by Barb Hendee
“Same here,” the other replied. “And so . . .”
Chane rose and bolted through the kitchen’s main doors. He slipped across the passage through the common hall’s side arch and flattened against the inner wall to listen.
Wynn couldn’t help feeling sick as Leesil dragged her up the stairs to the library’s top floor. He hadn’t spoken or even looked at her. What could have happened to make him treat her like this?
Leesil never let things fester. If he didn’t like something, he spoke up—or he got devious in manipulating things to his own liking. Here and now wasn’t the time, but Wynn knew the moment would come once they got out of here. Still, she didn’t care for the waiting.
When they stepped onto the top floor, Leesil picked up the pace, and Wynn was a little surprised to find herself hauled along the library’s south wall. It was the same route to the same window by which she’d once brought Chane into the guild . . . the same route Chane was supposed to check for her and Ore-Locks.
With little choice, she hurried after Leesil with Brot’an behind her.
“Psst.”
At that cut-off hiss behind Wynn, Leesil stopped and turned to look, as did she.
Brot’an had halted and turned in the path between the wall and rows of casements. With his back to Wynn, she saw stilettos already in his hands as he set himself. She shifted, trying to peer around Brot’an toward the stairs they’d come up.
“Out of sight!” Leesil hissed and grabbed the back of her cloak and tunic.
He tried to thrust Wynn between the book casements, but she caught a glimpse of red rising up the stairwell beneath the cold lamp above the steps. She grabbed the casement’s end to hold herself in place.
Captain Rodian stepped out onto the floor, sword in hand and his gaze fixed on Brot’an.
“No!” Wynn shouted.
The captain’s eyes widened at the sight of her, though Brot’an didn’t even flinch. Leesil again tried to shove her between the casements. She stomped on his foot, and as he stumbled with a curse, she grabbed the back of Brot’an’s belt.
“Don’t!” she begged.
Brot’an didn’t turn, and Wynn looked at Rodian and shook her head. The captain’s gaze shifted once to her, his sword still poised, and he fixed on Brot’an once more.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Wynn said quickly. “I have got to get out of here. . . . That’s all they’re trying to do . . . to get me out.”
Rodian didn’t speak.
He studied her for a long moment and then shifted a little leftward. Perhaps he was trying to get a better look at Leesil, and Wynn tightened her grip upon Brot’an’s belt. This was so bad that she couldn’t even imagine the repercussions, no matter who won out in this moment.
Rodian slowly straightened and lowered his sword. She watched the captain’s brow furrow and his mouth close tightly. He exhaled through his nose. Finally, he just shook his head—and he turned away.
The last Wynn saw of him, he descended the stairs, casually slipping his sword back into its sheath. He was gone almost as quickly as he’d appeared.
Wynn stared after the captain as Brot’an straightened before her. She was jarred into a flinch at Leesil’s caustic whisper behind her.
“How many people in here tonight are trying to get you out of your own mess?”
“This is not the time or place,” Brot’an whispered.
But Wynn spun around to eye Leesil, not really catching all that was hidden in his comment.
“Me?” she shot back. “You think all of this is just about me?”
Her voice shook with anger, but it felt better than misery. None of them had the slightest idea what all of this was really about—none but her. They would understand soon enough, and then maybe they’d see the scope of things, and how much worse it might all become.
“It’s always about you,” Leesil said flatly. “Every time we turn around, you’re doing something . . . with someone . . . to get—”
“Oh, shut up, Leesil,” she cut in, “and get me out of here!”
Relieved by her own anger, for it did wonders to shut out the fear, she didn’t even wait for Leesil’s shocked reply. Wynn pushed past him, heading for the library’s rear window.
“What are you doing in here?”
If Chane had had a heartbeat, it would have skipped at that whisper. His whole body clenched as he whipped his head back to look across the common hall.
There, beyond the tables and benches, stood Ore-Locks, frowning at him. The dwarf’s face was reddened, as if he had recently made some strenuous exertion.
Chane put a finger across his lips in warning. As Ore-Locks hurried between the tables, a dozen questions flooded Chane’s thoughts. One stood out above the others as he motioned Ore-Locks toward the other side of the archway.
Chane mouthed, Where is Wynn?
Ore-Locks returned only, Safe.
That was not enough. But then Chane heard footsteps across the passage in the kitchen.
Ore-Locks’s red eyebrows rose, and he peeked around the archway’s edge.
Guards, Chane mouthed, and held up two fingers.
Ore-Locks scowled at him.
“He must have doubled back!” someone shouted. “Come on.”
Ore-Locks leaned back out of sight.
Chane had had enough, and there was only one option left. When he heard a guard step into the passage outside, he snapped his fingers, trying to pull the man’s attention. But in a stroke of bad luck, as the guard stepped through the arch, he glanced the other way and raised his sword at the sight of Ore-Locks.
“A’ye!” the dwarf shouted. “Behind you.”
The guard’s head began to turn.
Ore-Locks brought his staff down on the man’s helmet with a dull clank.
The man’s eyes rolled upward, and as he crumpled, the second guard ran through the arch, swerving to grab the staff’s end with one hand. Sword up, he rounded on Ore-Locks.
Chane snagged the shoulder of the man’s tabard and jerked him about. His fist cracked against the guard’s jaw, dropping the man in his tracks.
Ore-Locks stood beyond the heap of two guards, glowering at Chane. Without waiting, Chane grabbed the top guard and dragged him farther along the common hall’s inner wall before dropping him.
“Where is Wynn?” he asked urgently.
Ore-Locks dumped the other guard a short way up the other side.
“Heading out through the library, no thanks to you,” he retorted, and then paused with a seemingly confused shake of his head. “Some others came after her . . . two Lhoin’na wrapped up like thieves.”
Chane knew exactly whom Ore-Locks meant and slumped in relief—at least briefly. This was not all of what he had wanted. Wynn was safe, but she would soon be back with her old companions, including Magiere.
“Did she call one of them Leesil?” he asked, needing to be certain.
“Yes,” Ore-Locks answered with a surprised blink. “You know him?”
Chane nodded bitterly. “Yes . . . I know him.”
“Enough dawdling. This is over, and we should leave now . . . before you attract any more attention.”
Moving fast for his bulk, Ore-Locks ducked out the archway and stalked off into the kitchen. Chane followed, at a loss for what the dwarf was up to. But it became all too clear once he caught up to Ore-Locks, standing before the kitchen’s rear wall.
“Brace yourself,” Ore-Locks said, and without a moment’s grace, he grabbed Chane’s wrist.
Chane never got out a word as he was jerked into the wall. Darkness, cold, and smothering silence swallowed him whole. He had not counted on leaving this way. Then again, nothing this night had occurred as he had planned. Wynn was free, but in the darkness of stone, Chane felt only bitterness, not relief.
After all that had happened, the guild would be locked up tighter than ever before. Worse still, should Wynn somehow be granted access to the resources required to decipher what remained in the
scroll, should she ever be allowed within these walls . . . he would not.
The guards, and Premin Hawes, had seen him breaking in at night. The Premin Council would soon learn of this.
It had been only a few nights since he had come to terms with what was required of him. If he wished to remain at Wynn’s side, her goal, her mission, had to be his, as well. If he wished to have any existence that involved the guild, he had to abide by it and watch over all within it, regardless that some did not belong here.
Perhaps he was one of those who did not.
In Chane’s effort to help Wynn, all seemed lost to him, including her. He could not even imagine how she would contact him now—considering whom she would be with.
He felt the comparative warmth of chill night air on his face, and the darkness outside appeared bright for an instant as he was hauled out of the stone by Ore-Locks. He nearly stumbled at suddenly standing in the shadows of the inner bailey between the northern keep tower and the northwest outer building. He had enjoyed peace and quiet, more than once, in the guest quarters there. That was lost, as well. He looked at the thick bailey wall before him, behind the leafless trees.
“Once more,” Ore-Locks whispered.
Chane nodded, steeling himself, but he could never be ready for his last glimpse of the guild.
Pawl a’Seatt had not moved from the rooftop near Norgate Road. Neither had the tall stranger that he watched one rooftop away. That cowled figure with the tied-up cloak still crouched at the rooftop’s edge, watching the guild grounds, and Pawl wanted to know why.
Then the cowled man tensed almost imperceptibly.
Pawl looked to the keep as someone climbed out a rear library window and dropped to the top of the bailey wall. This figure was slender, his face and hair covered by wraps. It was one of the pair who had scaled the wall and entered earlier through that same window.
The slender man stood up, looking both ways along the wall, and then turned to help someone else. A smaller figure came out the window. The second one dangled over the sill and dropped with steadying help from the first one, who then watched as a third figure—the tallest one of the original pair—came out last, his face and hair still covered. That one dropped straight from the window’s edge, landing in a crouch.
Pawl focused most sharply upon the newer figure, the smallest one. Two had entered, and three had come out. He saw no sign of this being a capture or kidnapping. The reasonable alternative was a rescue, and there was only one person Pawl had heard of who would count as any kind of a “prisoner” within the sages’ keep.
Even in the dark cloak and high, soft boots, it could only be Wynn Hygeorht.
The translation project had been stopped shortly before Pawl heard of Wynn’s incarceration. It was unlikely that her freedom would start it again, and more likely that it would prolong its pause. He wondered whether to halt her flight himself.
The shorter of the two men handed something to the other one. After a brief exchange, the tall one tossed a rope’s end over the bailey wall’s side. The shorter one climbed down and stood waiting, and then Wynn took quite a bit longer to follow.
To Pawl’s mild surprise, the tall figure dropped the rope over the side and scaled quickly down the wall using two blades. In an astonishingly brief time, all three crept southward along the base of the wall. And then Pawl looked back to the cowled stranger on the roof.
That one had risen, gripping a strange short bow by its silvery white metal grip, and reached behind his back, beneath his tied-up cloak. When his hand came out, his fingers pinched the end of a short arrow. He notched the arrow and aimed down at the trio below in the shadow of the bailey wall.
Chane nearly gagged in relief as Ore-Locks pulled him through the bailey wall onto the northwest side of Old Bailey Road near Switchin Way. They were finally out, and Chane focused on the moment, unable to face this night’s outcome.
“We need to find Shade,” he rasped.
They had left her at the keep’s front, but Chane could not be spotted near the gates. How unexpected that it bothered him to think of Shade waiting out there alone.
Ore-Locks cocked his head toward the west tower down the way. “We can try to get to the front if we . . .”
He fell silent, and Chane followed Ore-Locks’s fixed stare.
Something . . . someone dark stepped from the shadows of the wall and into the street. Chane did not need to wait as she pulled back her cowl. Even if she had not been wearing the midnight blue robe, he would have recognized the way she moved. But he had no idea what the sudden appearance of Premin Hawes meant here and now.
She stepped steadily up the street toward him, and then he noticed she held something slung over her shoulder. His puzzlement grew, as did Ore-Locks’s wariness, as she stopped an arm’s length away.
Premin Hawes rolled the strap off her shoulder and held a pack out toward Chane.
“You did not wait as instructed,” she said calmly. “Under the circumstances, I thought you would prefer to hold on to these yourself.”
Still confused, Chane took the pack from her and looked inside. Within it he found the cloth-wrapped bundles of the dwarven mushrooms and the flowers he had scavenged from the plain outside the lands of the Lhoin’na. There was also the precious text The Seven Leaves of Life.
Profound relief came first, followed by suspicion.
Why was Hawes doing this? Did she wish to help in Wynn’s cause, or was this just a ploy to gain his trust for some other purpose?
“She is out of the keep,” Hawes said.
Chane tensed.
“Tell her that if she has need to send for me,” Hawes added. “But she must not return here . . . not yet. Do you understand?”
Ore-Locks was watching them both in silent puzzlement. He had no idea what was happening, let alone why the premin of metaology came out unaccompanied in the night to speak to a Noble Dead who had invaded her guild.
“I understand,” Chane said, and he did, in part.
“Good,” she said, turning away. “Keep her safe.”
He hesitated, despair beginning to close in on him again. “I do not know if I will see . . . she is with other companions now.”
“She will come to you,” Hawes called without looking back.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I know.”
Premin Hawes neared the bailey wall and stepped through, not into, stone.
Chane watched the wall appear to buckle or perhaps ripple around her like a disturbed vertical pool of water. She vanished completely through the wall, and the ripples in the stone quickly settled. For a moment, Chane was tempted to touch that spot and feel its solidity for certain.
At a guess, Hawes could not travel distances through earth and stone like a stonewalker. Unlike them, she probably found no barrier, even wood, an impediment at all.
Chane thought of Wynn and of Hawes’s final prediction. Perhaps they did have one ally inside the guild—a subtly powerful and potentially dangerous one, who also sat on the Premin Council. But how was he to tell Wynn any of this?
“How . . . how did she?” Ore-Locks mumbled, and then his mouth just hung open.
In spite of everything, Chane could not stop a slight smile. He clutched the pack with his precious components, and then a bark broke the silence. A dark form loped toward him along Old Bailey Road.
“Shade,” he said quietly, waiting for her.
Her shape often made him forget the intelligence of the majay-hì, equal to or perhaps even greater than that of people, though differing greatly. Or so Wynn had said more than once. Shade must have been roaming the road, watching for them, or perhaps sniffed them out.
Ore-Locks glanced up at the bailey wall’s top, but as of yet, Chane had heard no guard’s footsteps coming their way.
“We should get out of sight,” Ore-Locks said.
Chane agreed, and with little else to do, they all headed for the Grayland’s Empire and Nattie’s inn.
Paw
l rose, poised as the cowled stranger turned slowly, tracking the trio below in the street with his bow drawn. But Pawl could not be certain at which of the three this lurker aimed.
Everything that had happened around the guild somehow pointed to Wynn Hygeorht.
Everything Pawl needed from the transcription project concerning the white woman of centuries ago might also be linked to the young sage.
And the figure on the rooftop had not drawn his bow until after Wynn had appeared.
Pawl took off at a run across the roof. Swiping off his broad-brimmed hat and ripping off his cloak, he pulled his blade from behind his back.
Too dark for steel, the hardened iron blade was barely the length of a shortsword, with a handle of only rough hide straps wrapped around its bare tang. In the night, no one would see the strange, rough, but evenly patterned serrations of its edges. That blade was the only relic of his living days, of his own people long gone from the world . . . and nearly gone from the fragments of his own memories.
Pawl took his last step at the edge of the roof as he threw his blade at the cloaked figure across the street. Then he leaped into the air to a height no one would have believed if they had seen it. The blade was too heavy and unbalanced to strike true, but all he needed was to stop that archer.
An instant before the blade struck, the man whirled out of its path. The blade hit the roof beyond the archer and tumbled away as Pawl arced across the street in midair. The stranger instantly spotted him.
An arrow struck low in Pawl’s shoulder and punched through skin and muscle.
He landed and charged on without slowing. Another arrow hit him dead center in the chest.
He heard and felt his breastbone crack as the second arrow’s head pierced his heart, but he never even slowed. A third arrow punctured him just to the left of the second. He closed on his quarry and saw the man’s—the elf’s—amber eyes suddenly widen above the dark gray-green wrap across the lower half of his face.
The stranger dropped his bow and reached quickly up his sleeves.
Pawl closed the last step at a full run and slammed his hand into the would-be assassin’s throat.
Bone cracked audibly as the elf’s head whipped forward and then back. His feet left the shakes as force drove him backward under all of Pawl’s strength and speed. The body hit the roof, flopping and sliding across the shakes until it rammed into and caught on a chimney, toppling one tile off its top.