In Shade and Shadow

Chapter 2

Siweard Rodian, captain of the Shyldfälches, rocked on his heels as he stared down into a young, ashen, dead face. Another body lay crumpled nearby in the dead end's corner. Neither victim bore any cuts or bruises, and he saw no signs of a struggle, except a piece from the robe's shoulder of the nearest body had been torn off.

The eyes of both young sages were open wide, and their faces...

Both expressions were locked in similar twisted fear—no, outright terror—with mouths gaping, as if their last scream had never come out. Their hair looked faintly grayed, aged in an instant. Though he'd seen sudden fright and trauma produce such symptoms in men, particularly after the worst of battles, he'd never seen this in ones so young.

Rodian was at a loss for where to begin. He wasn't even certain how much he should disturb the scene.

Murders happened in most large cities. Unlike petty crimes, left to district constabularies, the dead always fell in his lap. At twenty-eight, he was notably young for his position. He knew it, though he'd certainly earned the honor. And in the three years since taking command of the Shyldfälches, he'd learned that most murders were motivated by revenge or passion. Only a few came from panic, when some unfortunate stumbled upon a culprit engaged in criminal undertakings.

Serious poverty wasn't rampant in Calm Seatt. Even pickpockets and muggers were less common than elsewhere. The royal family kept the people's welfare at heart. Funding to help the poor and homeless was made available whenever possible.

But Rodian had never seen anything like this.

He would have to report these deaths by dawn to the minister of city affairs. By noon at the latest the king and queen would hear of it. Malourné's royals took pride in the guild, founded by their ancestors.

Shaken, angry, even anxious, he felt overwhelmed. He needed to resolve this quickly.

And where was Garrogh?

Guards of the local district's constabulary had blocked both alley entrances. Two of his own men stood at the turn into the dead end. And one more stood close, holding a lantern to light the scene.

There were also two civilians present.

Master Pawl a'Seatt, owner of the nearby scriptorium, had found the bodies. Behind him, clinging to his arm, was a dark-haired girl named Imaret—in his employ. She wept in silence, her eyes locked wide as she stared at the bodies. Now and then she looked up to her tall employer, who ignored her.

Rodian felt sick inside that he had to keep the girl this close for so long.

"You found them... just like this?" he asked. "You didn't move or touch anything?"

Master a'Seatt seemed neither shocked nor unsettled by the sight.

"I touched nothing," he answered. "I found them and sent word to the constabulary. In turn, they called for the guard."

Rodian lowered his head, studying the bodies in their long gray wool robes. They wore the color of an order as opposed to the bland tan of initiates. But he couldn't remember which order. Too young to be masters, they were still old enough to be apprentices, perhaps even journeyors.

And as to how they had died...

His best guess was poison. Something quick, but cheap and common, considering they'd died in such agony. But why would anyone poison two would-be scholars? And why poison, if this was murder spawned by the culprit's panic at being discovered? It wasn't done with some toxin-laced weapon, since he could find no wounds.

"Sir?"

Rodian lifted his head at the familiar voice rolling along the alley walls. Garrogh pushed through, ushering in three robed figures.

Lieutenant Garrogh was a good man, quick and efficient, though waiting here had eroded much of Rodian's patience. Perhaps now he could begin finding answers. Then he spotted Pawl a'Seatt watching the newcomers.

The hint of a serious frown spread across a'Seatt's features—the first real expression Rodian had observed on the man's face.

A determined, solid-looking dwarf in a gray robe led the new trio, followed by a tall, slender man with dark skin in a deeper-colored robe. As the latter entered the lantern's light, Rodian spotted him as Suman, and his robe was a blue shade near to black. The last of the trio was a younthrio was g woman in gray. As the dwarf's gaze settled upon the bodies, sorrow broke his stern features, then quickly turned to frightened anger.

"Bäynæ, vastí ág ad," he whispered like a prayer.

The Suman released a long sigh and held his arm back.

"There is nothing for you to see here," he said, beginning to turn.

But the young woman shoved his arm aside and peered into the alley's dead end.

"No... not here!" she breathed, each word rising in force. "Not so far from..."

She lunged into the dead end and fell upon the first body before Rodian could stop her. Grabbing its head, she tore back the robe's cowl.

"Wynn, no!" the dwarf commanded.

Everyone flinched at his thunderous voice in the alley's small space—except for the young woman. Rodian reached for her as she wrestled to tear open the robe's neckline. The instant he touched her shoulder she lashed wildly at him, striking his hand away.

"Wynn!" the Suman snapped. "This is not the way!"

Rodian glanced at the man, but his attention shifted to Pawl a'Seatt.

The scribe master had stepped closer. As he peered around the two elder sages, his stoic expression filled with intensity. He watched the young woman's furious struggles with the body, and her actions seemed both to surprise and fascinate him.

Rodian reached again for Wynn as Garrogh closed in on her other side. To his shock she rolled the victim's head from side to side, pulling down the robe's collar as she pawed at his throat and chest.

"No blood?" she whispered between rapid breaths. "No wounds... no blood?"

Rodian halted Garrogh with a raised hand. He'd already memorized every aspect of the scene, so what was the young woman looking for?

"Did you find them like this?" she blurted suddenly, but she didn't look up. "Did anyone see what killed them?"

"They were found by Master a'Seatt and one of his scribes," Rodian answered. "And neither saw..."

He never finished, for his answer wouldn't have matched her question.

She hadn't asked who—but rather what—had killed members of her guild. There was something telling in her strange choice of words. In her frantic pawing, was she looking for a cause of death, something she'd expected but hadn't found?

Master a'Seatt stepped yet closer, watching her every move. Imaret remained half-hidden behind him.

"No teeth marks," the small sage whispered.

"Wynn!" a deep voice grated. "That is enough!"

"I put it in their hands," a'Seatt answered. "You have my sympathies."

"What folio?" Rodian asked, for he'd found no such thing in this place.

"Their task," Master a'Seatt answered. "The guild sends us pages of draft work to be copied into final versions. These young men were carrying such back when—"

"Time enough for that later," High-Tower cut in. "Two of ours are dead, and another is beyond herself."

"The pages are missing?" Wynn demanded, and she whipped around, her wild eyes searching the alley floor.

"We do not know what happened yet!" High-Tower growled.

"What more do you need from us?" il'Sänke added. "This is not a place for lengthy discussion."

All of these reactions struck Rodian as bizarre, from the blustering dwarf, to the panic-stricken young woman, to the disturbingly composed sage in blue, who now showed no emotion at all. Behind them stood Pawl a'Seatt, his attention still fixed on young Wynn.

"I will take the bodies for further examination," Rodian answered.

He had many questions, some he hadn't even fully formed as yet. And he wished he had more time to study everyone present. Too many strange reactions had passed too quickly.

"I will arrange interviews at the guild," he added.

"Interviews?" High-Tower echoed. "For what?"

"For a formal inquest. Both victims currently resided at the guild, correct?"

High-Tower opened his mouth as if to argue.

"Yes, come tomorrow morning," Wynn blurted out. "We will expect you."

High-Tower swept her back with one massive arm, and il'Sänke pulled her farther up the alley. A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. But as Wynn back-stepped past Pawl a'Seatt, she cocked her head slightly, looking at him.

The scribe master met her gaze steadily, as if he were the one studying her. Grief-stricken Imaret was still shocked into stillness, except when her eyes flicked nervously up at her employer.

All three sages paused near the alley wall, perhaps waiting to see how the final few moments here played out.

For another breath Rodian watched the scribe master, who passively turned his attention from Wynn as if he'd seen nothing of note.

"I will arrange interviews at your scriptorium as well," Rodian told a'Seatt.

Master a'Seatt glanced his way. "Business will keep me from the shop all day, but Master Teagan will be in. I will not be available until evening."

Rodian frowned but nodded. Hopefully Master a'Seatt fully understood he was connected to a murder investigation.

"At dusk then," he replied.

Pawl a'Seatt began turning away; then he paused. "Captain, I have some things to attend to at my shop. Could you arrange an escort to take Imaret home?"

"Of course," Rodian answered. "Have her wait with one of the constables at the alley's entrance, and I'll see to it directly."

"My thanks."

Pawl a'Seatt reached down to usher Imaret along. She jumped slightly as his fingers slid across her shoulders. She turned, walking close at his side, right past the three sages.

Rodian didn't bother to watch them go. He had too much to deal with this night.

"Lieutenant, have a cart brought in."

Garrogh was staring at the ashen bodies, and Rodian stepped closer.

As officers of the Shyldfälches, they were uniformed much alike, with their contingent's red tabards over clean chain vestments and padded hauberks. But while Garrogh paghtle Garrid only passing attention to his appearance, Rodian was meticulous, with clean hair cropped short and a close-trimmed beard sculpted across his jaw. In Calm Seatt, appearances counted for much—if one were ambitious.

"Lieutenant," Rodian repeated. "The cart?"

Garrogh finally nodded. "Yes, sir."

He was a hardened soldier, late of the regulars, and it bothered Rodian that his second in command was so unsettled by dead sages. Finally Garrogh turned away from the eerie scene.

"Would you like an escort back to the guild?" Rodian asked Domin High-Tower.

The dwarf blinked. "No, we need no escort."

Il'Sänke nodded politely, ushering Wynn out, and all three headed back toward where the turn into the dead end joined the main alley back to the street.

"I'll arrive before noon tomorrow," Rodian called after them, but no one answered.

As much as he shared his lieutenant's shock over these ugly murders, he had other concerns. The royals would hear of this soon enough. Ambition and devotion had taken him far, but if he didn't settle this matter quickly and thoroughly, it might ruin him.

Rodian stood alone, but for the guardsman holding the lantern. The closest body lay at a crooked angle with his robe's collar torn open, exposing his throat.

What had Wynn Hygeorht been looking for?

A figure crouched low upon a candle-shop roof.

He watched a cart with two bodies in gray roll from the alley, pulled by city guards in red tabards. Another guard with a close-cropped beard led the way, obviously their superior. All of them paused upon reaching the constables waiting at the intersection. The officer appeared to give orders. With nods, the constables went their way, escorting a young girl, and the guards headed off with the cart. But the officer remained.

Looking one way and then the other along the street, he froze, perhaps watching something farther off. And the cloaked figure upon the roof lifted his hooded head, peering in the same direction.

The bundle he held pinned to the roof suddenly began to slide, and he quickly pressed his hand down on it.

The bearded officer below looked up, and the figure flattened low and still.

He waited in silence, listening. He could hear the officer's breath pause, the click of chain and creak of leather as the man turned around twice. Finally boots clapped slow and steady upon the wet cobblestone, until the sound all but faded. Only then did the figure rise, searching along the street below.

Down the far way, three figures were nearly out of sight: one small woman in gray, a dwarf in a like robe, and a taller man in midnight blue.

And the figure leaned forward, overhanging the eaves, as his gaze fixed on the woman.ghton the

That distant glimpse was not enough, but fear of being seen smothered his urge to drop down and follow her. He looked to the bundle he held pinned against the roof's shakes.

And he lifted the leather folio in his gloved hand.

He had barely gotten it out of the alley before the scribe master and the girl arrived. Pulling the strap from its buckle, he whipped the folio's flap open and peered inside. He froze for an instant, then dug furiously about inside of it.

The folio was empty.

Sagging in stunned confusion, the figure reached behind and pulled forward one of two canvas packs. Opening its flap to shove the folio inside, he paused, glancing over his belongings.

Tucked within the pack were old books, some coming apart with age. Two boxes as well, one bound in leather and the other wrapped in cloth. Several short rods of various metal lay askew, leaning against a large hoop of smooth steel with hair-thin etchings. And for an instant he remained fixed upon an age-marred, tin scroll case.

The figure lifted his hooded head, listening a moment for anyone nearby. Then he quickly shifted his belongings, with clinks and clatters, and wedged the empty folio into the pack. Rising up, he hefted both his packs over one shoulder and gazed down the street.

Those three robed sages—man, woman, and dwarf—slipped from sight around the road's gradual curve. And the cloaked figure pulled back his hood, letting raggedly cut red-brown hair swing freely around his narrow, pale face.

Chane Andraso stood high in the dark, staring after Wynn.

But she was beyond his widened sight as much as beyond his reach.

Ghassan il'Sänke lingered outside the main archway of the guild's common hall, watching the commotion play out. Half this branch's population was now crowded into that large space. A small sea of initiates in tan robes pressed in toward the mammoth hearth at the hall's far end. Among them were the teal, cerulean, gray, midnight blue, and sienna of apprentices and perhaps a few journeyers of the five orders. Domins and masters of the guild were present as well. And the thrum of agitated voices echoed out over Ghassan.

He had no wish to answer questions, either those of the premins or the curious and fearful gathered about. High-Tower could face that task. The dwarf's sharp brevity, though unsatisfying to some, might quell morbid fascination and fear among the guild's populace. And more likely, High Premin Sykion would not let things go too far. Discussion of unpleasant details would be held until privacy was achieved.

But still, Ghassan wanted to know what was said—and thought.

And how much anyone suspected regarding the deaths of two young sages and the missing folio of passages from the ancient texts. How would the sages of this guild branch react?

Frustration cracked his self-control in a sharp exhale.

If only he had found a way to remove the texts and taken them to his branch far south. These Numans were ill-suited for protecting the ancient writings, regardless that this was the guild's founding branch. Compared to his own branch, this castle was still a tiny place in the world.

High-Tower was hard to spot amid the crowd, but he was somewhere near the hearth. Wynn would be close by as well. Then one of the dwarves' broad hands rose above the thickened forest of cowled heads as he bellowed for silence.

Ghassan pitied him—almost.

The stout domin was the perfect example of a solid, pragmatic dwarf, who preferred each day's schedule to follow an ordered and efficient regimen. The potential for chaos in the hall would be torture for him—as much as for those behind him.

All five of the Premin Council, leaders of the five orders, stood scattered along the great hearth's front ledge.

Premin Sykion looked uncomfortable, even a little shaken. She raised a narrow hand, echoing High-Tower's gesture, and her reedy voice lowered the rumble in the hall.

"Please, we have told you all we know. We hope to learn more tomorrow. But for now there is nothing more."

Some of the crowd drew back, taking up seats at benches and stools, while others drifted toward the exits with low and fervent murmurs.

At more than sixty years, Sykion was as slender as a solitary palm tree on a grassy shore, and perhaps slightly bent like one under the wind of a gathering storm. The gray robe of a cathologer suited her serene demeanor, as well as did her long and braided silver hair. Il'Sänke respected her position but otherwise had no opinion of her. As premin of cathology at Calm Seatt, and high premin of the branch's council, she had been the one to request his extended stay.

Môdhrâfn Adlam, premin of naturology, stood closest to her. At a break in the crowd il'Sänke saw a handful of brown-robed apprentices gather near him, as if seeking his protection.

Ghassan snorted.

Môdhrâfn's given name meant "proud raven." Odd as it was for a Numan name to refer to an animal, he supposed it suited the head of naturology here, those who studied the natural world. Still, «prideful» would have been a better translation.

"How did they die?" young Nikolas asked, his voice trembling.

Ghassan hadn't even noticed him before. In general, Nikolas Columsarn never warranted much note. He was usually hiding in some corner with hunched shoulders, like a mouse watching for a cat. As he had been now, before stepping into sight around the archway's side.

High-Tower cleared his throat. "The captain of the guard has made no determination, but with no visible injuries... it appears they may have been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" a clear voice called too loudly.

There was a hint of contempt behind its fear, and Ghassan shifted his gaze to Wynn.

She stood just beyond High-Tower at the hearth's left end, her arms crossed as if she were cold.

Domin High-Tower glared at her. "No one needs to hear any more of your nonsense!"

He had tried to say this under his breath, but the words still carried. Wynn straightened and held High-Tower's eyes with hers.

"They weren't poisoned," she said. "Even so... whoever killed them took a folio completed this day at Master a'Seatt's shop. What did you send to have copied? What was in those pages?"

"Their deaths had nothing to do with their task!" High-Tower snapped. "Some thug killed them, and merely took anything found."

"A common thug... using poison?" Wynn returned coldly. "Where's the sense in that?"

Premin Sykion stepped along the hearth toward Wynn.

"You are tired and overwrought, my dear, and it grows late." She looked around at the remaining hesitant faces. "Everyone should rest. There is nothing more to discuss."

Sykion's hazel eyes grew sad in her gaunt, lined face.

"A great tragedy happened tonight, but as Domin High-Tower suggests, we may yet learn it was a random act that took our brothers from us."

Muttering softly, the last of the initiates, apprentices, and masters began to break apart, heading out in small groups. Some passed Ghassan on their way to the front double doors and the courtyard, off to their quarters elsewhere.

Premin Sykion gently steered Wynn toward the main archway.

Ghassan had noted more than once how the premin handled Wynn's outbursts—with sympathy and compassion, versus High-Tower's fuming frustration. But the premin's method had done more to discredit Wynn than the dwarf's ever had. Perhaps Sykion did pity Wynn—as some poor, addle-minded girl, not up to the journey her domin had given her in a faraway land.

But Wynn did not inspire sympathy in Ghassan.

She made him anxious, almost wary, and fear was unusual for him.

He watched Wynn approach, her olive features defeated and disturbed. What did she know, and how much? She stopped when she saw him standing beyond the arched entrance.

"You didn't even come in?"

"I was not needed."

"They're all fools," she whispered. "And yet I'm the witless one? Tell me... if you're the last sane person in a world of blind lunacy, what does that really make you?"

Ghassan saw no point in playing at intellectual conundrums.

"Is it not possible that Elias and Jeremy were poisoned?" he asked. "Can you not grant that much?"

Wynn's small mouth tightened, and Ghassan thought she might accuse him of being a fool as well. For in a world of fools, the sane and rational were always labeled idiots and madmen.

"I suppose," she said low in anger.

He nodded once. She passed him by, heading silently toward the entry chamber and the great doors.

Ghassan took two silent steps after her, just enough to take him beyond sight of anyone still in the common hall. And he blinked slowly.

In that sliver of darkness behind his eyelids, he raised the image of Wynn's face in his mind. Over this he drew the shapes, lines, and marks of blazing symbols stroked from deep in his memory. A chant passed through his thoughts more quickly than it could have passed between his lips.

Poison indeed! Blindness... all of them blind to what I know!

Ghassan il'Sänke finished his blink as the cacophony of Wynn's conscious thoughts erupted in his mind.

They were killed by an undead....

He took care not to sink too deeply. Searching for anything more than surface thoughts could arouse a target's awareness. Even if she wouldn't know what startled her from within, he had no wish to fuel her paranoia—not yet.

I wish Magiere were here. Or Leesil... yes, he'd get a good laugh at such a notion... as poison for a mugging.

It was difficult to catch anything coherent in her overwrought mind.

How could this thing feed without leaving marks? And why steal the folio? Chap would figure this out. Where are you when I need you?!

Ghassan heard Wynn lift one of the iron ring handles on the double doors—but he did not hear the door open.

How did il'Sänke hear about the poison... if he wasn't inside the common hall?

His right hand trembled, perhaps from the strain, and he reached across to stop it with his other. Wynn believed the deaths were related to the texts... those texts that never should have been brought here, never placed in the Calm Seatt branch for translation.

I thought il'Sänke would... at least he should've believed me... I thought... I am so alone.

Ghassan heard the heavy door creak open, and its thud upon closing echoed back down the passageway. Even in Wynn's scattered thoughts, he sensed determination. How far would she go to uncover the truth—either what he already knew or had yet to learn?

How far must he go to stop her?