In Shade and Shadow

Chapter 7

Wynn burst into her room, going straight for her desk table without shutting the door.

But she stopped halfway and glanced at her storage chest. Changing directions, she dropped to her knees and lifted its lid.

Several items from her travels rested inside, but she reached for one in particular: a special quill with a white metal tip. It had been a gift from one of the elven elders during her visit among the an'Cróan, Those of the Blood. Closing her eyes, she could still remember Gleann's kind face as he'd pushed the quill and sheets of parchment at her, so she could keep a record of her experiences and observations.

The notes she recorded had survived a great deal—including a shipwreck and the grueling mountain trek through the Pock Peaks. But since returning home, Wynn hadn't used this quill. With all her journals confiscated, she'd almost felt as if she would betray the memory of Gleann's kindness by using the quill here.

She picked it up now and closed the chest.

Hurrying to her desk, she gathered a bottle of ink and a blank journal. Rubbing her crystal harshly until it glowed, she mounted it in the tin clip holder inside her cold lamp. Arms loaded, she hurried out, the lantern clinking against the door as she shut it.

It had been a long while since she'd been filled with a sense of purpose. She barely noticed Miriam coming up as she hurried down the far stairs.

"Hello, Wynn."

Wynn offered a quick smile and moved on. But when she cracked open the door at the stair's bottom, a double column of ten young initiates marched out of the gatehouse tunnel, straight toward the keep's main door.

Wynn pulled back and closed the door halfway.

A pair of apprentices, one in brown and the other in light blue, walked ahead of the initiates—a rather odd combination. Leading the procession was brown-robed Domin Ginjeriè. She was the youngest domin ever in the Order of Naturology. Obviously she'd taken a band of initiates for a field outing or perhaps some community service.

Right then Wynn had no wish to face anyone.

Thirteen sages passed through the keep's main doors.

And still Wynn waited. Giving them time to clear the entryway, she then raced quickly across the courtyard to the main building. Upon finding no one inside the doors, instead of turning left past the common hall, she went right down a long stone corridor. Passing the hospice, lower seminar chambers, and other rooms, she hooked left at the passage's end, intent upon reaching the spiral stairwell at the base of the east tower. Before she reached the antechamber's door, a smooth voice with a Suman accent floated from out of a seminar room across the passage

Wynn paused, stepping back to peek through the room's open door.

"The third element for practical consideration is Air," Domin il'Sänke said.

The domin sat upon a stool before a half circle of small benches filled by a dozen or more young figures in robes. Not all the students were metaologers. Several wore the pale blue of sentiology, and a few others the teal of conomology or the brown of naturology. There were even three initiates, though it wasn't common practice for such to attend seminars on special topics. Wynn knew she shouldn't linger, but she stood fascinated, watching as il'Sänke raised both hands, palms up, and the sleeves of his dark blue robes slipped, exposing his slender wrists.

She'd forgotten that he'd offered to teach during his stay, though she hadn't known he would include seminars for students from any order. Normally metaology seminars were held on the second floor, but it seemed he'd obtained a more commonly used room.

"Many novice practitioners discount Air as a lesser element," il'Sänke continued, "believing it less useful than Fire or Water... or even Earth." He slowly spread his palms, as if moving them consciously through the air.

Some domins and masters could prattle on until their students drooped, half-conscious, but all those here fixed their eyes on the dark-skinned domin. And Wynn noted a particular tall young man in midnight blue sitting far off to the left.

"Dâgmund?" she whispered.

She hadn't seen him in years, and knew him only in passing. He'd made journeyor and left on assignment before she'd even headed to the Farlands with Domin Tilswith. But now he was back? Perhaps he was finished, and returned for a new assignment.

Or was he here to petition for master's status already? It couldn't have been more than three years. And he certainly wouldn't be attending such a general introduction to metaphysical elements.

"Yet Water and Fire, even the dust of Earth, can be carried within Air," il'Sänke continued. "And thus Air could be viewed as most essential among the five elements, via either conjury or thaumaturgy. It can hold a special place as facilitator when dealing in works of higher complexity."

Wynn sighed. How nice it would be to simply join in, to listen to il'Sänke's teachings. But she didn't have time for such diversions.

Then Dâgmund turned his head, peering toward the door, and Wynn held her place a moment longer.

Stout cheekbones were his most prominent feature beneath pale blue eyes. At first he seemed troubled by the sight of her—or perhaps just confused. Then his high forehead smoothed. With the barest smile he nodded to her, but it took a moment before she nodded back.

She'd grown so accustomed to disdain, suspicion, and wariness cast her way that even a brief friendly acknowledgment was unsettling. Perhaps he hadn't been back long enough to hear about her. She'd barely known him, considering their differing paths, and hadn't seen him since her earliest days as an apprentic Cs ahere.

But she remembered one time in a room like this one.

Some apprentices of cathology wanted to hear a lecture by Premin Hawes on mantic practices of thaumaturgy. It wasn't really of interest to her, but Wynn tagged along anyhow. By the time it was over her curiosity had grown, and Dâgmund had been there among a great number of apprentices from metaology. She'd asked him a few questions in passing, wanting to read more on the theories and practices of information gathering via the arcane arts. He gave her the title of an obscure text hidden in the archives that covered the basics of rituals in thaumaturgical manticism. Little did she know then how much trouble that would cause her later.

"But what about sorcery?" a small voice peeped up. "That's got none of the Elements in it."

The entire room went quiet. Dâgmund turned sharp eyes of concern on one of the tan-robed initiates sitting in the front row. That word—sorcery—was rarely even spoken.

Domin il'Sänke was still and somber, folding his hands in his lap. How would he answer without squelching simple curiosity?

"Well, it does and it does not," he finally replied. "The Elements are not in any magical practice. They metaphorically represent the makeup of the universe's greater existence. The fields of magic are not a matter of practice as much as differing ideological approaches... as related to the Three Aspects of Existence—spirit, mind, and body."

Wynn was dubious, but at least he'd done better than Premin Hawes, or especially High-Tower, in dealing with a naïve initiate.

"Each of the five Elements have three forms, according to the Aspects," he added. "For example, take my own order. Metaology is associated with Spirit among the elements, but it has three references or representations according to the Aspects: Spirit is, well, the spiritual side, while its intellectual reference is Essence, and its physical symbol is the Tree. Similarly we have Air, Gas, and Wind, and then Fire, Flame or Light, and Energy... and so on."

Wynn was familiar with all this, and it seemed the domin was politely diverting from the original question. That same young initiate raised his hand, waving it in the air.

Il'Sänke let out a low chuckle.

"Yes, I know... the term Spirit is used for both an Aspect and an Element. But let's leave that puzzle for another day. It is the Aspects, not the Elements, in which we find the grounding for the ideologies of magic. Thaumaturgy is the body, the physical ideology, while conjury is the spiritual or essence-based approach..."

The domin took a deep breath. Perhaps he thought that would be the end of it, but Wynn saw that it wasn't. That persistent little initiate leaned forward expectantly.

"As to sorcery," il'Sänke finally said, "it is little known... and no one known to us practices it, even among metaologers. It is... severely frowned upon."

Wynn choked—it was more than frowned upon.

Mages and lesser practitioners weren't common, even among the guild. Thaumaturgy was the most accepted, and conjury of limited sorts was tolerated. But sorcery, by whatever term in varied cultures, was feared—hated—and rightly so. The power and skill to apply one's will against the world and other beings had been a death knell as far back as any bits of history uncovered.

And she did know of one such person—Vordana. Fortunately Leesil had sent that one to his final end.

Wynn forced herself to leave the domin's lecture.

Juggling her burdens, she heaved open the antechamber's heavy door. Across that small space she reached one of two doors to be found in either the north tower or the east tower. They were always left unlocked whenever any of the archivists were in the catacombs, and so she pushed this one open.

The cold lamp's crystal illuminated stone steps spiraling downward into the dark. A slight smell of stale dust filled her nose, and she could taste it on her tongue. No candles, torches, or flames of any kind were allowed below. All those entering the catacombs had to acquire a cold lamp from the archivists or bring one of their own. And only those with their own—journeyor status or above—were allowed below without supervision.

How long since she'd been down here? Certainly not since she and Domin Tilswith had left for the Farlands over two years ago. Most texts of general use had been copied and placed in the new upper library. Few of her peers had reason to go digging for anything else.

Gripping the cold lamp's handle with her right hand, she shifted her burdens under that same arm. Tugging up her robe's hem with her left, she descended. Soon a dim light grew from below, and, taking the last step, Wynn emerged into a cavernous main cellar.

In spite of the recent tragedy and frustration, she felt like a scholar again.

Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with matching bound volumes of dark leather among a few cedar-plank sheaves of loose pages. Several tables filled the space, lit by cold lamps hung at the chamber's four corners. And a withered old man in a gray robe sat hunched over a table, writing rapidly.

"Domin Tärpodious?" she said, stepping closer.

Likely engrossed in recataloguing old volumes, he finally glanced up.

Old Tärpodious squinted milky eyes over a long beaked nose, as if uncertain who had spoken. The expression made him look like an old crow, though his wrinkled skin was the ashen white of someone who rarely ventured out-of-doors. His white hair was thin, and his hands looked brittle, but he rose suddenly with a smile that multiplied the lines in his face threefold. He greeted her with genuine pleasure.

"Young Hygeorht?" the old archivist asked, still squinting. "Is that you?"

Years of working by only a cold lamp's light had limited his eyesight. It happened to all cathologers posted as archivists.

"Yes," Wynn answered. "I've come seeking your help once again."

"But I'm a journeyor now, and I received a letter from him," she added. "He asked me to come see you. Many outer regions of Belaski are filled with superstitions. And you know how that piques his interest. You once guided him to folklore references... especially one about the àrdadesbàrn, the 'dead's child.»

Tärpodious scratched his bony chin. "Truly?"

Wynn held up her journal and shrugged with a forced roll of her eyes. "He wants direct copies of any similar folklore, so I may be down frequently over the next few days. Can you guide me?"

It pained her to lie to the old archivist. Tärpodious lived in such seclusion that he would have no knowledge of—or interest in—the social politics of the guild, and certainly not regarding High-Tower's order that she never mention the undead.

The cavernous chamber, once the keep's main storage room, boasted three archways of large and heavy frame stones. Tärpodious lifted his cold lamp from the table and shuffled toward the east one.

"Tilswith and his superstitions!" He chuckled. "How far he might've gone, if only he'd turned his mind to something real. Come, child."

Swallowing guilt, Wynn followed. She knew how the archives were organized, but it had been a long time since her last visit. And one could quickly get lost in the catacombs.

Hundreds of years past, when the guild took possession of the first castle, they immediately began to excavate with the assistance of dwarven masons and engineers. The work continued over decades. What had once been basic chambers for storage and dungeons were carefully expanded in whatever direction didn't encroach on the city's growing sewer system. There was also a double level of basements below the northeast workshops, where the laboritorium was housed, for the making of cold lamp crystals and other items.

Rooms led into chambers that led through clusters of alcoves... which led into more rooms. Faded wooden cubicles and antechambers along the way provided places to sit and peruse texts, for no material could be removed without the archivists' explicit permission—and a very good reason for it.

All spaces and walls along the way were filled with endless rows of shelves, and Wynn soon lost count as everything began to look the same. She blinked once, and the backs of her eyelids projected images of sheaves; bound books, some spineless with only cord stitching showing; and scroll cases everywhere. No cold lamps were placed this far in, and she stayed close on Tärpodious's heels, their two lamps the only illumination to ward off the blackness.

"Here," he said with a sudden stop, fingering a tall set of shelves along a passageway. "Some from the Suman lands, more from our scattered old cultures. A few have been translated into the Begaine syllabary, but not many."

She nodded, peering at the shelves. "I can read some Sumanese."

"Stick to Spirit by Fire, for the general accumulations," Tärpodious added, "or by Air, should you need to branch out into social customs based on old tales."

For an instant the references left Wynn's mind blank. Tärpodious tapped the bookshelf's end, and she saw the faded etchings filled with remnants of paint in the old wood.

Each guild order was symbolically associated with one of the Elements of existence—Spirit, Fire, Air, Water, and Earth. In turn, geometric symbols for such were used to classify, subclassify, and cross-reference subject matter by emphasis and context.

On the bookshelf's vertical end was a circle above a triangle.

Circle—for Spirit and the Order of Metaology, with its study of metaphysics, philosophy, religion, folklore, etc.

Triangle—for Fire and the Order of Cathology, with its devotion to informational and organizational pursuits.

In this section, Wynn would find works cataloguing and organizing collected information on the subject she sought.

"Thank you," she said. "I'd like to get a good start before supper."

Her breath quickened as she scanned faded titles down a few volumes with cracked leather spines. Her gaze paused briefly on one written in Dwarvish. She suddenly longed to be alone, to pore through these volumes in search of answers. But Tärpodious walked farther down the row, his gray robes dragging through the dust.

"These here are the oldest... too old to date accurately, some in varied ancient Numanese dialects and a couple in the elven Êdän script. Much of the content is poorly organized and difficult to follow. Not much is of interest anymore, so you wouldn't find it in the upper library."

"Yes, thank you," Wynn repeated anxiously. "I don't wish to keep you from your work."

He squinted again, perhaps hearing her implied intent. "Yes, yes, but don't try to reshelve anything, or it may end up out of place. Be selective, and then leave any works in the alcove. I'll check on you later."

"That would be kind," Wynn said.

Tärpodious shuffled away, only the glow of his lamp marking his passage through the dark. The instant the old domin was out of sight, Wynn backtracked to the nearest antechamber and dropped everything but her lamp on the table. She scurried back to the shelves, and began peering at spines and labels. Finally she pulled two wood-bound sheaves, each with no markings or title, and one old book. Clutching the heavy burden, she rushed back to the antechamber.

Wynn paged through the first sheaf of stacked loose sheets and found that it was a collection of various short works divided by hardened parchment separators. Though old and worn, all were in their original languages yet written in ink, which meant these weren't originals but copies, regardless of age.

Texts were often duplicated to keep originals safe in storage. Later, those of greatest importance were transcribed again using the Begaine syllabary, some in their initial language and some translated as well into Numanese—if they were of good general use for the upper library.

Not this sheaf. It remained a hodgepodge, deemed unnecessary for such expense or time. But that didn't mean it held nothing of interest. The first pages were written in Iyindu, a nearly forgotten desert dialect of the Suman Empire.

Wynn grumbled under her breath.

For all her language skills, this was one she barely understood, and her research wouldn't go quickly. She might work her way through dozens of texts before finding a single useful tidbit. She put that first stack aside and paged deeper into the sheaf.

She had no idea what she was looking for, only that she sought an undead, aware and sentient enough to desire the folios—recent ones—and that it could read the Begaine syllabary. And it could drain life without leaving a mark.

Wynn let out a sigh—too many contradictions muddling her thoughts.

The most expedient way to pinpoint a motive would've been through the translation project. Such thoughts—wishes—wouldn't help her now. She didn't even know where the original texts were being kept, let alone where translated portions were being worked on.

Normally translation was done aboveground on the main hall's third floor, close to the offices of the premins. But they and the domins feared anyone outside the project's staff finding out too much. The original texts themselves would be hidden somewhere very secure.

And Premin Sykion and Domin High-Tower would never let her near them.

No, trying to uncover the undead in question was the best she could do for now—better than doing nothing at all.

The next bundle of pages was written in Heiltak, a common enough alphabet used in pre-Numanese languages.

Wynn opened her blank journal, white-tipped quill in hand, and began reading. By the time she neared the bottom of the second stack within the sheaf, piles of sheets were all over the little table.

She barely comprehended a third of what she could actually read, and less than half of one journal page was covered in jotted notes. Not much of it related directly to what she sought. Most were odd terms unconnected to what she would call an undead, let alone a Noble Dead.

Yâksasath—a type of "demon," from Sumanese superstitious references compiled by an earlier scholar. It wasn't even a Sumanese word as far as she could work out. These creatures mimicked the form of a person their victim would recognize and trust.

Had Jeremy and Elias been tricked by someone they thought they recognized?

No, more likely that myth was a variation on the ghül, supposedly «living» demons. Banished from their mythological underworld, they were thought to range the barren mountains. Ghül had to eat their victims while still alive in order to be nourished.

Wynn shuddered at such a notion, but it was nonsense. As if there would be enough people to feed on in such remote places. And unlike vampires or yâksasath, or even the unknown undead hunting the folios, ghüls ate flesh. That would certainly leave a mark on a corpse.

She reached the last stack in the second sheaf, and it was written in Dwarvish. Wynn skimmed the text as she dipped her elven quill into the small ink bottle. She read Dwarvish better than she spoke it, giving her time to work out any older characters. Still, the text was archaic and the syntax difficult to follow, until...

Wynn's gaze locked on that one term. She scanned it twice more to be sure she'd read the characters correctly. When those black-armored dwarven warriors had secretly visited High-Tower, and vanished shortly after, the domin had called them by this title.

She jerked the quill back to her journal—and heard something rattle on the tabletop.

Wynn sucked a frantic breath. The little ink bottle teetered and spun amid all the loose sheets. She dropped the quill and grabbed it with both hands, bringing it to sudden stillness. A few black droplets spattered over her thumb.

Wynn broke out in a sweat.

If she blemished even one sheet, Domin Tärpodious might drop dead in his tracks—but not before he took her with him. She slowly released the bottle and carefully lifted her ink-spattered hand away. Ripping a blank page from the journal, she did her best to clean her thumb. Wynn gazed hurriedly across the page of dwarven letters.

There was only one brief mention in a passage about the death of a dwarven female, a thänæ of unknown skills named Tunbûllé—Wave-Striker. That was an odd name, considering dwarves didn't like traveling by sea. Wave-Striker had been «honored» and "taken into stone" by the Hassäg'kreigi, the Stonewalkers.

Wynn had no idea what this meant. Her thoughts rushed back to what she'd overheard in High-Tower's study.

The two vanishing dwarves were dressed like no others she'd ever seen. It seemed very unlikely that they were masons or sculptors, who carved likenesses of their people's «honored» dead. Nothing more in the text helped her, so she took notes for later use and turned to the book selected along with the two wood-sandwiched sheaves.

Wynn was instantly relieved, for it was written in late-era Numanese. The book's spine was worn beyond reading, but an inner page carried its title.

Gydes Färleôvan—Tales of Misbelief—was a collection of folktales traced from the various peoples who predated the nations of the Numan Lands. She turned the pages, trying to catch and decipher strange terms.

...pochel... mischievous nature guardians, prone to pranks upon farmers...

...géasbäna... frail little «demons» who stole people's life essences, turning them into will-less slaves...

...wihte... creatures or beings created rather than naturally birthed...

Wynn sat upright at that last term. The coastal country south of Malourné was called Witeny, and its people the Witenon. The similar sound was probably just a coincidence. Then she noticed that the light in the antechamber had grown dim.

Her cold lamp crystal had waned to half strength. How long had she been down here? She took the crystal out, rubbed it back to brilliance, and replaced it.

Wynn lowered her chin on her hands folded atop the open book. She closed her tired eyes for a moment. Her head ached and she'd made no true discoveries. She took a weary breath, straightened up, and read...

Wynn pulled her hands back and read onward.

Wynn's thoughts grew still.

Two words in the short tale were unclear, and not part of the narrative's dialect. Blâch-cheargéa meant something like "black terror-spirit," but how could a spirit be black, let alone hold up a man in its grip? And the other term didn't make sense.

Âthkyen was a compound word no longer used in Numanese, one that she'd read in accounts of the pre-nation clans that had inhabited this land. It meant ruler by divine or innate right, rather than by bloodline or selection, but the term's latter half wasn't Numanese—not by any dialect that Wynn knew of. She did know a word that sounded similar.

The elven root word smiot'an referred to "spirit," as in that of a person and not the element. The Lhoin'na, the elves of her continent, were the longest-standing culture here—long enough that some of their root words, classified by the guild under the grouping of New Elvish, had been absorbed and transformed in human tongues as pure nouns.

She pulled the book closer, rushing through the text in search of more, but the tale was only half a page long.

A black terror-ghost... sovereign of spirits?

It could touch—physically touch. This had to be another superstition. Even if this tale was an account of a true undead, it wouldn't be the first bit of nonsense concerning such.

Leesil and Magiere had tracked and impaled a vampire named Sapphire, only to have the creature vanish when they turned their backs for an instant. Staking a vampire through the heart turned out to be superstition, one that even some vampires believed in. But the tale in the book still left her wondering about Master Shilwise's scribe shop.

Someone had gotten in, without forcing entry, but then had to break out.

Perhaps the creature in this tale was a mage—like Chane or Welstiel—maybe a thaumaturge, working magic of the physical realm. Yes, a vampire mage would have many years to become highly skilled. At a guess, it might learn how to transmute its solid form into a gaseous state at will, and slip through the cracks of a door.

All right, so it was a silly notion for children's ghost tales, but she'd seen stranger things in the last two years. And there was still the puzzle of why whoever had slipped in had to break out.

Wynn took up her quill and turned a fresh page in her journal. She recorded the entire short tale in the Begaine script. For now, her best path was to search Numanese writings for any further mention of the blâch-cheargéa and Âthkyensmyotnes. Second, she should search any elven works in the archives, considering the strange hybrid title. She stood up, ready to seek out whatever she could.

"Young Hygeorht!"

Wynn jumped in surprise. Domin Tärpodious stood at the antechamber's entrance, his milky eyes wide in horror. At first she wasn't certain why. He shuffled in, disapproval coloring his pale face.

"Surely you didn't need all of these at once for Tilswith's research?"

Wynn glanced about.

Disheveled piles covered the whole table, and a few sheets had slipped off to scatter about the floor.

"Oh... oops," she said. "I must've... I didn't realize..."

With the old master archivist already displeased, she knew better than to offer help in straightening up. She quickly shut the old book.

"Off with you," he huffed, almost to himself. "I should've come sooner and rousted you for supper."

Wynn stared back. "Supper?"

"Cooked, consumed, and cleaned up," he replied gruffly. "An apprentice just brought down my meal. Best get upstairs and find some leftovers."

Wynn hesitated. Now that she had a lead, there was still so much to do.

"Be off!" Tärpodious snapped, already gathering sheets into sheaves.

"Thank you for the help," she said, and retrieved her belongings. "And again, I apologize. I'll be more discerning next time."

Wynn slipped out, turning right down the corridor, her cold lamp lighting the way between the laden shelves and the catacombs' old stone columns and walls.

"Wynn!"

Tärpodious's sharp call made her whole back cinch tightly. She couldn't help a groan, thinking he'd found some blot of ink she'd missed. She reversed course and peered hesitantly around the edge of the antechamber's opening.

Domin Tärpodious scowled silently at her, and Wynn's stomach sank into her boots.

The old archivist raised a hand, pointing one bony finger toward the passage's other direction.

Wynn flushed, nodded quickly, and hurried off the correct way.

Chane waited in the shadows across the street from the Inkwell scriptorium as two young sages emerged with a folio.

He recognized the pudgy girl in gray. She had occasionally been sent out before. But he had never seen the tall young man in a deep blue robe—too old to be an apprentice but perhaps not old enough for a master or domin. It seemed strange that the guild sent a journeyor of metaology to help retrieve tonight's folio.

Chane pulled farther back out of sight.

As the pair passed by, continuing down the street, the girl clutched the folio to her chest and peered nervously about. When they reached the next intersection, Chane pulled up his cloak's hood and followed from a distance. He had no wish to be seen and remembered.

He kept himself in check rather than close too quickly. But he longed to open the folio and read its contents, and driving desire pressed him forward.

The tall journeyor stopped and turned around.

Other city dwellers moved about in the early evening, and Chane continued walking casually. The blue-robed sage scanned the street, noting a man lighting street lamps, two merchants engaged in conversation, and a flower girl closing her stand... and Chane.

"What is it, Dâgmund?" the pudgy girl asked.

"Nothing," the young man answered. He moved on, tugging his shorter companion along.

Chane kept his gait even.

In his time in Bela with Wynn, he had learned enough of the orders to know each branch's general emphasis. To his best knowledge, those in metaology studied metaphysics and lore and related fields. Few if any became practitioners of magic, and those were mostly thaumaturges, working in pragmatic practices of artificing, such as alchemy. Even if this one had gone further, there was still no way he could detect Chane for what he was by spell or device.

Not while Chane wore Welstiel's old "ring of nothing."

This one possession masked his undead presence from anyone with extraordinary awareness or arcane skills of detection. But still, he had been seen, and he could not allow them to realize they were followed.

Chane turned down a side street.

Once beyond sight, he ran for the next intersection. He turned up a street parallel to the sages' route and slowed a bit. He tried to keep a pace even with the messengers'—or just a little ahead of them. And he knew where they would have to turn.

Three cross streets up, he slowed to hover near the corner.

The pair appeared in the intersection down the way, still following their course. As they passed beyond sight, Chane slipped down the side street to follow them directly.

The main street was slightly more populated with shopkeepers and wanderers heading home for the night, and he might blend in more easily. He glanced aside as a man struggled to calm a slender horse pulling a tarp-covered cart. The horse stomped and snorted. But the sages hurried onward, the girl tightly clutching her folio in both arms.

And the sound of screaming cats exploded on Chane's left. He turned on instinct.

Two large felines spun out of an alley, hissing and swiping at each other. The horse behind him screamed.

"Look out!"

Chane dodged at the shout, but as the panicked horse raced by, the cart clipped his side. He spun and stumbled, but didn't fall. Everyone around stopped to gawk.

"Are you all right?" the vegetable man asked, running up.

Chane didn't answer. Both sages had stopped, and the tall male stared straight at him. Recognition dawned on the journeyor's face. Had he been seen back near the Inkwell?

"I am fine," Chane answered in a hoarse whisper. "Go catch your horse." He slipped back down the side street, cursing himself.

Wynn emerged in the main hall, tired, hungry, and disoriented by how quickly time had passed in the catacombs. Only a few others were still about, talking, reading, or sipping tea at the tables.

Domin il'Sänke sat reading by the fire.

"Wynn?" someone called anxiously from her right.

She turned to find Nikolas awkwardly waving her over. Two covered bowls and slices of buttered bread sat on the table in front of him.

"I waited for you," he said.

Domin il'Sänke glanced up from his book.

Wynn offered him a tired smile and went to join Nikolas. His robe was slightly disheveled, and his straight hair still hung into his eyes, but she couldn't recall the last time someone had waited supper on her.

"I had research to do," she said, her journal, lamp, and quill still in hand. "Keep the bowls covered a little longer. I'll run these things up to my room and be back."

Her answer brought an odd relief to his face. She knew how it felt to be lonely, or just alone, and when company mattered more than food.

"The lentils will keep," he said. "I'll put our bowls by the hearth."

Wynn headed for the hall's main archway. A chill breeze rolled in as she approached, as if someone had opened the keep's doors. She heard someone heave up from a chair too quickly behind her, and she glanced back. Il'Sänke strode straight toward her with a hard gaze, and then Miriam's frightened voice echoed from the entryway.

Wynn hadn't made out the girl's words, and il'Sänke rushed by in a trot, his robes swishing around his feet. She waved to Nikolas, and they hurried after the domin.

Around the corner beyond the main archway, Wynn spotted a panting Miriam standing before il'Sänke halfway down the hall to the front doors. The girl was clutching a folio to her chest, and Dâgmund stood behind her, lowering his cowl.

Miriam's hood was thrown back, and her face glistened as if she'd been running. For once she didn't cringe in il'Sänke's presence.

"Domin..." she breathed. "We were followed! Someone followed us!"

Dâgmund looked less frightened than Miriam, but he was clearly troubled.

Wynn pursed her lips. Why had Domin High-Tower sent a journeyor metaologer out with Miriam? A few more initiates and apprentices from the main hall began gathering in the passage behind her.

Il'Sänke turned stern eyes on Dâgmund. "Is this true?"

The young man nodded once. "A tall man in a long dark cloak. I saw him twice. He had to be the one."

Il'Sänke held out his hand. "Give me the folio."

Miriam shoved it at him without hesitation and exhaled loudly in relief.

To Wynn's surprise, il'Sänke stepped past the pair of couriers to the empty entryway. Beyond anyone's reach, he opened the leather flap and pulled out the short stack of pages. The domin scanned their contents once, and then placed them back inside.

Wynn would've given anything to peek over his shoulder.

In that instant il'Sänke glanced at her.

Without a word he strode silently past Miriam and her companion—and Wynn. The cluster of gathered initiates and apprentices scattered to the passage walls to let him through. Wynn quickly followed him back into the common hall, but Domin il'Sänke never paused. He headed straight for the narrow side archway. Wynn sneaked after him, all the way to the turn, and watched him head straight for the door to the north tower—and Domin High-Tower's study.

What had he seen in those pages?

"Come have supper," Nikolas said softly.

Wynn had forgotten about him standing right behind her.

"Put your things away later," he added. "Just come and eat."

She simply nodded and followed him back to the table in the common hall. But Wynn's thoughts were locked on the folio, and the frustration of watching il'Sänke scan those pages right in front of her.

Chane was seething as he stalked back toward the Graylands Empire. He had come so close and then lost the folio through clumsiness. And he was hungry, as if anger made his need that much worse.

In the past, the beast within him had reveled in the hunt, in the smell of fear in his prey, and relished their attempts to fight back. He had fed indiscriminately, taking whoever pleased him in the moment.

Some things had changed since he had last spoken with Wynn.

His choices had become more particular, and the beast within whimpered in suppression or howled in rage at his self-denial. Chane struggled with his longing for the euphoria of a true hunt and a kill.

He had been in Calm Seatt for just over a moon, but he had learned its districts quite well. When he needed—rather than wanted—to feed, he headed into the southern reaches of the Graylands Empire. Tonight he walked shabby and dim byways, listening and watching. Most people here were squalid and wretched, but those were not the criteria of his choices.

An old woman with no teeth shuffled by, muttering to herself, but he ignored her. Finally he passed a shack set between a faded tavern and what might be a candle shop on the corner. Muffled shouting escaped one shutterless window, and Chane slipped into the shadow of the candle shop's awnings.

"You put that back!" a woman shouted. "That's for milk and bread. Wager your boots at dice, if that's all you care about!"

A loud crash followed, and the sound of a woman weeping. The shack's front door burst open as a large man stepped halfway out. He had not shaved in days.

"Leave me be!" he snarled back through the doorway. "I'm going to the Blue Boar to ask about... to find some work. I'll get the milk and bread myself, so stop sniveling!"

So obsessed was he with maintaining control, Chane was startled by a familiar, uncomfortable tickle at the back of his mind. And the beast within rumbled in warning, bringing him to awareness.

The man was lying. He turned down the street, leaving the door wide-open.

Chane slipped out to follow. This worthless creature was an acceptable choice—a liar, a wastrel, and a waste of human flesh. He was no loss to this world, just another head in the cattle of humanity. Three streets down, Chane halted short of the next alley's mouth.

"Sir," he rasped in Numanese, knowing that both his voice and his accent might cause suspicion. "I could not help overhearing a mention of dice."

The filthy man stopped and turned, eyes squinting.

For this part of the city, Chane was well dressed in hard boots and a dark wool cloak hiding all but the hilt of a longsword.

The man blinked in indecision. "You lookin' for a game?"

Chane took a step and pulled out his pouch, allowing the coins to clink.

"Depends on the price to get in."

He stepped only as far as the alley mouth's other side, and noted that the closest passerby was two cross streets to the west. The large man's eyes fixed on the pouch, and he smiled, perhaps seeing some witless foreigner to take in among his regular companions. He strolled back toward Chane.

"Isn't no fee to enter," the man said. "And we bet what we please—no holds barred."

The instant he reached the alley's mouth, Chane dropped the pouch.

The man's gaze flicked downward in reflex.

Chane's hand shot out and latched across his mouth and jaw. Spinning, he wrenched the man into the alley's deeper darkness. The man was as strong as he looked and struggled like a bull, and he suddenly rammed an elbow into Chane's ribs.

Chane didn't even flinch. He slammed his victim against the wall and drove his distended fangs into the man's stubble-coated throat. The smell of stale ale and sweat filled his nose, but the beast trapped inside of Chane lunged against its bonds.

Once, he would have played with his victim until fear permeated the air. He loved that sweet, musky smell—or was it the beast within who savored it more?

He bit deeper, gulping like a glutton. Salt warmth flowed into his mouth, and the beast inside grew wild with joy. He drank so fast that the man went into convulsions. The would-be gambler's blood slowed to a trickle before his heart could even stop.

Death was a blink away.

Chane wrenched his head back and released his grip on the man's jaw. He stepped away and watched the body slide down the alley wall, until the corpse sat propped up with throat torn and eyes still wide.

It was over so quickly—too quickly. Even the rush of life making Chane's head swim and his cold flesh tingle with heat brought no pleasure. And the beast inside him whimpered like a dog pulled back before finishing its meal.

Chane had seen his own maker, Toret, and then Welstiel, raise new minions from selected victims. Not all rose from death, which was why careful selection was necessary. But there was still a slim chance that a victim taken too quickly might rise the following night. Toret had believed that for a Noble Dead to make one of its own, it had to feed a victim its own fluids. That was another superstition.

All it took was devouring a life—suddenly, quickly, all at once—and the close contact of a Noble Dead in the instant between life's end and death's coming. Chane had been lucky in the past not to have any of his prey rise.

Or had they? In recollection, aside from his time in Bela with Toret, he had always been on the move with Welstiel. He had never stayed long enough in one place to be certain.

Chane wanted no minions. And certainly not this side of beef sitting limp in the alley. The last trickles of blood ran down the corpse's neck, staining his filthy shirt like black ink in the alley's darkness.

Chane closed his eyes and saw Wynn's pained face staring back at him in accusation.

He opened his eyes, pulled out a fish knife stolen off the docks, and cut the man's throat deeply. When the corpse was found, his death would seem a common murder by some desperate cutpurse. Kneeling down, he searched the man and took every coin he found for his own needs.

Chane stepped from the alley and retrieved his own pouch, adding new coins to old. He began walking «home» toward the inn and never looked back.