In Shade and Shadow

Chapter 4

After finishing half a supper, alone among the others in the common hall, Wynn carried a wooden crate filled with empty milk bottles out through the gatehouse tunnel.

Everyone living within the guild grounds equally shared regular duties. Tonight Wynn took her turn in the kitchens, and any errand to get away from staring eyes was welcome. Chopping vegetables had been especially unpleasant, considering who'd been in charge of meal preparations. Regina Melliny was a nasty beanpole of an apprentice in the Order of Naturology, and the ringleader for those whispering most behind Wynn's back.

Whether it was snide comments about Wynn being "above herself," or just that she was a fool with all her mad talk of dhampirs, undead, and assassins, Regina had a hand in it. She was like the head of a motley troupe of street players, who picked a passerby to mock for everyone else's amusement.

Perhaps the venom stemmed from a zealous approach to her order's pragmatic pursuits in natural and earth studies. Or maybe it was just her noble upbringing. Either way, Wynn couldn't wait to escape the kitchens during cleanup.

She trudged to the inner bailey's gate and settled the crates with a note on top, requesting a full wheel of goat cheese with the next delivery. In the morning a dairyman would pick up the empties, leave full bottles, and fulfill requests for goods that were available.

Wynn lingered awhile, breathing the damp night air and watching her own breath billow like fog in the cold. Then a strange thought popped into her head—or rather a memory.

As Captain Rodian had shoved her out of the Upright Quill, she'd glimpsed a shimmer, like fur touched by distant street lanterns, as something ducked into the alley. Again she found herself missing Chap to a painful degree.

Wynn peered down Old Procession Road running straight into the city. She didn't really notice the dim glow from all of the scattered street lanterns. Or rather she peered into each pool of light upon the wide cobbled street, one by one, searching for another glimpse.

She shook her head and scoffed. That was all she needed—to lend more credence to her fame for addled wits, even if only to herself. She reluctantly turned up the path and was nearly to the gatehouse when she froze.

Large torches, their blazing heads girded in iron bands, were mounted to either side of the tunnel. But someone stood in the entrance's darker shadow, just out of the light's reach.

Nikolas Columsarn inched out into plain sight.

Wynn sighed, heart still pounding in her chest. It had been too long a day, and she wasn't up to this. But the closer she stepped, the more his lost expression wrenched her. His straight brown hair hung partly over his face, but didn't quite hide his nervous, shifting eyes.

"I heard the captain brought you back," Nikolas said softly, uncertain whether to whisper or not. "Did he tell you anything about...?"

"Jeremy and Elias?" she finished after he faltered.

"My only friends, except maybe Imaret."

"I saw her today. She asked after you."

He brushed his hair aside. "How is she?"

"Sad. You should go see her."

Wynn stepped past him into the tunnel, but he didn't follow. She should've left him there if he was just going to lurk about, but she reached back and pulled him once by the arm.

His shuffling gait sent the sound of scraping leather on stone rolling around the tunnel until they entered the inner courtyard. Wynn turned aside rather than head for the main hall. Nikolas quickened his step to catch up as she walked around the courtyard.

"Does the captain know anything yet?" Nikolas repeated.

"Why are you asking me?"

"I can't ask Domin High-Tower, or the premin... or anyone else. They wouldn't talk to me. Do you think the captain will find whoever did this... punish them, execute them?"

Wynn stopped. Clear hatred and hunger for vengeance surfaced under those shaky words. She was already certain the killer was undead, but Nikolas had sought her out for a reason. If he harbored any blame for an innocent, it had to be dispelled immediately.

Then again, she'd known vampires who'd fooled her into believing they were mortal—at least one or two. Welstiel, Magiere's own half brother, fooled her for a while, and as to the other that had once tricked Wynn...

But she also remembered Rodian's warning not to meddle—or from hn tdle—or er own perspective, not to get caught doing so.

"If you know anything," she said, "you must tell the captain."

Nikolas quickly shook his head. "I couldn't, not him. There are things in my past... But Jeremy and Elias were easy to be with. They might've laughed at some of what I told them, but not to make fun of me."

He paused.

"I could tell you," he said, "and you can tell the captain."

Wynn was a little lost and really not up to this. Nikolas spoke of something more than friendship that he shared with two lost companions. Something out of the young man's own past was tangled in his loss of Jeremy and Elias.

"Tell the captain what?" she asked.

His eyes narrowed, and anger seeped back into his voice. "Elias was courting a merchant's daughter named Elvina."

"Courting?" Wynn blinked. "When would he even find time?"

Nikolas shook his head again, dismissing the question. "Have you heard of Baron Âdweard Twynam? Only one generation noble, barely above a commoner, but his son Jason wants Elvina, too. Eight days back Jason cornered Elias behind the soap shop in the eastern district... and threatened to kill him if he didn't stay away from Elvina. Jason said no one would miss a useless little sage."

Wynn exhaled slowly. "Why didn't Elias tell the domins?"

"He'd just made journeyor and was still waiting for his assignment. The domins would've told him to stay away from her. And who knows where they would've sent him to make sure of it."

Nikolas was correct, though he still should've told someone about a death threat. But Wynn's own conclusions wavered a bit concerning the deaths of Elias and Jeremy.

What if il'Sänke was right? Was it possible they were killed for such an explainable reason, and not by something out of memories that still plagued her dreams? But it didn't all add up, if this Elvina was interested in a minor noble's son with wealth and means. Sages generally led austere lives, and only a few found their way into some wealth. So why had Elvina given Elias any note?

And if this story was true, why had Jason even felt threatened, unless he was that petty and controlling?

"How could Elias afford to court this girl?" Wynn asked.

"He borrowed coin from Jeremy."

Wynn was losing patience. "So how did Jeremy get the money?"

Nikolas started fidgeting again. "He was working..."

Wynn folded her arms and glared at him.

"...for a moneylender named Selwyn Midton," he mumbled. "I went with him sometimes."

Wynn let out huff. "Nikolas!"

"I know, I know!" he whined. "It's against guild rules, but the payment was so much. Elias was taking Elvina to all the best inns, and Jeremy wanted to help him. And Jeremy also had his eye on a fine set of calligraphy quills that he wanted before being sent off on assignment. He has—had—a good hand, enough to have been a scribe. But after he took the job with Selwyn, we started learning things. Selwyn didn't have a charter for moneylending, and he was charging ridiculous rates on illicit loans. But that wasn't all of it..."

Wynn couldn't believe what she was hearing. How had this taken place with no one's knowledge? High-Tower always seemed to learn everything about his charges. Or had he been so embroiled in the hushed translation work that he never even noticed?

"I couldn't read all of Selwyn's ciphers," Nikolas went on. "But I think Jeremy may have figured out some of his clients. He was very quiet a couple of times heading back to the guild, like he knew some of them."

Wynn slumped against the keep's side.

Most citizens seeking loans for business went through one of the few banks or chartered lenders under the sanction of the ministry of commerce. But there were people—many others—who didn't have collateral. Moneylending, legal or otherwise, was frowned upon, but it still took place in any major city for those who had no other recourse.

Sages should never be involved in anything so sordid.

Initiates and apprentices were forbidden involvement in private enterprise. Aside from masters, only journeyors were allowed to do so, if whatever assignment they were given was explicitly in a legal enterprise. It wasn't just about protecting them from exploitation. The guild couldn't risk tainting its reputation as a public institution.

"What happened?" Wynn demanded, not certain she wanted to know.

"Selwyn had a partner, Mêthos Smythe," Nikolas answered. "They lent only to desperate people who'd never go to the authorities. But a caravan owner couldn't pay back his loan, let alone the interest—probably half the reason he couldn't clear the debt. He confessed to the high advocate and lodged a legal complaint. A judge ordered Selwyn to turn over all ledgers and entry keys necessary, but Mêthos was the one who handled the books. He vanished that night, taking the master ledgers with him. Selwyn called in Jeremy to make altered copies in Mêthos's handwriting... Jeremy was that good."

"Oh, dead deities!" Wynn breathed.

She began rubbing her temples at a sudden throb in her head. A murdered sage had been paid for forgery by an illegal moneylender. If this ever got out...

"Maybe Jeremy didn't fully understand at first," Nikolas continued. "But he kept at it, even when he started suspecting. I was scared of what might happen to him when the work was finished."

"You should've told someone!" Wynn exclaimed.

"I am telling someone!" His voice broke on a squeak. "They were my only friends, and I know the domins won't want anyone outside tn'tone outo hear of this. But someone should pay... I can't tell the captain, or anyone, because I can't lose my place here. I have nowhere else to go."

Wynn didn't understand the last part. Perhaps, like herself, Nikolas was an orphan. Pity for him, as well as confused second guesses, overwhelmed her. What had actually happened to Jeremy and Elias? Then another question surfaced.

Among those ledger names, whom had Jeremy recognized and worried over? Who would an overworked apprentice sage even know, who needed money enough to go to the likes of Selwyn Midton and Mêthos Smythe?

Members of the guild came from all regions, including other countries beyond Malourné and the Numan Lands. With some of them far from home, their closest companions were always others within the guild.

Wynn immediately thought of the sun crystal she had begged for.

Premin Sykion had demanded an explanation from il'Sänke when she saw the guild's recent ledgers. Wynn didn't know how Premin Hawes, head of metaology, had reacted. Just how much had the sun crystal cost, not just in money but in time and resources? The night Domin il'Sänke had come with the crystal, he'd said something about "at least those I listed." So how else—and where else—had he acquired what was needed?

There was no doubting il'Sänke's skill, but she'd pressed him to do something never tried before... as quickly as possible. He'd agreed, and he was still working on the crystal.

Wynn reached for Nikolas's shoulder to offer comfort but stopped herself.

"I'll speak to the captain," she said. "I'll keep your name out, for now. But sooner or later this will come to the attention of the domins... and the premins."

Nikolas stared at his feet and didn't answer. Wynn couldn't bring herself to dismiss him outright, no matter how badly she wanted to disappear to her room.

"Come with me," she said. "We'll get some tea in the common hall."

Nikolas looked up in surprise.

"It would do us both good," she added halfheartedly.

As Nikolas fell into step, Wynn glanced back through the gatehouse tunnel. But she caught no glimpse of shimmering fur in the night beyond its far end.

Evening settled beneath a light patter of rain as Rodian sat at the square table that served as his desk. Unlike that of Domin High-Tower, his office was simple and orderly. He paged through his notes within his office at the barracks for the Shyldfälches inside Calm Seatt's second castle.

The wide grounds around this fortress didn't sport gardens. Instead its inner bailey was filled with stables, barracks, and housing available for officers. A full standing army hadn't been necessary for many years, but Malourné's border cavalry and regulars were still carefully maintained. This second castle of Calm Seatt was the heart of all the military, with the exception of the Weardas—the "Sentinels."

That smallest elite force protected the royal family and was housed within the last and greatest castle of the sprawling city. Placed upon a rise nearer the shore, it looked out over the open sea, the wide port of Beranlômr Bay, and the peninsula at the bay's far side, home of the neighboring nation of the dwarves at Dredhze Seatt.

The Weardas answered only to the royal family.

Rodian's position and relative young age drew envy among older members of the Shyldfälches. Though most officers in the regulars saw the city guard as a dead-end career, others recognized its advantages beyond military life. Affluence could be gained in many ways, and so much the more within the ranks of the Shyldfälches.

But not half as much as among the Weardas.

Someday Rodian would lead that force. If only the Blessed Trinity continued to cast its lessons into his path, elevating his knowledge and wisdom.

Not long ago he'd resigned his commission in the regulars and immediately accepted a lower rank in the city guard under its previous captain, Balthild Wilkens. After that he rose quickly to first lieutenant by numerous—and correct—arrests, with all the necessary evidence for clean convictions. He gained notoriety in protecting his people and formed strong connections with other officers and a few nobles. He took pride in both his service and his accomplishments.

Unlike his predecessor.

Captain Wilkens had married the niece of Lord Kregâllian, a close confidante of the royal family. By happenstance and some effort, Rodian discovered that Wilkens had set up house for a former prostitute in one of the city's mercantile districts. He visited her whenever possible, and perhaps a bit more than he did his own wife, who lived in a remote fief. After one brief warning from Rodian, Wilkens announced his early retirement. He recommended Rodian as his replacement.

No one else learned of the ex-prostitute, as Rodian believed in keeping his word. To his knowledge she remained well cared for by the former captain, but no such man belonged protecting the people's welfare.

Rodian felt no personal guilt or regret over his tactics. He'd already proven himself much more effective than his predecessor. He didn't gamble nor visit brothels. He didn't indulge in drink, besides one mug of ale but twice in a moon or a glass of wine at a formal dinner. Men who practiced complete abstinence were rarely viewed as trustworthy, and appearances were everything.

But tonight his thoughts turned inward with concern.

Two young sages had been dead for nearly a full day, and he hadn't gained a single sure lead. There were only entanglements and the frustrating shroud surrounding the sages' hidden project.

An oil lantern burned brightly on the table, and he glanced out the window.

Night had come. He'd waited long enough for his appointment at Master a'Seatt's scriptorium. As he headed for his cloak hung upon the perfectly placed peg near the door, the image of a face pushed to the forefront of his mind.

Wynn Hygeorht.

Her uncombed brown hair. Her wrinkled gray robes. The soft tone of her olive skin. The way her eyes pierced him as she said, "It's your duty to solve these murders."

Rodian didn't notice pretty girls or women. He had a certain kind in mind for when it came time to marry. Face and form were not primary criteria. Virtue, social position, possible wealth, and most certainly education mattered more for someone who would be his ally for life. But no one had ever spoken to him quite like that little journeyor sage returned from abroad. Criminals cursed him and peers whispered behind his back, but Wynn Hygeorht's quiet scrutiny left him unsettled.

And she knew more of these murders than she said—as did il'Sänke. Perhaps she knew more than even she was aware of. Rodian would find out, as always. But as he opened the office door a shadow moved in the outer hallway.

Rodian shifted back and his hand dropped to his sword's hilt.

The shadow came forward into the door frame, and lantern light illuminated the form of Pawl a'Seatt.

"Apologies," he said. "I thought we had an interview this evening."

Rodian stepped farther back to let him enter. "Yes... but at your shop, I believe."

"I thought to save you the inconvenience."

Rodian wondered at this polite turn. He hadn't forgotten the tail end of Imaret's story. Pawl a'Seatt had gone looking for those two sages. The girl had seen him. And that night, Imaret had said, the scribe master sent her away to rouse the constables.

"Sit," Rodian said, not pressing the matter. He could always visit the scriptorium later.

He stepped around the table, took out his note journal, and sat as the scriptorium owner settled across from him. He studied his visitor's face and found the man hard to read.

Black hair hung straight to a'Seatt's shoulders. A few streaks of dark gray could be seen there. Clean-shaven, his complexion was rather light, possibly from a life spent too much indoors, poring over books and parchments. But Pawl a'Seatt did well for himself, by the cut of his charcoal suede jerkin. His intense brown eyes were calmly watchful, though their mundane color seemed too vivid in the lantern light.

Rodian also considered the man's name.

"A'Seatt" might mean «from» or «of» the seatt—a name of a place, likely referring to this city, rather than any surname of Numan origin. Obviously taken by choice rather than heritage, it couldn't be the man's true family name.

"How well did you know Jeremy and Elias?" Rodian began.

"I had seen them a number of times. They were among those selected to deliver folios and return finished work to the guild."

"Last night how long were they in your shop before you sent them off?"

A few moments at best."

"Imaret said that you requested they come back with confirmation of the folio's safe delivery. Is that normal?"

Pawl a'Seatt's pause took no longer than a blink, but Rodian caught it nonetheless.

"Imaret told you this?" the scribe master asked.

"Is it normal procedure?"

"At times. The guild pays us well and has asked for utmost care."

"What do you know of the project itself?"

"Nothing. Scribes are not concerned with content, only the perfection of the final copy."

"Can you read what is being copied?"

This time a'Seatt paused so long that Rodian continued rather than give the man time to think.

"I learned that translations are written in shorthand or some code created by the sages. Can you read it?"

"Yes," Pawl answered, "though it is not a code or a shorthand. Most master scribes, in working with the sages, develop some familiarity. But the Begaine syllabary is both complex and mutable. Again, we do not concern ourselves with content. If you are asking what information the folio contained, I do not know. And if I did, I would not tell you... unless authorized by the guild or court-ordered to do so."

Rodian leaned back. He'd already hit this wall with Sykion and her cohorts. As yet, he hadn't found enough connection between the deaths and the sages' project to challenge any royal backing for secrecy—even with the sanction of the high advocate.

"Why did you go looking for the young men?" he asked.

Pawl a'Seatt's strange eyes blinked twice. Perhaps he wondered how Rodian already knew he'd done so.

"Too much time had passed," a'Seatt began. "They should have returned with confirmation. I grew concerned and stepped out, hoping to see them coming back late. I did not, so I followed the assumed path they would take. But when I passed the side street near my shop, I heard a cry. I went to look and heard more noise down the alley at the side street's end. I had just found the bodies when Imaret appeared. I immediately told her to run to the local constabulary station. I assume they notified you, since you arrived shortly after."

Rodian frowned. So Imaret had followed a'Seatt into the alley and seen him with the bodies.

"You saw nothing," Rodian asked, "and just came upon the bodies?"

"Yes."

"And the folio was gone?"

"Yes... no, not precisely. I did not notice its absence until after Domin High-Tower's arrival. I was too shocked over what I had found."

Rodian stalled for an instant—idtr an in" shocked" wasn't a word he would use to describe a'Seatt's state that night.

"So... you cannot verify that the folio was missing when you found the bodies."

"I do not remember."

Rodian stopped to jot down notes. Pawl a'Seatt's answers were precise, and thereby offered no more than was necessary. Certain details were still missing. And for all the man's concern over the safe return of a folio, Rodian found it hard to believe the scribe master hadn't once looked for it in the alley.

"You said Imaret came after you?"

Another pause followed, and a slight crease appeared on a'Seatt's forehead.

"Yes, though I had told her to stay inside the shop."

"An upsetting sight for the girl," Rodian added, but a'Seatt didn't respond. "How is it that you have such a young girl working so late in your shop?"

His tone was not accusatory, but he knew the words might bite with insinuation.

"She is gifted," Pawl a'Seatt answered without reaction. "I wish to see that gift nurtured."

"Gifted? How?"

"She can recall any text she sees with accuracy. Her hand is not yet refined but adequate—better than any of her age and experience."

Rodian saw new potential in this. "So she remembers everything she reads?"

"No."

"But you said—"

"Every piece of text she sees—not reads," a'Seatt clarified. "She does not know the sages' script. She understands only contemporary Numanese and its common writing and the western Sumanese dialect. But at a glance she can recall the pattern of half a page of strokes of any kind and render a clean copy. What she can read she recalls with accuracy, but that does not include the Begaine syllabary."

Unfortunate, but it might still be of use, and Rodian turned down a connected side path.

"Imaret obviously has a mixed heritage. I take it her parents paid for her apprenticeship."

This time it was Pawl a'Seatt who stared intently. "I fail to see what this has to do with your investigation."

"Imaret is a witness," Rodian countered, "though after the fact. I need basic information on all involved."

Pawl a'Seatt's eyes remained fixed and steady.

"Her father was a sergeant in the regulars, now retired. Her mother was an apothecary in Samau'a Gaulb, the capital of il'Dha'ab Najuum, one of the nations of the Suman Empire. They offered tuition, but it was not necessary."

Rodian stopped scribbling in his journal. "Unnecessary? Why?"

"As I said, she is gifted. I pay her adequately for—"

"You are training an apprentice for free?" Rodian asked. "And paying her for her training?"

"Captain," a'Seatt said slowly, "several of my employees are still at my shop, but recent events have left them shaken. If you have no more relevant questions, some of them must be escorted home."

Rodian found this scribe shop owner troubling, one who took on an unusual apprentice without tuition and yet hadn't noticed a missing folio of importance sent off with two young sages. And again he wondered why Pawl a'Seatt had come all the way to the barracks rather than wait at his shop.

"Visits from the city guard are the fodder of rumor," a'Seatt said, as if catching Rodian's suspicion. "I prefer this unfortunate business be kept as far as possible from my staff and shop."

Rodian had heard such excuses before, as if an interview with the captain of the city guard suggested a taint of guilt. Sometimes it did. For now he could think of no further reason to detain this man.

"I regret any gossip," Rodian offered, "but the killer or killers must be caught. If... when... I have further questions, I will try to exercise discretion."

Pawl a'Seatt looked slowly about the office, taking in its scant and orderly fixtures. Rodian thought he saw the man nod slightly to himself.

"Good hunting," a'Seatt said softly, and then rose and left.

Wynn stepped through the guild's main doors with Nikolas close behind. At panicked whispers, she paused and spotted a small cluster of initiates and apprentices in the entryway. Nikolas's eyes widened in like confusion.

Journeyors were scarce at the guild, as most were off on assignments, but neither did Wynn note any domins nearby. After supper initiates were supposed to be in their quarters if not in the common hall.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Two apprentices turned eyes on her. As they shifted aside Wynn saw Miriam, a stocky apprentice with a cloak draped over her gray robe. Another cloaked apprentice shivered beside her as if they'd both just come in from outside.

"Oh, Wynn," Miriam said, as if glad to see someone—anyone—of higher rank. "Domin High-Tower sent us to Master Shilwise's scriptorium to retrieve today's folio... and Master Shilwise wouldn't give it to us! He said the folio was too intricate, and his scribes hadn't finished. He wouldn't turn over unfinished work."

Wynn was stunned. Nothing sent by the guild was ever to remain overnight. That much, if nothing else, was well-known concerning the translation project.

"What about the drafts?" she said.

Miriam shook her head. "He said they would finish first thing in the morning, and he kept the whole folio. He shooed us out and locked up his shop! What is Domin High-Tower

"Yes," Wynn answered wearily. "Now, you two take off your cloaks. Nikolas, take them to the common hall and get some tea."

Without waiting for a reply, she headed off for the north tower.

When she finally climbed the curving stairwell to the third floor and approached High-Tower's study, the heavy door was shut tight. He did this only when he preferred not to be disturbed. Wynn grasped the iron handle anyway.

Muffled voices rose beyond the door.

She didn't want to disturb whatever was going on inside, but if she waited the domin would be even angrier at not being told straight off. She'd barely raised a clenched hand to knock when someone inside half shouted—in Dwarvish.

High-Tower's home was Dhredze Seatt, the dwarven city across the bay on the mountain peninsula. The journey wasn't long, but she'd never known him to have visitors from home before. And whatever she'd heard passed too quickly for her to translate.

Wynn stood in indecision. She couldn't leave, but she shouldn't stay and listen either.

"You will stop!" someone roared from inside—or so Wynn thought. And the voice had a strange quality, like gravel being crushed under a heavy boot.

She read Dwarvish quite well, but their written terms didn't change as much as their spoken words. Unlike Elvish, even the old dialect of the an'Cróan, pronunciation of Dwarvish mutated over generations. Yet the dwarves never faltered in understanding one another. When she was a young girl, Wynn's tutor in the language had been High-Tower. She'd enjoyed attempting conversation with him, much as he smirked at her diction.

"It is not within my power!" High-Tower shouted back. "And unfair of you to ask."

"Sages—such foolish scribblers!" the first voice declared. "You will exhume our ruin!"

"Knowledge is not the enemy," High-Tower shot back. "And translation will continue."

"Then you risk betraying your own, to shame and remorse," a third voice shouted, "if you let others know what you find."

Wynn wasn't certain she understood it all correctly, but it was the best she could make out. And that new voice was so much different from the other. More somber and reserved than the first, though equally passionate, it held a strange warning. The first voice demanded that High-Tower put a stop to translating the ancient texts, but the other one seemed less resistant, so long as what the sages learned was shared with only... whom?

Footsteps pounded toward the door's far side.

Wynn scurried down around the stairwell's bend. She heard the door jerk open and held her breath as she peeked carefully around the inner wall's rising arc.

A dwarf stood in the open doorway, head turned as he looked back into High-Tower's study. Wynn caught only his profile.

Wide features, with a dim undertone of gray, were deeply lined as well as flushed in rage. He was old, though he stood strong and tall, at least as tall as Wynn but over three times her bulk. At best guess he had to be well over a hundred years old, as dwarves often made it past two hundred.

He swallowed hard, trapping anger down. And his attire was... stunning—like that of no dwarf she'd ever seen.

Over char-gray breeches and a wool shirt he wore an oily black hauberk of leather scales. Each scale's tip was sheathed in finely engraved steel, and two war daggers tucked slantwise in his thick belt had black sheaths with fixtures to match.

Then another face appeared over his shoulder. Armed and armored like the first, this dwarf had hair of a reddish hue and he was clean-shaven. Something about his face looked familiar to Wynn, though she knew she'd never seen either of these two before.

As the second visitor came up, the first turned back toward the stairwell.

Wynn ducked away, but not before she glimpsed something more.

They both wore thôrhks.

Those heavy, open-ended steel circlets rested upon the collars of their scaled hauberks. Each end knob flanged to a flat surface that bore an intricately etched symbol. Wynn couldn't make it out from a distance, but she couldn't help remembering a thôrhk of ruddy metal given to Magiere by the Chein'âs—when Magiere and Leesil had visited "the Burning Ones" on the last run to find the orb.

Magiere's open-ended circlet wasn't the same in make as what the dwarves wore. But it had been close enough that "thôrhk" was the only term by which Wynn could describe her absent frnother absiend's device.

Thôrhks were gifted only to thänæ, those among the dwarves most revered for their accomplishments. They were also worn by the leaders of the tribes and sometimes clans, and a few others of social status. These two dressed like warriors, but skills in battle weren't all that the dwarves found virtuous. And most warrior thänæ took service by their own choice, swearing no allegiances and serving wherever they saw need.

Wynn heard the study door slam shut.

She held her place for a few shaky breaths and then peered around the stairwell's turn. No one stood upon the landing, though she heard voices again inside High-Tower's study. The three spoke too softly, so she crept up the stairs, crouching low near the narrow space between the floor and door to listen.

"The war happened!" High-Tower growled in Dwarvish. "You know it... we know it. But now we have the means to prove it. And something that—"

"You will not find it in those rotted texts!" the gravel voice roared. "All you will find is ruin and—"

"And the shame of the Hassäg'kreigi?" High-Tower finished.

A moment of silence followed, but Wynn was already lost in confusion.

She couldn't make out that final word. Was it some kind of name or a dwarven clan or tribe? She struggled to think of root words from which it had been formed.

The root chas'san, if she recalled correctly, meant "passage," and hassäg sounded like a verbal noun in the vocative. Something about «passages» — no, someone making passage or using a passage—a «walker»? And chregh—"stone" — she knew well enough. In the vocative plural it might be pronounced kreigi.

"Stonewalkers?" Wynn whispered.

Then she flinched at her own voice, but no one inside seemed to have noticed.

"Even some of our own people are sick of your secretive ways," High-Tower growled, "especially the rare few who still know the myth of Bäalâle Seatt."

"Watch your tongue, brother!" the younger voice countered. "Thallûhearag was no myth!"

Wynn's eyes popped wide. High-Tower had a younger brother? That was why the younger visitor had looked strangely familiar.

"Spare me your misguided faith!" the domin answered. "And don't speak to me again of that thing. I do not share your belief. I do not accept you or it. You do not even know that false abomination's real name... and no one should, if he ever existed!"

"I believe," the same voice answered.

"Faith that denies fact is fanaticism," High-Tower spit back. "Not faith at all, when it tries to hide from truth. I will find truth. If you have no stomach for it go back to praying in your crypts."

Dead silence trailed on. Wynn finally rose to her knees, leaning an n s, leaniear close to the door.

"I said get out!" High-Tower shouted.

Wynn recoiled in panic. With no time to gain her feet, she scrambled down the stairs on all fours. One hand slipped and she tumbled over.

Wynn flopped and slid along the stairwell's downward curve until her trailing knee smacked a step. She yelped before she could stop herself, and her back hit the outer wall. Finally at a stop, she rolled to sit up and dropped another step. Her rump hit stone as she grabbed her aching knee. Panic-stricken, she bit her lip and stared up the flight of steps, waiting to be caught.

No one came down. She never even heard the study door open. And another tense moment passed.

Wynn finally found the courage to rise and limp upward, but not as quietly as she wanted. She paused, listening at the study's door, but heard no voices.

"Yes?" High-Tower growled from within. "Well, come in or be off."

With everything else she'd done to lower the domin's opinion of her, the last thing she needed was to be caught snooping about. She gently gripped the handle and slowly opened the door.

Domin High-Tower sat behind his desk, scribbling on a scrap of paper, as if merely at work. But his rough features were flushed, and perspiration glistened upon his brow beneath the wiry tufts of his gray-streaked reddish hair.

Domin High-Tower was alone.

Wynn looked about the room. Where had the other two gone?

The only way out of the room was the door. Even so, no one had come down, and the other way led up to the tower's next level—which was the top. Had they slipped out, and gone up, and she hadn't heard them? But why and to where?

She stepped in, still uncertain if she'd been overheard outside.

It was uncommon for High-Tower's people to join the Guild of Sagecraft—and some even considered it an unworthy choice. He was the only dwarf among sages that she'd ever known. High-Tower never spoke of this, but Wynn guessed he had suffered over the decision of his chosen path. He finally looked up and let out a growling sigh.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

Perhaps he'd been so caught up in arguing with his visitors that he hadn't heard her outside.

"News that couldn't wait," she answered quickly. "Today's folio wasn't returned. Master Shilwise's scribes didn't finish, and he refused to turn over work to our messengers... he kept the drafts as well."

High-Tower stood up. "What?"

"There is nothing you can do," Wynn said, but he was already rushing for a cloak thrown over the spare chair. "The shop has been closed and locked for the night."

"Closed?" High-Tower's black pellet eyes widened as he set his jaw.

Wynn had no wish to upset him more than he already was. Neither did she care to be the only target available for his ire.

"All the scribes have gone home," she added quickly. "But the drafts should be safe for one night. Master Shilwise's shop is in a good neighborhood."

High-Tower's gaze drifted—not to the stairs or the door, nor did it wander about the room. It fixed upon the study's northwest side, and Wynn followed it.

Through one deep-set window, she saw the keep's northwest wall. But upon a second check she found High-Tower wasn't looking out the window. He was staring at the study's curved wall to the left of it—in a direct line with that outer wall.

"Fools and fanatics!" he hissed to himself.

He seemed to come to his senses, glancing at Wynn. His voice rumbled like a distant sea storm closing upon the city.

"This is the last work Shilwise will ever see from us! I must tell Sykion."

High-Tower headed for the study's open door, sidling sideways to get through it, and Wynn felt his heavy steps through the floor stones. She was lost in her own jumbled thoughts as the domin vanished down the curving stairs.

Thallûhearag... Hassäg'kreigi... Bäalâle Seatt...

That last was a myth that the world had forgotten, though Wynn knew better.

During travels in the Elven Territories, Magiere had seen the distant memories of Most Aged Father, reaching all the way back to the «mythical» war. The Enemy's forces had laid siege to a dwarven stronghold called Bäalâle Seatt. Both sides had perished, though no one then ever learned what happened there. The place itself was forgotten as much as any of the Forgotten History.

But within the domin's chamber had been two who knew it. And what of those other Dwarvish terms?

Wynn studied the wall to the window's left, whispering again, "Stonewalkers?"

Where had High-Tower's two visitors gone?

Chane Andraso woke from dormancy with a start. Dusk had fallen, and he had not even stirred at the eighth bell marking the end of the day. He should gather his cloak and head fast for the Gild and Ink, the scribe shop of one Master Shilwise.

It had not taken him long to map out the pattern of the scriptoriums being utilized. The guild had hired five shops and rotated them on the same daily basis: the Upright Quill, the Gild and Ink, the Inkwell, the Feather & Parchment, and Four Scribes in House. But as he sat up in his shabby bed, his mind still lingered on the previous night.

He had seen Wynn for the first time in well over a year.

His existence had once been so intricately connected with hers that he knew every line of her face. Back in Bela, when she had joined the journey of Magiere, Leesil, and Chap, Chane had reluctantly accepted a kind of servitude to a Noble Dead named Welstiel—Magiere's half brother. And the two of them had secretly followed Wynn and her companions across entire countries, seacoasts, and mountain ranges, all in search of Welstiel's coveted "orb." But in the end, only Magiere could find and retrieve it. And Welstiel lost his head in the ice-trapped castle of the Pock Peaks, his body dropped into the misted depths of a molten fissure.

But Chane survived.

Running a hand across his face, he rose, looking about the faded walls of his small attic room.

When he had first arrived in Calm Seatt, with little money, he had taken the cheapest accommodation he could find. It was a run-down inn called Nattie's House on the outskirts of the city's poorest sector, which the locals had dubbed "the Graylands Empire." Over time he had acquired coins from his prey and could have afforded better lodgings, but he did not care enough to make the effort. Remaining in this obscure, little-noticed shambles suited his needs.

Chane went to crouch before his belongings, all piled in the corner where the ceiling rafters slanted down to the streetside eaves. He reached for the nearest of two packs, opened it, and removed an aged tin scroll case. With this in hand he closed his eyes, drifting back to the night Welstiel had taken his "second death." The same night Chane had walked away from Wynn in the library of the ice-bound castle.

He hated dwelling on the past, but it was not the first time or even the hundredth that his thoughts slipped to events that led him down this current path...

When he had left Wynn in the library of that castle, which housed one ancient undead, he had stumbled out alone onto the snowy plain.

Free for the first time in his undead existence, he had no place to go. In that moment he had no future, no Wynn, and no fantasies of existing in her world. She did not deserve a monster driven by lust for the hunt and the euphoria of a kill. The need to survive, to feed, was the only thing that kept him moving. Wandering to escape the lifeless Pock Peaks, he drifted slowly west.

Bela was the place where his existence as a Noble Dead had begun—and where he had met Wynn and her sages for the first time.

Part of him believed she would leave Magiere and return there, to the newly established branch of her guild. She belonged there, and eventually she would realize this. Even as Chane crossed the Belaskian border, still far from the king's city, he knew he should not try to touch even that small part of her world. But with each step across the homeland of his living days, Chane's mind slipped backward, desperate to erase his past and live only as a sage...

Among books and parchments, a cold lamp's crystal lighting the dark, with one companion of choice...

Impossible—for he was undead, and the beast inside him would never sleep.

When he finally reached Bela, he stayed clear of the old barracks given to the sages. Instead he took a room in a dingy little inn beyond the city's outermost wall. He still had all of Welstiel's possessions and his own, as well as the books he hethe boohad saved from the monastery, where Welstiel had killed and raised healer-monks as feral undead. Chane also had the scroll case, the only thing he had taken from the ice-bound castle.

And every time he held it, a part of him wished it had been Wynn he had taken from that place.

He tucked the scroll case from sight, distracting himself with other things.

Welstiel's belongings and books baffled him, for that arrogant undead had been more than Noble Dead. He had been a skilled conjurer, better than Chane in many ways, though the man preferred artificing over Chane's use of ritual and scant spells. Welstiel's journals were written mostly in Numanese—Wynn's native tongue—and took much time to read. Chane was functional in speaking the language, due to Welstiel's tutoring, but not in reading it.

Welstiel's arcane objects, from the steel hoop that conjured heat within its metal, to the metal rods, the life-conjuring cup, and a strange box of vials, were as unfathomable as the man's two arcane texts. Aside from scattered notes, those latter handwritten volumes were filled with esoteric symbols and characters that likely Welstiel had developed himself.

That was the way of all mages, whatever they practiced. Breaching the personal symbol systems of another mage, born from his fathoming of magic, could take long, if it were possible at all. And even with pieces that Chane worked hard to understand, after only a few moons he found himself holding the ancient scroll case once again.

It represented his one remaining connection to Wynn. And one he could not push aside.

The first time he pulled off its pitted pewter cap, carefully sliding its contents out, the scroll was hard and brittle. Made from a sheet of thin hide, it was too pale even in age for any livestock animal. And he could not unroll it without risk of breaking and crumbling.

Chane had much to do before he could glimpse what it held.

He spent evenings skulking around Bela after dusk before all shops had closed. He needed to know how to restore age-hardened leather to a flexible state without destroying whatever was marked upon it. Consulting leather-workers on the pretense of refurbishing an old vest, he learned to make a cold-filtered mixture of linseed oil and white vinegar. Then he sought scribes and others familiar with inks who could tell him if the solution would affect anything written. One night, back in his room, he took a camel hair brush and delicately applied the mixture for the first time.

The scroll's tightly curved outer surface darkened suddenly.

Chane froze, fearing he'd ruined the ancient relic. But as the solution dried, the thin leather returned to its pale aged color. Caution took hold nonetheless.

He applied the restoration solution only once per day, just before dawn but keeping it in a dark, cool corner. He gently tested the scroll's flexibility at each dusk when he rose from dormancy. Twenty-seven nights passed before the scroll lay perfectly flat, but it was on the seventeenth night that Chane had caught his first glimpse of its content—or lack of it.

The top end of the scroll's inner surface was nearly black, as if wholly covered in ink that had set centuries ago.

Chane slumped in astonishment, and he almost took the scroll and tossed it in the inn's front hearth. Instead he opened the small room's one window, sick of the solution's stench, and stalked out for the night.

When he returned before dawn, senses enlivened by a fresh kill, he didn't bother testing the scroll's flexibility. He shut the window, covered the panes with a moth-eaten blanket against the coming sun, and stretched out upon the straw mattress.

A faint odor tickled his nose. Not vinegar and linseed oil, but something else just beneath that.

Chane sat up.

With fresh life filling him, his skin prickled lightly at dawn's approach. He heard someone out in the inn's front room dump a log on the hearth. Chane drew air deeply through his nose.

He got up and went to the stool he used for a worktable, carefully lifting the scroll.

He'd never before noticed the scent beneath the solution's pungent odor. Or perhaps the solution, permeating and softening the hide sheet, had revitalized something else. With the room's air cleared and his senses opened fully, he lifted the scroll, sniffing its black coating repeatedly.

At first he could not place the thin trace, but it sparked a memory.

In that lost mountain monastery of the healer-monks, called the Servants of Compassion, he had fought with Welstiel and bitten into his undead companion's leg. As Welstiel's black fluids seeped through his breeches, Chane's mouth filled with a taste like rancid linseed oil, and he smelled it as well...

That same odor rose faintly from the scroll's blackened surface.

There had been worn and jumbled writings on the ice-crusted castle's walls, made with the fluids of an undead. The same scent had lingered thinly around the writing.

Urgency made Chane's hands shudder, until the scroll quivered slightly beneath his fingertips. He recognized the scent, not from the ink coating itself, but from something hidden beneath that blackness.

Chane smelled a hint of rancid linseed oil.

A Noble Dead had written on the leather scroll in its own fluids or another's—and then blotted it out with painted ink. But then why had the scroll been kept for so long?

And how would he ever find out, with no way to read beneath the coating?

Chane couldn't reason a way to remove the ink without fear of damaging what lay beneath. So he simply continued with his painstaking restoration until the twenty-seventh night, when the scroll lay completely flat, restored to full pliancy.

He had never been alone before—or perhaps not lonely. The scroll's content, blocked from him, much as he was blocked from Wynn's world, began to conjure renewed thoughts of her.

For a quarter moon he lurked outside the old barracks. All he wanted was one glimpse of Wynn, though he still did not know if he should—could—face her again. But she never appeared. Chane saw Domin Tilswith several times, but he could not reveal his presence to Wynn's old master. Tilswith also knew what he was. Finally, one evening he could stand the ignorance no longer.

A girl in a gray robe like Wynn's ventured out of the barracks' worn door with empty milk bottles bundled clumsily in her arms. And Chane stepped from the shadows.

He did not often speak, hating the sound of his own voice. During his pursuit of Magiere she had once beheaded him in the forests of Apudâlsat. Welstiel managed to bring him back through some arcane method, but Chane's voice had never healed.

In his brushed cloak and polished boots, he looked again like a young affluent gentleman. But still, the girl almost dropped her bottles in surprise.

"I am looking for news of an old friend," he rasped. "Do you know where I might find Wynn Hygeorht?"

The girl's brow wrinkled at Chane's maimed voice, but then smoothed as her eyes widened in understanding. Though he took no pride in it, he was aware of how his tall form and handsome face affected some women. She spoke Belaskian with a Numanese accent.

"Journeyor Hygeorht? I'm sorry, but she is no longer with us. When she returned with old texts recovered from an abandoned fortification, Domin Tilswith gave her the duty of carrying them back to the home branch in Malourné. She is gone."

Chane stepped back.

The apprentice looked at him with more interest, perhaps even compassion.

"You could write to her," the girl offered, "though a letter would take a long while to reach Calm Seatt. We do send regular correspondence on the eve of the new moons. I could include yours, if you like."

He nodded, still backing away, as if the ground began slipping from under his feet.

"Yes... thank you. I will consider that."

Wynn was gone, left for home across the ocean to another continent—another world.

Chane ambled listlessly through Bela's night streets, paying no heed to where he walked. He found himself at the waterfront, standing before the great warehouses and docks. And he stared out over the bay's night water sparked by a star-speckled sky. The only other light came from sparse lanterns hanging along the double-deck piers or on ships out in the wide harbor.

This was where Wynn had boarded and left for the Numan lands, long gone from any chance to catch one last glimpse of her...

"Sir, will you be wanting tea tonight?"

At the voice, Chane was jerked from his reverie in his room in Calm Seatt. He stepped over and cracked the door.

The corpulent innkeeper, who he assumed was Nattie, stood outside. In the Crown Range north of the Farlands, Chane had picked up the habit of drinking tea. And only recently had he begun going out at dusk to track the folios. The innkeeper sometimes still checked in on him. He always paid his bill in advance, and the grease-stained owner treated him with decent manners, following a request not to knock during the day.

"No, thank you, not tonight," Chane said, and closed the door.

Time was slipping away, and he had already wasted too much reliving events he could not change. He grabbed his cloak, sword, and packs, then locked the door and left the inn.

No one addressed him as he walked quickly through the darkening streets. Wearing a long wool cloak, he was nondescript. A few drunkards eyed him as they stumbled from a tavern, but they stayed well out of his way. He headed toward the better-lit and — maintained eastern merchant district.

He knew the location of the Gild and Ink, but cursed himself for not leaving the inn sooner. It was a long way off, even if he wasted energy bolting along back alleys. Any messenger sages may have already come and gone with tonight's folio. Yet he had to be certain, and walked quickly until approaching the correct street.

Rounding a corner, he slipped in beneath the eaves' shadows as he approached the scriptorium. The entire street was empty—no lights in the shops he passed, and he heard no voices—and he silently cursed himself again. Then he stopped one shop away, looking at the front of the Gild and Ink.

Chane slowly stepped forward to the scribe shop's corner.

All its windows were dark, like the other shops along the street, but the front door...

Shattered wood shards lay across the cobblestones before the Gild and Ink. In place of the door was only a dark opening into the shop. No scribes, no sages, the shop closed for the night, and someone had broken in...

Chane glanced at the door's remains. No, not in—someone had broken out.

He crept closer to see inside, but then voices reached him from down the street. Had someone seen this and called for constables? He could not be seen here, especially not now.

Frustrated, wildly wishing to enter the shop and see what had happened, Chane slipped into the shadows, moving quickly away.