Between Their Worlds_A Novel of the Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee

  That was exactly what Chap had waited for—another ultimatum from Magiere.

  Perhaps it was unwise to do this now, or unfair to use the girl. But Magiere’s judgment and changes had too often pushed them into further peril at every turn. She was going to listen to him from now on.

  No one but him, and especially not Brot’an, was making the choices anymore.

  Chap wheeled with a grating snarl and bit Magiere’s ankle.

  It wasn’t enough to break the boot’s leather, but it had to hurt. Magiere toppled on the bed and rolled away in startled anger. She never had a chance to say a word.

  Chap went straight at Osha, snapping and snarling. A wolf doing so would have been frightening enough, and majay-hì were all bigger than wolves. Unfortunately, Leanâlhâm was too close and scrambled away to the bedside in terror. Chap did not stop snarling until wide-eyed Osha was pinned in the corner beyond the room’s door. Only then did Chap slowly turn around upon the others.

  There was Brot’an in the middle of the room, half-crouched.

  Chap took a moment’s pleasure at the shadow-gripper’s tension. He glanced toward Leesil, calling up Leesil’s memories of Leanâlhâm in the cutway last night—fully cloaked and hooded. He added a cascade of every single memory in Leesil that showed Chap himself ranging city streets at night.

  Leesil flinched sharply, rubbing the side of his head. “Ah, seven hells. Knock that off! I get the point!”

  “What point?” Magiere demanded, rising on the bed’s far side next to him.

  Chap grew still and quiet, and looked at Leanâlhâm, who was cowering at the near side of the bed. He shook himself all over and padded to the pile of gear in the corner. He jerked a rope loose from one of the packs, shaking it apart and wriggling his head through a loop of it. Taking up the stray end in his teeth, he padded back to the girl.

  Leanâlhâm looked around at everyone with great worry. As Chap neared, head up, she had to look up to stare at him. But all he did was drop the end of the rope in her lap.

  Brot’an said, “This is not going to work.” Clearly, he understood and did not care for the idea.

  Chap did not care whether Brot’an liked it or not as he waited for Leanâlhâm’s understanding and her consent.

  “You stay out of it,” Leesil warned Brot’an.

  But the elder elf would not yield. “Chap will be almost as obvious as you or Magiere out there. And he has already been seen at the guild.”

  “So we’ll disguise him somehow. But it’s not your decision,” Leesil snapped. “It’s his . . . and hers.”

  Chap stood absolutely still within reach of Leanâlhâm. He waited until some of the fright and confusion in her green eyes gave way to wonder and curiosity.

  “It’s your choice, Leanâlhâm,” Leesil said. “You don’t have to do this, but if so, he’ll go with you.”

  Chap caught memories rising in Leanâlhâm of the majay-hì who protected her own homeland.

  “He understands what you—we—say?” she whispered, still watching him. “Do all majay-hì?”

  “No, just him,” Leesil let out in a grumble. “And trust me . . . it’s not always a good thing.”

  Chap waited until the last of Leanâlhâm’s fear faded. In some ways, with her mixed heritage and bloodlines, she was so much like himself, like Leesil and Magiere—trapped between two worlds.

  For every memory of the majay-hì that came to her, Chap held it there, crisp and clear, until the next rose. From the way they ran in her forests, sometimes in and out of the an’Cróan’s enclaves, to those who occasionally gave birth to their young among the girl’s people.

  It was the way that Chap himself had been born, also trapped between worlds—a majay-hì and yet not.

  Leanâlhâm leaned forward a little, perhaps wondering if he really did understand her.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He poked his nose into hers, lapped his tongue over her face, and she started slightly in shock.

  “Stupid,” Osha spit out. “This stupid, stupid!”

  “It’s insane,” Magiere added, and turned on Leesil. “How can you go along with this?”

  “Both of you, put a cork in it,” Leesil said. “It’s settled.”

  Brot’an frowned, but his expression was more thoughtful than doubtful. “If the majay-hì is to play a . . . pet, as I assume, the guards may not give him notice, but the Anmaglâhk watching the castle will. They know him. So . . . how do we make a majay-hì look like a pet dog?”

  Leanâlhâm slowly raised one hand and reached out. Chap tucked his head under the girl’s fingers until they slid between his ears.

  “Well, I’ve got one small notion,” Leesil said.

  Chap’s ears went straight up. When he glanced away from Leanâlhâm, Leesil was smiling at him.

  “After all,” Leesil added, “Wynn’s always said you’re a filthy pig.”

  Chap did not like the sound of that . . . whatever it meant.

  Chane sat on his bed, fighting the urge to claw off his own skin. He had taken a draft of the violet concoction—both a blessing and a curse—and dormancy did not come for him.

  He watched the window, now covered with an old blanket. Even so, a glow filtered around the worn wool fabric from the sun outside, creating a bar of sharp light on the floor. He kept waiting for that bar on the scuffed planks to creep toward him.

  Chane twitched hard, fighting for self-control, and clenched his hands on the bed’s edge until he felt the straw mattress begin to tear under his hardening fingernails. Shade raised her head from where she lay on the floor, looked at him, and then dropped her muzzle back on her forepaws again. They both sat silently, waiting.

  Neither was prepared for the too-soft knock at the door.

  As Shade jumped to her feet, Chane flinched again and rose. He glanced uncertainly at her, and the knock came again. One of them had to do something.

  Chane grabbed his dwarven sword, still in its sheath, from the bedside, and approached the door.

  “Yes?” he rasped without opening it.

  No one answered at first, but then a soft, wavering voice replied, “Umm . . . I . . . umm, have a message.”

  Chane flipped up the simple latch hook and jerked the door open. Vague recognition dawned when he saw a young man standing outside and staring up in fear. The unexpected visitor was slender and nervous, with his shoulders hunched inside his gray sage’s robe. There were streaks of white in his unruly brown hair. When he glanced at the sword in Chane’s hand, his eyes froze without a blink.

  Chane leaned the sword against the wall next to the door. He had seen this one speaking with Wynn a few times at the guild. Usually he could not help bristling at Wynn’s befriending any other man, but this young sage inspired no such jealousy.

  With a trembling hand, the young man held out a folded piece of paper.

  There was nothing written on the outside, but at the sight of it, Chane forgot everything else. He grabbed the note and shook it open. It was written in Belaskian, his own language.

  This messenger is a trusted friend to be protected by all means. Official representatives of the law have assumed control of my confinement, but I remain where I am.

  Without formal charges made before the people’s High Advocate, my imprisonment may end soon enough. Give events another day and see what happens. If I haven’t regained access to what I need, it will be pointless to stay. Do nothing—either of you—until you hear from me again.

  If you haven’t heard from me in two days, do what you must.

  The tone and words were clinical and cryptic, but Chane knew their intention. No names or places were mentioned, so Wynn was still concerned about anything written down falling into the wrong hands. This time, she was likely taking precautions in case the messenger was intercepted and questioned. The young man would know little to nothing about what Wynn was really after, and almost no one would even be able to read the letter.

  Chane read the note again slowly, tr
ying to determine its full meaning.

  Her reference to “official representatives” could only mean the city guard, likely Captain Rodian. That she remained where she was must mean the captain had not removed her; she was still in her room at the guild. The final cryptic line seemed clear.

  Magiere, Leesil, and Chap would not know how or where to reach her—and, in truth, Chane preferred it that way. But Wynn was well aware that if all else failed, Chane was the only one who knew the lay of the keep and the exact location of her room. He would be the one to retrieve her.

  He raised his eyes the young man. “What is your name?”

  “Nik . . . Nikolas . . . Columsarn.”

  “How did you know where to come, who to give this to?”

  Nikolas raised his head slightly. “Wynn is my friend and I bring her meals. She slipped me this note and made a passing comment about Nattie’s inn.” He paused. “I’ve seen you with her, so I knew who to look for . . . to describe to the innkeeper.”

  Chane frowned. This was not the safest method for communication, but he could think of nothing better.

  “Can you carry an answer to her without detection?”

  Nikolas nodded.

  Even amid Chane’s suffering, he felt an unexpected—unwanted—twinge of gratitude. The young man must be braver than he looked.

  Chane tore Wynn’s note into tiny pieces and shoved the remains into his own pack for later disposal. He pulled out a small writing charcoal and a journal with notes he had taken on the Begaine syllabary. Since almost no one here wrote or spoke Belaskian, he thought that Nikolas might be asked no questions if he was caught carrying a note simply written in Begaine, the compressed syllabic symbols of the sages. Even so, Chane’s grasp of the syllabary was a work in progress with a long way to go.

  It took him a while to stroke the symbols for words in his own language, acknowledging Wynn’s instructions—and without using her name. Once he finished and folded the note, he rose from the floor and then hesitated in studying Nikolas Columsarn.

  “What excuse did you give when you left the grounds?” he asked.

  “An errand to the Upright Quill.”

  Chane winced. He had had a few dealings with “Master” Pawl a’Seatt of that private scriptorium. It was doubtful anyone besides him—and Wynn and Shade—knew the man was an undead. Even Wynn was doubtful after having seen a’Seatt visit the guild in daylight.

  What if someone later asked at the scriptorium about Nikolas’s “errand,” only to find the young man had not been seen there? When Chane said as much, Nikolas shook his head.

  “There actually is something I can pick up,” he said, “so I won’t look suspicious when I return.”

  Chane did not like the idea of any sage getting near Pawl a’Seatt, especially while carrying a note to Wynn. But he could not accompany Nikolas unless he covered himself fully, including with that mask and the glasses. That would only attract attention, even if he could last long enough to finish the escort.

  Pawl a’Seatt hated other undead. The only way Chane had gotten clear of the strangely potent man had been by Wynn promising to remove Chane from this city. But Chane would never let a sage go into danger, especially not one that Wynn had asked him to protect.

  He glanced at Shade and then back at Nikolas.

  “Wait a moment,” he said, closing the door.

  Chane crouched before Shade, held up his left hand, and touched the brass ring that he wore to warn her. Then he slipped off the ring. The whole room appeared to shimmer like heat on a summer plain, and then his senses sharpened without the ring’s influence on him.

  “Shade,” he said, cocking his head toward the door. “Go and protect that sage, but try not to be seen by . . .”

  He was at a loss, uncertain if Shade would know Pawl a’Seatt by name. Instead, he closed his eyes and focused on the night when they had assaulted Sau’ilahk, the wraith, outside the Upright Quill. Chane had had to flee into the shop when Wynn had ignited the sun-crystal staff. Therein they had all been taken by surprise, finding Pawl a’Seatt in hiding, watching everything that had transpired in the street.

  A’Seatt had seen Shade with Wynn, and Chane did not want him associating Nikolas with Wynn—not while Nikolas was acting as go-between. The young man hardly seemed capable of defending himself.

  As Chane opened his eyes, Shade growled softly.

  “You understand?” he asked.

  She huffed once.

  “When you get Nikolas back to the guild, return here. Lose anyone who might follow you. I will be waiting to open the back door.”

  She huffed again, and Chane surprised himself by saying, “Good girl.”

  He slipped the ring back on, then put on his gloves and cloak, pulling the cloak’s hood forward to shadow his face. As he opened the door, Shade rushed past him toward the stairs, startling Nikolas.

  Taking in the sight of Chane’s cloak, Nikolas’s expression shifted to alarm.

  “You can’t come with me,” he warned. “I heard what happened last night, and if Captain Rodian sees you, he’ll—”

  “I am not coming with you,” Chane interrupted, handing Nikolas the note and motioning the sage down the stairs.

  Confused, Nikolas led the way. When they reached the bottom, Chane held the young man back, pointing to where Shade waited down the short passage to the back door.

  “She is going with you,” Chane said, “and do not argue with me. She will protect you and see you safely back to the guild.”

  Nikolas blinked. “Oh.”

  “Go out the front door,” Chane instructed. “Head halfway down the street and wait for her to join you.”

  Nikolas blinked again but obeyed, turning to leave.

  Chane immediately headed the other way. Reaching the back door, he checked his hood and averted his face.

  “I will be waiting.”

  Bracing himself, he shoved open the door. Even under his cloak, he felt his skin tingle and sting. Shade bolted out, and he jerked the door shut, after which he slid slowly down the wall to sit on the passage floor. A thin crack of light seeped in from beneath the back door.

  Chane inched a little farther up the passage. There was nothing more he could do for Wynn besides sit here and wait.

  CHAPTER 10

  PAWL A’SEATT DIDN’T often go to his shop during the day. Uncomfortable as sunlight was, this was not the reason. In truth, his ability to walk in daylight remained a mystery to him.

  He understood why the undead chose populated places in which to settle and hunt; he had done so, as well. Unlike them, a thriving city fed him to a degree, merely by his presence among so many. Though hunting was no longer a necessity for him, unlike other undeads, the longer he remained in close proximity to the living, the weaker and more listless they became.

  In his earliest days—or, rather, nights—it had not been so. He’d once had to feed and exist only in the darkness.

  He never discovered what had changed for him. It had happened gradually, over hundreds of years, though he did not always consider it a blessing. He now had to take great care in monitoring how much time he lingered in close company with others—especially the few people with which he interacted regularly. There were times when necessity, need, desire, or something else dictated otherwise.

  Today, he had already made his habitual dawn visit to open the shop. When he entered a second time for this morning, this time through the back door, his late reappearance caused an immediate stir in the workroom. Perhaps his employees interpreted this as a harbinger of reprimand for not completing Premin Renäld’s contracted project the day before.

  Gangly and bony, Tavishaw took several furtive glances over the slanted top of his scribing desk, the rhythm of his scripting breaking each time like a stutter in the scratching upon the paper.

  Even old Teagan glowered openly at being disturbed while inspecting Tavishaw’s work. The scribe master was accustomed to running things his way during the days. Scrawny, shrivel
ed, and half-bald, he peered at Pawl through round, thick-lensed glasses. His amplified pupils above his extended nose gave him the look of a gaunt hound spotting another canine sniffing about his yard.

  And Liam began working so hastily that Pawl feared for the quality of the script.

  Only Imaret appeared untroubled. Her pace never altered. She rarely even glanced at the content reference sheet beside her, as if the page was already imprinted in her young mind. Hers was a rare gift or talent possessed by only one other person Pawl had ever met. She quietly and efficiently scribed the index for the transcribed copy of the journeyor’s journal submitted by Premin Renäld.

  “How is it proceeding?” Pawl asked the girl, though this wasn’t really why he’d returned.

  “Almost done,” Imaret answered without looking up. She was likely still cross that he’d been unable to tell her anything about Nikolas or what was happening inside the guild.

  The tinkle of the front door’s bell carried into the back room. Pawl grew mildly relieved at the prospect of anything that might distract him from his state of unrest. Master Teagan automatically headed for the front room, but paused at finding Pawl close on his heels.

  “I’ll see to it,” Pawl said, ignoring Teagan’s scowl.

  Teagan followed him, anyway. But before they reached the door out into the shop’s front, it swung inward, and there stood Nikolas Columsarn in his usual anxious state.

  “Nikolas!”

  Pawl stiffened at Imaret’s outcry. He’d barely glanced back when she dropped her quill, and he frowned at the possible ruin of the index page. Imaret nearly knocked fragile old Teagan into the wall as she wormed through the short passage, past Pawl.

  “Are you all right? Is the guild still locked up?” she asked, her voice too loud. “Why were the city guards called? Are they still there? How did you get out?”

  Nikolas flinched repeatedly, as if every question were her little fist poking him in the arm. Pawl heard only silence behind him, and when he looked, Tavishaw and Liam were both staring.