In Shade and Shadow nd-7

by Barb Hendee

  A plate of green grapes and a fluted tin mug of water sat on her bedside table. She sighed, deciding to do something more constructive than wallow in the past.

  Wynn closed her eyes, clinging to the image of water within the mug.

  Nearly two years had passed since she'd first attempted a small thaumaturgical ritual. She'd tried to give herself mantic sight in order to see the element of Spirit in all things—an arrogant choice, considering she was no mage. Her companions at the time, Magiere and Leesil—and Chap—had been desperate to track an unfamiliar undead. And Wynn had succeeded in her small ritual, helping her friends save a village, but the repercussions still plagued her.

  As a journeyor sage, but one with no new assignment and few duties, she had too much free time. She spent some evenings secretly working to expand the ever-present taint of the mantic sight still trapped within her. To date, she'd had very limited success—and one quite painful mishap.

  Wynn held to the image of water as she evoked a memory of Chap… that wise old Fay-born dog now gone from her side. Focusing upon his image had assisted her more than once in summoning mantic sight. She thought of his brilliant crystal blue eyes, his shimmering silver-gray fur, and even the derisive way he licked his nose at her. As a Fay, an eternal entity of the elements, Chap had chosen to be born into living flesh.

  In the form of a majay-hì, the rare breed of guardian wolf-dogs found in the Elven Territories of the Farlands, he had watched over Leesil and Magiere—and Wynn. And then he left her. She missed him in more ways than one.

  The only times she had sure control over her lingering mantic sight was in his presence. But tonight she wasn't seeking the element of Spirit.

  With the image of Chap and that of Water lodged in her mind, Wynn opened her eyes… to nothing.

  Just her room, her little table-desk piled with scattered books, paper, and quills… and the plate of grapes and mug of water on the bedside stand. All of it was lit by the glow of her cold lamp's crystal.

  Wynn slouched, and her back thumped against the bed's side.

  Whenever she awakened her mantic sight to Spirit, that element showed as a blue-white mist permeating all things, strongest where life existed but thinner where it waned—or where it never was—for the five elements were part of all things, living or inert.

  And a few times she'd seen black spaces amid that mist.

  Places where there was no Spirit at all, or perhaps its unknown opposite. Permeating mist would shift ever so slightly, flowing into those voids—to be swallowed by the presence of a Noble Dead.

  Wynn wasn't certain how Water would've appeared compared to Spirit, but obviously she wouldn't learn tonight. Then a thought occurred: What if she evoked sight of Spirit, as she'd done a few times, and then tried to shift it to something else?

  Wynn closed her eyes once more.

  In a small inn within the Warlands of Leesil's birth, she'd sat alone with Chap in their room. It was in the early days, when her malady was still a mystery. With that memory of Chap's face, Wynn recalled the feel of his fur, her fingers curled in his thick coat, and she opened her eyes again.

  Nausea welled in her stomach.

  The room turned shadowy beneath the overlaid off-white mist just shy of blue.

  Everything, even the stone walls, became doubled, as if variegated blue-white shapes of things overlaid and overwhelmed their real forms. She'd grown accustomed to the queasiness and the vertigo, but they were no less unpleasant for being familiar. Luckily she hadn't eaten yet, and she glanced at the bedside table.

  Strongest in the grapes' small nodules, the mist waned within the table's wood and the bed's wool blanket. Only a thin trace showed within the stone walls and the tin of the fluted mug. When she glanced down at her own hands, Spirit glowed strongest within her living flesh.

  To see the element of Spirit was part of her curse, if and when she could make it come at all. But if she had to accept this condition as more than just a malady, she needed more from it.

  Wynn lifted her eyes to the fluted mug, whispering, "Give me… Water."

  Nothing happened—then a flicker passed. Or had it?

  Was that color shift real? Did the blue-white in the grapes melt for an instant… to blue-green… to a deep teal?

  The mist's color surged into cascading shifts as vertigo swelled in Wynn's head.

  Blue-white swirled to a yellow-white. She hadn't seen such a color before. Then it turned rapidly to dark amber-red.

  Wynn sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh, no… not again!"

  The mug's shape overlaid with deep black, for the water it held chilled the tin vessel. A dim umber-red blotch covered the bed's blanket, showing the remnants of her body heat from kneeling upon it.

  Once before Wynn had briefly glimpsed the element of Fire.

  She panicked, flinching away, and turned too quickly. Before she could shut her eyes, her gaze lit upon the desk—and the glow of her cold lamp's crystal.

  Searing pain welled through nausea and vertigo, spiking through her eyes into her skull.

  Light was a manifestation of Fire.

  Wynn grabbed her aching head. Tears leaked through her clenched eyes, as if she'd stared into the sun, and swirling blotches of color played across the backs of her eyelids. Vertigo sharpened, and she knew mantic sight was still with her. She dared not open her eyes.

  The last time she'd seen Fire, half the night passed before her altered sight faded on its own.

  A knock sounded at her door.

  Wynn whimpered under her breath. "Ah, damned dead deities… not now!"

  She nearly fell over as she shifted. Her head ached so badly she found it hard even to think. A baritone voice called softly from beyond the door.

  "Wynn, are you up?"

  "Oh, no," she whispered.

  The one person in this place who even knew of her malady stood outside. And he was the last person who should see her in this state. He would know exactly what she had been up to.

  "Wynn, I can hear you," the voice called, strangely accented and already less than patient. "Enough solitude. Open up!"

  Covering her eyes with one hand, she crawled across the cold floor. Her knee suddenly pinned her robe's gray skirt. When she tried to jerk it free, she toppled to her elbows.

  In the Farlands she'd worn everything from breeches and hand-me-down shirts to elven pants and tunics. The bulky robe was one more thing to which she hadn't readjusted. She finally reached out blindly for the door, but the latch clacked and the iron hinges grated softly. Something heavy struck her shoulder—the door, of course—and she toppled sideways with a g siways wirunt.

  Shuffling footsteps followed, then a pause, and then an angry exhale. Someone grabbed her robe's collar and half dragged her across the room. Before she cried out, she was dropped into a sitting position upon the bed's edge.

  "You obstinate little fool," his deep voice barked. "I have told you never to do this without my supervision."

  Wynn was very tired of being called obstinate, among other things. Before she could spit back a retort, slender fingers peeled her hand from her clenched eyes and settled over her face. With them came the smell of parchment dust and the lingering odor of olive oil and spices she couldn't quite name. A low and breathy chant filled her ears and ended with an exhausted sigh.

  "Open your eyes."

  Wynn's head still ached and her eyes still burned, but she carefully parted her left eyelid and peeked out.

  Colored blotches swam over everything. Then she made out the front of a midnight blue robe and dusky tan hands. She opened both eyes and stared up into the hard glower of Domin Ghassan il'Sänke.

  He was tall for a Suman, and, standing so close, he towered over her. His short, glossy hair, the color of pure chocolate, waved slightly upon his forehead where it peeked from beneath the lip of his cowl. The barest flecks of silver showed in those locks. A straight but beaked nose separated his thick eyebrows above bright eyes with irises darker than his skin.
/>
  He had become a master among sages long before Wynn was born, and yet his true age was a mystery to her. Only hints of lines showed at the corners of his lively eyes. His cheeks were rough, as if exposed to blowing sands of the great desert separating the northern Numan Lands from the great Suman Empire to the far south. And he didn't wear the light gray of Wynn's Order of Cathologers, those who studied in the Realm of Knowledge.

  Domin Ghassan il'Sänke was garbed in midnight blue, for he belonged to the Order of Metaology.

  As the smallest of the orders, and perhaps the most enigmatic, they focused upon the Realm of Existence. They gathered and recorded information concerning metaphysics and cosmology, cultural religions and myths, and even magic.

  Il'Sänke made most young sages uncomfortable, even those attending his seminars given as a visiting domin of note. But not Wynn—or at least not often. No one knew him well, for his guild branch lay half a continent south in Samau'a Gaulb, the capital of the Suman Empire and that of il'Dha'ab Najuum, one of its nations. Il'Sänke was a mage of thaumaturgy—by spellcraft, ritual, or articifing—and was well acknowledged for his skill.

  His mouth tightened, and he didn't look pleased.

  Despite her state of suffering, Wynn couldn't help a wave of anxious anticipation. It sharpened when her gaze fell upon a narrow bundle of plain muslin cloth lying on the bed beside her.

  "It's finished… finally?" she asked without even greeting him.

  She reached for the bundle, ght the bubut il'Sänke grabbed it first.

  "Premin Sykion will have harsh words," he said in his smooth accent, "when she sees the final accounting of resources and funds—at least those I listed. Then, of course, there's Premin Hawes."

  Wynn didn't care what her order's leader or the head of metaology had to say on the matter. She fidgeted impatiently until il'Sänke unrolled the bundle, and she drew another quick breath.

  Resting in the opened cloth was a six-sided crystal, pure and clear as polished glass. Two fingers in thickness, it was longer than her outstretched hand.

  Wynn was still holding her breath as she grabbed the crystal from his hand. She instantly began rubbing it furiously, as she would to initiate a cold lamp crystal.

  But nothing happened.

  "Contain yourself!" il'Sänke chided. "Even when it is finished, friction's heat will not be enough to awaken the 'sun crystal.»

  Wynn's mouth turned dry at those final two words.

  It didn't matter if il'Sänke thought her foolish, or that most sages here viewed him as a mysterious outsider. He had listened to her wild tales of the Farlands without judgment—the same tales that Domin High-Tower and others dismissed as nonsense. Many of her peers now viewed her as an outsider as well. Ironic, considering she'd grown up in this branch of the guild.

  Staring into the lightless crystal was like looking at an open blank book. And across its unmarred pages she could see words she didn't wish to write.

  Not names, places, and events of her time in the Farlands, but words for the fear that made her desperate for il'Sänke to finish what she'd asked from him.

  Years ago as an apprentice she'd taken leave of her home to follow her master, Domin Tilswith. They traversed their continent and crossed the eastern ocean to the Farlands, where Domin Tilswith intended to found a new guild branch in the city of Bela. The prospect had been thrilling, and she'd been pleased with this adventure—until the day her life tangled with two hardened strangers and a dog. In that city, Magiere, Leesil, and Chap had come to the old barracks, claiming to be hunting an upír.

  A vampire, in their language—one of what they called the undead… the Noble Dead.

  All too soon Wynn had faced realities she'd never imagined nor wanted. When this trio left Bela in search of an ancient artifact sought by a powerful undead, Domin Tilswith had sent her with them—as a journeyor on her first solo assignment. Their travels took them through the dank lands of Droevinka, and through Stravina and into the Warlands on their way to the Elven Territories of the an'Cróan. The journey's last leg ended far south in the Pock Peaks' high, desolate range. There they'd finally uncovered the artifact—the "orb."

  Hidden within an ancient castle, it was guarded by a female vampire so old that she'd forgotten the sound of spoken words. Li'kän had waited there for a thousand years or more, and was perhaps one of the first Noble Dead of the world.

  In that place locked in ice and snow, Wynn and Chap had dug through a library filled with ancient texts written in languages or dialects either dead or long forgotten. Some of the writings were garbled mixes of tongues that echoed the chaos and madness of Li'kän's fragmented mind. Wynn and Chap had struggled to choose what to carry away amid an overwhelming amount that was left behind. Upon their return to Bela, Domin Tilswith gave Wynn the task of bearing those texts safely back to Calm Seatt.

  She accepted willingly but with sadness at leaving her old master—as well as others she might never see again.

  Magiere, Leesil, and Chap had sailed with her, bringing the orb. The ocean voyage was long, and traveling the middle continent even longer and more dangerous. The entire journey encompassed the better part of a year. Her friends remained by her side until the city of her childhood was within sight—then they parted ways, to Wynn's pained regret.

  She'd thought they were bringing the orb to her guild's home branch, at least to seek counsel from her superiors. But something had changed along the way, something she hadn't been told—and which had likely been all Chap's doing. He, Magiere, and Leesil were to take the orb into hiding, someplace safe from those who might still seek it out.

  Wynn tried to deny their concerns. Magiere remained adamant that none of the sages would be safe with the orb in their midst. That had been a very bitter argument. But in the end Wynn reentered the city of her youth, alone among the caravan.

  She'd delivered the ancient texts to the guild's first branch; she believed they were penned by ancient vampires from the time of the Forgotten History and the mythical great war. She sought solace among like-minded scholars.

  But nothing had turned out as she expected.

  The texts, as well as all of her journals, were taken and locked away. She was most stunned by the confiscation of the latter. She hadn't seen them since. And no one believed even the lesser of her tales.

  When she grew insistent, the other sages kept their distance, as if she were sick in the mind and contagious. Domin High-Tower, a master of her order, chastised her and insisted she stop telling "wild tales" of undead, dhampirs, and superstitious nonsense.

  For a while Wynn had tried to remain obedient.

  She'd never been—felt—so alone. Eventually she couldn't stand it any longer.

  She pressed her accounts of powerful undead, of subterfuge and meddling from the Anmaglâhk, and Most Aged Father's obsession that a long-forgotten Ancient Enemy was stirring in the world. And the more she said, and the more she was denied and shunned, the more her fears overwhelmed her from within.

  Memories came as nightmares that wouldn't ease, but no one listened to «Witless» Wynn Hygeorht anymore. No one except quiet, watchful, sardonic Ghassan il'Sänke, another outsider in a place she thought was home. But even that didn't keep her from dwelling on her inadequacies compared to the strengths of her missing friends.

  Magiere, a dhampir born of a mortal mother and a vampire father, had a nature akin to a Noble Dead. Leesil, half-elven with the sharp senses of his mother's people, had been trained as an assassin. And Chap, a born-Fay in a majay-hì's large form, had awareness like no other living being. Each had their way of dealing with the undead, and together they had sent many to ashes.

  What did Wynn have to match them? Nothing.

  So she had gone to il'Sänke with a wild notion.

  She asked—begged—for his help, as he was the only one who might achieve her request. Rather than the cold lamp crystals made by her guild with notable effort and cost, she needed light of a different nature.

 
Wynn wanted sunlight—to shield herself from the dark and all that moved in it, including the Noble Dead that no one else here believed in.

  That night, Domin il'Sänke had just stared at her.

  The look on his dusky tan face made Wynn's doubts eat her up inside, until she nearly broke into tears. Was what she asked even possible? It had never been done, to her knowledge, at least not by the few sages with skill in alchemy, a practice of thaumaturgy via artificing.

  To make a crystal that could emit light of the same nature as the sun…

  Waiting upon il'Sänke's reply had been the heaviest silence Wynn could remember. But he never looked at her as if she were mad. When he finally nodded, narrow-eyed and scowling, Wynn almost broke into tears again.

  Finally someone believed in her.

  Now, sitting upon the bed with the dark-skinned domin, Wynn held up the long crystal.

  "Show me… how to activate it."

  Another disapproving scowl darkened il'Sänke's face. He shook his head with a huff and took the crystal.

  "First, it must be properly mounted for handling. I do not think it safe to hold when activated—and it is not yet ready. I and my chosen aides have only completed its physical making… after quite a few unsatisfactory results. Now I must work upon it myself… prepare it… and only then teach you its use."

  Wynn's mouth dangled open. "How much longer?"

  Il'Sänke arched one thick eyebrow.

  "Sorry," she said. "It's just taken so long, but I'm grateful for your effort and faith in me."

  Domin il'Sänke rewrapped the crystal and slipped it inside his robe. "Then as repayment, you will come out among your peers. Play at cards, discuss local politics, drink tea, anything besides this self-imposed cloister."

  Wynn quickly shook her head. "No, no, I'm… I have things to work on privately."