He did not dare to look again at the heavy chest two steps behind Chane. Wynn’s appearance, the orb of Spirit, and her obvious accomplishments meant something more.
She and her companions could be useful to him.
Ghassan had been alone in his hunt for Khalidah since returning to his homeland. Wynn might attract trouble as easily as a melon draws flies, but she had skills and a weapon, which he had fashioned for her, that emitted sunlight. Chane could be unpredictable, but as a member of the undead, if properly motivated, he was a skilled fighter and almost impossible to kill. As for Shade, a majay-hì was a natural hunter of the undead. The elf’s usefulness ... well, that remained to be seen.
So how little could Ghassan say to gain more advantage than disadvantage?
“I was part of a hidden sect among the Suman metaologers,” he finally answered.
Wynn’s brown eyes never blinked, though she still stared at him, and so he continued.
“We studied certain practices which ... would not have met with the premin council’s approval.”
“What practice?” Osha asked.
Ghassan ignored everyone but Wynn. “We had kept a prisoner for a long time that we wished to study and safeguard in secret, since others would not be able to do so. Unfortunately, I was sent to your land because our branch wanted its share of the knowledge you brought back from the eastern continent.”
The last reference was awkward, considering he had also done his best to stop her from gaining the orb of Earth in the bowels of Bäalâle Seatt. He had failed and, though she had no knowledge of what had come next, he had hurried for home upon receiving a message that it had escaped.
“What sort of prisoner?” Wynn asked.
“A dangerous one who escaped while I was away and ... killed the rest of my sect.”
For an instant, his thoughts slipped back to the night he returned home. All of his comrades lay dead in their subterranean sanctuary, their eyes wide and blank, mouths gaping in final horror—even the best among them, those more skilled than Ghassan himself.
All dead but one ... and that one other than himself was still missing.
“Killed?” Wynn repeated.
“As I told you, this prisoner is dangerous. Upon its escape, my own peers were not the only ones who died, though the rest of the guild is unaware of the cause of those deaths. There was no hiding this or our sanctuary any longer from High Premin Aweli-Jama. As the last of my sect, I was wanted for questioning. I couldn’t allow this, as I am all that is left of those who can hunt the prisoner.” He hesitated. “Unfortunately, I was caught and taken before the imperial court. By happenstance, it was on the same day that your friends were arrested at the port.”
There was a pause then, with so much to take in.
“Why?” Wynn finally asked. “What were the charges against them?”
“Murder. Two foreigners sought the aid of both the city and imperial guard ... and they looked like him.” He tilted his head toward Osha.
Osha’s expression twisted in alarm. “What you mean?”
Ghassan kept his eyes on Wynn only.
“He means not Lhoin’na,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Anmaglâhk?”
Ghassan vaguely recognized that last term, though he couldn’t remember from where.
“You do not know that, Wynn,” Chane put in. “This continent has a large population of elves, and some are light-haired.”
“True ... but it is possible the anmaglâhk team picked up Magiere’s trail after she fled Calm Seatt,” Wynn said, closing her eyes and looking tired. She opened them again and looked to Ghassan. “We must get my friends out, and you are going to help us.”
Before Ghassan could raise an eyebrow—
“What of this prisoner he hunts?” Chane interrupted. “I want to know more.”
“Not now,” Wynn insisted, turning back to Ghassan. “Can you help us?”
Ghassan remained passive. Gods, fate, ancestral spirits, or something else entirely appeared to favor him this night. By all accounts in Wynn’s travel journals, Magiere, Leesil, and their majay-hì were skilled hunters of the undead. And from what he understood, they were devoted to Wynn.
“I will do what I can,” he assured her. “But it will not be easy.”
Chapter Three
Late the following morning, Ghassan donned a heavier cloak and pulled its hood low over his eyes as he left the hidden sanctuary now shared by his “guests.” On the long walk to the mainway leading to the front gates of the imperial grounds, he kept his mind clear for any warning from his senses—physical and otherwise. He didn’t need to walk so far for his task, but he wanted time alone to think.
What he would ask of Prince Ounyal’am had dangerous ramifications should anything go wrong. As of yet, the precise words for such a request had not come to him, even as he reached the long expanse of the capital’s largest open market.
The mainway to the gates was three times as wide as any other main city street, not that one would guess so at first sight. There was enough room down its center only for a slow-moving wagon—if midday crowds got out of the way.
Ghassan barely noticed the array of fresh foods and imported goods, and the merchants and vendors calling to passersby, including him. The scents of warm bread and olive oil distracted him only once, aside from his stiffening in caution every time someone passed too close. That happened often in the bustling market street. There was not much to eat in his quarters, and he knew he should see about purchasing supplies. For the moment, though, he had other concerns.
Without warning, the crowds ahead began to shift. People moved and cleared a wide path as they looked back along the street behind him.
Ghassan drifted left near a leather worker’s tent before he glanced back, though he kept his head partway down.
Two litters, each carried by four strong servants, passed by on their way toward the main gates. Personal guards surrounded both. Though the curtains of the litters were partially open, the guards’ purple sashes already told Ghassan who was visiting the palace.
Emir Falah Mansoor, second commander of the empire’s military forces, was not often in residence inside the city. Whatever reason he had for visiting now was most certainly not at the request of the imperial prince.
Mansoor’s solution to any diplomatic problem could always be found at the point of a sword. He was of the old ways in his arrogance, believing in the absolute rule of those below by those above in society. No, the emir had not come to see the prince. More likely any report would be made to Imperial Counselor a’Yamin, now that the emperor himself was bedridden and unavailable.
Ghassan was about to turn away when his gaze fell upon the occupant of the second litter: a young woman with her head tilted down. Though long black hair hid half of her face, he recognized her delicate profile and did not have to search his memory for her name.
Mansoor was blessed with five sons and only one daughter—A’ish’ah. Sons could be useful in holding on to power, but a daughter was useful for purchasing more power. And where else could one find more of this than in an unwed prince of an empire?
Ghassan drifted carefully along behind the procession as it approached the main gate and stopped. He kept his head lowered as he watched in curiosity.
Emir Mansoor rattled and clattered in enameled armor as he dropped out of the lead litter. Then he stood basking in the glory of his own self-importance as he waited to be admitted.