Between Their Worlds

by Barb; J. C. Hendee

  Duchess Reine’s eyes were wide, and her smooth brow was creased in shock, anger, or both. Rodian had never seen her in such a state of undress. Normally, she wore high boots and a split skirt over breeches, so she that could ride and move with ease. And unless dressed otherwise for a formal affair, she always carried the traditional horse saber of her people, if not a horse bow, as well. She was now covered only in a silk dressing gown tied at the waist, with her thick chestnut hair hanging loose over her shoulders.

  “Leäf,” she said, and turned to her brother-in-law. “What is going on?”

  Then she appeared to notice Chuillyon for the first time. She started slightly and stared up at him, as if both surprised and glad to see him. Before Rodian could ponder why, a white-robed elf entered.

  That one stiffened at the sight of Chuillyon. Only then did Rodian wonder why Chuillyon wasn’t dressed in his own white robe.

  “Master Chuillyon, what are . . . ?” the newcomer sputtered, and then said more softly to the duchess, “Highness, he cannot be here.”

  Reine turned her confusion back to Chuillyon. “What is he talking about?”

  “Shèmitrian frets too much,” said the old elf, smiling at her. “He would do better to remember that I assigned him to you.”

  The younger elf lost his voice and appeared more than uncomfortable. Reine looked twice between the two elves, clearly confused.

  “But you’ve returned,” she went on. “Shèmitrian no longer needs to stand in for you.”

  Chuillyon’s smile faded, and the duchess looked him over, taking in his attire.

  Rodian had never understood what white robes meant among sages. He knew of no order for that color, though perhaps the colors were different among the Lhoin’na sages. But it was plain to see that the old one had lost not only his position as royal counselor; he no longer wore a sage’s robe of any color.

  “Chuillyon is here at my request,” Leäfrich cut in, though he appeared as distressed as the duchess was about the old elf. “We were in a private conference when Captain Rodian arrived.”

  The prince turned slightly toward his sister-in-law. “There was no reason for you to be disturbed, sister. I can attend to this matter.”

  Rodian remained silent but watchful. Reine, still clinging to Chuillyon’s sleeve, fixed upon Leäfrich for a long moment, and then she turned her head aside.

  “Shèmitrian, wait outside,” she said. “Tristan, take him out and close the doors.”

  “My lady, please,” the young elf urged. “Master Chuillyon cannot—”

  “Now!” Reine commanded.

  As Tristan moved to obey, Shèmitrian backed up in shock. The captain herded him out and shut the doors, and the duchess lifted her head.

  “Gentlemen . . . you had best tell me what is happening.”

  It was not a request, even to her to brother-in-law, the prince.

  Rodian always respected her strength, though as a sister only by marriage, he wondered at the influence she had among the royal family. Before, during, and after the inquest into her husband’s disappearance, the reskynna had stood by her as if she were beyond question or reproach. But the duchess, too, had more than once placed the whims of the guild above Rodian’s authority and oath of service.

  “The Premin Council has incarcerated Journeyor Hygeorht,” he said before the prince could speak.

  Reine’s eyes widened, and she glanced at Chuillyon.

  “You still have not explained what you mean by ‘incarcerated,’ ” Prince Leäfrich cut in. “The guild long ago refurbished what was once the catacombs and prison to make their archive.”

  Rodian grew more suspicious. Everything Leäfrich said seemed to downplay the seriousness of the council’s actions.

  “She is confined to her room,” he explained.

  “Just her room?” Leäfrich returned. “Has such punitive action never taken place before for initiates who break rules?”

  There was that calm, annoyed, dismissive tone again. Rodian felt his first wave of true dislike for the prince.

  “She is a journeyor, not an initiate,” he returned, “and therefore holds a rank of a kind. Illegal confinement—imprisonment—is the issue, not the setting or her standing. Unless a formal charge is made against her, it is my duty to end confinement against her will. If a charge is made, then only I have the authority to hold her until the High Advocate makes pretrial assessment. In either case, the guild has overstepped the law . . . again.”

  “Were you not asked to close the portcullis and place your men at the guild tonight?” the prince asked.

  “Yes, Highness,” Rodian answered, trying to regain some calm. “That is also why I came. I wished to make certain the king and queen had been informed.”

  “Of course we have heard,” Leäfrich snapped at him. “The guild’s founding branch is important to our nation. I personally approved the council’s action.”

  Rodian grew still and cold. He’d hoped this wasn’t so, for it meant the royal family once more bent the law—no, broke it this time—where the guild and Wynn Hygeorht were concerned. He found himself in a very dangerous position.

  “Do you know why my men were called in?” he asked. “If any mere interlopers were expelled, the guild’s castle is highly defensible unto itself.”

  “Premin Sykion has greater concerns,” the prince returned. “I did not delve deeper, as I trust her judgment . . . as should you, Captain.”

  Rodian’s anger rose again. He glanced at the duchess, wondering on how many sides he was now boxed in. Reine’s expression betrayed no surprise at what her brother-in-law said.

  She’d known everything.

  “Captain . . .” she began, stepping closer. “Siweard . . . if your men stand guard at the guild, can you not watch over the journeyor yourself? Certainly her own room is more comfortable than a cell at the city guard’s barracks.”

  Rodian tried not to swallow too hard, too visibly.

  “This is not the first time Wynn Hygeorht has given the council concern,” Reine went on, her voice hardening briefly before softening again. “I’m certain they would not infringe upon her rights . . . if you watch over her in her own room.”

  Watching over Wynn Hygeorht was not the point; assisting in her incarceration without formal charges would make him and his men complicit. Rodian saw that he would find no support here, and this left him with the worst choice.

  To protect a citizen’s rights and uphold the law and his oath, he would have to go against the royal family itself. They could do nothing to him openly, but his action would fulfill what most thought of a post in the Shyldfälches: the dead end of a military career.

  “Both of you will agree with the captain,” Chuillyon interjected for the first time. “To protect Journeyor Hygeorht, as he would any citizen, he has the only authority to oversee her confinement . . . and, should the Premin Council not file charges in reasonable time, to determine when it ends.”

  Both the duchess and the prince turned toward the old elf in shock.

  Rodian looked Chuillyon over in suspicion, wondering at both the man’s power and position here. Either the prince or duchess could have easily said otherwise, if Chuillyon was no longer the official royal counselor. But the tall, old elf had mentioned the only way out that Rodian himself could think of.

  After that tense hesitation, Leäfrich answered too quickly as he turned back to Rodian.

  “Of course. But I doubt that will be necessary. I assure you that my sister, Princess thelthryth, and my father, are as concerned with this matter as I am.”

  This last was a promise that Rodian would get no help from Princess thelthryth either, but he’d already come to that conclusion.

  Reine was still studying Chuillyon, but the elf didn’t smile at her. His glare was as hard as hers, and Rodian spotted her small hand slowly clenching into a fist. There was something more here concerning Wynn Hygeorht, something personal to the duchess. Chuillyon had somehow flouted her in that, and she
had backed down. Rodian wasn’t about to wait for an explanation he would never get, and he headed for the door.

  “The guild will be protected, Highnesses,” he said.

  “If you find yourself stretched too thin, Captain,” Leäfrich added, “you can put your Lieutenant Branwell in charge of this. I’ve been told he is a dependable man.”

  Rodian slowed, almost stopping, but he didn’t turn. Was that a threat? He heard the duchess release a sharp sigh like a hiss of rebuke, and the prince said no more. Rodian cocked his head, looking sidelong at Chuillyon standing beside the doorway.

  “That won’t be necessary, Highness,” Rodian replied to the prince.

  Strangely, he thought he found some hint of kindness in the old elf’s eyes. Chuillyon closed his eyes briefly in a nod of respect.

  Rodian pulled the doors open and strode out past Captain Tristan.

  The younger elven sage, who had lingered outside, hurried into the room as Rodian turned down the passage. For one night, he’d had enough of being the puppet of royals and sages. Worse still, the only one who’d pulled his strings in any helpful direction had been an apparent outcast elven sage.

  As to seizing control of Wynn’s current state, Rodian hadn’t mentioned that he’d already taken this matter into hand. Lúcan, even now, would see to that by the very letter of Rodian’s command. Once outside in the royal courtyard’s night air, he breathed deeply and headed for the gatehouse. However, his manner in dealing with Prince Leäfrich began weighing upon him.

  Rodian had always maintained the favor of Princess thelthryth. If the rumors were true that Leäfrich was his sister’s main counselor, and the king was indeed unwell . . .

  Amid collusion between the royals and the guild, everything may have changed for him. Ambition may have died here and now, and his father’s words kept echoing in his thoughts.

  Honorable service and strong faith—what more could a father hope for his son?

  If only that were enough for Rodian.

  His horse, Snowbird, had already been brought out from the stables. He swung up into the saddle and rode out into the night streets, heading for his office and barracks. He would need more men to secure the sages’ keep.

  Wynn had lost all sense of time. She’d been locked alone in a small side room down the passage from the council’s chamber. The questioning had gone on for at least a quarter night. At a guess, it had to be near or past midnight by now.

  She had no idea why she’d been brought here instead of to her room. What more could they expect from her, since she’d given them nothing for all their interrogating? She was tired, thirsty, and longing for rest, but she refused to curl up in any of the chairs about the tiny room. If—when—Dorian returned, seeing her like that would let the council know they’d managed to exhaust her. The more undaunted they thought she was, the sooner they might give up. And yet she couldn’t stop thinking about those letters on the table before Sykion.

  One had to have come from the royals, likely because of something Chuillyon had told them. It seemed redundant that another letter had come straight from the Lhoin’na guild branch. And by the questions that Sykion and the others had asked, they knew everything up to the point where she’d found Bäalâle Seatt. They wanted to know anything following that, along with how to gain access to the seatt.

  That told Wynn something more; whatever Chuillyon had told the royals, and whoever had followed her down the Slip-Tooth Pass, neither seemed to know how to get into Bäalâle. It still left the question of how anyone had known that was the place she’d gone seeking. If someone from the Lhoin’na branch had followed her, obviously the elven sages weren’t sharing everything with the Numan branch here in Calm Seatt.

  How far might the council go this time to silence her, if they feared she’d already uncovered too much of a distant past they wanted left hidden to all but themselves?

  If only she could get word to Chane.

  Wynn wondered what had made him remain on guild grounds for so long once he’d left her room. He should’ve left immediately and not been caught. Perhaps she should’ve left with him, as well. Then she wouldn’t be in this mess.

  No, she’d made the choice to remain, in the hope of deciphering more of the scroll’s content. But now that seemed unlikely, since she’d had to send the scroll away with Chane for safekeeping.

  The door’s outer handle rattled briefly, and she’d barely looked up before the door itself opened. There was no time to wonder if this was all over or not as Dorian peered in, his dark hair falling forward into his eyes. The bridge of his nose—where she’d hit him—had turned a bit pink by now. He motioned her out into the passage.

  “Back to face the wolves?” she challenged.

  He didn’t answer, but when she stepped out, a second metaologer stood partway down the passage. Dorian waved her onward, and she was escorted, front and back. It took only twenty-three steps for the lead metaologer to reach the council’s chamber doors . . . and to pass it without stopping.

  Wynn couldn’t help glancing back at Dorian, but he didn’t look at her. She wasn’t being taking for more questioning. Perhaps the Premin Council had enough frustration for one night? Or they wanted to leave her wondering anxiously until someone came for her again. But where was she being taken this time?

  The answer became clear when they descended the far stairs and headed for the front of the keep. Wynn finally stepped out into the courtyard between Dorian and the other metaologer, and the latter headed straight for the apprentice and journeyors’ barracks on the southeast side.

  They were taking her back to her room.

  Relief replaced Wynn’s suspicion—only for an instant. Then what? Surely she wasn’t going to be left on her own.

  She heard the outer portcullis begin to grind.

  The sage in front of Wynn slowed to look down the gatehouse tunnel. She did so, as well, but caught only a glimpse. A team-drawn wagon entered the tunnel, the clop of heavy hoofs and iron-shod wheels on stone echoing into the courtyard.

  Dorian urged Wynn onward as the lead metaologer started off again. Then she noticed there were crates and barrels sitting outside the northwest storage building, and its upper-level bay doors were open. Light spilled from the opening, but she couldn’t see if anyone was in there.

  As the metaologer ahead of Wynn reached the barracks door, the wagon rolled from the tunnel into the courtyard. She saw two huge draft horses hauling a bulky load hidden under a lashed-down canvas. In earlier times, Wynn had helped with the unloading of supplies brought in several times a year. But she’d never done so in the middle of the night, nor had she seen multiple deliveries on the same night.

  A driver dressed in plain breeches and a faded jacket sat on the bench beside a sage in a midnight blue robe.

  Wynn blinked. Supply deliveries were scheduled well ahead of time. There was never a need to send a messenger to retrieve them.

  Dorian stood watching as the wagon rolled over to the storage house, and then he looked to his companion.

  “Go help unload,” he said, and then cocked his head toward Wynn. “I’ll handle this.”

  The other metaologer trotted across the courtyard as another sage—another metaologer—appeared in the far building’s upper open bay and waved down at the driver.

  With little choice, Wynn pulled open the barrack’s door, stepping inside with Dorian tight on her heels. She shifted right, climbing the stairs paralleling the lower passage that went through the keep wall to the initiates’ barracks built in the bailey. With every stair she took, she wondered exactly what Dorian was supposed to “handle.” Her puzzlement grew even more as she crested the stairs and turned into the upper passage.

  There was light at its typically dark far end. One of the Shyldfälches in a red tabard stood there outside her door, with a standard oil lantern at his feet. He turned his head, and his eyes locked on her without blinking, his face expressionless. Wynn walked a bit too slowly, at a loss for what this meant. />
  “What are you doing here?” Dorian called out.

  Only the guard’s eyes shifted, as if looking above—beyond—Wynn. It was hard to make out his features until she drew nearer. His sword sheath had the typical engraved plate but was not made of steel, or silver like Rodian’s. It appeared to be brass. He was young, clean-shaven, and somehow familiar, but Wynn couldn’t place him until she noticed . . .

  His hair was gray, and yet he looked young in the passage’s dim light.

  This one had come with Rodian the night that she, Chane, Shade, and Domin il’Sänke had taken on the wraith, Sau’ilahk, outside a scribe shop. The captain had called him Lúcan.