In the far corner beyond the door, a long staff leaned against the wall. Its upper end was covered in a leather sheath a half foot long and bound in place by a cinched cord, making it easy to pull free in an instant. Beneath the covering was a crystal like no other, for unlike those used in cold lamps, this one produced a light like the sun.
The sun crystal was all Wynn had besides her knowledge and wits in facing the undead. But, really, where could she possibly hide a staff in this little, sparsely furnished room? Even if she did, any search would uncover it quickly enough.
“Please stay where you are.”
Wynn froze as she heard those words in the courtyard outside. Surely it had nothing to do with Chane. Plenty of time had passed—enough that he could’ve twice over reached the library’s window and the keep’s back wall. She rushed to her window and peered out, and her breath caught at the sight below.
Down in the courtyard, Chane faced four sages, with Premin Hawes coming up behind him. One of the sages was Domin Ginjeriè, a gentle young woman who most often tended to the initiates. Ginjeriè said something but spoke too softly for the words to reach Wynn. What was Chane doing still inside the courtyard? And why had Ginjeriè intercepted him ... with others present?
The two metaologers took another slow step, not toward Chane but to either side of him. Wynn’s small fingers pressed against the sill’s stone as she realized they were going to try to take Chane. And if he fought back ...
Premin Hawes waved one hand in a sweep, and both metaologers halted. Ginjeriè took a half step, but Hawes cocked her head slightly, uttering something that made Chane spin around toward her. Ginjeriè appeared to hesitate and then bowed her head. Wynn couldn’t hear anything that was said, but the young domin of Naturology turned away with the other sage dressed in brown. Both headed toward the keep’s main doors.
Reduction in the numbers around Chane didn’t relieve Wynn—quite the opposite. Premin Hawes had dismissed everyone but the metaologers. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good. Was Hawes up to something she didn’t want anyone but her own order to know about? Or did she simply wish to ...
Wynn whirled around, looking about her room for any options. Metaologers were certainly not defenseless, though they rarely displayed abilities in plain sight. Chane was facing only three, but Hawes was worth a dozen of them. The last time Wynn had been called before the council, Hawes had driven and shut out Chane with barely two gestures.
Chane could be in serious danger.
About to run for her door and try to get to the courtyard, Wynn glanced out the window again. Movement near the keep’s main doors caught her eye.
Shade came trotting out as a frustrated Dorian held the door, and then he rushed after her. Both of them halted when they spotted the others in the courtyard. Wynn hesitated, as well, in watching.
Leesil crouched in an alley’s mouth across the road that looped around the guild’s grounds. Magiere and Chap were close behind him. From his vantage point, he studied the keep’s front in wondering how they were going to help Wynn—if Wynn was in any real danger.
His stomach growled and he tried to ignore it. Chap was probably hungrier than he, as none of them had eaten since breakfast. In their haste to reach the city and Wynn, they’d pressed hard, expecting to find food, beds, and even a bath waiting for them. None of that had been forthcoming.
At present, they had no lodgings at all. In addition to the travel chest, they were still carrying their packs, and Leesil didn’t care to be so weighed down amid a possible crisis. He twisted about in his crouch, but Magiere now stood above him, her gaze wandering over the keep in the dark.
“Magiere ...” he began, lost as to how to best suggest the obvious. “Maybe we should—”
The sound of multiple hooves on cobble cut him off, and Chap quickly shoved in beside him as they both peered up the road.
Five riders appeared from out of the mainway that led directly into the city, and they were heading toward the bailey gate. All wore red tabards and swords. The leader rode a white horse. Likely they were armored, though Leesil couldn’t be certain from a distance.
“Constabulary?” Magiere whispered, echoing his own silent question.
Leesil didn’t think so, not by their uniforms and mounts. Those were too military for civilian constables.
“Something else,” he answered.
Perhaps they were a special unit attached to the city or the rulers here. But again, why had they shown up at the sages’ castle in the middle of the night? This place was filling up with too many things they didn’t understand, and it was no place to go snooping about until they did.
Leesil glanced back along the cutway. He gestured to the main road, away from the bailey gate toward where the castle road’s southern corner met a side street. A faded sign in dim lamp light read LEAFUL STREET. At least he’d learned enough Numanese to read it.
When he slipped out, heading toward it along the near side of the looping road, Magiere and Chap followed without a word. When they reached the meeting of that side street, Chap slipped ahead, but Magiere grabbed Leesil’s arm and jerked him around.
“Wait. Where are we going?” she whispered. “I thought you were just moving us farther back.”
He didn’t pull away but kept his voice firm. “To find an inn. We need food, a place to store our gear, and time to figure this out.”
“We’re not done here. We should at least check all sides and get the lay of it.”
“That wasn’t just some local constabulary,” he argued, and he looked back at Chap, who waited for them. “Did you pick up any memories, especially from the leader on the white horse?”
Chap studied them both, and finally huffed once. Leesil’s mind instantly flashed to numerous memories. Chap could show Leesil only his own memories, so at first he wasn’t certain of their meaning as an answer to his question.
First came an image of a tall young man in Voldran armor. He rushed out of a city gate with his men to defend peasants fleeing for the city across the border in the Warlands, Leesil’s birthplace. The second memory, farther back in time, was more to the point.
Over a chain vestment, a tall, beefy, bulky man wore a white surcoat emblazoned with two sea hawks, the royal crest of Belaski, far across the world. Upon the table sat his helmet, which had three ridges, the center one rising from a nose guard and decorated with a plume of feathers. With a blunt nose and a mass of dark brown curls that hung from his head, he had eyed Magiere a little too affably for Leesil’s taste.
It was Captain Chetnik of the city guard in Bela.
Leesil scoffed and turned to Magiere. “Chap thinks they’re military, a contingent for the city’s safety and law enforcement ... like Chetnik, back in Bela.”
Another memory rose in Leesil’s head. He saw Wynn ... and then the rider on the white horse. Leesil looked back to Chap.
“That one knows Wynn?” he asked in surprise. “The one on the white horse was remembering her?”
Chap huffed once again for “yes.”
Magiere released Leesil and stared up the road toward the bailey gate. That was enough for Leesil, and he reached for her arm. She jerked it away at the first touch of his fingers.
“Did his memories seem threatening ... angry?” she asked without turning.
Again, Chap hesitated, but he huffed twice for “no.”
Although relieved, Leesil wondered about Chap’s pause. Was Chap just saying this to keep Magiere in check? Leesil waited, but Chap raised no more memories for him. Then the loud, creaking sound of the rising portcullis carried down the street, suggesting the contingent was being allowed inside.
“This is more than we can deal with,” Leesil said, and stepped in close at Magiere’s side. “We won’t figure it out by skulking here in the dark.” He carefully gripped her hand. “We need to find lodgings, stow our gear, eat something ... and talk in private.”