In Shade and Shadow

by Barb Hendee

  “Can we take you to the Sea Bounty for a late lunch?” dweard suggested.

  “Thank you, no,” Rodian replied. “I have other duties at the barracks and should head back. Bring your statements to Lieutenant Garrogh before signing them.” He paused and turned. “Jason . . . my apologies, but I am trying to protect you. Stay away from Elvina until all this is over. Remember that, or suffer for it.”

  For once Jason’s sullen demeanor broke, and he nodded. “I was only thinking of Elvina’s good name.”

  Rodian kept his response to himself—no, you were thinking of yourself—but he believed Jason innocent of murder.

  “I’ll see you both at the next service.”

  He stepped from the office, pausing long enough to pay homage at the altar, then left to find Snowbird. But dweard’s words echoed in his head.

  If this project is the cause of deaths, perhaps someone in power will put a stop to it.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wynn burst into her room, going straight for her desk table without shutting the door.

  But she stopped halfway and glanced at her storage chest. Changing directions, she dropped to her knees and lifted its lid.

  Several items from her travels rested inside, but she reached for one in particular: a special quill with a white metal tip. It had been a gift from one of the elven elders during her visit among the an’Cróan, Those of the Blood. Closing her eyes, she could still remember Gleann’s kind face as he’d pushed the quill and sheets of parchment at her, so she could keep a record of her experiences and observations.

  The notes she recorded had survived a great deal—including a shipwreck and the grueling mountain trek through the Pock Peaks. But since returning home, Wynn hadn’t used this quill. With all her journals confiscated, she’d almost felt as if she would betray the memory of Gleann’s kindness by using the quill here.

  She picked it up now and closed the chest.

  Hurrying to her desk, she gathered a bottle of ink and a blank journal. Rubbing her crystal harshly until it glowed, she mounted it in the tin clip holder inside her cold lamp. Arms loaded, she hurried out, the lantern clinking against the door as she shut it.

  It had been a long while since she’d been filled with a sense of purpose. She barely noticed Miriam coming up as she hurried down the far stairs.

  “Hello, Wynn.”

  Wynn offered a quick smile and moved on. But when she cracked open the door at the stair’s bottom, a double column of ten young initiates marched out of the gatehouse tunnel, straight toward the keep’s main door.

  Wynn pulled back and closed the door halfway.

  A pair of apprentices, one in brown and the other in light blue, walked ahead of the initiates—a rather odd combination. Leading the procession was brown-robed Domin Ginjeriè. She was the youngest domin ever in the Order of Naturology. Obviously she’d taken a band of initiates for a field outing or perhaps some community service.

  Right then Wynn had no wish to face anyone.

  Thirteen sages passed through the keep’s main doors.

  And still Wynn waited. Giving them time to clear the entryway, she then raced quickly across the courtyard to the main building. Upon finding no one inside the doors, instead of turning left past the common hall, she went right down a long stone corridor. Passing the hospice, lower seminar chambers, and other rooms, she hooked left at the passage’s end, intent upon reaching the spiral stairwell at the base of the east tower. Before she reached the antechamber’s door, a smooth voice with a Suman accent floated from out of a seminar room across the passage.

  Wynn paused, stepping back to peek through the room’s open door.

  “The third element for practical consideration is Air,” Domin il’Sänke said.

  The domin sat upon a stool before a half circle of small benches filled by a dozen or more young figures in robes. Not all the students were metaologers. Several wore the pale blue of sentiology, and a few others the teal of conomology or the brown of naturology. There were even three initiates, though it wasn’t common practice for such to attend seminars on special topics. Wynn knew she shouldn’t linger, but she stood fascinated, watching as il’Sänke raised both hands, palms up, and the sleeves of his dark blue robes slipped, exposing his slender wrists.

  She’d forgotten that he’d offered to teach during his stay, though she hadn’t known he would include seminars for students from any order. Normally metaology seminars were held on the second floor, but it seemed he’d obtained a more commonly used room.

  “Many novice practitioners discount Air as a lesser element,” il’Sänke continued, “believing it less useful than Fire or Water . . . or even Earth.” He slowly spread his palms, as if moving them consciously through the air.

  Some domins and masters could prattle on until their students drooped, half-conscious, but all those here fixed their eyes on the dark-skinned domin. And Wynn noted a particular tall young man in midnight blue sitting far off to the left.

  “Dâgmund?” she whispered.

  She hadn’t seen him in years, and knew him only in passing. He’d made journeyor and left on assignment before she’d even headed to the Farlands with Domin Tilswith. But now he was back? Perhaps he was finished, and returned for a new assignment.

  Or was he here to petition for master’s status already? It couldn’t have been more than three years. And he certainly wouldn’t be attending such a general introduction to metaphysical elements.

  “Yet Water and Fire, even the dust of Earth, can be carried within Air,” il’Sänke continued. “And thus Air could be viewed as most essential among the five elements, via either conjury or thaumaturgy. It can hold a special place as facilitator when dealing in works of higher complexity.”

  Wynn sighed. How nice it would be to simply join in, to listen to il’Sänke’s teachings. But she didn’t have time for such diversions.

  Then Dâgmund turned his head, peering toward the door, and Wynn held her place a moment longer.

  Stout cheekbones were his most prominent feature beneath pale blue eyes. At first he seemed troubled by the sight of her—or perhaps just confused. Then his high forehead smoothed. With the barest smile he nodded to her, but it took a moment before she nodded back.

  She’d grown so accustomed to disdain, suspicion, and wariness cast her way that even a brief friendly acknowledgment was unsettling. Perhaps he hadn’t been back long enough to hear about her. She’d barely known him, considering their differing paths, and hadn’t seen him since her earliest days as an apprentice.

  But she remembered one time in a room like this one.

  Some apprentices of cathology wanted to hear a lecture by Premin Hawes on mantic practices of thaumaturgy. It wasn’t really of interest to her, but Wynn tagged along anyhow. By the time it was over her curiosity had grown, and Dâgmund had been there among a great number of apprentices from metaology. She’d asked him a few questions in passing, wanting to read more on the theories and practices of information gathering via the arcane arts. He gave her the title of an obscure text hidden in the archives that covered the basics of rituals in thaumaturgical manticism. Little did she know then how much trouble that would cause her later.

  “But what about sorcery?” a small voice peeped up. “That’s got none of the Elements in it.”

  The entire room went quiet. Dâgmund turned sharp eyes of concern on one of the tan-robed initiates sitting in the front row. That word—sorcery—was rarely even spoken.

  Domin il’Sänke was still and somber, folding his hands in his lap. How would he answer without squelching simple curiosity?

  “Well, it does and it does not,” he finally replied. “The Elements are not in any magical practice. They metaphorically represent the makeup of the universe’s greater existence. The fields of magic are not a matter of practice as much as differing ideological approaches . . . as related to the Three Aspects of Existence—spirit, mind, and body.”

  Wynn was dubious, but at least he’d done better
than Premin Hawes, or especially High-Tower, in dealing with a naïve initiate.

  “Each of the five Elements have three forms, according to the Aspects,” he added. “For example, take my own order. Metaology is associated with Spirit among the elements, but it has three references or representations according to the Aspects: Spirit is, well, the spiritual side, while its intellectual reference is Essence, and its physical symbol is the Tree. Similarly we have Air, Gas, and Wind, and then Fire, Flame or Light, and Energy . . . and so on.”

  Wynn was familiar with all this, and it seemed the domin was politely diverting from the original question. That same young initiate raised his hand, waving it in the air.

  Il’Sänke let out a low chuckle.

  “Yes, I know . . . the term Spirit is used for both an Aspect and an Element. But let’s leave that puzzle for another day. It is the Aspects, not the Elements, in which we find the grounding for the ideologies of magic. Thaumaturgy is the body, the physical ideology, while conjury is the spiritual or essence-based approach. . . .”

  The domin took a deep breath. Perhaps he thought that would be the end of it, but Wynn saw that it wasn’t. That persistent little initiate leaned forward expectantly.

  “As to sorcery,” il’Sänke finally said, “it is little known . . . and no one known to us practices it, even among metaologers. It is . . . severely frowned upon.”

  Wynn choked—it was more than frowned upon.

  Mages and lesser practitioners weren’t common, even among the guild. Thaumaturgy was the most accepted, and conjury of limited sorts was tolerated. But sorcery, by whatever term in varied cultures, was feared—hated—and rightly so. The power and skill to apply one’s will against the world and other beings had been a death knell as far back as any bits of history uncovered.

  And she did know of one such person—Vordana. Fortunately Leesil had sent that one to his final end.

  Wynn forced herself to leave the domin’s lecture.

  Juggling her burdens, she heaved open the antechamber’s heavy door. Across that small space she reached one of two doors to be found in either the north tower or the east tower. They were always left unlocked whenever any of the archivists were in the catacombs, and so she pushed this one open.

  The cold lamp’s crystal illuminated stone steps spiraling downward into the dark. A slight smell of stale dust filled her nose, and she could taste it on her tongue. No candles, torches, or flames of any kind were allowed below. All those entering the catacombs had to acquire a cold lamp from the archivists or bring one of their own. And only those with their own—journeyor status or above—were allowed below without supervision.

  How long since she’d been down here? Certainly not since she and Domin Tilswith had left for the Farlands over two years ago. Most texts of general use had been copied and placed in the new upper library. Few of her peers had reason to go digging for anything else.

  Gripping the cold lamp’s handle with her right hand, she shifted her burdens under that same arm. Tugging up her robe’s hem with her left, she descended. Soon a dim light grew from below, and, taking the last step, Wynn emerged into a cavernous main cellar.

  In spite of the recent tragedy and frustration, she felt like a scholar again.

  Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with matching bound volumes of dark leather among a few cedar-plank sheaves of loose pages. Several tables filled the space, lit by cold lamps hung at the chamber’s four corners. And a withered old man in a gray robe sat hunched over a table, writing rapidly.

  “Domin Tärpodious?” she said, stepping closer.

  Likely engrossed in recataloguing old volumes, he finally glanced up.

  Old Tärpodious squinted milky eyes over a long beaked nose, as if uncertain who had spoken. The expression made him look like an old crow, though his wrinkled skin was the ashen white of someone who rarely ventured out-of-doors. His white hair was thin, and his hands looked brittle, but he rose suddenly with a smile that multiplied the lines in his face threefold. He greeted her with genuine pleasure.

  “Young Hygeorht?” the old archivist asked, still squinting. “Is that you?”

  Years of working by only a cold lamp’s light had limited his eyesight. It happened to all cathologers posted as archivists.

  “Yes,” Wynn answered. “I’ve come seeking your help once again.”

  Flattering Tärpodious’s expertise was best, and he rarely received visitors down here.

  Archivists were a strange lot altogether, preferring subterranean silence and solitude to even their own quarters above. They spent days and some nights—there was no difference down here—cataloguing, indexing, and organizing centuries of acquisitions held in the guild branch. And any one of them could quickly locate whatever text another sage sought. This was part of what it meant to be a cathologer.

  “Has Tilswith returned?” Tärpodious asked, his voice breathy and reedy.

  Wynn would have to tread carefully. She could hardly tell him that she suspected the killer of two young sages was undead, not if she wanted his help.

  “No,” she answered. “He’s still in Bela, establishing our new branch in the Farlands.”

  Tärpodious and Tilswith were old friends whose individual interests so often reached beyond the texts and parchments housed in the new library above. Wynn’s former master had spent quite a few evenings down here in the company of the venerable archivist.

  “But I’m a journeyor now, and I received a letter from him,” she added. “He asked me to come see you. Many outer regions of Belaski are filled with superstitions. And you know how that piques his interest. You once guided him to folklore references . . . especially one about the àrdadesbàrn, the ‘dead’s child.’ ”

  Tärpodious scratched his bony chin. “Truly?”

  Wynn held up her journal and shrugged with a forced roll of her eyes. “He wants direct copies of any similar folklore, so I may be down frequently over the next few days. Can you guide me?”

  It pained her to lie to the old archivist. Tärpodious lived in such seclusion that he would have no knowledge of—or interest in—the social politics of the guild, and certainly not regarding High-Tower’s order that she never mention the undead.

  The cavernous chamber, once the keep’s main storage room, boasted three archways of large and heavy frame stones. Tärpodious lifted his cold lamp from the table and shuffled toward the east one.

  “Tilswith and his superstitions!” He chuckled. “How far he might’ve gone, if only he’d turned his mind to something real. Come, child.”

  Swallowing guilt, Wynn followed. She knew how the archives were organized, but it had been a long time since her last visit. And one could quickly get lost in the catacombs.

  Hundreds of years past, when the guild took possession of the first castle, they immediately began to excavate with the assistance of dwarven masons and engineers. The work continued over decades. What had once been basic chambers for storage and dungeons were carefully expanded in whatever direction didn’t encroach on the city’s growing sewer system. There was also a double level of basements below the northeast workshops, where the laboritorium was housed, for the making of cold lamp crystals and other items.

  Rooms led into chambers that led through clusters of alcoves . . . which led into more rooms. Faded wooden cubicles and antechambers along the way provided places to sit and peruse texts, for no material could be removed without the archivists’ explicit permission—and a very good reason for it.

  All spaces and walls along the way were filled with endless rows of shelves, and Wynn soon lost count as everything began to look the same. She blinked once, and the backs of her eyelids projected images of sheaves; bound books, some spineless with only cord stitching showing; and scroll cases everywhere. No cold lamps were placed this far in, and she stayed close on Tärpodious’s heels, their two lamps the only illumination to ward off the blackness.

  “Here,” he said with a sudden stop, fingering a tall set of shelves a
long a passageway. “Some from the Suman lands, more from our scattered old cultures. A few have been translated into the Begaine syllabary, but not many.”

  She nodded, peering at the shelves. “I can read some Sumanese.”

  “Stick to Spirit by Fire, for the general accumulations,” Tärpodious added, “or by Air, should you need to branch out into social customs based on old tales.”

  For an instant the references left Wynn’s mind blank. Tärpodious tapped the bookshelf’s end, and she saw the faded etchings filled with remnants of paint in the old wood.

  Each guild order was symbolically associated with one of the Elements of existence—Spirit, Fire, Air, Water, and Earth. In turn, geometric symbols for such were used to classify, subclassify, and cross-reference subject matter by emphasis and context.