Of Truth and Beasts

Chapter 11

Wynn drew relief in seeing Chane improve once they returned to a’Ghràihlôn’na. Still edgy and twitchy, he no longer shook visibly, and his eyes had regained their semitranslucent brown.

They stopped at the stable for their travel chest, which Ore-Locks hauled over his shoulder, along with his sack. He was quiet and withdrawn, asking no questions. Perhaps he had his own concerns after encountering Chuillyon. It seemed Ore-Locks had abandoned his sect and duties without a word to anyone. Like Wynn, he would face consequences upon his return, if he returned.

Wynn led them south through the city, with Shade close at her side. She had some sense of where to go, having looked up as much about the place as she could before leaving home. The city’s narrow paths were quiet at night, but the trees’ heights were still marked by the glimmer of lanterns, like mist-shrouded stars that settled among the branches. Some dark, ground-level buildings were constructed from stone as well as timber, and Ore-Locks slowed now and then to study them. One in particular baffled Wynn.

Each higher tier of pyrite-spattered granite was slightly narrower than the one below as it swept upward to seven levels, all terraced. The peaked front door with a tooled arch—shaped like an aspen leaf—was made from white wood to match its stone. Wynn had no idea what purpose the place served.

They passed gardens overladen with sleeping flower buds, but here and there Wynn spotted night-blooming jasmine. She’d never seen so many carefully nurtured enclaves that stood out only from the natural landscape by the density of crafted yet natural design. Even in darkness, it was all foreign, beautiful, and intimidating, and left her with a stab of regret.

Wynn finally looked upon a’Ghràihlôn’na—Blessed of the Woods—but not as a journeyor come to study or just as a visitor. She came as a nearly outcast sage at best, and a spy at the worst, hunting secrets to steal.

Then the buildings around her became immense.

Wynn halted and turned slowly. These giant trees, so much larger than any an’Cróan dwelling, were the buildings.

At any moment, she expected to see an an’Cróan round one of those living structures, or even one of the Anmaglâhk, those assassins clad in gray. No one had ever mentioned the Lhoin’na living within trees, aside from these ancient, great structures. If they could do so, why did so many live in constructed domiciles, even ones up in the forest’s heights?

The street she stood upon ended before a broad park. Wide granite stairways rose gradually through terraces of green lawns and gardens around a small, placid lake. Every building—every ancient tree—surrounding that space dwarfed those she’d seen across the grassy plain. Great doors of white oak, scroll-carved brass, or colored with stain were set into shaped openings of living bark.

“What are those?” Ore-Locks said, pointing up and ahead.

Between the highest leafy branches of two buildings across the park, another structure loomed in the night. Barely visible by the lights upon or within it, where those lights shone, this structure had a strange, reddish tinge. It was only the hint of its shape that Wynn truly recognized.

“The Lhoin’na guild branch,” she answered, a guess from what she’d seen in sketches of its exterior.

They rounded the park and the trees of what they thought must be the city’s civic center. When they turned down a packed-earth lane at the far side, Wynn looked up ... and up.

Sketches hadn’t done justice to this place.

Perhaps as old as the Forgotten History, a ring of giant redwoods had melded into one massive form, one life. Hints of once-separate trunks bulged from its mass. Over a thousand years, the redwoods had grown so vast that they were now one great circle encompassing whatever lay within.

Wynn rose on her tiptoes, trying to peer over the surrounding hedge fence in both directions. She couldn’t make out either side of the gargantuan structure’s base through the surrounding trees.

High above, elongated teardrop windows dotted the guild’s side, some lit up from within. At its top, barely within sight in the dark, parts of the structure rose higher than the rest, like lofty pinnacles upon a royal fortification. In place of pennants, their tops were likely graced with high branches. It had no battlements, for it was a place of contemplation and learning. Rather than a stand against enemy forces, this was a fortress against another loss of the world’s knowledge.

Wynn led her companions to an iron archway and a gate through the high hedge fence. Beyond it, a wide shale-cobbled path wound through low shrubberies to a deep divide in the citadel’s bark. Shaped like a teardrop’s top half, it was four yards tall. In that dark entryway’s back was a like-shaped lighter color amid night shadows.

It might be a door, but Wynn couldn’t see it clearly. She grabbed the gate’s handle and twisted. It wouldn’t budge. In a place like this, she hadn’t expected to be locked out.

“Here,” Chane said, and a clanking tone sounded.

Wynn watched him pull the cord again, and a bell atop the gate’s frame clanged. She looked toward the dark alcove and waited.

Her first task was to deliver the sealed message from her branch’s council to the high premin here. But it was the middle of the night, and everyone was probably asleep.

“Perhaps we should have found rooms elsewhere?” Ore-Locks commented. “Then come here tomorrow?”

A heavy clack carried from beyond the gate, and light spilled from the guild’s entryway. A silhouette appeared amid the glare, so tiny at first. But it was only the size of the doors that made it appear so. The figure wobbled out, paused where the path met the melded ring of ancient redwoods, and raised a hand.

A light grew there, where a tall, sleepy-eyed elf in a brown robe held up a cold lamp crystal. He squinted at the new arrivals as his feathery eyebrows cinched together.

If he carried a crystal, he had to be at least a journeyor, though likely not a master or domin if he tended the doors late at night.

Wynn raised a hand in greeting, calling out in Elvish, “Forgive us for ringing so late.”

The elf drew closer. He was young by human standards, but there was no way to be certain of an elf’s age after he reached early adulthood. He looked down at Wynn through the gate’s ornate ironwork and then suddenly blinked, his eyes widening.

Perhaps he hadn’t noticed Shade’s dark form at first. He was still staring when Wynn cleared her throat.

“We’ve just arrived and need rooms ... if possible.”

The elven sage met Wynn’s gaze, and then took in her gray travel robe.

“Domin Ch’leich âr Én’wir designates guest quarters,” he answered. “But he has retired.”

That name threw Wynn. Was it a title, a proper and family name, or what? It was something like “a ridge in a river’s mouth.”

“What is wrong?” Chane asked.

He must have sensed it from the elf’s tone, and Wynn quickly reiterated the problem. Ore-Locks shifted the chest’s weight on his shoulder.

“So much for Lhoin’na hospitality,” he said.

“They are quite hospitable,” Wynn countered, “but—”

“Please follow me,” the elf returned, this time in Numanese. With the twist of a key, he opened the tall gate and stepped aside.

Startled by the sudden change, Wynn stepped through with a nod of thanks. But again, the journeyor watched only the black majay-hì. Shade padded by him without returning his notice. Chane followed, and Ore-Locks came last.

Halfway to the entry alcove, the elven journeyor stepped ahead on his long legs. When he pulled the handle on one door in that dark space, warm light again spilled from the split.

The double doors were made from polished redwood. They fit delicately within the entryway’s shape, but were so tall and appeared so heavy that Wynn couldn’t imagine how the elf opened them with only one hand. Among a pattern of carved and glittering green filigree that arced from one door to the other, she read the New Elvish rendered in Begaine symbols.

FHÉRIN TRIJ FHORUS ... FHORUS TRIJ SHOLHUS ... SHOLHUS TRIJ FHÉRIN ... FÄIL-RÉUILACH ÂG ÄISH.

It matched the Numanese engraved in frame stones above the entrance to the new guild library in Calm Seatt.

TRUTH THROUGH KNOWLEDGE ... KNOWLEDGE THROUGH UNDERSTANDING ... UNDERSTANDING THROUGH TRUTH ... WISDOM’S ETERNAL CYCLE.

Wynn grew sad at the sight of the creed she had grown up believing. Truth in this place would be well hidden, just like First Glade’s ancient heritage. It was a hoarded secret rather than a worldly treasure to be safeguarded for all.

Worse than that, Wynn was no longer certain which was right or wrong in the details.

She’d never found drawings of this branch’s interior, so she had no idea how the place was laid out. As she stepped inside, memories of an’Cróan homes didn’t prepare her, and she slowed to a stop.

The floor was covered in grouted shale tiles of irregular shapes. But the walls themselves were much the same as she remembered in the Farland’s Elven Territories ... except for their size.

She tilted her head back, which was the only way to see the high ceiling above.

Like an’Cróan homes, the interior was bark-covered, rough and red like the structure’s exterior. In some places, bare wood showed through, although those openings appeared natural rather than cut. They exposed wood still glistening with life. Inside these openings, cold lamp crystals glowed outward, mounted in brass fixtures with frosted glass globes.

The size of it all was unbelievable, even for what she’d seen of the exterior. The entry chamber was easily three times the size of High-Tower’s study in the guild keep’s northern tower.

The walls flowed organically upward to the ceiling, beyond clear reach of light. To either side were wide, natural exits that might lead onward into the ring of redwoods. Directly across from the entrance was a smaller pair of polished redwood doors. Even those were tall enough that any elf would’ve had to reach up to touch the frame’s top.

“This way,” the journeyor said, heading straight for the second doors. He opened one, holding it as he waited.

Wynn stepped through the door and into a massive courtyard inside the redwood ring.

A few stone benches lined the pathways that she could actually see among hedges and bushes, trees and vine-covered atriums. Their guide pushed on, and she hurried to follow with the others. Along the winding way, the only other thing of note that she saw clearly was located in the center of the sculptured, living courtyard.

A round depression rested at the courtyard’s center, surrounded by stone steps or seating enclosing its open floor. At a guess, it could have held fifty or more. Perhaps it was a place for gatherings, not unlike the seminar rooms at the Numan branch.

At the courtyard’s far side, the elven journeyor opened a single door, and they all reentered the redwood ring. Chane and Ore-Locks paused to get their bearings as Wynn went straight to wandering about the room.

It felt circular, though an archway at the back led into another chamber. She spotted two narrow passageways in the first chamber nearer the door to the courtyard. The one on the left curved downward, and the one on the right led up. Both had steps of living, shaped wood that was free of bark.

Brighter light shone out from the back chamber, and the apprentice crossed quickly. Wynn followed.

An open area with benches carved into the walls awaited her. A stone pit in the floor contained glowing orange crystals—dwarven crystals—that emitted light and heat. It left her wondering how these sages had acquired them, since nothing like them were used at her own branch.

“A welcome sight,” Ore-Locks said, and Wynn found all of her companions close behind her.

Several freestanding benches stood on each side of the stone pit. This must be some type of common room. A wide shelf jutting from one wall contained glazed ceramic mugs, a pitcher of water, and a bowl of apples. Two tall openings directly on opposite sides led to smooth shale floor passages.

“Dawn is not far off,” the journeyor said. “I will speak with the domin when he wakes. Can you take your comfort here until then?”

“This is just fine,” Wynn said in relief, wanting to hold both her hands over the pit of crystals, but she glanced once at Chane. “Does the domin rise before dawn?”

“Usually ... sometimes,” the journeyor answered.

That could be a problem. But if need be, she could insist on housing Chane somewhere here in privacy.

“Thank you,” she said.

The tall elf bowed his head and stepped out into the courtyard, perhaps returning to his vigil at the main entrance. Wynn turned back to find Shade snuffling along the base of a wall, her tail in the air. Chane headed for a table and dropped their packs on it.

“This is the best we can do for now,” Wynn said. “I’ll get Shade some jerky and try to heat some water for tea. Ore-Locks, maybe you could cut up a few of those apples.”

He didn’t respond, but he set the chest down next to the packs. Chane sank onto one bench, his expression strained.

“Are you all right?” Wynn asked.

“Chuillyon serves the royal family of Malourné,” he said. “What is he doing here?”

She’d wondered that herself since they’d left the white-robed pretender leaning against Chârmun as if it belonged to him. She just shook her head.

“It may have nothing to do with us.”

Chane frowned at her. Yes, it was a weak evasion.

“What is the next step?” he asked.

Ore-Locks looked over as he sliced an apple, waiting on Wynn’s answer.

“I’ll deliver the message from the council,” she said. “That’s my excuse for coming—even if the letter is nothing more than a warning against me, then I need to start searching their archives. If anyplace has information on Bäalâle Seatt, it is most likely here.”

“You guess,” Chane whispered.

“Yes, I guess. Every guild branch has its region from which it recovers lost information unearthed in various ways. We know Bäalâle Seatt was likely in the Sky-Cutter Range, considering its name was based in terms of tribal dialects once spoken in the great desert. This is the closest branch to the range.”

“Anything that old should have been shared with all branches,” Chane returned.

“Yes ... it should have,” Wynn echoed coldly.

Ore-Locks closed on her, holding out slices of apple. “If the premin here exposes the content of your branch’s message, these sages might not be any more helpful than those of Chathburh.”

“I don’t need their help. I’m a journeyor, and guild branches share—are supposed to share—archives with all ranks of journeyor and above.” She looked back to Chane. “So long as they don’t learn what I’m really after, I’ll find the information myself. All we can do is avoid Chuillyon until I dig up something useful ... something to tell us where to begin searching an immense range that crosses an entire continent.”

Thinking that, let alone saying it aloud, prompted Wynn to drop tiredly on the bench beside Chane. After so many days on the road, and switching back to being awake in daylight, she wasn’t accustomed to being up all night. She was about to say more when she heard a soft rattle.

It carried through the archway from the main chamber nearer the courtyard. She stepped over to look out.

“What is it?” Chane asked, rising.

The outer chamber was empty all the way to the courtyard door.

“Nothing. I just thought I heard—”

The door’s handle twisted and the door swung open.

It was shoved by the shoulder of a slender figure not tall enough to be an elf, dressed in a midnight blue robe. Dark hands juggled a small pile of books as the visitor stepped in, trying to keep the top book from sliding off. With another shoulder nudge, he shut the door and turned about.

Wynn saw that he most certainly wasn’t an elf.

Dusky skin and kinky black hair inside the midnight blue cowl of a metaologer marked him as Suman, though certainly not as tall or distinguished as Domin il’Sänke.

He froze at the sight of her.

He looked about twenty, though his self-assured expression made him seem older. A triangular tuft of beard on his chin was so well manicured it could’ve been there awhile. He smiled, bowed his head without lowering his eyes.

Then he noted the sliced apples in her hand. His dark eyes rose to see Chane standing beside her, as Shade nudged her way into the arch between the chambers. The barest hint of surprise crossed the young man’s face, followed by what Wynn thought was ... an instant of recognition.

That brief change vanished, and she was certain she’d never seen him before.

“Apologies,” he said in Numanese, and his accent was even thicker than il’Sänke’s. “I did not know anyone would be here so early. I would have announced my presence properly.”

“We arrived too early—I mean late—for room assignments,” Wynn returned.

He bowed slightly again, still smiling. “I am Journeyor Mujahid il’Badrêyah of the guild branch in Samau’a Gaulb, il’Dha’ab Najuum.”

Wynn knew little of Suman Empire culture, or, rather, its many cultures, but it was considered polite to make proper introductions right away. She stepped closer so that her companions could enter behind her.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said. “I’m Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht of the Calm Seatt branch. This is Chane Andraso, and Ore-Locks Iron-Braid.”

“Ah, so I am not the only one far from home,” he replied.

“You are up very early,” Chane observed. “It is not even light out.”

If his rasp affected the journeyor, the young man didn’t show it. Nor did he appear surprised by a dwarf’s presence in elven lands. Instead, he glanced toward one stairway leading up on the left, and then back to Wynn, as if trying to reach a decision.

“Yes, I hoped for some quiet time to study,” he said, and his expression filled with a sort of formal concern. “Perhaps I can assist you. I, too, came with companions. This is not the traveling season, and the guest wing is nearly empty. I cannot procure rooms for you, but you are welcome to rest in mine and the adjoining one, until something proper is arranged.”

His offer struck Wynn as odd, but she had no idea why. He was just so amiable and eager to help. However, the thought of lying down even for a short while was tempting, and she needed to secure Chane someplace before he fell dormant at dawn.

“We’re so tired that we may sleep all day,” she said. “Will that be all right?”

“Most certainly,” Mujahid answered. “I have a full day with no need to disturb you until after dinner.”

Again, he was all too eager to help, but Wynn couldn’t fault his generosity.

“Thank you,” she told him, and then something more occurred to her. “I’m sorry to ask, but would you let the journeyor on watch know where we are? He’ll be looking for us as soon as his domin awakens.”

“You mean Domin In-Ridge?” Mujahid queried.

That answered Wynn’s question on how to shorten the unknown domin’s name in translation.

Mujahid nodded with a slow close of his eyes. “I will ... as you would say, pass the word.”

Still uncertain but aching for sleep, Wynn followed him to the stairwell leading up.

Sau’ilahk desperately needed life. Conjuring a servitor with consciousness and the long struggle to control it had drained him. When his creation had come upon that strangely lit glade while following Wynn, the black lash of its destruction had wounded him somehow. It was as if in riding the servitor’s consciousness, he had stepped into the clearing himself.

Whatever had disassembled the servitor had partly reached him, and he had lost track of Wynn’s whereabouts.

Sau’ilahk stood upon the road through the plain with no animate life within his awareness. The forest’s trees were like a wall beyond which he could see or sense nothing. Worst of all, he did not have the strength to blink elsewhere by memory over a great distance.

He studied the tree line stretching in both directions beyond sight. Even if he found sustenance, even if he made another, more suitable servitor, how would he locate Wynn?

Sau’ilahk began to fade, sinking into dormancy, and cried out in that darkness upon the edge of his god’s dream.

“Beloved ... help me!”

Do you follow the sage? Does she still lead you?

“I starve for my efforts!”

Then find life, as small as it might be. Consume it in the hunt for a greater feast ... so you may serve.

This was no answer, and frustration frayed Sau’ilahk’s wits even more.

“There is no life substantial enough for my need that I can reach here and now.”

His patron’s hiss sharpened like spit-upon coals—or the grind of massive scales upon sand.

A droplet of moisture from a corpse can be lifted from the desert, though it be barely enough for a burrowing carrion beetle.

“Wynn Hygeorht is beyond my reach,” Sau’ilahk argued. “I cannot sense even the forest’s own life. Even if I could, how am I to find her singular spark in such a place?”

Where life is ... death follows. Find the latter to find the former.

Sau’ilahk paused. In a land teeming with life that shut him out as unliving, perhaps “death” had walked into those trees if Chane had somehow followed Wynn in there. Beloved’s cryptic retort seemed to confirm this, but Sau’ilahk had so rarely been able to sense Chane’s presence. Perhaps that strange ring had also allowed the vampire to enter where no other undead could.

His interest in Chane’s little brass ring grew.

“I still ... cannot,” he pleaded. “Please, my Beloved ... I starve.”

Unearth your need, like a droplet in sand ... and then another ... until you find means to serve. Dig and borrow for it, if you must, but do not pray to me to salve the wounds of your failure.

Sau’ilahk sank deeper into dormancy under Beloved’s rebuke. The only source of life he could think of was the caravan. He did not have the strength to search for it, let alone any memory that would let him awaken at its constantly changing location. He remained lost in the black silence, not knowing for how long.

All that was left to him were the painful past memories of his god that made him seethe in silence. The Children had never been treated this way. Though he had earned Beloved’s displeasure through disobedience, he had done all he could to regain a state of grace in his god’s awareness. When trapped between faithful service and desperate need, he was treated like ... an insect in the dirt, just short of a whim to step upon it.

And the world reappeared.

Sau’ilahk spotted the barest gray in the eastern sky, and panic set in. Had he remained dormant for too long? He could not bear a whole day in darkness amid such hunger, and he sagged like a limp scarecrow draped in black sackcloth.

All that filled his awareness was the road.

Not the sands of the great desert from long ago, but packed earth with stones exposed by decades of weathering and use. Drops of water were not what he needed, though they were more plentiful here than in the dunes. The sting of Beloved’s rebuke ran through him like a wasp’s poison in the veins of living flesh.

Where there was water, or just moisture, even in another’s remains, it could sustain a tiny life. He had once been such sustenance at the end of his living days.

That old, old memory still haunted and sickened him.

All had been mysteriously lost at the war’s end. Or, rather, the war had simply ended for no reason he had understood. Years had passed since the night that he received the “blessing” of eternal life. Then one night, the Children simply vanished.

Sau’ilahk went to the mouth into Beloved’s mountain, and it was gone. Not as if blocked by a collapse or filled in with stone and earth. The opening simply was not there anymore ... as if it had never been there.

Gone were the guardian locatha, those hulkish abominations like the offspring of a man and some monstrous reptile. The tribes and others of the horde began to disperse, but not before they turned on each other. Northerners and other defectors in the war turned against the desert tribes. Tribes turned on each other, no longer needing the excuses of old blood feuds. Packs and herds of the Ygjila—what would one day be known as goblins—tore into any but their own kind.

They massacred each other over what little spoils of war had been gained, and then fled into the peaks and across the sands. Amid it all, the Children’s offspring from the battlefields hunted and harried the living in the nights. They slaughtered anything for as much blood, as much life, as they could gain so deep in the desert.

Sau’ilahk fled with the remains of his underlings among the Reverent.

In more years that followed, he searched for any trace of the Children. Each year, he grew more afraid and maddened by spite. For when he looked in his polished silver mirror, his own visage was too much to bear.

Lines had grown on his once beautiful face. His glistening black curls of hair steadily dulled with streaks of gray. His joints slowly lost their range of motion amid growing aches at every movement. Food consumed for its comfort became mud upon his tongue, devoid of all taste. And his days became as his nights as his sight began to fail. That last loss was almost a relief from ever looking into the mirror again.

Sau’ilahk had grown old.

He withered, cheated by the lie of eternal life. It was not until after his heart finally halted its weak beats that a truth made his fear grow all the more. When he finally died, he could see again.

Sau’ilahk lay in the tent upon piled rugs for a bed, amid the haze of funerary incense. All around him, the remaining Reverent in their black robes and cloaks murmured prayers for Beloved to welcome him into the afterlife. Sau’ilahk was little more than a withered bag of bones as he watched them, knowing he could not be dead if he could now see.

His followers bowed their heads and closed their eyes, though some faces appeared subtly relieved rather than mournful. He tried to take a breath to rebuke them for prematurely dismissing him.

Sau’ilahk could not draw air—nor could he move his mouth. He could not blink or close his eyes—or if he did so without knowing it, no one noticed ... and he could still see them.

The nearest swiped a hand across his old face as if to shut his eyelids. Still he could see them, hear them.

Some of the lesser Reverent left in that last night of his “life.” Three remained to whisper among themselves, until whispers became sharp words. They argued over whether or not to bother fulfilling his final decree concerning proper burial. In the end, two of the trio won out by using a hooked-point blade to tear out the throat of the third.

It brought Sau’ilahk no satisfaction.

He lay mute and paralyzed, unable to tell them he was not dead, even as they stripped and washed his withered flesh. They wrapped him in strips of black burial cloth, layer by layer, so suited to Beloved’s most reverent of the Reverent. Even as they rolled the strips over his eyes, again and again, he still watched them. He screamed from within as they bore him off, though no sound escaped his still lips.

They lodged him in a small cave high in the great mountain range. As they crawled back to the opening, all he had left to see was a rough stone ceiling an arm’s length above him, torchlight still flickering upon it. That light began to grow dim as he heard the stones being piled.

Until that flicker vanished altogether, and there was only silence.

Sau’ilahk’s silent screams turned to sobs as he came to know Beloved’s truth. He had his eternal life, but not eternal youth. All his beauty was gone, but not the prison of his flesh in its death.

How long did he wait until they came?

Something entered his awareness in the dark. Like a spark he could not see, it skittered around the space of his tomb. And then another—and another.

Something pulled, jerked, and tore at the cloth strips over his sunken belly. A small form scuttled over his face and burrowed into the cloth over his right eye.

Were they worms, beetles, flies? What had crept and flitted too many times, too close across his cloth-wrapped face, only to wriggle through the wraps over his desiccating flesh? How long had it taken for them to amass?

Was it days, moons, or even years in that dark silence, until all he felt and heard was their burrowing, their biting and gnawing? It became a distant thing to be eaten alive—eaten dead—like a wound so harsh, the mind shuts it out. Horror numbed any sensation too torturous to bear.

For slow ages Sau’ilahk lay there, eaten away in small pieces while the rest of him decayed, until ...

Out of dark dormancy Sau’ilahk rose one night through the mountain-side, his first utterance a scream that had built within him over a century. No longer anchored in flesh, dawn soon cut into his madness and drove him back down into a dormancy as dark as his tomb had been. But he rose again under the stars after the following dusk, still mindlessly wailing and unable to touch anything, most of all himself.

Even now, as he stood upon the road Wynn had taken, Sau’ilahk quaked under those endless years. Only the sound of scuttling in the dark had kept him company. That and the screams of his thoughts, so loud they could have cracked his dried bones if he had had a true voice.

Sau’ilahk lowered and thrust his incorporeal hands through the road. He sank his arms nearly to his shoulders, feeling in the earth for any drop of animate life.

Be it a worm, a burrowing beetle, or a grass grub, when he touched something, that small spark of life vanished into him. They were no more than that drop of water in a dune. But he persisted, sweeping his arms slowly through earth. He worked his way into the field at the road’s side, blades of tall grass passing through him. And once he touched something else.

A sting of cold rushed through Sau’ilahk.

He jerked his hands out of the earth, still aching and burning from whatever his fingers had passed through. What was buried down there that caused him this discomfort? Even if he sank his cowl into the ground, he would not see it, and he had too little energy to solidify a hand with which to dig. But it had felt like ...

That cold burning that had torn at him from within whenever his hand had passed through Chane Andraso.

This made no sense, and he returned to foraging carefully for more tiny lives. He reached deep this time, and worked his way farther into the field. He swept his way along through the grass, its blades not even bending in his passage, until ...

Sau’ilahk’s shoulder swept through a dome of flowers, and his shriek became a wind that tore the grass around him. In retreat, he nearly passed through another cluster of blooms before he lurched the other way. He burned inside, the sensation like shudders and dizziness, though he had no flesh.

He stared down at white velvet petals, shaped like leaves, as they began to darken, turning dull yellow at first. They withered to an ashen tan and died, crumpling to the earth and blowing away to catch in blades of grass.

Sau’ilahk slowly turned as he scanned the plain in all directions. What was this place with such hidden blights that could hurt him?

It was somehow familiar. Not as if he had been here, but perhaps something he had heard of once. As eternal as he was, his mind was no more immune to forgetfulness than that of any living being. Over a thousand years, no one continued to remember everything that they once had. Memories faded, particularly ones that seldom came to use.

Still starving, Sau’ilahk slipped carefully back to the road, avoiding any domes of flowers. There was no time left to ponder them, or what he had felt under the earth. Dawn was near, and with what little life he had gained, he still had to find the caravan. Once he had fed properly, he would have little trouble remembering this place to reawaken here after the next dusk.

He would lure and enslave a more natural servant—something that could move within the Lhoin’na lands. If he could not find the one life of Wynn from afar, the one unlife of Chane Andraso might more easily bring the sage back under his scrutiny.

Sau’ilahk fled up the dirt road like roiling streams of black vapors in the dark.