Between Their Worlds

Chapter 18

CHANE GAUGED HIS speed to stay just in sight of the guards. He needed to give Leesil time to slip through and hopefully find Wynn, while keeping these guards out of the way. It was galling to find himself actually helping that half-blood, but there was no other option where Wynn was concerned.

“Stop!” a guard shouted somewhere behind him. “By order of the Shyldfälches!”

Did they really think that was going to work?

Beyond the common hall’s front archway, he rounded the passage’s corner and took off at full speed. He raced by the common hall’s narrower side arch and the kitchen entrance across from it.

Much as he was tempted, he could not duck into the kitchens just yet. The guards were too close, and he had to lure them farther away from the main entrance. Some parts of the main building were familiar to him; other parts were less so. Stuck with what little he knew, he was already growing frantic.

Chane skidded to a stop where the passage turned left before the library’s northern entrance. Down that turn lay the north tower, where High-Tower had his study. Short of that was the door leading to the inner bailey’s backside. That was likely locked up due to Rodian’s security measures. No doubt the same had been done for the tower’s door or even the archive’s stairwell to its left.

He noticed the kitchen’s side door across from the rear exit into the bailey. Then he heard the guards round the previous corner.

Chane bolted off, running for the kitchen’s side door, a place he knew little about. But if he kept the guards busy long enough, perhaps he might still find a way through the kitchen into the storage building.

He still needed a look across the courtyard to see if Wynn was trapped in her room.

Wynn pocketed her crystal before rushing out into the dark passage. Ore-Locks pushed past her, and this time she didn’t argue. There was little to see in the dark except the dim glow of the entrance’s cold lamp, hidden from view.

“The shout came from up there,” Ore-Locks whispered.

Wynn barely made out his chin jutting northward along the main passage.

“We have to find Chane quickly,” she whispered back, “before he—”

Ore-Locks leveled his iron staff, and Wynn backed up. She had to duck left as he suddenly twisted the staff into a swing before grabbing it with his other hand. She heard a sharp clang of steel against the staff’s iron.

Wynn caught a glimpse of a dark figure stumbling into the passage wall beyond Ore-Locks. Almost instantly, a taller figure rushed forward out of the darkness at the dwarf. She didn’t have time to moan as she dug for her crystal. If these were guards, hopefully Ore-Locks could knock them unconscious without serious harm.

As the iron staff recoiled from the first strike, Ore-Locks arced it straight down in the tall one’s path. That one hopped into a midair crouch that made Wynn’s eyes widen. The staff struck where its feet had been.

Small bits of stone went flying from the impact, but Wynn’s gaze was still fixed on the tall form appearing to hover for an instant in the air. He was just too tall to have moved so quickly, and between wraps of black cloth covering his lower face and hair were large amber eyes. One of those eyes glowed out through a set of four parallel scars.

Wynn recognized his half-hidden face.

The front end of Ore-Locks’s iron staff recoiled off the floor. He turned its momentum sideways across the passage, and Wynn had to duck the staff’s back end once more.

The staff struck the left wall. Like a controlled ricochet in Ore-Locks’s great hands, its tip bounced off, arcing back across the passage, and then down at the first figure trying to push off the right wall.

“Valhachkasej’â!” that one snarled, raising his arms to block at the last instant.

Wynn saw two white metal winged blades on his arms.

“Ah no!” she breathed.

The staff struck the blades and slammed Leesil into the passage wall.

“No ... no! No!” Wynn cried.

She tried to grab Ore-Locks, but he swung the staff back at Brot’an. Wynn ducked the staff’s butt again, and when it passed, she threw herself atop Ore-Locks’s broad back, trying to grip with her legs as she fumbled to cover his eyes with her hands.

“Stop!” Wynn shouted. “Everyone ... stop it now!”

Rodian was still calculating which guards to move where when Lúcan had reappeared out of the northeast storage building. Since that ugly night, when the young corporal had been left so marred, he rarely expressed any open emotion. Now his hair was disheveled and his tabard was slightly askew, as if he’d been running. He looked distraught.

Rodian trotted across the courtyard, meeting Lúcan halfway.

“What’s happened?” he asked, slowing to a stop.

“The premin is gone!”

“What? How?”

“I showed her into the study and shut the door. Then one of those other handleless iron doors down there opened. Two dark-robed sages took one look at me, glanced at the premin’s door, and then ducked back inside before I could question them. Something wasn’t right, and I opened the study door to check on the premin. She wasn’t there anymore.”

Lúcan shook his head, dropping his gaze.

“I don’t know how, sir,” he continued. “Believe me, she couldn’t have snuck by me, and there’s no other way out of there.”

Rodian wasn’t going to blame his corporal, and he guessed that someone like Hawes was in little danger on her own. But he wanted to throw up his hands in frustration.

May the Blessed Trinity of Sentience take pity on him—just once—trapped again among sages!

“Watch the portcullis,” he ordered Lúcan. “I’ll handle this.”

Finding Hawes was unlikely, though he wondered where she’d gone and how. The premin had been doing something inside the main building, besides a faked search for a nonexistent initiate.

Rodian strode off for the keep’s main doors.

Wynn saw Brot’an freeze to stare back at her.

“Get off me,” Ore-Locks growled.

She looked at Leesil and then Brot’an again as the tall elder elf pulled down his face wrap. It was the only time Wynn could remember seeing the master anmaglâhk astonished, at least as much as she was.

“What are you doing here?” she breathed in shock. “Leesil, what’s going on?

Ore-Locks pulled her hands off his eyes. “You know these two?”

Leesil righted himself, wobbling. He shook out one arm and rolled a shoulder. When he jerked his face wrap down, Wynn melted in relief at the sight of his familiar features.

“Will you get off ... now?” Ore-Locks repeated.

Wynn slid off Ore-Locks’s back and ducked around him, and then her relief wavered. “Leesil?”

He didn’t make an inappropriate joke or come to give her a quick hug. He didn’t even look at Ore-Locks after being slammed against the wall twice.

Leesil stood there, eyeing her coldly.

Wynn’s stomach knotted up again. Something was terribly wrong.

He stepped toward her, making Ore-Locks tense up, and then passed right by her. He headed down the passage, away from the main doors.

“Come on,” he said without looking back.

“But Leesil—” Wynn began.

“Now!” he snapped, never breaking stride.

“Who are these two?” Ore-Locks demanded.

“Friends come to free her,” Brot’an answered. “As have you, it appears. Introductions can wait.”

Brot’an tucked his stilettos back up his sleeves and waved Wynn after Leesil, who’d paused halfway down the passage but hadn’t looked back.

Wynn’s thoughts cleared enough to race in another direction. Chane had to be in trouble, and she turned to Ore-Locks.

“I’m safe with these two, so you need to—”

“What? No! I will not just leave you with—”

“Yes, you will,” she cut in. “You have to go find him ... help him!”

Ore-Locks’s glare drifted from her to Brot’an and back again. Then they all heard a door handle ratchet up near the entryway up the passage.

Brot’an snatched Wynn by the arm and dragged her after Leesil. When Ore-Locks tried to intervene, Wynn waved him off.

“I’m safe,” she whispered. “Now find him and get him out of here!”

She tried to look back and see if Ore-Locks did as she asked, but she kept stumbling as Brot’an dragged her in his longer strides. They rounded the corner toward the library’s southernmost entrance, and Ore-Locks was gone from sight.

Wynn pulled away from Brot’an and ran after Leesil. When she caught up, he kept on. He didn’t even acknowledge her presence until they reached the first door to the library—which was open. With barely a glance, Leesil grabbed Wynn’s wrist and pulled her after him down that narrower passage to the second door.

Wynn had no idea how he knew where to go, and his grip was too tight. What could she possibly have done to make him so angry?

This no longer felt like a rescue.

Rodian stepped through the keep’s main doors into the entryway and heard a distant, faint shout. He thought it was Jonah’s voice, and then pounding footfalls carried faintly from somewhere up the main passage’s northern half. As he was about to head off that way, something caught his eye.

He pivoted in the other direction and peered down the passage’s southern half. Had he seen a glimmer of light down there? Had something moved in the dark between him and that brief glow?

He squinted but saw nothing, yet he was certain he hadn’t imagined it. Then came the heavy scrape of a boot.

Pulling his sword, he turned south down the main passage. His steps quickened the farther he went, and still he saw nothing in the dark. When he reached the first left-hand turn into the passage to the library’s southeast end, again there was that soft, brief glow.

The library’s southeast door was open, and the glow had come from beyond it and the passage to the second door. How could both doors be unlocked?

Rodian broke into a run for the library door.

Chane ducked through the kitchen’s side door and around the long butcher-block table. He heard the guards coming nearer and quickly looked about.

Wynn had once mentioned leaving kitchen duty by way of a back door to the storage building. Footsteps suddenly pounded right by the kitchen’s side door. Chane ducked low, for the guards had caught up quicker than he had hoped.

“Do you see him?” one guard called.

“No. He’s fast.... Check the doors at the end while I check this one.”

Chane heard one set of footsteps hurry off along the passage toward the north tower. Likely the other had turned to check the rear door into the bailey. Once they found all doors locked, they would have only one route that he could have taken—into this kitchen. He was growing very tired of this and glanced quickly along the kitchen’s back.

There was a door, but it faced rearward instead of to the left, in the direction of the storage building. If he took that door and stepped into some scullery, he would be trapped.

The frustration was too much. He wavered at the decision between ducking out the kitchen’s main entrance to outdistance the guards in reaching the keep’s main doors and finding somewhere else to hide. That would put him in a bad place, as well. The guards might even hear him and turn back toward the main entryway, and into Wynn’s way if she and Ore-Locks came in.

There was one option that might keep the guards searching here a little longer. He half crawled between the kitchen’s preparation tables.

“Everything’s locked up,” one guard called.

“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.

Pawl 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.

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 didn’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.”