by Barb Hendee
Word-wood was in short supply, so their group possessed only two. Dänvârfij had one, and Fréthfâre the other.
“It would be best if you remained here,” Dänvârfij said. “I will report to Most Aged Father at the first opportunity.”
Fréthfâre studied her for a moment. “Be sure you do.”
Chane paced his room at Nattie’s inn, uncertain what to do with himself. Shade lay near the door, and Ore-Locks stood restlessly nearby, likely wondering if he was still needed or if he should return to Dhredze Seatt.
Chane did not know the answer.
Ore-Locks shifted his weight for the fourth time, his expression thoughtful. “Where do you think those Lhoin’na might have taken her?”
“They are not Lhoin’na,” Chane answered. “They are an’Cróan, a separate elven people from—”
Shade leaped to her feet, whining and wriggling as she rushed the door. Almost instantly, Chane heard a soft knock outside.
“Chane, it’s me.”
Even via a whisper through the door, he knew Wynn’s voice. Nearly sick with relief that she’d managed to come somehow, Chane rushed the door as Shade scooted out of the way. When he jerked the door open, he did not have long to look upon Wynn. His gaze rose above her head, and he tensed.
Behind her stood someone incredibly tall and too broad-shouldered for his frame. Chane recognized that one’s clothing, for it was the same elf who had been with Leesil inside the guild’s keep. Now there was no face wrap inside the cloak’s deep hood. Lighter-colored scars in dark skin skipped over the elder an’Cróan’s left eye.
A canine head thrust forward around Wynn’s hip to snarl at Chane.
“Enough of that,” Wynn said, not even looking down at Chap.
Before Chane could move or speak, Shade tried pushing past him to get to Wynn. She stopped short at the sight of the tall, silver-gray dog in the hallway. Chane knew exactly how Shade felt.
How could Wynn expose them like this? And how could she bring Chap anywhere near him?
Shade began to rumble.
“No family squabbles, either!” Wynn ordered.
Shade went quiet, but Chane focused again on the tall stranger . . . who was watching him in turn. The man’s face was still and emotionless, with eyes that never blinked.
“This is Brot’an,” Wynn said. “I promise it’s all right.”
Chane backed slowly out of the way.
Wynn hurried inside, pulling Shade with her. She dropped to the floor at the room’s center and gathered the dog in her arms.
“I missed you so much,” she said, and then looked up at Chane. “And you.”
At the moment, it humiliated Chane how much she affected him with two simple words. He stepped aside against the room’s wall, allowing the tall elf and Chap inside his room.
Ore-Locks stood watching all of this, though he had retrieved his iron staff and rested it on the floor in his hand.
“Brot’an . . . Ore-Locks,” Wynn said in gesturing to each.
“Yes, we almost met a short while ago,” Ore-Locks replied, and the tall elf nodded politely.
“Wynn, what are they doing here?” Chane asked.
Chap had not settled and still rumbled slightly with each breath. The fur on the back of his neck bristled, but he kept looking between Chane and Shade. Shade shifted around Wynn’s other side, placing Wynn between herself and Chap.
That action left Chane wondering why. Was not Chap her sire?
“We need them,” Wynn answered.
Chane found her watching him purposefully.
“And they need us,” she continued, stroking Shade’s back one last time. “Lines are being drawn and may result in some unexpected alliances. You have the scroll?”
The question stunned him. “Wynn?”
“They know about the scroll,” she told him, “and I meant what I said. If we’re to locate the final orbs, we have to accept any allies with skills who can help. Both Chap and Brot’an have . . . skills that are more than useful.”
Chane had already made up his mind to put his faith in her, but he had never imagined this. With Chap here, why had not Leesil and Magiere come at him, or had Wynn managed to keep his location secret from them until now? He glanced once at Chap, who bared his teeth slightly.
If Wynn wanted him to work with Chap and this elf, what could he say?
“We may have one more,” Chane said.
“One more what?”
“Ally . . . at the guild . . . perhaps.”
Wynn blinked, and Chane watched a flicker of hope instantly fade to worry upon her face.
“You mean Nikolas?”
“No. Premin Hawes.”
Wynn looked at him as if he were out of his mind, for Hawes was part of the council that had caused all of this trouble for her.
Ore-Locks added, “She told us if you needed help, we could send her word. When she spoke, I believed her.”
“As did I,” Chane added.
Wynn sat upright, as if panicked. But then, trembling, she sank back to kneel beside Shade. Chane could see her hesitation, followed by hope.
“All right. If we have Hawes, that changes some things,” Wynn said.
“Who is this Hawes?” Brot’an asked.
“A premin of metaology, highly placed in my guild,” Wynn answered, looking at him, “with access to . . . resources I can no longer get near. She can help us—me—with translating the rest of the scroll.”
Chane did not care for her familiarity with this an’Cróan. She obviously knew him from before this night.
Wynn suddenly winced and held up one hand. “Chap, stop! Too fast. I don’t know. . . . We’ll need to get her a message.”
Chap was fully focused on Wynn, and Shade snarled at him.
Chane stepped rapidly to Wynn, and Chap’s focus shifted instantly to him.
“What is happening?” Chane asked.
“Chap wants to know how we’ll contact Hawes,” Wynn answered, rubbing her temple. “He has . . . many questions. Too many at once.”
Wynn had told Chane about this odd method of communication, how Chap’s mental voice was far more sophisticated and direct than Shade’s. Chane did not like hearing only one side of the conversation where Chap was concerned.
“He’s not wrong,” Wynn continued. “If we are to find the last two orbs, we must get the rest of the poem translated.”
“Last two?” Ore-Locks asked sharply. “You mean last three.”
Wynn winced again. “Chap, stop it!”
She put her palm on the floor to support herself. Shade ducked around Wynn, growling in Chap’s face, and of all unexpected things, Chap flinched.
Chane felt almost completely in the dark as to what was going on here—and he did not like that, either.
Wynn pushed Shade back and spoke directly to Chap. “They need to know!” She then looked up at Chane. “Magiere, Leesil, and Chap recovered a third orb in the northern wastes. Chap has hidden it . . . along with the orb of Water.”
That made no sense at all, for Chane had seen the first orb in the ice-bound castle. How could a majay-hì hide two, each so large that even he or Ore-Locks would have difficulty carrying one? The dog could not have dragged two off on his own.
“That leaves two for us to find,” Wynn said. “We have to locate them as quickly as possible.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Chane was uncertain how to feel at this abrupt knowledge, but in truth, the news was not unwelcome. If a third orb had been recovered, then Magiere, Leesil, and Chap had proven themselves useful. He had imagined himself, Wynn, and Shade having to find the last three—with all three endeavors placing Wynn in growing danger. He could not care less what became of Magiere, Leesil, or Chap, but perhaps Wynn was correct. Their assistance might end this dangerous exploit more quickly, and keep Wynn a little farther out of harm’s way.
“Then we need to contact this Hawes,” Brot’an said. “I assume she wishes to keep her willingness t
o help a secret?”
“Yes,” Chane answered. “We cannot risk exposing her, or she can do nothing.”
“I may know a way,” Wynn said, though her brow creased. “Nikolas has a friend at the Upright Quill, and I believe that shop is still delivering work to the guild. If this friend can get a message to Nikolas, he can get it to Hawes.”
She stood up with an expression of firm purpose. “Chane, do you have some paper?”
“You are not considering going yourself?” he asked, incredulous.
“Why not?”
“Because half the city guard could be looking for you! Or me . . . or Shade. She was the distraction, right in front of the guild, that let Ore-Locks and me get inside.”
Chane could feel an argument coming and braced himself.
“No one saw me,” Ore-Locks said quietly. “I will take the message.”
“What?” Wynn turned to him.
“No one but the premin saw me,” Ore-Locks continued. “My people are common enough here that few would give me notice. I am the only choice among us.” He looked at Brot’an. “I believe you would stand out, and up, far too much. No offense intended.”
“No offense at all,” the elf answered. “It is sensible.”
Chane studied Brot’an. Though he would never trust this stranger, the tall elf appeared to lean toward the side of reason. That counted for something.
“Then it is settled,” Chane said.
Wynn sighed. “Very well.”
Once again, Rodian waited in the luxurious sitting room at the royal castle, with its walnut-legged couches and dyed silks of shimmering seafoam green and cyan. Upon arrival earlier, two of the Weardas had escorted him here and then left. The double doors were closed, and he was alone.
Although worried—perhaps more than worried—he refused to leap to conclusions. Sykion couldn’t have sent word this quickly, so the summons couldn’t possibly involve this night’s events. Yet here he was.
The double doors opened.
Captain Tristan stood in the opening. “His highness, Prince Leäfrich reskynna.”
Rodian refrained from a whispered expletive. He would be forced to deal with the prince again, at least in part, depending on who else might appear. His discomfort grew as Prince Leäfrich strode in by himself, without his sister, thelthryth, a white-robed elf, or even Duchess Reine. Dressed in loose breeches and an untucked linen shirt, the prince halted before Rodian and then glanced back.
“Close the doors,” he ordered.
Tristan backed out and obeyed, leaving Rodian alone with Leäfrich.
“We were informed of trouble at the guild,” the prince said without preamble.
Rodian hesitated, not entirely certain what had been related. “If I may ask, by whom?”
“You may not. Explain yourself.”
The discomfort growing in Rodian’s chest turned to wariness. “There was an infiltration, possibly from several points of entrance. Four of my men were injured, but not critically. Journeyor Hygeorht escaped.”
“You mean she was taken? You allowed one of our sages to be abducted.”
Of all the ambushes Rodian had considered, this was not one of them.
“No, highness,” he replied. “She had been locked up, illegally, by the Premin Council, and she took part in her own escape.”
“She was stolen from her home, and you allowed it,” the prince retorted. “You will begin a search immediately. You will put every able Shyldfälche into the streets, and you will recover her.”
Therein was the slip—“recover,” not “rescue.”
“And if I locate the journeyor and she does not wish to go back?” Rodian asked.
“Your duty is to recover her.” Leäfrich came closer. “I do not see how I can make myself clearer.”
The skin over his narrow features was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
“Your fitness of duty is now in question,” the prince continued, “and you are being given one chance to answer for your negligence.”
Rodian stiffened, but his reaction came from more than just the threat. No one of the royal family had ever spoken to him like this. Perhaps his secret ambitions had crept too high at times, but he was still the commander of Shyldfälches.
“Pardon, highness,” he said slowly. “But I would like to know how Princess thelthryth or your father prefer this matter to be handled. I am accustomed to taking orders from them, and as this issue involves the guild, either the king or the heir should be informed.”
“What makes you assume they are not?” Leäfrich asked quietly. “My father is unwell, and my sister is at his side. They are kept fully informed, and at present I carry out their wishes. I have the power to rescind appointments at the highest levels until they say otherwise.”
Leäfrich paused, no doubt to let his last statement sink in. “You allowed one of our sages to be stolen from her bed. If she is not safely recovered within four days, I will put Lieutenant Branwell in charge of the search.”
Rodian was careful not to let his expression betray him, though his stomach rolled.
“Find her.” Leäfrich said, and then strode for the doors. “Tristan!”
The doors opened, and the prince exited without slowing. The captain of the Weardas stood waiting, his hand still on one door’s handle. But Rodian stared after the prince until Leäfrich was gone from sight.
Sworn oaths or not, one thing had been made crystal clear: Rodian had no choice but to hunt down Wynn Hygeorht. He hated this tangled web more than he’d hated anything in life. Nearly dropping from exhaustion, he realized how badly he needed sleep.
As he started for the doors, several memories nagged him. He knew he couldn’t rest until he’d checked the one place where Wynn had commonly been found in the past whenever there was trouble.
CHAPTER 20
PAWL WASN’T READY TO go home, so he stopped by his shop. The Upright Quill was long closed up, all of his employees gone home, and he unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
In his mind’s eye, he still saw the strangely dark-skinned elven archer, dead and broken against a rooftop chimney, as Wynn Hygeorht fled the guild with two highly skilled infiltrators.
But how was any of this connected to the translation project?
He paused in the dark at the front counter, distracted by a stack of recently scribed pages awaiting approval. Teagan should’ve seen to those before closing, but the old scribe master had been suffering from sniffles and chills the past few days. Perhaps that had worsened.
Pawl reached for the top sheet. His hand stopped, fingers poised above the stack. He raised his eyes first, then his head, peering about in the dark shop.
It was past the midnight bell, yet he felt something . . . alive. Stepping back, he turned sideways and glanced at the nearest of the two windows, one to each side of the front door.
Faint light from some outer street lantern seeped through cracks of the left-side inner shutters, but he sensed nothing nearby outside. Quietly, he flipped the counter’s hinged section, stepped behind it, and then pushed through the swinging doors into the large back workroom.
Weak light glowed from the workroom’s left side, and he walked past tables and stools to the back of the room. Glancing toward the one oil lantern still lit and nearly out of fuel, he found Imaret. She was fast asleep on a high stool, her head resting on her arms atop a small pile of papers on her slanted scribing desk.
Pawl stepped closer, hovering over the small girl left alone in his shop.
What was she doing here so late, and why hadn’t Teagan seen her home? The situation was not only annoying and against his rules but unsafe should Imaret wake and head home alone. There were lurkers in the city like none he could remember. Some watched the guild, waiting to murder.
Yet Imaret, like Nikolas, was still foolish enough to . . .
Centuries had come and gone—so many that Pawl couldn’t remember exactly when he’d last foolishly become concerned beyon
d necessity with any mortal. Even those few were now fragments, barely clearer than his oldest memories.
An old, one-legged sailor relegated to tending a secondhand shop . . .
Some pompous princeling too eager to flee his family’s disinterest . . .
A dog so obsessed with protecting its owner’s property and family that even after the home was abandoned, it still stood guard . . .
A woman of insane wisdom . . . a vicious elven priest among the trees . . . a slave from a distant land, a brigand, a village elder, a would-be tyrant . . .
And now a child scribe of singular talent, and a young sage touched too soon by death.
Pawl could not truly remember his mother or father. They were but faint, blurred images in his mind. He didn’t remember if he’d had siblings, let alone been the elder brother of a younger sister. But had he been Imaret’s brother, he would have already come hammering upon the shop door, looking for her.
Still, Pawl grew angry with himself.
This was his city, his territory, and all within it were fixtures of that setting, their necessity varying by degrees. All were impermanent—everything was impermanent but him. All else passed, leaving only loss. Even when memory of loss alone decayed over time, it left another sense of loss, knowing something had been forgotten.
He could not endure more such attachments.
“Imaret,” he said, and then louder when she did not stir. “Imaret!”
She opened her eyes, blinked, and rolled her head to look up at him.
“Master?” she whispered.
“What are you doing here?”
She sat up too quickly, teetering for an instant atop the stool, and then looked about as if uncertain where she was.
“I . . . I wanted to finish this,” she stuttered, and picked up the top sheet on her desk.
Pawl did not take it, though he saw what it was: a moon’s-end report for the accountant who often patronized the shop. The fastidious outsider always requested Imaret to do the transcription. Though she had no extraordinary talent for numbers, it didn’t matter; one sound read of the characters on a page and she could duplicate them from memory.