Barb Hendee - In Shade and Shadow

Rodian felt his throat closing up.

The girl had been mutilated for nothing, and the sound of Garrogh scribbling notes didn't resume. Rodian whirled for the stairs, hurrying to get out of this cold, dim space.

"Sir," Garrogh called. "Where are you going?"

"The guild. Please see our guest back to the royal grounds."

He nearly ran up the stairs, out through the scullery and kitchen, not caring if the staff saw his state. He didn't slow until he reached the courtyard and the stables along the south wall. Breathing fresh air as fast and deep as he could, he strode past the stable warden and saddled Snowbird himself. He patted her when she tried to nuzzle him, but then quickly swung up on her back.

Rodian tried to wipe the image of the cold cellar from his thoughts as he urged Snowbird into a canter down the second castle's gatehouse tunnel. He couldn't get the sight of Miriam out of his head, but he felt equally tangled in the strands of some web. It held him in place, forcing him to do little but watch, like a bound and useless spectator.

How could Duchess Reine, or the rest of the royal family, send him that Suman butcher?

The Numan Lands had seen no war in Rodian's lifetime, but he had seen battle in his younger days. One tour of duty had placed him near, and even beyond, Malourné's far eastern border. Even farther out were the Broken Lands—wild terrain with little to no civilization, stretching nearly to the eastern coast. Sometimes straggling bands of hulkish little beasts on two legs wandered into the farthest farmlands and forest communities.

He had seen soldiers bashed and torn apart, for those things ate nearly anything digestible. Hence their name—goblins… the little "gobblers."

They weren't so little. Ranging up to two-thirds the height of man, they hunted in packs, like wild dogs, and could tear apart a man, hauling his pieces away for their food.

But it wasn't the same as that girl cut open in the cold cellar.

He'd never thought how different these southlanders, the Sumans, were from his people. How could anyone in Calm Seatt expect such foreigners to exhibit decent moral reasoning, let alone ethical behavior?

Rodian tried to call up an image of the Trinity set in white stone upon the temple's dais.

"Forgive me," he kept whispering, "for my ignorance and failing of foresight."

As Snowbird's hooves clopped on cobblestone, Rodian was barely aware enough to steer her course. He tried to clear his thoughts with what few facts he possessed.

The killer knew about the sages' project and could read their symbols. The translation had been ongoing for perhaps half a year. The killer had waited, seeming to know—or guess—which folios to go after.

Was the murderer someone inside the guild?

The killer had torn out a piece of a brick wall with only his hand. And not a stitch of his clothing had succumbed to the sudden fire in the alley.

A mage perhaps?

Rodian knew of few such in the city, let alone elsewhere. Several apothecaries claimed to be alchemists, dabblers in what the guild called thaumaturgy. Dâgmund had clearly possessed such skill. But Rodian didn't know of anyone who worked the other art the sages called conjury.

There were two dwarven «stone-melders» who'd taken up residence in Calm Seatt. They often plied their trade as special masons for those who could afford them. But the figure in the alley had been tall, perhaps even trim beneath that billowing cloak, so certainly no dwarf.

Rodian considered the strange elf he'd seen with members of the royal family.

And then there was the guild—and its Order of Metaology.

It was said that they made the crystals used in the sages' special lamps, and occasionally had a hand in other works of this thaumaturgy. But he'd never heard of any, inside or outside of the guild, who could stand in fire or shatter brick with one hand.

Metaologers wore midnight blue robes.

Rodian closed his eyes and saw swirling black robes that appeared to float over the alley walls. Like Domin il'Sänke's robe, easily mistaken for black in the dark.

What had Wynn said about him? He is a master of metaology.

Il'Sänke had no alibi for the night of Elias's and Jeremy's deaths, or not one that weighed much under scrutiny. Rodian knew better than to make a claim against a sage, not until he had sufficient evidence. And the royal family would be deeply disturbed if it turned out to be true.

Or would they?

Il'Sänke wasn't a sage of Calm Seatt. He was from the empire far south beyond the Rädärsherând—the «Sky-Cutter» range separating the north from the vast desert. He was a Suman.

Snowbird slowed as Rodian turned her up Old Procession Road, straight toward the guild's gate. By now, Sykion and the entire premin council would know of last night's events. Likely the whole guild would be whipped up in panic.

May the Trinity forgive him, but he hoped so. All the better, all the more pressure when he pressed them for answers, regardless of Duchess Reine's shielding influence.

Where had Domin il'Sänke been last night?

He urged Snowbird through the gatehouse tunnel, not bothering to halt when a slim initiate in tan scurried out for his horse. He rode straight into the courtyard before dismounting.

"Stay," he told Snowbird.

Rodian didn't bother knocking and pushed through the double doors. Several apprentices coming out quickly jumped aside as he turned down the passage toward the common hall.

"Sir! Can we help you?"

He ignored them, though one young man in a teal robe chased after him.

"Please, sir. You cannot just wander about… Is there someone you wish to see?"

Rodian walked straight through the common hall for the smaller side archway—and the passage to the northern tower. When he climbed the turning stairs to the third level, the door stood open.

Some of Rodian's cold anger drained away as he peered in. High-Tower sat behind his desk with his wide face in his large hands. His gray-laced reddish hair hung in a mess. When he lifted his head, his eyes were blank and bleak.

The young apprentice ran puffing up behind Rodian.

"Domin," he panted. "Apologies… I know you're busy… I tried to stop him."

Standing in the doorway, Rodian glanced about the study. Other than stacked texts he'd seen on his last visit, it didn't look like the domin was occupied.

"It is all right," High-Tower mumbled. "Go back to your studies."

The apprentice glared disapprovingly at Rodian, then turned and stomped back down the stairs.

"I was about to send for you," High-Tower said quietly.

Rodian almost asked why. But he waited as the domin folded his massive hands together, lacing his thick, short fingers. High-Tower's gaze hardened, but not at Rodian. Instead the dwarf stared across the room at the wall or out the window beyond the open door.

"I sent out no folio today," High-Tower added. "I cannot risk harm to any more of our own. So our work has come to a halt… for the moment. You had best come in, Captain. There is much to discuss, but close the door first."

Rodian didn't care for the feel of this moment. He'd come for his own reasons, and the dwarf was suddenly far too acco Sy fdiammodating. He stepped in, reaching for the open door's handle.

A dark figure stood in the evening shadows, hidden between the obstructing door and the room's deep-set window.

At the sight of a black cloak, Rodian reached for his sword.

The figure tilted its head up.

Beneath a wide-brimmed black hat with a flat top, Pawl a'Seatt fixed glittering brown eyes on Rodian.

"Good evening, Captain," the scribe master said evenly.

Rodian faltered. "Why are you here?"

"I was asked," a'Seatt answered, and his gaze slid smoothly to High-Tower. "Now, perhaps you would shut the door so that we may both be enlightened."