In Shade and Shadow

Chapter 15

Rodian followed a brown-robed apprentice through the guild. As they reached the hospice ward, he spotted High-Tower and Wynn hurrying down the corridor behind him. High-Tower only nodded in greeting, but Rodian barely noticed. He was staring at the tall, leggy wolf beside Wynn.

It looked exactly like the one from the fiasco outside the Upright Quill.

"Back to your studies," High-Tower told Rodian's escort, and the apprentice scurried off.

Rodian turned his attention to Wynn. "You are a never-ending source of complications."

"I'll explain later," she said quickly. "I'm here to see Nikolas first."

Wynn pushed through the door before he could object, and the wolf stayed at her side.

Rodian followed. Indeed, Wynn would do a great amount of explaining at the earliest opportunity.

High-Tower was last to enter the long room with four narrow beds. A small table stood pushed against the back wall, with shelves above filled with glass vessels of herbs, powders, and other concoctions. Nikolas was in the first bed, and an aged man with bony features and a brown robe leaned over him. But the attendant straightened when he saw the visitors.

His astonished gaze fixed on the wolf, but at a shake of High-Tower's head, the other sage said nothing.

"Captain," Wynn said politely, "this is Domin Bitworth. He has been caring for Nikolas."

Rodian merely nodded and looked down at the young man lying on the cot, conscious at last.

Nikolas's hair was slightly laced with gray strands, but some color had returned to his face. He looked thin and haggard. Wynn settled on the bed's edge.

"I'm glad to see you awake."

The wolf paced over beside her, sniffing the blanket. To Rodian's surprise, no one stopped it. But Nikolas's eyes widened in fright. He weakly pulled up his legs beneath the blankets, shrinking back against the short headboard.

"It's all right," Wynn assured him, placing a hand on his arm. "This is Shade. She's a majay-hì, not a wolf."

Rodian didn't know what she was talking about, but he noted Domin Bitworth's stunned side glance at High-Tower. Typically, the dwarf just scowled and sighed.

Nikolas remained in retreat, but panic faded from his sickly expression.

With that, Wynn placed her hands beside the wolf's face and gazed into its eyes. The animal froze and then turned its head toward Nikolas.

Terror returned to Nikolas's expression as he noticed everyone in the room, particularly Rodian.

"They won't tell me anything," he said to Wynn. "Where are Miriam and Dâgmund?"

Color drained from Wynn's face as she glanced at High-Tower and Bitworth. High-Tower swallowed with difficulty, and Wynn finally looked to Rodian.

"I'm sorry," Rodian said to Nikolas. "I couldn't reach them in time."

Nikolas stared up, expressionless. He doubled over, sickened again, as if whatever had taken his strength in the alley assaulted him once more.

Rodian felt responsible.

No matter what the premins and domins had done—or not done—it was his duty, as captain of the Shyldfälches, to keep the citizens of the king's city from harm. And he could have, if the sages had informed him that they'd sent out another folio.

"The captain brought you to us as quickly as he could," Wynn added.

"Enough," Bitworth warned, stepping closer.

The wolf shifted away from him toward the bed's head with a growl.

"He has only just awakened, and you'll wear him out," Bitworth warned.

"Yes, yes," High-Tower intervened, and looked down at Nikolas. "Are you up to talking a little? The captain needs to know what you remember from that night."

Nikolas was still shaken by the loss of his companions. His brown eyes shifted so erratically that Rodian couldn't tell what the young man was looking at or for. Domin Bitworth gently waved High-Tower aside and stepped around the bed. He helped Nikolas take a sip of water from a mug.

"Anything might help," Rodian urged, feeling harsh for doing this so abruptly, but the sooner the better.

"Tall... big... so black," Nikolas whispered, and his haunted eyes looked only at Wynn. "A cowled robe... and a cloak that... moved... climbing the walls. It chased us into the alley... then Miriam started screaming... like Sherie."

"Sherie?" Wynn whispered.

Nikolas didn't seem to hear her. He trembled, staring blankly at nothing. Suddenly the frail apprentice cowered and pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out a sound no one else could hear.

"Who is Sherie?" Rodian asked quietly.

Wynn shook her head slowly, still watching Nikolas in wary puzzlement. When Rodian looked to High-Tower, the domin shook his head as well. Bitworth knelt beside the bed.

"Nikolas," he whispered, "try to focus on the alley, nothing else."

The young man's eyes wandered. "I tried to keep her in front of me as we ran away, but it... he... was everywhere... in front... behind... everywhere in the forest."

Bitworth sighed. "He is slipping again. Some other memory keeps intruding."

Rodian only half understood. Ignoring mention of a forest, he kept his voice calm but firm.

"Nikolas, you weren't far from the scribe shop when I found you. When did you first notice the black-robed figure following you? Did it say anything?"

Nikolas blinked, awareness perhaps sharpening again. "We were walking, and it was just there in front of us, in the street... not moving, not a sound. We turned back, and it was there again, but closer. It reached for Miriam. Dâgmund jerked me back and shoved me into the alley... I ran... and heard Sherie scream."

Again, some other name in the place of Miriam's.

"It got so cold... between the trees," Nikolas whispered. "And the black... it grabbed Sherie, and she stopped screaming. Karl tried to reach her... but his father grabbed the folio. That hand... fingers all wrapped in black cloth... it went straight through her and closed on the folio."

Rodian exhaled in exhaustion. Unknown names kept bouncing around in Nikolas's head in place of Miriam and Dâgmund, along with someone's father cast as the black figure.

Bitworth rose and stepped to the bed's foot.

"I've heard pieces of this before," the healer whispered, "when Nikolas rambled in his sleep. It happens sometimes when the mind suffers a severe trauma. Some other overwhelming past event can become mixed with the more recent one. Until Nikolas regains his will and full awareness, he cannot separate the cause of one trauma from another of the past."

Rodian rubbed his forehead. The splinter of a headache felt like it would cleave his skull in half. Wynn looked at Nikolas in sympathy, with her hand on the wolf's head, and Rodian stepped back.

He needed information to catch a murderer—or murderers—and all he'd gotten was more senseless confusion. Sykion and High-Tower wouldn't face up to what was happening, or they tried to get around him in their own scheming. Bitworth's assessment of Nikolas was no help.

And now Wynn brought a wild animal into the guild, and no one seemed to object.

Rodian pulled his hand down his face. May the Blessed Trinity of Sentience preserve him, for he was standing in a madhouse.

He couldn't go to the royals with more nonsense, but when he looked down, Wynn was glaring at him. The anger in her face sparked his own resentment.

She couldn't possibly expect him to believe there was anything of note in Nikolas's rambling. High-Tower appeared just as uncomfortable with Nikolas's account as he was.

"Did Domin il'Sänke leave the guild at all that night?" Rodian asked.

High-Tower lifted his head, puzzlement disturbing his scowl, but Wynn cut in first.

"Why do you keep asking that?"

"Was he here the whole time?" Rodian demanded, ignoring her, and High-Tower hesitated. The pause was the only confirmation he needed, but the dwarf finally answered.

"Domin il'Sänke was handling a private task for me that night. It has nothing to do with what happened, but I can attest that he was engaged in guild business."

Rodian clenched his jaw—more evasions. He would get no rational help from these sages, even to save them from themselves. He started for the door but halted at another sharp rumble from the wolf.

Pawl a'Seatt stood in the hospice's doorway. Small Imaret peeked around his side, bearing an ink smudge on her brown cheek. Master a'Seatt's expression was flat and cool, but he was intently fixed upon either Wynn or Nikolas.

"Forgive us," the scribe master said. "Imaret wished to see how Nikolas fared."

The wolf's rumble shifted into an open growl, and Rodian glanced back.

Wynn reached for the animal. "Stop that," she said to it. "These are friends."

But the wolf remained tensely focused on the doorway, still growling.

Rodian followed its gaze back to Pawl a'Seatt, who now watched the wolf in turn.

High-Tower cocked his large head, and Bitworth's face filled with alarm. Even Wynn grew concerned. She raised a hand before the wolf's face, perhaps commanding it to stay. The animal held its place, its noise lowering to a rumble.

Pawl a'Seatt's brow wrinkled only slightly.

"What are you doing here?" Rodian asked bluntly. The shop's scribes had been laboring all day inside the guild, but masters didn't engage in the general work.

"I came to check on my staff," Pawl answered calmly. "And to see them safely home."

"I've already assigned men for that," Rodian replied.

"Forgive me, but your guards have not always been effective."

Rodian's throat tightened. He couldn't argue with that, though he failed to see how a scribe master could do better. Something else was wrong here. If a'Seatt overheard any of Nikolas's jumbled recollections, what had caught him so much that he'd stood silent in the doorway without announcing himself?

"Come, Imaret," Pawl a'Seatt said. "We must gather the others. Perhaps your friend will be better tomorrow."

Rodian almost stopped the scribe master, but he could think of nothing specific to ask. And would he receive an honest answer? Hardly. Truth had become as intangible as the black figure murdering sages for folios.

"That is enough for today," Bitworth said. "Everyone out. Nikolas needs rest."

High-Tower nodded agreement and gestured toward the door. Rodian shook his head in frustration and stepped out. But he had one other matter to address.

Wynn must have seen her coveted translations by now.

"Walk me out," he said as she stepped into the passage, and his tone implied that it wasn't a request.

"She's not had supper," High-Tower growled.

Rodian wasn't deceived by false concern. The domin simply wanted to keep Wynn away from him. He didn't care.

"I'll return directly," Wynn said, and then glanced back through the door at Bitworth. "Thank you for caring for Nikolas."

The wolf stalked out behind her, passing High-Tower with a quick snort. The dwarf rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath as he stomped away. Rodian gestured down the hall as he stepped onward.

"How did you come by that animal?"

Wynn fell into step beside him. "She found me," she answered, as if she'd told him all that was necessary.

There had to be more, but at the moment he had other pressing concerns to address. She looked a little weary, with ink stains on her right thumb and forefinger. Did these sages do nothing but study and write? No wonder they were so misguided.

No, that wasn't fair, for he knew what she'd been doing all day. He'd had a hand in her gaining access to the translations—and he expected to be compensated.

And Rodian's attention drifted to the wolf or... what had she called it?

It was taller than any he'd seen during his military assignment in the eastern reaches. Packs sometimes raided farm livestock in deep winter, but this one...

The animal's head reached Wynn's hip, and it walked with her in some tame mockery of its true wild nature. How—why—was this beast even tolerated by her superiors?

When they finally reached the courtyard, Snowbird saw him from the front gates and whinnied. The wolf stopped, ears pricking up, and Rodian eyed it warily, ready to cut it down if it went for his horse. But the beast remained quietly at Wynn's side.

"What did you learn today?" he asked. "Anything rational that might help?"

Wynn just stood there, gazing across the courtyard and down the gatehouse tunnel at Snowbird. Rodian's anger got the better of him.

"Someone wants something here badly enough to kill for it," he nearly shouted. "And you saw that black-robed man outside of a'Seatt's shop. Whoever it is has knowledge of the folios' movements... and can read your sages' script. How many people does that leave, Wynn? Not many, from my count."

"You're not hunting a living man!" she responded harshly. "And you'll never stop it through your usual means. If you truly wish to protect your people and the sages, then you'd best alter both your strategy and thought... immediately."

Angry as he was, Rodian was still taken aback. Wynn breathed hard and calmed slightly.

"Talk to Nikolas again," she said, "when he is more himself. Talk to il'Sänke—he has knowledge that you don't. Talk to me... when you're actually ready to listen."

He stood dumbfounded at her outburst. Of all the things he'd expected, a torrent of evasive nonsense wasn't among them. She now sounded like one of her superiors.

"What is in those texts?" he demanded.

Wynn shut her eyes tightly for an instant, as if the answer wasn't something she wanted to think on. Rodian almost faltered at whatever weight seemed to press her down.

"More things you wouldn't believe," she whispered, "especially from me."

Rodian's anger hardened like ice. He'd thought her sensible, possibly his only ally within the guild, but they'd gotten to her—High-Tower, Sykion, possibly even il'Sänke. What had they demanded in exchange for placating her desire for the texts and avoiding her claim in court? Or perhaps they were right, and she was so addle-minded that she couldn't see he needed her help.

"Faith that denies fact isn't faith," she whispered suddenly. "It's only fanaticism. Even if I could tell you, I won't batter myself against that wall inside your head. Tear it down yourself, if you've any real interest in the truth."

Wynn walked away with the wolf toward the keep's main doors, leaving Rodian standing alone.

Anger spent, Wynn felt numb as she shoved through the main doors. Rodian wasn't going to acknowledge the truth.

When she reached the common hall's main archway, she held out one hand, palm open, trying to make Shade wait.

"I'll be right back with dinner."

She backed away into the hall as Shade watched her, but the dog did stay. Wynn hurried to ladle a bowl of soup, and then plopped a joint of roasted mutton on a spare wooden plate. A warm fire blazed in the hearth, and there were few people left in the hall. Wynn suddenly didn't want to sit locked in her own room.

And then Shade appeared at her side.

Either ignoring or not understanding that she shouldn't come in, the dog looked up at Wynn, then raised her nose, sniffing at the plate.

Heads turned their way, and Wynn almost fled the hall. But Shade kept poking at her arm and huffing. Wynn took a long breath. Trying not to meet any eyes, she strode toward the hearth. She settled at its right end upon the ledge, far from where most people sat at the tables.

Wynn set the wooden plate on the floor, and Shade began chomping on mutton. She set aside her bowl and stepped over to retrieve a water pitcher from the nearest table, along with an empty mug and bowl. Three initiates were still cleaning up, but none came to clear the tables nearest Wynn. She heard frantic whispering that grew louder as she headed back to the hearth.

"There's no such thing! It's just a wolf."

"Kyne, don't get stupid!"

"Let go!"

"That thing could eat your whole head."

"Oh yeah, well... you're just a big, ignorant coward... Let go of me!"

Wynn kept her head down, focusing on her bowl as she ate.

"Is she really... a majay-hì?"

Wynn flinched at the surprisingly close voice and looked up straight into an ivory face covered in freckles.

The girl in an initiate's tan robe and smudged apron couldn't have been more than thirteen. Her wonder-struck eyes peered cautiously at Shade, now with the mutton pulled off the plate and trapped between teeth and forepaws.

Wynn swallowed a piece of carrot. "How do you know that word?"

"Reading," the girl answered, still staring at Shade.

Wynn almost smiled. Now, here was a cathologer in the making standing before her.

"Can I pet her?" the girl asked.

Wynn glanced down. Shade had stopped chewing, her unblinking eyes locked on the girl. Wynn didn't know if Shade would ever submit to being touched by anyone else, but she preferred not to hurt the girl's feelings.

"She's still getting used to things here," Wynn answered. "Maybe later."

The girl's expression fell, as overcome fear washed away in disappointment. She backed up and scurried off.

Looking down into her spoon, Wynn grimaced at the irony of worrying about a young initiate's feelings. Sages were dying over the ancient texts she'd brought here, but she still thought upon the wonder of one small girl. Had she ever been so naïve herself?

Probably.

Shade renewed chewing her mutton, all the way down to the bone, and then rose on all fours to lap water from the bowl.

Wynn's dinner became as tasteless as sawdust. Reaching out, she touched Shade's back, allowing a memory to surface of them sitting on the floor of her room that morning.

Shade raised her head with pricked ears and whined. Perhaps privacy seemed welcome to her as well.

Wynn picked up the bowl and plate and left them on a nearby table. Shade slipped ahead of her, straight toward the main archway, and Wynn hurried to catch up. Out in the courtyard the dog appeared to remember the way perfectly, heading for the south dormitory's door. But on the way up the stairs, Shade startled several apprentices. They all flattened against the upper landing's walls.

Shade padded past, giving them no notice, and Wynn followed quickly, not looking at them either.

She breathed a sigh as she reached her room. But when she slipped inside and Shade pushed in around her robe's skirt, Wynn kicked a folded slip of paper lying on the floor. Her name was written on its outer fold.

Someone had pushed it under her door—a common practice when a message was clearly addressed and the recipient couldn't be found. Leaning down, she picked it up and unfolded it. Her breath caught when she saw the handwriting and the message written in Belaskian.

I need to know you are all right. I am at an inn called Nattie's House, at the corner of Starling and Twine streets on the outskirts of the Graylands Empire. Come, if you can, and bring me a cloak. If not, send me word now.

Wynn held on to the paper as her concern grew. What was Chane thinking? If anyone had sneaked a peek at the note...

She didn't want to think of what might've happened from that. At least he hadn't been badly injured or was well enough to write. Yet he'd told her where he was, after insisting it was better she didn't know.

What had she done to him with the sun crystal?

"Shade," she called. "We must go out."

The dog poked her head out from beneath the table-desk. For an instant Wynn considered showing her a memory of Chane—and then quickly thought better of it.

What might Shade sense—or see—in such a memory? Somehow the majay-hì hadn't picked up Chane's undead nature last night. Strange as that was, Wynn had no wish to give this natural hunter of the undead any more knowledge of Chane than was necessary. Not yet.

But she couldn't leave Shade locked in her room. If the majay-hì became agitated, and someone came at any sound of commotion, it would just cause more trouble. She would have to figure out how to keep Shade away from Chane when the time came.

Wynn grabbed her cloak and pulled the scroll case from its deep inner pocket. She still didn't know if the black figure had come after it or her last night. But leaving the scroll behind seemed a wiser choice. She stuffed the case deep under her mattress, bracing it against one of the bed's support boards, and then grabbed the staff from the corner beyond her desk.

She paused, staring at the leather sheath protecting the crystal.

If Domin il'Sänke found out, after her renewed promise, she might never learn how to use it correctly. But what else could she do? She couldn't go out without some means of defense. Though she still didn't know for certain what the black figure was, it had vanished after the crystal flashed. Sunlight drove all vampires into hiding.

One more thought occurred to her.

She dashed to her trunk, pulling out a tiny jar of healing salve. Would it even work on Chane? Either way, it wouldn't hurt to try. Then she spotted Magiere's old dagger tucked in the chest's side—given to Wynn as a gift.

Wynn stared at it. She'd used it more than once, even against the undead, and sometimes with disastrous results. Still, she couldn't ignore anything that might help keep her alive, and she picked it up.

Shade slipped under Wynn's arm and clamped her jaws over the dagger's sheath. At the brush of the dog's muzzle against Wynn's hand, an image erupted in her head and consumed her.

She saw the black figure.

Like a cloth-draped column of solidified night, it slipped straight through a building's back wall.

Wynn was disoriented in fright, and had no idea where she was in that memory. She seemed to be looking down an alley behind that place, but from a lower height, as if she knelt upon the filthy cobblestones. The noise of wood cracking, glass breaking, and other racket erupted from within the building.

And then everything in the alley suddenly raced by. She bolted, swift and low, along the alley floor, charging by the building and out the alley's far end. Swerving through the empty street, she rounded the city block to its front side. There she slowed, creeping along the buildings, finally coming to a stop. Above the peeling door of a garish and weathered shop, Wynn saw a worn painted sign.

Shilwise's Gild and Ink—the scriptorium where a folio had been left overnight and stolen.

She was crouched two shops down from it, but the scribe shop was now silent.

Until the weathered front door exploded outward in the night.

Shattered wood shards scattered over the porch and street as Wynn cowered back. The black figure slid out through the opening, a leather folio clutched in its cloth-wrapped hand.

It didn't waver in Wynn's sight. This was Shade's own memory.

The figure looked as solid and real as anything along the street. But when it turned, gliding along the buildings, it passed straight through a lantern post, as if the stout iron pole wasn't even there.

The memory's intensity softened.

Wynn stared at Shade, eye-to-eye, with the sheathed blade still in the dog's jaws. Had Shade been hunting the black figure, as well as watching over her all this time?

And on the night Rodian had sprung his trap, the figure had slid out through the front wall of the Upright Quill—but pulled the folio through a window. Perhaps, by whatever magic, it couldn't pass the folio through something solid.

But why destroy the front door of the Gild and Ink? With no one about, it could've simply slipped through the wall and pulled the folio through an easily breakable window. Or better yet, it could've found some less telltale way to get out, with no one around to see it.

No one but Shade, that was.

Wynn was at a loss for what any of this meant, nor why Shade had shown her this now. It had been a clear image of the undead breaking out of a shop, appearing solid, yet it had walked through an iron pole.

This attempt to talk in memories was frustrating, but it was all Wynn had. Shade was trying to tell her something about the black figure. How many Noble Dead, or even other undead, had Wynn known of since she first met Magiere, Leesil, and Chap? She had to at least eliminate the obvious, and put her hand on the side of Shade's neck.

Wynn relaxed her mind, letting memories rise, but careful not to let any of Chane come clearly to mind. There was Vordana, Welstiel, and the memory of Magiere speaking of her undead father, Bryen Massing. The first two were mages as well as Noble Dead.

Shade growled and looked away with a huff.

Wynn exhaled sharply. Shade's reaction wasn't like Chap's clear usage of two barks for "no," but it was plain enough. So now what? The only other undead that Wynn had encountered were Ubâd's animated corpses and enslaved spirits.

Shade dropped the blade and grabbed Wynn's wrist in her jaws. Rapidly alternating memories filled Wynn's head—her own memories...

The ghost of a murdered girl who served the necromancer...

Then the black figure on the night Shade had come to Wynn's aid...

Black figure and ghost child alternated over and over.

Wynn didn't like what this implied.

"A spirit?" she whispered, remembering the ghost child who'd once spoken with that vile necromancer's own voice.

Shade gently tightened her grip on Wynn's wrist.

Wynn looked at the dog and suddenly wished she still had her doubts. It would've been far less unsettling to cling to her notion of an ancient Noble Dead mage grown powerful over a thousand years.

How could a spirit, as much as it might pass through a wall, pick up a folio in its hand, rip out a city guard's chest, and look as solid and real as a cloaked man? And why hadn't Shade simply shown her ghosts in the first place?

The latter answer came quickly. Because Shade had never seen a ghost, until that memory rose in Wynn's mind when she'd thought of other forms of undead.

Shade couldn't dig for memories but only recall ones she'd seen surface in someone else's thoughts. And she'd never seen a ghost herself, because the undead couldn't enter the an'Cróan's elven homeland—Shade's homeland.

Wynn glanced at Magiere's useless dagger lying on the floor between her and Shade. And again she wished Shade was wrong.

This black spirit took lives, fed upon the living. Only Noble Dead did this to maintain their fully sentient existence, versus ghosts, mindless corpses, and such lesser undead.

Wynn felt even worse.

Was this thing—spirit—a new form of a Noble Dead? Vampires were Noble Dead, the terms merely interchangeable.

With no more time to ponder the rest of what Shade had shown her, Wynn dropped Magiere's blade into the chest; then she hesitated again. Rodian still had men outside the portcullis. Could she be lucky enough to slip by them again, this time with a large wolf? And she saw her old clothing—elven clothing, weathered and travel-worn—in the bottom of the chest.

At the very least, it was better not to be spotted beyond the guild grounds in a sage's robe. She quickly changed clothing and pulled on her old cloak.

Wynn peeked into the passage outside her room. Spotting no one, she slipped out with Shade. She checked again before they stepped into the courtyard and then hurried across—not to the keep's main doors, but to the building on the northern side, where supplies and kitchen stores were kept.

She carefully opened a door there and, finding the storeroom dark, slipped out her cold lamp crystal. With one quick stroke along her tunic's front, the crystal glowed no more than a low candle. Rows of barrels, crates, and sacks of dried goods filled the space, but she urged Shade in and turned immediately to the right. Through another door she entered the back scullery behind the kitchen.

Stacked, emptied crates and bottles waited to be taken away. And there also, spare cloaks hung on wall pegs, for anyone who had to take milk bottles or refuse out. She grabbed the largest one and pulled it on over her own. Although it was too big for her, this was easier than carrying it, and the extra bulk might further disguise her. When she reached the courtyard again, still trying to think of some way to get Shade out through the library, another notion came to her.

Pawl a'Seatt had come to escort his staff home from working all day in the guild. But had they already left, or were they still inside? Either way, what Wynn had in mind was a gamble. She hoped none of the guards outside had ever seen her before.

Wynn pocketed the crystal, smothering its light, and crouched before Shade.

She didn't know how to explain with memories that Shade needed to keep quiet. She reached out carefully for Shade's nose—again hoping she didn't get bitten—and clamped her hand over the dog's muzzle. She quickly covered her own mouth in like fashion.

Shade let out a brief grumble and fell silent. Wynn hoped that meant the dog understood.

She headed down the gatehouse tunnel with Shade padding behind her. Before she was close enough to touch the closed portcullis, someone shifted beyond it.

In the light of the outer torches, a bearded face leaned close between the stout bars. He wore the red tabard of Rodian's men and held the shaft of a polearm in one hand.

"What's this?" the man demanded. "It's after dark... orders are that no one goes out."

"Do I look like a sage?" Wynn answered, trying to sound indignant. "I'm with Master a'Seatt, from the Upright Quill."

The man lifted his head, looking away, and Wynn lost sight of his face.

"He already left," another voice outside answered.

The first guard peered in again. "Where were you?"

"Domin High-Tower had a fit about some mislaid notes," Wynn answered, and sighed as deeply as she could. "I got stuck finding them for him."

The bearded guard scowled, but he appeared more annoyed than suspicious.

"Open the damn gate!" Wynn snapped.

His eyes widened. "Girl, you'd better—"

"Come on!" Wynn cut in. "I'm tired, I haven't had supper, and I've been dealing with stuffy, petty little scholars all day. Or do you want to tell my employer—and your captain—why I was stuck in here all night?"

The guard let out a long hissing breath and vanished from the space in the portcullis.

Wynn's stomach clenched. She was stuck. They were just going to ignore her.

"Take it up!" someone shouted.

The gatehouse tunnel filled with the racket of chains and gears as the portcullis began to rise. Wynn tried to remain still and not duck under and bolt out. She stepped onward only when the way was fully open.

"What is that?" one guard barked.

She was only three steps down the outer path to the bailey gate when she had to stop and look back. Both guards had their long halberds lowered, the wide head blades aimed at Shade.

"A wolf?" one guard uttered.

The only thing Wynn could think of was another insult.

"Oh, good, you've got eyes... very useful, since you're standing watch."

"Watch your little tongue!" the second guard warned. "What's a wolf doing inside the guild?"

"Domin Parisean said it was supposed to walk with me," Wynn countered, "since I missed my escort."

"A wolf? What do you take me for?"

"What do you expect?" Wynn snarled back. "All the nonsense in there, you wouldn't believe it... I don't! But you think I'm gonna argue?"

With that she turned away, walking steadily down the path as Shade trotted out ahead. But Wynn didn't feel steady.

She was shaking, waiting to be grabbed from behind. She was still shaking when she reached the gate and stepped out onto the Old Bailey Road.

And no one followed.

Wynn ran a hand over Shade's silky ears as they set out for the Graylands Empire. How she would get both of them back inside the guild was something she didn't care to think about just yet.

Cringing in bed, Chane cursed his weakness, and another wave of anxiety choked him.

Pain had beaten him down, and he could not banish it. He had finally succumbed and sent a message to Wynn.

Slipping it along with two silver pennies under the innkeeper's door, he had then rushed back to his room before he was seen. Not long after, the reality of what he had done caught up to him. And fear became companion to the pain.

How could he have drawn Wynn out alone into the night? Or would she just send a reply? No, she would come.

"You coward!" he hissed at himself.

If he sent another message telling her not to come, it might not reach her in time. And he needed to know if she had recovered from whatever had made her collapse. There were also questions about the Suman who had appeared from nowhere to carry her off.

Chane sat up, groaned, and struck the sulfur stick on the stool to light his one candle.

He had fed on a blacksmith working late the night before, but that one fresh life had not been enough to fully heal him. The burns on his hands were still severe, though he had carefully peeled away flecks of charred skin. The ones on his face felt worse. If not for the cloak's hood shielding his hair, he would have lost some of that as well.

His shirtsleeves and one side of his cloak had caught fire from his own flesh. Tearing charred cloth from his forearms had been excruciating. He had an extra shirt, though he was not wearing it. The touch of the cloth on his wounds was too much. But he possessed no other cloak. Without one he could not hunt effectively, as the sight of him would shock his prey into flight and cries before he could close for a kill.

Chane had never been in such a state, never needed help like this—and he had no one to trust except Wynn.

A soft knock sounded at his door.

Chane could not separate shame, relief, and fear.

"Wynn?" he whispered.

"Yes. The innkeeper sent me up."

Shame and fear grew—one for calling her here and the other at the thought of her looking upon him. But he was no longer alone in his suffering.

He lunged for the door and whimpered as he gripped the handle with his burned hand. When he cracked the door, he saw the charcoal-colored majay-hì.

Wynn pushed in past him, and the dog followed. Chane quickly shut the door, retreating to the wall beyond it and lowering his head. The one candle barely lit the room from the other end near the bed. It was enough for Chane to see, with his sight opened wide, but he cowered back as far as he could from its light.

Wynn whipped off one cloak and tossed it on the bed, along with a staff, its upper end covered in a leather sheath. She glanced at him, about to untie a second cloak beneath the first, but her fingers stopped with the strings pulled out straight.

A shudder ran through her when she peered at him.

"Oh," she whispered. "I... ah, no!"

He must look worse than he realized.

"It will pass," he rasped, and then cringed. He had become accustomed to the sound of his maimed voice, but hearing it when he spoke to her made him hate it more.

"I should not have asked you to come," he whispered.

The majay-hì began sniffing sharply, watching him. Its jowls curled.

"Stop it," Wynn said, sweeping a hand before the dog's nose.

When she looked back to Chane, her mouth opened. A frown passed briefly over her face, and her lips closed, possibly in some abandoned question she decided not to ask.

She pointed to the bed. "Sit down."

Chane stepped closer, and the dog did growl. Wynn flinched at a clearer sight of him, and a flicker of fright rose as her gaze shifted rapidly between him and the dog. He settled on the bed's edge, loathing himself for the relief her presence brought him.

Wynn gasped softly. "Your back! Did that happen last night?"

It took an instant before he understood. She had never seen him without a shirt, and his back was covered in white scars.

"No, those are old," he said. "From... before."

This was not the time or place to tell her of his life before death, or about his father. Changing the subject, he gestured at the staff lying behind him on the bed.

"Is that what you carried last night?"

Wynn remained silent too long. When Chane finally glanced up, she averted her eyes. She began digging in the pocket of her yellow tunic.

"Without Magiere or Chap," she said, "I needed my own defense."

So it was the same staff—and under the leather sheath was the searing crystal.

"Where did you get it?"

"Our guild alchemists make certain things, such as the cold lamp crystals," she answered, her tone careful and matter-of-fact. It was obvious she did not want to say much about it. "I'm still learning to use it properly," she added.

Chane considered himself intelligent, though only moderately skilled in conjury, but to create or even conceive of a crystal that carried light that burned like the sun...

There were moments when Wynn still astonished him. What the making of the crystal had taken was beyond what he could imagine—much like most of Welstiel's items.

She drew a small ceramic jar from inside her pocket. "A healing salve," she explained.

"That will not help... me."

"You're suffering," she said bluntly, and knelt down. "It may still numb the pain."

Chane kept quiet, fearing she might vanish. It was hard to believe she was here, tending to his comfort. Only the pain seemed truly real. The rest felt as though one of his fantasies harbored over the last year had suddenly swelled into a full delusion.

Her light brown hair hung in loose wisps, sticking to one olive cheek at the corner of her small mouth. Candlelight warmed her brown eyes as she reached for his right hand resting on his knee. Her eyes flickered briefly to his bare chest, and he wished he had donned his spare shirt. Wynn's fingers hung for a moment above his hand.

"This may hurt," she said. "I didn't mean to injure you. I was trying to drive off that... thing, just before Domin il'Sänke appeared."

Wynn slowly applied salve to Chane's right hand. Discomfort heightened under the delicate pressure, but he did not care.

"Il'Sänke?" he echoed. "The one who carried you off?"

"Yes, and—"

"And he's a mage."

Wynn glanced up. "Yes."

"Perhaps the one who created your crystal?"

Wynn frowned. "He's the only one who believes that we're dealing with an undead, besides you... and Shade."

The dog behind Wynn, so akin to Chap, sniffed at him. Her ears flattened as her jowls twitched.

It would sense nothing of his nature—not while he wore the ring. Likely the female smelled that he was not right, or at least was not like other people. Chane wanted to ask Wynn about the animal, but the mention of the Suman brought back images of the night before.

The black figure attacking Wynn, the dog trying to protect her, the flash of the crystal's light.

Chane flinched. Wynn jerked her fingers from a spot of raw skin on his wrist, where he had ripped away a charred sleeve.

"Sorry," she whispered.

But her voice sounded distant, as if he were some stranger she tended to. She leaned back to dip her fingers in the salve jar on the floor and looked about his small attic room.

The shabby walls, the slanting ceiling below the roof, the stool for a table, and the dusty, chipped water basin...

Chane was not accustomed to embarrassment. The son of a nobleman in life, he had lived in a lavish manor, worn fine clothes, and had even educated himself beyond what most would gain—beyond what most gentry thought was worthwhile. Now he lived—existed—in squalor, with little more than his studies to distract him.

For once he had no one else to blame, not even Welstiel.

Wynn began gently reapplying salve, working around the brass ring on his left hand without seeming to notice it. Then he realized the sting in his right hand was beginning to dull. The ointment might not heal him, but something in it still affected his dead flesh. He loosely closed his right hand, and the pain barely increased.

"Have you learned anything about the scroll?" he asked.

Wynn's expression shifted with a hint of interest. "No, I haven't had time. I was in the catacombs, studying translated portions of the texts. By evening I began to figure out which sections of the translations had been stolen."

He froze, for her words confused him on several levels.

"You have had no access before? You brought those texts back—they are yours."

Wynn sighed. Picking up the salve jar, she stood and began dabbing at his face.

"It's complicated... but no, not until today. Only masters and domins working on the project are allowed access. There is precedence for this decision."

She sounded defensive, even resentful. This was a sensitive subject, so he did not press for more.

"Do you have any idea what is in the missing pages?" he asked.

She stopped dabbing, and her eyes drifted.

"Li'kän's wall writings mentioned two companions—Volyno and Häs'saun. I don't know what became of them, but I read some translations that came just before one set of missing pages..."

She told him of ancient undead, like the white woman with strangely shaped eyes in the castle of the Pock Peaks. And of something called "Beloved," among other names, that might have been what had whispered to Welstiel and sent Magiere her dreams of that castle. And also of how those undead had "divided."

Chane wondered at those other names Wynn mentioned. Did others like the white woman still roam free in the world after centuries?

Wynn paused, lost in thought, and then looked intently down at Chane.

"Did Welstiel ever speak to you about his patron... the thing in his dreams? Magiere suspected something was guiding him."

Chane shook his head. "I know only that someone whispered to him in dormancy, perhaps telling him where to go. But in the way we wandered, I believe he was not told much. He was obsessed with herding Magiere ahead of him, as if he needed her. When you and yours entered elven land, I think he tried to turn to finding his artifact on his own."

Even speaking Magiere's name made Chane's insides heat up. He thought he saw Wynn's eyes flicker once, perhaps glancing at the scar around his neck.

"Some of what Welstiel was told in dormancy turned out to be false," Chane went on. "When did Magiere start having these dreams?"

"When we reached the northern bay of the Elven Territories," Wynn answered. "We were promised a ship to take us south."

Chane shook his head. He had wandered the Crown Range with Welstiel for so long it was impossible to match the time frames.

"The night we found the monastery, Welstiel began shouting at the night sky. He must have believed he was being led to the castle, but that was not what we found. I think he broke with his... 'patron'... that night, after being tricked too many times. Whatever spoke to him, perhaps it decided to let Magiere find the orb without him. And she shares the nature of the Noble Dead."

Wynn studied him, perhaps wondering if he told the full truth. Chane's thoughts slipped back to the names she had spoken—and the black-robed figure hunting sages, folios, and her.

"Do you think one of these other old undead is the black-robed mage?" he asked. "Some ancient vampire, grown powerful over so much time?"

Wynn started slightly. "It's not a mage, but it is a Noble Dead."

"No... vampires are Noble Dead."

Wynn tiredly closed her eyes. "Not only vampires. There is something else... a wraith."

Before he could ask, she shook her head.

"It's the word I use for it, among older ones, though none of them may be accurate. Just something mentioned in old Numan folklore."

"Then it is not—"

"It feeds, Chane. It has to feed on life. And it is fully aware. Shade is convinced the black figure is a form of spirit."

Chane stared at the majay-hì, not quite grasping what she meant. By Wynn's words, this animal shared Chap's antagonism toward the undead. Much as that might add weight to Wynn's conclusion, it was not enough. How had she learned this from a dog?

"She's been hunting it, as much as watching over me," Wynn continued. "I don't understand everything yet, but on the way here I kept thinking of something I overheard in one of il'Sänke's seminars. Like the five Elements, the sages also divide all things in existence by the three Aspects—physical, mental, and spiritual."

Chane knew this concept by different terms, but it still did not explain her assumptions.

"A vampire is distinguished in nature from a mere raised corpse," she went on, "or anything in between those extremes... but they all are physical. So what is the difference? We both know from experience that ghosts exist, as well as other less-than-corporeal forms of the undead. But nonetheless, we've seen the dead come back... in spirit, as well as body."

Right then he wanted to deny her, for where she headed with her reasoning was too harsh and dangerous—especially for her well-being.

"It's fully aware and reasons," she whispered. "Even if it's a mage as well, then it has grown within its sense of self, as if it were still alive. And it has to feed... what else is that but a Noble Dead?"

Chane had no response, but this was not good at all. Uncertain as he was, he still trusted her intellect, as well educated as his own and then some. Caught between doubt and faith in her, which should he choose to follow?

And if she was right, how could he protect her from something he could not fight?

They still had no concrete idea what this creature—this wraith—was truly after, and they had not yet unlocked the secret of the scroll. Chane was not fanciful, but he could not help believing that the scroll had come into his possession for a reason. That the white undead had tried to show it to Wynn confirmed that instinct.

Whatever was hidden beneath the black coating might shape dangerous days ahead, and the future. At present he had no future.

"You said Li'kän wanted you to read the scroll to her," Chane began, "or perhaps just to read it yourself. I do not see why this forgotten Enemy would want or allow that, so our next step should be to solve its mystery."

Wynn looked at the floor. "I've been thinking the same thing."

"So how?"

Wynn hesitated a long while. "I might have a chance."

He stiffened. "You?"

"Do you remember when you found me at the smithy of Pudúrlatsat? You protected me from Vordana, and I was... in a state."

Yes, she had been sick, and, strangely, she could barely see.

"Just before, I attempted to give myself mantic sight via a thaumaturgical ritual—the ability to see elemental Spirit in all things."

Chane had never heard this before. "That was foolish!"

Wynn stiffened. "Magiere needed to locate Vordana quickly—who, as you well know, was a sentient undead."

He fell silent.

"But my attempt went wrong," Wynn whispered.

"You failed?"

"No." She took a long breath. "I couldn't end it afterward. Chap had to do it for me, and that turned out to be temporary."

Chane shook his head. "How would seeing Spirit let you read the scroll's content?"

Wynn studied him for a moment. "Because with mantic sight, I also see the absence of Spirit in a Noble Dead. Spirit as in the Element, not the Aspect."

Again, Chane disliked where this was headed. He had suffered mishaps in his youth when first attempting conjury on his own with no tutor. One had left him bedridden for many days. The physician called by his mother had no idea what was wrong with him, nor why he had succumbed to a sudden burning fever that made his body seem to dry out and left him with an insatiable thirst.

"I not only see where Spirit is strong or weak," Wynn explained, "but where it is lacking or where something other than life draws it in. The scroll and even the painted ink on top may hold a residue of elemental Spirit, but—"

"The writing in undead's fluids would not," Chane finished.

"Side effects of the sight," Wynn went on, "have been with me ever since my mistake. But I can call it up at times, and I might be able to read what is beneath the scroll's coating."

"No!" Chane hissed, standing up.

And the dog—Shade—rose on all fours, growling.

"Chap is not here," he said. "If you cannot stop this sight on your own, then we will find another way."

"There's no time," Wynn returned. "And I've been experimenting since returning home. Domin il'Sänke has helped tutor me."

"You trust him?" he asked harshly. "Enough to let him know about the scroll?"

Her lips pursed in indecision. "I trust him more than my own superiors... though sometimes I think he has his own agenda."

"Then do not trust him further."

The room fell silent except for Shade's rumble.

"I have to try," Wynn said quietly. "It's all we have, at present."

Chane's first urge was to hold her in this room until she swore not to do this. Not even if it meant never learning the scroll's secret and why it had come to him.

"Do you have it with you?" he asked.

"No, it's hidden in my room. I was afraid the wraith might try to take it if I had it with me."

Chane pulled on his spare shirt, wincing slightly, and then snatched up the second overcloak she had brought. "You cannot walk back alone—and you will not attempt this alone. I am coming with you."

"Inside the guild?" Wynn countered loudly. "Absolutely not!"

"We do not know what is in that scroll! Nor what will happen to you if you cannot end your sight."

He had placed her in enough danger already with his obsession, and her stubbornness could lead to worse. Donning the cloak, he pulled the hood forward as far as it would go.

"And what about Captain Rodian?" she demanded. "What if he is there? He saw you, as did some of his men, and he has stationed guards around the guild's grounds."

Chane scowled. "I have no concern over city guards."

"You can barely close your hand," she said. "And would you shed blood at the guild?"

He flinched, ashamed at his lack of thought. Wynn was still an innocent in many ways, no matter what the last two years had shown her. And the two of them had grown far apart from the time she had first learned who—what—he was.

"Is the captain expected tonight?" he asked.

"No, but he shows up unexpectedly, whenever he wants."

"Then we will be cautious—but I am coming with you!"

"I don't even know how to get back in myself," she said. "There is a curfew in place at the guild, which is why the city guard is there, to protect us from this killer. I had to bluff my way out, and I can't get back in the same way, let alone bring you."

"And the other night, when you met me at the stable?"

Wynn scowled, growing visibly tired of this debate. Chane hoped she would simply give up altogether.

"I crawled out of the new library and along the inner bailey wall," she said. "Then down the old stairs near the south corner. But I still had to go out the bailey gate, in front of the gatehouse, and the wall is too sheer and tall to climb from the outside."

"Too tall for the living," Chane corrected.

Wynn narrowed her eyes at him.

Despite the risk, Chane could not help a rising excitement.

It had been a hopeless dream until now, and though this was not the way he would have wished for it, tonight he would step inside the guild and Wynn's world.