Of Truth and Beasts

by Barb Hendee

  Two Suman conamologers in teal robes, one a middle-aged man with peppered black hair and another, perhaps a journeyor, were raising a fuss. To the passage’s left side stood a pair of armed patrollers, the Shé’ith. The first stood his place, staring ahead, as if the Suman sages no longer existed. He and his female counterpart blocked an opening.

  Wynn shifted to the sloping passage’s right side for a better look. Beyond the patrollers, inside the opening, broad steps curled sharply upward through the structure like a spiral staircase. She couldn’t see where they led, but for an instant, she was distracted from the dispute.

  There was no lockable door in the opening, as there were in the stairwells down to the archives of her branch. In part, that explained the presence of the Shé’ith, though she’d never heard of armed guards placed inside any guild branch. Even when the threat of the wraith had come to her branch, there were limits upon what Captain Rodian had been allowed to do with his city guard contingent.

  “Apologies, sir,” the female patroller stated flatly. “The archives have been closed until further notice.”

  “Where was the first notice?” the elder Suman sputtered. “I will speak to the Premin Council about this breach of interbranch protocol.”

  The female patroller didn’t even blink. Her male counterpart was equally silent and expressionless. With no response from either Shé’ith, the Suman sages turned away. The younger one spotted Wynn as they passed.

  “Do not bother,” he said in Numanese. “It would seem that not all sages have the full amenities in this branch.”

  The elder was muttering angrily in Sumanese as they headed downward.

  Wynn knew those two would get nowhere if Premin Gyâr had any say. And he did, as one of the Premin Council here, as well as sitting in for the high premin. Was there something happening here beyond just hampering her? It made Wynn wonder what else was in Sykion’s message.

  Regardless, Wynn hadn’t come all this way for nothing. She had to gain access to the archives if there was any chance they held some long-forgotten mention of an ancient fallen seatt. But without the means to even look for such, what was she going to do?

  Chuillyon had kept the same rooms at the guild for nearly sixty years, though in the last thirty, he hadn’t enjoyed them often. Most of his time was spent with the royal family in Calm Seatt, but he had no intention of ever giving up his quarters here. They suited him. Down in the earth beneath the base of the south spire—even beneath the giant roots of the redwood ring—he enjoyed nearly absolute peace and quiet.

  Although his chambers in Calm Seatt’s third castle were lavish, he preferred this place. Every item here was carefully chosen for a balance between subtle elegance and a monastic simplicity. In the main room, the desk and a small table had been shaped into flowing bentwood curves. A few shéot’a cushions of plain forest colors softened three basic chairs of polished mahogany. His more private room was in the back, beyond a pale blue, curtained doorway. That space was filled with only a bed covered in a cream quilt of duller raw shéot’a, a wardrobe, a cushioned rocker to match his outer furniture, and a modest collection of favored texts. Oh, but there were a few little amusing toys from his youth, as well.

  One small, carved scene, which could fit in his lap, had a twist crank in its bottom. When wound up, a woodsman hacked away at a tree until it toppled. The tree would bounce repeatedly off the woodsman’s head, pounding him into the ground like a peg until only his head peeked out.

  Nature had a wicked wit.

  This toy had been a gift in his boyhood from what humans would call a favorite aunt. If only she had known what mischievous notions it would inspire over a lifetime. If nothing else, Chuillyon loved his jests. Or perhaps that was his refuge against what he hated most: sadness. There had been too much of that.

  He sat at his desk, awaiting two visitors, hoping they would bring him more news than he had gleaned for himself. Why had Wynn traveled all this way? What was she up to now?

  “Chuillyon . . . are you in?”

  The deep voice was not one he had expected. He rose, stepping into the masoned passageway between the guild’s great roots.

  “Premin?” he called back, glancing toward the stairwell leading upward.

  “May I come down?”

  “Please do.”

  Despite knowing the caller, Chuillyon was perplexed at the sight of Premin Gyâr descending the stairs, bowing his head to avoid the ceiling. By necessity, they had been closely connected over the decades, but they did not visit each other’s private chambers.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Gyâr said.

  To Chuillyon’s further surprise, his tone was almost apologetic—and quite out of character. Gyâr’s dark yellow eyes were troubled or angry, which was not out of character. A stray strand of light brown hair hung forward over one of his eyes, as if he was too distracted to notice it.

  “What is wrong?” Chuillyon asked.

  “A journeyor arrived from Calm Seatt with a message for the high premin.”

  Chuillyon took a deep, slow breath. “You mean young Hygeorht?”

  “You know her?”

  “Yes. What has she done now?”

  Gyâr took a folded paper from inside his dark robe. Its wax seal had been broken.

  “High Premin Sykion of Calm Seatt sent this,” he said, holding it out.

  Chuillyon hesitated. “What is it?”

  “Read it.”

  “Really,” Chuillyon scoffed. “Is all this drama necessary?”

  But he took it just the same. It was double wrapped, and he unfolded both enveloping sheets to view the letter within.

  Dear T’ovar . . .

  Chuillyon stalled at the informal opening, but he read onward.

  The bearer of this message poses a threat. She has proven herself without conscience or reason, and is set on a course that will undermine guild efforts, safeguards, and preparation for what may come. For her own goals, she risks exposing hard-won knowledge to the masses. We cannot allow this before we are fully prepared for the panic and backlash that will come if what we learn leaks out. I believe she comes to scavenge your archives in the hope of finding support for her interpretations and theories concerning the ancient texts still being translated.

  Although she is under my authority, and is my responsibility, I have no further way to keep her from the texts other than to let her go abroad. I will not tolerate further interference with our efforts, yet I cannot expel her, and thereby lose limited control over her.

  You have my leave to do what is necessary—and to do so now.

  May you live in wisdom’s eternal cycle.

  Your friend, Tärtgyth Sykion

  Chuillyon stared at the note’s end and grew suddenly anxious over what Gyâr had done. He lifted the letter to look at the two enveloping sheets. The outer with the broken wax seal was unmarked, but the inner was addressed only to T’ovar.

  Chuillyon could barely catch his breath. “This is—”

  “A personal letter, not a guild communication,” Gyâr finished.

  The admission was not an explanation.

  Chuillyon scanned the letter twice more, his thoughts turning over the varied truths and lies, as he knew them. Wynn was certainly in full possession of both her reason and her conscience, though she had a reckless penchant with information best kept secret. Now things were so much worse.

  One high premin secretly asked another to cut off Wynn. One of the three who sat on the entire guild’s High Premin Council had stepped beyond protocol into personal manipulation and favors. Gyâr, in the absence of their own high premin, had illicitly intercepted that communication, suspect as it was, and taken action with his temporary authority.

  A deceit wrapped in a collusion just to block the efforts of one young sage.

  Chuillyon worried where this would lead the guild as a whole.

  “T’ovar will know this was meant for her eyes,” he said.

  Gyâr pulled the letter’s ad
dressed inner wrap out of Chuillyon’s hand and slowly crumpled it into a ball.

  Chuillyon shook his head in disbelief. If Gyâr thought that was enough to claim he had not known it was private before opening it . . .

  “I have closed the archives,” Gyâr said.

  Chuillyon swallowed hard. This was not just about Wynn. Gyâr was using her as an excuse for something more.

  “Considering your rare, present residency,” Gyâr went on, “I want your support to convince the council my decision was correct. T’ovar has longstanding doubts concerning the two human branches of our guild, but she has been too hesitant—”

  “Fair-minded,” Chuillyon corrected.

  Gyâr glared at him and continued. “Too overly empathetic where they are concerned.”

  “Do not do this,” Chuillyon warned.

  “You have expressed like concerns, as well. You know we must maintain safeguards and secrecy.”

  “It is too far . . . and too soon!”

  “Better than too late.”

  Gyâr paused for several breaths, perhaps trying to regain calm. Chuillyon had never been one to respond to a forceful persuasion.

  “I cannot see how this journeyor ever came to even know of such writings,” Gyâr said, “much less try to access them. Sykion and Hawes have become lax in their protection of the recovered texts. For all of il’Sänke’s faults, at least he keeps his people under control.”

  “Yes, he manages that,” Chuillyon returned dryly.

  Either Gyâr ignored the sarcasm or he did not notice. Chuillyon had his own estimation of Domin Ghassan il’Sänke, and of the influence metaologers tried to wield in any of the guild branches.

  “This will also cut off il’Sänke’s minion in that Suman contingent among us,” Gyâr added.

  Chuillyon tried not to swallow, to sigh, or to wince as his peer, his superior, went on.

  “If all is settled before T’ovar returns, she will not balk at what was done. It will simply be a relief that the decision was made, one that she’s put off time and again. May I count on you?”

  Chuillyon knew things about Wynn Hygeorht that would drop Gyâr’s jaw. He had kept everything that had happened in Dhredze Seatt to himself. He had worked so hard to guide Malourné’s royal family, as had his subordinates assigned to the Numan nations and territories. It was a duplicitous game of aid balanced against subtle control, and he had fought to keep his superiors from taking things too far.

  His life had been spent perched upon a pin tip, trying to keep any faction of a future alliance from trampling the others in blind panic. Now it appeared he had not paid enough attention to how easily someone closer at hand could suddenly flick that pin out from under him. And just as unexpected, it had come riding on the robed skirt of Wynn Hygeorht.

  Chuillyon should have laughed at his own foolishness, for he had overlooked the most likely possibility. And now . . .

  “May I count on you?” Gyâr repeated pointedly.

  Chuillyon looked his old comrade in the eyes and feigned a serene smile. “Always.”

  “Good.” And Gyâr turned for the stairs. “I will convene the council first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Chuillyon waited until the premin’s footsteps faded up the outer stairs. He then backed into his chamber, sank into a chair, and pressed his fingers to his mouth.

  He could not openly oppose Gyâr and risk weakening his own position and the standing of his suborder within the Order of Metaology. His support had hastened Gyâr’s rapid rise to authority and, through the tall premin, he had often influenced the council to a degree. He had held off their suspicions, their fears concerning the humans and their two branches of the guild. All the while, he had labored carefully to retain faith in his counsel from all sides that would be needed one day. For even the Numans had their own doubts about his people, as well as one another’s nations.

  Then Wynn Hygeorht returned with those ancient texts, still a secret to all but one nation among the Numans.

  Everything was unraveling too quickly, and it had started from within the guild itself. He saw a day to come when he might be an enemy to all of the sides he had tried to hold together.

  “Master?” a female voice called from above.

  This was one he had been expecting, and he called out, “Yes, come.”

  Two robed elves appeared at his chamber entrance. One was an overly slender young woman in a midnight blue robe, and her male companion wore white. Hannâschi and Shâodh—“Within a Consecrated Space” and “Care-Tender”—were among the few people he trusted. Or at least among those he trusted mostly, if not completely.

  “What kept you?” Chuillyon asked.

  Hannâschi bowed slightly. “We saw Premin Gyâr enter the stairwell and thought it best to wait.”

  She was shorter than a human male, and so slender her closest friends sometimes called her Fohk’hannâ—a play on her name meaning “little female corn sprout.” Her hair was a deep shade of gold, and when uncoiled hung a ridiculous length down her back to her knees. She had overly expressive eyes, especially for a metaologer.

  Chuillyon was unaffected by her lovely appearance, though it had proven useful more than once. The way she listened, as if with her whole being, loosened the stiffest of tongues. She was a good judge of character in general. And though she had no intention of ever leaving the main Order of Metaology, she had quickly attached herself to him more than to cold-blooded Gyâr. Chuillyon valued her for that, as well.

  “Did he tell you he closed the archives?” Shâodh asked quietly.

  “Yes . . . he did,” Chuillyon answered, eyeing the rare journeyor among his own suborder.

  Shâodh was a much different story from Hannâschi. His eyes were a bit small and closely set. Not exactly slender, he was tall enough to make it appear so, and stood a full head above his companion. Somewhat stoic and private, Shâodh disliked bothering with personal appearance. He kept his sandy hair cropped short.

  “And?” Shâodh added. “How did you respond?”

  He rarely spoke unless necessary. Bland as a river stone on the surface, he was intelligent, careful—one might say sly—and fiercely loyal to the Order of Chârmun. He was also ambitious and ethically pliable, but these characteristics had their uses.

  “I will support Gyâr before the council gathering in the morning,” Chuillyon answered.

  Shâodh’s brow puckered, the closest thing to dissatisfaction he would show a superior. Hannâschi’s slow shake of her head was more disapproving, a gesture that Gyâr would have considered insubordinate.

  “Have you learned anything?” Chuillyon asked.

  “The metaologer among the visiting Sumans gave them his room,” Hannâschi answered. “So far, only Journeyor Hygeorht and the majay-hì have ventured out.”

  “Long enough to instigate closure of the archives,” Shâodh added flatly.

  “So, how do we learn what she is after if she has no access?” Hannâschi asked. “She will not get past the Shé’ith, or not for long, even with her armed human and dwarven escorts. The black majay-hì is, of course, another matter.”

  Chuillyon clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply through his long nose. Hannâschi was slightly tainted by her premin’s attitudes toward humans.

  “She would never go that far,” he countered. “But you cannot imagine the lengths she will go, if given the slightest chance . . . and a drop of assistance.”

  Hannâschi cocked her head, and her voice took on a taint of suspicion. “Master . . . you have something in mind.”

  “I do.” Chuillyon smiled impishly. “With some simple thaumaturgical assistance.”

  Hannâschi closed her eyes and slumped. “Oh . . . not again.”

  Shâodh was trying very hard not to smile.

  Domin Ghassan il’Sänke stood near the bow of a Numan merchant vessel headed south along the coast. Harsh sea winds snapped his midnight blue robe as much as worries tugged his thoughts.

  Before leaving Calm Seat
t a day after Wynn Hygeorht had gone to the Dhredze Seatt, he had finished a more proper translation of fragments she had gleaned from Chane Andraso’s strange scroll. Of course, Ghassan had kept his own copy, but he had wrestled with how much of it, if any, he should leave for Wynn. In the end, he had given up trying to decide. At least in her undisciplined way, she had uncovered for him many things her Numan superiors could or would not. He prepared a letter and the translation, leaving both for her, if she returned home.

  His forced exit from the Numan branch had come sooner than expected, and with too little gained. He had only one thick journal’s worth of surreptitious copies from whatever pieces of the ancient texts he had been allowed to work on or view. It was galling the way the Numan Premin Council, especially Sykion and her underling High-Tower, kept everything hidden away. Those texts should have been transferred to the Suman branch. Hints of the earliest assaults from the Ancient Enemy’s forces seemed to have come out of the great desert.

  Even without such hints, Ghassan already had his reasons for both knowing and believing in which corner of the world the next war would begin. If he had been able to find those texts, he would have taken them at all costs. There was too much at stake not to do so. But nothing could be done for the moment.

  Frustration left him anxious for his journey’s end. He had been away from his homeland and his guild branch for a long while. It would not be long now, maybe a few days more at best.

  A sudden warmth built on his sternum.

  Ghassan pressed his hand against the front folds of his robe. He glanced about the deck as he felt heat from the copper medallion he wore inside his robe. There were too many sailors close at hand.

  Trying not to rush, he stepped down the forecastle’s ladder and headed belowdecks to his cabin. Once there, he settled on the bunk’s edge, pulled out the medallion, and let it rest upon his palm. He closed his eyes, waiting.

  A voice rose in his mind, dull at first, but sharpening as he fixed his will upon it.

  Master?

  Yes, Mujahid, he answered.