In Shade and Shadow

Chapter 11

Wynn sat alone on her cell's bunk within the military's castle, staring at a heavy wooden door with no inner handle. On top of everything else that her superiors held against her, being arrested was going to destroy any grain of credibility she had left. She took a deep breath, trying to calm thoughts spinning out of control, but the effort failed.

A shrouded black figure, who could walk through walls, had stolen a folio and killed three of the Shyldfälches. The city guards had barely slowed it down. This only strengthened Wynn's belief that it was an undead as well as a powerful mage.

And Chane had appeared in the company of this monster, just as he had with Welstiel.

Then Chap had bolted out of the dark to protect her—only to vanish in pursuit of the black-robed undead.

It was too much to hold all at once in her head.

If Chap was here, then where were Magiere and Leesil? Though she ached to find Chap, to learn why he'd come, her jumbled thoughts kept turning back to Chane.

Once a minor noble in life, he was a scholar and sometime warrior who'd stood between her and death more than once. He was also another monster, a killer who fed on the living and had ended or ruined many lives. She'd tried to shut him out, to make him leave her once and for all in that forgotten castle of the Farlands' highest peaks. Yet here he was again—always again and again.

Wynn slumped, elbows on knees, and buried her face in her hands. Why had she believed his denial in the street?

She'd been disoriented by that thing coming out of the wall and the sudden appearance of Chane... and then Chap. Too much had happened in those panicked moments. Yet, even if Chane was a Noble Dead, he'd always revered the guild.

In Bela, across the eastern ocean, before anyone knew what he was, he'd often come at night to sit with her and pore over historical texts. Not once had he shown the slightest threat to her, Domin Tilswith, or the others trying to establish the bare beginning a new guild branch.

So how and why was he involved with the missing folios? And what had happened inside the Upright Quill that led to a conflict between him and the cowled figure? Perhaps Chane was more interested in the work of sages than she'd ever guessed.

She stiffened at a metal jangle outside her cell door. The heavy lock clacked, and the door opened partway.

Rodian hung in the opening, staring at her.

What could she say that would matter at all to him?

Oh, don't worry. The wolf was actually an elven dog, a kind you don't know about. And along with a woman you've never met—a half undead, half something you don't believe in—and a half elf you've never heard of, they hunt undeads, and...

Oh, yes, that would fix everything. They wouldn't lock her up for interfering with the city guard. No, they'd just stick her in a room in the city ward until she was cured of madness.

When the captain finally stepped in, Wynn could tell he was calmer than when he'd nearly thrown her into the cell. But his neatly bearded face was drawn tight, and dark rings surrounded his eyes. His jaw muscles bulged slightly as he ground his teeth.

"You set a trap," she said.

Rodian paced before the door, taking only four short steps to cross the cell before turning back the other way.

"Domin High-Tower must have helped, if he sent out that folio," she went on, "and Master a'Seatt."

The captain stopped, and the lack of his boots' rhythmic scrape made Wynn tense in the silence.

"What were you doing there?" he asked flatly.

For an instant Wynn considered telling him the truth. That the texts he'd been denied had been penned by ancient vampires. And that she was trying to learn which pages were being stolen and why.

"Answer me!" he snapped. "You're already complicit in three guardsmen's deaths... though after the fact."

Wynn almost shouted a denial. She swallowed immediately, studying his face.

Yes, she'd told Chane to run, but Rodian wouldn't care about her side. His only interest lay in stopping these murders, giving the royals a rational and satisfactory answer—and in so doing, advancing himself. He had no interest in the truth, and he certainly had no intention of reporting anything from her that might get him laughed out of his position. As things stood, he would have a hard enough time explaining a culprit emerging through a shopfront.

No, he could handle only pieces of the truth.

"I overheard messengers returning from the Upright Quill," she began.

"After what happened at Master Shilwise's shop, I feared the worst. So I ran, hoping to find someone still at Master a'Seatt's scriptorium and check on the folio, perhaps bring it back. That's why you caught me peeking in a window."

His expression never wavered. "You knew the second man."

Wynn panicked, ready to deny this as well.

"Don't bother lying," Rodian said. "He knew your name."

"Since returning from the Farlands," she answered, "many people I've never met seem to know my name."

She expected him to press further, as her answer was hardly satisfactory.

Instead he asked, "Did you get a clear look at the man who took the folio?"

"Man?" Wynn repeated.

"The mage in black robes." He paused and squinted at her. "What did you see?"

Wynn settled farther back on the bunk. The captain didn't want to know what she saw—or rather what she knew. He'd already convinced himself otherwise.

A mage, perhaps—but an undead as well—though one thing didn't quite fit: Its body passed right through a wall, yet it was unable to make the folio follow. It had to break the window to get the folio out.

"You saw it shatter the window..." Wynn said, then wavered, anxious at his darkening expression.

"Was il'Sänke at the guild before you left?" he asked.

The venom in his voice startled her. "I don't know... I was coming out of my room when I heard about the folio, so—"

"Why would a mage be working with a wolf?" Rodian demanded.

Wynn lost her temper in the jarring shift of questions. "The dog wasn't working with that thing!"

"And how would you know?" Rodian asked quickly. "The wolf, or dog, jumped out into the street when the thief ran, and it followed. They both fled together."

For all the captain's acclaimed cleverness, he was the half-wit, not her. Even he should've seen that Chap had chased off the undead.

"Why ask me?" she shot back. "When it doesn't matter what I say?"

Rodian ran a hand through his hair and fell silent.

"How long will you keep me here?" she asked. "If I'm to be charged, then get on with it."

He hesitated, and Wynn waited.

She had shouted at Chane to run and interfered with an attempt to catch a murderer. Even if a charge of complicity were dismissed, fouling the captain's investigation wouldn't be taken lightly. The high advocate of the people wouldn't have much trouble proving her guilt.

"Your superiors are waiting," Rodian said, and the words seemed to stick in his throat. "I'm releasing you to them."

He pushed open the cell door. It banged against the outer wall, and he just stood there, waiting.

Wynn rose slowly off the bunk, watching him in bafflement, even as she stepped into the dim corridor with its line of other heavy cell doors, all closed and silent. Rodian followed and led the way to the far stairwell in silence. Wynn kept quiet as well.

They climbed to where two regular soldiers stood in the alcove at the top. One unlocked the outer door as they approached. Wynn stepped out with the captain and followed closely as they crossed the paved courtyard to an old two-level barracks. They entered through a side door at the near end.

"My office," he said quietly, pointing.

Down the corridor, Wynn walked into a large room furnished with little more than a desk and two chairs. Premin Sykion and Domin High-Tower were waiting inside.

The latter ceased his heavy pacing, and his thudding footsteps were nothing compared to the weight of his glower.

"My dear," Premin Sykion said, closing on Wynn. "We are thankful you are unharmed. You must not go wandering off without telling someone."

The premin placed her slender, wrinkled hand on Wynn's shoulder, patting it twice before turning to Rodian.

"Thank you for looking after her, Captain."

Wynn's heart sank. Wandering off? Looking after? They painted her as a half-wit again, so no one might give her any credence.

"I'm sorry tonight's endeavor was not successful," Sykion went on to Rodian, but she cast a dark glance at High-Tower.

Wynn realized the premin hadn't known of the scheme hatched between the domin, the captain, and Master a'Seatt.

Rodian only looked at Sykion with a hint of distaste. Then he glanced sidelong down at Wynn, not even bothering to face her directly.

"You are free to go," he said.

Just like that. First he arrested her, locked her up, and questioned her concerning mostly obvious answers he never let her finish—almost none of which had anything to do with what mattered. And with a few condescending words from Sykion, she was being sent home to bed.

Wynn suddenly wondered what Magiere might say in this moment. Probably nothing, but both the captain and the premin would be bleeding by now. Magiere never backed down from anything. Beneath her derisive disinterest, always wishing to be left alone, she was furious when something got in her way or threatened those she cared for. And Leesil could be coldly vicious beneath his outer warmth and wit when it came to protecting his own. And Chap...

He'd always been manipulative, though usually for the best of reasons. He wasn't above putting people in a hard place to save them from themselves.

Wynn began to see that a bit of all of her wayward friends' attributes would be necessary here. She straightened.

"I apologize if I sound dense," she said. "But are we still embroiled in a murder investigation?"

"That was never your concern," High-Tower warned.

Premin Sykion reached for Wynn's arm. "Come, dear. You've been through enough, and none of us wishes you burdened any further."

Wynn pulled away, backing toward the office door.

"The captain failed tonight, and more people are dead... over the contents of a folio. I want access to the translation work, to see which passages are being sought."

"Not this again!" High-Tower growled in disbelief. "You have mucked things up enough!"

Wynn dropped her own voice to a low threat. "Perhaps you can't stomach that a mere journeyor discovered a treasure of history on her own. Are seven lives worth a little damage to your pride?"

Premin cize wo Sykion went pale, losing any crafted display of sympathy, and High-Tower flushed with rage.

But Rodian watched this exchange intently, his eyes shifting quickly among them.

"Wynn!" High-Tower rumbled. "This is no time or place for your nonsense. Tighten up your cloak. We are going home."

"Yes, my dear," Sykion added. "It is time to leave."

Wynn didn't budge. She'd heard all this before, and she no longer cared if they thought her addle-minded or even mad. There was only one option left, though it could end in her permanent dismissal from the guild.

"I want my journals from the Farlands returned," she said, not even acknowledging their evasions. "I want my property back... now."

No one said a word. Even High-Tower's blusters faltered, but Premin Sykion's expression grew sterner than Wynn thought possible.

Rodian turned his eyes on Wynn, but he wasn't glaring or scowling anymore.

"You are a cathologer of the guild—" Sykion began, and the edge in her voice belied her dignified manner.

"Very well," Wynn interrupted, "then I'll file legal claim to have the texts returned to me. I found them. I brought them halfway across the world. I allowed the guild access to them... but they are mine, by right of discovery."

"Discoveries made in service!" High-Tower snarled, finally regaining his voice. "All you are, you are because of sagecraft... and thereby the texts belong to the guild by law."

"I know of no such law," Rodian said quietly.

Sykion turned her stricken expression toward the captain, and another dead silence followed. But Wynn found Rodian studying her with cold interest. Whether from duty or ambition or anger at his being stonewalled thus far, her gamble's hope was reflected in his intense eyes.

"Do I have a legitimate claim?" she asked him.

"Certainly not!" High-Tower cut in.

Rodian raised a hand for silence. "If a journeyman smith or leather-worker finds a new technique or technology, does it belong to the master to whom the journeyman has contracted? Or if he or she develops or obtains new knowledge in the craft, is it the master who takes credit?"

High-Tower took a heavy step toward the captain, his gaping mouth working hard. But he couldn't get out one word.

"Not by law," Rodian said, supplying the answer.

"This is different," Sykion countered.

"Wynn," High-Tower rasped. "You would not do this to—"

"Give me access," Wynn demanded. "Or I will go to the high advocate—and take the texts from you! And whether my claim against your unlawful seizure is upheld or c is winot... the texts will still be revealed for the judgment."

This time outrage flushed High Premin Sykion's face. It quickly faded, as fear overwhelmed the head of Wynn's order and the guild branch as a whole.

The following morning Rodian paced around a lavish sitting room in the royal castle overlooking the bay. He'd received a summons at the barracks and was now uncertain what to expect. Perhaps the royals wished for a personal report on his progress—or rather, his failure.

Three of his men were dead. The costs of repairs to a'Seatt's shop were growing, for apparently the roof and front counter had been damaged as well. A member of the royals' favored Guild of Sagecraft had been caught in his trap, but not the perpetrators. And all he had to add to this, concerning the actual investigation, was that at least one of the suspects possessed a mage's skills the like of which he'd never thought possible.

Rodian halted in place.

He had to plan out the most logical and succinct account of events. Certainly the royal family couldn't hold him accountable for facing down someone with rare arcane skill. He could redirect his account to restore confidence in his ability. And now he had a new chance to learn what all of this was about—the texts of the guild's translation project.

Wynn Hygeorht, troublesome as she was, had given him that much.

After he'd released her last night, the trio of sages went off together, none of them speaking to one another. He'd suffered a short sleepless night wondering what might come of Wynn's demand. Would Sykion, as head of the Premin Council, legally challenge Wynn's claim? Would the journeyor back down if the premin refused to concede?

More than anything else, Rodian hated uncertainty. Wynn's determined, angry face kept slipping into his thoughts, and he pushed it aside. He still had this meeting with the royal family to get through, and he began pacing again.

He barely noticed the thick carpets and deeply polished furnishings tended with great care. Some had likely been in the Âreskynna family for generations. Couches of walnut were upholstered in silks, refined or raw, mostly dyed in shimmering sea greens and cyans, and embroidered in variegated patterns. The plastered walls were painted a rich shade of cream offset by golden yellow curtains and draperies around the entrance. The double doors were carved with the large crest of the royal family—an upright longsword upon a wide square sail over a troubled sea.

This was a world far removed from the eastern grasslands and farms of his youth, and he'd clawed his way to his current position on ability and merit. He wasn't about to fall because of some mage murdering sages over bundles of old texts.

The ornate doors opened wide.

Rodian stared into the large amber eyes of an old elf in a white robe with poorly disguised contempt on his tan face. More than the elf's age, the robe bothered him. It was cut much like that of the sages, but white wasn't a color of any of the five orders.

"Princess Âthelthryth Âreskynna and Duchess Reine Faunier- cReidivÂreskynna," the elf announced, stepping in and to the side.

Rodian breathed quickly through his nose.

From the outer crossing passage, Duchess Reine rounded through the entrance first.

Her chestnut hair hung loose, pushed back above each ear with a mother-of-pearl comb shaped like a foaming sea wave. She wasn't wearing a frontal-split gown, only her people's preferred riding boots and breeches along with a matching vestment over a white shirt of shimmering fabric. And a rider's saber hung upon her left hip from a white satin sash lashed about her waist. The effect made her look almost roguish and younger than her years.

"Captain," she greeted him. "Are you all right? You were not injured last night?"

"No, I'm well, Highness," he answered carefully, still wondering why he was here. "But I cannot say as much for my men."

Princess Âthelthryth glided in next, a sharp contrast to her sister-in-law.

Rodian had seen her only a few times in his life. Nearly as tall as him, she was as slender and upright as a young aspen tree. She shared the wheat-gold hair of the royal bloodline, as well as their aquamarine eyes, narrow features, and a blade-thin nose stretching down to a pale pink and thin-lipped mouth. Her pastel teal gown was simple and long-sleeved, but no one would ever mistake her for a minor noble. Where Reine always exuded an aura of quiet inner strength edging upon wildness, Âthelthryth filled any room with somber, intense reserve and detached awareness of everything.

Rodian dropped to one knee, bowing his head, and waited to be acknowledged.

"Captain," the princess said quietly, and he raised his head just enough to see the subtle tilt of her head.

"Come and sit," the duchess added. "We require a service from you."

Rodian rose as the duchess settled on a couch, pointing to another across from her. Then she stretched a hand up to the princess.

"Come, sister."

The royals and highest nobles always referred to the wives or husbands of brothers and sisters in this manner. It upheld the impression of unity before the people, a politically sound presence for the rulers of a nation. But as Âthelthryth approached, she lightly grasped and squeezed Reine's hand once, then took position standing behind the duchess like one of her family's Weardas, the Sentinels.

There was more than solidarity here. Rodian could see that the Âreskynna shared genuine affection with Reine. He settled on the couch across from them.

The tall elf closed the doors and took a place a few steps off from the two ladies of the royal house.

"We received a distressing report," the duchess began. "A young guild journeyor was involved in last night's tragedy."

Rodian blinked. What report, and from whom?

"She bears no guilt that I'm aware of," he answered carefully.

Reine sighed softly, but Âthelthryth's slight frown returned.

"We have heard this journeyor is making a personal claim," the duchess continued, "upon the texts she brought to the guild... even to taking it before the people's court. This would halt the guild's work on translation."

Rodian kept his expression placid. Only two of the guild knew of Wynn's claim—High-Tower and Sykion. And only the latter had direct contact with the royal family—"Lady" Tärtgyth Sykion, the duchess had called her.

Rodian's frustration began to mount.

"We have spoken with the high advocate," Princess Âthelthryth added. "It appears that Journeyor Hygeorht may have a legitimate claim. But if she takes full possession of these texts, there is no telling what might become of them... who might gain access to the contents. We are told the material is of a sensitive nature."

It took all of Rodian's effort to remain calm. What was the royal family fighting to protect—or at least keep hidden—to a degree that they would let their sages be murdered in the dark?

"The project must continue," the duchess said, leaning forward, "and thereby the texts must remain in guild hands. We wish you to go to Premin Sykion, as an unofficial arbiter, and seek a compromise."

"A compromise?" he repeated.

Âthelthryth took up where Reine left off. "We wish you to ask Premin Sykion to grant Journeyor Hygeorht access to all completed work—pages that have already been translated—but under controlled circumstances that will keep the texts protected from the public. If the journeyor will agree not to pursue full possession, she may see all translations since her return from the Farlands."

"We desire you to stop these murders," she said, "but keep the guild's project protected at the same time. If you can do this, we would be grateful... most grateful, Captain."

Rodian thought his heart stilled as he held his breath.

Her words were as close to an open admission as he might ever hear. The royal family wanted him to keep Wynn's ancient texts buried in secret. This veiled request left him caught between duty, faith, and ambition.

He knew lives depended upon him as the highest officer of the Shyldfälches, even the lives of these well-intended, if deluded, sages. But he also knew the rewards of royal gratitude.

Rodian took a slow breath. "I will not fail."

By late morning Wynn still lay in bed. Drained by last night's turmoil, she'd drifted in and out, but true sleep never came. Finally she swung her legs over the bedside, her small feet settling on the cold stone floor.

What had she done with her meddling and threats?

Certainly she'd jeopardized her place in the guild. Neither Sykion nor High-Tower spoke a word to her on the walk home. Since returning from the Farlands she hadn't been happy here, but life as a sage was all she knew. What would she do if she were dismissed and cast out?

Still, the thought of lives lost, the persistent denials of her superiors, and what her wayward friends might've done in her place convinced her there was no other choice than the one she'd made.

But at a soft knock on her door, Wynn shrank in apprehension. She had to force herself up to go crack open the door.

Domin il'Sänke stood in the outer passage. The wrinkle of his dark brow might've been worry—or scorn, if he'd already heard what she'd done.

"Get dressed," he said. "The Premin Council has called a general assembly."

Wynn's throat tightened. Was she to be cast out in front of everyone?

It didn't matter. She would still go after the texts by whatever means necessary.

Il'Sänke shook his head once. "I do not believe this concerns you," he said, perhaps reading the worry on her face.

Wynn realized she was standing there in her night shift—not that he seemed to notice. She held up a finger, telling him to wait, and closed the door to dress. Without bothering to brush or tie back her hair, she hurried out to join him. She found him staring intently down the hall.

Wynn glanced along his sight line. The passage was empty all the way to the landing above the stairs to the courtyard door.

"I'm ready," she said.

Il'Sänke started like someone interrupted from listening closely to a nearby conversation. He nodded, and she followed him to the stairs. When they finally reached the common hall, a surprising sight awaited Wynn.

The place was nearly bursting at the seams.

Every initiate, apprentice, journeyor, master, and domin in residence had been summoned. All five premins of the orders stood before the massive hearth, facing the gathered assembly. But more puzzling was the presence of scribe masters or shopowners from every scriptorium hired within the past half year—the Gild and Ink, the Inkwell, the Feather & Parchment, and Four Scribes in House. They all stood closest among the crowd before the council, all except for those of the Upright Quill.

Masters Pawl a'Seatt and Teagan stood off at the hearth's left end.

Wynn continued scanning. Anyone not a robed sage stood out in the mass. Captain Rodian stood near the hall's back, close to the wide entrance archway. As she crept in beside il'Sänke, the captain turned, arms crossed over his red surcoat, and his gaze briefly met hers. Then it locked on il'Sänke, and his expression hardened.

Last night in the cell the captain had specifically asked about il'Sänke's whereabouts. But why hadn't Rodian asked about anyone else?

Premin Sykion raised her hands to quell the buzz in the hall from too many speculating discussions. She stepped up on the hearth's frontal ledge. Domin High-Tower stood nearby, below on her right.

"After much consideration," she began in a clear voice, "regarding recent events, the council is forced to make changes that will affect those involved in the translation project... and indeed everyone residing at the guild."

She paused and looked around the quiet hall.

"We wish no speculation to cloud our intent, so we have called this gathering. It has been decided that no further folios, nor any work related to the project, will leave these grounds for any reason. Therefore, we will engage scribes from only one shop to come each day to accomplish their contracted work... here within our walls."

Soft whispers grew to murmurs among the crowd, until Wynn couldn't hear the hearth fire's crackle. Relief showed on many faces, but a rumble among the scribe masters began to rise above the noise.

"Which shop?" demanded Master Calisus of the Feather & Parchment.

Premin Sykion cleared her throat. "We have engaged Master a'Seatt's staff of the Upright Quill. In a recent attempt to assist the city guard his shop was damaged, and we feel partially responsible."

"My shop was ransacked before his!" shouted Master Shilwise of the Gild and Ink. "And far worse, from what I've heard. But I don't see the guild offering me compensation."

"All scriptoriums have done worthy service for the guild," Sykion returned, "but Master a'Seatt's kept the best schedule and often provided additional assistance... beyond the commonly shared high standards you have all shown."

"Standards be damned!" Shilwise snapped, and even discontented Calisus appeared startled by his vehemence. "I've put aside too much other work trying to meet the guild's requirements and schedules—and you still have a contract with my shop! I won't be pushed out like this. My scribes should be brought in as well."

At this, Calisus and the other two scribe masters chimed in with a cacophony of demands and accusations. Sykion put narrow fingers to her temple and had to shout over them.

"All scriptoriums have performed well in their task. We intend no slight by this decision, and you will be compensated for the sudden change."

"Not good enough!" Shilwise returned. "There's more than just coin involved—my shop's reputation is at stake."

"Your reputation is why you were originally chosen," Sykion responded.

"We've put other customers' needs second to the guild's," Shilwise shouted back. "On top of that, what happens when word gets out that a'Seatt is your favorite? I demand you fulfill your contract... or I'll see you in court, Sykion!"

Several of the premins pushed in around Sykion, all whispering to her. Sykion tried to wave them off and fixed her full attention on Master Shilwise. Her voice shock cer kioed the hall's air, startlingly loud for her tactful nature and frail stature.

"Compensation will be offered as promised. The matter is closed!"

At this, the master of Four Scribes in House tried to pull Shilwise back. But Shilwise shoved the stout man off, casting a seething glare to the hearth's far left end.

Pawl a'Seatt stood silent and unaffected, his heavy cloak and wide-brimmed hat in hand. Stooped old Master Teagan pushed round spectacles up his beaked nose, and he wrinkled that nose at Shilwise. But then he glanced nervously up at his employer.

Shilwise shoved through his competitors and strode out between the crowded tables and bystanders. He headed straight for the hall's main archway.

As he passed, Wynn saw his glistening face.

Master Shilwise had broken out in a sudden sweat. The owner of the Gild and Ink seemed more panicked than outraged as he rushed out. Wynn turned back but stopped halfway, her awareness catching on Domin il'Sänke.

His head was half bowed, as if he'd lost interest in the events. Instead he focused completely on Rodian.

The captain stood partly twisted around, staring after Shilwise, clearly as perplexed as Wynn by the scriptorium owner—not because of the man's outrage, but the extreme nature of it, and the strange change that came over Shilwise as he fled. Instead of turning back to the proceedings, Rodian's gaze dropped to Wynn. Only after a discontented breath through his nose did he turn away.

Wynn heard a sharp sigh—from il'Sänke—and she quickly looked up.

The tall domin's brow wrinkled under the barest shake of his head before he turned his own attention back across the hall.

Wynn kept looking about, from the captain to the domin to the archway where Shilwise had vanished. And she started to feel dizzy.

What had just happened? Why was Rodian even here? And was il'Sänke aware of the captain's suspicions?

"There is more," Sykion called out, pulling Wynn's attention. "Until further notice, all members—from initiates to premins—will remain within guild grounds between dusk and dawn. Those with family or homes elsewhere in the city shall also remain here. There will be no exceptions. Thank you, that is all."

Premin Sykion stepped down from the hearth's ledge, gathering with the other council members to speak in soft tones. The murmur in the hall grew as people began to rise, joining into small groups or drifting toward either exit.

The audience was over, but Rodian remained. Sages young and old passed around him, but he only watched the council before the hearth. With nothing further to hear, Wynn turned to leave.

"Wynn!" a deep voice called, and she whipped around.

Domin High-Tower stood near the hall's center. This was the first he'd spoken to her since Rodian's office the night before. c niomi She glanced up at Domin il'Sänke.

"You had best go," he said.

Wynn took one more worried look at High-Tower before she pushed forward against the current of others leaving the hall. High-Tower was already heading for the narrow side archway. At his gesture, she followed him.

He said nothing more, leading her all the way to the north tower and his study. Wynn steeled herself, and any relief at not facing dismissal before the entire guild was gone. It would be no better in the private chamber of Domin High-Tower. But when they entered, he didn't sit down. He stood before one narrow inset window, looking outside along the keep's old battlements.

"Premin Sykion..." he began, and then faltered. "We have decided you may have access to pages translated so far, but not the original texts... and only on the condition that you give up this treacherous notion of a claim."

Wynn held her breath, caught somewhere between relief and frustration.

A claim in the people's court before the high advocate concerning all the texts could take moons to settle. There were precedents regarding the rights of anyone working in any form of guild, and in the end she might still lose. For now she needed to see only the translations, to try to learn what the black-robed figure was after.

And she wasn't being cast out.

But Wynn was not about to let High-Tower hear her wild relief.

"And the codex," she said, not a quaver in her voice. "I need the codex as well to know which pieces of finished work are related to or from the same source. Too many pages and drafts have been lost so far."

He would already know this. She would need to see every stage of the translation to truly understand what the murderer sought.

High-Tower never turned from the window as he nodded curtly.

"How soon?" she asked.

"Tomorrow," he replied. "Preparations will be made for you."

A moment's frustration passed over the prospect of another delay, but Wynn didn't argue. If no more folios were carried back and forth, tomorrow would be soon enough.

And still, Domin High-Tower wouldn't look at her.

In his profile she could see that he thought her ungrateful and disloyal— or certainly above herself. But all that mattered was that an undead was hunting sages, maybe even hunting High-Tower, eventually. And no one but her seemed willing to acknowledge the truth or follow a proper course of action.

"Agreed," she said, and turned for the door.

"What has happened to you, Wynn?"

She froze with her hand on the latch. He sounded sad, almost defeated. She jerked the door open, stepping out into the tower's spiral stairway.

"I grew up," she answered.

She didn't look back as she shut the door.