Of Truth and Beasts

Chapter 12

Wynn opened her eyes at the sound of a nearby whine, and then she flinched to see a bark-covered wall a hand’s length from her nose. She lurched upright and away, nearly falling off the bed shelf she lay on. She spun about, wrestling out of the blanket.

For an instant, she thought she’d awakened in an an’Cróan tree home. Shade sat fidgeting on her haunches as she whined, but Wynn was still lost for a moment.

The bed wasn’t a raw shéot’a cloth mattress stuffed with straw and wild grass. It was fitted with heavy linen. She was in a room at the guild branch of the Lhoin’na. As she swung her legs over the bed ledge, her head filled with a rush of memories.

She saw the guild keep’s rear grove, the forests on the way to Dhredze Seatt, and the wild woods they’d encountered on their present journey. More and more wild places popped up in Wynn’s own perspective, showing Shade scurrying off into the brush.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Just ... give me a moment.”

Poor Shade needed to go out quite badly. But the next rush of memories showed a variety of meals.

First was the guild hall, then her room, complete with all the smells that didn’t fit well together. A late breakfast of dried salt fish at the temple of Feather-Tongue mixed with a greasy sausage bought in a dwarven market.

—outside ... food ... outside, outside—

Wynn grabbed her head. “Shade, stop it. I’m coming, already.”

A large umber-glazed washbasin sat beside the room’s teardrop-shaped door. She’d set it there last night for Shade, filling it from its matching water pitcher. The basin was completely empty.

“Did you drink that whole bowl?”

Shade spun off her butt, and scurried to the door.

—outside, outside, outside—

With a groan, Wynn hauled herself up. A heavy gray curtain covered the room’s small window, though a little light filtered around its edge. She wasn’t certain of the time of day. At the room’s far side, Chane lay stretched out on another bed ledge, completely covered, a blanket pulled up over his head.

Barefoot in only her shift, Wynn hastily wrapped herself in her robe and tiptoed to the other inner door. She cracked it open and found Ore-Locks snoring away in the adjoining room. He’d stretched out on the floor, likely unable to get his bulk onto a bed ledge. He’d been living on Chane’s schedule since their caravan trip began and would likely sleep half the day.

Wynn quietly shut the door, and Shade’s whine shifted to a discontented rumble.

“Hold on,” she whispered as she reached for her clothes draped over the travel trunk.

She’d been too exhausted last night to do anything but crawl into bed, but now she took clearer notice of the room. Stacks of books, loose paper, and leather satchels were scattered about haphazardly. Mujahid wasn’t particularly orderly for a sage. Two unlit, half-burned candles sat on the small table, along with a crucible and a mortar and pestle.

Wynn picked up one book. Its flaked, gilded title, written in exaggerated elven script, read The Wells of the Elements, by Premin Glhasleò ácärâj Jhiarajua Avcâshuâ. She vaguely recognized the name.

Premin “Gray Light” or “Dusk Light” had been one of a few metaologers to become a high premin—and the only such among the Lhoin’na. About three hundred years ago, he’d been criticized and suspected by his peers for his manic interest in the arcane. He’d died in bed at only seventy-two, after eating a plate of mushrooms. It was recorded that he’d gathered them himself, so theories of foul play were dismissed.

Wynn lifted a finely crafted parchment from the desk and scanned its Elvish writing. It was a conservative treatise on the hazards of thaumaturgical practices involving elemental Spirit. What, exactly, was Mujahid researching here?

Suddenly, Shade growled, bit down on Wynn’s robe, and jerked, making her stumble back. Wynn dropped the book and page on the table. Shade’s urgency also left her feeling a bit too nosy. Whatever Mujahid’s reasons, he’d been generous with his rooms, and she shouldn’t take advantage.

She pulled on her formal, full-length robe and retrieved the sealed message entrusted to her. Then she paused to scavenge a scrap of paper and a small charcoal stick. She scrawled a quick noted in Belaskian for Chane, telling him she’d try to be back at dusk.

“All right, come on,” she said softly.

Wynn barely opened the outer door when Shade squirmed through and bolted out in a ruckus of scrabbling claws. Wynn rolled her eyes and followed, not bothering to call after the dog.

The narrow passage didn’t exactly resemble a hallway—more like a strange, bark-covered, organic tunnel. Taller than it was wide, it burrowed through the place in a gradual curve ahead. Tall, teardrop-shaped doors, no two ever alike, were spaced sporadically along both sides. Wynn finished the arcing downward slope, reached the flowing stairs, and followed them downward.

When she reached the chamber where she’d met Mujahid, Shade already stood wriggling before the door to the courtyard. The instant Wynn opened it, Shade shot out, and Wynn followed more slowly.

The day was cold and clear outside, though the walls of the redwood citadel cast the courtyard in dusk as she waited on Shade. Hopefully, Shade wouldn’t desecrate some labor-intensive shrubbery.

Wynn craned her head back, looking straight up. By the light of the circle of sky above, she guessed it was early afternoon. Perhaps lunch was still being served. If so, and if she could find the meal hall, she might find assistance with directions, as well.

Shade came back at a leisurely trot, looking much relieved, and Wynn opened the door.

Upon stepping back in, Wynn heard voices echoing from the next inner chamber. She shooed Shade ahead and followed the sound into a passage much wider than the one outside the guest quarters. She’d lost track of how far around the redwood ring they might have gone when she stepped into a cavernous chamber of flowing bark walls.

Light filled the busy place from crystal-paned windows that went up and up along the inner wall. Though the tree ring had to be quite broad, it wasn’t as deep as the hall of Wynn’s guild branch. Instead of spreading out, it spiraled upward.

A central, bark-covered pillar as big as a single redwood rose out of the shale-tiled floor into the heights. Anchored between it and the chamber’s walls were at least five partial levels that she could see. Stairs of bare wood sprouted from the walls, leading from one level to the next. Sages and even others in plain elven clothing sat at tables on each level and chatted away in their lyrical tongue.

And, as usual, too many eyes looked Wynn’s way, or, rather, at Shade.

Apparently, the sight of a majay-hì was almost as bizarre among the Lhoin’na as in Calm Seatt. More so, since such creatures were known to be real to these people—and this one kept company with a human. Many present stared openly, but not even the closest queried Wynn as Shade pressed against her leg.

Remnants of lunch were still spread on tables as young elven initiates busily cleared plates and bowls. Wynn tried to see where the food was being served from, but she noted two things instead.

First, while nearly all the occupants were elves, a small group of Suman sages—including Mujahid—were gathered around one table. He bowed his head politely to her, and Wynn nodded back. His cowl was down, and Wynn was a little surprised at his curly black hair hanging almost to his shoulders. Ghassan il’Sänke, whom she still counted as a friend, kept his quite short, like the few other Suman males she’d met.

She couldn’t help noticing he was the only metaologer in his group. The others were robed in cerulean and teal, the orders of Sentiology and Conamology.

Second, there wasn’t a single white-robed sage in the place, though she hadn’t expected such. If Chuillyon belonged to some legitimate but unknown order, it had to be a small one, and that was a big if.

Ignoring quizzical glances amid sudden silences, Wynn hoped everyone would just go back to their conversations. Between her and the Suman contingent, one elderly male elf in a gray robe sat sipping a cup of broth. He had a serene countenance, and he wasn’t staring at her or Shade.

“Pardon,” Wynn said in Elvish, approaching him. “I have a message from the Calm Seatt branch for your high premin. Could you direct me?”

He glanced at Shade before looking up at her.

“Our high premin is on a mission of mercy,” he said. “She is assisting other healers in combating the fever at a human settlement.”

He said “the fever” as if she knew what he meant, though she didn’t.

“Premin Gyâr of Metaology can take your message for now,” he continued. “He is handling basic affairs in her absence.”

Wynn hesitated. A high premin off grounds was unexpected; leaving the head of Metaology in charge was unprecedented. In a high premin’s absence, the premin of Cathology usually stood in, if the two weren’t one and the same. After that, the premin of Sentiology was typically next in line.

All Wynn wanted was to get rid of the message, and perhaps if she didn’t treat it as urgent, it might be held unopened until the high premin returned. This might gain her a bit of time and willing assistance, if needed, should this message have a similar effect to the one she’d delivered in Chathburh.

“Where can I find Premin Gyâr?” she asked.

“I am heading that way myself,” someone said. “I will take you.”

Wynn turned at the thick accent, and Mujahid stood up among his companions. Sitting so close, he couldn’t have missed her conversation. Something about his eager manner put her on guard again.

The elderly elven cathologer nodded, as if relieved of a burden, and Wynn couldn’t refuse Mujahid’s offer. He gathered up his short pile of books and gestured toward the hall’s back and its courtyard door. Lips pursed, Wynn had started to follow Mujahid when a loud growl halted her.

Shade hadn’t budged. She eyed Wynn and then a nearby table where people were still eating. Shade shook her large head wildly and sniffed the air with great drama.

“We’ll eat soon enough. Now come,” Wynn urged. “First things first.”

Then she noticed the room had gone too quiet.

Even Mujahid stared at the human casually talking to a majay-hì, as if it were normal.

About to speak again, Wynn swallowed hard and cringed under all that scrutiny. She whispered through her teeth, “Come on.”

Shade curled a jowl and slunk toward the door that Mujahid still held open. All three of them ventured outside into the courtyard’s cool air, where there were far fewer eyes.

“Most premins and domins keep offices in the west side,” Mujahid said matter-of-factly. “Metaologers prefer the south.”

“I’d guess by your order that you know Domin il’Sänke,” she said. “Have you studied with him?”

“Certainly,” he answered. “All of my guild branch knows the domin.”

That was puzzling. Metaologers were a reclusive lot and mixed sparingly with all of a guild branch.

“He helped me during his stay in Calm Seatt,” Wynn added. “When you see him again, please give him my best.”

Mujahid returned a deep nod. “Most certainly,” he said, a phrase he used too frequently.

Wynn fell silent as they walked an outer path. The courtyard was even lovelier in its dusky daylight. She wondered how all of this growth thrived here, considering that direct light would enter only when the sun was at its highest point of the day.

Glistening ivy climbed the guild’s bark walls. A few birds flew from tree to tree, peeping and rustling among the leaves. The entire courtyard was filled with life, and she couldn’t count the varieties of flowers she saw. A large squirrel bolted across the path, into the shrubberies on the far side.

Shade’s ears stood on end.

“No,” Wynn said quickly, though Shade hadn’t taken pursuit.

As Mujahid neared another door, Wynn again tilted her head back, staring upward. High overhead, the structure’s upper reaches were not even. Marked with remaining branches and foliage, the ancient redwoods’ tops had melded together in five places that rose well above the rest of the structure.

Wynn lowered her head to find Mujahid holding the door. As she stepped in, she genuinely wished he would stop being so helpful.

“The premin’s office is higher up, at midpoint,” he said.

This entry chamber was smaller than the one where she’d first met him. He led her through a rear archway into a vast, open chamber. Elves favored light, space, and organic order, but none of those things existed here.

Dimly lit, the place was filled with a confusing array of colored glass tubes; mortars and pestles; small, shielded burners and tin plates; and bowls of all sizes on tables variously made from stone that was resistant to dangerous substances. Rather than benches, she saw light stools, much easier to move from place to place. Aging books and a multitude of wood, ceramic, and metal containers lined floor-to-ceiling shelves along the walls. Only one person occupied the chamber.

Dressed in midnight blue, he stood hunched over a book on a table at the far side. He raised his head, half turned it, and looked toward them. Mujahid stopped abruptly, forcing Wynn to do the same, and she thought she heard him swallow quickly.

“Forgive the intrusion, Premin,” he said in fluent Elvish. “I thought to find you in your office above.”

The dark-robed elf straightened, and Wynn squinted into the dim light.

Premin Gyâr was nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular build—or at least for one of his people. His hair was more brown than gold.

“Journeyor Mujahid, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes, Premin. Again, forgive the intrusion.”

“Do not concern yourself,” Gyâr assured, waving them in.

Mujahid took a step back. “You have a messenger from Calm Seatt. I was merely showing a newcomer the way.”

He bowed respectfully to the premin, adding a quicker nod to Wynn, and turned immediately to leave.

“We’ll be out of your rooms by dinner,” she called after him.

If Mujahid heard, he didn’t answer as he stepped out. To her shame, Wynn found herself wishing that he’d stayed.

Premin Gyâr didn’t come to meet her. He stood silently by the table, taking in the sight of Shade and then Wynn’s gray robes. Finally, he looked her directly in the eyes, waiting.

Wynn was forced to cross through all the tables to him.

His face was triangular, like most elves’, though slightly long of jawline. He appeared middle-aged, which might be considered young for a premin. His eyes became more disturbing the closer Wynn drew.

They were less slanted than a typical elf’s, less amber, and glimmered with a shade of dark yellow.

“I am Journeyor Hygeorht of the Calm Seatt branch,” she said, filling the unpleasant silence as she pulled out the sealed letter. “High Premin Sykion asked me to deliver this during my visit.”

Premin Gyâr didn’t move or hold out his hand. The ghost of a frown passed over his features, but he never blinked. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Premin Sykion sent a journeyor cathologer all this way to deliver a letter? Is something amiss?”

His tone was flat, the only inflection on “cathologer,” as if the word were distasteful.

“Not that I know of,” Wynn replied in feigned ignorance. She held out the letter again, and this time he took it as she added, “I also have research assignments to conduct ... in your archives.”

Again he said nothing, simply turning the sealed message under his gaze. His dark yellow eyes then shifted and locked on her. His expression altered in an instant with a welcoming nod and faint smile.

Wynn grew even more wary.

“Be sure to see Domin In-Ridge about a room assignment,” he said. “Have you eaten?”

In spite of that smile, his voice was still cold—and jarring for the abrupt change of topic. Why would he use the domin’s translated name, as if she wouldn’t understand his native one?

“Not yet, Premin,” she answered.

“Do so before making use of our archives. If initiates have cleared the meal, tell them I sent you. Something can be found in the kitchens.”

“Thank you, Premin.”

Wynn backed up two steps before turning.

There was nothing wrong with him that she could put a finger on. But she was eager to leave, and, hopefully, wouldn’t need to meet him again. As she passed through the archway and out of that chaotic chamber, she noticed that Shade hadn’t followed. Wynn glanced back.

Shade was the one staring this time—at Premin Gyâr. The premin watched her in turn, not a bit of shock or awe in his expression.

“Come, Shade,” Wynn whispered. “Time to eat.”

Shade turned, but not with any of her earlier urgency. Once they were back in the courtyard, Wynn took a deep breath, released it slowly, and put that odd encounter behind her.

Uncertain of her current position within the redwood citadel, she backtracked along the way she’d come. When she spotted a small group exiting into the courtyard, she grabbed the door to peek in. The meal hall waited inside, and Wynn felt a little more confident about finding her way around.

Better yet, the hall was almost empty.

Some dark bread, goat cheese, and late-season blackberries still graced the end of one table. Wynn made a beeline before someone cleared them away. Shade was satisfied with the bread and cheese. In the past she’d turned up her nose at anything baked, but these days, she’d even eat jerky and biscuits.

A few elven initiates looked at them—at Shade—but no one approached.

“Mind your manners,” Wynn said, breaking off more cheese for Shade.

Shade snapped and gulped and then whined for more, sniffing at the table’s edge.

“That’s enough for now,” Wynn said. “I need to find the archives.”

The courtyard door slammed open.

Wynn stiffened on the bench when Premin Gyâr strode in, his midnight blue robe swinging around his booted feet. Two young initiates sucked in audible breaths and scrambled out of sight. Gyâr’s gaze locked on Wynn, and her stomach knotted as he came straight at her.

“I am glad to have found you,” he said, and the calm in his voice belied the hostility in his eyes. “I have been informed of a change of circumstance. Our guild is preparing for a complete restructuring of the archives. The work begins sooner than anticipated.”

Wynn dropped a hunk of cheese on her plate.

“It is unfortunate that you traveled such a distance,” he continued. “At present, no one besides the archivists and their assistants will be allowed to enter. I do apologize.”

Wynn flushed cold with shock as she stood up and carefully asked, “How long will this restructuring take?”

“Indefinitely ... as it involves a great deal of work,” he answered, and turned immediately to leave.

Wynn was left standing there, staring after him. This was far worse than what had happened in Chathburh after she’d delivered the first message.

“I am in no hurry,” she called after Gyâr.

“Then your stay will be a long one,” he said, his back to her. “Of course, you are welcome to visit the public libraries in the branch’s lower levels.”

And he was gone.

Wynn was still numb, like the moment right after a sharp blow. It had never occurred to her that she’d be shut out. Not even her own superiors had gone that far. The frustration and the loss were overwhelming, and then shock burned away in anger.

What had that damned Sykion put in this message?

Wynn had sold a sacred cold lamp crystal for a more secretive passage than she’d told her superiors. Chane had suffered through the caravan ride to get here. Ore-Locks was still on her heels, trying to force her onward.

And she’d been locked out from afar by Sykion.

What was going on inside her own guild branch? It wasn’t enough for them to just get her out of their way for as long as possible, much as they’d connived to keep her connected to the guild and under watch. It now appeared she remained a sage in name only.

Shade rumbled softly.

Wynn wondered whether the dog reacted to Premin Gyâr’s demeanor or understood what had just occurred.

Two remaining initiates still stared at the courtyard door. They cast furtive glances at Wynn, as if she’d brought something fearful among them.

Wynn fled the meal hall, pulling Shade along. Once outside, she was panting in anger, frustration, and panic. This time the courtyard’s serenity didn’t help her. She wanted to hit something—or someone.

Had Sykion’s unknown warning been so dire that Gyâr had closed down the entire archives? It didn’t seem believable. Or were the archivists really engaged in such a vast reorganization while giving Gyâr a few moments’ notice? That was just as far-fetched.

The sound of shuffling footsteps and sloshing water barely cut through Wynn’s thoughts. A young initiate, perhaps fourteen, was hauling a bucket along the path in the other direction.

“Pardon,” Wynn called, hurrying after the girl. “Could you point me to the archives?”

The girl blinked. The question appeared to confuse her as she looked over Wynn’s gray robe. She pointed upward, above the courtyard.

“There,” she said.

Wynn peered up, trying to follow the girl’s finger. At a guess, the initiate pointed to one side of the redwood ring below one of its five spires.

“Thank you,” Wynn said. “Shade, come.”

They hurried around the courtyard’s perimeter, leaving the elven girl staring after them.

Wynn kept looking upward, trying to gauge when they were somewhere below where the girl had pointed. When she thought they were close, she went for the first door she saw. She and Shade slipped inside a chamber barely larger than an alcove. It emptied into a wide passage lined with more doors that ran along the middle of the redwood ring. Almost immediately, she heard raised voices.

Wynn followed the sound. She hurried into the passage, saw a branch that sloped upward, and scurried onward.

“What is the meaning of this?” someone shouted in Elvish, but he had a heavy Suman accent. “You have no authority over the archives! I was here this morning, and there was no indication that it would be closed.”

Wynn saw the top of a teal cowl over the passage’s rise and crept a little closer.

Two Suman conamologers in teal robes, one a middle-aged man with peppered black hair and another, perhaps a journeyor, were raising a fuss. To the passage’s left side stood a pair of armed patrollers, the Shé’ith. The first stood his place, staring ahead, as if the Suman sages no longer existed. He and his female counterpart blocked an opening.

Wynn shifted to the sloping passage’s right side for a better look. Beyond the patrollers, inside the opening, broad steps curled sharply upward through the structure like a spiral staircase. She couldn’t see where they led, but for an instant, she was distracted from the dispute.

There was no lockable door in the opening, as there were in the stairwells down to the archives of her branch. In part, that explained the presence of the Shé’ith, though she’d never heard of armed guards placed inside any guild branch. Even when the threat of the wraith had come to her branch, there were limits upon what Captain Rodian had been allowed to do with his city guard contingent.

“Apologies, sir,” the female patroller stated flatly. “The archives have been closed until further notice.”

“Where was the first notice?” the elder Suman sputtered. “I will speak to the Premin Council about this breach of interbranch protocol.”

The female patroller didn’t even blink. Her male counterpart was equally silent and expressionless. With no response from either Shé’ith, the Suman sages turned away. The younger one spotted Wynn as they passed.

“Do not bother,” he said in Numanese. “It would seem that not all sages have the full amenities in this branch.”

The elder was muttering angrily in Sumanese as they headed downward.

Wynn knew those two would get nowhere if Premin Gyâr had any say. And he did, as one of the Premin Council here, as well as sitting in for the high premin. Was there something happening here beyond just hampering her? It made Wynn wonder what else was in Sykion’s message.

Regardless, Wynn hadn’t come all this way for nothing. She had to gain access to the archives if there was any chance they held some long-forgotten mention of an ancient fallen seatt. But without the means to even look for such, what was she going to do?

Chuillyon had kept the same rooms at the guild for nearly sixty years, though in the last thirty, he hadn’t enjoyed them often. Most of his time was spent with the royal family in Calm Seatt, but he had no intention of ever giving up his quarters here. They suited him. Down in the earth beneath the base of the south spire—even beneath the giant roots of the redwood ring—he enjoyed nearly absolute peace and quiet.

Although his chambers in Calm Seatt’s third castle were lavish, he preferred this place. Every item here was carefully chosen for a balance between subtle elegance and a monastic simplicity. In the main room, the desk and a small table had been shaped into flowing bentwood curves. A few shéot’a cushions of plain forest colors softened three basic chairs of polished mahogany. His more private room was in the back, beyond a pale blue, curtained doorway. That space was filled with only a bed covered in a cream quilt of duller raw shéot’a, a wardrobe, a cushioned rocker to match his outer furniture, and a modest collection of favored texts. Oh, but there were a few little amusing toys from his youth, as well.

One small, carved scene, which could fit in his lap, had a twist crank in its bottom. When wound up, a woodsman hacked away at a tree until it toppled. The tree would bounce repeatedly off the woodsman’s head, pounding him into the ground like a peg until only his head peeked out.

Nature had a wicked wit.

This toy had been a gift in his boyhood from what humans would call a favorite aunt. If only she had known what mischievous notions it would inspire over a lifetime. If nothing else, Chuillyon loved his jests. Or perhaps that was his refuge against what he hated most: sadness. There had been too much of that.

He sat at his desk, awaiting two visitors, hoping they would bring him more news than he had gleaned for himself. Why had Wynn traveled all this way? What was she up to now?

“Chuillyon ... are you in?”

The deep voice was not one he had expected. He rose, stepping into the masoned passageway between the guild’s great roots.

“Premin?” he called back, glancing toward the stairwell leading upward.

“May I come down?”

“Please do.”

Despite knowing the caller, Chuillyon was perplexed at the sight of Premin Gyâr descending the stairs, bowing his head to avoid the ceiling. By necessity, they had been closely connected over the decades, but they did not visit each other’s private chambers.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Gyâr said.

To Chuillyon’s further surprise, his tone was almost apologetic—and quite out of character. Gyâr’s dark yellow eyes were troubled or angry, which was not out of character. A stray strand of light brown hair hung forward over one of his eyes, as if he was too distracted to notice it.

“What is wrong?” Chuillyon asked.

“A journeyor arrived from Calm Seatt with a message for the high premin.”

Chuillyon took a deep, slow breath. “You mean young Hygeorht?”

“You know her?”

“Yes. What has she done now?”

Gyâr took a folded paper from inside his dark robe. Its wax seal had been broken.

“High Premin Sykion of Calm Seatt sent this,” he said, holding it out.

Chuillyon hesitated. “What is it?”

“Read it.”

“Really,” Chuillyon scoffed. “Is all this drama necessary?”

But he took it just the same. It was double wrapped, and he unfolded both enveloping sheets to view the letter within.

Chuillyon stalled at the informal opening, but he read onward.

Chuillyon stared at the note’s end and grew suddenly anxious over what Gyâr had done. He lifted the letter to look at the two enveloping sheets. The outer with the broken wax seal was unmarked, but the inner was addressed only to T’ovar.

Chuillyon could barely catch his breath. “This is—”

“A personal letter, not a guild communication,” Gyâr finished.

The admission was not an explanation.

Chuillyon scanned the letter twice more, his thoughts turning over the varied truths and lies, as he knew them. Wynn was certainly in full possession of both her reason and her conscience, though she had a reckless penchant with information best kept secret. Now things were so much worse.

One high premin secretly asked another to cut off Wynn. One of the three who sat on the entire guild’s High Premin Council had stepped beyond protocol into personal manipulation and favors. Gyâr, in the absence of their own high premin, had illicitly intercepted that communication, suspect as it was, and taken action with his temporary authority.

A deceit wrapped in a collusion just to block the efforts of one young sage.

Chuillyon worried where this would lead the guild as a whole.

“T’ovar will know this was meant for her eyes,” he said.

Gyâr pulled the letter’s addressed inner wrap out of Chuillyon’s hand and slowly crumpled it into a ball.

Chuillyon shook his head in disbelief. If Gyâr thought that was enough to claim he had not known it was private before opening it ...

“I have closed the archives,” Gyâr said.

Chuillyon swallowed hard. This was not just about Wynn. Gyâr was using her as an excuse for something more.

“Considering your rare, present residency,” Gyâr went on, “I want your support to convince the council my decision was correct. T’ovar has longstanding doubts concerning the two human branches of our guild, but she has been too hesitant—”

“Fair-minded,” Chuillyon corrected.

Gyâr glared at him and continued. “Too overly empathetic where they are concerned.”

“Do not do this,” Chuillyon warned.

“You have expressed like concerns, as well. You know we must maintain safeguards and secrecy.”

“It is too far ... and too soon!”

“Better than too late.”

Gyâr paused for several breaths, perhaps trying to regain calm. Chuillyon had never been one to respond to a forceful persuasion.

“I cannot see how this journeyor ever came to even know of such writings,” Gyâr said, “much less try to access them. Sykion and Hawes have become lax in their protection of the recovered texts. For all of il’Sänke’s faults, at least he keeps his people under control.”

“Yes, he manages that,” Chuillyon returned dryly.

Either Gyâr ignored the sarcasm or he did not notice. Chuillyon had his own estimation of Domin Ghassan il’Sänke, and of the influence metaologers tried to wield in any of the guild branches.

“This will also cut off il’Sänke’s minion in that Suman contingent among us,” Gyâr added.

Chuillyon tried not to swallow, to sigh, or to wince as his peer, his superior, went on.

“If all is settled before T’ovar returns, she will not balk at what was done. It will simply be a relief that the decision was made, one that she’s put off time and again. May I count on you?”

Chuillyon knew things about Wynn Hygeorht that would drop Gyâr’s jaw. He had kept everything that had happened in Dhredze Seatt to himself. He had worked so hard to guide Malourné’s royal family, as had his subordinates assigned to the Numan nations and territories. It was a duplicitous game of aid balanced against subtle control, and he had fought to keep his superiors from taking things too far.

His life had been spent perched upon a pin tip, trying to keep any faction of a future alliance from trampling the others in blind panic. Now it appeared he had not paid enough attention to how easily someone closer at hand could suddenly flick that pin out from under him. And just as unexpected, it had come riding on the robed skirt of Wynn Hygeorht.

Chuillyon should have laughed at his own foolishness, for he had overlooked the most likely possibility. And now ...

“May I count on you?” Gyâr repeated pointedly.

Chuillyon looked his old comrade in the eyes and feigned a serene smile. “Always.”

“Good.” And Gyâr turned for the stairs. “I will convene the council first thing tomorrow morning.”

Chuillyon waited until the premin’s footsteps faded up the outer stairs. He then backed into his chamber, sank into a chair, and pressed his fingers to his mouth.

He could not openly oppose Gyâr and risk weakening his own position and the standing of his suborder within the Order of Metaology. His support had hastened Gyâr’s rapid rise to authority and, through the tall premin, he had often influenced the council to a degree. He had held off their suspicions, their fears concerning the humans and their two branches of the guild. All the while, he had labored carefully to retain faith in his counsel from all sides that would be needed one day. For even the Numans had their own doubts about his people, as well as one another’s nations.

Then Wynn Hygeorht returned with those ancient texts, still a secret to all but one nation among the Numans.

Everything was unraveling too quickly, and it had started from within the guild itself. He saw a day to come when he might be an enemy to all of the sides he had tried to hold together.

“Master?” a female voice called from above.

This was one he had been expecting, and he called out, “Yes, come.”

Two robed elves appeared at his chamber entrance. One was an overly slender young woman in a midnight blue robe, and her male companion wore white. Hannâschi and Shâodh—“Within a Consecrated Space” and “Care-Tender”—were among the few people he trusted. Or at least among those he trusted mostly, if not completely.

“What kept you?” Chuillyon asked.

Hannâschi bowed slightly. “We saw Premin Gyâr enter the stairwell and thought it best to wait.”

She was shorter than a human male, and so slender her closest friends sometimes called her Fohk’hannâ—a play on her name meaning “little female corn sprout.” Her hair was a deep shade of gold, and when uncoiled hung a ridiculous length down her back to her knees. She had overly expressive eyes, especially for a metaologer.

Chuillyon was unaffected by her lovely appearance, though it had proven useful more than once. The way she listened, as if with her whole being, loosened the stiffest of tongues. She was a good judge of character in general. And though she had no intention of ever leaving the main Order of Metaology, she had quickly attached herself to him more than to cold-blooded Gyâr. Chuillyon valued her for that, as well.

“Did he tell you he closed the archives?” Shâodh asked quietly.

“Yes ... he did,” Chuillyon answered, eyeing the rare journeyor among his own suborder.

Shâodh was a much different story from Hannâschi. His eyes were a bit small and closely set. Not exactly slender, he was tall enough to make it appear so, and stood a full head above his companion. Somewhat stoic and private, Shâodh disliked bothering with personal appearance. He kept his sandy hair cropped short.

“And?” Shâodh added. “How did you respond?”

He rarely spoke unless necessary. Bland as a river stone on the surface, he was intelligent, careful—one might say sly—and fiercely loyal to the Order of Chârmun. He was also ambitious and ethically pliable, but these characteristics had their uses.

“I will support Gyâr before the council gathering in the morning,” Chuillyon answered.

Shâodh’s brow puckered, the closest thing to dissatisfaction he would show a superior. Hannâschi’s slow shake of her head was more disapproving, a gesture that Gyâr would have considered insubordinate.

“Have you learned anything?” Chuillyon asked.

“The metaologer among the visiting Sumans gave them his room,” Hannâschi answered. “So far, only Journeyor Hygeorht and the majay-hì have ventured out.”

“Long enough to instigate closure of the archives,” Shâodh added flatly.

“So, how do we learn what she is after if she has no access?” Hannâschi asked. “She will not get past the Shé’ith, or not for long, even with her armed human and dwarven escorts. The black majay-hì is, of course, another matter.”

Chuillyon clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply through his long nose. Hannâschi was slightly tainted by her premin’s attitudes toward humans.

“She would never go that far,” he countered. “But you cannot imagine the lengths she will go, if given the slightest chance ... and a drop of assistance.”

Hannâschi cocked her head, and her voice took on a taint of suspicion. “Master ... you have something in mind.”

“I do.” Chuillyon smiled impishly. “With some simple thaumaturgical assistance.”

Hannâschi closed her eyes and slumped. “Oh ... not again.”

Shâodh was trying very hard not to smile.

Domin Ghassan il’Sänke stood near the bow of a Numan merchant vessel headed south along the coast. Harsh sea winds snapped his midnight blue robe as much as worries tugged his thoughts.

Before leaving Calm Seatt a day after Wynn Hygeorht had gone to the Dhredze Seatt, he had finished a more proper translation of fragments she had gleaned from Chane Andraso’s strange scroll. Of course, Ghassan had kept his own copy, but he had wrestled with how much of it, if any, he should leave for Wynn. In the end, he had given up trying to decide. At least in her undisciplined way, she had uncovered for him many things her Numan superiors could or would not. He prepared a letter and the translation, leaving both for her, if she returned home.

His forced exit from the Numan branch had come sooner than expected, and with too little gained. He had only one thick journal’s worth of surreptitious copies from whatever pieces of the ancient texts he had been allowed to work on or view. It was galling the way the Numan Premin Council, especially Sykion and her underling High-Tower, kept everything hidden away. Those texts should have been transferred to the Suman branch. Hints of the earliest assaults from the Ancient Enemy’s forces seemed to have come out of the great desert.

Even without such hints, Ghassan already had his reasons for both knowing and believing in which corner of the world the next war would begin. If he had been able to find those texts, he would have taken them at all costs. There was too much at stake not to do so. But nothing could be done for the moment.

Frustration left him anxious for his journey’s end. He had been away from his homeland and his guild branch for a long while. It would not be long now, maybe a few days more at best.

A sudden warmth built on his sternum.

Ghassan pressed his hand against the front folds of his robe. He glanced about the deck as he felt heat from the copper medallion he wore inside his robe. There were too many sailors close at hand.

Trying not to rush, he stepped down the forecastle’s ladder and headed belowdecks to his cabin. Once there, he settled on the bunk’s edge, pulled out the medallion, and let it rest upon his palm. He closed his eyes, waiting.

A voice rose in his mind, dull at first, but sharpening as he fixed his will upon it.

Master?

Yes, Mujahid, he answered.

She is here. I do not know how or why, or how you knew ... but she arrived last night.

Indeed, Ghassan had half expected this, for he knew her general location. He had his own way of tracking Wynn, one she would never suspect. As long as she carried the staff, he would know her whereabouts by direction and approximate distance. He could always find the staff with his mind if he focused. He had helped to make the crystal and imbued it with a fragment of his will.

Ghassan knew Wynn had left the Numan branch of the guild, traveling south at first. Much later she had turned east. He had never been completely certain where she headed, but the direction pointed toward very few places she might go. It was pure chance that Mujahid had been on assignment at the Lhoin’na branch. Ghassan had notified the young journeyor under his tutelage, who was also a prime future candidate for his inner sect.

Was she alone or with others? he finally asked.

Three companions. A tall human male, a male dwarf, and a wolf ... or what the Lhoin’na call—

A dwarf?

Yes, Domin, but I know nothing about him as yet.

Ghassan moved on to details over which he had more control. Is the human called Chane?

Yes.

This troubled Ghassan deeply. Wynn Hygeorht’s choice of companions had always been a concern and an unpredictable influence. How in all of Existence had Chane Andraso walked into the Lhoin’na forest?

Do not allow yourself to be alone with that one, Ghassan warned, and then paused in thought. Do you know why Wynn is there?

Not yet, but ... the Lhoin’na Premin Council has shut the archives.

What? Why?

The territorial Shé’ith—their Serenitiers—guard all entrances rather than sages. Domin Safir and Journey or Marwan were physically barred from entering.

This was too much, so drastic it could not be about Wynn alone. No branch dared deny access to ranking sages from another branch, at least not in such an obvious way. Something else was happening in the upper ranks of elven sages.

They claimed it is for restructuring, Mujahid went on, but I have not seen one archivist or assistant enter access points that I have watched. Only once did anyone pass the guards ... only premins.

Ghassan had no notion of what purpose this severe action served or what had caused it.

When did this happen?

Mujahid paused before answering. I took Journeyor Hygeorht to see Premin Gyâr, as she had an official communication for High Premin T’ovar, who is not present. I left her there, as I did not think it pertinent.

Likely neither had Wynn. Ghassan’s suspicions were already working. There was little chance to learn what that letter contained, but it must have come from the Numan Premin Council if it was for T’ovar—perhaps directly from Sykion. Was there something developing between the Lhoin’na and Numan sages? If so, would they leave Ghassan’s own branch out?

Domin ... how am I to continue if I cannot access the archives?

Ghassan slouched upon the bunk’s edge. Mujahid’s assignment was critical, but more critical was why Wynn had shown up at the Lhoin’na branch. Likely she sought those same archives for good reason, but the message she had brought had cut off both her and Mujahid.

What should I do? Mujahid asked.

Keep me appraised of Journeyor Hygeorht’s activities. Without access to search for what we need, you will continue reporting to me, and only to me, so long as your group remains there. You will report anything you learn concerning the Lhoin’na Premin Council.

Yes, Domin.

And especially, Ghassan added, everything you can learn concerning Premin Gyâr.

Mujahid fell silent.

Is there a problem?

The journeyor of Metaology did not answer immediately. When he did, Ghassan felt the trepidation carried by two words.

No, Domin.

Ghassan let the medallion fall against his chest and sat silent.

Mujahid was frightened of Gyâr, as he should be, though there was no real danger. The Lhoin’na premin of Metaologers was manipulative, ambitious, cold, and cunning, and a bigot. But Gyâr would never overstep guild protocols too far if he caught a “foreign” journeyor snooping about.

Ghassan tucked away the medallion and returned to the open deck. He leaned over the rail, looking ahead for any sign of a harbor along the coastline. As yet, there were none, and he traipsed back toward the aftcastle.

“Captain,” Ghassan called out. “Please make landfall at the first opportunity. I must disembark.”