Between Their Worlds

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 beyond 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.

“Master Teagan was feeling worse,” Imaret rambled on. “I told him I could finish, that it wouldn’t take me long, and I’d get home quick enough before dark, but I ... must’ve dozed off ... didn’t hear the bells.”

“Your parents will be worried,” Pawl returned, “if they haven’t come looking for you already and you didn’t hear them knocking. I will be the one to answer for this.”

“No, you don’t need to ... I mean, yes, you should take me home, but you don’t need to explain anything. They won’t ... be worried.”

Her gaze shifted nervously away and she blinked again.

This was the second time the girl alluded to something wrong at home. Pawl had far too much on his mind, with no wish to be entangled in the personal affairs of his employees. But still ...

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Imaret remained quiet for a moment. Pawl folded his arms as she purposefully avoided meeting his eyes.

“Early this winter,” she began quietly, “we found out that Mama was going to have another baby. The three of us were so happy.... But she’s not young, and something happened. She lost the baby this last new moon. She was sad for some days, and then more days, and then she didn’t get out of bed anymore.”

Imaret sniffed before going on.

“Papa tries to make it better. That’s all he does now, but it doesn’t help. No one cooks food anymore ... no one knows when I’m there ... or not there.”

Pawl remained perfectly still and silent. Rationally, he should say nothing at all, for this was not his burden as long as Imaret remained functional in his shop. But still ...

“I am older than you think,” he began. “I have seen such things before. It may improve.”

She tilted her head to one side, peering up at him. “You think?”

“Perhaps.” He paused, trying to find a comparison. “Like a sharp paper cut when you are handling freshly trimmed sheets, the wound is quick and startling. The pain lingers long after. But with enough time, it is nothing but scar and memory, and even ...”

He stalled a bit too long. “And even these can fade ... with time.”

Imaret appeared somewhat consoled, though his words were certainly no answer for a parent’s neglect. They were all that Pawl could offer without becoming more involved. She climbed off the high stool, prepared to leave before he had even said so.

“What time is it?” Imaret asked.

“Past midnight. Set your quills and brushes to soak. Your parents may be more worried than you assume.”

She scurried about cleaning up her desk, and Pawl waited in silence. She had just set to cleaning her quill heads when a knock carried from the shop’s front room. Imaret turned, one quill still in hand.

“Who could that be?” she whispered.

Pawl glanced down to find her right behind him, peeking around his leg.

“Wait here,” he instructed.

He grabbed the dimming lantern off its hook before heading out to the shop’s front. That anyone came knocking so late was unusual, more so if expecting to find anyone on the premises. Such conditions rarely meant anything good waited outside, and he opened the front door, ready to demand an explanation.

Pawl stopped before a word escaped.

A cloaked dwarf carrying a stout iron staff stood outside, looking up at Pawl with a frown. He was clean-shaven—unusual for a male dwarf—and something about his features and red hair brought Domin High-Tower to Pawl’s mind, though this one’s hair was not shot with steel gray.

“We are closed,” Pawl said coldly. “Come back during the business day.”

“You are Master a’Seatt?” the dwarf asked, and when Pawl didn’t answer, he went on in a low voice. “I have a private message for you concerning one of your scribes.”

Again, Pawl hesitated, glancing along the street at all the shops, now dark and shuttered for the night. It was doubtful this had to do with Imaret’s tardiness and parents, yet the coincidence bothered him. Still, it was only a dwarf, and he stepped back to let the visitor inside. Before he could even close the front door, he heard the swinging doors behind the counter.

Imaret emerged from the back room, disregarding his instructions, and peered over the top of the counter. Perhaps she thought it might be Nikolas, though it was far too late for even one of his visits. To heighten Pawl’s wariness, the dwarf fixed on Imaret’s dusky young face and dark, kinky hair curling in all directions.

“Are you Imaret?” the dwarf asked.

That captured Pawl’s full attention, and he stepped between them. “Who are you?”

The dwarf raised one red eyebrow. “I am here on behalf of Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht. She believes your people might willingly get a message to a Nikolas Columsarn at the guild, who in turn could deliver it to Premin Hawes in private.”

“Nikolas!” Imaret gasped.

Pawl raised one finger at her for silence, though he kept his eyes on the dwarf.

“What is in this message?” he asked.

“Simply a request to meet, though Journeyor Hygeorht does not wish this to be known by anyone else. There are difficulties with the guild that she would like ... solved. Premin Hawes has offered assistance.”

Pawl studied him. Difficulties with the guild, solutions and private meetings outside of that place ... What did it all mean? The one thing he wanted more than anything else was for the translation project, and his attached transcription work, to proceed—for the pieces of those ancient texts to once more flow through his shop. Any difficulties between Wynn Hygeorht and the guild might be linked to the work’s halt—or not. Any solution might solve both those impediments—or not. But Pawl was not involving one of his scribes in such subterfuge.

“All that’s required is that this message reach Premin Hawes?” he asked.

The dwarf frowned. “Yes, but—”

Another knock sounded, this one much sharper and louder than the first.

Pawl started slightly, sensing another close-by life outside his door. What was going on that his shop should become the center of midnight activity? Suddenly the latch turned and the front door opened, for Pawl had not locked it upon letting in the dwarf.

Captain Rodian stood in the opening, and his gaze shifted away from Pawl at the sight of the dwarf.

“Forgive the late intrusion,” the captain said, still not looking back at Pawl. “I did not expect to find you conducting business so late.”

“Yet you enter just the same,” Pawl returned.

“I stopped by, on the chance you were here, before checking at your residence.”

The last implication set Pawl on edge. How did Rodian know where he lived unless the man had checked the commerce records for all shop owners? Even during the unfortunate business last autumn, Rodian had never set up a meeting at Pawl’s home.

The dwarf ignored the captain and looked at Pawl. “May I count on you for this ... translation?”

He held out a folded paper. One edge was ragged, as if torn off.

Pawl hesitated. If events were to continue as he hoped, then he could not refuse. His shop had worked with Hawes on projects for her various journeyors. If he visited the guild tomorrow and told the guard at the gate that he needed to see her, even if they kept him waiting at the portcullis, she would come. There was no need to involve Imaret or Nikolas.

Pawl took the folded sheet. “The work will not be completed until tomorrow. You may expect the results after dusk, at a guess, and no sooner.”

“My thanks.” And as suddenly as the dwarf had appeared, he slipped out and was gone.

“A bit late for a customer,” Rodian commented, closing the front door.

“Or for a visit from the Shyldfälches,” Pawl countered, and then gestured to Imaret. “One of my scribes worked too late. I need to get her home, so please ... be brief.”

“I am looking for Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht,” the captain said.

Pawl slipped beyond suspicion but remained silent. This was one too many synchronicities in one night.

The captain went on. “She was taken from the guild tonight, and in the past, when ... difficulties have occurred for her, she’s been found here more than once. I simply wished to check again. Have you seen her?”

“Taken?” Pawl repeated, ignoring the rest, and then grew angry with himself for sounding so incredulous.

He knew better than to expose any reaction to one such as the captain. From what Pawl had witnessed, Wynn Hygeorht had not been “taken” by anyone. Whether the captain knew so or not was in doubt, but the implication of Rodian’s choice of word warned of further complications.

“Have you seen her?” Rodian repeated.

“No.”

“What about you, miss?” Rodian asked.

Pawl turned the full intensity of his gaze on Imaret. She in turn glanced more than once between him and the captain.

“No ... no, I haven’t seen Wynn in a long time,” Imaret answered.

Rodian nodded and turned to Pawl. “I thought not, but had to check. Don’t be alarmed if you see one of my men somewhere outside tomorrow. The royal family is anxious to have the journeyor found and returned safely. So we must cover anywhere she has connections.”

Pawl remained outwardly passive at his shop being put under watch. “Of course. Thank you for informing me beforehand.”

“And you will let me know if you see her ... or her dog. You know the one.”

“Certainly.”

With the superficial exchange concluded, the exhausted-looking captain nodded and headed out the door. As soon as the door shut, Imaret rushed out from behind the counter, straight at Pawl.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Now get your cloak, before we are further delayed.”

He waited as Imaret scurried off to the workroom, but his thoughts turned to her again. He knew the owner of a local eatery who owed him more than one favor. Tomorrow, he would make arrangements to have cooked meals delivered to Imaret’s house each morning until further notice. He made a mental note, as well, to tell Teagan to find some local girl for a maid to visit the home at least once per quarter moon ... until further notice.

Chap was familiar with the social discomfort observed in humans during awkward silences. However, as a member of the Fay, born into flesh within a majay-hì pup, he had rarely been affected by such.

Yet here in this dark little room, he was in the company of a bloodthirsty monster obsessed with Wynn, his own estranged daughter, and an elven butcher willing to murder his own kind as long as it served his agenda.

How could this not be awkward?

Almost as soon as Ore-Locks had left to the deliver the message, Brot’an dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged to wait. Was not that what anmaglâhk did—wait as if without care until the moment to strike, always listening ... watching everything?

The sight did not unsettle Chap. He had expected nothing else, especially from Brot’an. What did unsettle him was the sight of Chane sinking down to sit on the bed’s edge, with Wynn joining him, sitting close enough that her shoulder touched his upper arm. Then Shade sidled in against Wynn’s outside leg.

The three of them looked so ... together.

“Chane, hand me the pitcher and basin,” Wynn said. The sudden sound of her voice was startling in the silent room.

Chane reached for the chipped basin and a pitcher on the tiny table beside the bed. He handed these to Wynn, who immediately poured water and set the basin on the floor for Shade to lap.

Chap had sent Shade to watch over Wynn, but it appeared the caretaking went both ways.

“Are you thirsty?” Wynn asked.

Chap looked up from watching his daughter and found Wynn watching him.

No, I am ... fine.

He would have rather shouted into her thoughts, demanding why she sat there next to that thing ... that walking corpse. He wanted to force an explanation from Shade as to why she tolerated this, as well. His daughter was majay-hì; aside from their guardianship of elven lands, their kind protected the living from the undead.

Chap did neither of those things. He feared that if he did, he would receive no answers and only weaken the tentative thread holding all of them together. For Wynn was right about one thing. The lines being drawn here were going to create unexpected, unwanted alliances. No matter how abhorrent, these alliances could not be refused ... for now.

They all sat in silence, except when Wynn briefly questioned Chane about how he and Ore-Locks had managed to escape the keep. Chane’s even shorter answers in his voiceless rasp made Chap’s skin crawl beneath his bristling fur. It felt as if more than one night had crawled by when they all heard heavy-booted steps outside the little room’s door.

“It is me,” a low, deep voice whispered outside.

Chane went to open the door, and Ore-Locks stepped inside.

“Did you find anyone at the shop?” Wynn asked.

“Yes, your Master a’Seatt ... and the girl,” Ore-Locks answered. “I passed on the note, and I think we should hear something by tomorrow night.”

Wynn closed her eyes in relief.

“There is more,” Ore-Locks went on, his thick red eyebrows scrunching. “That captain, the one with the trimmed beard, stopped by the shop before I left.”

Wynn’s eyes snapped opened again. “Rodian? What did he want?”

Ore-Locks shook his head. “I left before he did, but thought it worth mentioning.”

Wynn looked troubled, but Chap was relieved. With the message delivered, their goal accomplished, this unsavory encounter was at an end.

We have plans to make and things to discuss back at our own quarters. We go ... and Shade should come, too. She belongs with us.

Wynn looked at him. “You and Brot’an go back. Shade and I are staying here. These are our quarters.”

Chap jumped to his feet in shock, as if he had not heard her correctly.

Brot’an stood up instantly, looking between them. It appeared he was becoming more adept at knowing when something had passed silently between Chap and another.

“What is happening?” the elf demanded.

“Chap thinks it is time to return to Leesil and Magiere,” Wynn related. “He’s right, but Shade and I are staying here. In my message to Hawes, I told her to come to me ... here. You two go back and let the others know what is happening.”

Chap could not hold back a snarl. No! If you or Shade remain, then so do I.

“You can’t,” she told him calmly. “Leesil will never believe anything if Brot’an’s the only one to report back. You have to go with him.”

Brot’an kept glancing between them, at a loss for having heard only half of what was said. Chap was in no mood to have Wynn explain, nor for any more of her nonsense.

And what will Leesil say when I return without you? What will Magiere say ... or do?

“Tell them I have to meet with Premin Hawes. They will understand—they have to.”

“No, they will not,” Brot’an spoke up. “You will leave with us, little one.”

This time it was Brot’an who received Wynn’s glare of warning. “Don’t think you can tell me what to do.”

Chane stood up, towering over Wynn, and Shade rose from her haunches, as well. Ore-Locks stood watching in confusion, his iron staff in one hand; he took hold of it with his other on witnessing Chane’s and Shade’s reactions.

Wynn looked nothing like the young woman Chap had once known, the one who had depended on him for so much. She appeared far too much at home as she rose between Chane and Shade. In his own quest to stop the Enemy, to locate the orbs, had he lost her? Or had she lost him?

“Go tell Magiere and Leesil what’s happened,” Wynn said. “If they don’t understand now, they soon will. When I’ve spoken with Premin Hawes, I’ll let you know everything I’ve learned. Then ... we plan our next move, and not before.”

Chap considered knocking her on her backside and dragging her off. Twisted as it was, Brot’an would most certainly aid him. But in looking at Wynn, it seemed even that would come to nothing. He saw there was truly nothing he could say or do to make her leave this place.

It was a deeply unsettling realization.

Still shaking from anger and fear, Magiere stood before the closed door. She could barely believe what had taken place. Wynn might believe that lines were being drawn, but for Magiere, if that meant a murdering undead like Chane was an ally, the line separating the living from its worst threat had been erased.

Over and over, she remembered demanding to know how Wynn could accept Chane’s protection. She couldn’t stop thinking of Wynn’s answer.

Because you weren’t there. None of you.

Had Wynn had no choice but to accept Chane’s help because everyone else had abandoned her?

Even amid guilt, Magiere couldn’t accept that, and, still trying to silence Wynn’s voice in her head, she turned her eyes to Leesil. She had no idea what to say to him. How could they just stand here and wait? Neither of them had ever been any good at that.

She believed in taking a fight head-on. He believed in coming at it from the side before anyone saw him. Neither approach seemed possible now.

“We should use this time,” Leanâlhâm said. “Who knows when we will have a moment again to do anything for ourselves.”

Unexpectedly, Magiere had Leanâlhâm to thank for easing the tension. She studied the girl’s slender face, smooth brown hair, and those startlingly green eyes that should have been amber.

“What do you suggest?” Magiere asked doubtfully.

Leanâlhâm stepped to the hearth. “Leesil, will you start a fire so we can cook?”

Her Belaskian was simple, but she spoke it well—far better than Osha, considering he was an anmaglâhk.

“Magiere, you help Osha with his words,” Leanâlhâm went on. “If we travel together, seek orbs together, he must learn to speak better.”

“Now?” Osha asked, though he didn’t turn from his vigil at the window.

“Yes, now,” Leanâlhâm answered, and she began digging through a pack to retrieve a small pot, raw potatoes, and a few green stalks Magiere couldn’t identify. “Do you have something more important to do?”

Magiere caught the quaver in the girl’s voice. She remembered that moment between Osha and Wynn, on Wynn’s first arrival, and how Leanâlhâm had reacted. That situation bore watching, and Magiere reached out to touch Leesil’s shoulder.

“Get a fire started. We have to eat.”

She then went to drop on the floor across from Osha at the window’s other side, still hesitant at the notion of language lessons amid all of this. She couldn’t help remembering how Wynn had once done this. Most of the Belaskian Osha knew, he’d learned from the sage.

“Leesil, do you have a knife?” Leanâlhâm asked.

“Nothing I’d let you use on potatoes,” he answered, gathering sticks from a pile near the hearth. “I’ll find you something.”

Everything seemed so normal and, although the illusion didn’t fool Magiere, she was grateful that the girl tried just the same. Doing something—anything—was better than staring at the room’s closed door.

Osha put his back to the wall and slid down to the floor. He glanced over, watching Magiere with some unspoken concern. Leanâlhâm wasn’t the only one exposed to Magiere’s growing problem. Suddenly, even language lessons seemed better than facing that.

“How did Wynn do this?” Magiere asked bluntly.

Osha tilted his head back against the wall, his long, white-blond hair falling away from his face.

“She ... talk,” he said, a bit too wistfully. “Ask question. Make me answer. Scold if I talk Elvish.”

What Magiere truly wanted to ask was what Osha and Leanâlhâm were doing here. But by the way these two obeyed Brot’an’s every command, resentfully or not, it was too soon to press for answers.

Osha lowered his head, as if sad, and Magiere regretted turning his thoughts toward Wynn.

“I’ll give it a try,” she said. “You’re certainly doing better than Leesil did with your language.”

Osha lifted his head and blinked twice in puzzlement.

It had been a long time since Magiere had first entered the Elven Territories with Leesil, Chap, and Wynn. Along the way, Wynn had tried to tutor Leesil in Elvish, though it turned out to be the wrong dialect. Almost immediately, they’d been intercepted by anmaglâhk, including Sgäile and Osha. Since Osha was the most amiable among that escort, Leesil had thought to try out his new language skills.

Osha had paled in shock, flushed with fury, and drawn a stiletto. Wynn had to rush in, frantically trying to explain. Whatever Leesil had tried to say, it had come out wrong ... and as a possible insult to Osha’s mother.

Magiere cocked her head toward Leesil and then winked at Osha.

Osha rolled his eyes, snorted, and covered his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh.

“I not this bad,” he whispered, but loud enough to be overheard.

Leesil paused at the hearth long enough to shoot him a scowl.

“I am not that bad,” Magiere corrected. “Now tell me about the voyage across the eastern ocean.”

Osha turned serious, his thin lips tightening into a line as his jaw muscles clenched. He looked away, remaining silent.

“Not about Brot’an’s little secrets,” Magiere added. “Just the ship, the crew, the food ... the day to day.”

Osha half smiled, nodding. “Ath, bithâ!”

“No Elvish,” Magiere said. “I don’t understand it, anyway.”

In halting, broken phrases, Osha began telling her of his seafaring experiences among humans. Magiere listened, sometimes correcting a word or two. For the most part, all that mattered was that he could make his meaning clear.

Across the room, as the fire began to crackle, Leanâlhâm and Leesil spoke of mundane things, while he located a spare dagger and started on the potatoes.

“Those pieces are too big,” Leanâlhâm admonished. “Slice thinner.”

“That’ll take all night,” Leesil argued.

“If you do not, they will have to cook all night.”

She set the little iron pot’s handle onto the hearth’s arm and swung the pot in over the barely flickering flames. Magiere listened to Osha, but found it was not long before Leanâlhâm gently dropped a number of eggs still in their shells into the water. The potatoes followed, along with the greens she’d cut up.

After a while, Osha grew frustrated with fighting for new words he didn’t know. Soon after, he was saved from further struggle.

“All right, you two,” Leesil said. “Come eat something.”

They shared a late supper, maintaining the illusion that all was normal. But once the meal was done, they fell back into silent waiting—until the door opened.

Brot’an stepped in, followed by Chap.

Magiere climbed to her feet. Part of her was still enraged and heatedly hoping to talk some sense into Wynn about this insane notion of accepting help from anyone who offered.

Brot’an shut the door, and Magiere’s thoughts went blank. It took two breaths before she could speak.

“Where’s Wynn?”

Chap stalked right by her toward the hearth with a breathy exhale through his teeth.

Brot’an didn’t answer at first, and then said, “Wynn has chosen to remain with her other companions.”

Leesil had allowed Leanâlhâm’s domestic activities to suppress his own sense of betrayal and panic. He’d been on the verge of feeling almost himself again. Then Brot’an had returned and answered Magiere’s question.

Leesil was on his feet, but he didn’t speak to Brot’an. He turned on Chap.

“You left her there ... with him?”

Chap clacked his jaw and then huffed twice.

“It was not his choice,” Brot’an added.

Magiere stepped between the two, caught at the room’s center as she tried to pick one of them to go at. She finally fixed on Brot’an.

“Wynn would not leave,” Brot’an said before Magiere got out a word. “Forcing her would have accomplished nothing.”

Leesil was at a loss, puzzled by how visibly uncomfortable Brot’an looked.

“I tried to dissuade her, as did Chap,” Brot’an continued, ignoring Magiere, and turning to Leesil. “You did not see her there. She is in no danger, and perhaps where she belongs for what she must do ... for all of us.”

Leesil took a step, but Magiere got in his way as she rushed to the bed. It had been stupid to let Brot’an go in the first place, as he cared nothing for Wynn other than what she might accomplish for him. In one motion, Magiere grabbed her cloak from the pile on the bed and pushed right past Brot’an for the door.

“Chap, you show me where she is—now!” Magiere half shouted. “She’s coming back, one way or another.”

Leesil nodded. “I’m coming, too.”

“You cannot,” Brot’an returned, his voice rising above its usually calm, firm state. “She has set careful plans in motion, ones worthy of her intelligence. A message has been sent to a Premin Hawes at the guild’s castle, who will meet with Wynn to assist in translating the scroll that was mentioned. Wynn will then come to us. By tomorrow night, we may know the location of another orb.”

No one had a response to that, and Leesil struggled over what to do.

“Wynn has become a warrior in her way,” Brot’an said, “to hinder the Enemy, to stop another war. Would you dismiss her efforts?”

Leesil turned on him. “And what about you helping us, helping her ... all out of the goodness of your heart? In seven hells! What are you really doing here?”

Brot’an narrowed his large amber eyes; one glared through the cage bars of old scars.

Leesil didn’t expect an honest answer, and nodded to Magiere as he headed for the door.

“I do not trust Most Aged Father,” Brot’an said, freezing Leesil in his steps. “No more than I would trust the Ancient Enemy to retreat into hiding. I would keep these orbs from them both. Wynn is driven by this purpose, and I would join her in it ... even if I must go through you.”

Brot’an shifted around Leesil in a lunge that forced Leesil to back up.

“What are you really doing here?” Brot’an echoed.

Leesil was momentarily rattled. Brot’an may have a bagful of other secrets, but in that smaller part where Most Aged Father was concerned, he was telling the truth. Leesil looked to Magiere.

She watched them both, and he clearly saw pain and fear in her dark eyes at Brot’an’s words. Like Leesil, Magiere had frozen in doubt. Only Chap remained as he’d always been concerning the master assassin. He rumbled, jowls pulled back partway.

Leesil hadn’t received even one recalled memory from Chap, and likely neither had Magiere. For all Chap’s hatred of the old butcher, he hadn’t tried to argue against Brot’an in any way.

Leesil realized how hard this night must have been for Chap. Chap cared deeply for Wynn, and he’d lost a daughter because of it.

They couldn’t go to Chane’s inn and drag Wynn away.

“What ...” Leesil tried to say. “What now, then?”

“A plan,” Brot’an answered, “to escape this city, once we have a destination.”

Leesil closed his eyes. Another journey, another orb, another journey, and then what? How many times would it repeat, the next time getting harder than the last? Even succeeding wouldn’t make anything better, likely only worse.

He felt Magiere’s fingers sliding into his palm, and he gripped her hand.

“If you are going to plan,” Leanâlhâm said almost too quietly to hear, “then Brot’ân’duivé and the majay-hì should eat while you talk.”

Again, the girl’s plain manner cut the tension by half.

Leesil pulled Magiere toward the hearth. Osha joined them next, and finally Brot’an. But Chap lay down in the middle of the room, facing away toward the door. Leanâlhâm brought him a plate, but he didn’t even sniff at it. Slowly, while Brot’an ate, they all began to talk.

“The city guard won’t be a problem,” Leesil said. “Those anmaglâhk are something else.”

Osha nodded. “They watch all ...” He faltered, switching to Elvish as he spoke to Brot’an.

“Exits,” Brot’an finished for him. “If they have enough, they will have someone watching any way out of the city.”

Leesil reached over and grabbed his pack and pulled out the talking hide, though at present, Chap showed no interest in conversation.

“Where will the anmaglâhk focus now?” Leesil asked, and then shook his head. “No, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Wherever we’re headed will likely be a long way off. That means a ship or a long trek over land. There’s only so much we can do until Wynn gets back.”

Brot’an nodded once. “The numbers of the anmaglâhk on your trail have dwindled, though I do not know their actual count. Another issue is that they will have word-wood devices—one or more. If so, once we are free of the city, and should they learn of our direction, they could report it to Most Aged Father. Though my people are a long way from here, he could still deploy more of his loyalists to intercept us ... again, depending upon our destination.”

Leesil hesitated at that one unique word—“loyalists.”

Brot’an, and even Leesil’s mother, Nein’a, were part of a long-standing and silent, dissident faction among the an’Cróan, including some among the Anmaglâhk. Had the situation in the Elven Territories now escalated further? It seemed unlikely that Brot’an would make such a slip. Or had it been intentional? And what was Leesil’s mother doing even now, somewhere across the world?

“Wynn said there are two orbs left,” Magiere put in. “We don’t know which one we’ll go after first. We’ll need to pick one before we even know where we’re going.”

“Unless we go after both,” Leesil added.

Magiere and Brot’an focused intently on him.

He already knew how this suggestion would affect Brot’an. Even now, the shadow-gripper was calculating what to do should they split into two groups. Leesil didn’t look at Magiere, as that would’ve invited another argument. He went on before she could start in on him.

“We have to get this over with,” he said. “And whichever orb is closest, those who go after it will have to stall for those who will make the longer journey.”

“How?” Osha asked. “Decoy?”

“No, at least not like the last,” Brot’an answered. “We gave them something hidden in plain sight that they could not resist looking into, something obvious to uncover. That will not work a second time.”

“Or ... we could be even more obvious,” Leesil countered. “Give them something so plain to see that in their panic, they won’t think to second-guess it.”

Magiere sighed in frustration, and Leesil knew she was sick of this roundabout approach. But Brot’an’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

Only Leesil would’ve caught it while looking into those old eyes. As the master anmaglâhk nodded slightly in agreement, Leesil grew sick inside.

Once again, he found himself thinking too much like the old butcher—and he hated that. But if it got Magiere out of here alive, he could live with it.