Between Their Worlds_A Novel of the Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee

  Wynn felt like she might burn to cinders inside and come apart.

  “Chane, what did you think I was going to—”

  Shade growled, and Wynn jerked around. The dog kept growling at the wall just to the left of the bed.

  A dark-sleeved arm emerged out of the wall’s old planks.

  “Wynn!” Chane rasped.

  Ore-Locks rushed around the bed as a shoulder and the skirt of a robe followed the arm. Chane was right above Wynn, but he didn’t step around her or try to pull her back.

  Amid Wynn’s fright, she noticed that neither of them appeared alarmed—only intense. Then the full outline of the dark robe was inside the dim room, and it wasn’t black.

  The light of her cold-lamp crystal on the bedside table clearly showed a deep, midnight blue. One narrow hand reached up to pull back the cowl.

  Premin Hawes looked down at Wynn with two sparkling hazel eyes in a face almost elfin in its narrowness of chin. She stood there, looking about at the others. A canvas pack hung over one of her shoulders, a wrapped parcel under that same arm, and in her other hand . . .

  At the sight of the sun-crystal staff, Wynn almost stopped breathing.

  “Would it not have been easier to use the door?” Chane asked dryly.

  “Footsteps upon the stairs or a knock might be heard,” Hawes answered. “I have no wish to be noticed here.”

  She set the parcel and pack on the bed and held out the staff.

  Wynn was still sitting on the floor, wondering what had just happened.

  “I thought you might like these possessions returned,” the premin said.

  Wynn recovered enough to scramble up and grab the staff. She still couldn’t catch her breath for a thank-you, though she’d have done anything to express her gratitude.

  “The book you asked me to bring is in the pack,” Hawes said, “though I read passable Sumanese.”

  Wynn wouldn’t let go of the staff and fumbled to open her pack with one hand. And then she stopped, taking stock of the contents.

  Aside from an old lexicon or dictionary of Sumanese, there was her journal—the one she’d encrypted with notes from all of the others she’d burned. However, in the message she’d sent to Hawes, she’d risked giving detailed instructions regarding both her location and needs for a reference on the oldest Sumanese dialects. Given Hawes’s choice of guild order, it did not surprise Wynn that the premin knew some Sumanese. Languages were part of all sages’ schooling, though primarily that of cathologers. But many of the recovered secrets of metaology had come out of the Suman Empire.

  “Nikolas had no trouble getting the message to you?” Wynn asked.

  Hawes raised one eyebrow. “Master a’Seatt delivered it.”

  “A’Seatt?” Chane hissed.

  Wynn was taken aback, as well, and as if reading her reaction, Premin Hawes let out a slow breath.

  “It might clarify much to tell each other everything,” the premin said, “if we are to be of assistance to one another.”

  Wynn had already concluded that, but there was something else in the premin’s response. Hawes hadn’t just offered assistance; she expected something in return. What Wynn needed was beyond price, and she’d learned not to trust gifts. Perhaps it would be best to make the premin go first.

  “Agreed,” Wynn said, and rushed on. “Why are those wagons coming into the guild every night? What are they bringing?”

  Hawes was quiet, though Wynn couldn’t tell if this was caused by indecision, reluctance, or something else. The premin’s expression, or lack of it, offered nothing.

  “Supplies for an expedition,” Hawes suddenly answered.

  “Expedition? To where?”

  “To the castle where you found the ancient texts. According to your report, you retrieved only a small fraction of what is there.”

  Before Wynn uttered a word, Chane beat her to it.

  “They must not!” he rasped. “Did they not read of what is trapped beneath that castle? Premin, you have to—”

  “Making a plan is still far from executing it,” Hawes cut in.

  “Then why do they already amass supplies?” Chane countered.

  Hawes remained fixed on Wynn as she answered. “Assembling a group with even a slim chance to reach that place—should your accounting of the route be detailed enough—will take time. Even should they have a chance to succeed, the effort and what might be gained may prove pointless . . . or unnecessary, in comparison to immediate concerns.”

  Wynn didn’t like the way Hawes studied her.

  “I have answered your question,” the premin said. “Do you have something to share with me?”

  Wynn looked at Chane. He nodded and pulled the old scroll case from inside his shirt.

  She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper as they both settled upon the floor. Chane pulled the lid off the case and unrolled the ancient leather scroll with its blacked-out surface.

  An alliance with Hawes would be all or nothing, and they’d just chosen all. The premin crouched, frowning in puzzlement at both paper and scroll.

  “This is what we’ve translated so far,” Wynn explained, spinning the wrinkled paper around so that the premin could read it.

  The Children in twenty and six steps seek to hide in five corners

  The anchors amid Existence, which had once lived amid the Void.

  One to wither the Tree from its roots to its leaves

  Laid down where a cursed sun cracks the soil.

  That which snuffs a Flame into cold and dark

  Sits alone upon the water that never flows.

  The middling one, taking the Wind like a last breath,

  Sank to sulk in the shallows that still can drown.

  And swallowing Wave in perpetual thirst, the fourth

  Took seclusion in exalted and weeping stone.

  But the last, that consumes its own, wandered astray

  In the depths of the Mountain beneath the seat of a lord’s song.

  Wynn went on. “The Children were the first physical manifestation of the Noble Dead—vampires—somehow created by the Ancient Enemy . . . thirteen of them. The ‘anchors’ are the orbs, and you can see from the poem that there are five—one associated to each of the classical elements. At the war’s end, the Children split into five groups and scattered to hide the orbs.”

  “You said you translated this?”

  “Some of it, but Domin il’Sänke corrected much of it for me.”

  “Il’Sänke?” Hawes repeated with a subtle bite in her voice.

  “The poem itself is in an ancient Sumanese dialect . . . Pärpa’äsea, I think he said.”

  The premin peered between the paper and scroll. “What poem? What does this blotted-out scroll have to do with any of this?”

  Wynn realized how much more she’d have to reveal about herself if they were to continue.

  “The poem itself is written in the fluids of one of the Children . . . beneath a black coating of ink.”

  Hawes raised only her eyes, and Wynn felt like she’d just alerted some sharp-eyed predator to her presence.

  “How did you read what was written therein?” Hawes asked quietly.

  Wynn glanced at Chane.

  “The short version,” he said.

  Wynn ignored whatever criticism he implied.

  “I made a mistake a few years ago,” she began. She described how she’d ended up with mantic sight, able to see traces of the Elements—or at least Spirit—in all things.

  “You dabbled with a thaumaturgical ritual?” Hawes asked. “What irresponsible fool taught you that? And yes, I know the particular one you used.”

  Wynn didn’t want to go farther down that path. “The taint of it remained stuck in me, and now I can call up mantic sight at will.”

  “But not end it,” Chane interjected.

  “Trouble,” Ore-Locks muttered. “Nothing but trouble.”

  Wynn ignored them both. “I am able to see�
��”

  “The lack of Spirit within the characters beneath the coating,” Hawes finished. “Because the words were written in the fluids of an undead . . . fluids taken from a body that no longer had the potency of true life . . . and something even beyond a lack of Spirit.”

  Wynn fell silent. Domin il’Sänke wasn’t the only one who’d underestimated the premin. It hadn’t struck Wynn before how much Frideswida Hawes truly knew, but it made sense. No one of lesser ability could’ve become a master, and then a domin, let alone a premin of metaology.

  “Yes,” Wynn confirmed. “But I can’t maintain the sight for long, or it overwhelms and sickens me.”

  “You are fortunate it hasn’t been the death of you . . . in mind, if not body,” Hawes uttered. “Had I known, I would have removed—”

  “No!” Wynn cut in. “It’s all I have to get at what we need.”

  “And how did you learn to call it up at will?” Hawes demanded.

  Wynn hesitated.

  “Il’Sänke!” Hawes whispered. “That deceitful . . . What else did he teach you?”

  Wynn had never seen the premin so unguarded in her emotions. “He tutored me on how to control the sight—that and how to ignite the staff.”

  Hawes appeared to calm, though her demand left Wynn puzzled and worried. She wondered what else the premin thought Ghassan il’Sänke had taught her. She had long suspected there was no affection between the premin and the Suman domin, and il’Sänke’s underestimation of Hawes’s thaumaturgical abilities seemed to be at the core of it.

  Had she been wrong? Was there something greater than that between those two? However, none of it mattered now.

  “We’ve recovered three of the orbs,” Wynn explained. “There are—”

  “Three?” Hawes repeated.

  Wynn closed her mouth. Explaining all this was taking more time than she’d imagined.

  “Yes. You know of the first found in the castle through my journals of the Farlands. There are still two left to locate. If I call up my sight and copy more of the poem, can you help decipher it?”

  Hawes looked down at the translated poem and the first stanza.

  “That was the ‘anchor’ of Water, in ‘exalted and weeping stone,’” she whispered, as if speaking to herself. “And you found the next in Bäalâle Seatt, the one of Earth, which ‘consumes its own.’”

  Wynn grew frightened. No one but those who’d gone with her to Bäalâle should know that. She looked quickly at Ore-Locks and found the dwarf carefully watching the premin.

  “Where was the third found?” Hawes asked.

  “In the Wastes, up north . . . perhaps in the ice, though I haven’t learned much more about it.”

  “In other words, someone else—not in this room—found it. Perhaps even one of your trio of evening visitors that were ejected.”

  This was getting to be too much, and still Wynn could do nothing but wait.

  Hawes studied the poem again. “‘That which snuffs Flame’ is obviously for Fire, and ‘water that never flows’ is obviously the ice of the Wastes . . . hence your third orb. What remains are Air and Spirit.”

  Wynn only nodded. Though she’d already guessed which three orbs they’d acquired, having these conclusions confirmed—and knowing for certain which two were left—provided some needed certainty. But to have Hawes say so, reading it here and now, as if the conclusions were so obvious . . .

  Wynn worried about how much the guild had gleaned from the ancient texts.

  “And every metaphor describes the destruction of an Element,” Hawes murmured.

  Wynn had thought so, as well. Much as she agreed, something more now seemed missing by the way Hawes stared at the translated parts of the poem.

  The first orb Magiere had carelessly opened, and Leesil and Chap had described all of the underground cavern’s clinging moisture raining inward into the orb’s light. The memories of Deep-Root in ancient Bäalâle Seatt that Wynn gained from the dragons had hinted that the orb of Earth was used to tunnel in under that seatt.

  “I’ve suspected they were five tools for such use,” Wynn said. “I’d imagined they could be used as weapons, each of the five.”

  “No, not weapons,” Hawes whispered. “Not five . . . but one . . . altogether.”

  Wynn was immediately lost, even as the premin looked up at her.

  “Reason it through,” Hawes instructed. “What would happen to any target as the focus of all five orbs, as each one obliterated an elemental component?”

  Wynn realized the answer but couldn’t speak it.

  “The target would cease to exist,” Chane whispered for her.

  “A’ye!” Ore-Locks added in shock.

  “In theory,” Hawes confirmed, lowering her gaze to the paper once more. “Think of what power was required to create them. It is . . . unimaginable.”

  Wynn heard Shade begin to rumble, but she didn’t need that warning. She watched Hawes as the premin rambled on, seemingly lost in thought.

  “Among the oldest fragments that the guild has recovered concerning the war, there is no record of these ‘anchors,’ let alone such a use for them. If this was their intended purpose, and they were not put to that unknown use, then the question remains: what was the intended target?”

  Wynn’s burdens, ones she would now heap upon all others in the search, grew tenfold.

  “The target does not matter,” Chane rasped.

  Wynn took a quick glance and found him watching Hawes.

  “All that matters is that they are never used,” he added.

  Hawes didn’t respond, and Wynn felt more trapped than ever in having asked for the premin’s assistance.

  “Do you have any idea what the other two stanzas mean?” Wynn asked. “Any notion about locations or areas to look? Or if I call up mantic sight and try to copy more from the scroll, can you help decipher it?”

  Hawes tightened her mouth. “I should do so myself. You have no training for this, regardless that you’ve toyed with some ability you should not have.”

  “No,” Wynn said. “This isn’t the only way the sight has served me.”

  “Wynn!” Chane whispered in warning.

  “I don’t care what the sight costs me,” she continued. “I’m not giving it up! I need to see those words for myself.”

  Hawes pierced her with those hazel eyes. “You do not trust me?”

  Wynn bit her tongue as she heard Ore-Locks inhale and hold it. There was no safe answer to that question. She wasn’t certain she trusted Hawes at all—not now—and there was nothing to do about it.

  “Will you help me?” Wynn asked, and a moment of silence followed.

  “These anchors . . . these orbs you’ve found,” Hawes finally said. “Are they well hidden, so that nothing of the Enemy might find them?”

  “Yes,” Wynn answered.

  Chap had hidden Water and Fire himself, and Ore-Locks had hidden Earth with the Stonewalkers. The orbs were as far beyond the reach of the Enemy’s minions—and the reach of anyone else—as they could be.

  “Oh, troublesome girl!” Hawes breathed in resignation. “Yes, I will help you.”

  A day passed, night came again, and not one of Rodian’s men had caught a glimpse of the tall and black wolfish dog, let alone one missing sage. Wynn and Shade were nowhere to be found. Now at his desk, having turned over guild security to Branwell, Rodian stared at a map of the city’s districts.

  He had only three more days.

  In all honesty, he wasn’t certain Prince Leäfrich could make good on his threat, but even an attempt would prove beyond embarrassing. Rodian didn’t know what he would do if he actually found Wynn. But he had to find her at any cost now that the prince had blindsided him with this ridiculous abduction story.

  The abrupt change was likely Sykion’s doing, incited by his insistence that she either make a formal charge or drop all notions of incarcerating the young sage. No doubt Sykion would spread word that he’d allowed a young female sage to
be “stolen from her bed.”

  The whole situation made Rodian’s stomach ache.

  But still, for more than one reason, he had to locate Wynn. If he had a chance to speak with her, no doubt she could at least refute the premin’s story. There was no knowing what would happen after that, for it all depended on what, and how much, Wynn was willing to say.

  An expected knock sounded on his office door, and he immediately called out, “Come.”

  The door cracked and Lúcan stuck his head in, steel gray hair dangling into his eyes.

  “Anything?” Rodian asked.

  “No, sir,” Lúcan answered too quietly, perhaps wishing he had better news. “I’ve placed a man up the block from the Upright Quill, and two are sweeping all ways near the guild. A score are out searching the streets, but it’s as if the sage is gone . . . perhaps already fled the city.”

  “No.” Rodian shook his head. “She put up with a lot to remain on guild grounds for as long as she did. Whatever she needs is in there, and she’s not the kind to walk away.”

  Lúcan swallowed hard. “So far, we’ve had no cause to enter any buildings.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Well . . . perhaps a general search order from the High Advocate. We could start knocking on doors and going through inns tomorrow.”

  Rodian stood up. Permission for invasive searches without evidential cause was rare. It had been granted only twice in his memory: once for a missing foreign dignitary, and the second time for the assassin who had later killed the same. But if his men could search every inn in Calm Seatt, they might find something to help. Or, at least, when rumors spread, it might flush Wynn out. She had to be holed up somewhere.

  And since Rodian had been ordered by a prince of the realm to find a sage kidnapped from her bed, amid the outrage of the guild and the royalty, the High Advocate might be swayed.

  “First thing in the morning,” he said with a slight smile. “A very wise . . . cunning . . . suggestion, Corporal.”

  Lúcan matched that smile as he nodded and stepped out, closing the door.

  Rodian sank into his chair. Chances were still slim, but perhaps he might still find the journeyor within three days.

  Wynn sat cross-legged on the floor with the blackened scroll before her, as she prepared to call up her mantic sight. She never looked forward to this sickening process, and it was difficult to stop once it started.