Of Truth and Beasts Page 5

  Standing in the guest quarters’ silence, he could not bear to pick them up again. As if touching them would make the truth all the more real. Wynn had written these journals as if he never existed. All record of him had been blotted away from later becoming a reminder to anyone, especially to her. Chane did not need to ask why.

  He was a thing not suitable for her world.

  That realization—that intentional omission of him—cut him worse than Magiere’s falchion severing his head. Yet he could not leave Wynn.

  His place was at her side for as long as she would allow him. He swallowed the pain and locked it away, but he still could not touch those journals again.

  Chane left the guest quarters, heading out across the courtyard to the old barracks that served as a dormitory, trying not to let himself think. As he reached the dormitory’s second floor and Wynn’s door, a part of him did not want to see her. But he always went to her just past dusk. He stood there for a while before he could finally knock.

  “I am here,” he rasped.

  Chane heard Wynn’s quick footsteps within the room trotting closer to let him in.

  CHAPTER 3

  The following afternoon, Wynn sat in a deep alcove of the archives with Shade on the floor beside her. She was searching for anything to help locate Bäalâle Seatt, but her efforts gained her little.

  She’d found an older map of the western Numan lands, all the way to the Rädärsherând, the “Sky-Cutter” mountain range blocking the southern desert and Suman Empire beyond. Paging through a sheaf of obscure dwarven ballads, she found one that mentioned something called the gí’uyllœ. It didn’t pertain to what she was after, but stuck in her head just the same.

  The dialect was so old that the meaning was only a guess—something like “all-eater(s)” or “all-consumer(s).” At first, it seemed some ancient reference to goblins, but the verse hinted at massive size.

  Wynn tried to keep sharply focused, but her thoughts kept wandering.

  Last night, Chane had acted more strangely than ever when he’d finally arrived. He’d paced about, barely speaking to her. When she’d asked him again what was wrong, he wouldn’t answer. She’d tried talking to him, but pushing him harder seemed to make things worse. And for the first time, he hadn’t mentioned the wraith—Sau’ilahk—even once. After only a few moments, he’d left early on more errands.

  So what had he been worried about?

  Wynn felt quite alone in the world except for Shade and Chane, but he was making her nervous about the journey ahead.

  Shade’s ears suddenly perked. She raised her head to peer at the alcove’s archway.

  “What is it?” Wynn asked, looking up. Then she heard shuffling footsteps.

  “Young Hygeorht?” a reedy voice called.

  “Here,” she called back.

  Light grew upon the shelves outside the archway, and Master Tärpodious shuffled into view in his sagging, old gray robe. As someone who rarely ventured into the light of day, Tärpodious’s wrinkled skin looked almost pallid. With a glimmering cold lamp in his boney hand, the effect was even starker, like an apparition gliding through a dark, abandoned library. He blinked at her, his milky eyes enlarged by his oversized spectacles.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said.

  Wynn stood up. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, just an initiate down with a message. High-Tower wants to see you in his study.”

  A hollow formed in Wynn’s stomach. Had the council finally made its decision? She glanced at the stacks of books and sheaves on the small table.

  “I’ll see to those,” Tärpodious said, voice crackling like rumpled paper. “Don’t keep High-Tower waiting.... He might swallow his own tongue.”

  Wynn half smiled at his jest and gathered up her journal, quill, and cold lamp.

  “Did the initiate say anything else?” she asked.

  “No, just to go straightaway.” Tärpodious began pushing sheets back into a sheaf. “Off with you.”

  She nodded and headed out with Shade. The prospect of a private meeting with High-Tower wasn’t attractive, but perhaps the stalemate with the council had finally ended—one way or another.

  Crossing the old archivist’s entry chamber, Wynn reached the stairs before Shade and hiked her robe’s hem as she hurried upward. The stairs actually ended at the base of the northern tower, where High-Tower’s study was two levels up the next spiraling staircase. She stopped at the landing before his door, all the more anxious over what he would say. Her entire future could be decided within moments.

  Shade whined.

  “I know,” Wynn said, and, unable to hesitate any longer, she knocked.

  “Come,” someone called in a deep voice.

  Wynn opened the door. She’d expected to find him at his desk, but he stood before one of the narrow window slits in the nearer stone wall. His massive bulk blocked most of late afternoon’s light. She’d learned basic Dwarvish under his tutelage, and he had been fond of her . . . once. Now, the only emotion left between them was a constant exchange of suspicion, if not open animosity.

  “You asked for me?” she said, stepping inside. Shade followed, and Wynn closed the door.

  Without a glance in her direction, High-Tower headed to his desk and picked up what looked like two wax-sealed, folded parchments.

  “The council is sending you south,” he said, his voice more gravelly than usual. “You’ll deliver two messages along the way.”

  Wynn’s small mouth parted, but she was too stunned to speak, and High-Tower went on.

  “One is for Domin Yand of the small annex at Chathburh . . . the other is for High Premin T’ovar of the Lhoin’na branch—immediately upon your arrival there.”

  “Messages?” she repeated.

  The council hadn’t simply granted her request; they were giving her two tasks.

  “I’ve booked passage for you,” he went on, “and the majay-hì and your . . . companion. A Numan merchant vessel is bound for Chathburh. From there, you’ll travel inland, south to the northern tip of the Lhoin’na lands. Stay inside their forests all the way to a’Ghràihlôn’na, their southern capital.”

  “Inland . . . from Chathburh?” Wynn asked.

  Regional maps were fresh in her mind. If she disembarked at Chathburh, she’d be forced to cross most of Witeny and the Tillan Ridge at its southern border. The overland trip alone would take several moons, barring complications from oncoming winter and delays in the sea voyage.

  The council wanted to be rid of her all right, and for as long as possible. But the delay to her destination was unacceptable.

  “It’s faster to continue by sea,” she said. “I can make port farther south at Drist and bypass the Tillan Ridge.”

  High-Tower’s complexion reddened like a slowly heated fire iron.

  “A cesspit like Drist is no place for a sage!” he sputtered. “The last thing we need is you getting your throat cut in broad daylight or ending up on some slaver’s vessel. Your request was approved, even funded . . . and you still question duty and common sense?”

  Wynn hesitated. She couldn’t lose what little ground she’d gained.

  “Are you refusing the council’s orders?” he demanded.

  “Of course not. I was just suggesting a quicker route between both destinations.”

  High-Tower calmed slightly. “Traveling through Witeny is safer.”

  You mean longer, Wynn thought, but said, “Yes, certainly.”

  Stepping forward, she took the letters from him.

  “And the funding for food and lodging?” she asked. “And possibly horses in Chathburh . . . if I’m to cross half of Witeny.”

  High-Tower grunted, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a small pouch.

  “This should suffice, if you are frugal.” Then he dug in his robe’s outer pocket and handed over a folded slip of millet paper. “A voucher for your return passage from Chathburh. Any Numan vessel will honor the guild seal, possibly even some Suman, bu
t stay off vessels coming out of the free ports . . . like Drist!”

  She took the voucher and the pouch. By its weight, the council hadn’t given her much for anything but basic needs. Certainly it wouldn’t be enough for further sea passage, but it didn’t matter. In truth, this was more than she’d dared hope: guild approval and some financial assistance. Once she was out of their sight, there were other options to consider.

  “I’ll deliver both messages,” she said, and turned away without thanking him.

  “Wynn . . . ?”

  She slowed to glance back, and he looked uncomfortable, as if he had something to ask that was difficult to get out. She offered him no help and stood waiting.

  “Have you,” he started, and then paused. “Ore-Locks has not been seen since you left Dhredze Seatt. Do you know of his whereabouts?”

  Another strange state of events in an odd maze of connections—Ore-Locks was Domin High-Tower’s brother. But why in the world would he think she knew anything of Ore-Locks?

  “No,” she lied.

  Her response had nothing to do with loyalty. She didn’t want anything to do with Ore-Locks, but she wasn’t about to give High-Tower any more information than she had to.

  He kept studying her, perhaps uncertain if he believed her or not, then scowled and looked away.

  “Then go. I am sick to death of your deceptions.”

  This was the last thing he should’ve ever said to her.

  “My deceptions?” she returned. “While I was trying to keep sages from dying in the streets, you swore to show me all the translations and the codex. But it was Master Cinder-Shard who gave me access to the texts—all of them—while I was with the Stonewalkers.”

  “You mean you gave him no choice, considering what followed you there! You used that to get what you wanted in the first place!”

  His face resembled a dull beet, likely at the thought that she’d once more gotten around him and the guild.

  “I saw the second codex,” she said, her voice rising. “The one you wrote and kept from me, along with any texts or translations not listed in the first one! Or did you and Premin Sykion keep it from others, as well? Don’t you lecture me about deception.”

  He uttered no further counter, for what could he have said? He had lied to her. They’d all deceived her, holding back anything they could.

  “And what of your tall companion?” High-Tower asked.

  The shift threw Wynn off. “What about him?”

  Chane had kept to himself here. No one could say he’d been any kind of inconvenience.

  High-Tower rounded the desk an instant after Shade began growling in warning. He slowed, though he didn’t glance once at Shade.

  “Your friend left a little something behind when you were all thrown out of the seatt,” he said. “A shirvêsh at the temple was cleaning his room. What use would he have for a large urn full of blood?”

  Wynn went still. She’d arranged for the goat’s blood so Chane could feed. The fact that she’d forgotten about the urn—and it had been found—should’ve been the first thing to fear. But it wasn’t.

  “Full?” she repeated without thinking.

  High-Tower’s eyes narrowed.

  It was too late to cover her slip, though he wouldn’t understand her exact meaning.

  “Yes, full,” he repeated.

  High-Tower was the enemy here, not Chane.

  “It was probably for some dish from his homeland,” she lied, shrugging. “I saw his people make blood puddings and sausages, just the same as yours. We were in a seatt, after all.”

  She tried hard to be outwardly disdainful as she turned for the door and gripped its handle. After a slow breath, she glanced back. “When does our ship leave?”

  “Tomorrow. At dusk.”

  They weren’t giving her much time, but sooner was better, especially now.

  Opening the door, Wynn stepped out, and she jumped at a flash of brown in the corner of her sight.

  Regina Melliny’s bony form stood just behind the opened door. Shade pushed past, bumping Wynn against the doorframe, and Regina instantly backed away.

  “What are you doing here?” Wynn asked.

  Regina was an apprentice in the Order of Naturology, and she’d recently made Wynn’s life miserable. No doubt the nickname of “Witless” Wynn had been Regina’s doing.

  “As if that’s any of your business,” Regina answered haughtily, but with a nervous twitch of her eyes toward Shade.

  “But it is mine, apprentice,” High-Tower growled, his voice close behind Wynn.

  Regina’s gaze shifted as the venom drained from her expression.

  “I was just . . . I was up above,” she faltered, “taking my study time on the tower roof, sir.”

  “In late autumn?” High-Tower asked. “Not wise or healthy . . . Miss Melliny.”

  That he hadn’t called her “apprentice” this time didn’t escape Wynn’s notice—or Regina’s. It was clearly a warning. Regina spun and scurried down the tower’s stairwell.

  “Off with you, as well,” High-Tower said, his voice now somewhere farther across the study.

  Wynn shut the door without looking back. She had no time for Regina’s spiteful antics. But High-Tower’s mention of the urn—the full urn—still confused her. She started down the stairs with Shade, but by the time they reached the bottom, she’d begun worrying more about money.

  There wouldn’t be enough for anything other than what the council had planned for her, and she didn’t possess anything worth selling. Did Chane? Even so, they had little time to go off bartering his possessions. So how could she get more coin or something worth selling later?

  An awful notion occurred to Wynn. It was almost sacrilegious, but it was all she could think of for the best profit anywhere, at any time.

  She and Shade passed quickly through the main floor and out into the courtyard. The sun hadn’t yet dipped, and she looked toward the northwest building, the one with Chane’s guest quarters.

  And below that were the guild’s laboratories.

  “Come on, Shade,” Wynn said. “One more stop before supper.”

  Chuillyon’s white robe swished about his felt boots as he strolled through an open archway and into the royal castle’s manicured garden copse.

  The second and final loss of Prince Freädherich reskynna still weighed heavily upon him, as well as the renewed grief of the prince’s wife, Duchess Reine. There had been little he could do to console her or himself.

  With his cowl down, a chill shift of air blew his faded and streaked golden brown locks across his narrow mouth. Prominent creases lined the corners of his large amber eyes set around a narrow nose a bit long, even for an elf.

  Late autumn, when fiery colors began to fade and fall, was to him the saddest time of each year, making his mood much worse. He did not like it. Even the wispy white of snow and glistening icicles were better than this. He strolled on through hedges and past one rose bush still bearing dead buds that would never birth light blue petals before winter came. The royal family always preferred blues and aquamarines.

  The garden was empty, with no sign of the one he had come here to meet in private.

  Nearly four centuries past, before Calm Seatt could truly be called a city, the first of the reskynna, rulers of Malourné, had resided in a much smaller castle. In a few more generations, they had embarked on plans for a new and greater residence. The royal family moved in, and the first castle became the barracks for the nation’s armed forces. Two centuries more, and Queen lfwine II—the “Elf Friend”—desired something new yet again. Scholars thought she had preferred a more lavish residence, suitable for a monarch. Others claimed that like her descendants, she hungered for a view of the bay.

  To Chuillyon, the latter was obviously correct. Any in the bloodline of the reskynna—Kin of the Ocean Waves—had always shown strange affinities for the open sea.

  lfwine II oversaw designs of this very castle. The nation’s armed forces, i
ncluding the newly established city guard contingent, moved to the vacated second one. The first castle, by far the oldest and smallest, was given over to the Guild of Sagecraft. Or, rather, to its founding Numan branch.

  It had been long years, decades that Chuillyon served discreetly as counselor to the reskynna. He spent so much time here as to have rooms of his own. But he preferred this garden, even in the sadness of late autumn . . . and what had come to pass in Dhredze Seatt.

  He strolled among elaborate obelisk trellises of thinning ivy and between sculpted evergreens and half-denuded oaks and maple trees.

  “Psssst! Here, sir!”

  Chuillyon slowed at that too-loud whisper, took a deep breath, and assumed his most serene demeanor. This was not a meeting he relished, but it was necessary all the same. He turned slowly, facing a large myrtle shrub clipped into the form of a conch shell. A flash of brown slipped around it, and a bony girl in a brown robe stepped into view.

  Regina Melliny bowed briefly, too much eagerness in her small human eyes.

  “I have heard that your Premin Council held a short private meeting today,” he said. “Was there anything of import?”

  She looked him over, trying to be proper, but the more she tried to hide her glee, the more obvious it became. She knew nothing of his true position or the reach of his influence—only that he served the royal family. And the reskynna held sway and favor with the guild.

  “Wynn Hygeorht leaves tomorrow night,” she said.

  “Leaves?” he returned, and then waved her to silence before she confirmed it.

  He had hoped Wynn might stay put, at least long enough that preparations could be made.

  Chuillyon suppressed disdain at Regina’s lust for his favor. He had spotted her one day while visiting the guild with Duchess Reine. By her frustrated and spiteful demeanor, he had instantly spotted a pair of willing eyes within the guild’s Numan branch. Arranging a quiet chat with her had been effortless.

  “Continue,” he said.

  Regina stepped forward, nervously smoothing the front of her brown robe.

  “The council approved her request. As always, they give her anything she wants.”