Between Their Worlds Page 6

  Chap bolted in around her as the gate cracked open, and he lunged, slamming it shut with his forepaws. Leesil dropped the travel chest without a thought and snatched Magiere’s upper arm, jerking her around to face him.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I’m going to get their attention,” she answered coldly.

  “Then what? Wait to see if any of them are stupid enough to raise the portcullis?”

  He had always been the one to find them a way through whenever the path was blocked by something she couldn’t get around.

  “Oh, they will . . .” Magiere answered too quietly. “If just one of them gets close enough to the bars.”

  Leesil went cold as the chill in her voice washed over him. This wasn’t his Magiere. He’d done terrible things in his youth, serving a warlord who kept him, his mother, or his father hostage while one of them was out following orders. How many had he killed in those days?

  Most of his victims died quietly and quickly in the night. They never suffered, if he could help it, especially those who’d done nothing but pit themselves against the tyrant who held him and his parents captive for blood work. But they weren’t the only ones he’d harmed.

  As Leesil stared at Magiere, he barely heard Chap’s growl begin to grow in his ears.

  There had been fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, and friends of his targets left behind. The living had suffered tenfold more than the dead for what he’d done in those days.

  And Magiere wanted to use whatever sage she could get her hands on . . . to get her way.

  Before Leesil uttered a word, he flinched at the clack of Chap’s jaws, but neither of them looked toward the dog. Magiere suddenly clenched her eyes shut and hunched as if some pain grew in her head. In less than a breath, she tried to push Leesil aside as she hissed at Chap.

  “Stay out of my head!”

  Chap lunged at her.

  Leesil got between them and slammed Magiere back against the bailey gate. He pinned her there, his forearm barred across her upper chest.

  “Look at me,” he ordered.

  When she did, he saw her irises had flooded completely black. He shriveled inside and could’ve wept at the sight of her.

  Her pallid face was covered in a sheen that was not quite an open sweat. Her short, rapid breaths shuddered under the vibration of fury in her body. How many times would he have to be the only one to keep her at bay when she lost herself to her other half?

  She could’ve thrown him off, with her dhampir nature on the edge of cutting loose. She didn’t, though tears began rolling from her eyes. He couldn’t tell whether they came from the strain of her change or from the night growing too bright before her eyes, or from realizing she’d almost lost control again.

  How many more times before that one time when she wouldn’t hear or see him? As always, it was just as bad to watch her come back to him.

  Magiere’s muscles slackened, and she went limp against the gate. The lustrous brown began returning to her eyes as her irises contracted. She clenched her eyes shut, turning her head away, as if she couldn’t bear to face him. She’d stopped saying “sorry” a long while back, as if that only made the next time even worse.

  Leesil leaned in, with his lips close to her ear, and whispered softly, “Look at me.”

  She wouldn’t. He carefully took Magiere’s jaw with his free hand and turned her face toward himself. She still wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “We’ll get to Wynn,” he whispered, and leaned his forehead against hers. “But not like this. If anything, they’d expect that now. We can’t make things worse for her . . . or for us.”

  Her breath still came in shudders, her face so close he could feel it. Then her hands slid around him, up his back, and clamped on his shoulders. Her tight grip made him stiffen, because he worried she might try to fight him. But her mouth suddenly pressed hard against his.

  It wasn’t the time or place for this, but it had been a while. Leesil couldn’t bring himself to stop her—until he heard the grind of gears and clank of massive chains.

  Chap huffed and his claws scrabbled on cobblestone as he took off. Before Magiere tried something rash, Leesil grabbed the travel chest’s nearest handle and jerked his wife along the bailey wall.

  “Run!”

  Chap raced along the street close to the wall, looking for any quick way out of sight. But whoever might come out of the keep would easily spot them if they tried to cross the open street and dash for any alley along its far side.

  Once again, events had almost gotten beyond reason because of Magiere. That had grown slowly worse along the journey back out of the northern wastes.

  After what had happened to her up in that realm of ice, after what she had done to gain the second orb, she was more often losing control of her dhampir nature. How long before it controlled her? Chap could not yet face what he would have to do when that happened.

  When he reached the curve around the bailey wall’s southern corner, he halted and turned, hiding just around the bend. Magiere had barely raced by him, ducking around, when the bailey gate swung open. Leesil joined them, crouching down, as the first figure ran out of the gate.

  In too little time, too many strange events kept happening this night.

  Chap watched as that one and then a second sage, both wearing dark blue robes, ran out into the night. To his frustration, the two split up, running in separate directions. The first ran straight away from the gate along the main road, but the second turned left. That one came running down the road toward the keep’s southern corner.

  Chap spun with a huff and bolted around Leesil and Magiere. He ducked in against the bailey wall’s base and dropped to his belly. As Magiere and Leesil crouched behind him, he heard the rapid footfalls on cobble drawing nearer.

  To Chap’s relief, the sage did not even glance their way and kept running, soon vanishing southward into the city. In spite of not being spotted, he realized their position was still far too open. Leesil must have been thinking the same thing, for he pointed to an alley across the street.

  “We can watch the gate from there,” he whispered.

  Magiere did not move. “Why would the guild send two sages running off into the night?”

  Chap had no idea.

  Leesil shook his head, hefted the chest over one shoulder as he rose, and then reached down for Magiere.

  “I don’t know. Now come on.”

  To Chap’s further relief, Magiere relented, took Leesil’s hand, and stood up. At least they could all get out of sight for the moment. But, in truth, Chap had no idea what would happen after that.

  CHAPTER 4

  Chane stood near the door of Wynn’s room, listening to the sound of fading footsteps as he waited for the metaologer to follow Shade out into the courtyard. He glanced back to find Wynn still watching out the window, her back to the room and half bent over, with her elbows braced on the deep stone sill.

  Moonlight or torch braziers on the gatehouse glinted off the top of her soft brown hair. Anyone’s eyes but Chane’s might not have caught this. Her locks shimmered as her head tilted to one side, perhaps in trying to look down to the barracks’ outer door. And not a word had passed between them concerning her three visitors to the keep.

  Did she even know he had seen them?

  “Not yet,” Wynn whispered.

  Confused, Chane quickly realized she was referring to Shade leading off the guardian sage. Then he heard a muted, rhythmic clanking from somewhere outside, beyond the window.

  Wynn stiffened upright. She leaned into the window’s deep recess and craned her head, looking all ways through the panes.

  “Is that the portcullis?” Chane asked. The clanking ceased. “What’s happening?”

  She shook her head, peering toward the gatehouse. In only a moment, the heavy clanking rhythm began again.

  “I think it’s closing now,” she said. “They must have opened it briefly, though I wonder why.” Her focus suddenly p
ivoted down and to the right. “Finally! Shade is trotting for the main doors, and Dorian is rushing to keep up. They’ll be out of sight in a moment.”

  Wynn began to turn.

  Chane stalled again at the thought of leaving her. Of course, he was concerned about the safety of the scroll, but once he was outside these walls, the prospect of reentry was doubtful. He was reluctant to leave before the council had finished with Wynn. How could he even check on her to know what had happened?

  “What?” Wynn asked, staring at him.

  Perhaps too many thoughts showed on his face, so he quickly redirected her attention. “Do you remember the inn I stayed at before? Nattie’s, in what people here call the Grayland’s Empire?”

  “Yes . . . though I avoid such labels for the poor districts.”

  “You can find me there. Send word when . . . as soon as you can.”

  Chane kept his expression passive, but he could not help rejoicing inwardly at the relief on Wynn’s face. She did not want to lose contact with him, either.

  “Good,” she said, nodding.

  And yet she had still not said a word about . . .

  Chane turned, about to slip out with nothing left to say—not until she did. Then he felt her small hand grab the back of his cloak, and he half turned to look down at her, but she did not release him.

  “Chane . . .” she began, faltering. “How much did you see?”

  There it was.

  She watched him carefully. Perhaps she had seen him glance at the window.

  “You mean Magiere,” he whispered—or tried to—but he could hear the malice in his own voice.

  Instead of being startled, she took a quick breath, held it for an instant, and then said, “Stay away from her—away from all of them.”

  Anger made the beast within Chane stir. The scar that ringed his entire neck and throat began to itch and then burn. It was the only mark he bore from any kind of wound since he had first risen from death. Magiere had done this to him with her strange falchion.

  “You were there,” he hissed, “when she took my head!”

  “Because you tried to kill her first,” Wynn countered.

  “And whom did you protect?”

  She winced, but he did not take back his words, uttered so sharply in his nearly voiceless rasp. They both knew how his voice had been forever maimed. Wynn had thrown herself in front of him, begging him to stop when he had the upper hand and was about to kill Magiere. At Wynn’s plea, he had faltered, but Magiere had not even hesitated.

  Chane still did not know why he had risen again. There was only the following night, when he awoke in a shallow open grave. He was covered in bodies and blood, and Welstiel Massing looked down upon him, as if waiting for him to rise.

  Wynn closed her eyes, perhaps reliving that terrible moment between him and Magiere, but her silence did not last long.

  “Leave her alone, Chane.”

  This was not an answer to his question. “And did you give her the same warning? To leave me alone?”

  Her eyes opened, and she blinked several times without a word. He understood.

  “She does not know. None of them do,” he accused. “You did not even tell them . . . that I have been here, while they abandoned you.”

  “And I’m keeping it that way,” she shot back, “as long as possible. I don’t want you and Magiere going at each other again—not now, not ever. And, like me, they had something critical to accomplish.”

  “Such as?” he asked angrily. “What happened to the first orb? What did they do with it?”

  “There’s no time. Put any thought of vengeance out of your head. Promise me you’ll stay away from her—them. Swear it, Chane! Please.”

  He had no intention of going after Magiere—at present. Even if he had, he was all the more angry, even hurt, that Wynn would put this on him. He had promised her that he would never feed upon a sentient being again; he had kept that promise, by the word of it, at least.

  He gazed into Wynn’s face more deeply and saw only worry and fear. When she looked into his eyes, it was clear that her worry was focused upon him. But what of the fear? Whom did she fear for the most—him or Magiere?

  “I swear,” he whispered.

  Wynn sagged slightly, loosening her hold on his cloak. “Then you’d better go. Keep the scroll safe.”

  Chane needed no reminder. He hoisted his two packs and turned, grasping the door’s handle. Wynn grabbed the side of his cloak again.

  “You’ll hear from me as soon as I can—I promise,” she said softly.

  Her grip lingered an instant longer, and then finally released.

  With one last wave of regret—the feeling that leaving her was wrong—Chane slipped out the door and down the passage.

  Siweard Rodian, captain of the Shyldfälches—the “People’s Shield”—worked long past supper in his office within Calm Seatt’s second castle. This castle had once housed the royal family more than a century past. After construction of a newer, larger third castle nearer the sea, the nation’s military had taken over the second, leaving the first castle of Malourné to be turned over to the Guild of Sagecraft.

  The city guard was officially a contingent of the military, but it served autonomously for domestic defense in conjunction with civilian constabularies. It was complicated, but the system worked, for the most part.

  Rodian took his duty seriously and kept meticulous records of which complaints or possible crimes needed investigation and who’d been arrested, charged, and scheduled to stand before the High Advocate in court. And who had already been sentenced or exonerated and set free. This too was complicated; more so than he’d imagined when he took his oath of service years ago.

  Not all who slipped from justice were innocent. In turn, some who might have legally broken the law did not deserve to be branded criminals. He’d never wished for such complications, but service forced them upon him. In recent times, he’d grown weary of it.

  Rodian set down his quill, rubbed his eyes, and realized he’d forgotten to eat again. Rising from his desk, he began unfastening his sword.

  An engraved silver panel on the blade’s sheath bore the royal crest and a panorama of Calm Seatt. His tabard, worn over a chain vestment and padded hauberk, marked him as military. But unlike the regulars, attired in sea greens and cyans, his tabard was red. Combined with that sheath, it clearly declared him as captain of the Shyldfälches.

  Some thought the position a high honor. Others considered it a dead end in a military career. But Rodian knew neither was wholly true.

  Appearances were important to him. He was as meticulous with his grooming as he was with his records. He kept his hair cropped short and his beard close-trimmed, sculpted across his jaw above a clean-shaven neck.

  He’d commanded the Shyldfälches for nearly four years, yet he was not quite thirty years old. Rumors spread by the envious didn’t bother him. He was ambitious, and success was more important than being liked, but that didn’t mean he cared nothing for the law.

  Rodian had sworn his service oath upon the Éa-bêch, the first book of law from Malourné’s earliest times some four-hundred-plus years ago. The nation’s laws continued to grow until they could fill a small library of their own, but this first volume was the heart of it all. On the day he’d placed his sword hand upon it, his father, a plain timber man on the eastern frontier, had beamed with pride.

  “Honorable service and strong faith,” his father proclaimed with an unrestrained grin. “What more could a father hope for his son?”

  Rodian hadn’t known how to smile back.

  He now glanced at all of the stacked papers carefully arranged on his desk, but for one. A letter he’d opened lay refolded on the desk’s far corner. He was too tired to think about it and needed to start remembering to eat. Heading for the office door, sheathed sword still in hand, he’d almost escaped from that letter when someone knocked.

  “Sir?” a familiar voice called from outside.

 
Rodian opened the door to find Corporal Lúcan in the outer passage. The corporal kept himself almost as carefully groomed as his captain. However, right behind Lúcan stood a young male sage in a midnight blue robe. Rodian had to fight back a frown.

  The last time a sage had come looking for him, he’d been forced into an investigation involving the guild. He looked back at Lúcan.

  The previous autumn, Rodian, Lúcan, Lieutenant Garrogh, and others of the guard had hunted an unknown black-robed mage that Wynn Hygeorht had called a wraith. After the deaths of multiple young sages and several of the Shyldfälches, Garrogh had been killed in the final conflict with that figure. Lúcan, only a guardsman at the time, had been severely injured in a strange way.