by Barb Hendee
Wynn backed up.
The dark began moving. Flowing up the alley, it seemed to eat what little light came from the street beyond. Chane turned down the street’s gradual arc. He knew he should stay away from Wynn for her own good. Yet she had asked him questions laced with eagerness for his help, and hints concerning her life at the guild left him wondering.
Was she lonely among her own kind? Enough that even the sight of a familiar monster was welcome? Or was it just that he wished it so? He could not let himself wallow in false hopes, and he headed off toward the Graylands Empire and his small attic room.
The beast inside him rumbled in agitation.
Chane’s fingernails instinctively hardened as he halted. He spun sharply around in the empty street. Barely an itch inside him, but still, something pulled at the edge of his awareness.
Since entering this city he had taken to wearing Welstiel’s ring of nothing at all times. The longer he wore it, the duller his awareness became. But he felt something wrong, something that made the feral beast within him rise in warning.
Chane looked down the dark street as his senses fully widened—and panic crept in.
After his botched attempt to seize the folio, that black figure, so physical to his eyes and yet not, had fixed upon Wynn. If it still watched for her, and she now carried the scroll from the same source as the texts . . .
He had been so relieved at her acceptance of him, that he had not thought of the further danger in which he had placed her. He had not even thought to trail her home in secret.
“Fool!” Chane hissed at himself, and bolted back up the street.
Blackness vanished suddenly from the alley.
Wynn saw the dim outline of the exit reappear. Still, she took another step back.
Had she seen that pure darkness at all? Or had she grown so paranoid that her mind played upon her fears?
Down the alley she clearly saw the tall bailey wall and the keep’s southern tower above it. Both remained plainly visible. In a slow, angry breath, she gripped the staff with both hands.
“So . . . paranoid it is,” she grumbled to herself and stepped forward.
Reaching the alley’s far end, she carefully peeked around the left side.
The guild’s southern corner hid the front gate and gatehouse from sight, but she didn’t spy any patrolling guards. A quick glance right found that way empty as well. Wynn stepped out, prepared to dash for the wall and follow it around to the castle’s front.
A black column stood twenty paces off in the middle of the road.
Pieces of it began to waft, like night-colored sails unfurling under a rising breeze.
Wynn glanced quickly up at the keep’s southern tower.
As during her escape, all its windowed archer’s slits were dark. No one was there to see her. When her gaze dropped she lurched backward.
The figure stood no more than five paces off.
Folds of its heavy black cowl sagged across its cloak’s shoulders. And the cloak’s layers over its long black robe floated on a wind that touched nothing else in sight. Wynn gripped the staff in both hands, glancing frantically about.
She wasn’t skilled enough with the staff’s crystal for this rushed moment—she wasn’t really skilled with it at all. She couldn’t outrun this thing in the open, but fleeing into the alley was foolish. All the murdered sages had been caught and trapped in tight spaces. As much as her own safety or life, she didn’t want the scroll to fall into this thing’s possession.
Should she scream out, call to any guards who might hear?
Wynn whirled to run the other way, hoping to catch the patrol she’d evaded, and a chill wind swirled up around her. It tore at her cloak and robe until her hood ripped back and her hair whipped across her face. She slapped the tendrils out of her eyes.
There it was again.
The black figure loomed in front of her. She stumbled back and it rushed her. A hand wrapped in shreds of black cloth reached out.
Wynn twisted away in the only direction it hadn’t appeared. She ran straight into the alley.
Her robe’s skirt slapped against her legs. Any instant she expected to see the figure appear before her, but she didn’t look back. She reached the alley’s far end, skidded into the next open street, and wildly searched for anyplace to hide.
No open inns or eateries lay in sight with any lighted windows or people about, just dark buildings, one with storage bins out front and marked with the sign of a dry-goods shop. She looked back to the alley.
Darkness rolled toward her, swallowing any scant light upon the brick walls. The figure slid into the open without the sound of a footfall.
Wynn choked once as the air turned frigid around her. Sucking in a freezing breath, she retreated toward the street’s far side. As numbing cold spread through her, a savage howl erupted along the street. Wynn turned her head as a dark form rushed forward.
A charcoal-colored wolf wove and twisted, snarling before the robed figure. Its ears flattened as its jowls pulled back, exposing fangs and teeth glistening with spittle.
Wynn blinked as the black figure shrank away one pace, and the wolf, so tall—too tall—spun to one side.
She saw its pointed ears and long muzzle. And its glittering eyes, like pale and faceted sapphires . . . like Chap’s eyes.
It was a majay-hì, but it wasn’t Chap.
A hiss of unintelligible whispers filled the street in answer to the animal’s threat. The dog lunged in.
“No!” Wynn breathed. “Don’t!”
The air’s chill waned as the figure pulled farther back.
Wynn stared at the snarling dog.
How could it be here, and why? Chap was the only majay-hì that she knew of beyond the bounds of the elven lands. Unlike his silvery gray, this one’s charcoal-colored fur was almost inky, though faint shimmers rose within its coat.
As much as for herself, Wynn feared for this animal so far from its native land. And all she had for defense was the sun crystal staff. She’d brought that more for show, in case she needed to threaten Chane. She’d promised il’Sänke never to attempt to use it without his guidance. And honestly, she wasn’t even sure if she could.
The black figure slid sideways, trying to get around the dog, and the pure silence of its movement terrified Wynn. The majay-hì darted quickly to cut it off, and the figure swung one hand down at the dog’s head.
“No!” Wynn shouted, though it came out voiceless and strangled.
She’d seen this creature kill three city guards with little effort.
The dog twisted its head clear of the strike and whipped back with a snap. Its jaws bit into—through—those wrapped fingers. The majay-hì’s teeth clacked, as if they’d closed on nothing at all.
The figure snatched its hand back, fingers quivering as if in pain.
An eerie, hollow screech erupted around Wynn. And the dog’s yelp rose over that. The majay-hì backed toward her, shaking its head in whimpers.
Wynn was so startled that she forgot about the staff and crystal.
An undead mage, with the skill to become incorporeal, and yet the snap of a Fay-descended majay-hì had hurt it in turn. Both dog and figure recovered quickly and fixed upon each other with caution. Wynn tried to block out the threatening snarls and hissing.
She ripped the sheath off the sun crystal.
Letting it drop, she gripped the staff with both hands and shut her eyes, trying to remember what little Domin il’Sänke had taught her.
Not a spell, but more a series of thoughts—symbols—matched with plain words so that her voice reinforced her intent. She leaned the staff’s head out and concentrated, seeing the long crystal’s shape in her thoughts.
“From Spirit . . .” she whispered, and a circle surrounded the crystal in her mind’s eye. “To Fire . . .” And she added a triangle within the circle. “For its light”—and another inverted triangle appeared within the first—“of life!”
A final circle filled th
e inner space of the pattern, overlaying the crystal’s image. Wynn held her focus, keeping the pattern alive in her mind.
A soft warmth spread upon her face.
The insides of her eyelids brightened slightly—as if a candle had been lit before them. Clinging to the mental pattern, Wynn turned her face aside.
“Wynn!”
She snapped her eyes open at the rasping voice.
Only the barest light showed around her. Horror flooded Wynn at the sight of Chane running toward her, his sword drawn—and the pattern vanished from her thoughts.
Light, like a noon sun, ignited before Wynn’s face.
Three sounds struck her ears amid sudden blindness—a dog’s startled yelp, a hiss rising to a wail, and Chane’s grating shout of agony. Everything washed white, erasing Chane from Wynn’s sight.
And a last sound smothered the other three.
A shriek filled Wynn’s skull, riding on the searing light’s pain lancing through her eyes. She felt herself hit the cobblestones.
That last sound had torn from her own throat.
Ghassan il’Sänke heard a howl and followed the sound, half leaping and half floating from rooftop to rooftop. When he reached the next street, Wynn stood with a dark wolf between her and the tall black-robed figure.
A cloaked man was running toward her, gripping a sword. “Wynn!” he cried in a rasping voice.
Then a glimmer rose in the long crystal of Wynn’s staff.
“No!” Ghassan growled, and extended his hand in the air, aimed toward the staff. Not one symbol or shape came quickly enough into his mind.
Yellow-white light erupted, turning night into instant day, and Ghassan ducked, raising a sleeve before his eyes. He heard a hissing wail, a yelp, and a rasping shout. Wynn’s shriek smothered all three.
Daylight winked out.
Caught half-blind between colored blotches over his sight and the sudden return of darkness, Ghassan dropped quickly over the eave’s edge. But when he landed upon the street, still blinking and squinting, the black-robed figure was nowhere in sight, and neither was Wynn’s armed protector. Both had fled in the crystal’s flash—but not the wolf.
It shook its head, whimpering, and Ghassan ran to kneel where Wynn lay.
Curled upon the cobblestones with her eyes shut, she shuddered in a growing sweat with the staff still clutched in one hand. He jerked it from her grip, but when he tried to touch her damp brow, the lanky wolf charged at him.
Ghassan slapped his robe’s skirt aside and spun away on his knees with the staff in hand. The wolf hopped straight over Wynn’s quivering form to block him from reaching her.
He raised a hand, symbols and shapes forming in his vision, and prepared to cast the animal aside as easily as he lifted himself to the rooftops. The wolf pulled up short, head low and jaws parted in a snarl, but it didn’t advance.
Ghassan paused and studied this aberrant animal.
It stood its ground, directly between him and Wynn, as if guarding her. And the more he saw of it, the more it seemed too oddly formed. Wolves were not found in his homeland, but its legs, ears, and snout seemed exaggerated, from what little he knew of them. And its eyes . . . glittering crystal blue eyes . . .
There was something familiar about this beast.
Ghassan had little time left if he were to free Wynn from the effects of a failed attempt with the staff. He turned his gesture from the wolf to her, closed his fingers tightly, and jerked his fist back.
Wynn’s curled form slid sharply across the cobblestones—right into the wolf’s legs. The animal toppled in surprise, tumbling over her. Wynn came to a stop in front of Ghassan.
He pointed the staff’s crystal outward as the wolf thrashed to its feet. It hopped aside, trying to get around, but Ghassan already had his free hand on Wynn’s fevered brow.
He sank into her thoughts—and erased the lingering trace of the patterned shapes submerged in her mind.
Wynn went limp and still, moaning softly as she tried to roll over. Ghassan already felt excessive heat fading from her forehead.
“The dog . . .” she whispered weakly. “Bring . . .”
She fell unconscious, and the wolf ceased rumbling, staring at her as its ears rose. Then it turned its eyes on Ghassan.
Its jowls curled, exposing teeth, as if warning him away from Wynn.
When he set the staff down, prepared to lift Wynn, the dog lunged at him and snapped.
Ghassan froze as his brow wrinkled in impatience. Wynn needed more care, and his first instinct was to just slap this animal aside—or perhaps he should kill it. Tonight had already been filled with enough nonsense.
Some form of nonsense always circled around Wynn.
But the wolf, or dog, puzzled him, as much for its sudden appearance as for its strange form. And when the black-robed mage had come after Wynn, this wild beast had tried to defend her.
He gripped the staff with his right hand, rose slowly to his feet, and swept his left hand across his sight of the wolf. More symbols formed in his mind.
“Halt,” he murmured, reaching for the animal’s simple thoughts.
It stopped cold, as if bound where it stood.
Ghassan gestured in the air over Wynn, and her body rose off the street. When she reached his waist, he cradled her in his arms, still gripping the sun crystal’s staff.
The wolf went into a snarling frenzy.
“Silence!” Ghassan snapped, and reached deeper into the animal’s limited mind.
Something in there slapped his mental intrusion aside, as surely as if it had slapped his face. He nearly lost hold of Wynn.
The wolf lurched forward, one slow paw at a time, and Ghassan stared in surprise.
A simple beast should not have resisted his command so easily, let alone felt—or responded—when he entered its thoughts. He turned away, heading down the road toward the guild. He had no time to deal with getting some strange wolf onto the grounds, even if Wynn wanted it.
The animal’s snarls intensified, and he paused, glancing over his shoulder.
It had not kept up, but it still made headway against his will.
Ghassan sighed. In a quick flash of symbols and a silent chant, he ripped the command from the wolf’s mind.
It lunged forward and circled him.
Ghassan hissed back at it, hurrying on, and the wolf hopped aside before it got caught by his boots.
Chane lay on the far side of a leather shop, gritting his teeth in pain. Thin trails of smoke rose from his charred face and hands. It took effort not to whimper and betray his presence as he climbed to his feet and peered around the shop’s side.
A tall sage with dusky skin and dark hair knelt beside Wynn’s curled form. He was older and wore the midnight blue of a metaologer. Chane remembered him from the night the first two sages were found murdered in an alley.
At least the black figure was gone, and in the company of one of her own, Wynn might be safe for the moment.
The dark-skinned sage picked up the crystal-adorned staff, but when he tried to touch Wynn’s forehead the dog lunged at him. What followed cut through Chane’s suffering as he watched, to the instant Wynn floated up into the sage’s arms.
This man was more than a sage. Chane’s amazement succumbed to pain as Wynn’s savior headed off, carrying her in his arms. And the dog followed, still snarling and circling.
Chane barely fumbled his sword back into its sheath. He was almost grateful for the Suman’s arrival, as he certainly could not carry Wynn anywhere in his present state. He needed to feed, and soon, and he didn’t care whom he found. Almost anyone would do, but he continued to watch the retreating deep blue robe.
Chane knew conjury, though he was less skilled than a true mage. Nothing in that art could have raised Wynn from the ground without a telltale sign—perhaps a geyser of conjured air. He had felt no wind, let alone one powerful and controlled enough to lift her small body from the street.
Thaumaturgy’s manipulation of the
physical world had better possibilities, but he had never heard nor read of a thaumaturge who could turn a breeze into wind so precisely shaped and with such strength.
This sage had appeared suddenly, in just the right place and moment, barely an instant after the black figure had vanished.
Chane grew anxious—and frustrated with his own weakness—for there was nothing he could do. Had he left Wynn in the hands of some new and unknown threat living within the walls of her own guild?