by Barb Hendee
Lost in his memories, Magiere heard one brief passing mention of a Dwarvish term.
Most Aged Father, once called Sorhkafâré, had been a commander of allied forces and alive during the war of the Forgotten History. He received a report of the fall of one "Bäalâle Seatt," and that all the dwarves of that place perished, taking the Enemy's siege forces with them. But no one knew how or why.
Wynn peered at the scroll. Here was that place-name again, hinted at in the obscure hidden poem of an ancient undead.
And the second time she'd heard the name of this forgotten place was far more recent.
A pair of black-clad dwarves—the Hassäg'kreigi, the Stonewalkers—had spoken of it as she eavesdropped outside of High-Tower's office. Then they were simply gone when she entered to speak with the domin.
And the wraith had come at her twice, wanting this scroll as much as any folio it had killed for.
"I need more!" she demanded. "You have to finish translating what I copied so far!"
"Wynn, no," il'Sänke said. "We finally have a moment's peace. This can wait until tomorrow, after we—"
"Now!" she insisted. "I need more so I can go to High-Tower for assignment. Something happened among the dwarves during the Forgotten History, and I'm going to Dhredze Seatt across the bay. It's the only place to begin and to find out what happened, or where…"
Wynn trailed off, for il'Sänke was shaking his head.
"In the morning," he insisted, but by his following pause, she knew there was something more.
"We both go before the premin council—in the morning," he explained.
Wynn had nothing to say to this. What could one say when one's way of life was about to end? They were going to cast her out.
Did it even matter anymore? Yes, if she were ever to see the translations again, or the original texts she'd taken from Li'kän's library. None of the council knew of the scroll, but that by itself wasn't enough, even when or if it was fully translated.
"Sleep for a while," il'Sänke said. "We will rise early to eat. Facing the council's formal summons is not good on an empty stomach."
Wynn stood there numb as he retrieved the old tin case from the floor and slipped the scroll away.
"And Wynn," he added, his tone colder, "remember that whatever you have learned must be guarded… only for those who can intellectually comprehend—and face—its truth. It cannot be shared elsewhere."
Dropping on the couch, she looked up at him with her serious brown eyes.
"I know," Wynn answered. "I think I truly do know that now."
At dawn Rodian sat at his desk, exhausted and ill. He should've rested, but throughout the night's remainder he'd tried over and over to write his report. Most of those dark hours had been spent merely staring at a blank sheet of paper.
He was driven to finish it, even beyond his own strength.
Upon arriving at the barracks, he'd gone to his room and looked in a mirror. A few thin strands of light gray ran through his hair, and more laced his trim beard. Remembering what had happened to Nikolas, Rodian wondered how he was still even conscious and on his feet. Perhaps the brief touch he'd received was less than what the young sage had suffered.
And now he sat poised with quill in hand, trying to find words to explain it all to the royal family, via the minister of city affairs. The threat to the guild was over. The murderer had been destroyed. Yet what could he possibly say of the details?
What would the minister think upon reading of a black spirit that killed by touch as it sought out texts supposedly written by other «undead»? And all of it concerned a war that most believed never happened. Indeed, what would the duchess or Princess thelthryth have to say if he wrote such words? They trusted him to maintain order, peace… and sanity.
Rodian choked on a dry throat and sipped some water.
Garrogh was dead, and young Lúcan was unconscious in the infirmary with a fractured leg, looking little better than young Nikolas. They deserved to have the truth told, even if it would never be believed.
"Come," il'Sänke whispered, and on their way out he locked the door.
After Shade finished her morning business in the bailey's northern grove, they headed straight to the keep's main doors. The council chamber was on the third floor, and Wynn led the way in silence. Whatever might happen this morning, she had already grown certain of her path for the future.
She was tired of submission, obediently waiting until others allowed her answers.
They reached the double doors of the council's chamber, but before Wynn could knock, il'Sänke rapped lightly on the wood with one knuckle.
"You may enter," Premin Sykion called from inside.
Wynn shoved the doors open, stepping in first. This stone chamber had once been the master bedroom of the king and queen when the ancestors of the royals had resided in the first castle. In place of any large bed, chests, or wardrobes, only a long, stout table sat before the room's far end. It was surrounded on the far side and two ends by plain high-backed chairs, all of which were filled with the five members of the Premin Council.
Wynn was barely halfway into the room when her determination faltered.
Premin Adlam, in the sienna robe of naturology, sat at the table's left end. He was turned a bit away, speaking in a low voice to portly Premin Renäld of sentiology, robed in cerulean, who sat on High Premin Sykion's left. And Sykion, head of the council, seated at the table's center, was studying a document.
On her right, Premin Jacque of conamology had his elbows on the table. With both hands laced together, his forehead rested against them, hiding his face. The sleeves of his teal robe had slipped down, exposing muscular forearms.
Last, at the table's right end, sat Premin Hawes of metaology. She glanced sidelong at the visitors, and the cowl of midnight blue revealed hazel eyes almost the «yesat color of the wall's stones. Her stern glaze slipped coldly from Wynn to il'Sänke as the domin stepped forward in his like-colored robe. Then she glanced down at Shade, but her expression didn't change.
And Wynn was startled at the sight of one last person in the room.
Domin High-Tower stood near a window behind the council.
He wasn't looking outside or at the council or even at her. His head hung forward, beard flattened against his broad chest. He seemed almost cowed, or something well beyond weary.
Had he also been called before the council?
As much as il'Sänke and High-Tower didn't care for each other, their paranoia over involving outsiders had led to several ill-conceived ploys. Miriam and Dâgmund had lost their lives, and Nikolas was a mental invalid.
Wynn swallowed hard.
The council could do no worse to her than what she'd already suffered since her return home.
Premin Jacque raised his head. His blockish features filled with sadness as Premin Sykion began.
"We recognize your good intentions in what happened last night, but soundness of judgment has been… lacking in conduct. Our actions should not be driven by fear, or our security is sacrificed in such ill-conceived attempts to protect it."
High-Tower turned fully away toward the window.
"However," Sykion added, "as the cause of our great losses has finally been put to rest, we can move forward."
High Premin Sykion settled back. She carefully folded her hands in her lap, out of sight.
"Domin il'Sänke, you have been invaluable in our efforts. Our sibling guild branch in the Suman Empire should take pride in you. Having fulfilled our need, your stay should not be further drawn out. You are free to return home to family and friends."
Wynn squeezed her eyes closed. She heard not a sound from il'Sänke at those delicately phrased words. Her one confidant within these walls was politely being told to get out. Had they done the same to High-Tower? No, he wouldn't have remained if that had happened.
"Journeyor Hygeorht…"
Wynn's eyes snapped open, but Premin Sykion faltered with a sad frown. Wynn's resolve waned again
in the dead silence.
"Considering your exploits in the Farlands," the premin finally continued, "you have accomplished much more than most journeyors in such a short time. But there is still concern over your well-being."
Wynn's anger returned. After all that had happened, and here in private where no one else could see or hear, she was still treated as mentally unfit. The lie was perpetuated, regardless that they knew the truth of what she'd told them all along.
"We wish you to take Domin Tärpod «ke theious as your new master," Sykion said.
Wynn's mind went blank. She wasn't being cast out?
"As he is a close friend of your former master, Domin Tilswith," Sykion continued, "Tärpodious's tutelage would further shorten your steps to master's status in the guild. Your experience in far cultures, with new languages and knowledge, would be a great—"
"No!" Wynn cut in loudly.
Premin Sykion's eyes fixed upon her as High-Tower spun about. The worry on his face confirmed Wynn's suspicion.
"What are you doing?" il'Sänke whispered. "Do not give them a reason to be rid of you!"
He didn't see what this was really about, but Wynn did.
They offered her a new journeyor's assignment, to continue her training. To sweeten it further, they dangled a carrot before her, hinting that she might achieve master at a younger age than any before her. But there was a price.
Stuck in the archives, cataloguing and referencing with old Tärpodious, she would be well out of sight, with no need to ever leave the guild grounds. They could keep her under watchful eyes, controlling everything she did… everything she had access to.
"I'm interested only in the texts," Wynn said. "Where are they?"
Premin Jacque exhaled heavily, leaning his head on his hands once again.
Premin Hawes's hazel eyes narrowed as if in warning. "This will never work," she snapped.
"The debate is over," Adlam responded. "Leave it alone!"
Hawes leaned on the table, glaring along its length at Adlam. Sykion raised a hand before either spit another barb, but her gaze had never left Wynn.
"The texts are not your concern," Sykion answered. "Captain Rodian has assured us—again—that no charges will be brought against you for your interference. But if seeking suit to regain the texts is still your intention, it will do you no good, considering—"
"That the texts are not even here?" Wynn finished.
Sadness washed from High-Tower's face. His dark pellet eyes fixed on her. He was always so stern and self-possessed, but Wynn could swear she saw fright in his stony expression.
"Your lack of good judgment is reason enough," Sykion said.
That wasn't an answer to her question. And along with High-Tower's reaction, it confirmed Wynn's belief: What she wanted wasn't even being kept inside the guild.
Wherever the texts were, they were being brought in and out, so no offered journeyor's «assignment» would ever get her near them.
She was now an unnecessary pawn in their little safety game—their hope that they could forestall facing an opponent returning from the Forgotten «tht sHistory. Wynn couldn't help remembering wayward friends whom she'd longed for often in the past two seasons.
Magiere had been born in the worst of ways to be the leader of forces for the Ancient Enemy. Leesil, raised and trained by his own mother, was to be the instrument of dissidents among the Anmaglâhk and strike at that Enemy they knew almost nothing about. And Chap…
Having chosen to be born into flesh to guard them both, he had no idea how much his own kin, the Fay, had kept hidden from him. Beneath lies and omissions, all the Fay had truly expected from him was to keep Magiere and Leesil from taking any action at all.
And now it seemed the council wished the same for Wynn.
All this caution, this driven paranoia to do nothing for fear of doing the wrong thing—what did it amount to?
Wynn knew what each of her dear friends had done in the end.
"Give me the key to your study," she said to il'Sänke. "I need to get my things left there if I'm to proceed."
The domin looked at her with doubt and then appeared relieved that she no longer fought the council's plans for her. He handed over the key, and Wynn reached into her own pocket.
She pulled out her cold lamp crystal—the emblem of journeyors and higher ranks among the guild.
Wynn approached the council, directly in front of High Premin Sykion, and tossed her crystal upon the table.
Sykion's eyes widened at the implication even before Wynn said a word.
"I resign," she whispered.
It was still loud enough to hear in the chamber as the crystal's tumble finally came to a halt.
Wynn finished gathering her things from her own room. She arranged it all inside her pack, leaving behind the gray robe in favor of the elven clothing she had worn all the way from the Farlands. Wearing the robe would be a lie, for she was no longer a sage.
Shade watched her, occasionally following her around the small room or sniffing in the trunk.
Wynn tried not to think as she finished up.
This was too much like facing a death, and yet still left walking the world. She tried to keep her mind on one thing—Dhredze Seatt, the "Sea-foam Stronghold" of the dwarves across Beranlômr Bay.
The only «outsiders» who'd come and gone unseen from the guild—who seemed to possess real knowledge of the texts—were High-Tower's brother and the other elder hassäg'kreigi.
The translation project would go on without her—had proceeded without her. Hopefully, since she'd said nothing of her plans, the guild would see no need to change the current location of the texts. Wherever the texts truly were, the city of dwarves was the only place to begin her search.
Six and twenty steps… to five corners.
She'd wondered about five ancient Noble Dead uncovered by name, who had «divided» — and the strange mention of "five corners" in the scroll. Li'kän was locked away beneath the ice-bound castle, and hopefully Häs'saun and Volyno were simply no more. That left only the other pair of the five—Vespana and Ga'hetman.
But another grain of truth began to dawn upon her, and it was so much worse.
The double column of sages, thirteen in count, fell into shadow as they tramped out of daylight into the gatehouse's tunnel.
"Oh, no more of this… please!" Wynn whispered to herself.
Not five corners for five ancient Noble Dead. Not six and twenty—twenty-six—steps taken, as some metaphor of distance. Whatever the five corners meant, the other measure was for pairs of feet—two by two, totaling thirteen.
The Children numbered thirteen.
How many of the other names she'd read were those of other ancient undead, possibly still somewhere in the world? It was bad enough that the one she'd banished with the sun crystal couldn't be one of them. The Children were ancient vampires, and the wraith had been some new spirit form of Noble Dead.
And Wynn thought immediately of Pawl a'Seatt.
The stoic master scribe with the odd family name had claimed to have been hunting undead in his city. He'd implied that he had sensed the wraith's presence, though he hadn't been able to find it. Magiere was the only other person Wynn knew of, besides Chap, who had such ability. Chane had been fervent in claiming that Pawl a'Seatt was an undead, yet Wynn had seen the scribe master in daylight. None of it made sense.
He couldn't be a dhampir, not for what Wynn knew of Magiere's singular birth and what great efforts that had taken. He couldn't be one of the Children, if Wynn's guess that Li'kän's forced servitude was common to all such.
Who—what—was Pawl a'Seatt?
The only other thing Wynn knew was that none of the Upright Quill's staff showed any fear of the shopowner, beyond his strange actions on the night of Jeremy's and Elias's deaths. Pawl a'Seatt wasn't guilty of those deaths. He had always been protective of his employees, watching over them each night when they left the guild grounds. And he had a long-standing and respected
relationship with the guild.
Wynn turned toward the keep's main doors, rather than heading on to il'Sänke's quarters. She had one more stop to make.
When she reached the hospice, Nikolas was reclined against the bed's headboard. He gazed up, perhaps at the ceiling or at nothing at all. At the sight of his lost eyes, Wynn almost wished she'd just slipped away instead. But she couldn't be so cruel, and she had something important to tell him.
Shade trotted in on her heels, and thankfully, Domi «haningn Bitworth wasn't present.
"Your color is better," she said.
Nikolas rolled his head toward her, only then realizing someone was there, and he half smiled.
"Do I still have gray streaks in my hair?"
She pulled over a stool and sat beside him. "You may be stuck with those, but they make you look distinguished."
Then he noticed her clothing and the pack, and any hint of happiness drained from his fragile features.
"You're leaving?"
"Yes, I have an assignment," she lied. "I just came to say good-bye… and that I'm glad to have your friendship."
He rolled his head back and focused on the ceiling again. What else could she say? This poor young man had more demons in his past than the memory of the black-robed wraith. His few friends here had either died or left him.
"Nikolas, listen to me," she said. "Look at me. If anything like this ever happens again…"
She grabbed his hand.
"If something… unnatural ever plagues you or the guild, don't waste time going to Sykion or High-Tower or even Captain Rodian. They cannot help."
At this Nikolas's brown eyes filled with confusion.
"Go to Master a'Seatt," she insisted, "at the Upright Quill. Tell him everything. He will know what to do."
Nikolas blinked and then nodded once as he squeezed her hand.
"I have to get going," she said, and stood up, shouldering her pack.
"But you'll come back?" he asked quickly.
Wynn glanced back from the doorway. "When I can."