glance toward the open door. Wynn jerked on his robe front again to keep him from doing so, though she did watch the doorway as she spoke.
“Oh, the next time you stop by Nattie’s inn to visit that tall friend of yours, please give him my best.”
Nikolas blinked in confusion.
Frustrated, Wynn raised one hand high over her head to indicate greater height, and then mouthed my friend.
Nikolas’s expression instantly shifted to its normal but nervous state.
“I . . . I will,” he stuttered.
She had to push him into motion toward the door. In the opening, he looked back once and swallowed hard.
“I’ll be back . . . to pick up . . . the tray . . . later,” he added, his voice shaking. Then he closed the door.
Rodian strode across the courtyard, determined not to let his frustration and fury show to his men. But Sykion’s needling still stung him.
She’d politely expressed displeasure that he’d not only replaced her people with one of his guards at Wynn’s door, but that he’d visited Wynn alone without guild representation present—and that he’d closed the door. She’d even dared to suggest the latter might be construed as inappropriate. Then she’d reminded him that he and his men were here for reasons of guild security only.
In turn, with teeth clenched, Rodian had informed her that if Wynn was under arrest, then she was under his jurisdiction. And none of this would last long unless formal charges were declared.
Sykion’s answer still burned in his ears. “This is an internal guild matter, Captain, and you will only do what you are asked.”
“Law enforcement is not a guild matter,” he pointed out. “I safeguard your people, and the law . . . as I see fit!”
She had gone silent at that, for she knew exactly what he meant. But he realized he’d pushed back too hard. How soon would she go running to the royal family again?
Lengthening his stride, Rodian headed for the gatehouse tunnel to check in with his men. He knew Sykion had gotten to him too much when Guardsman Jonah winced at the sight of him. He didn’t care anymore.
“Report!” he barked.
“All quiet, sir.”
Trying to force calm, Rodian nodded, recalling Sykion’s final instructions.
“Normal guild activities should resume—to a point,” he relayed. “Keep the portcullis closed, but any sages with business in the city should be allowed to enter and leave. If a wagon arrives with supplies, contact one of the sages in the gate tower for confirmation. As long as they clear the driver, let the wagon in. No strangers are allowed inside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then light, hurried footsteps echoed down the gatehouse tunnel behind Rodian. He looked back to see a slender, gray-robed, slightly hunched form hurrying toward him. Recognition dawned, for he knew Nikolas Columsarn. After the young man had been attacked by the wraith, Rodian had carried him back here for medical attention.
Nikolas slowed, shuffling for
ward. He anxiously eyed the closed portcullis, perhaps purposefully to avoid the eyes of those watching him. Then again, he always looked nervous. He was also an acquaintance of Wynn’s. When he finally looked up and met Rodian’s gaze, he froze like a rabbit afield that had spotted a fox.
“Yes?” Rodian asked.
Nikolas opened his mouth, closed it again, and glanced at the portcullis.
“I need to go out,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“To where?”
Nikolas blinked and took on a very poorly constructed demeanor of being affronted. “To Master a’Seatt’s scribe shop . . . to check on some work.”
“A’Seatt?” Rodian repeated.
“At the Upright Quill,” Nikolas added.
Rodian knew the shop quite well. Pawl a’Seatt had been involved in that mess last autumn regarding stolen guild transcriptions and dead sages. Garrogh had died right outside that shop, and Lúcan had been marred for life. And a’Seatt’s scriptorium and scribes were regularly employed by the guild.
Still pondering what this connection meant for recent events, Rodian nodded to Jonah.
“Let him through.”
“Open up!” Jonah called above, and the clanking began.
The young sage slipped under as soon as the portcullis was halfway up.
Rodian only watched and didn’t follow. Whatever was happening here on the guild grounds was somehow wrapped around Wynn—again. He would not miss any chance to uncover it.
Magiere stirred and opened her eyes to find herself stretched out on the narrow bed. Leesil’s legs were pressed up beside her.
He was sleeping upright, his back against the wall at the head of the bed. At her movement, his eyes opened, and he looked farther down the bed. She was covered by a blanket with no way for him to see her wound—or, rather, where it had been.
“How are you?” Leesil asked, his tone cautious.
Magiere wasn’t sure how to answer. She didn’t remember much—other than doing what she had to. She couldn’t remain incapacitated now that they were being hunted. Pulling back the blanket, she revealed her torn and bloodstained pant leg. All of the blood had been cleaned from her pale skin. Her thigh was stiff and aching, but there was no wound, not even a scar.
Leesil bent forward, reaching over the bedside. When his hand came up, it held a bowl of biscuits and half of a roasted capon.
“Here,” he said, setting the bowl on his lap.
His cautious tone hadn’t changed, but Magiere felt suddenly, wildly ravenous. She grabbed a biscuit, shoving half of it into her mouth as she elbowed up to lean over the bowl.
Vague memories came to her of having tried to eat last night. She couldn’t remember if she’d succeeded. The half capon looked torn off rather than cleanly cut, so perhaps she had. She knew Leesil wouldn’t mention anything about last night. They never talked about any of it, about what had happened to her in the Wastes . . . about what she’d become.
Looking around, Magiere spotted Leanâlhâm sleeping on the floor at the bed’s other side. Beyond the girl, Chap lay nearest the door. Osha was awake, sitting beyond the bed’s foot by the window. Magiere sat up to take in the rest of the room and look for one more person.
“He’s on the roof,” Leesil said quietly, placing the bowl in her lap.
Magiere shoved the other half of the biscuit into her mouth, though she hadn’t finished swallowing the first half. She still couldn’t believe Brot’an had brought Leanâlhâm halfway across the world to a foreign land. At that thought, she remembered something more.
Last night, Leanâlhâm had told them Gleann was dead. Had he contracted a sickness from one of his patients? The thought made Magiere sad, for she’d truly liked that old healer. They all had.
With Sgäile gone, as well, perhaps Brot’an saw no choice but to take Leanâlhâm into his own care. Magiere would never say so aloud, but Nein’a, Leesil’s mother, wasn’t exactly the mothering kind . . . not like her son. Magiere would never trust Brot’an, but she didn’t hate him as did Leesil and Chap. No matter what Brot’an’s own motives, he’d once defended her, fought for her, and risked his own life when she’d been dragged on trial before the an’Cróan elders.
Magiere briefly stopped chewing. It was so unreal that she, Leesil, and Chap should be hiding out on a foreign continent with Osha, Leanâlhâm . . . and Brot’an. After swallowing hard, she gulped from the water pitcher Leesil offered her.
“You’d better call him in,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“Good luck with that,” Leesil muttered.
Before he could get up, Osha rose and opened the window to utter a strange birdlike chirp. Magiere downed the rest of the water pitcher, which was only half full. Leanâlhâm stirred and sat up, but after glancing at Magiere and then Leesil, she quickly dropped her gaze.
Magiere could only imagine how last night had looked to Leanâlhâm. Frightening, at least. She wished she knew what to say, but no words came.
A large, gloved hand wrapped over the window’s upper edge.
Brot’an dropped into the room, landing too lightly on the floor for someone of his size. He was so large that his body seemed to fill the room, and his gaze locked immediately on Magiere’s leg—with its missing wound.
She jerked the blanket over her legs again as she swung them over the bedside. Leanâlhâm shifted out of her way. The movement hurt, but Magiere tried to ignore it. She needed the spare pants out of her pack, but there was little privacy to be had at the moment.
Chap was on his feet. Though he hadn’t growled, he paced over to the bed’s foot, sitting between it and Brot’an.
With everyone assembled, Magiere suddenly felt lost for how to begin. They all had questions full of fear and suspicion for each other. But if a team of anmaglâhk was here in the city—sent by Most Aged Father—she wasn’t about to turn down help from Brot’an or even Osha. But their first concern was Wynn.
“Is Wynn . . . prisoner?” Osha asked, breaking the silence.
It was almost a relief that he’d spoken up first. Osha’s Belaskian wasn’t perfect, but it was better than Leesil’s bumbling Elvish. Osha always got straight to the point where anyone who mattered was concerned.
“That’s what we need to find out,” Magiere answered.
“Then someone has to get inside,” Brot’an said.
Leesil climbed off the bed, crouching down beside Chap. “Not by breaking in . . . at least not yet. We don’t even know where Wynn is, specifically.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Brot’an returned.
In watching him, Magiere wasn’t certain the master anmaglâhk was all that interested in the answer.
“We ask the sages,” Leesil said flatly. “We simply ask to speak with her. If they refuse, we’ll know she’s in trouble. If not . . . then we find out what’s happening.”
Magiere opened her mouth and then closed it, grinding her teeth. She knew Leesil had more in mind than this.
“Watching the guild castle is most likely how your enemies picked up your trail,” Brot’an responded. “They will continue to do so, with no other leads to find you. The sages have seen you. Reappearance will only raise suspicion if the little one is in trouble.”
Magiere felt exhausted again. All this talk seemed pointless. She much preferred to just break in and find the “little one,” as Brot’an often called Wynn. But Wynn herself was the one who’d wanted to stay, and Magiere still wasn’t fully certain why.
“Asking to see her is a foolish approach,” Brot’an emphasized. “Any of you will be recognized.”
As much as this rankled Magiere, she couldn’t argue.
“Not all of us,” Leesil countered. “Not all of us . . . present here and now.”
Magiere grew suddenly wary, for Leesil was up to something again. Just before the memories rose in her head, she saw the back of his head turn just a little, as if he’d glanced to his right. There was one person he could’ve looked at. And worse, apparently Chap agr
eed with him.
Image after image of Leanâlhâm raced through Magiere’s mind as Chap continued to call up more memories. She rolled out of bed to stand protectively in front of the girl at the same instant that Osha shouted at Leesil.
“No!”
Chap did not react to either Magiere or Osha’s outbursts.
“It’s the only way,” Leesil said, for Chap had suggested it to him just before informing Magiere.
“She’s the only one who . . . looks innocent enough,” Leesil went on. “And no one there has seen her.”
“Leanâlhâm? That is his idea?” Magiere asked, pointing at Chap. “She doesn’t know this place, these people, or anything outside her own world.”
No one appeared to question how Magiere knew Chap was the one who had started this. But he could not have cared less about her anger, nor the bitter argument that followed. He merely waited as everyone vented on each other—everyone except Leanâlhâm, who kept watching the others in a worried state of bafflement.
Leesil had clearly stated the problem regarding anyone else going. Brot’an and possibly Osha were known to the other anmaglâhk and might be spotted by any such watching the guild. The only one who remained potentially unknown to all was the girl.
That Brot’an went quiet halfway through this loud debate was the only other element that gave Chap pause. But Chap had never intended to send Leanâlhâm out alone.
“Why are you talking about me?” Leanâlhâm finally asked.
Her words were so soft that perhaps only Chap heard her above the others. Of course he had expected a fight with Magiere, but it was Osha who turned the most vehement.
“Magiere right!” he shouted into Leesil’s face and then bent over above Chap. “No Leanâlhâm!”
Chap ignored him, as did Leesil.
Brot’an’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at Chap.
Still, Chap waited. This needed to reach a head before he would put an end to it, as what came next would only bring more for them to argue about. They needed to understand who was making the decisions here, should the girl agree.
“It’s settled,” Magiere stated flatly, and Osha came up, taking position behind her. “It doesn’t matter who’s seen. Leanâlhâm isn’t going. I’ll do it myself.”