Барб Хенди - First and Last Sorcerer

All expressions of those below grew more startled as they turned and ran toward those other voices. Cold grew in Én’nish’s core as she followed along the rooftops, growing weary as the guards veered into a side street.

Én’nish turned the rooftop’s corner and slowed instantly.

Halfway down the side street below, three more guards stood over a body. Confused arguing erupted once more. From above and across that street, Én’nish had to cover her mouth to keep silent.

Dänvârfij, her mouth slack and eyes staring up at nothing, lay motionless with her head at an unnatural angle.

The guards grew more agitated until one pointed back the way they had come. The two carrying the heavy burden laid the blanket down and opened it.

Én’nish’s legs shook and then buckled. She collapsed upon the roof, perhaps making noise, though no one below looked up.

Rhysís lay within the unfolded blanket, a broken arrow protruding from his chest. His face was partially crushed.

Én’nish fought to keep her gasping breaths quiet and began to shake.

She had never known his passing would affect her, even after all he had done for her. In fury, the mourning madness of her people had burned so long since the death of her betrothed at Léshil’s hands. Én’nish had never considered what Rhysís had come to mean to her.

She had lost him too.

Dänvârfij was gone as well. There was no one of able body left to fulfill the team’s purpose. Brot’ân’duivé had won.

Imperial guards still chattered angrily below, but Én’nish could only curl up on the roof, twitching in choked sobs as she begged her people’s ancestors to give back her fury.

It did not come back, and she lay there clawing at the roof tiles with her fingernails. By the time she could breathe and push herself up, the street below was empty. There were no bodies to retrieve, render to ash, and bring home.

The return to the inn took far longer than leaving it.

Once there, in halting words, she told Fréthfâre what she had seen.

The ex-covârleasa listened without reaction until she finally whispered, “Dänvârfij possessed our only remaining word-wood.”

“I did not see the soldiers find it or take it, and I could not have—”

“You should have retrieved it at any cost! Without it, we ... are ...” Fréthfâre sagged as she succumbed to another fit of coughing.

Én’nish waited for that to subside. “If the traitor killed them, he would have taken or destroyed it. Most Aged Father will know when he does not hear from us by dawn. He will know we failed ... our purpose. He will know the artifact was not recovered.”

Fréthfâre’s left eye twitched. “Yes.”

“We must return home,” Én’nish said. “We must make the report ourselves.” Yes, the journey would be long and difficult, but that was the only path to honor their sworn oaths and their fallen. “I will find us a ship headed north,” she went on, “and then in Calm Seatt a caravan headed to the eastern coast, where we will find a ship making the cross to—”

“No.”

Én’nish grew fearful in waiting, but Fréthfâre remained silent. Én’nish would never abandon the ex-covârleasa.

“This ... empire ... on the edge of sands,” Fréthfâre finally began, “spans all the way to the eastern coast. There must be merchants and other caravans that make the journey at any time of year. We will travel directly to the eastern shore ... and then find a ship.”

Én’nish considered this as something else occurred to her. “Once we reach the eastern continent, how will we get home? We have no word-wood to call for one of our people’s vessels.”

Human ships were not allowed in an’Cróan waters. Only a few smugglers took such risk, and most never returned home.

“There are others of our caste in the Port of Bela,” Fréthfâre said. “You would not know this. Few would. You will make contact when we arrive ... as I direct you.”

Én’nish was aware that many of their caste ranged widely, but she had not known that any were permanently stationed among the humans. If nothing else, at least she and Fréthfâre could strive to report to Most Aged Father. And yet, even if they fulfilled that much in their failure, what then lay ahead for her?

Eleven of her caste had departed with a joint purpose, by far the largest team ever sent out by Most Aged Father. All were trained and skilled, but only a crippled ex-covârleasa and one broken anmaglâhk would return.

It should have been the worst of shame and sadness, but it was not, for Én’nish thought of Rhysís most of all. And in acknowledging him too late, she could not even return his ashes to the ancestors.

“We will try to book passage on a caravan tomorrow,” Fréthfâre said. “A new purpose for us will begin.”

“As this one ends.”

“Yes ... as this one ends.”

Prince Ounyal’am paced his chambers and, even at the mid of night, he would not consider sleep. Exhausted, yes, but he obsessed over what Nazhif and others among his bodyguards had reported.

All in all, events could have gone far worse.

Fareed and Isa had relieved two other members of the private bodyguards, as was commonly done at night, and they now stood post outside the door with Nazhif. They had succeeded in their task for Ghassan’s need. It appeared they had not been seen by palace forces, or at least none that had been left alive.

Counselor a’Yamin had discovered the escape, the unconscious Commander Har’ith, and quickly ordered a sweep of the grounds before raising a full alarm.

Neither Nazhif nor his men had learned anything more.

Ounyal’am hoped that the domin had somehow taken charge of the prisoners he wanted. If not, and they were recaptured, there would be questions concerning how they had escaped. There would also be answers obtained by any means necessary. Ounyal’am longed to go seek further information, but, as was his habit, he was supposed to have retired.

Any questions in the night would only draw suspicion. A’Yamin would hear of it.

As Ounyal’am paced back into and across his sitting room, a high-pitched shout carried in the corridor outside the main door.

“You will stand aside!”

No one could mistake the venom in the voice of Counselor a’Yamin.

Ounyal’am, in his nightclothes and dressing gown, reached the door in long strides and jerked it open.

“What is happening out here?” he demanded.

Nazhif, as well as Fareed and Isa, stood evenly in the path of the counselor, who was backed by three imperial guards. One look at a’Yamin almost made Ounyal’am falter in relief.

The prisoners had not been recovered.

“The foreigners have escaped,” the counselor returned. “Commander Har’ith is injured and a member of the palace guard is dead.” As he spoke, he watched—no, studied —only the prince.

Ounyal’am purposely widened his eyes. “An escape ... from beneath the palace grounds? How, and who is at fault ... among the guards?”

The counselor hesitated, though he did not react to the implied accusation. “Whatever happened was carefully planned, as someone was lying in wait for the commander.”

Ounyal’am magnified his tone of disbelief, becoming incredulous. “Lying in wait ... in the open passages of the prison? How would anyone have even learned where the prisoners were secured? Who would have that information to share? Very few ... I would hope.”

At that, the counselor hesitated again but then quickly turned to his own accusation. “I was told that you sent the commander there.”

“Yes, at the order of the emperor.”

Ounyal’am had not wanted to use that tactic, for the counselor would then know for certain he had been circumvented in his seclusion of the emperor. And indeed, a’Yamin fell silent ... and turned visibly livid.