by Barb Hendee
Nikolas remained in retreat, but panic faded from his sickly expression.
With that, Wynn placed her hands beside the wolf's face and gazed into its eyes. The animal froze and then turned its head toward Nikolas.
Terror returned to Nikolas's expression as he noticed everyone in the room, particularly Rodian.
"They won't tell me anything," he said to Wynn. "Where are Miriam and Dâgmund?"
Color drained from Wynn's face as she glanced at High-Tower and Bitworth. High-Tower swallowed with difficulty, and Wynn finally looked to Rodian.
"I'm sorry," Rodian said to Nikolas. "I couldn't reach them in time."
Nikolas stared up, expressionless. He doubled over, sickened again, as if whatever had taken his strength in the alley assaulted him once more.
Rodian felt responsible.
No matter what the premins and domins had done—or not done—it was his duty, as captain of the Shyldfälches, to keep the citizens of the king's city from harm. And he could have, if the sages had informed him that they'd sent out another folio.
"The captain brought you to us as quickly as he could," Wynn added.
"Enough," Bitworth warned, stepping closer.
The wolf shifted away from him toward the bed's head with a growl.
"He has only just awakened, and you'll wear him out," Bitworth warned.
"Yes, yes," High-Tower intervened, and looked down at Nikolas. "Are you up to talking a little? The captain needs to know what you remember from that night."
Nikolas was still shaken by the loss of his companions. His brown eyes shifted so erratically that Rodian couldn't tell what the young man was looking at or for. Domin Bitworth gently waved High-Tower aside and stepped around the bed. He helped Nikolas take a sip of water from a mug.
"Anything might help," Rodian urged, feeling harsh for doing this so abruptly, but the sooner the better.
"Tall… big… so black," Nikolas whispered, and his haunted eyes looked only at Wynn. "A cowled robe… and a cloak that… moved… climbing the walls. It chased us into the alley… then Miriam started screaming… like Sherie."
"Sherie?" Wynn whispered.
Nikolas didn't seem to hear her. He trembled, staring blankly at nothing. Suddenly the frail apprentice cowered and pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out a sound no one else could hear.
"Who is Sherie?" Rodian asked quietly.
Wynn shook her head slowly, still watching Nikolas in wary puzzlement. When Rodian looked to High-Tower, the domin shook his head as well. Bitworth knelt beside the bed.
"Nikolas," he whispered, "try to focus on the alley, nothing else."
The young man's eyes wandered. "I tried to keep her in front of me as we ran away, but it… he… was everywhere… in front… behind… everywhere in the forest."
Bitworth sighed. "He is slipping again. Some other memory keeps intruding."
Rodian only half understood. Ignoring mention of a forest, he kept his voice calm but firm.
"Nikolas, you weren't far from the scribe shop when I found you. When did you first notice the black-robed figure following you? Did it say anything?"
Nikolas blinked, awareness perhaps sharpening again. "We were walking, and it was just there in front of us, in the street… not moving, not a sound. We turned back, and it was there again, but closer. It reached for Miriam. Dâgmund jerked me back and shoved me into the alley… I ran… and heard Sherie scream."
Again, some other name in the place of Miriam's.
"It got so cold… between the trees," Nikolas whispered. "And the black… it grabbed Sherie, and she stopped screaming. Karl tried to reach her… but his father grabbed the folio. That hand… fingers all wrapped in black cloth… it went straight through her and closed on the folio."
Rodian exhaled in exhaustion. Unknown names kept bouncing around in Nikolas's head in place of Miriam and Dâgmund, along with someone's father cast as the black figure.
Bitworth rose and stepped to the bed's foot.
"I've heard pieces of this before," the healer whispered, "when Nikolas rambled in his sleep. It happens sometimes when the mind suffers a severe trauma. Some other overwhelming past event can become mixed with the more recent one. Until Nikolas regains his will and full awareness, he cannot separate the cause of one trauma from another of the past."
Rodian rubbed his forehead. The splinter of a headache felt like it would cleave his skull in half. Wynn looked at Nikolas in sympathy, with her hand on the wolf's head, and Rodian stepped back.
He needed information to catch a murderer—or murderers—and all he'd gotten was more senseless confusion. Sykion and High-Tower wouldn't face up to what was happening, or they tried to get around him in their own scheming. Bitworth's assessment of Nikolas was no help.
And now Wynn brought a wild animal into the guild, and no one seemed to object.
Rodian pulled his hand down his face. May the Blessed Trinity of Sentience preserve him, for he was standing in a madhouse.
He couldn't go to the royals with more nonsense, but when he looked down, Wynn was glaring at him. The anger in her face sparked his own resentment.
She couldn't possibly expect him to believe there was anything of note in Nikolas's rambling. High-Tower appeared just as uncomfortable with Nikolas's account as he was.
"Did Domin il'Sänke leave the guild at all that night?" Rodian asked.
High-Tower lifted his head, puzzlement disturbing his scowl, but Wynn cut in first.
"Why do you keep asking that?"
"Was he here the whole time?" Rodian demanded, ignoring her, and High-Tower hesitated. The pause was the only confirmation he needed, but the dwarf finally answered.
"Domin il'Sänke was handling a private task for me that night. It has nothing to do with what happened, but I can attest that he was engaged in guild business."
Rodian clenched his jaw—more evasions. He would get no rational help from these sages, even to save them from themselves. He started for the door but halted at another sharp rumble from the wolf.
Pawl a'Seatt stood in the hospice's doorway. Small Imaret peeked around his side, bearing an ink smudge on her brown cheek. Master a'Seatt's expression was flat and cool, but he was intently fixed upon either Wynn or Nikolas.
"Forgive us," the scribe master said. "Imaret wished to see how Nikolas fared."
The wolf's rumble shifted into an open growl, and Rodian glanced back.
Wynn reached for the animal. "Stop that," she said to it. "These are friends."
But the wolf remained tensely focused on the doorway, still growling.
Rodian followed its gaze back to Pawl a'Seatt, who now watched the wolf in turn.
High-Tower cocked his large head, and Bitworth's face filled with alarm. Even Wynn grew concerned. She raised a hand before the wolf's face, perhaps commanding it to stay. The animal held its place, its noise lowering to a rumble.
Pawl a'Seatt's brow wrinkled only slightly.
"What are you doing here?" Rodian asked bluntly. The shop's scribes had been laboring all day inside the guild, but masters didn't engage in the general work.
"I came to check on my staff," Pawl answered calmly. "And to see them safely home."
"I've already assigned men for that," Rodian replied.
"Forgive me, but your guards have not always been effective."
Rodian's throat tightened. He couldn't argue with that, though he failed to see how a scribe master could do better. Something else was wrong here. If a'Seatt overheard any of Nikolas's jumbled recollections, what had caught him so much that he'd stood silent in the doorway without announcing himself?
"Come, Imaret," Pawl a'Seatt said. "We must gather the others. Perhaps your friend will be better tomorrow."
Rodian almost stopped the scribe master, but he could think of nothing specific to ask. And would he receive an honest answer? Hardly. Truth had become as intangible as the black figure murdering sages for folios.
"That is enough for t
oday," Bitworth said. "Everyone out. Nikolas needs rest."
High-Tower nodded agreement and gestured toward the door. Rodian shook his head in frustration and stepped out. But he had one other matter to address.
Wynn must have seen her coveted translations by now.
"Walk me out," he said as she stepped into the passage, and his tone implied that it wasn't a request.
"She's not had supper," High-Tower growled.
Rodian wasn't deceived by false concern. The domin simply wanted to keep Wynn away from him. He didn't care.
"I'll return directly," Wynn said, and then glanced back through the door at Bitworth. "Thank you for caring for Nikolas."
The wolf stalked out behind her, passing High-Tower with a quick snort. The dwarf rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath as he stomped away. Rodian gestured down the hall as he stepped onward.
"How did you come by that animal?"
Wynn fell into step beside him. "She found me," she answered, as if she'd told him all that was necessary.
There had to be more, but at the moment he had other pressing concerns to address. She looked a little weary, with ink stains on her right thumb and forefinger. Did these sages do nothing but study and write? No wonder they were so misguided.
No, that wasn't fair, for he knew what she'd been doing all day. He'd had a hand in her gaining access to the translations—and he expected to be compensated.
And Rodian's attention drifted to the wolf or… what had she called it?
It was taller than any he'd seen during his military assignment in the eastern reaches. Packs sometimes raided farm livestock in deep winter, but this one…
The animal's head reached Wynn's hip, and it walked with her in some tame mockery of its true wild nature. How—why—was this beast even tolerated by her superiors?
When they finally reached the courtyard, Snowbird saw him from the front gates and whinnied. The wolf stopped, ears pricking up, and Rodian eyed it warily, ready to cut it down if it went for his horse. But the beast remained quietly at Wynn's side.
"What did you learn today?" he asked. "Anything rational that might help?"
Wynn just stood there, gazing across the courtyard and down the gatehouse tunnel at Snowbird. Rodian's anger got the better of him.
"Someone wants something here badly enough to kill for it," he nearly shouted. "And you saw that black-robed man outside of a'Seatt's shop. Whoever it is has knowledge of the folios' movements… and can read your sages' script. How many people does that leave, Wynn? Not many, from my count."
"You're not hunting a living man!" she responded harshly. "And you'll never stop it through your usual means. If you truly wish to protect your people and the sages, then you'd best alter both your strategy and thought… immediately."
Angry as he was, Rodian was still taken aback. Wynn breathed hard and calmed slightly.
"Talk to Nikolas again," she said, "when he is more himself. Talk to il'Sänke—he has knowledge that you don't. Talk to me… when you're actually ready to listen."
He stood dumbfounded at her outburst. Of all the things he'd expected, a torrent of evasive nonsense wasn't among them. She now sounded like one of her superiors.
"What is in those texts?" he demanded.
Wynn shut her eyes tightly for an instant, as if the answer wasn't something she wanted to think on. Rodian almost faltered at whatever weight seemed to press her down.
"More things you wouldn't believe," she whispered, "especially from me."
Rodian's anger hardened like ice. He'd thought her sensible, possibly his only ally within the guild, but they'd gotten to her—High-Tower, Sykion, possibly even il'Sänke. What had they demanded in exchange for placating her desire for the texts and avoiding her claim in court? Or perhaps they were right, and she was so addle-minded that she couldn't see he needed her help.
"Faith that denies fact isn't faith," she whispered suddenly. "It's only fanaticism. Even if I could tell you, I won't batter myself against that wall inside your head. Tear it down yourself, if you've any real interest in the truth."
Wynn walked away with the wolf toward the keep's main doors, leaving Rodian standing alone.
Anger spent, Wynn felt numb as she shoved through the main doors. Rodian wasn't going to acknowledge the truth.
When she reached the common hall's main archway, she held out one hand, palm open, trying to make Shade wait.
"I'll be right back with dinner."
She backed away into the hall as Shade watched her, but the dog did stay. Wynn hurried to ladle a bowl of soup, and then plopped a joint of roasted mutton on a spare wooden plate. A warm fire blazed in the hearth, and there were few people left in the hall. Wynn suddenly didn't want to sit locked in her own room.
And then Shade appeared at her side.
Either ignoring or not understanding that she shouldn't come in, the dog looked up at Wynn, then raised her nose, sniffing at the plate.
Heads turned their way, and Wynn almost fled the hall. But Shade kept poking at her arm and huffing. Wynn took a long breath. Trying not to meet any eyes, she strode toward the hearth. She settled at its right end upon the ledge, far from where most people sat at the tables.
Wynn set the wooden plate on the floor, and Shade began chomping on mutton. She set aside her bowl and stepped over to retrieve a water pitcher from the nearest table, along with an empty mug and bowl. Three initiates were still cleaning up, but none came to clear the tables nearest Wynn. She heard frantic whispering that grew louder as she headed back to the hearth.
"There's no such thing! It's just a wolf."
"Kyne, don't get stupid!"
"Let go!"
"That thing could eat your whole head."
"Oh yeah, well… you're just a big, ignorant coward… Let go of me!"
Wynn kept her head down, focusing on her bowl as she ate.
"Is she really… a majay-hì?"
Wynn flinched at the surprisingly close voice and looked up straight into an ivory face covered in freckles.
The girl in an initiate's tan robe and smudged apron couldn't have been more than thirteen. Her wonder-struck eyes peered cautiously at Shade, now with the mutton pulled off the plate and trapped between teeth and forepaws.
Wynn swallowed a piece of carrot. "How do you know that word?"
"Reading," the girl answered, still staring at Shade.
Wynn almost smiled. Now, here was a cathologer in the making standing before her.
"Can I pet her?" the girl asked.
Wynn glanced down. Shade had stopped chewing, her unblinking eyes locked on the girl. Wynn didn't know if Shade would ever submit to being touched by anyone else, but she preferred not to hurt the girl's feelings.
"She's still getting used to things here," Wynn answered. "Maybe later."
The girl's expression fell, as overcome fear washed away in disappointment. She backed up and scurried off.
Looking down into her spoon, Wynn grimaced at the irony of worrying about a young initiate's feelings. Sages were dying over the ancient texts she'd brought here, but she still thought upon the wonder of one small girl. Had she ever been so naïve herself?
Probably.
Shade renewed chewing her mutton, all the way down to the bone, and then rose on all fours to lap water from the bowl.
Wynn's dinner became as tasteless as sawdust. Reaching out, she touched Shade's back, allowing a memory to surface of them sitting on the floor of her room that morning.
Shade raised her head with pricked ears and whined. Perhaps privacy seemed welcome to her as well.
Wynn picked up the bowl and plate and left them on a nearby table. Shade slipped ahead of her, straight toward the main archway, and Wynn hurried to catch up. Out in the courtyard the dog appeared to remember the way perfectly, heading for the south dormitory's door. But on the way up the stairs, Shade startled several apprentices. They all flattened against the upper landing's walls.
Shade padded past, giving them
no notice, and Wynn followed quickly, not looking at them either.
She breathed a sigh as she reached her room. But when she slipped inside and Shade pushed in around her robe's skirt, Wynn kicked a folded slip of paper lying on the floor. Her name was written on its outer fold.
Someone had pushed it under her door—a common practice when a message was clearly addressed and the recipient couldn't be found. Leaning down, she picked it up and unfolded it. Her breath caught when she saw the handwriting and the message written in Belaskian.
I need to know you are all right. I am at an inn called Nattie's House, at the corner of Starling and Twine streets on the outskirts of the Graylands Empire. Come, if you can, and bring me a cloak. If not, send me word now.
Wynn held on to the paper as her concern grew. What was Chane thinking? If anyone had sneaked a peek at the note…
She didn't want to think of what might've happened from that. At least he hadn't been badly injured or was well enough to write. Yet he'd told her where he was, after insisting it was better she didn't know.
What had she done to him with the sun crystal?
"Shade," she called. "We must go out."
The dog poked her head out from beneath the table-desk. For an instant Wynn considered showing her a memory of Chane—and then quickly thought better of it.
What might Shade sense—or see—in such a memory? Somehow the majay-hì hadn't picked up Chane's undead nature last night. Strange as that was, Wynn had no wish to give this natural hunter of the undead any more knowledge of Chane than was necessary. Not yet.
But she couldn't leave Shade locked in her room. If the majay-hì became agitated, and someone came at any sound of commotion, it would just cause more trouble. She would have to figure out how to keep Shade away from Chane when the time came.
Wynn grabbed her cloak and pulled the scroll case from its deep inner pocket. She still didn't know if the black figure had come after it or her last night. But leaving the scroll behind seemed a wiser choice. She stuffed the case deep under her mattress, bracing it against one of the bed's support boards, and then grabbed the staff from the corner beyond her desk.
She paused, staring at the leather sheath protecting the crystal.