Between Their Worlds_A Novel of the Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee

  The stranger lay there unmoving as Pawl went to look down over the roof’s edge.

  Old Bailey Road was empty. Wynn and her two companions were gone, never aware how close she, or one of them, had come to death. Yet Pawl was no closer to what he needed, though he had halted an event that could have further hindered his answers.

  He began pulling arrows out of his flesh and bone. The one through his chest took both hands.

  Black fluids spilling from his wounds would never show against the black cloth of his attire. He would have to burn his tunic, though, to be certain the evidence was never found. Dropping the last arrow, he walked to the corpse caught on the chimney and ripped away the face wrap.

  He had never heard of assassins among the Lhoin’na. Nor had ever seen one with such near-white blond hair or such a dark complexion. He had counted at least four others like this in his nightly roaming. How many of these were in his city?

  And why were they after Wynn Hygeorht?

  Leaving the body where it lay, Pawl retrieved his ancient, serrated iron blade. There was nothing more he could learn here. At a run, he leaped over the street again to the nearest rooftop, heading for home.

  Dänvârfij grew nervous in the dark above Wall Shop Row. She had been waiting for a report since Én’nish had gone to fetch Rhysís and go after the wagon. Too much time had passed, and one or both should have come to her by now.

  Worse, without Én’nish, there was no one to send off to check in with Owain and Eywodan. If anything happened outside her view, she would not know it. She hesitated at leaving her post and missing Én’nish’s return, but it was not wise or safe to allow so much time to pass without an exchange of information.

  Dänvârfij stood up, heading for the roof’s edge. A light thud sounded behind her, and she turned.

  Én’nish rose from her jump as Rhysís landed lightly beside her.

  Had any prisoners already been delivered to Fréthfâre? Then she saw that Rhysís’s right forearm was bleeding, and his cloak was torn.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “A trap . . . a decoy,” Én’nish answered, “to pull some of us away. They know we are watching the castle.”

  “Of course they know. Brot’ân’duivé is with them!” Dänvârfij quickly tempered her anger. “What do you mean by ‘decoy’?”

  Rhysís would not look her in the eyes as he answered. “The half-undead woman, the majay-hì, and . . . another of us pulled the wagon around a corner and were prepared for us.”

  Dänvârfij stared, uncertain she followed all of his meaning. “Another . . . of us?”

  “Osha is now with Brot’ân’duivé,” Én’nish hissed. “Another turned traitor.”

  Dänvârfij chilled at this disturbing news, though, in retrospect, it was not a complete surprise. Osha had been there, like Dänvârfij, when Sgäilsheilleache and Hkuan’duv killed each other. She had never understood how someone as untalented as Osha had ever gained Sgäilsheilleache as his jeóin. And after that encounter, when she had fled, Most Aged Father had instructed her to wait on the ship that retrieved her. Soon enough, Osha had come, though her presence aboard the vessel surprised him.

  And later it had been Brot’ân’duivé who had extracted Osha from questioning by Most Aged Father.

  Osha, inept as he was, appeared to always be in the company of the most skilled. And now . . .

  Determination that fed on hatred and desire for vengeance could be more powerful than skills. Dänvârfij knew this, had seen what it had done to Én’nish. She had seen it in the eyes of Rhysís after the night Wy’lanvi died. How could this be happening to her caste?

  Until Sgäilsheilleache and Hkuan’duv, no anmaglâhk had ever turned on another. Rhysís blamed Brot’ân’duivé for the death of a friend, and Osha most likely blamed . . . her for the death of Sgäilsheilleache. For with Hkuan’duv gone, there was no one else left for Osha’s vengeance.

  In all of Dänvârfij’s life, the only thing she had never questioned was the loyalty of her caste to each other and their people. This had dried like a fallen leaf in a growing drought and began to blow away like dust, not only with the death of Hkuan’duv, but upon the treachery of Brot’ân’duivé.

  “Was Osha the driver?” she asked, forcing herself to remain focused.

  “Yes,” Én’nish answered.

  “Who was the smaller one?”

  “I do not know. That one was missing when we caught up and were ambushed. We thought it more important to break off and report.”

  Dänvârfij nodded. “Nothing more has happened here. Én’nish, go and check with—”

  Another light thud upon the roof interrupted her. Eywodan jogged across the shakes, the tan skin around his eyes looking almost gray when he drew near.

  “Owain is dead,” he said before even coming to a stop. “I found his body.”

  Én’nish sucked in a loud breath, but again Dänvârfij felt as if she barely understood the words. She could not speak.

  “How?” Rhysís asked quietly.

  “It had been too long since exchanging reports,” Eywodan answered. “I grew concerned and went to his position. I found him . . . still on the rooftop.”

  “You left his body?”

  “Yes!” Eywodan snapped, his scant exposed skin turning grayer. “I feared others of us might be ambushed, and I ran to help the living! We can retrieve the body later.”

  Chagrined, Rhysís glanced away. “So the traitor kills yet another of his own.”

  Dänvârfij still could not speak. It was hard to believe they had lost Owain to more of Brot’ân’duivé’s treachery, but Eywodan surprised her by shaking his head.

  “I do not think so,” he said. “Owain’s entire throat had been crushed by what appeared to be a single blow. That is not the way we kill . . . not even a traitor.”

  This had gone far enough. Finding her voice, Dänvârfij turned to Rhysís.

  “It was wrong to hold out for the sage,” she said, “especially once we knew where our quarry hid. We go to their inn tonight, make sure they have all returned, and then take them. But foremost, we kill Brot’ân’duivé.”

  Rhysís’s eyes glittered softly, his bow still assembled and in hand. Perhaps he envisioned the shot that would take down a greimasg’äh.

  Dänvârfij knew it would not be that easy. All of them knew that to kill Brot’ân’duivé would cost one or more of their lives.

  “Only then do we attempt capture of the others,” she continued. “Kill the majay-hì if you must, and Osha, but Magiere and Léshil must be taken alive.”

  Dänvârfij would have preferred to pull Tavithê as well from the port watch, but it was more important to reach the inn and take their quarry by surprise.

  “We go,” she said, running for the next rooftop.

  Rodian stood inside the keep’s entryway, facing an openly outraged Premin Sykion with Domin High-Tower beside her. Both had been awakened due to the gravity of the situation, and although Rodian knew his report would cause shock, he was glad of it.

  For once Sykion had lost her veneer of motherly wisdom and superiority. She looked so livid that she might snatch his own sword from his sheath to run him through.

  But Rodian preferred open hostility. It made people careless.

  “How could someone of your position and authority allow this to happen?” she demanded.

  Beneath her rage, he heard a quaver of fear in her voice.

  “How could you let one girl slip through your fingers?” Sykion went on.

  He let her rant a little longer, before he replied in a purely professional tone.

  “The effort to free Journeyor Hygeorht came from multiple directions. They had obviously anticipated that any one infiltrator might fail . . . and would then attempt a distraction. Four of my men were injured trying to stop them, and it appears that Journeyor Hygeorht has quite a few contacts outside these walls who do not share your view of her.”

  Angus and Jonah had been found in
the common hall, and although both appeared to be recovering, he was worried that Jonah’s jaw might be cracked. A young guard named Benedict had been discovered unconscious in Wynn’s room. Maolís had been found in the inner bailey below the eastern tower, having taken a nasty blow to the side of the head. But upon waking, he had no idea what had hit him.

  Rodian hadn’t bothered questioning any of his men for long. It would’ve led to nothing, and another notion had been brewing in his thoughts since the moment he’d turned his back on Wynn and her masked rescuers.

  At the sight of Sykion’s pinched and reddened face, he couldn’t hold it back any longer.

  “I apologize for the temporary loss of Journeyor Hygeorht,” he said. “I assure you that my second-in-command, Lieutenant Branwell, will begin arrangements for her arrest warrant, and we will comb the city.”

  Pausing, he pulled a small notebook from his belt and a slender, paper-wrapped writing charcoal from his pocket.

  “You need only give me the formal charge, Premin,” he added, “and I will have her back in jurisdiction soon enough.”

  Sykion blinked, and Rodian stood calmly with his charcoal poised over a blank page.

  “Charge?” High-Tower finally managed to ask.

  “A proper search will be costly,” Rodian returned. “I can hardly justify that without a formal charge of criminal activity. And it is necessary for the warrant. You do want Journeyor Hygeorht recovered—I mean, arrested—do you not? That is all that the Shyldfälches have the authority to do.”

  Rodian waited, watching Sykion’s flattened expression.

  Before taking this position, he had sworn an oath upon the Éa-bêch, the first book of law for Malourné. Twice in his service he had broken or bent the law himself—once for the greater good, and once when Duchess Reine offered him Snowbird as a gift. He was not allowed to accept such gifts, but he’d wanted to keep the horse.

  The present situation was entirely different.

  As of yet, Wynn Hygeorht had committed no verified crime, let alone been found guilty in the people’s court. The Premin Council and the royals had forced her incarceration, circumventing Rodian’s own sacred oath of service. Ambitious as he was, he would not be cornered into breaking the law a third time.

  If Sykion could name a crime that had been committed, Rodian would be forced to hunt down Wynn himself. But he had a feeling that was not going to happen.

  Sykion actually sputtered in finding her voice. “You . . . yourself . . . just told us four of your men had been injured.”

  Rodian raised an eyebrow. “You wish me to charge her with assault? Do you believe Journeyor Hygeorht attacked them personally?”

  Sykion glanced away. “We simply wish you to bring her home.”

  “The journeyor is a free citizen,” Rodian returned. “She decides where she calls home. I have no authority to force her to return here if she wishes to be elsewhere. And so, without a formal charge . . .”

  He let those words hang.

  Sykion’s gaze darkened again. “You are well aware this matter is sensitive to the guild. Tomorrow, I will speak with the council and decide our best course of action. I will also speak with the royal family about what happened here tonight . . . about your inability to secure one small, four-towered keep inhabited by no one but scholars.”

  “You do that,” Rodian said, and he stepped out of the main doors, into the courtyard.

  He wasn’t quite as sure of himself as he sounded.

  Dänvârfij was unconcerned when she and her companions reached the rooftops around their quarry’s inn. She sent Eywodan to check and found that no one was inside the room that Én’nish indicated. In truth, Dänvârfij was relieved.

  This meant that when their quarry began to return, she could make a proper head count and watch for Brot’ân’duivé. But the night grew too long, and with it grew her anxiety.

  “They should have returned by now,” Én’nish whispered.

  Dänvârfij agreed. “Go check the room itself. See what you find inside.”

  Én’nish was off immediately, reaching the window, prying the latch, and slipping inside. The rest of them waited, poised to act, as Dänvârfij watched the top window without blinking. Én’nish was not inside for long.

  She swung out, scrambling to the inn’s top, and came at an open run to leap across to the adjoining roof. Dänvârfij’s stomach turned hollow.

  “Empty!” Én’nish related. “Everything is gone. Not even a blanket remains.”

  Dänvârfij dropped to her haunches, chin on her knees as she stared at the window. Brot’ân’duivé had again slipped out of reach, somewhere beyond the next shadow . . . and the next.

  Magiere busily helped Osha and Leanâlhâm set up their new quarters on the east side of what Brot’an had called the Graylands Empire. Chap merely climbed on a bed and lay watching the room’s door. Magiere still wasn’t certain if Brot’an and Leesil had been merely cautious or outright paranoid in changing locations. But looking about, she found little cause to complain.

  This room was larger and possibly had been two rooms joined into one at some time. A hearth with an iron hook rod for cooking food and two good-sized beds helped fill the space. There was a stout table, along with several chairs.

  So, they had all they needed for the time being. Still, Magiere kept trying to find something to do, anything to keep from glancing at the door again as some sound drifted up from the inn’s common room.

  And Leesil still didn’t come.

  He and Brot’an should’ve gotten Wynn and arrived by now. So many things could’ve gone wrong, even beyond what she imagined. Chap seemed no less worried. More than once, he got up and went to the window, rising on his hind legs and placing his forepaws on the sill to look out. He always gave up and returned to the bed—except for the last time, when his ears straightened up, and he went to sniff at the door.

  “Soon!” Osha said too sharply.

  Magiere was not the only one that Chap was making more anxious.

  “Come,” Osha said, looking to Magiere and then Leanâlhâm. “We make tea.”

  He picked up a chipped water pitcher and headed for the charred teapot near the hearth.

  Chap’s ears suddenly rose and stiffened again, and he was up on all fours atop the bed. Magiere almost snapped at him, and then the door did open.

  Leesil stepped in, leaving the door wide.

  Magiere took a rushed step toward him but halted as Wynn stepped in with Brot’an right behind her. Magiere almost collapsed in relief. Of course Leesil had succeeded. If he knew anything, it was how to sneak about without getting caught . . . most of the time.

  “Magiere!” Wynn cried, running at her. “Chap!”

  Magiere didn’t even finish returning Wynn’s slamming hug before the little sage rushed away and nearly threw herself on top of Chap. But as Wynn rolled off Chap and sat up on the bed’s edge, her small mouth gaped.

  “Leanâlhâm?” she whispered. “Osha?”

  Osha met Wynn’s gaze, and whispered back, “You are . . . well.”

  The relief in his voice was unmistakable, like someone discovering a wound had healed instantly. The whole room filled with tension all over again, not that Osha noticed as he stared into Wynn’s wide brown eyes.

  Magiere wanted to groan. Those two had unsettled issues between them, which she’d hoped would remain so, and then she noticed Leanâlhâm.

  At Wynn’s arrival, Leanâlhâm’s eyes had brightened for the first time since her arrival with Brot’an. She’d taken only one step to go greet Wynn when everyone heard Osha’s whisper.

  Leanâlhâm instantly halted and looked across at Osha, who still watched Wynn. The girl’s features went slack. She dropped her gaze, averted her eyes, and backed away.

  Magiere had no time to wonder at this, though the girl’s reaction worried her. What mattered was that Leesil was all right, and that he’d managed to get Wynn back. But when Leesil turned to shut the door, for some reason he di
dn’t turn around again. Magiere went over, stepping in at his side and reaching for him. Before she touched his arm, he pulled down his face wrap.

  His features were strained and tight, as if he held in something awful. His expression changed even more. He didn’t look at Magiere, but she’d seen that kind of anger in him before. The kind that went so far that it turned him focused and chilled to the point of frightening.

  Magiere gripped his arm, drawing closer to him. “What is it?”

  Finally, he held her eyes with his own. When he answered, the words were loud enough for all to hear.

  “I saw Chane in there . . . inside Wynn’s guild.”

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAP TENSED ON THE bed as Leesil spoke those words.

  Wynn turned toward where Leesil stood by the door, his back still turned, and it was only Magiere’s steady glare that waited for the sage. Chap knew Magiere was an instant away from open rage.

  A small part of him almost wished to let the foolish little sage face such a consequence. Even in their scant time together a few nights ago, he had seen the change in Wynn since their journey here from the Farlands. She was serious, more in control, perhaps even a little hardened. Most of her wide-eyed wonder and naive curiosity had grown faint. Her wispy, light brown hair was a mess, and her pretty, olive-toned features were unreadable.

  And Chap still grew angry with her.

  What does Leesil mean?

  Wynn twitched at his voice in her head and turned her face toward him, but she was silent, perhaps trying to decide how to answer. Before, whenever Wynn was cornered into an admission about Chane, her expression would be awash with guilt and shame—and sometimes defiance. A rush of words would always follow as she tried to defend herself.

  Not this time. She said nothing.

  “What do you . . .” Magiere began, and then looked at Leesil. “Was he with her?”