Of Truth and Beasts

Chapter 3

The following afternoon, Wynn sat in a deep alcove of the archives with Shade on the floor beside her. She was searching for anything to help locate Bäalâle Seatt, but her efforts gained her little.

She’d found an older map of the western Numan lands, all the way to the Rädärsherând, the “Sky-Cutter” mountain range blocking the southern desert and Suman Empire beyond. Paging through a sheaf of obscure dwarven ballads, she found one that mentioned something called the gí’uyllœ. It didn’t pertain to what she was after, but stuck in her head just the same.

The dialect was so old that the meaning was only a guess—something like “all-eater(s)” or “all-consumer(s).” At first, it seemed some ancient reference to goblins, but the verse hinted at massive size.

Wynn tried to keep sharply focused, but her thoughts kept wandering.

Last night, Chane had acted more strangely than ever when he’d finally arrived. He’d paced about, barely speaking to her. When she’d asked him again what was wrong, he wouldn’t answer. She’d tried talking to him, but pushing him harder seemed to make things worse. And for the first time, he hadn’t mentioned the wraith—Sau’ilahk—even once. After only a few moments, he’d left early on more errands.

So what had he been worried about?

Wynn felt quite alone in the world except for Shade and Chane, but he was making her nervous about the journey ahead.

Shade’s ears suddenly perked. She raised her head to peer at the alcove’s archway.

“What is it?” Wynn asked, looking up. Then she heard shuffling footsteps.

“Young Hygeorht?” a reedy voice called.

“Here,” she called back.

Light grew upon the shelves outside the archway, and Master Tärpodious shuffled into view in his sagging, old gray robe. As someone who rarely ventured into the light of day, Tärpodious’s wrinkled skin looked almost pallid. With a glimmering cold lamp in his boney hand, the effect was even starker, like an apparition gliding through a dark, abandoned library. He blinked at her, his milky eyes enlarged by his oversized spectacles.

“Ah, there you are,” he said.

Wynn stood up. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, just an initiate down with a message. High-Tower wants to see you in his study.”

A hollow formed in Wynn’s stomach. Had the council finally made its decision? She glanced at the stacks of books and sheaves on the small table.

“I’ll see to those,” Tärpodious said, voice crackling like rumpled paper. “Don’t keep High-Tower waiting.... He might swallow his own tongue.”

Wynn half smiled at his jest and gathered up her journal, quill, and cold lamp.

“Did the initiate say anything else?” she asked.

“No, just to go straightaway.” Tärpodious began pushing sheets back into a sheaf. “Off with you.”

She nodded and headed out with Shade. The prospect of a private meeting with High-Tower wasn’t attractive, but perhaps the stalemate with the council had finally ended—one way or another.

Crossing the old archivist’s entry chamber, Wynn reached the stairs before Shade and hiked her robe’s hem as she hurried upward. The stairs actually ended at the base of the northern tower, where High-Tower’s study was two levels up the next spiraling staircase. She stopped at the landing before his door, all the more anxious over what he would say. Her entire future could be decided within moments.

Shade whined.

“I know,” Wynn said, and, unable to hesitate any longer, she knocked.

“Come,” someone called in a deep voice.

Wynn opened the door. She’d expected to find him at his desk, but he stood before one of the narrow window slits in the nearer stone wall. His massive bulk blocked most of late afternoon’s light. She’d learned basic Dwarvish under his tutelage, and he had been fond of her ... once. Now, the only emotion left between them was a constant exchange of suspicion, if not open animosity.

“You asked for me?” she said, stepping inside. Shade followed, and Wynn closed the door.

Without a glance in her direction, High-Tower headed to his desk and picked up what looked like two wax-sealed, folded parchments.

“The council is sending you south,” he said, his voice more gravelly than usual. “You’ll deliver two messages along the way.”

Wynn’s small mouth parted, but she was too stunned to speak, and High-Tower went on.

“One is for Domin Yand of the small annex at Chathburh ... the other is for High Premin T’ovar of the Lhoin’na branch—immediately upon your arrival there.”

“Messages?” she repeated.

The council hadn’t simply granted her request; they were giving her two tasks.

“I’ve booked passage for you,” he went on, “and the majay-hì and your ... companion. A Numan merchant vessel is bound for Chathburh. From there, you’ll travel inland, south to the northern tip of the Lhoin’na lands. Stay inside their forests all the way to a’Ghràihlôn’na, their southern capital.”

“Inland ... from Chathburh?” Wynn asked.

Regional maps were fresh in her mind. If she disembarked at Chathburh, she’d be forced to cross most of Witeny and the Tillan Ridge at its southern border. The overland trip alone would take several moons, barring complications from oncoming winter and delays in the sea voyage.

The council wanted to be rid of her all right, and for as long as possible. But the delay to her destination was unacceptable.

“It’s faster to continue by sea,” she said. “I can make port farther south at Drist and bypass the Tillan Ridge.”

High-Tower’s complexion reddened like a slowly heated fire iron.

“A cesspit like Drist is no place for a sage!” he sputtered. “The last thing we need is you getting your throat cut in broad daylight or ending up on some slaver’s vessel. Your request was approved, even funded ... and you still question duty and common sense?”

Wynn hesitated. She couldn’t lose what little ground she’d gained.

“Are you refusing the council’s orders?” he demanded.

“Of course not. I was just suggesting a quicker route between both destinations.”

High-Tower calmed slightly. “Traveling through Witeny is safer.”

You mean longer, Wynn thought, but said, “Yes, certainly.”

Stepping forward, she took the letters from him.

“And the funding for food and lodging?” she asked. “And possibly horses in Chathburh ... if I’m to cross half of Witeny.”

High-Tower grunted, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a small pouch.

“This should suffice, if you are frugal.” Then he dug in his robe’s outer pocket and handed over a folded slip of millet paper. “A voucher for your return passage from Chathburh. Any Numan vessel will honor the guild seal, possibly even some Suman, but stay off vessels coming out of the free ports ... like Drist!”

She took the voucher and the pouch. By its weight, the council hadn’t given her much for anything but basic needs. Certainly it wouldn’t be enough for further sea passage, but it didn’t matter. In truth, this was more than she’d dared hope: guild approval and some financial assistance. Once she was out of their sight, there were other options to consider.

“I’ll deliver both messages,” she said, and turned away without thanking him.

“Wynn ... ?”

She slowed to glance back, and he looked uncomfortable, as if he had something to ask that was difficult to get out. She offered him no help and stood waiting.

“Have you,” he started, and then paused. “Ore-Locks has not been seen since you left Dhredze Seatt. Do you know of his whereabouts?”

Another strange state of events in an odd maze of connections—Ore-Locks was Domin High-Tower’s brother. But why in the world would he think she knew anything of Ore-Locks?

“No,” she lied.

Her response had nothing to do with loyalty. She didn’t want anything to do with Ore-Locks, but she wasn’t about to give High-Tower any more information than she had to.

He kept studying her, perhaps uncertain if he believed her or not, then scowled and looked away.

“Then go. I am sick to death of your deceptions.”

This was the last thing he should’ve ever said to her.

“My deceptions?” she returned. “While I was trying to keep sages from dying in the streets, you swore to show me all the translations and the codex. But it was Master Cinder-Shard who gave me access to the texts—all of them—while I was with the Stonewalkers.”

“You mean you gave him no choice, considering what followed you there! You used that to get what you wanted in the first place!”

His face resembled a dull beet, likely at the thought that she’d once more gotten around him and the guild.

“I saw the second codex,” she said, her voice rising. “The one you wrote and kept from me, along with any texts or translations not listed in the first one! Or did you and Premin Sykion keep it from others, as well? Don’t you lecture me about deception.”

He uttered no further counter, for what could he have said? He had lied to her. They’d all deceived her, holding back anything they could.

“And what of your tall companion?” High-Tower asked.

The shift threw Wynn off. “What about him?”

Chane had kept to himself here. No one could say he’d been any kind of inconvenience.

High-Tower rounded the desk an instant after Shade began growling in warning. He slowed, though he didn’t glance once at Shade.

“Your friend left a little something behind when you were all thrown out of the seatt,” he said. “A shirvêsh at the temple was cleaning his room. What use would he have for a large urn full of blood?”

Wynn went still. She’d arranged for the goat’s blood so Chane could feed. The fact that she’d forgotten about the urn—and it had been found—should’ve been the first thing to fear. But it wasn’t.

“Full?” she repeated without thinking.

High-Tower’s eyes narrowed.

It was too late to cover her slip, though he wouldn’t understand her exact meaning.

“Yes, full,” he repeated.

High-Tower was the enemy here, not Chane.

“It was probably for some dish from his homeland,” she lied, shrugging. “I saw his people make blood puddings and sausages, just the same as yours. We were in a seatt, after all.”

She tried hard to be outwardly disdainful as she turned for the door and gripped its handle. After a slow breath, she glanced back. “When does our ship leave?”

“Tomorrow. At dusk.”

They weren’t giving her much time, but sooner was better, especially now.

Opening the door, Wynn stepped out, and she jumped at a flash of brown in the corner of her sight.

Regina Melliny’s bony form stood just behind the opened door. Shade pushed past, bumping Wynn against the doorframe, and Regina instantly backed away.

“What are you doing here?” Wynn asked.

Regina was an apprentice in the Order of Naturology, and she’d recently made Wynn’s life miserable. No doubt the nickname of “Witless” Wynn had been Regina’s doing.

“As if that’s any of your business,” Regina answered haughtily, but with a nervous twitch of her eyes toward Shade.

“But it is mine, apprentice,” High-Tower growled, his voice close behind Wynn.

Regina’s gaze shifted as the venom drained from her expression.

“I was just ... I was up above,” she faltered, “taking my study time on the tower roof, sir.”

“In late autumn?” High-Tower asked. “Not wise or healthy ... Miss Melliny.”

That he hadn’t called her “apprentice” this time didn’t escape Wynn’s notice—or Regina’s. It was clearly a warning. Regina spun and scurried down the tower’s stairwell.

“Off with you, as well,” High-Tower said, his voice now somewhere farther across the study.

Wynn shut the door without looking back. She had no time for Regina’s spiteful antics. But High-Tower’s mention of the urn—the full urn—still confused her. She started down the stairs with Shade, but by the time they reached the bottom, she’d begun worrying more about money.

There wouldn’t be enough for anything other than what the council had planned for her, and she didn’t possess anything worth selling. Did Chane? Even so, they had little time to go off bartering his possessions. So how could she get more coin or something worth selling later?

An awful notion occurred to Wynn. It was almost sacrilegious, but it was all she could think of for the best profit anywhere, at any time.

She and Shade passed quickly through the main floor and out into the courtyard. The sun hadn’t yet dipped, and she looked toward the northwest building, the one with Chane’s guest quarters.

And below that were the guild’s laboratories.

“Come on, Shade,” Wynn said. “One more stop before supper.”

Chuillyon’s white robe swished about his felt boots as he strolled through an open archway and into the royal castle’s manicured garden copse.

The second and final loss of Prince Freädherich Âreskynna still weighed heavily upon him, as well as the renewed grief of the prince’s wife, Duchess Reine. There had been little he could do to console her or himself.

With his cowl down, a chill shift of air blew his faded and streaked golden brown locks across his narrow mouth. Prominent creases lined the corners of his large amber eyes set around a narrow nose a bit long, even for an elf.

Late autumn, when fiery colors began to fade and fall, was to him the saddest time of each year, making his mood much worse. He did not like it. Even the wispy white of snow and glistening icicles were better than this. He strolled on through hedges and past one rose bush still bearing dead buds that would never birth light blue petals before winter came. The royal family always preferred blues and aquamarines.

The garden was empty, with no sign of the one he had come here to meet in private.

Nearly four centuries past, before Calm Seatt could truly be called a city, the first of the Âreskynna, rulers of Malourné, had resided in a much smaller castle. In a few more generations, they had embarked on plans for a new and greater residence. The royal family moved in, and the first castle became the barracks for the nation’s armed forces. Two centuries more, and Queen Âlfwine II—the “Elf Friend”—desired something new yet again. Scholars thought she had preferred a more lavish residence, suitable for a monarch. Others claimed that like her descendants, she hungered for a view of the bay.

To Chuillyon, the latter was obviously correct. Any in the bloodline of the Âreskynna—Kin of the Ocean Waves—had always shown strange affinities for the open sea.

Âlfwine II oversaw designs of this very castle. The nation’s armed forces, including the newly established city guard contingent, moved to the vacated second one. The first castle, by far the oldest and smallest, was given over to the Guild of Sagecraft. Or, rather, to its founding Numan branch.

It had been long years, decades that Chuillyon served discreetly as counselor to the Âreskynna. He spent so much time here as to have rooms of his own. But he preferred this garden, even in the sadness of late autumn ... and what had come to pass in Dhredze Seatt.

He strolled among elaborate obelisk trellises of thinning ivy and between sculpted evergreens and half-denuded oaks and maple trees.

“Psssst! Here, sir!”

Chuillyon slowed at that too-loud whisper, took a deep breath, and assumed his most serene demeanor. This was not a meeting he relished, but it was necessary all the same. He turned slowly, facing a large myrtle shrub clipped into the form of a conch shell. A flash of brown slipped around it, and a bony girl in a brown robe stepped into view.

Regina Melliny bowed briefly, too much eagerness in her small human eyes.

“I have heard that your Premin Council held a short private meeting today,” he said. “Was there anything of import?”

She looked him over, trying to be proper, but the more she tried to hide her glee, the more obvious it became. She knew nothing of his true position or the reach of his influence—only that he served the royal family. And the Âreskynna held sway and favor with the guild.

“Wynn Hygeorht leaves tomorrow night,” she said.

“Leaves?” he returned, and then waved her to silence before she confirmed it.

He had hoped Wynn might stay put, at least long enough that preparations could be made.

Chuillyon suppressed disdain at Regina’s lust for his favor. He had spotted her one day while visiting the guild with Duchess Reine. By her frustrated and spiteful demeanor, he had instantly spotted a pair of willing eyes within the guild’s Numan branch. Arranging a quiet chat with her had been effortless.

“Continue,” he said.

Regina stepped forward, nervously smoothing the front of her brown robe.

“The council approved her request. As always, they give her anything she wants.”

Chuillyon made an effort to remain passive. This petty young woman would never attain journeyor status on her own merits.

“Where is she going?” he asked softly.

“South, to Chathburh, and then inland across Witeny ... to your guild branch.”

“To the Lhoin’na?”

“That’s what she wants. She’s been begging for it since she got back from Dhredze Seatt. As I said, they give her whatever she wants ... or she pesters them until they do.”

“Why does she wish to visit the guild’s elven branch?”

Regina shrugged. “Who knows? She may act deranged, but no doubt she’s up to something. She thinks she’s better than anyone because she tripped over a pile of old books halfway across the world.”

The girl’s endless spite again wore on Chuillyon. “She gave no clear reason for this journey?”

Regina shook her head. “But she’s to take a message to Domin Yand at the Chathburh annex ... and then one to your branch and High Premin To . . tov ...”

“Yes, I understand,” Chuillyon cut in before the girl butchered the name or his people’s language.

His mischievous nature sank like a log under troubled water.

Wynn was not whimsical. She always had reason for whatever she did, and was methodical, even if reckless. But why had the Numan sages’ council given her the pretense of messenger duty?

“This is what you wanted, yes?” Regina asked. “I tell you what she’s up to, what I can ... and you speak to Premin Adlam for me? I’m ready for a journeyor’s duties. I have been for more than a year! Please make him see this.”

Her desperation haunted Chuillyon, much as it made her useful. Looking into her hungry eyes, he saw no readiness. Doing as she asked would be no true favor. It would only send her to a harder fall.

“Of course. Soon,” he assured. “You have been most helpful, apprentice.”

Regina took a deep breath of relief and triumph. “Good. I mean, thank you ... sir,” and she backed away.

“And to you, apprentice.”

Before he turned away, her high brow furrowed. “Sir ... I know Premin Adlam and some others treat you as a sage, but I don’t know of any others who wear white robes. I don’t even know how to refer to you properly ... by our ranks.”

“It is complicated,” he answered softly, “and I have an urgent task to attend. If you would not mind, perhaps another time?”

That “other time” would never come for her.

He did not watch her leave. Instead, he walked on through the remainder of the obelisk trellises nearly barren but for brittle vines. Wynn Hygeorht had requested to go to his own guild branch. But why? She sought portents of the returning enemy and the prospect of another great war. In that, she knew almost as much as her superiors. It was quite surprising how far she had foraged, regardless of all obstacles. Even he was impressed.

But too many secrets—that should be left buried—had long been hidden in the forests of the Lhoin’na. Some he could not let Wynn Hygeorht root out, but others ...

Such a precocious little human, aside from her growing skills as a sage, and even just thinking of her actually made Chuillyon smile. He could not help it.

There was a time, perhaps fifty years ago, when he would’ve found even greater delight in her exploits and antics. Perhaps he might have joined her, just for the surprises along the way.

Oh yes, he would have joined her, but these were not those days. He needed to remain apart and alone—in preparation for what was to come. That thought took away his smile.

Chuillyon pressed on, entering a small, manicured clearing with but one barren tree at its center. From anywhere else in the garden, it was always hidden from sight. It was not shaped like a typical tall and straight ash. From its thick trunk, stout branches curved and wound and divided up into the night. Even that might not be noticed at first.

Leafless and barkless—yet alive—a soft, golden glow emanated from its fine-grained, tawny wood to dimly light the clearing. It glistened, from its wide-reaching roots creating lumps in the earth to its thick and pale yellow trunk and limbs.

“Not so soon, I beg,” he whispered, as if to that tree—or perhaps something greater that it represented. “A little more time ... it is not so much to ask.”

Chuillyon stepped into the reach of the tree’s glow. A little of his sadness washed away, but not enough.

Wynn stood hesitantly outside the iron door of Premin Hawes’s study.

Before coming here, she’d stopped by her own room and put her things away. In recent times, she’d justified some astonishing betrayals for the sake of a higher purpose. But what she was about to do felt extreme, even to her. Taking a deep breath, she knocked.

“Yes?” a voice called from inside.

“It’s Journeyor Hygeorht,” she answered. “May I come in?”

No one responded, but barely a pause passed before the door opened.

Premin Hawes looked out, her normally flat, cold expression betraying a hint of surprise. She glanced briefly at Shade.

“I assumed you would be preparing for your trip,” she said.

“Yes, that’s why I needed to see you. I have a confession to make.”

“A confession? I’m neither the premin nor a domin of your order. Why me?”

“Because ...” Wynn forced her voice into a contrite, distressed tone. “Because I lost my cold lamp crystal at Dhredze Seatt.”

A frown hardened Premin Hawes’s hazel eyes.

For a sage, this was an egregious oversight. Only those who reached journeyor status were given a crystal of their own as a mark of rank, achievement, and a presumed life devoted to the guild—to sagecraft itself.

“I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone,” Wynn rushed on. “So much had happened. My belongings were confiscated several times. I’m not even certain when or how it went missing.”

The premin’s frown deepened.

“Please don’t lecture me,” Wynn begged. “I feel terrible as it is, but I’m heading south tomorrow.” She paused, as if grief stricken. “I need a replacement ... to prove my status at the Lhoin’na branch.”

Hawes seemed about to speak but didn’t. The disapproval on her narrow face shifted to something more guarded and passive.

“Haven’t you been down in the archives?” she asked. “How were you studying without your crystal?”

Wynn swallowed hard. “Master Tärpodious took pity on me. He loaned me one reserved for apprentices approved to work in the catacombs.”

It was plausible, and hopefully Hawes wouldn’t check—at least not before Wynn was long gone.

Premin Hawes stepped forward so steadily that Wynn backpedaled out of the way. Shade was forced to retreat, and hit her rump against the passage’s other side.

“Come with me,” Hawes said.

She glided down to the middle iron door on the northward side. Just as Wynn caught up, the premin touched the tips of her narrow fingers against the door right where there should’ve been a lock. She closed them like a pincer.

The door’s iron bulged between her fingers and thumb.

A palm-sized disk formed out of the iron between the premin’s fingertips.

Wynn knew—everyone here knew—that the iron doors of the laboratories had been fashioned decades ago to be as impenetrable as possible. But in all her life, she’d never seen how they opened.

Hawes rotated her hand with a whisper, though the disk didn’t turn. Her delicate fingertips slid smoothly along the disk’s edge, and then she flattened her palm against it. The disk sank, vanishing flush into the iron.

With one quick twist of the handle, Premin Hawes pushed the door open.

“Wait here,” she commanded.

Wynn was still staring as the premin disappeared inside, closing the door to the barest crack. Again she wondered at Hawes’s skills compared to Domin il’Sänke’s dismissive comments. She didn’t have long for those thoughts.

Narrow fingers curled out around the door’s open edge.

Premin Hawes pulled it partly inward and stood blocking Wynn’s sight of the inner room. From behind her back, she held out one perfectly formed cold lamp crystal.

Wynn’s breath of relief was genuine as she took it. “Thank you ... thank you so much!”

With a respectful nod, she turned off down the passage. Shade scurried ahead in a clatter of claws on stone, quite eager to leave.

“Wynn.”

That one word made her flinch to a stumbling stop and turn.

Premin Hawes came down the passage in that glide that barely moved her robe. When she halted an arm’s length away, her hazel eyes never blinking, a tense moment followed that Wynn would never forget.

The premin held up another cold lamp crystal, as pure as the last.

Wynn stared dumbly at it, unable to move, until the premin snatched Wynn’s hand holding the first crystal. Shade only let out a half snarl before swallowing audibly. The premin opened Wynn’s hand with her own thumb and placed the second crystal beside the first in Wynn’s palm.

Wynn studied the pair, her thoughts utterly blank. When she finally looked up, Premin Hawes had turned away down the passage.

“In case your misfortunes continue,” the premin said evenly, “and you ... lose the first one.”

Frideswida Hawes turned into her study. The last iron door on the right shut with a clang that echoed down the passageway.

Wynn stood frozen. Had the premin of metaology known what she was up to? If so, how did she know?

Chane, lying on the bed in his guest quarters, opened his eyes to darkness. He sat up, fingering the brass ring still on his finger from last night’s foray into the city.

Climbing out of bed, he walked out of the bedchamber and into the study. Dusk’s tinted residue of light filtered through the canvas curtains beyond the desk, filling the room with enough for his night sight. As he glanced down toward the desk, the first thing he saw was one of Wynn’s journals. He looked away.

He had slept in his breeches and shirt. Both were now quite wrinkled, and he started back for the bedroom to change before meeting Wynn. His attention lit upon a recently added item among his scattered belongings on the desk.

The paper-wrapped package’s twine binding was already severed. He had checked the contents last night upon finding it left outside his guest quarters’ door. This was the final item of his secret needs before the journey could begin, and the sages had not supplied it. He had arranged to have it made in the city.

He grabbed the package, paper crinkling in his grip, and headed into the bedroom. Setting it atop the piled cloak, scarf, and gloves, he slowly opened the paper to stare once again at its content.

Thick but pliant, the shaped leather had laces on either side, with two openings set high and parallel. Chane lifted it to his face, aligning the holes with his eyes as he looked into the mirror. It was exactly as he had specified, spreading back to his ears, halfway across his scalp, and under his chin to his throat. But even he could not deny what it looked like....

An executioner’s mask.

Chane quickly lowered and rewrapped it in the paper, hiding it away in a dresser drawer. He now possessed everything he required, though he had yet to reveal his purpose to Wynn. He would have to let that wait until there was no time left for her to escape him. The night before they planned to leave would be best.

After pulling on a fresh shirt and his boots, he ran his fingers through his hair, though his hand was shaking when it came down. He left the room, locked the door, pocketed the key, and quickstepped all the way to the inner courtyard. Trying to wipe his thoughts clean, he was distracted as he approached the southeast dormitory.

Young voices rose on the entry door’s other side, but he did not truly hear them.

“You don’t know that, Kyne!” said one.

“It’s just a wolf,” said another. “A big one ... but just a wolf.”

“No, it isn’t!” shouted a third, a girl. “It’s a majay-hì!”

Chane was in no mood for nonsense. He reached for the latch, but the door suddenly swung open. The iron handle cracked against his fingers, and he lurched aside as the door struck his elbow and shoulder.

Three small forms in tan robes boiled out of the opened door.

“There’s no such thing,” grumbled one pudgy boy.

“I looked it up in the library!” a girl about eleven or twelve shouted back.

“Oh, pish!” grumbled a second, gangly, red-haired boy.

“Just because you two can’t read Begaine doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” the girl insisted.

And the pudgy one wrinkled his face in a pout.

“What do you think you are doing?” Chane snapped.

At his sharp, nearly voiceless rasp, all three initiates sucked in a breath. The girl’s eyes widened until the whites showed all around, and she stared up—and up—at Chane.

“Oh ... I’m ...” she stammered. “I’m ... I’m so sorry, sir.”

Her little nose and ivory cheeks were smattered with faint freckles. Two equal braids held back her dark blond hair. She looked nothing like Wynn; acted nothing like a sage. None of them did.

Chane felt the beast stir within him.

He could not see a possible hope that such whelps would ever understand what it meant to be a sage. He hung there, glaring down at them, until they began inching together, clustered yet unable to take their frightened eyes off him. How had these things, these calves of the human cattle, ever been allowed inside this place?

Chane jerked the door wide, sending the trio scurrying out of his way and running for the keep’s main doors. He was still shuddering as he headed up the stairs for Wynn’s room.

Even within the guild, there were those who did not matter, who did not belong.

Wynn sat at her desk, making a list of things to gather and tasks to complete before embarking tomorrow night. Shade lounged on the bed, her crystal blue eyes half open, but the dog seemed to be watching intently.

A knock sounded at the door.

“I am here,” Chane rasped from outside.

Wynn paused. He sounded sharp, almost loud, even for his limited voice.

“It’s open,” she answered.

Chane stepped in and shut the door. As was his habit, he wore a white shirt, black breeches, and high boots—simple attire, like that of the young nobleman he’d once been. She studied his face, looking to see if he appeared hungry or weak. He just looked disturbed.

If he hadn’t consumed the blood in the urn, what had he fed on while they were at the seatt? What had he been feeding on since? She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

“We’re leaving tomorrow night,” she said. “We have passage on a ship to Chathburh.”

Chane straightened. “Tomorrow?”

Wynn touched the two sealed letters behind the pouch of coins.

“They gave me a supposed mission to deliver these. More likely they want me gone straight off and for as long as possible, where they think I’ll do no harm. I’ll need any of my journals you still have, and the rest of the supplies you’ve been buying, so we can go through this final checklist.”

She held up her list, but he barely glanced at it.

“It is too soon,” he whispered. “I am not ready.”

Wynn turned in her chair to fully face him. “I thought you’d be relieved. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

“Yes, but ...”

He paced the length of her room, a mere four steps. When he stopped, he stared at her staff in the corner beyond the door. Its sun crystal was fully sheathed, but that was the part his eyes locked upon.

“Get your cloak, your glasses, and the staff,” he commanded. “Come with me.... But Shade stays here.”

Shade lifted her head from the bed’s blankets and growled.

In all the time Wynn had known Chane, he’d never ordered her to do anything, at least not like this. He looked openly angry now, as if expecting her to argue.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked.

“Just do it!”

Wynn crossed her arms and didn’t even get up. Chane looked away, anxious, almost defeated.

“Please,” he whispered. “Leave Shade here.” Something in Chane’s pleading voice pulled at Wynn. Maybe if she did as he asked, he’d finally tell her what was wrong. With a sigh, she pulled her cloak off the chair and got up.

The glasses were always in her robe’s pocket these days, and she stepped around Chane to retrieve her staff. An instant of relief flooding his pale face was alarming.

She glanced toward Shade. “Stay.”

Shade jumped off the bed, snarling.

“Stay,” Wynn said more firmly, pulling the door open.

Shade rushed in and slammed headfirst into door. It closed with a loud bang as the dog backed up. Her snarls turned into a rolling growl.

A short wrestling match followed in which Wynn held the dog back while Chane stepped out. Wynn quickly slipped out after jerking her robe’s skirt out of Shade’s teeth, and Chane pulled the door closed. Shade immediately began howling, barking, and snarling.

“Stop,” Wynn called through the door. “Or you’ll have a crowd of apprentices come running. We’ll be back soon.”

Wynn motioned Chane onward, hoping Shade would quiet down once they were gone—although she had no idea where they were going.

Chane was silent all the way to the courtyard. He headed straight across for the northwest building that contained his quarters. Confused, Wynn followed, but he stopped her at the door. When he looked down at her, she almost backed up.

His irises had turned clear and colorless, as they did when his undead nature fully manifested itself.

“Wait here,” he said. “I will return shortly.”

Chane’s voice was as cold as his irises, and he slipped inside.

His erratic mood shifts sometimes left Wynn unsettled, but she waited, shivering a few times in the chill night air. True to his word, Chane reemerged shortly, wearing a forest green cloak with the hood up. She’d never seen it before. A matching scarf was wrapped multiple times about his neck, leaving only his hood-shadowed face exposed. He wore new, fitted calfskin gloves, suggesting they’d been custom made.

Chane didn’t need protection from the cold.

“What’s all this for?” Wynn asked.

He didn’t answer. Then she noticed a scrunched bulk of leather in his right hand. Two laces dangled from his curled fingers along with the strings of a brown felt pouch.

“This way,” he said, and headed for the gatehouse tunnel. As he turned, the side of his cloak wafted open.

The hilt of his new sword protruded above his hip, its mottled dwarven blade now couched in a new sheath. He never walked the guild grounds while armed, as it was considered poor manners.

“Chane ... ?” Wynn called, but he strode away, and she had to trot to keep up.

When he exited the tunnel, he didn’t go on to the bailey gate, but turned left into the inner bailey. They’d nearly reached the barren trees and garden below the southern tower when Wynn got fed up.

“Chane, what is going on?”

He turned to face her. Without answering, he jerked the leather sheath off her staff with his free hand, exposing the sun crystal’s long prisms.

Wynn stepped back in alarm, catching the crystal’s sheath as he tossed it at her.

“Give me your glasses,” he said, fiddling with the pouch he carried.

“First you tell me what we’re—” She stopped.

Chane held up another pair of glasses like her own. These were smaller, with delicate arms curved at the ends.

“Made for you,” he said. “Put them on, and give me your old ones.”

Confused but curious, Wynn pulled out the glasses made by Domin il’Sänke and handed them over. The lenses were clear, designed to go dark only when struck with harsh light. They allowed her to see when the sun crystal ignited.

Chane took them, shoving the new ones into her hand.

Wynn hooked their thin arms around her ears. They fit snuggly and did not shift like the old ones.

“Better,” she commented, adjusting them on her small nose. “What made you think to have them made?”

But Chane was off again.

Wynn glanced at her staff’s crystal in puzzlement and had to hurry. She’d barely caught up as he rounded the southern tower and stopped. He looked up once, and Wynn did so, as well. All the windows in the tower were dark.

He pointed toward the barren corner garden. “Stand there.”

“Chane, what is this about?”

With his back to her, he stopped a few paces down the keep’s left side and lowered his head. Whatever that leather object was in his hand, he appeared to be tucking it inside his hood. When he raised his head again, he didn’t turn to her. He just stood there with his hands limp at his sides.

“Ignite the crystal,” he said, his rasp sounding strangely muffled.

“What?” Wynn gasped, and then she had a notion of what he was up to.

From the gloves and scarf to the cloak, he’d planned this. What was he trying to prove?

“You don’t know if that’s enough protection,” she said. “And you’re too close.”

“Ignite it!”

“No.”

Chane held to his resolve. Reason had not been enough, as she would not listen. She had to see one thing, beyond a doubt.

“I’m not playing this game,” she said.

Chane heard her footfalls in the autumn leaves as she began walking away, and he reached for his sword’s hilt.

“This is not a game.”

In one motion, he ripped the blade from the sheath and turned with a level slash. The tip of mottled steel passed a hand’s length before Wynn’s throat as she lurched back. Her eyes widened in sudden fright, but Chane did not stop. As the beast rose within him, he lunged in, reversing his slash without a pause.

“Chane!” Wynn cried out.

He brought the blade tip back along the side of her head, so close that she could hear its passing in the air. Brittle aspen branches snapped as Wynn twisted away along the autumn trees. She lost her footing and toppled into the bailey wall.

Chane faltered for an instant, but he could leave her with only one choice, and he cocked the blade for a direct thrust.

“Mênajil il’Núr’u mên’Hkâ’ät!” Wynn shouted.

The world flashed blinding white in Chane’s eyes.

Wynn sucked in cold air that burned her lungs, as the lenses turned black against the glare.

This wasn’t some reckless test of Chane’s to withstand the crystal’s light. He’d been the one to demand Shade stay behind. Why had he turned on her after all the times he’d fought to keep her from harm?

The glasses’ lenses quickly adjusted, and Wynn shed no tears from the intense light. She gripped the staff with both hands as she saw Chane. At first he was little more than a black silhouette beyond the burning crystal.

He just stood there with his sword’s tip dangled against the hardened earth.

“Chane?” she whispered, and the sight of him grew more distinct.

Inside the cloak’s hood she saw the glint of round glasses with black lenses, the ones she’d exchanged with him. But she didn’t see his pale features around them.

She saw only pure black, like when she’d stared into the cowl of Sau’ilahk’s black robe. There was no Chane, just a featureless darkness broken only by those round, pewter rims that focused on her.

Why had he attacked her? And why did he now just stand there?

“Look at me!” he rasped. “Do you understand what this means?”

Wynn didn’t answer, for she didn’t understand. She finally shook her head, holding on to the staff so tightly that her hands began to ache.

Chane lunged at her.

Wynn tried to swing the crystal into his missing face. He grabbed the staff above her hands and turned it aside. She tried to pull it free, but her effort was futile, and she knew it.

He didn’t take the staff from her. He just stood there, gripping it, his missing face much closer now.

A leather mask completely covered his features.

The look of it made Wynn cringe. Then she felt something else. The staff was shuddering in her hands. She glanced only once, fearful of changing her focus too long.

Chane’s arm was shuddering, the tremor spreading into her staff. She spotted the quiver of his hood’s edge. He was beginning to shake all over.

“Look at me,” he said. “If I can stand in the sun crystal’s light ... if I can resist it with so little preparation ... how could you know Sau’ilahk is gone?”

All her terror and anger at his seeming betrayal twisted in her throat.

“The wraith ... cannot ... not ... that easily,” Chane whispered, and the shudders were now in his voice. “You only believe ... wish it so.”

Wynn felt something fracture inside of her. Her worst swallowed fear, the one she’d pushed down so hard, leaked from that crack. She shoved at Chane.

“No!”

Chane stumbled back as he released Wynn’s staff, though her little force would have done nothing to him. He lowered his head, turning from the searing light ... and from the agony on her face.

All of his skin prickled and stung, like the memory of a blistering sunburn in the youth of his lost life. It sank deeper and deeper with each moment, eating away his strength, but he was not burning ... yet.

If he had to, he could now withstand the crystal’s light for a while. But he could not bear to look into her eyes. He heard her breaths come in shudders, perhaps sobs, but she still said nothing more.

If he had to burn for her to make her face the truth, then he would.

Chane let the sword fall and thud upon the cold ground. When he saw Wynn’s feet shift and stumble, he reached across and jerked the glove off his left hand. Without looking up, he thrust it blindly out at her.

“Look! It did not even burn me.”

But it did so now. He bit down against the pain. The air around him became laced with the stench of searing flesh. Wynn’s breaths ended in a sudden inhale, and all light winked out instantly.

Everything went pitch-black.

Chane drew back his hand, curling it against his chest. He tried to remain steady as he fumbled to pull off the glasses and mask with his good hand.

“That wraith ... a spirit ... is centuries older than me,” he said, panting. “More powerful than I could ever become. You believed you had burned it to nothing ... in the streets of Calm Seatt the first time. How can you know you succeeded ... the second time?”

Even his night eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden return of darkness. And he dared to look at her. What he saw was worse than the torment of his hand.

Wynn stood clutching her own glasses, the staff pulled so close to her face that Chane made out only one wide eye over a tearstained cheek. Her breaths came too fast as she shook her head ever so slightly.

“You weren’t there in the tunnel,” she said, sobbing. “You didn’t see what happened. I destroyed it!”

“You have no proof! You are about to set sail and head into the wilds, yet you cling to a false belief you only wish was the truth.”

Wynn broke right before Chane’s eyes. Half buckling, nearly dropping, only the staff held her up. Her eyes clenched and tears flowed fast, dripping down her chin.

“You bastard,” she whispered.

Chane wanted to run, to hide from her sight.

Anger and fear twisted inside Wynn as those words had leaked out.

In the last few years, she’d traveled with a mix of companions, from a dhampir and half-blood rogue to a Fay spirit in the body of a majay-hì, and elven assassins as either allies or enemies. They had all possessed innate talents, which gave each a chance against the Noble Dead.

She was just a small, mortal human possessed of only one weapon: the staff and its sun crystal she’d begged from Domin il’Sänke. Now Chane made even that sound like nothing—like she was powerless.

Didn’t they have enough to fear without him making it worse? Couldn’t there be just one small victory for her in the face of all that might come?

She would never forget the sight of him in that mask and those glasses, swinging a blade at her throat. Not ever. She wanted to hurt him.

“And aren’t you hungry yet, for all this effort?” she asked. “Do you need another urn of blood to help heal your hand? No, wait. You didn’t even need the first one.... Did you?”

Chane straightened, his eyes widening this time. Any pain faded from his features—his pale, undead face.

“Don’t lie to me,” she rushed on. “The shirvêsh at the temple found it still full in the room you had there.”

“The urn would not help me,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “Blood is only a conduit for the life ... that must come from a living entity ... for my need.”

Perhaps this was truth. Perhaps it wasn’t just an excuse. Still clutching his seared hand, he twisted his head so far to the side she could no longer see his face at all. The sight brought her no sense of victory. She had hurt him, and some part of her now wished she could take the words back.

“I could not bring myself to tell you,” he whispered, “that your efforts would not help.”

“What ... what have you been feeding on?”

Chane hesitated far too long. By the time he answered, she wasn’t sure she believed him.

“Your notion of livestock was not wrong, but the animal must be alive.”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and the discomfort inside Wynn began growing again.

“You and Shade are all I have left,” she said, sidestepping around him to go back toward the gatehouse tunnel. “But if you ever ... ever feed on another sentient being, I will leave you behind. You will never enter my presence again. Do you understand? Never.”

Chane still hung his head and said nothing.

Wynn turned and strode off along the inner bailey. By the time she reached the gatehouse tunnel, she was running. She didn’t stop until she’d shut the door to her room, collapsed against it, and slid to the floor. There were so few certain pieces left in her fragile world. Two had just shattered.

She could no longer deny that the wraith might still exist.

She could no longer trust Chane.

Wynn finally noticed that Shade now stood right before her. Shade looked to the door.

Her ears flattened as her rumble grew, and her jowls pulled back, exposing her teeth. No doubt Shade picked up everything from Wynn’s memories of moments ago.

Wynn sobbed once and threw her arms around Shade’s neck, burying her face in the dog’s thick charcoal fur. The only one Wynn could count on now was an obstinate, adolescent majay-hì.

On the rocky shore, south of Calm Seatt and high above the foaming waves of the bay, the night air shimmered. The outline of a tall shape slowly began taking form.

A dark figure garbed in a flowing robe and cloak shifted and swayed. Then it twitched and jerked, as if writhing in pain. No face was visible within the pitch-black pit of its sagging cowl. One arm rose, and its sleeve slipped down, exposing a forearm, hand, and fingers wrapped in black cloth strips.

Sau’ilahk came into consciousness amid the agony of Beloved’s anger. And only then could he scream. Heard from afar, the sound would have been a sudden shriek of wind.

As he became aware of himself, startled that he had not ended in Beloved’s embrace, he realized he had returned to the world of the living. Turning, he searched to see where he was. Calm Seatt spread before him with a multitude of night lamps illuminating the city. He did not know whether to feel rage or gratitude.

The last he remembered was being trapped by the Stonewalkers as Wynn burned him to nothing. And yet he had returned to the edge of Beloved’s dream. In the punishment for his failure, his disobedience, he wished he had perished instead.

But Beloved would not let him die.

Now fear and suspicion clouded his every guess.

Sau’ilahk had believed that he could control his own fate—that he could tease and twist the hints to his salvation from his god. A thousand or more years past, at end of the great war, Beloved’s thirteen “Children” had divided into five groups. Each group had been given one of the Anchors of Creation—the orbs, so called by the ignorant few who had now learned of them—and the Children had dispersed to the ends of the world, taking the orbs into hiding.

Sau’ilahk, highest of Beloved’s Reverent Ones, its priests, knew only this much, and not where those five journeys had ended.

But as reward for his own service, he had asked for eternal life, for his beauty to never end. Beloved consented, and then cheated Sau’ilahk with a twist on that promise’s words. Sau’ilahk’s body decayed, but his spirit remained. He received his eternal life, but not eternal youth.

All Sau’ilahk wanted was the Anchor of Spirit. Through it, he could have flesh and beauty again. Yet his search had proven fruitless through the centuries, until one pitiful little sage uncovered words penned in ancient texts by three of the Children. Wynn Hygeorht was his one hope to force Beloved to fulfill what had been promised. Through her, he would learn the long-lost paths of the Children and the resting place of the orbs.

He had believed that he was manipulating Beloved into assisting him, but Beloved had raged over his recent failure, his destruction, in the underworld of Dhredze Seatt ... and Beloved had punished him.

And yet now, here he was just outside of Calm Seatt, Wynn’s home.

Follow the sage ... to your desire. Serve, and she will lead you.

Sau’ilahk whimpered, a sound like breeze-ripped grass. He cowered down, feeling dormancy threatening to take him at the sound of his god’s demand. Then his mind began to clear of terror.

Perhaps the texts were not the true answer? Perhaps Wynn Hygeorht’s interpretation of them was the key? Was Beloved using him again, or did they share the same goal?

Sau’ilahk did not know. But if Beloved knew his desire for the orb, the Anchor of Spirit, then why else would his god return him to the world?

He floated on the cliffs south of the city, watching its lights. There was fear, doubt, suspicion, and one more emotion fought against these, almost as strong as the desire for flesh.

Revenge against the sage.

She had been the cause of his suffering, or at least of his continued failure. Once flesh was within Sau’ilahk’s reach, once he satisfied his god, he would show Wynn Hygeorht a glimpse of the torment Beloved had given him.