by Barb Hendee
Domin il’Sänke reappeared and took Chane upstairs.
Wynn dropped on a bench near a study table, wondering how il’Sänke would get Chane out without being seen by Rodian’s men. Or perhaps Chane would simply scale down the wall with his rope.
She badly wanted to pet Shade, seeking comfort in a companion still so new to her, but her thoughts kept turning to Chane. She had to be careful. Any memories picked up by Shade might make it impossible for the dog to fight alongside him again. And she needed them both for now.
After trotting some distance along the wall’s top, Ghassan led the way down the stairs into the fallow orchard below the southern tower. He paused there, holding back a hand to keep Wynn’s “savior” from stepping past him.
Chane was in no condition to be scaling walls or possibly calling attention to himself if he fell. It was simple enough to fill the guards’ minds with the notion of something skulking near the keep’s northern tower. Yet even as they took off on an erroneous search, Ghassan was still disturbed.
Not by the strange marred and burned appearance of this one called Chane. More than that, he had not caught the slightest conscious thought in the man’s head. He had tried in Wynn’s room.
Unlike during the duchess’s visit with her entourage, when he had picked up only something akin to a voice muffled inside a closed room, he could not find Chane’s thoughts at all. As if the man were not there.
When the guards were gone he waved Chane on. He received not a word in response as the man jogged off through the gate.
Il’Sänke returned to the library’s first floor and found Wynn slouched upon a bench with the majay-hì at her feet. On spotting him, she straightened and stood up.
“Come, you will sleep in the northwest building,” he said, “in the study outside my guest quarters. It is more . . . protected.”
She frowned, then nodded, as perhaps the prospect of sleeping alone in her room did seem unappealing. He led the way back through to the main doors and, once outside, cut across the courtyard. Entering through the storage building, they headed along a hallway that passed through the keep’s outer wall and into the newer building beyond. On the ground floor they passed the area where he spent time among this branch’s metaologers. When he glanced over his shoulder, Wynn was peering through a wide archway on the left. He knew what she saw inside.
Dimly lit colored glass tubes, mortars and pestles, small burners, and tin plates covered tables made of stone resistant to dangerous substances. Aging books lined high shelves about the workbenches running along both side walls. Perhaps she spotted the stairs to the sublevels, where the alchemical furnace sat, built like a massive barrel of charred steel mounted to turn and spin as needed. Plates of thick crystal were embedded in its walls, allowing a view of the interior to monitor any work in progress.
“I haven’t come this way in a long time,” Wynn said.
Shade, on the other hand, drew nervously closer to Wynn as they traveled up a switchback staircase at the passage’s end.
Il’Sänke stopped before a door on the second level. He preferred to keep this locked the old-fashioned way—to avoid questions—and took a key from around his neck.
“What’s in the lenses of these glasses?” Wynn asked suddenly. “What makes them darken?”
“The glass was infused with a thaumaturgical ink while still molten,” he replied. “Nothing complicated, and not the best lenses to look through. I later discovered that they react to sharp changes in heat as well as light. Keep aware of this unexpected side effect.”
He opened the door and let Wynn and Shade inside.
Only once they were alone in his study did he feel at ease. A faded wooden couch with cushions was pushed against one wall. On the other side, his desk was a mess of parchments and quills and charcoal sticks. The floor was dusty around the edges where no one walked, and two walls were lined with half-filled shelves. He had brought only a few of the texts from home. The rest were either there when he arrived or had been borrowed from the library. Another door at the back led into the guest bedchamber he used during his stay.
Wynn glanced over the desk, the spectacles still in her hand. Her expression filled with disappointment. “It’s so—”
“Ordinary?” he finished for her.
He was in no mood to discuss the state of his quarters. Anything he did not wish others to see was always kept locked away—one way or another.
“Many things that appear ordinary are not,” he added. “Your tall friend, for instance, is one of your walking dead.”
Wynn stiffened, and Ghassan tried not to smile or laugh.
He could count off the notions running through her head—without even trying to touch her thoughts. First denial, then came reticence to confirm his statement, to be followed finally by resignation.
Wynn flinched, but Ghassan felt no pity. He had picked up nothing, not even stray thoughts in Chane, which seemed impossible. Then again, he had never had a chance before to try such on an undead.
“Yes,” she finally answered. “A Noble Dead . . . a vampire . . . but he would never harm a sage.”
“And why is that?”
He already guessed, but the longer he prodded her guilt, making her feel as if she had betrayed his confidence, the better it served him.
“I just know,” she said tiredly. “What else do you wish me to tell you?”
“My interest lies most in what you might tell others. Much in the texts implies warnings, maybe even predictions, though I have seen little of the material. Knowledge of their content can never leave these protected walls—not in any form. Can you grasp that much?”
Her young eyes seemed so weary as she nodded. “Yes, I think I can.”
“Then sit,” he commanded, pointing to the old couch, “and start from the beginning. Tell me everything concerning this lost library of an ancient undead. Tell me what you found today in the translations . . . and in the scroll.”
As a last emphasis, he held up her journal, taken from the floor of her room, and slapped it down upon his desk as he sat.
Shade hopped up beside Wynn, curling up on the couch and taking most of its space.
Wynn’s tired brown eyes fixed on the journal, as if it were the end of a long tale unto itself. She began, softly and slowly at first, telling him what she’d learned in the Elven Territories concerning Most Aged Father, the Anmaglâhk, and fear of a returning Ancient Enemy.
She told him of the long sea journey down the elven coast, and another by land into the rugged Pock Peaks. And then of the nearly mute white undead called Li’kän, who could no longer remember the sound of any voice or her own name. Wynn had found no clues to whatever became of the white one’s missing companions, Volyno and Häs’saun.
She told him of events in a cavern below the castle, either ones she had witnessed or those later learned from her companions. He heard of the hundreds of calcified remains of servants, not all human, like statues kneeling with heads bowed for eternity in their burial pockets of stone. And he learned of something called an “orb,” and the chaos in a hot and humid cavern when it had been accidentally “opened.” She told him how she and Chap, a Fay-born canine like Shade, had chosen the texts she brought back.
But when she came to the translations seen this day, there was little he did not know already. At her mention of the Eaters of Silence, as opposed to the Children or the Reverent ones, he kept silent, though at that mention, his grip tightened on the chair’s arm.
Much of what she had read contained passages he had worked on. She had few conclusions that he had not guessed at as well. When she wound down, all her words spent, they sat in silence for a while. She glanced at him now and then, expecting him to say something—anything—though not about a “wraith.”
Yes, he had caught that term from her very thoughts. Along with her deep fear that it would be far worse to deal with than the vampires, the ones she had thought were the only Noble Dead. Now one of them, Chane, and a wayward maj
ay-hì had come to her.
Ghassan had his own concerns about this black-robed undead mage. He was uncertain that even he could deal with it on his own. And for this alone, he could not harm Wynn just yet. Not because of growing fondness for her; that was irrelevant.
She knew much of what he had already suspected was the truth—too much. And he knew she had to be silenced for the safety of the world.
One life for thousands—tens of thousands—was a sacrifice he could live with.
Except for this thing she called a “wraith.”
Wynn finally yawned, shyly covering her mouth, as if she worried about disturbing his silence. He got up, taking a heavy cloak from a hook near the door.
“Lie down,” he told her. “Sleep. You are safe here.”
“We can’t let the wraith get more folios,” she whispered, but her eyelids were already closing. “And tonight it came inside the guild.”
“I know.”
“Rodian tried to set a trap for it, but he failed,” she murmured.
“I know.”
Ghassan glanced at Shade, snapped his fingers, and pointed at the floor. The majay-hì leered at him but jumped down, and Ghassan pushed Wynn sideways by the shoulder. She flopped upon the couch, and he pulled the cloak over her.
“Tomorrow night,” he said, “we will set a trap of our own.”
Until then, he still saw a need for her.
As she settled into sleep, Ghassan slipped into his bedchamber and closed the door.
CHAPTER 17
The following night, Wynn crouched in the side street near the Upright Quill, the one that led to the same alley where Elias and Jeremy had died. She was waiting for a signal from Domin il’Sänke.
“We should not have agreed to this,” Chane whispered.
Shade whined as if seconding that opinion.
“I don’t like it either,” Wynn answered, “but I can’t think of anything better. Can you?”
The light of street lanterns didn’t quite reach them, but Wynn still saw Chane frown. More disturbing, the burns on his hands and face had nearly faded. She didn’t want to think about how. Even if the salve she’d applied had worked on him, it couldn’t have worked so quickly.
“We have to follow the plan,” she stated flatly, “and keep our wits.”
“Can the Suman do what he claims?”
Wynn hesitated, watching the empty street. “I can’t believe he would risk our lives, or the guild, by exaggerating. We may be its only hope for real protection.”
This answer didn’t sound convincing, even to her.
“But if the Premin Council learns what we did here, I’ll certainly be dismissed. And Domin il’Sänke will be sent back to his branch in disgrace, at the very least. He’s risking more than his life, so we must trust each other, or we’ll fail.”
The day’s preparations for il’Sänke’s trap had been exhausting. The Upright Quill was the only scriptorium to which the wraith had come more than once. After too much speculation concerning how it was tracking folios, this one scriptorium seemed the only choice.
Wynn had gone over and over the details with il’Sänke and spent half the day in further tutelage with the sun crystal. She was more than thankful for the spectacles he’d made. But throughout the preparations her thoughts kept turning over those brief cryptic phrases she’d read in the scroll. More than once il’Sänke had snapped at her, sensing that her attention wandered.
“I do not like him using you—or the scroll—as bait!” Chane rasped.
Wynn didn’t care for that either. “It’s the best chance for this to work.”
For Chane to be effective, he had to keep his ring on. With it, he could mask Shade’s presence as well, though it had taken great fuss to get Shade to let him touch her. The dog disliked contact with anyone but Wynn. Il’Sänke assured Wynn that he had his own way to “befuddle” the wraith’s awareness of him—whatever that meant.
Wynn was the only one left without protection. And she was the only one who could carry the scroll and be recognized by the wraith. She slipped a hand inside her cloak, checking on the scroll case tucked into her tunic’s belt.
“I won’t be hurt, or lose the scroll, if you wait long enough,” she said. “Stay focused. You and Shade have to come at the right moment.”
The plan was straightforward but depended on dangerously close timing.
For now, il’Sänke carried the sun crystal staff. Once he was in place across the street, he would whistle softly from whatever vantage point he found. Then Wynn would head up the street past the Upright Quill. With everyone else’s presence masked, she would appear to be alone and defenseless. They still didn’t know if this shadow creature was after her or the scroll, but it wouldn’t matter if she was carrying it. If the wraith sought both, so much the better to attract its attention.
The main catch in their plan was Shade.
For the last part of the day, Wynn had tried to teach the young majay-hì the most basic words in Numanese. She passed memory after memory of Chap waiting on command during any fight when Leesil had shouted, “Hold!” Chap had known not to close on an opponent if either Leesil or Magiere was engaged with a weapon that required room to wield.
Each time Wynn passed a memory, she’d held out her palm and spoke words like “hold” or “come” or “attack.” She had cautiously passed Shade a memory of Chane fighting the wraith the night before, keeping her thoughts locked only on that moment. Hopefully Shade would understand when the time came. By dusk Shade simply lay down and ignored her, either bored or annoyed with all Wynn’s nonsense. But Wynn believed—hoped—that Shade understood.
“Don’t close too quickly,” Wynn whispered to Chane, “or il’Sänke won’t have time to pull the wraith’s—”
“Yes, you said this before,” he rasped. “As has the Suman.”
“Sorry.”
“But if you are in trouble,” he said flatly, “the Suman can fend for himself.”
“Stop calling him that! He has a name.”
“There is something wrong about him,” Chane hissed. “I can nearly smell it!”
Wynn was too anxious to argue anymore.
When—if—the wraith took the bait, she was to run in the direction from which il’Sänke had whistled. Chane and Shade would wait as long as possible, until il’Sänke appeared to engage the wraith. Shade would charge out next, suddenly filling the wraith’s awareness, as she slipped from the protection of Chane’s ring. Then Chane, still shielded by the ring, could surprise the wraith. Hopefully this would give il’Sänke time to take advantage—and get the staff to Wynn as well.
But Wynn was still worried about what harm that thing might inflict on Chane or Shade in a prolonged fight. They would have to end this encounter quickly. Il’Sänke claimed he could hold the wraith in place, keeping it from escaping. Chane would dive for cover, and Wynn would ignite the staff’s sun crystal.
Step by step, the plan was straightforward . . . in theory.
“It will work,” she repeated.
Chane sighed.
“How did you and Shade and this domin leave the guild after dark?”
“Out the front gates,” she said. “The city guards weren’t there . . . or maybe they were late.”
A long, low whistle pierced the air, cutting off any more questions. It took Wynn by surprise, and she couldn’t tell where it came from.
“He is ready,” Chane whispered, and pointed toward a small shop half a block beyond the Upright Quill and on the street’s far side.
Wynn crept around Chane. Holding her palm before Shade’s nose and pointing to Chane, she whispered, “Hold . . . Attack with him.”
Shade merely rumbled and pushed Wynn’s hand away with her nose. Wynn pushed on Shade’s snout, and the dog held her place.
Chane gazed across the night street over Wynn’s shoulder. “No matter what happens, do not trust everything il’Sänke says. I do not think . . . feel . . . that he speaks the full truth.”
Wynn glanced back. “What do you mean?”
Chane’s expression appeared to change, though it was hard to be certain in the dark. Whatever faint color remained in his eyes suddenly drained away. Only the crystalline irises of an undead stared out into the night . . . toward the place from which il’Sänke had whistled.
Wynn shivered, but not from the chill air.
In that instant Chane looked like the mad feral monks who had come with him and Welstiel to Li’kän’s ice-bound castle.
“Omission can hide the truth . . . or a lie,” Chane added.