“Yes,” someone said. “The sails are being set.”
Magiere spun, pushing the girl behind her as she reached for her falchion. Her hand never found the hilt, as her sword was still in the first trunk. There was Brot’an in the hold’s doorway. As he stepped in, Leanâlhâm ducked around Magiere.
“Greimasg’äh!” she breathed in relief.
Leanâlhâm seldom appeared glad to see the elder of the anmaglâhk, but she now smiled at the sight of him. Brot’an only nodded and, pulling down the hood of his cloak, stepped right past her toward Magiere. So little could ever be read on Brot’an’s scarred face that the slight wrinkle of his brow put Magiere on edge.
“What now?” Leesil asked.
Obviously he’d caught the flicker of expression, as well, though Chap was strangely silent. Brot’an looked between them, perhaps considering his words, and that started Magiere worrying even more.
“Where is Osha?”
At Leanâlhâm’s question, Magiere spotted the girl outside the hold’s doorway and peering down some outer passage. Brot’ân’duivé’s mouth visibly tightened, and he didn’t look back at the girl.
“What happened?” Magiere asked, growing alarmed.
“Ahäichei Osha?” Leanâlhâm nearly screamed at Brot’an.
When he still didn’t answer, she turned and ran out of sight up the passage.
Magiere shoved past Brot’an, racing after Leanâlhâm, as she felt the ship lurch under rising sails.
Dänvârfij did not know what to expect as she ran out onto the waterfront with Én’nish.
“What do we do?” Én’nish breathed.
Dänvârfij stood there, staring at the few ships still in dock. If Osha had spoken the truth, then none of these vessels would gain her anything.
Én’nish had little more to offer on the way here. She could only relate that there had been another decoy, and that Rhysís had been wounded but was well enough to have returned to their quarters on his own. In that, Dänvârfij truly worried that Osha had spoken the truth.
Rhysís should not have been outdone by the likes of Osha, that pathetic excuse for one of her caste on whom Sgäilsheilleache had taken pity. But Osha had beaten Rhysís with a bow.
Dänvârfij tried to see out across the great bay, but in the dark and over the distance, she could not make out whether there was an outbound vessel. What could she do now?
Footsteps on wood rose behind her, and she spotted a large human male in a striped shirt and long coat of shaggy black fur striding down a pier toward the shore.
“Wait here,” Dänvârfij told Én’nish.
She quickly pulled down her face wrap and hood. Stepping slow and steady, she gave the heavy man time to spot her before going to meet him.
“Pardon,” she said. “You are a master here?”
He stopped, looking her up and down and then straight in the eyes, for she was as tall as he. She was obviously a foreigner, but most likely he would mistake her as one of the elves of this continent that she had heard mentioned twice in her time here.
“Ship?” she asked. “Bound for the isle?”
This was the only hint Osha had given her. Her Numanese was not perfect, but that last word would be enough for the man to understand her intention.
“You mean Wrêdelyd?” he asked. “You looking for passage?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, the only ship I’ve heard bound for there just set sail.” He shrugged and pointed off toward the waterfront’s north end. “Leave word with the harbormaster about where you’re staying. When the next ship headed that way comes in, he’ll let you know.”
She could not even bring herself to shake her head as she tried to think of what to do next. Nothing came of it other than that she would have to explain all of this to Fréthfâre.
Dänvârfij turned away from the man without even a thank-you. She had let the monster—and any whereabouts of the artifact—slip from her grasp again.
Brot’ân’duivé now had both.
The following night, Chane paced alone in the guild’s inner courtyard. Events of the recent days and nights were fresh in his mind. He was a little surprised, perhaps annoyed, to find himself missing Ore-Locks’s company.
They’d arranged for the dwarf to head back to Dhredze Seatt as soon as Leesil’s plan had been set in motion. Ore-Locks’s tasks were done, and after all he had learned of the orb—the orbs—he had grown increasingly anxious to return home.
In that, Chane had agreed. No matter that the orb of Earth was hidden away with the Stonewalkers; he trusted only Ore-Locks where the orb was concerned.
Tonight, Wynn had gone to the main library to search for all possible routes, should they start a new journey soon. The library held more recent maps versus those in the archives, but Chane suspected that she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. A little time on his own was not unwelcome, either, now that a calm had settled over the guild, though he wished she had not grown so quiet.
Upon their return the previous night, as promised, Hawes had brought them in and dealt with the council. An instant storm rose over Wynn’s change of order. It seemed that simply changing robes was not all there was to this, and a petition process was required first. The arduous review and examination would be much the same as for any apprentice first applying for jouneyor status.
Fortunately, Premin Hawes had handled that, as well, or at least Chane assumed so. No one on the council, nor Domin High-Tower himself, had come at Wynn with any further requirements. Likely Hawes had simply told them it would be easier for her to keep an eye on Wynn if they waived any re-petitioning. Still, many an eye among the guild’s populace would turn Wynn’s way at the sight of her new midnight blue robe. On the surface, she would be treated like any other sage of rank, or so Hawes had proclaimed.
In Chane’s view, Wynn’s change of garb carried an extra warning not to tamper with a journeyor under the cold, watchful eyes of the premin of metaology. That was enough for now, but he wondered what hid beneath that protection. He would not forget the premin’s reactions to Wynn’s greater knowledge of the orbs and what lay within the scroll that he carried.
He kept pacing a circle around and around the empty courtyard.
The sight of Wynn in that dark robe still made him uncomfortable, but she and he were allowed back into the guild, though there had been no warm welcome. As soon as Hawes and Wynn uncovered any hints to the possible location of the orb of Spirit, he and Wynn would be gone again, and perhaps that was best.
As he walked, the soft clap of his boots seemed to echo too much. He paused at the strange sound, and only then did he hear the second set of steps. Raising his head, he followed the sound to the mouth of the gatehouse tunnel.
A tall figure came toward the courtyard from within the tunnel’s darkness.
Chane wondered who could possibly be visiting here at this time of night. The obvious answer was Captain Rodian, though after the council’s long meeting with Hawes, they had dismissed his guards and reopened the portcullis. Still, the captain had not been fully satisfied with what Wynn had told him about elves, assassins, and the escape of her hunted friends.
Something was not right about that figure inside the tunnel.
Rather than the hint of a red tabard or the glint of mail sleeves, the visitor’s clothing was too drab and dark to make out. Then it drew nearer to the tunnel’s inner end and the great braziers burning on the gatehouse’s inner wall.
It was cloaked and hooded, with a bow in hand and a quiver of darkly feathered arrows protruding above its shoulder. Some other narrow bundle stuck out beside the quiver. Even when the figure stepped fully from the tunnel, Chane was not certain who it was. Then he looked at the bow again.