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.