Between Their Worlds_A Novel of the Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee

  Leesil was lost in panic—but not over the guard’s approach. Before he regained his wits, Brot’an rose in a flash and appeared to lash his arm forward before he dropped again.

  The stiletto was gone from his hand.

  Leesil made a grab for Brot’an’s arm, but the shadow-gripper snatched his wrist.

  “Look quickly,” Brot’an whispered, “or you will miss it.”

  Leesil barely rose for a peek. Killing had never been part of this. He should’ve never trusted Brot’an.

  A dull thud sounded in the night.

  The guard at the wall’s corner stiffened upright as his head flinched to one side. For a blink, it looked like he stood there in stillness. As Leesil heard the soft clatter of metal on stone, the man crumpled on the wall’s walkway.

  Brot’an released Leesil’s wrist and rushed down the bailey wall.

  Leesil had no choice but to follow—though first he pulled the lashing on his right winged blade. If the guard was still alive, Brot’an was not going to finish the man off. But the old butcher never even paused by the fallen guard. As Brot’an crouched and reached out to retrieve his fallen stiletto, Leesil slowed to a stop over the prone body.

  He studied the still-breathing but unconscious guard with carrot red hair and a smattering of freckles. Then he noticed a darkening spot on the man’s temple—from blunt force and not the point of a blade.

  Brot’an retreated on all fours before rising with his stiletto in hand.

  Leesil shook his head slowly, eyeing Brot’an. It was impossible that anyone could make a blade, let alone its hilt, strike from that far away in the dark.

  “Get to the window,” Brot’an whispered, “while I hide him.”

  Without another word, he hefted the guard’s limp body and crept down the stairs into the bailey.

  Still unnerved, Leesil hurried back to where the rear building met the bailey wall, determined to remain focused on the task at hand. The only thing that mattered was reaching Wynn. But he’d barely climbed up to the first window’s sill when a whisper from behind made him stiffen.

  “We are off in our timing,” Brot’an said. “Get it open. The southern guard is already on his way.”

  Leesil bit back a retort. The window was of simple design: two opening sides, each with two columns of small panes, and an inner central latch. The latch came first, and if he couldn’t get to it, he would have to score the frame and pop out a glass pane. The latter would take longer.

  Pulling his new stiletto, he slipped the point between the window’s two hinged halves. He pushed the silver-white blade inward below where the latch waited. The frame’s wood creaked.

  Leesil breathed in through his mouth and out through his nose, letting only one thought pass through his mind.

  Focus on the task at hand.

  Wynn knew something was happening. For several days, she’d seen no one but Dorian or small glimpses of a varied series of Rodian’s guards outside her door. Most nights it had been Lúcan on guard, which gave her some strange comfort. Sometimes she saw sages or guards walking the courtyard, but they didn’t really count. It was as if she had been all but forgotten, except for someone bringing her meals and guarding her door.

  Wynn was well aware there were those outside the guild’s walls who would try to come for her soon. And now, that made everything else even worse. They couldn’t be stopped, and if things were different, she wouldn’t have wished it so. But she’d been cut off from sending word to Chane and could only hope he still waited at least one more night, because . . .

  Certainly, Magiere and Leesil wouldn’t be that patient, especially after Chap had located her position. Surprised at how much she hated being out of control of her circumstances, Wynn wished there was some way to warn off Chane or the others.

  There had been a time, in her early days with Leesil, Magiere, and Chap, when she’d not hesitated at being pulled headlong into adventure. And she’d sometimes regretted what came of it. She’d been so incapable and naive. Now, when she needed to act by her own choice, she couldn’t. For two nights that nervous frustration had been building, until . . .

  Wynn heard the distant sound of a dog, and she scrambled over the bed to reach the window.

  The barracks windows, older than others in the keep, didn’t open, so she pressed her ear against a pane. There was definitely barking and howling somewhere outside, though she couldn’t fix the direction. It didn’t matter, for there was no mistaking Shade’s voice. That meant Chane was likely on the move.

  Wynn closed her eyes, wishing fervently that Leesil had come for her first. It wasn’t that she didn’t miss Chane. He was the one she’d thought most of these past days and nights. But Leesil would know exactly what to do to get her out quietly, while Chane . . .

  Well, driven or pushed, Chane was as much of a blunt instrument as Magiere. Wynn feared he might do something rash and get himself caught. But what was Shade trying to do out there?

  Wynn longed to see her, to find out what was happening by sharing memories. Then a heavy footfall inside her room made her breath catch. She hadn’t heard the door open, and she whirled around.

  A bulky form kept pushing through the wall to the left of her door.

  Any thought of needing a weapon, or the absence of her treasured staff, left Wynn’s thoughts. The color and texture of stone flowed off the bulky form, until it stood fully within her room. It was the last person she would’ve ever expected to come for her.

  Ore-Locks held up one thick finger across his lips in warning.

  Wynn finally breathed again.

  Dressed again like a shirvêsh from the temple of Feather-Tongue, he leaned his iron staff against the wall by the door. Without a word, he pulled the door open, and Wynn’s panic nearly went through the roof. She rushed in behind him, expecting the guard outside to immediately step into the doorway.

  Ore-Locks leaned out, looking left and then right, and the guard never appeared.

  Wynn leaned around him. To her further shock, the guard sat slumped beside the door, apparently unconscious. Before she could ask, Ore-Locks grabbed hold of the guard’s red tabard with one hand and half dragged, half carried the man inside, dropping him on the floor of her room.

  “He never saw me,” Ore-Locks said quietly. “Remember, I cannot be seen. No one must know I was here or why. It would damage the bond between the guild and the Stonewalkers.”

  For all Wynn’s skill with languages, his claim might as well have been gibberish amid her shock. She couldn’t get over the fact that he was truly standing there before her.

  “How did you . . . ? Where did you . . . ?” she began babbling.

  “We need to hurry,” he urged. “Chane has gone for the rear library to make certain the way is clear. He will get you out a window and down the wall.”

  Suddenly, everything made sense. Chane had sent for Ore-Locks, and Ore-Locks had snuck Chane onto the grounds . . . right through its walls.

  She couldn’t help being moved, as Ore-Locks was taking a great risk. He was likely in trouble already with Cinder-Shard, head of Dhredze Seatt’s Stonewalkers, for having left without a word to follow her in search of Bäalâle Seatt. The Stonewalkers were the ones who now secured the ancient texts Wynn had brought back, moving them to and from hiding as directed by Premin Sykion. If Ore-Locks was caught helping her escape, she couldn’t imagine the repercussions. And, worse, guilt choked Wynn for an instant.

  She kept a secret from Ore-Locks concerning his ancient heritage.

  The ancestor he’d gone searching for in Bäalâle was Thallûhearag, the Lord of Slaughter, the little-remembered but worst of traitors in dwarven history. But Thallûhearag wasn’t the villain that few still remembered from a dark legend.

  His true name had been Deep-Root, and he had been a stonewalker like his descendant, Ore-Locks.

  Deep-Root had sacrificed himself, when his people had gone mad, to stop the Ancient Enemy’s forces from gaining a shorter path to what were now the
Numan Lands. For the thousands that had died there, he had protected a hundredfold more in the north. All of this Ore-Locks now knew, but he didn’t know what Wynn had kept from him.

  Deep-Root had had a twin brother.

  Wynn looked at Ore-Locks’s disguise, that burnt-orange tabard of a shirvêsh of Bedzâ’kenge, and she cringed. Bedzâ’kenge—Feather-Tongue—had been Deep-Root’s twin brother. Ore-Locks was the descendant of both.

  Feather-Tongue was now among the revered dwarven Eternals, the dwarves’ equivalents of patron saints. But Deep-Root was barely remembered, and only as the worst among the Eternals’ opposites, the Fallen Ones.

  The reasons for keeping all this from Ore-Locks were so complicated that Wynn pushed them from her mind. There wasn’t even time to thank him for the risk he took for her.

  “Get your staff and anything else you need,” Ore-Locks urged. “You may not be coming back for a long while.”

  She winced, and at the sight of her, Ore-Locks looked about at the near-empty room.

  “They took it,” she said bleakly. “They took almost everything.”

  There was no time for more regrets. She wouldn’t let the efforts of Chane, Shade, and Ore-Locks go to waste. After ripping a blanket off the bed, she hurried to her chest.

  She bundled up what remained of her belongings: her old elven clothing, shorter travel robe, and a few other items. Then she went to the desk and grabbed the few remaining pieces of blank paper, some writing charcoal, her elven quill with the white metal tip, and a bottle of ink. When she turned about, Ore-Locks held her cloak, and he pulled it over her shoulders.

  “This is all I have left,” she said.

  He nodded and hefted his iron staff. Pausing briefly at the door, and making certain the way was clear, he motioned Wynn to follow. They crept down the passage to the stairs, hurrying in silence to the door out to the courtyard. Ore-Locks held up a hand for Wynn to wait and then cracked the door open, peeking out.

  “Is it clear?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer, but rather leaned his head out, looking to the right toward the keep’s main doors. It took too long, and Wynn leaned in on him.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “A glove,” he answered.

  “What does that mean?”

  He straightened in some unexplained relief. “It is not there. We can go on.”

  Wynn was still baffled, and then she heard voices outside.

  Ore-Locks peered out the open door’s narrow space and froze. Wynn thought he was looking toward the courtyard’s northern corner. Before she could lean in again, he backpedaled, nearly knocking her flat as he carefully shut the door.

  “What?” she whispered in alarm.

  “A wagon,” Ore-Locks answered. “Sages are unloading it, and Captain Rodian of the Shyldfälches is out there with them.”

  Wynn wasn’t certain how Ore-Locks knew of Rodian. The Stonewalkers were connected to the guild, the sages were connected to the royals, and the royals were connected to the Shyldfälches. Anything more just spun in her head amid the tension.

  “Is he looking the other way?” she asked.

  Perhaps they could slip out and hurry into the keep. They were hardly safe just standing here behind a door in an open passage.

  “Let me look,” she whispered, and stepped around Ore-Locks to crack open the door.

  What she saw filled her with dismay.

  Four metaologers unloaded cargo while a fifth was in the storage building’s upper bay, working lines to haul up the loads. A driver and a smaller companion waited on the wagon’s bench, and Captain Rodian stood beyond the courtyard’s center watching all this with his arms tightly crossed.

  Wynn quietly shut the door and slumped against it; she and Ore-Locks were not going anywhere.

  CHAPTER 15

  CHANE HAD REACHED THE keep’s main doors without trouble. Once inside the entryway, he checked all ways before turning right and heading down the long passage along the front of the building.

  When he reached the first side passage, he peeked around the corner. This way led between small divided chambers for classrooms, seminars, and the hospice, ending at the library’s southeast door. With no one in sight, he took the turn and moved deeper into the main building’s rear. When he reached the heavy oak door, he nearly sighed in relief.

  This had all been much easier than anticipated.

  When he pressed lightly on the door’s handle, it did not move. He applied more pressure, but with no better result. The door was locked.

  Confused, Chane pressed harder, using his weight to try to force it, but it held fast. He looked over the whole door in disbelief. In all his time among the sages, he had never heard of the new library being locked. Perhaps this was an error? Worse, since the door opened outward, there was no way he could force it. He could try to shatter its heavy planks, but doing so would take time and make too much noise.

  What else could he try?

  There were two other doors into the library: one at its center and one on its northwest end. One or both might be open. Still, he hesitated, wondering how close Ore-Locks and Wynn were to leaving the barracks. By the main building’s layout, he would have to go all the way to the front in order to make his way to the central passage leading to the library’s main doors. He would be right in sight of anyone coming in the keep’s main doors.

  But if he hurried and got into the library, and checked for a clear path to the window, he could unlock or force this door from the inside. Wynn and Ore-Locks could still enter as planned.

  That seemed the only way.

  Hurrying with care, Chane made his way back but paused short of the entryway with its overhanging cold lamp mounted above the main doors. Peering in all directions, he neither heard nor saw anyone. And then he turned right, slipping down the central passage.

  There ahead of him was another high-mounted cold lamp, its crystal glimmering dimly above the library’s central double doors.

  When the window’s latch slipped up on the tip of Leesil’s blade, he pushed it open and crawled through into a narrow path. He landed on the floor beside a wall of bookcases facing the window.

  Brot’an immediately climbed up and followed him in.

  “A library,” Brot’an whispered, looking over the shelves and then up.

  Leesil gazed along the wall of books and bound sheaves and saw that the casements didn’t reach the ceiling. He froze when he looked to their tops. He saw what had pulled Brot’an’s attention.

  Light from somewhere beyond the shelves shone upon the ceiling beams. Though it was very late, someone else was in here.

  Leesil had hoped to find himself in an upper storage area or even an empty room. He hadn’t thought of a library on the third floor of a building. He’d never imagined they would enter a place frequented by someone too obsessed with scholarly notions to just go to bed . . . like a normal person.

  Then again, he should’ve anticipated this. The whole small castle was filled with sages. How many times on the road had he and Magiere gone to sleep while Wynn sat up by a campfire, scribbling in one of her journals? Here he was, creeping in on some unsuspecting sage like a thief in the night, and, worse, with an oversized assassin behind him.

  Leesil took a long breath and motioned to Brot’an as he crept along the shelves toward the left end wall.

  Chap and Leanâlhâm had explained exactly where they’d seen Wynn, and once Leesil reached the center courtyard, he’d know where to go. But first he had to search for a way through to that courtyard, and he only knew the general direction in which it lay.

  Exactly what was he supposed to do, amid trying to find the stairs out of here, if he ran into some old bookworm hunched over an even older tome?

  Leesil reached the end of the casements, where a path led along the library’s southward wall. He peeked around the end, and halfway along the sidewall he spotted a set of downward stairs beyond more rows of shelves. A pot-metal lamp was moun
ted right above the stairwell.

  A sage’s cold-lamp crystal glowed softly within the lamp’s glass.

  Leesil couldn’t help but curse under his breath as his anxiety broke. Some addle-brained sage had simply left a light on. With a sigh, he waved Brot’an onward and led the way, checking each row of shelves or open spaces as he headed for the stairs.

  Rodian waited impatiently as the last of the wagon’s cargo was unloaded. He wondered again why these supplies arrived in the night. Food stores might be delivered so late if the sages were preparing some special meal for the next day. The notion struck him as eccentric, but it was a possible explanation, if not for the contents of this wagon.

  Lashed-up piles of canvas, clinking casks of metal, and coils of rope would make no decent meal. None of this had anything to do with stocking a populated keep no longer used for military purposes. Except for a few closed crates, most of it looked like gear for a large expedition afield—without any perceivable armaments.

  How was all this being paid for, and to what purpose?

  Rodian knew nothing of the sages’ finances, but they had to be operating on limited accounts. Yes, they had their services among the people, running public schools in some districts and working with local trade and craft guilds. Most of that was likely financed by stipends from the kingdom’s treasury. What little profit they were allowed to take in wouldn’t be enough to cover all that he’d seen in a few nights. And how long had these wagons been coming in before that?

  Either the Premin Council had built up funding beyond expectation, or someone outside these walls had a vested interest in whatever the sages were up to. Once again, Rodian saw the hand of Malourné’s royal family at work when no one was watching. But to what purpose?

  Once unloading was finished, the four metaologers disappeared inside as the fifth pulled the upper bay doors closed. The driver, who, like his companion, had not stepped off, turned the wagon, clucked to his horses, and headed back toward the gatehouse tunnel.

  The driver was certainly tall, even sitting down. Rodian hadn’t noticed how tall until now. Something about the short one on the bench—something familiar—bothered him, but he couldn’t quite place it. He took a step as the wagon entered the tunnel.