In Shade and Shadow

Chapter 8

Wynn spent the next day in the catacombs with two terms stuck in her head—Âthkyensmyotnes and blâch-cheargéa.

She searched deep through the archives, even trying to find possible variations on the term “vampire.” But her continent's earliest peoples had no such words in any language. The varied ones she'd learned in the Farlands wouldn't be found in this branch of the guild. Several times she got lost in the maze of stone chambers and rooms. All she could do was follow the elemental symbols upon the edges of bookshelves.

Spirit, Fire, Air, Water, and Earth.

Circle, triangle, square, hexagon, and octagon.

The fewer the symbols in a column, the closer she was to the catacomb's front below the keep's rear wall. The most primary and general texts for each field of knowledge, indicated by one lone geometric shape, were closest to Domin Tärpodious's main chamber. Soon enough she found her way back and headed into other reaches of the archives.

Whenever she found a tome, sheaf, book, or scroll of interest, she backtracked to the nearest alcove. There she settled to read, never certain of how long she sat alone in the light of her cold lamp. Again, Wynn gained little more than a headache and tired eyes—until sometime close to supper.

That one word—“warth”—wasn't familiar to Wynn, but she quickly turned the page of the old ghost tale.

The term, and even the whole tale, sounded like something Wynn had read before. But everything was beginning to sound like something she'd read before. She propped her elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands. She'd finally had enough of it.

Just the same, she recorded the term in her journal and then left for the comfort of her own room. But as she emerged into the castle's main floor, she paused.

The new library wasn't far off.

Wynn wove through the passages to its nearest entrance. It had no door, only a tall double-wide archway of finely crafted frame stones. The topmost four were engraved with Begaine symbols, one after the other, for the sages' creed.

Hurrying in, she fingered along a tall bookcase on the main floor, passing over a dozen lexicons, until she found the one she sought on the bottom shelf. Groaning at its bulk, she hefted it up and dropped it on a table. It took time to find any similar term.

Wynn flipped pages to find the referenced entry for “wraith”: a dark or black apparition, sometimes similar to, or in the likeness of, a particular person. Found in folklore as an omen of immediate impending demise, though sometimes said to be seen shortly after an individual's death.

Wynn slammed the thick book shut—portents indeed!

More superstitious nonsense, which brought her no closer to the truth concerning what hunted her people and the folios. She jotted down the new term and definition next to her entry for the warth and left the library, hurrying all the way to her room.

Once inside, with the door tightly shut, Wynn flopped onto her bed. After a while she crawled over to peer out her narrow window. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the keep's walls, she heard eight bells ring out softly.

The last eighth of day, called Geuréleâ—“day's winter”—in the dwarven time system used throughout the Numan Lands. Dusk was coming, and the day's work hardly seemed useful.

Every time she thought of how she'd carried back a wealth of texts written by ancient undead but wasn't even allowed to see them, it left her so angry that her stomach burned. If she could only find some common thread within the folios' contents, she might provide Premin Sykion with a possible motive.

But for this to happen, the premin council had to acknowledge that the folios—and the entire project—were connected to the deaths and thefts. Otherwise, even a sound theory of motive would be disdainfully dismissed, like her tales of dhampirs, vampires, ghosts, and...

Wynn sighed and dropped back down on the bed. Rubbing her temples, she tried to drive angry obsession from her head. She needed clarity and calm as she went to her table-desk and began reviewing her notes.

Nonsensical accounts of animated corpses feeding on flesh replaced anger's burn with queasiness. She wished Domin il'Sänke would finish the sun crystal. But at least she was shut away in her room once again, where she worked best.

Her possessions were simple: a bed, a table for a desk, her cold lamp, a small chest, and all her journaling equipment. In spite of slight nausea, she was getting a bit hungry, having not eaten since breakfast.

At a knock on her door her heart thumped hard, and she thought, Please let it be il'Sänke, with the sun crystal finally completed. She ran for the door and jerked it open.

Nikolas stood outside, his face drawn and pale.

Wynn sagged in disappointment but tried to express concern. "What's wrong?"

He opened his mouth once, then closed it, and Wynn forgot her own worries.

Others called him little Nervous Nikolas, but he wasn't exactly little. He was slender, but not spindly, and of medium height. Perhaps his constant cringing and the twitching worry in his plain brown eyes had led to that nickname. She wondered what in his past had rooted this perpetual anxiety.

"Come in," she said, stepping back, "and tell me what's wrong."

He quickly slipped past her, but not before glancing both ways along the outer passage.

"I'm... I'm..." he began in a stammer.

Wynn took a deep breath and waited patiently.

"I'm being sent for tonight's folio!" he blurted out. "Me, with Miriam and Dâgmund, and they were followed last night!"

Wynn froze in disbelief.

"Domin il'Sänke must have told Domin High-Tower what happened," he rushed on. "So how could he send more of us out?"

"Nikolas!" Wynn said. "Calm down."

"I don't want to go!" he half shouted, and ended in stuttering whimpers. "But if I refuse I will... seem unhelpful."

Pity mixed with Wynn's frustration. The one thing an apprentice never wished to be called was «unhelpful» — a thinly veiled euphemism for «lazy» or "incapable." But in spite of two deaths, a ransacked scriptorium, and an account of two messengers being followed, her superiors remained insistent that these events were unconnected and had nothing to do with the translation project.

Nikolas stared at her expectantly, as if she had the power to save him.

"I cannot change their minds," she said bitterly. "And I can't go with you. They won't allow me anywhere near the translation work."

Nikolas seemed on the verge of tears as his lips began quivering.

"But I can do something," she said, returning to her table.

Wynn tore a blank page from her journal and scribbled a quick note. She held it out for Nikolas to read with her.

"I'll have an initiate run this to the captain," she said. "He wants no more trouble over the folios. I'm certain he'll send guards to protect you."

Nikolas's brown eyes flooded with relief. "Thank you, Wynn... Wait, what if Domin High-Tower finds out? He's already angry with you over that day you returned home with the captain."

"I don't care," Wynn answered coldly. "All that matters is that the three of you come back."

If her instincts were correct and the killer was a Noble Dead, Rodian's men might not be able to stop it. But it had always struck when no one was watching, perhaps wishing to remain unseen. The sight of a few city guards might give it pause, and any vampire would think twice about engaging multiple armed soldiers.

Nikolas dropped his gaze to the floor. "I should've thought of this myself. Elias would have. He always knew what to do."

Wynn patted his arm. "Go get ready, and I'll find a messenger."

Nikolas nodded quickly, and they both le Kd ter.ft the room. As he took off across the inner courtyard, Wynn's ire at her superiors sharpened. But so did her concern for any innocent sage caught in harm's way.

The premins and domins were denying the plain facts before their eyes—and it made less sense every night. Rodian left the barracks that evening with Lieutenant Garrogh. They headed for supper at a favored local inn called Mother's.

Its founder was long dead, and her grandson now ran the establishment. Close by, with modest prices and good basic food, it was popular among the forces of the second castle. Sooner or later most of the city guards and regulars, and even some of the cavalry, stepped across its threshold. Though the barracks boasted a full cooking staff, and the food was healthy and plentiful, sometimes it felt good to eat elsewhere than the meal hall.

Tonight Rodian picked at a bowl of thick seafood stew with his spoon while Garrogh shoveled in mouthfuls. The lieutenant stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Don't you like it?"

"It's fine," Rodian answered, glancing idly about.

A group of his city guard sat at a nearby table, though he saw few regular soldiers tonight. The place was packed, just the same. Aside from price and quality, people were more at ease anywhere they saw the city guard—the People's Shield—take their rest. All around, private citizens and red surcoated Shyldfälches ate and drank with boisterous chatter.

The noise was beginning to bother Rodian.

He'd spent a restless day trying to focus on neglected duties. But his thoughts had kept wandering to dead sages, a ransacked scriptorium, the faces of Wynn Hygeorht and Duchess Reine... and Domin High-Tower's determined glare. As if the guild's murder investigation were his only duty to attend to.

It wasn't. Aside from reviewing reports filed by his men, he had his own to write for the minister of city affairs. Why did the sages continually impede his investigation? And why were Duchess Reine and the royal family shielding them from his inquiries?

"You're thinking on those sages again," Garrogh said, and took a gulp of ale.

Rodian returned his companion a hard look. He needed no reminder of his continuing failure. He sighed and dropped his spoon, all appetite gone.

"I don't like having my hands tied," he answered.

"I know you don't," Garrogh grumbled under his breath. He leaned over to clean his bowl, and strands of his unwashed hair dangled in the stew's gravy.

Rodian grimaced. Though trustworthy and attentive, Garrogh's personal manners were appalling.

"If you're finished, we should head back," Rodian said. "I still have work to do, and it's getting late."

He dropped several coins on the table, and they exited into the pools of lantern light along the street. They untied their horses, then decided to walk rather than ride. Snowbird didn't need to be led Kneeern, and followed.

"You're certain nothing but the folio was taken from Shilwise's shop?" Rodian asked.

This time Garrogh shot him a hard look. "You read my report."

"I'm not suggesting..." Rodian began, and then faltered. "I'm just trying to decide what to do next."

He'd received written statements from all requested parties regarding the alibis of Selwyn Midton and Jason Twynam on the night of the murders. That left only the razor-thin possibility that one of them had hired an outsider. But in his gut Rodian knew pursuing either of those lines was a waste of time.

He and Garrogh entered the second castle's courtyard, handed off their mounts to the stable warden, and turned toward Rodian's office and room. The only useful option left was to press the sages yet again, but the duchess had publicly asked him not to.

"Captain!"

Rodian turned around as Lúcan, one of his men, jogged across the courtyard.

"What now?"

"Sir, a boy from the guild arrived just before dusk, but you'd already left. He has a message for you, but the little whelp wouldn't give it to me."

"Where is he?"

"He's been waiting outside your office the whole time."

Rodian broke into a trot. He burst through the barracks' side door, looking down the wood-planked corridor. A boy of eleven or twelve in a tan robe fidgeted before the office door. He was clutching a folded scrap of paper in one hand.

"Give me the message!" Rodian called, hand already out as he strode down the corridor.

The boy jumped slightly. "You are Captain Rodian?"

"Of course," Rodian barked. He closed on the initiate with Garrogh right behind him.

The boy swallowed hard and thrust out the folded slip. "Journeyor Hygeorht said I must give this only to you."

Rodian hesitated before snatching the message. Why would Wynn send a note for his eyes only? He snapped the sheet open and scanned the contents—and his half-full stomach rolled.

Last night's folio messengers had been followed, and High-Tower had still sent out more this night.

Rodian whirled about, face-to-face with a puzzled Garrogh.

"Get four men and our horses... now!"

Once Nikolas, Miriam, and Dâgmund had left, Wynn couldn't bear waiting in her room. She went and volunteered to help serve supper, hoping time would pass more quickly. No doubt the captain would send someone to protect the messengers. But her thoughts also wandered to the sun crystal.

K" wsenIt might be the only real protection against a Noble Dead hunting sages and folios.

As she served vegetable soup in the common hall, she watched for Domin il'Sänke, but there was no sign of him throughout the evening.

"You missed me," a small voice said.

Wynn looked down. A little initiate in pigtails looked up at her, a mix of hurt and pouting indignation on her freckled face.

"I'm sorry," Wynn said. "Here you are."

As she set a bowl down in front of the girl, Domin High-Tower entered from the narrow side archway. He paused to study her from across the crowded hall.

Wynn had no wish to face the stout domin, but she handed out the last of the bowls on her tray and worked her way through the tables.

"Have you seen Domin il'Sänke?" she asked. "He hasn't come to supper yet."

High-Tower's mouth tightened within his thick beard. "He went out earlier. I haven't seen him since."

"He went out? How long ago?"

The domin's pellet eyes narrowed at her impertinence. "A domin's comings and goings are none of your concern!"

He strode past her toward the hall's hearth, his footfalls vibrating the stone beneath her feet. She didn't even flinch at his admonishment.

Instead Wynn peered toward the main archway. What possible reason could il'Sänke have for going out this night?

Ghassan il'Sänke lingered around the corner of a dry-goods shop, watching across the vacant street as three young sages approached the Feather & Parchment. The only other living thing he saw was a pony harnessed to a small cart in front of the scribe shop.

"Where are they?" Nikolas said too loudly. "Wynn promised—"

"Enough!" Dâgmund snapped. "We can't stand about waiting for the city guard. The sooner we get back, the better."

Il'Sänke straightened, glancing up and down the street. How had the city guard learned of tonight's folio retrieval? There was no sign of the Shyldfälches, so perhaps Nikolas's expected message had never arrived.

Once again, Nikolas turned hesitantly about, looking back the way they had come.

"Stop doing that!" Miriam squeaked.

"Both of you, be quiet," Dâgmund warned. "Now get inside."

He squeezed the front latch, stepping into the shuttered scriptorium. Nikolas nearly tripped over the front step as he backed up, still watching the street. Miriam shoved past, scurrying through the door an instant before him.

Il'Sänke remained where he was, awaiting their departure.

He did not truly need to hide. They would not have seen him if he stood right before their eyes. No one would have... not if he spotted them first. And on their return to the guild, it would be easy enough for him to addle their minds, even incapacitate them if necessary. He would have a peek at this latest folio's contents before anyone else.

And if necessary, no one else would ever see it, leaving only the original texts to be found and dealt with later.

A creak and rattle of wooden wheels carried up the street.

It had not been hard for Ghassan to convince High-Tower of his scheme. He had used the ruse that the messengers were in danger and had to be protected. The old dwarf and Premin Sykion would not risk involving outsiders, such as the inquisitive captain of the city guard. Nor would they send domins or masters to retrieve folios. Such notable messengers would raise general suspicion and interest from any bystanders along the way. The content of the folios was more important—more dangerous—than the guild wanted anyone to know.

They contained more information than the Numan guild members themselves should know, as far as Ghassan was concerned.

A rickety wagon turned the far corner, and a pair of mules hauled it closer under the guidance of a lad at the reins. As one cart wheel hit a deep cleft between cobblestones, the wagon thumped, jostling a shovel and rake in its bed.

Ghassan ignored the refuse wagon. There was nothing along this city block to clean up. He watched the scriptorium's front door, the dull yellow light behind its shutters, and the occasional shadows of people moving about inside.

High-Tower had been dubious of the plan at first, but Ghassan assured the stout domin that he could guard over the messengers this night. For as little as anyone knew of his full abilities, his reputation as a mage of thaumaturgy carried weight.

And someone else in this city sought the folios.

If that someone appeared this night, Ghassan would see tonight's folio first, one way or another. Then he would make certain that his competitor never hunted sages again.

The refuse wagon slowed, as if coming to a halt.

Ghassan's gaze flicked from the scribe shop's door to the driver. He snorted in frustration as the young man looked his way.

His concentration had slipped. The incantation, which had removed his presence from the trio's mental awareness, was no longer in his thoughts, ready to be spread to others.

Ghassan blinked only once. In the dark behind his eyelids, lines of light spread.

Sigils, symbols, and signs burned bright within the border of a doubled square. Within the inner space a triangle appeared, and another inside that, but inverted. He did not utter his incantation. The words sounded with greater speed in his thoughts as...

He finished that brief blink. And the glowing pattern overlaid his sight of the young driver, centering upon the lad's face.

The driver blinked as well.

He looked about as if he had seen something, but it was not there anymore. With a shrug he flicked the reins, and the two muscular mules pulled the wagon onward.

Ghassan had not expected any rare passerby to halt and stare. This time he kept the spell's glimmering pattern in focus, ready for use. Once embedded in a target's mind, it would last for a while, depending upon how much will and command he put behind it. His presence would not be remembered with certainty by anyone so touched.

The trio finally exited the scriptorium, with Dâgmund in the lead.

Miriam stepped out next, tightly clutching the folio. Nikolas came last, hesitating in the doorway until Dâgmund reached back and tugged him along. All three turned back the way they had come, hurrying along the empty street.

Ghassan slipped around the shop's corner. He quickly split and tripled the glimmering pattern overlaying his sight.

Three glyph-adorned double squares drifted across his vision, and each centered on one young sage. Three recitations flickered through his thoughts as quick as a finger's tap.

Ghassan hurried to close the distance to the trio.

Not even his footfalls or the rustle of his robe would register in their awareness.

Rodian slackened Snowbird's reins, letting her canter through the streets of the outer merchant district. Even so, the pace was too slow as she dodged carts and citizens making their way home. Garrogh's bay gelding followed behind, and Guardsman Lúcan and three others brought up the rear. Several startled citizens shouted angrily at them, but most rushed aside at the sight of the Shyldfälches' red surcoats.

Taverns and eateries gave way to shops patronized only during daylight. People in the streets grew sparse, and Rodian tightened his legs on Snowbird.

"Go!" he called.

She lunged, her light hooves clattering on cobblestones.

When they neared the next main intersection, Rodian reined her in and turned east toward the Feather & Parchment. A small pony and cart waited out front of the freshly painted shop. Otherwise the dim, narrow street was empty. Snowbird skidded to a stop, and a thin man with a flat nose started in surprise. He nearly dropped a heavy iron key ring before he could lock the shop's door.

"Master Calisus?" Rodian called as he slid from his saddle. "Where are the sages?"

"Pardon me?" the man asked.

"The sages! Have they come and gone?"

The scribe master blinked in confusion and sputtered, "How do you know... Yes, they just—"

A scream echoed down the empty street.

Ghassan il'Sänke was barely half a block away when he heard horses' hooves and flattened himself against the nearest building. Before the Feather & Parchment were five—no, six—of the Shyldfälches. And that annoying Captain Rodian was badgering the master scribe.

Then Miriam's terrified scream pierced Ghassan's ears.

He glanced the other way, and all three sages were gone.

The young ones were in danger—and the folio as well—but he could not be seen here.

Ghassan ducked low, pulling his cowl forward to hide his face. He turned his eyes upon the city guard and saw Rodian running toward him.

Six at once was not easy.

Each of the three arcane patterns doubled in his vision. Six patterns drifted over his sight, centering on each city guard. All patterns expanded until they overlapped and linked. One recitation of the incantation sped through his mind.

Ghassan bolted onward, racing ahead of the captain as he searched the night for three young sages.

Rodian dropped Snowbird's reins and ran toward the scream as horses' hooves scuffled on cobblestone behind him.

"Captain, wait!" Garrogh shouted.

Then something moved near the base of a building.

Rodian swerved toward the street's center and pulled his sword. The nearest street lantern was too far off to reveal...

He looked again, but nothing was there.

Another scream erupted.

He had no time to search the shadows, and ran on. His boot heels ground on cobble as he halted to check a narrow side alley. Halfway down the shadowy path he spotted a light, but it was low to the ground and didn't fill the space between the close buildings.

A black mass stood between the walls, like a piece of slowly shifting night.

Rodian took one quick step, then flinched at a shout reverberating out of the tight space.

"Fire... from light!"

Flames erupted across the alley floor.

Rodian stumbled back as flickering orange-red tongues curled up the side walls. A sudden wall of heat rolled out around him. But the darkness remained up the alley's center path, splitting the fire's light—and it moved.

A black mass... a tall figure with its back turned... stood amid raging flames squirming over its form. Fire crackled but barely illuminated the figure's garments of night-black fabric. A great cloak writhed as if the heat filling the alley made it dance, sending its folds spreading to the alley walls.

Cloying fear crawled over Rodian. He shuddered once and lunged into the alley, raising his longsword as he shouted, "Hold and yield!"

The figure didn't turn—and it lashed sideways at the alley wall.

Rodian thought he saw a robe's sleeve emerge from beneath the billowing cloak. The sleeve slid up an arm wrapped in strips of black cloth. Its like-covered fingers gouged straight into the brick, tearing out a hunk as smaller fragments scattered everywhere.

Rodian raised his free hand, shielding his face from bits of brick.

Before he recovered, the figure whipped its hand, slinging the chunk of wall down the alley beyond it.

A dull impact cut off a shriek, and the fire instantly vanished.

Rodian blinked, blinded for an instant by the sudden loss of light. He cocked his sword and rushed in.

Ghassan faltered at the dark form filling the alley. A wave of fear washed over him—into him—as though northern autumn rain had drenched his clothing. He did not look away from the figure, even as he heard the captain coming up the alley behind him.

The light upon the alley floor was a cold lamp crystal cast there, still glowing brightly. And Ghassan heard a whisper from beyond the tall, black-robed figure.

He would never have recognized those nearly voiceless words, even if he had heard them clearly. But he knew what was happening. All mages found their own utterances, just as their symbols, necessary for their art.

Somewhere down in the alley, Dâgmund was chanting.

Out of all those of Ghassan's order at the guild branch of Calm Seatt, only Dâgmund had shown true aptitude for the deeper skills. Not even Premin Hawes had the boy's instinct for thaumaturgy via spellcraft. This was why Ghassan had chosen the young journeyor to accompany whoever retrieved the folios.

He had tried his best to tutor Dâgmund, sharpening the young man's well-developed skill. But Dâgmund was not a seasoned mage—and thaumaturgy could not create as conjury did. The journeyor was too slow for this moment, even with the speed of a spell.

"Fire... from light!" Dâgmund suddenly shouted.

Flames erupted from the alley floor—from the crystal's brilliance—and raging red light silhouetted the tall black cloak and robe.

Ghassan shielded his face from the glare and heat. He knew what Dâgmund had done.

The journeyor had cast his crystal at the figure's feet and used thaumaturgy to transform and magnify its light into fire. An easy change, since light and flame were of the same element. But Ghassan was still startled by the magnitude of the effect.

Flames licked high around the figure, more so than Ghassan would have expected Dâgmund could call. But not one bit of the night-black fabric even smoldered.

Flickering red-orange tendrils tangled about the writhing cloak, slipping along its curling and rolling surface to splash off like water upon oiled cloth.

"Hold and yield!" Rodian shouted from the alley's entrance.

The last thing Ghassan needed was the captain blundering into his back, and he banished the glimmering patterns held in his sight. They had barely faded when he replaced them with one doubled square framing nested triangles. Fresh glyphs, signs, and sigils ignited in the pattern's spaces as his mental incantation finished. The pattern raced across his sight, centering on the back of the black cowl.

Flecks and chips of brick struck il'Sänke's face as the figure lashed out at the alley wall.

Ghassan lost focus as Dâgmund cried out.

He flinched, growing colder inside as he heard the journeyer's voice cut short.

The fire died instantly.

Ghassan heard a rustle and snap of cloth. His sight adjusted to only the cold lamp crystal's light. He flattened against the alley's wall as the figure turned.

The cloak's wings snaked and twisted up both walls, clutching at the brick surface as if alive. And the creature held the folio in one hand wrapped in shredded strips of black cloth.

Its cowl, that pit of blackness, turned directly on Ghassan.

He instantly released the pattern and symbols, quickly calling others. As they rose in glimmers across his sight, he collapsed them inward around—into—himself, sinking deep into his own mind. Someone shouted, "Sir!" from the alley's open end, and the black-robed figure raised its other hand.

Ghassan threw his will against the ground beneath his feet.

The figure lashed out at him just as Ghassan's body shot upward into the night.

Rodian squinted, trying to make out the dark shape filling the narrow space and blocking out the small light upon the ground. Fear sharpened as he made out layer upon layer of black cloth billowing like a cloak over a dark robe. The cloth lashed the alley walls as if the air were still driven by heat.

And the figure whirled about.

Though it was backlit by the light beyond it, Rodian couldn't make out a face inside the heavy cowl. There was only more darkness in that hollow—but it didn't center on him.

It swung left, and whoever hid within it fixated upon the wall. In its hand was a leather folio.

"Sir!"

At Lúcan's shout of warning, Rodian ducked away as the shadowy thief struck out. Its black hand—or was it covered in cloth? — slammed against the wall.

A sharp crack of splitting brick filled the alley as Rodian twisted away. He heard the chitter of falling fragments beneath the ri Kben crnging in his ears. The black-robed mass swirled away.

As it fled down the alley, the whipping hem of its cloak passed beyond the light that had been behind it. And the alley brightened.

Rodian froze.

A glowing crystal lay on the alley floor, slightly bigger than the end of his thumb, but bright enough to hurt his eyes. When his sight adjusted, he grew chilled.

Three bodies lay in the alley.

The closest was the pudgy girl who'd taken Snowbird's reins on his first visit to the guild. She was curled on her side, and her limbs were twisted against her torso, as if she'd died in convulsions. Her wide eyes stared blankly from an ashen face disfigured by horror.

Just like before—just like Elias and Jeremy.

Beyond her sprawled a taller companion in midnight blue robes lying on his back. But his face was a crushed and bloodied mess. Past his head lay a heavy chunk of the brick wall. And the third and last down the alley was slender and frail.

A young man in gray robes curled up as if he'd tried to hide within himself as he died. He was pale and sallow, and his eyes were open, like the girl's.

"Maker, Toiler, and Dreamer," Rodian whispered.

All of them were lost.

Ghassan lit upon the rooftop as he heard the dark figure's hand crack against the brick wall. He caught only a glimpse of bodies beyond the black thief.

He saw the one in a midnight blue robe.

Ghassan had only an instant of cold regret at the sight of Dâgmund, and then the figure bolted away.

Ghassan leaped over the alley, thrusting with will as much as his legs. The spell still sunk within his mind helped carry him to the next rooftop. He scrambled along the shakes parallel to the alley, and when he reached the eaves overhanging the next street, he looked about.

There was no one below—and then he spotted it.

Like some giant ebony-draped spider, it clambered up the wall of a building fifty yards down the street. When it reached the roof, a street lantern upon a pole exposed its form against clay tiles.

It still held the folio clutched in one hand.

Ghassan cleared his sight once more, calling yet another pattern of glowing lines. These he sank into himself and reached out toward the distant figure with one hand.

He clenched his fingers closed in the air.

The thief spun upon the distant rooftop. Robe and cloak whipped in the night as its arm and hand holding the folio snapped out toward Ghassan's rooftop. The folio hung in the air, still locked in its grip, and it pulled back.

Ghassan's own arm straightened, and his feet slipped along the shakes. He ground in his heels and tried to pull his clenched hand inward.

The figure stumbled. It reached out and clutched the folio with both hands, continuing to pull. Ghassan did the same, both his hands tearing at the air.

A hissing carried from the distant rooftop.

The night air began to swirl around Ghassan. His robe whipped about him. He bent his knees, trying to sink lower, holding his hands clenched as if he physically gripped the folio so far beyond reach.

A sudden rush of wind struck him.

Breath was punched from his lungs, as if a wall of air slammed against his whole body. His feet slipped from the shakes as he fell and landed on his back.

Ghassan barely had enough awareness to flatten and keep from sliding off the edge. He rolled onto his knees, gasping for air, and stared across the city's rooftops in stunned silence.

The thief on the distant rooftop was gone.

Ghassan remained still, too stunned and shaken. Either thaumaturgy or conjuring could have shaped that wind. It was a mage, and a potent one for such quick and strong force.

The folio was gone. Three young sages lay dead. And all before Ghassan could subdue them himself and see those precious translated pages.

Running feet hammered down the alley.

Ghassan dropped low upon the roof. He had to reach guild grounds before word traveled of what happened here. He did not know how he would explain all this to High-Tower or Sykion, let alone that the city guards would tell a differing tale—one that would not include his presence.

He climbed quietly to the roof's peak and rose to his feet. He took one last look southwest for any sign of his adversary. But halfway through his turn, he stopped.

A shadow raced over the rooftops of the next city block, a dark cloak billowing in its flight.

This new figure came from the north, and no sound rose from its footfalls. When it reached the roof's end of a two-story building, it leaped across the street to the lower building across the way. Midflight, it clutched its flapping hood or cowl with one hand as the intersection's street lantern caught it with light.

No, not a cowl or a hood—but a hat with an extremely wide brim.

Ghassan watched the shadow race south, in the direction that the black-robed figure had vanished.

Someone else had been nearby, hunting the thief. But there was no time left to ponder—and he was too worn and drained. Ghassan stepped quietly along the roof's peak, heading for the next side street and any hidden way to flee.

Rodian leaped over the bodies, running along the alley. He shot out its far end and halted amid an empty street. Pools of wide-spaced lamplight stretched away in both directions. He turned about twice, listening for footfalls, but neither heard nor saw anyone.

Nothing on foot could've vanished so quickly.

"Captain!" Garrogh shouted from back down the alley. "One's still alive!"

Rodian backed up, still scanning the empty street, then spun and ran.

Garrogh knelt over the frail young man in a gray robe. Lúcan stood beyond with the other guardsmen, staring at the other bodies in silence. The younger guardsman finally blinked and crouched down.

He hesitated once as he reached for the brilliant crystal, perhaps fearful of being burned. Rodian knew better, for he'd seen such devices at the guild.

"Give it to me," he ordered.

Lúcan picked up the crystal, eyes widening at finding it held no heat. He handed it to Rodian.

"A faint heartbeat," Garrogh said, his ear pressed to the young sage's chest.

Rodian crouched down with the glowing crystal, and he recognized the boy's face. This one had been sitting with Wynn Hygeorht at breakfast the morning of the robbery. His face was as ashen as the girl's, but he was breathing shallowly.

"What about the girl?" Rodian asked.

Garrogh simply shook his head. "And the folio?"

Rodian didn't answer and put two fingers to the young sage's throat, feeling a faint pulse. "He needs a healer."

"No," Garrogh answered. "Take him to the guild. They'll know what to do more than some healer at a city ward. Remember my sister's cough? I took her to the sages."

Rodian almost barked a denial. The last thing he wanted was for the sages to hide away the only witness he had. He reached out and closed the young sage's blank eyes so they wouldn't dry out. A life to save mattered more than anything else.

"What's happened?" someone called.

Rodian raised his head and saw Master Calisus with his pony and cart at the alley's mouth.

"Stay there!" he ordered, and then looked to Garrogh. "I'll take this one to the guild. Make certain no one comes into the alley until it's thoroughly searched for any clues. Lúcan, you and the others find a way to take the other bodies back to the barracks."

The young guardsman didn't move or speak. His eyes shifted to the mangled face of the victim in the dark blue robe.

"Now!" Rodian snapped.

Lúcan jolted into motion and ran down the alley.

"Who would do this, and how?" Garrogh whispered softly.

Rodian found his second staring over one shoulder at the dead girl.

"What did...?" Rodian began, and then faltered.

He doubted his own senses and the memory of what he'd seen.

"What did you see?" he finally asked. "When you came in behind me?"

"A man," Garrogh answered, his brows gathering. "A tall man in a black cloak. Why?"

Rodian quickly hefted the surviving young sage. Holding his charge carefully, he strode down the alley toward the cart. His anger flared as he stepped over the girl's body.

The royal family valued its misguided sages. Now two more were dead, and another might soon follow. But no matter who had done this, High-Tower and Sykion were responsible. They'd refused to acknowledge the danger and sent more of their own out in the night.

This time Rodian would drag the truth from them.

Wynn still waited in the common hall, but too much time had passed. Only a few others were still about, either reading or writing or chatting softly. She fretted over some way to look occupied.

If she just sat doing nothing, and Domin High-Tower or Premin Sykion came by, either would surely comment. They never missed an opportunity to note any odd behavior on her part. But she dared not leave even long enough to fetch a journal or book from her room.

Supper was finished, and still the messengers hadn't returned. What was taking them so long?

Wynn's dilemma ended as a slam from the keep's front doors echoed down the outer passage into the common hall. She lunged off the bench, racing to the main archway to meet Nikolas, Miriam, and Dâgmund.

But instead, Domin il'Sänke appeared, pulling back his cowl.

"Wynn," he said, and his slight smile seemed forced. "You look disappointed to see me."

"Where have you been?" she asked bluntly.

His smile faded. "I ate supper early in the kitchens, perhaps too much. At my age, one needs to walk off such a meal before turning to other matters."

"Sorry," she said, feeling foolish for her urgency. "Nikolas, Miriam, and Dâgmund have not returned. After what happened last night..."

She trailed off as his expression changed again. His left eye twitched, and he licked his lips.

"The folios are not your concern," he said, barely above a whisper.

Wynn clenched her jaw so tightly her teeth ached. Now il'Sänke reminded her the texts were no longer her business—as if she needed to be told that again. And she'd thought he was her only ally in this place.

"Pardon," he muttered, and his gaze suddenly fixed elsewhere in the hall. "It has been a long day, and I have one more thing to K modon attend to."

Wynn turned her head.

Domin High-Tower stood in the narrower side archway, not looking at her but beyond her, perhaps at il'Sänke. He seemed expectant, even in his usually dour state, but his expression suddenly changed.

High-Tower's wide features slackened in some shock.

Wynn saw his chest expand in a deep breath and one exhale. Then he sagged. By the time Wynn looked back to il'Sänke, the elder Suman was stone-faced. She was left wondering what had just passed silently between these two, who had always been plain regarding their irritation with each other.

And a thunderous boom echoed down the main passage beyond the archway.

Wynn heard one of the keep's front doors recoil sharply off a wall. She made for the archway to go see who forced such a hurried entrance.

Il'Sänke raised an arm in her way.

She barely glanced up, finding his gaze turned toward the outer passage, and then Captain Rodian came around the turn.

His face tight with anger, he carried the limp form of Nikolas Columsarn.

Rodian's hard gaze settled on il'Sänke as the first sage of rank in his sight.

"Get one of your physicians," he barked over heavy, exhausted breaths.

Il'Sänke was already reaching out. "Here, Captain, let me take him."

The tall Suman lifted Nikolas from the captain's arms and headed for the nearest table.

"Where are Miriam and Dâgmund?" Wynn asked.

Rodian ignored her, looking about the hall. "Where's High-Tower... and Sykion?"

As il'Sänke carefully laid Nikolas on a table, others in the hall rose from benches and chairs, drawing nearer.

"Here," High-Tower answered.

His gaze locked on Nikolas as he closed on the table's far side. Il'Sänke put a hand on the young sage's chest and leaned down to listen at Nikolas's slack mouth. He glanced up at High-Tower, nodded once, and the dwarven domin breathed a sigh of relief.

Wynn exhaled, not realizing she'd held her breath in that moment. "Where are Miriam and Dâgmund?" she repeated.

Rodian didn't even look at her. He kept his angry eyes on High-Tower.

"Dead," he said sharply, "in an alley near the Feather and Parchment."

All the warmth drained from Wynn's flesh.

Il'Sänke grabbed the sleeve of a female apprentice in brown. "Get Premin Adlam or Master Bitworth... or any elder in the hospice. Quickly, girl!"

Rodian kept his eyes on High-Tower. "And your folio is gone as well," he hissed.

High-Tower finally looked up, but he didn't appear surprised.

Wynn went to the table, pushing aside others in her way. Nikolas's eyes were closed, and his skin was pallid. Strands of hair down the left side of his head were grayed. There was not a mark on him that she could see, and she glanced back at Rodian.

"The others," she whispered, "the same, like Jeremy and Elias?"

He closed on the gathering at the table. "Yes... or one of them."

Wynn hesitated at the answer, looking again at Nikolas's ashen features. If they both died, but only one in this way, then how...?

"Someone is killing for your folios," Rodian snarled at High-Tower. "And you're going to tell me why." Without looking away from High-Tower, he jabbed a finger at Wynn. "What is in those texts she brought back?"

Wynn flinched as too many eyes turned her way among the initiates and apprentices gathered around. High-Tower's iron-pellet irises fixed on the captain.

"Chlâyard... do not!" il'Sänke whispered.

For an instant Wynn was lost by that one word, though she knew what it meant—the high tower.

It had been so long since she'd heard anyone utter the domin's name in Dwarvish, and her gaze flickered between High-Tower and il'Sänke. What was happening between these two?

"What's in those texts?" Rodian shouted, and his voice echoed about the still hall. "Why do you throw away more lives in your denial and ignorance... and deceit?"

High-Tower's face flushed within his red beard and hair.

"Captain!"

Wynn turned at the sharp female voice. Duchess Reine and three of the Weardas stood in the main archway.

"I heard—and came straightaway," she said more softly.

She wasn't dressed in her split gown this time. Beneath the sea green cloak of the royal family she wore a leather vest over a stark cotton shirt, and leather breeches tucked into high riding boots. She looked far more like one of her own, the horse people of Faunier, than a member of the Âreskynna family. Her gaze drifted to settle upon Nikolas's frail form.

How had she learned of this tragedy so quickly?

Rodian's jaw tightened, and he looked baffled by the sight of the duchess.

"Highness," he said, with only a curt half bow. "How...?"

Wynn sensed a battle of wills about to smother all else.

"We must get Nikolas to the ward," she urged. "There's no time to waste"

High-Tower's hands were tightened into fists the size of sledgehammers, but he seemed to hear the sense in her words. He quickly dispersed the cluster of apprentices and initiates.

"Get the boy proper help!" Rodian spit. "Then you and I will talk."

High-Tower glared back and took a step around the table's end. Il'Sänke pressed a restraining hand to the dwarf's shoulder, but it didn't slow him. Il'Sänke ended up stumbling aside. In that instant Wynn feared for Rodian's safety.

"Captain," Duchess Reine repeated, and she stepped between the two. "These people have suffered again. Any necessary discussion will wait."

High-Tower held his place with deep, slow breaths and finally turned aside.

"Apologies, my lady," Rodian answered coldly. "But it is a tragedy of their own making... and it's time I was given a free hand."

"The king might feel differently," she said softly.

Rodian's angry expression wavered. "Pardon, but feelings have nothing to do with the law."

"The king is offering his assistance," the duchess went on. "A royally appointed physician has returned from a journey south. A Suman, one who knows toxins. The king has asked him to visit the barracks tomorrow to... examine bodies and provide any information he can for your investigation. For now, leave the sages be."

Rodian breathed in twice and shook his head, and Domin il'Sänke watched him carefully.

Wynn didn't know what to think. Clearly the royals wanted these ugly murders stopped, yet again they shielded the guild from the captain of the city guard.

She should've been relieved—and part of her was. People like Rodian wouldn't understand the breadth and importance of the project. But if he were kept from delving deeper into these horrid events, he might never uncover what she already believed. The killer was unnatural, and sages would keep dying and pages would keep disappearing, unless someone pulled the truth from denial.

The apprentice il'Sänke had sent off came running back with two others dressed in brown robes. They settled a stretcher on the bench beside the table. Premin Adlam entered on their heels. All activity in the room focused on getting Nikolas to the hospice for proper attention.

Nikolas never even moved as High-Tower and Adlam lowered him onto the stretcher and the apprentices rushed him off. But there was nothing to be done for Miriam or Dâgmund.

"As you wish, Highness," Rodian said. Without even a nod to her, he backed toward the hall's main exit.

"Expect the royal physician tomorrow," Duchess Reine told him.

The captain turned and left without another word.

After polite farewells, the duchess and her bodyguards followed. Wynn stood uncom Knn divfortably with silent High-Tower and il'Sänke. She wasn't certain whether fear, anxiety, or denial was thickest in the hall.

"I must report to Premin Sykion," High-Tower muttered.

"May I go to Nikolas?" Wynn asked.

"No!" he growled. "Premin Adlam doesn't need you. Return to your room."

Stung, almost hating him, Wynn stalked out and down the passage to the front doors.

Two more of their own were dead! A third barely clung to life, struck down by something no one would admit was real. And she was sick of being treated like some addle-brained mental invalid who should be shut away.

She nearly ran across the courtyard and up to her room, slamming the door behind herself. Sinking onto her bed, she felt her anger drain away, but despair rose in its wake.

She tried not to imagine what had happened to Miriam and Dâgmund, and what it meant when Rodian said only one had died like Elias and Jeremy. Why hadn't the captain sent his guards to protect them? Or had he, and they arrived too late? Had they seen anything to shed light on the murders and who—what—kept after the folios?

Wynn sat there, sinking in hopelessness for so long that her cold lamp's crystal nearly winked out.

A soft knock came at her door, but she had no wish to see anyone, except perhaps the captain.

"Who is it?" she called weakly.

"Open up," il'Sänke answered.

Wynn remained where she sat, uncertain whether she even wanted to see the one person who believed any of her "wild tales." She finally rose to let him in.

Domin il'Sänke pushed her back as he entered and turned to close the door. He held something long in his hand, nearly as tall as himself, but it was hidden beneath loose wraps of dull burlap. He glanced toward the dwindling cold lamp on her table.

"Fix that," he said with a curt gesture.

Wynn was staring at the strange long bundle, but she couldn't bring herself to ask about it yet. Hope was something she'd grown wary of, but she went to the table-desk and rubbed the lamp's crystal back to life. As light filled the room, she found il'Sänke standing by her bed, gazing down at the unwrapped item laid there.

Amid the folds of opened cloth lay a polished oak staff. One end was sheathed in a long, loose leather sleeve, held closed around the wood by a drawstring.

"Such an item takes time," il'Sänke said. "And cost, in trial and error as much as resources... more for as much as I hurried."

Moons had passed since Wynn had first gone to the domin. To her, that hardly seemed like a hurry. But she now understood what was beneath that leather sheath.

"Finished?" she breathed. "Finally finished?"

"Finished?" He snorted. "Perhaps... but there is no more time to test it further."

Wynn swallowed hard. "I'm not complaining, just—"

"Come here," he commanded.

He reached down and gripped the staff's tawny shaft, lifting it. Turning it over, he let it slide through his soft grip until its butt thumped upon the floor. And finally he pulled the sheath off its top end.

Mute glimmers exploded around the room as light struck the sun crystal. Its prisms played multicolored wisps upon the walls. Wynn was so mesmerized, she barely heard the domin's warning.

"Do not judge High-Tower," he said harshly. "He is stricken by Miriam's death... as I am by Dâgmund's."

Wynn's gaze shifted to his face, seeing cold anger beneath suppressed grief. She'd had no idea that Dâgmund had any close association to the visiting domin. But her eyes quickly returned to the crystal.

"This will take time and practice to use," he said. "And you will treat this object with great care, as a replacement might not even be possible. Are you prepared for a first lesson?"

Wynn was suddenly hesitant, especially when he looked down at her.

Domin il'Sänke's dark brown eyes held none of their habitual sly humor. They were hard and frightening. But she reached out and grasped the polished staff.

"Yes... I've been ready all along."