by Barb Hendee
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.”
“No, you do not!” he answered sharply. “Not without my supervision. If only I could find a way to remove your . . . talent.”
At that Wynn turned narrow-eyed herself.
He was the only one here who knew of her malady, and she noticed the glistening of his brow. Shutting off her mantic sight hadn’t been easy on him, even as an adept mage. Not as it had been for Chap, with his Fay nature.
When she’d first told il’Sänke, he’d seemed anxious and angry, immediately suggesting he try to “cure” her. She’d hesitated, and then refused. That didn’t please him, and he insisted she not tamper with her sight except under his supervision.
He’d said “could” and not “should” concerning removing her mantic sight. Had he been trying something behind her back?
Il’Sänke placed a hand behin
d her shoulder and propelled her toward the door.
“Your work can wait. Come.”
Annoyed at being forced from privacy, Wynn couldn’t think of a polite refusal. Not after all his efforts on her behalf. She allowed herself to be escorted into the outer stone passage.
Along the hallway they passed other doors to small chambers of other apprentice and journeyor sages. They headed down the far narrow stairs and out an old oak door. Entering the castle’s inner courtyard, il’Sänke herded her to the same double doors she’d watched from her window. When the domin pulled one door wide, warm air with a thin taint of smoke, and the sounds of voices, spilled out around Wynn.
Even in her hesitation, il’Sänke waited patiently until she stepped into the entryway. She followed as he headed left down the passage leading into what had once been half of the castle’s old great hall.
In spite of everything since Wynn’s return, she loved this place—this old fortress. Over four centuries past, the first rulers of Malourné had resided here, when Calm Seatt had barely been a city. But they’d embarked upon plans for a new and greater castle. The royal court moved in, and this first castle became a barracks for the country’s armed forces.
Two centuries later, Queen lfwine II saw a need for something more. Several scholars of history thought she desired a more lavish residence, while others claimed that—like her descendants—she wanted a place where she could view the sea. Those of the royal bloodline had always shown a strange attraction to the open waters, even unto tragedy. To this day no one knew why the sea called to the family of reskynna. Even their name meant “kin of the ocean waves.”
lfwine II oversaw designs of an elaborate castle closer to Beranlômr Bay. The nation’s armed forces, including a newly established city guard to augment the constabularies, moved to the vacated second castle. The first castle—by far the oldest and smallest—was given over to the early beginnings of the Guild of Sagecraft.
And since that time, with the help of the dwarves across the bay in Dhredze Seatt, who had lent their legendary stonecraft to the building of all three fortifications, the first castle was modified to meet the sages’ needs. New buildings were attached to the main keep’s exterior in its inner bailey.
The keep of the guild’s castle was a hollowed square, its inner courtyard surrounded by the outer walls, with inner buildings flush against them. The round corner towers were now used for the offices and studies of domins and premins. Wynn’s room was located on the second floor of the old barracks to the courtyard’s southeast side.
“Perhaps some cinnamon bread is left over from this morning?” il’Sänke mused, stepping ahead of her.
Wynn almost smiled. The Suman sage had a fondness for spiced cakes and breads, perhaps missing his homeland more than he acknowledged. Down the passage, they rounded a main archway into a great hall.
Here the royals of Malourné once entertained guests of high birth and visiting dignitaries. But the space was now the guild’s common hall, filled with a variety of mismatched tables and chairs, stools and benches. It was used for everything from off-hour meals and light studies to leisure pursuits and social gatherings. As a child Wynn had spent happy evenings here, with the enormous hearth in the back wall blazing with piled logs. The royal family was generous in increasing the guild’s yearly budget.
Tonight, twenty-plus sages of lesser rank milled about the hall. Most were initiates in their plain tan robes, while others were likely apprentices, garbed in the colors of their chosen orders. It was difficult to know if anyone was a journeyor like Wynn, but few such remained at the guild unless awaiting assignment abroad.
Nearly everyone looked up as Wynn entered with Domin il’Sänke. No one called a greeting, and Wynn wished she’d stayed in her room.
Aside from those who thought her somewhere between addled and half-mad, others considered her “above herself” as a journeyor. Even sages weren’t beyond envy, considering that she’d returned home bearing the greatest scholarly find in the guild’s history. And worse, no one but the domins and premins even knew what the find entailed.
Wynn had few, if any, friends here, and privacy was becoming a standing habit. Her gaze settled for an instant upon a stooped young sage wearing the gray robes of a cathologer.
“Nervous” Nikolas Columsarn sat reading by himself in the hall’s near right corner. Even sitting, he kept his shoulders turned inward, as if he curled into himself. Straight, unkempt brown hair fell forward to nearly cover his eyes and shadow his sallow features.
How could he read like that? Wynn knew his name only from hearing it, but she’d noticed him a few times. His only companions were two young journeyors he occasionally tagged along behind. More often he kept to himself, as Wynn did.
Il’Sänke ignored all the staring or averted eyes and headed straight through for the hearth.
“We shall pull chairs by the fire,” he said, “and arrange for tea. Hopefully something other than the weak stuff you drink here in the north.”
Wynn sighed, about to follow, and a voice like grating granite rose behind her.
“Ghassan, you are back.”
Wynn flinched, reluctant to even turn about.
There in the arched entryway stood the broad form of Domin High-Tower. It wasn’t his family name; dwarves preferred to be called by their given names, usually translated into Numanese to keep inept humans from bumbling over the Dwarvish language.
Wynn had read ancient folklore of the Farlands that spoke of dwarfish beings as diminutive. She knew better firsthand, having grown up in Calm Seatt.
High-Tower, like all of his people, was an intimidating hulk compared to such myths. Though shorter than humans, most dwarves could look her directly in the eyes. What they lacked in height they made up for in breadth. High-Tower had to turn sideways to get through any standard human doorway. His shoulder width was more than half again that of a man.
Stout and wide as he was, even under a gray robe he showed no hint of fat. Coarse, reddish hair laced with gray hung to his shoulders, blending with his thick beard braided at its end. His broad, rough features made his black-irised eyes seem like iron pellets embedded in his pale and lightly freckled face. Wynn always thought of a moving column of granite whenever she heard his voice or heavy footsteps.
Though she would never say so aloud, she thought that long, straight-cut wool robes were hardly flattering to the dwarvish form. High-Tower’s people were more impressive in their breeches, iron-shod boots, and thick leather clothing.
“Back?” il’Sänke replied politely.
High-Tower entered like a war machine, moderate but steady, and no one would dare step in his way. He glanced at Wynn with scantly concealed disapproval and folded his barrel-like arms to look up at il’Sänke. The master cathologer made no secret of his dislike for the visiting Suman sage.
“Yes, I saw you go out earlier,” High-Tower said, “and was wondering if you had seen Jeremy or Elias about. They were due back a while ago with a folio.”
Il’Sänke blinked once and seemed to contemplate his answer, and Wynn wondered why he’d gone out after dark. Upon returning he must have gathered the crystal and come straight to her room.
“I saw no one from the guild while out,” he answered. “I was hurrying to reach the docks with a letter to my home branch. But I arrived too late. The port office was closed, and there was no way to find any ship going as far as the Suman coast.”
Domin High-Tower frowned. “You waited to take it yourself? Why not send an apprentice earlier?”
Il’Sänke didn’t need to answer. He’d been called to assist with translating Suman passages of the texts Wynn brought back, but he’d come to Calm Seatt with no apprentices or attendants. High-Tower knew this but goaded him just the same.
Il’Sänke smiled with another cock of one eyebrow. “The walk was welcome after a long day in stillness. You might consider it yourself—or even a night’s row in the bay.”
High-Tower snorted, and
Wynn glanced away.
Really, such a jest was in poor taste. Dwarves walked everywhere they went, as few mounts could hold them up. As for a leisure boat trip, no dwarf cared to be on water. Even without armor or weapons, they sank.
Before either could exchange another barb, two apprentices in gray bolted through the entry. Wide-eyed and panting, they never got out a word before someone strode in purposefully on their heels.
Tall with long, tangled hair, the man wore a red tabard over his chain mail vestment and padded hauberk. As frightened as the apprentices appeared, his expression was twisted somewhere between anger and anguish. The man’s sword sheath was embellished with an inlaid panel of silver engraved with the royal crest and a panorama of Calm Seatt.