Between Their Worlds

Chapter 5

RODIAN STRUGGLED TO calm Snowbird as he absorbed all that had happened. His immediate focus was on regrouping his men, getting them into action, and seeing who had been injured, including his horse. Then Premin Hawes had shouted to let the man go ... the man who’d just assaulted his men.

Hawes stood beyond the gatehouse tunnel’s far end, holding Wynn Hygeorht by the forearm.

If he hadn’t been called to arrest the escaping man, then why was he here? Why had Wynn’s wolf attacked and then run off with the man who’d struck his horse? Rodian had seen that man with Wynn in the past, but he’d never ascertained the nature of their relationship. And Wynn had never offered much in that regard.

“Sir?” Branwell asked gruffly.

The lieutenant obviously wanted to give chase. Rodian had half a mind to let him. He again wondered what he’d just walked into.

For better or worse, Wynn Hygeorht appeared to be right in the middle of it all once again.

“Hold,” Rodian ordered, handing off Snowbird’s reins to Branwell. “Lúcan, go see to Angus. Make sure he’s all right.”

Rodian was angry and didn’t bother to hide it as he strode into the gatehouse tunnel. Hawes was almost unknown to him, as he’d never directly dealt with her before. But as he neared the inner courtyard, his attention shifted to Wynn. Her oval face had come to his mind often over the winter, though he hadn’t seen her since last autumn. Given events back then, he was at a loss for what to say to her.

The question became moot when Hawes frowned at his approach, half turned, and called out, “Dorian.”

A dark-haired sage in a midnight blue robe appeared from beyond the left of the tunnel’s inner end. He was wiping away blood dripping from his nose. Hawes whispered something to the young man and handed Wynn over to him.

“Premin, no!” Wynn cried, trying to pull from the male sage’s grasp.

The dark-robed young sage, a metaologer like Hawes, began dragging Wynn toward the keep’s main building. She struggled and shouted at him to let go, but to no avail.

As Rodian entered the courtyard, he had an urge to rush in and pull the bloody-nosed sage off Wynn. Then he spotted two more sages, both in dark blue robes, and the pair fell in behind Wynn. All four passed through the keep’s doors and out of sight.

Rodian was alone in the courtyard with Hawes, and he turned on her.

“What is happening here?” he barked. “Where is she being taken?”

Premin Hawes was as composed and still as the keep’s cold stone. “Captain, you of all people are aware that Journeyor Hygeorht is given to excesses. This is for her own safety.”

“Safety from what? Don’t tell me it was that man fighting his way out of here. I saw them together the night they helped put down the black mage. Remember ... the one who’d been killing your people over old books no one was allowed to see?”

“There was trouble with other interlopers earlier this evening,” she answered. “That is why the high premin called for you. We require your assistance with security.”

Rodian would’ve preferred dealing with High-Tower. The dwarf was easier to prod into a slip of temper. Even Sykion could be shaken. But this premin was calm and unmoved. Her tone told him nothing beneath her words.

“Interlopers?” he repeated. “Not the one who just left with Wynn’s wolf?”

“He is of no concern, and we managed to send away the others I mentioned. We intend that you keep them away.”

Rodian tensed. Her words were too close to the tone of Sykion’s “request” for his presence. “Who are these interlopers? What did they do to earn so much concern ... and fear?”

Hawes said nothing, and Rodian chose a different tactic, putting the burden on her, if the sages wanted his help.

“I’ll need complete descriptions if my men are to—”

“High Premin Sykion requests that you simply man the gate for now. Allow no one in or out without clear authorization from a member of the Premin Council.”

Rodian’s jaw muscles twitched. “With due respect, Premin, that won’t—”

Hawes turned away, cutting him off. “I am certain Premin Sykion will make all clear to you soon.”

He wasn’t being put off that easily, and quick-stepped around to cut her off. Hawes didn’t look the slightest bit intimidated.

“What does Journeyor Hygeorht have to do with this?” he demanded. “You should know that much ... you had better, for what I just saw.”

Rodian was still unsettled by the sight of Wynn being dragged off. For any trouble that had spilled beyond these walls in the past year, Wynn had usually been at the heart of it. But if they violated her legal rights, then that was all he needed to put the whole Premin Council, including Hawes, up against a wall.

She merely looked up at him, studying him dispassionately. “Journeyor Hygeorht will be returned to her room soon, but she may not leave it without the benefit of an escort.”

“Without an escort?” The ramifications began to sink in. “She may be a member of the guild, but she’s also a citizen. Her rights as such override any jurisdiction of the guild.”

For the first time, the slightest flicker of emotion lit up Hawes’s hazel eyes. Perhaps it was concern, but Rodian couldn’t quite read it.

“Captain,” she said slowly. “I believe you will find that the council has the full support of the royal family in this matter. Under the protection of the Âreskynna, we called you to provide security for the guild.”

Rodian backstepped unintentionally. There it was, like some fixed game of gambling tiles. Whenever pressed, the council always played the same tile: unquestioning patronage from the royals of Malourné.

Hawes moved around Rodian and headed toward the main keep. She called out once as she opened one of the doors.

“All will be clear soon, Captain.”

Once again, Rodian found himself hobbled in something murky, like everything to do with the sages. Unlike the last time, he wouldn’t be fooled into accepting Wynn Hygeorht as their scapegoat. Wynn might be up to something, but she certainly was not the only one scheming within these walls. However, she appeared to be alone in whatever conflict was playing out between her and the premins.

Rodian stalked down the gatehouse tunnel to where his men still waited. Angus rubbed at his shoulder, but his armor must have protected him, as he didn’t seem injured. Branwell stood there with a hard scowl, holding Snowbird’s reins.

“Sir?” he asked.

His tone set Rodian’s teeth further on edge. Every time Branwell used that word, it sounded like a subtle curse of disdain. Something had to be done to jerk him into line soon. For now, Rodian had larger questions and concerns.

There was only one place to seek a remedy: from the royal family, in person. He snatched Snowbird’s reins from the lieutenant’s hand and swung into the saddle.

“Lock this place down until I say otherwise,” he commanded. Before Branwell started questioning, Rodian shouted, “Lúcan!”

The corporal was limping slightly but otherwise seemed unhurt. He’d barely drawn near when Rodian spoke loud and clear for all present.

“I have a singular duty for you, Corporal. No one is to relieve you for any reason, unless you hear it directly from me.”

At that, Branwell’s scowl deepened, but Lúcan’s features were set in certainty. Before Rodian even explained, Lúcan nodded sharply.

“Done, Captain.”

Wynn stopped struggling or trying to reason with Dorian once he’d dragged her inside the main keep. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d gotten loose; there were two more just like him right behind her.

Once through the keep’s double doors, Dorian turned left and pulled Wynn down the front passage. He turned right toward the end and on to the stairway leading up, and she realized where he was taking her: to Premin Sykion’s office for questioning. Without meaning to, she slowed, putting more tension on Dorian’s grip.

Perhaps she had miscalculated in sending off Leesil, Magiere, and Chap, and then Chane. Now Shade was gone, as well, likely seeing what was necessary to get Chane and the scroll out of the guild. Before any of this, Wynn had thought herself at least safe here, but she began to question that assumption. She was cut off from anyone who understood anything about what she’d been trying to do in stopping another great war from coming. She was cut off from all who cared about her.

However, she’d seen Rodian’s face when Dorian grabbed her, and she well knew his feelings toward the domins and premins here. She probably couldn’t expect help from his quarter, but he had not looked happy with the situation. Why would Sykion call for him over a few unexpected guests in the archives?

“Dorian,” a familiar voice called from behind.

As Wynn’s procession slowed, Premin Hawes walked quickly past them.

Wynn refused to even look at Hawes as the premin took the lead up the stairs. Once, Wynn had considered Hawes a potential ally, but no more—not after tonight. When they reached the landing for Sykion’s office, Hawes walked right past Sykion’s door and onward.

Wynn’s stomach knotted as she realized she was being taken to the council chamber. Sykion wasn’t the only one Wynn would have to face.

After everything she’d been through tonight, she wasn’t prepared for this. Hawes walked right through the open chamber doors, and Dorian slowed to push Wynn in after the premin. All four of the other premins were already seated behind the long council table.

Hawes glanced back to Dorian. “Close the doors and wait outside.”

Wynn stood there as she heard the doors shut behind her, and Hawes took her place at the council table. The premin silently settled in the smoothly crafted, high-back chair at the table’s right end. All five such chairs were now filled with the members of the Premin Council, each in the robes of their own order.

Premin Adlam, in the light brown of Naturology, sat at the table’s left end. Next, on High Premin Sykion’s left, sat portly Premin Renäld of Sentiology in cerulean. Sykion, as head of the council, sat at the table’s center, dressed in the gray of Cathology—Wynn’s own order. On her right, Premin Jacque of Conamology had his elbows on the table, as was his habit.

And Hawes sat at the far right end, not even looking at Wynn.

There was one other person present, just like the last time Wynn had been hauled before the council. No real surprise there, since he’d always been present for her interrogations.

Domin High-Tower stood beyond the table, at the chamber’s rear, staring out one of the narrow windows. Someone else might have thought these proceedings didn’t interest him. Wynn knew he simply wouldn’t look at her until he had to.

She was so bone weary as she faced her superiors that she didn’t care anymore. All that mattered was how long she’d have to stand here before they’d give up.

“Journeyor Hygeorht,” Sykion began, “Tell us how and why your visitors this evening entered our archives without our consent or knowledge.”

With the exception of Hawes—and possibly High-Tower—the others all looked equally self-righteous. Anger—at their self-deceptions, at their ignorance and arrogance—began to feed Wynn a little strength.

“My friends came a long way to see me. They had no idea they needed permission. They’ve never been to a full guild branch and don’t know our ways.”

Sykion’s brows arched. “You will verify who they are.”

Had the situation been less dire, Wynn would’ve rolled her eyes—“verify,” not “identify.” She simply remained silent.

Her journals from travels in the Farlands had been confiscated upon her return, along with the ancient texts she’d brought back from where the first orb had been uncovered. Likely the entire council had read everything she’d written. But unlike with Chane, Wynn hadn’t foreseen the need to hide the identities of Leesil, Magiere, or Chap in her writing.

Premin Jacque cleared his throat. “Then you admit these were the same people who accompanied you on the journey in which you recovered the ancient texts?”

Yet another obvious question that Wynn wouldn’t answer. Where was all of this going?

“Why did they follow you here?” Sykion asked.

“You threw them out before I could ask,” Wynn finally responded. “Is this why I’ve been called before the council—to account for a few visitors who didn’t know our rules?”

Sykion’s mouth tightened. “You’ve been called to account for your recent assignment to the south ... in which you were required to complete only two tasks: to deliver one message to our guild annex in Chathburh and a second to the premin of the Lhoin’na guild branch. Apparently, you traveled much farther south, as your journey took longer than it should have.”

The high premin stopped briefly, as if weighing her next words, and Premin Renäld leaned over to murmur in her ear. She nodded, and in turn whispered softly to Premin Jacque as she shuffled through three separate papers on the table before her.

Wynn’s breath caught for an instant.

Beneath that small stack of sheets was an aquamarine ribbon, the kind always used to bind royal communications from the Âreskynna family. Wynn could swear she’d seen the remnants of a broken green wax seal on one other document. If so, that one likely had come from the guild branch of the Lhoin’na, the elves of this continent.

Her anger began to fade, replaced by growing anxiety.

Premin Renäld looked out at Wynn. “Do not doubt that we know you traveled much farther than your assigned duty required.”

Wynn kept silent, but her anxiety sharpened more when he glanced down at the paper stained by green sealing wax. Of course she’d used the pointless assignment they’d given her to serve her own goals, but she wasn’t giving them even a clue that she’d gone in search of Bäalâle Seatt, let alone found it.

“After leaving the Lhoin’na guild,” Renäld went on, “you traveled south along the Slip-Tooth Pass. That leads to few destinations, and it ends at the Rädärsherând, the Sky-Cutter Range above the Suman desert. Why did you take this route?”

Wynn felt herself being boxed in, and anxiety shifted to panic. How could the council know even this much?

Domin il’Sänke had appeared inside Bäalâle Seatt. He knew she’d made it all the way. The hinted origins of the papers before Sykion didn’t suggest a connection to il’Sänke’s guild branch in the Suman Empire. But what of the one with a broken green wax seal?

Wynn doubted il’Sänke would volunteer any information to Premin Sykion, let alone share it with the Lhoin’na. But upon emerging from the underground tunnel leading out of the Bäalâle, she and Chane had found three abandoned horses with their elven saddles lying nearby.

Who among the Lhoin’na might have followed her? Based on the first letter that had been bound with that aquamarine ribbon, who else might have connections to the royal family? Only one name fit both possibilities. Wynn was loath to even think it. One of the Lhoin’na had always been in the company of Duchess—Princess—Reine Faunier-Âreskynna.

Chuillyon. A white-robed elf who appeared to serve both the Lhoin’na guild and the royal family of Calm Seatt, but whom Wynn suspected mainly served himself.

“Journeyor Hygeorht!” Sykion snapped. “What were you seeking in that mountain range?”

Wynn was terrified that they already knew, and this was some ploy to see how much she would lie.

“I had no return schedule,” she answered. “It was my first time in that region. I simply wished to explore and take notes that might be of use to our guild. Isn’t that what a journeyor does, if without a specific assignment?”

Sykion’s pale skin tinged red.

“So you were not seeking one little known Bäalâle Seatt?” Premin Jacque barked.

It was over—they knew—but Wynn blinked innocently. “And what is that?”

High-Tower turned from the window and glowered at her. “Then you deny that you traveled in the company of a stonewalker—my ... brother?”

It was beyond a breach of decorum for a domin to speak here unless first spoken to by a member of the council. No one reproached him. The premins watched Wynn, and only Hawes showed no sign of anger, suspicion, contempt, or outrage at Wynn’s evasions. Her face held no expression at all.

Wynn simply shook her head once.

“I was lucky enough to actually see the Stonewalkers,” she answered High-Tower, “at a funeral during my last visit to Dhredze Seatt. Which one is your brother?”

The room fell deadly silent.

Wynn stood waiting for the next question—and the next—that she wouldn’t answer.

Rodian passed through the royal castle’s courtyard without challenge, for he was well-known here. Though the first bell of quarter night had rung before he arrived, not even the gatehouse guards had asked his business. They’d immediately raised the outer portcullis, and a stableboy had appeared to tend to Snowbird. But as Rodian stepped up the tall, broad granite steps and more guards opened the castle’s main doors, he found two Weardas—“the Sentinels”—standing at attention in his path.

Both wore polished steel helms and glittering chain vestments beneath crimson tabards—which were a brighter shade of red than Rodian’s Shyldfälches. Each bore a sheathed longsword on a wide belt of engraved silver plates. Each held a short spear with a head shaped like a leaf-bladed shortsword.

Neither displayed any reaction to his presence, but he knew one of them slightly.

“Lieutenant Saln,” he said with a polite nod. “I need to speak with the king or queen immediately.”

Royal audiences were rarely allowed at night, but he counted on the Weardas knowing he was aware of this. His time of arrival implied urgency.

“They have retired,” the lieutenant answered. “Could you return in the morning?”

Rodian stalled at this attempt to put him off. It wasn’t the first time some arrangement between the family and the sages had placed him at odds with the law and his oath of duty. He was about to press for admittance when a low voice carried from an archway to his left.

“Is there a problem?”

Tristan, captain of the Weardas, stepped into view. He was a tall man with a dark tuft of beard on his chin and thick eyebrows to match. The rest of his head and face were partially hidden by his helm. Rodian had never seen him without it.

“No, sir,” Saln answered.

“Tristan,” Rodian said instantly. “There is more trouble at the Guild of Sagecraft ... something to do with interlopers. The family will want to know.”

He intentionally used the captain’s first name, leaving off rank. They were not friends, as the Weardas had no friends, but they held the same military rank, regardless of their differing contingents. Rodian thereby made the point that he expected to be acknowledged as an equal.

“I must speak with King Leofwin tonight,” he added. “Or Queen Muriel. Either would wish to guide me in anything concerning the guild.”

Captain Tristan’s expression changed only a little. Perhaps it was a brief flicker of worry that cinched his brows. It hadn’t come at mention of the sages, but a moment after. That frown vanished as he nodded once and turned down the long hall.

Rodian followed as the captain took the long way through the main floor to the castle’s back nearer the seafront. The stairs here were narrow, with regular guards all the way up. When they stepped out into an upper arched passage, there were only pairs of Weardas at either end. Halfway down the passage, Tristan opened a door to a lavish sitting room.

“Wait here,” he commanded, and pulled the doors shut the instant Rodian stepped in.

Rodian paced the floor. He’d been in this room before, in almost this same situation. Walnut-legged couches were perfectly fitted in refined or raw silks or elven shéot’a cloth dyed in shimmering seafoam green and cyan. All of this was set off by walls in rich cream shades and golden yellow curtains and draperies. The entrance was carved with a large royal crest spanning both doors—an upright longsword upon a wide, square sail over a troubled sea.

He’d once admired the luxury here. Tonight it was all a distraction. He kept pacing in waiting—and waiting. After what felt like a quarter night had slipped by, the doors opened again.

Out in the passage, Captain Tristan stood aside and announced, “His Highness, Prince Leäfrich Âreskynna.”

Rodian was caught off guard as the prince walked in. Leäfrich was the second born of the royal family.

Even if the first heir, Princess Âthelthryth, had appeared instead, Rodian would’ve still been confused. Why hadn’t the king or queen come to meet him? He didn’t know Leäfrich well but had seen him enough to make a few observations. For one, Rodian had never noticed any resentment between the two remaining heirs.

Leäfrich didn’t appear to mind that his elder sister would one day take the throne. He often trained with the Weardas or fulfilled limited duty among the regulars, being far more interested in military arts than in ruling a nation. His elder sister, Âthelthryth, was the one who took in all aspects of politics and rulership. And their youngest brother, Freädherich, the husband of Duchess Reine Faunier-Âreskynna, had been lost in Beranklifer Bay years ago. A tragedy that Rodian himself had been called on to investigate.

Still, Rodian grew a little irritated. If neither the king nor the queen could see him, then why hadn’t they sent their daughter, their heir, in their place? Where were the king and queen?

Like all Âreskynna, Leäfrich was tall and slender with wheat-gold hair and aquamarine eyes. Tonight, he was fully dressed in a tunic, breeches, and dress boots, so obviously he hadn’t been roused from bed. He didn’t look pleased at the intrusion.

“It’s late, Captain,” the prince said in place of any greeting. “What is this matter that could not wait?”

Rodian hesitated in answering, for another figure suddenly appeared in the open doorway.

The man was overly tall and slender and was dressed in elven breeches; high, soft boots; and a smock beneath an open-fronted, dun-colored robe. Rodian knew it was one of the Lhoin’na even before the man brushed back his hood. But he was a bit surprised at the change of attire when he recognized this lurker outside the sitting room.

Chuillyon had most often been in the company of Duchess—or Princess—Reine Faunier-Âreskynna, widow of the late Prince Freädherich. The elf’s golden-brown locks hung well past his overly sharp chin and were faded in age streaks. Prominent creases lined the corners of his large, slightly slanted amber eyes. His other features sometimes looked smallish, but that was only because of his long, narrow nose.

Leäfrich didn’t sit nor invite Rodian to do so, and Rodian struggled to find his voice.

“Forgive the lateness, Highness,” he said, bowing shallowly. “I was summoned to the guild tonight and have ... concerns about a situation there. I thought the king or queen should be notified immediately.”

Leäfrich was far too well-bred to scowl, but he did. “My father has been unwell.”

King Leofwin had directly supported Rodian’s candidacy to lead the Shyldfälches. “I pray nothing serious,” he offered.

The prince didn’t respond to this, but his tone turned dismissive. “So, you’ve come past quarter night to report a ... situation ... at the guild?”

Against Rodian’s better judgment, he grew edgy and blunt. “The guild has incarcerated one of its own. Her rights as a citizen are being violated. But the Premin Council also claims that interlopers invaded their archives.”

Leäfrich’s expression flattened for three breaths, and then he glanced at Tristan. “Please close the doors.”

Tristan stepped out and did as ordered, but not before Chuillyon stepped inside, unchallenged by either the captain or the prince. Rodian found himself alone with Leäfrich and the old elven counselor, who was no longer dressed in a white sage’s robe.

“What do you mean ‘incarcerated’?” the prince asked coldly. “And what interlopers?”

The prince’s manner reminded Rodian of the Premin Council, and it got the better of him.

“I witnessed a male sage forcefully remove one journeyor named Wynn Hygeorht from my presence ... at the order of a premin. I was told—without explanation—she is to be confined. Incarceration is not within the guild’s authority.”

Rodian hesitated for an instant before adding pointedly, “I came to inform the royal family ... as a courtesy.”

He was acutely aware of Chuillyon following his every word, though the old elf remained silent. Leäfrich shifted his weight from foot to foot in discomfort.

“What charges have been leveled against this sage?” the prince asked.

“None,” Rodian returned. “No legal claim has been made against Journeyor Hygeorht. As I stated, Highness, I felt it necessary to inform the royal family before I executed my duty. The guild has no authority to—”

“Siweard,” someone breathed out too sharply.

All eyes turned toward the doors, though no one had heard them open, except perhaps Chuillyon, who stood nearest to Duchess Reine Faunier-Âreskynna in the doorway.

Rodian tensed at the duchess’s—the princess’s—slip in using his given name, for their relationship was ... complex. When her husband, Prince Freädherich, had been lost in the bay, she had been in the small sailing skiff with him. Unable to sail the vessel and unable to swim, she’d drifted in a frantic state until found, and then became the prime suspect in the loss of a royal heir. Rodian had convinced the High Advocate of her innocence, and no charges were made. She’d been grateful to him, as had the family itself, and tried to show it in small ways.

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 Âreskynna 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 Âthelthryth, 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 Âthelthryth 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 Âthelthryth. 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.

“Your men were told to watch the gate and walls,” Dorian stated, as if he’d given the order himself.

Lúcan still peered over Wynn at Dorian. He turned his torso slightly, and his off hand settled on his sword hilt. Closer now, Wynn thought she saw the faintest crow’s-feet around his eyes.

“I have orders to take charge of the prisoner,” Lúcan said flatly, “until ordered otherwise by the captain.”

“You have no authority inside the guild,” Dorian answered.

Something happened in Lúcan’s eyes in the following long, cold moment. Whatever it was almost made Wynn back up.

It was a change in the feel of him more than anything she could see, as if he’d been cast into all seven hells of the Farlands’ folktales and come back. Wynn had once seen the horror in the face of a young sage who’d survived being struck down by the wraith. In place of that horror, she saw something else in Lúcan’s young-old expression.

He stood there, his sharp glare never wavering, as if nothing in this world could ever make him flinch again.

“Captain Rodian is now in charge of security in this place,” he said to Dorian. “You’re dismissed.”

Lúcan turned a little more, his off hand and sword now more toward Dorian. Though his gaze never shifted, he reached out with his sword hand and deftly opened the door to Wynn’s room.

“If you please, miss,” he said.

Wynn quietly stepped in, though she turned about in the opening.

Lúcan’s off hand was now fully wrapped around his sword’s hilt, his sword hand still holding the door open. Though Wynn couldn’t see the sheathed blade behind him, Lúcan’s hard grip had tilted the sword’s hilt, as if readied and aimed at Dorian’s head. Wynn had once seen Magiere draw her falchion off-handed and strike instantly with the hilt.

Dorian’s mouth opened slightly as Wynn’s mind raced.

Rodian had been placed in charge of guild security? She didn’t know if she was better off in that or not, but at least she knew what to expect from a Shyldfälche under the captain’s command.

“I will speak with my superiors about this,” Dorian said coldly.

“You do that,” Lúcan answered. “And they can speak with my captain.”

Dorian swung about and headed off, but Lúcan’s gaze didn’t turn away until Wynn heard Dorian take the steps down at the passage’s end. Lúcan looked down at Wynn with a slight lowering of his head.

“Do you need anything, miss?”

She wasn’t even sure what to say, so she shook her head.

“If you do, I will be here, miss ... at all times.”

He waited until she stepped back before even trying to close the door. She suddenly felt the urge to say something.

“Guardsman Lúcan—isn’t it?” she asked.

“Corporal Lúcan, miss.”

Wynn faltered. “Promoted, then ... congratulations.”

“Thank you, miss.” Lúcan gave a slight bow of his head and quietly closed the door.

Wynn was alone again—truly alone, without even Shade for company. A man stood outside her door, both protector and warden, who’d suffered in a way she couldn’t fathom. So many had suffered in her wake.

Tension and fear broke, leaving only exhaustion. Wynn backed up until her calves hit the small bed, and she dropped onto its edge. Now she had no way even to get a message to Chane. She was stuck in this little room until the council or Rodian or both decided what to do with her. This was her whole world for now, and she was so tired she could barely open her eyes to look at it.

She did open her eyes, and then she stiffened, clenching the bed’s edge. Her gaze fixed on the far corner to the right of the door. The sun-crystal staff was gone.

She looked frantically about the room. Had she moved it and forgotten? But it was nowhere in sight, and her little desk table also looked wrong. The journal with her cryptic notes, as well as the new one from which she’d ripped pages to speak with Chane, were gone. Her small travel chest was missing. Only the larger one near the bed remained.

Wynn scrambled over to flip open the chest. Her spare clothing was in complete disarray, as if someone had rifled through it. All that was left of her personal belongings were a few sheets of blank paper, her elven quill with the strange white metal tip, and her cold lamp on the desk. She looked to the room’s barren corner again.

They’d taken the sun-crystal staff, her only weapon, and she didn’t know whether to scream in fear, anger, or anguish. At a knock at the door, she whipped around on her knees.

At first she thought it must be Dorian. Upon hearing of Rodian’s changes, the council might have even more questions for her. Then again, why bother knocking? Or had the corporal intervened?

Wynn rose, but before she grabbed the handle, the door cracked open. The gap seemed to grow too slowly, and she grabbed the edge, jerking it wide.

Lúcan looked at her in surprise—as he was still gripping the door’s outer handle—but Wynn’s gaze fixed on someone else. Just behind the corporal stood Nikolas Columsarn, holding a tray with a plate of food and a pot of tea.

Any harsh words died on Wynn’s lips.

“Is this all right, miss?” Lúcan asked.

Nikolas was probably the only friend Wynn had left in the guild, and he also wore the gray robes of a cathologer. He wasn’t much taller than she was, with a slender build, a twitchy expression, and straight brown hair that always seemed to be half hiding his face. He was also, like Lúcan, one of the few people to have survived an attack by the wraith, Sau’ilahk.

Unlike the corporal, Nikolas’s brown hair was shot with streaks that were nearly pure white. Perhaps in spotting a fellow survivor, Lúcan hadn’t questioned this particular visitor as he might’ve any other.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Nikolas said, and the tray trembled slightly in his grip. “They told me I could bring you something.”

Such a small kindness in the middle of the night from two victims left in Wynn’s wake broke her defenses. She couldn’t stop the tears.

Nikolas’s constantly nervous eyes widened in alarm, and he looked up at the corporal.

“Can I go inside?” he asked.

Lúcan frowned, but he nodded. “I must leave the door open ... a little.”

Nikolas stepped in, taking the tray to the desk, and the corporal closed the door to a gap no wider than his hand. The pot of tea was steaming, and the plate held buttered bread, a bowl of soup, and a sliced apple. He’d even wrapped her utensils in a fresh cloth napkin.

“Thank you,” was all Wynn could get out. In spite of the corporal’s consideration, he was still a city guard standing within earshot outside her door.

Nikolas said nothing, though he glanced at the slightly open door and swallowed hard. She could tell he had something to say, but it never came.

“I’ll be back in a while to pick up the tray,” he finally got out.

Wynn studied his face. “All right ... thank you again.”

He turned and stepped out, closing the door, and Wynn dropped in the chair before her desk. Even those who offered her kindness couldn’t do much; they all had their duties and orders. Thirsty and hungry after a grueling, tense night, she poured some tea, nearly burned her mouth taking too large a swallow, and then picked up the napkin to unroll it for her spoon.

A small piece of paper fell out as the cloth unraveled. It slipped off the desk’s edge into her lap.

Wynn paused before picking it up and opening its one fold.

Let me know what I can do.

That was all that was written, but it had obviously come from Nikolas. However powerless he might be, at least Wynn had one true ally inside the guild.