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.