Dänvârfij chilled at this disturbing news, though, in retrospect, it was not a complete surprise. Osha had been there, like Dänvârfij, when Sgäilsheilleache and Hkuan’duv killed each other. She had never understood how someone as untalented as Osha had ever gained Sgäilsheilleache as his jeóin. And after that encounter, when she had fled, Most Aged Father had instructed her to wait on the ship that retrieved her. Soon enough, Osha had come, though her presence aboard the vessel surprised him.
And later it had been Brot’ân’duivé who had extracted Osha from questioning by Most Aged Father.
Osha, inept as he was, appeared to always be in the company of the most skilled. And now ...
Determination that fed on hatred and desire for vengeance could be more powerful than skills. Dänvârfij knew this, had seen what it had done to Én’nish. She had seen it in the eyes of Rhysís after the night Wy’lanvi died. How could this be happening to her caste?
Until Sgäilsheilleache and Hkuan’duv, no anmaglâhk had ever turned on another. Rhysís blamed Brot’ân’duivé for the death of a friend, and Osha most likely blamed ... her for the death of Sgäilsheilleache. For with Hkuan’duv gone, there was no one else left for Osha’s vengeance.
In all of Dänvârfij’s life, the only thing she had never questioned was the loyalty of her caste to each other and their people. This had dried like a fallen leaf in a growing drought and began to blow away like dust, not only with the death of Hkuan’duv, but upon the treachery of Brot’ân’duivé.
“Was Osha the driver?” she asked, forcing herself to remain focused.
“Yes,” Én’nish answered.
“Who was the smaller one?”
“I do not know. That one was missing when we caught up and were ambushed. We thought it more important to break off and report.”
Dänvârfij nodded. “Nothing more has happened here. Én’nish, go and check with—”
Another light thud upon the roof interrupted her. Eywodan jogged across the shakes, the tan skin around his eyes looking almost gray when he drew near.
“Owain is dead,” he said before even coming to a stop. “I found his body.”
Én’nish sucked in a loud breath, but again Dänvârfij felt as if she barely understood the words. She could not speak.
“How?” Rhysís asked quietly.
“It had been too long since exchanging reports,” Eywodan answered. “I grew concerned and went to his position. I found him ... still on the rooftop.”
“You left his body?”
“Yes!” Eywodan snapped, his scant exposed skin turning grayer. “I feared others of us might be ambushed, and I ran to help the living! We can retrieve the body later.”
Chagrined, Rhysís glanced away. “So the traitor kills yet another of his own.”
Dänvârfij still could not speak. It was hard to believe they had lost Owain to more of Brot’ân’duivé’s treachery, but Eywodan surprised her by shaking his head.
“I do not think so,” he said. “Owain’s entire throat had been crushed by what appeared to be a single blow. That is not the way we kill ... not even a traitor.”
This had gone far enough. Finding her voice, Dänvârfij turned to Rhysís.
“It was wrong to hold out for the sage,” she said, “especially once we knew where our quarry hid. We go to their inn tonight, make sure they have all returned, and then take them. But foremost, we kill Brot’ân’duivé.”
Rhysís’s eyes glittered softly, his bow still assembled and in hand. Perhaps he envisioned the shot that would take down a greimasg’äh.
Dänvârfij knew it would not be that easy. All of them knew that to kill Brot’ân’duivé would cost one or more of their lives.
“Only then do we attempt capture of the others,” she continued. “Kill the majay-hì if you must, and Osha, but Magiere and Léshil must be taken alive.”
Dänvârfij would have preferred to pull Tavithê as well from the port watch, but it was more important to reach the inn and take their quarry by surprise.
“We go,” she said, running for the next rooftop.
Rodian stood inside the keep’s entryway, facing an openly outraged Premin Sykion with Domin High-Tower beside her. Both had been awakened due to the gravity of the situation, and although Rodian knew his report would cause shock, he was glad of it.
For once Sykion had lost her veneer of motherly wisdom and superiority. She looked so livid that she might snatch his own sword from his sheath to run him through.
But Rodian preferred open hostility. It made people careless.
“How could someone of your position and authority allow this to happen?” she demanded.
Beneath her rage, he heard a quaver of fear in her voice.
“How could you let one girl slip through your fingers?” Sykion went on.
He let her rant a little longer, before he replied in a purely professional tone.
“The effort to free Journeyor Hygeorht came from multiple directions. They had obviously anticipated that any one infiltrator might fail ... and would then attempt a distraction. Four of my men were injured trying to stop them, and it appears that Journeyor Hygeorht has quite a few contacts outside these walls who do not share your view of her.”
Angus and Jonah had been found in the common hall, and although both appeared to be recovering, he was worried that Jonah’s jaw might be cracked. A young guard named Benedict had been discovered unconscious in Wynn’s room. Maolís had been found in the inner bailey below the eastern tower, having taken a nasty blow to the side of the head. But upon waking, he had no idea what had hit him.
Rodian hadn’t bothered questioning any of his men for long. It would’ve led to nothing, and another notion had been brewing in his thoughts since the moment he’d turned his back on Wynn and her masked rescuers.
At the sight of Sykion’s pinched and reddened face, he couldn’t hold it back any longer.
“I apologize for the temporary loss of Journeyor Hygeorht,” he said. “I assure you that my second-in-command, Lieutenant Branwell, will begin arrangements for her arrest warrant, and we will comb the city.”
Pausing, he pulled a small notebook from his belt and a slender, paper-wrapped writing charcoal from his pocket.
“You need only give me the formal charge, Premin,” he added, “and I will have her back in jurisdiction soon enough.”
Sykion blinked, and Rodian stood calmly with his charcoal poised over a blank page.
“Charge?” High-Tower finally managed to ask.
“A proper search will be costly,” Rodian returned. “I can hardly justify that without a formal charge of criminal activity. And it is necessary for the warrant. You do want Journeyor Hygeorht recovered—I mean, arrested—do you not? That is all that the Shyldfälches have the authority to do.”
Rodian waited, watching Sykion’s flattened expression.
Before taking this position, he had sworn an oath upon the Éa-bêch, the first book of law for Malourné. Twice in his service he had broken or bent the law himself—once for the greater good, and once when Duchess Reine offered him Snowbird as a gift. He was not allowed to accept such gifts, but he’d wanted to keep the horse.
The present situation was entirely different.
As of yet, Wynn Hygeorht had committed no verified crime, let alone been found guilty in the people’s court. The Premin Council and the royals had forced her incarceration, circumventing Rodian’s own sacred oath of service. Ambitious as he was, he would not be cornered into breaking the law a third time.
If Sykion could name a crime that had been committed, Rodian would be forced to hunt down Wynn himself. But he had a feeling that was not going to happen.