In Shade and Shadow

Chapter 14

Wynn groaned as she opened her eyes. She found herself in her own bed, in her own room.

She felt as if she had both a fever and a sunburn, and her right hand tingled uncomfortably. When she raised it, her hand and forearm were their normal tone. She remembered falling in the street, burning inside, as if the crystal's light had sunk within...

Wynn sat up too quickly.

Colored blotches spun over her sight, and she blinked against dizziness. How had she ended up in her room, and where was the inky-colored majay-hì? And what had become of Chane after the crystal ignited?

She remembered him rushing toward her, but no more, and she had no way to find him. At a grunt and a whine from the room's far corner, her mouth dropped open.

The majay-hì lay curled on the floor near her desk. The tip of its bushy tail covered its nose, and its crystal blue eyes stared back at her.

"How did you get in here?" Wynn breathed in wonder.

The dog's tall ears pricked at the sound of her voice. But when she swung her legs over the bedside, trying and failing to stand up, the majay-hì lifted its head with a rumble.

Wynn sat perfectly still. "It's all right," she whispered.

Then she realized she wore only her shift.

She scanned the room in panic for her cloak and spotted it draped over the desk's wooden chair. The majay-hì rumbled again as she wobbled to her feet. She stumbled over and dug into the cloak's inner pocket. At the feel of old tin, Wynn exhaled and pulled out the scroll case.

It looked the same as when Chane had offered it to her—safe and sound. She tucked it back into the cloak and turned about.

The majay-hì watched her intently, ears slightly flattened at her close proximity.

A pitcher of water and a clay mug rested on her bedside table. Ignoring the mug, Wynn retrieved the washbowl atop her chest and filled it from the pitcher. But when she tried to step back across the little room, she made it only halfway.

The majay-hì let out a sharper rumble.

Wynn set the bowl down in the room's center. Even as she backed to the bed, the animal didn't move. Its gaze shifted only once to the bowl.

"It's all right," she repeated, but the words made no difference.

Finally the majay-hì rose.

Holding its place for a moment, it then padded one careful step at a time to the bowl. Lowering its muzzle to lap the water, it never took its eyes off Wynn. A wave of sadness washed through Wynn as she thought of Chap—and the majay-hì's ears rose up.

She couldn't help a stab of regret that this four-footed stranger wasn't him—not by its color, let alone that it was obviously female. She remembered the pack that had helped her and Chap find Leesil's mother in the an'Cróan's Elven Territories. A yearling majay-hì had run among them.

This charcoal-colored female looked about the same age, if Wynn guessed right. But then, she didn't know the life span of the majay-hì. Its color was almost as dark as that of the grizzled pack elder. By contrast, Wynn remembered Lily, Chap's beautiful white companion with yellow-flecked blue eyes that looked green from afar. Lily's strange attributes were rare for the wild protectors of those faraway elven lands.

The strange female stopped drinking and lifted her head.

Wynn couldn't fathom how this young one, maybe only a yearling, had traveled so far from home. And why had the dog come to her, let alone at the moment the black figure appeared? She crouched to the dog's level and hesitantly stretched out her hand, palm up.

"It's all right," she said again.

The majay-hì shrank away with a twitch of jowl—but she cocked her long head as well.

And a moment passed.

The dog stretched her neck just a little, reaching out her nose, though she remained well beyond Wynn's reach. The majay-hì sniffed at Wynn, and then shook herself all over, and those pale blue eyes gazed intently into Wynn's.

The same way Chap had sometimes studied her. And the way Lily had looked her over when they first met.

The young female huffed suddenly and took a step.

Wynn remained still, with her hand extended, but the female paused as if waiting for something. The dog finally backed up. That brief instant of near acceptance—and its sudden passing—frustrated Wynn.

The majay-hì pack had also had a hard time accepting her. The grizzled black elder had barely tolerated her at all. Lily was the first to allow Wynn close.

The young female's ears pricked up again.

Even Lily wouldn't have let Wynn touch her without Chap present. How was she going to establish trust with this lost sentient being—without getting bitten? Wynn leaned forward with her hand still outstretched, until she had to brace her other hand on the floor. She hesitated every inch for fear of startling the anxious female.

The majay-hì finally extended her head in like manner, until her cold, wet nose touched the tip of Wynn's middle finger.

A barrage of memories erupted in Wynn's mind. Wobbling under the onslaught, she barely caught a glimpse of one before it washed away under the next.

Chap, his silver-gray fur glinting in shafts of sunlight lancing through the forest canopy...

Lily running somewhere nearby, more brilliant white where the light touched her coat...

Violet-tinged ferns in the underbrush whipping across them within the vast Elven Territories...

Wynn snatched her hand back with a gasp and dropped sharply on her rump.

Hazy and blurry as they were, there was something very wrong about these memories. She'd never run with Chap and Lily—not in such a moment as she'd just remembered.

The young female cocked her head and huffed once.

Even with lingering fever's heat, Wynn sat shivering on the cold stone floor.

Chap could evoke anyone's memories that he'd seen in them once before. He played upon people who were completely unaware of what he did. But he'd left the Elven Territories nearly two years ago.

And those memories had come to Wynn at a touch.

Only the majay-hì could do this. They communicated among their own kind through "memory-speak." But this wasn't possible for Wynn—or anyone. Resting one night among the pack, she'd tried to «listen» in among them, but nothing came to her.

Wynn had remembered Chap and Lily in the forest, as if running with them, but that blurred imperfect memory wasn't her own. And it couldn't have been passed to her, a human, from a majay-hì. Nor could one so young have known Chap.

What had just happened?

In shallow breaths, Wynn lurched forward onto her knees. The female didn't shy away and stepped two paces closer. Wynn reached out slowly, touching the soft fur between the dog's ears. The female raised her head, forcing Wynn's hand to slip down along her neck.

As Wynn's fingers combed through thick fur, separating the hairs, she saw an almost cream undercoat beneath the outer dark charcoal. She lowered her gaze, meeting the animal's own.

Wynn stared into crystalline blue irises... with the faintest flecks of yellow.

Another image of Lily surfaced in Wynn's thoughts, as if from nowhere.

This time the recollection was clearly Wynn's own. It came from when she'd first been allowed to stroke Lily's head. The sudden unsought flash felt familiar. Like when Chap intentionally called up one of Wynn's own memories. And more images flooded her mind...

Four pups nestled around a creamy white mother with yellow-flecked eyes, each with its own varied shade of coat. Two males of silver-gray, and one more steely in tone, but the last little female was charcoal gray.

Moments and flashes came and went...

Four cubs wrestled and tumbled over a downed tree coated in moss and lichen...

Little furred bodies, grown stronger, ran with their white mother in the forest...

In hunts for wild hares, or strangely colored wrens, or the chocolate-toned squirrels, their legs had grown faster than their bodies. One of them took a horrible spill down a steep incline as it tripped over its own paws...

Each moment that came to Wynn stepped across moons of time. The little ones grew from adolescents into young adults, until finally Wynn saw the charcoal female touch heads with her white mother. The two lay alone beneath a wide fir tree, speaking in memories of their own. In that dim space, hidden from sunlight, the young female's coat appeared inky black, and the white mother was like the shadow of a ghost.

A hazy image of Chap suddenly overlaid that moment, as if the memory of him wasn't quite perfect and didn't belong to the female.

And then Wynn saw an image of herself.

She wore elven clothing, as she had during her time in that land—then suddenly her garb changed to the gray robe of her guild.

Both these last images of Chap and herself were not as clear and crisp as the ones of the pups' lives. Perhaps these were secondhand, passed from mother to child. Wynn ached inside at the memory of Chap, and how much he'd hurt upon leaving Lily behind.

She couldn't help the tears.

Wynn pulled her hand from the charcoal female's neck and looked down in astonishment into those lightly yellow-flecked eyes.

The eyes of Chap and Lily's daughter, sent from half a world away.

Wynn knew Chap feared for her safety since the night his kin, the Fay, had caught her listening in while he communed with them. They'd turned on her, tried to kill her, and might have succeeded if not for him and the pack. And Wynn understood.

Lily had been pregnant when Chap left the Elven Territories. He must've arranged all this through her.

In leaving to guide Magiere and Leesil onward, Chap hadn't wanted Wynn left unattended for so long. But how had his daughter managed to find her?

Wynn wasn't certain she liked the idea. This animal was so young.

The majay-hì whined, sounding almost frustrated. Wynn wasn't adept at memory-speak, let alone that it was impossible for a human. Although...

Chap could speak his thoughts directly to her—another aberration of the taint left in her by dabbling with a mantic ritual. Perhaps as his daughter, this young one shared some manifestation of her father's singular qualities. He was Fay, who'd chosen to be born into one of the Fay-descended majay-hì.

Too many complications and guesses, yet it was the only explanation Wynn could think of. Chap, and now his daughter, were unique in this world, each in their own way, it seemed. And Wynn recalled the evening when she'd heard something outside the bailey wall, like claws on cobblestone.

A memory of the hunt for the undead sorcerer, Vordana, had suddenly entered her head. She'd run into a crowded street, searching for Chap, and something had brushed her leg. Another memory had come, as if she were looking through his eyes. But the first unsought recollection hadn't come from any contact.

Confused, Wynn backed away. The female huffed, her brief growl turning into a whine, and she took a step to follow. But Wynn held her hand up out of reach.

She had to try something that might gain her more answers. Could Chap's daughter communicate with her from afar, without touch, as her father did?

The recollection of hunting Vordana stuck in her mind. In the river town plagued by that sorcerous undead, Wynn had encountered another dog, not nearly so lovely as a majay-hì. She willfully focused on the memory of an old wire-haired wolfhound named Shade.

The young majay-hì stared at her without moving. And with a sigh, Wynn gave up.

Obviously she couldn't transmit a memory to this one any more than she could speak back to Chap through thought. That left only one other thing to try, and she scooted forward on her knees. She moved oh so slowly as she placed her hands upon the sides of the female's face. Using touch, she tried again.

She recalled the memory of the wolfhound standing beside Chap in the courtyard of the manor house outside of the river town.

The female's ears pricked up—and the memory echoed back to Wynn. She quickly tried one more.

She hadn't been there when Shade had roused Chap from a phantasm cast by Vordana. But Wynn did her best to imagine it—to envision it—from Chap's later description.

The female remained silent and still, poised in waiting.

Wynn frowned. Constructed thoughts weren't enough. It seemed only those experiences seated into her memory would work. But the way that memory of the wolfhound and Chap had repeated gave Wynn another notion.

She recalled the female's own recollection of playing in the forest with her siblings.

The female sniffed wildly at her. A maelstrom of like images, sounds, and scents whirled up in Wynn's mind. And Wynn's mild hunger knotted into nausea.

"Wait—not so much!" she squeaked, and jerked her hands from the dog's face.

She clamped a hand over her mouth and buckled as her head finally emptied of memories.

Wynn took several hard breaths until her stomach settled. The female cocked her head in silent puzzlement, and Wynn scowled at her. They could communicate, to a point, but only with memories shared by touch, or by Wynn's own called up by the female.

A knock came at the door, sounding too loud in Wynn's quiet little room.

The female snarled, turning toward the door.

Wynn clambered to her feet in dread. However she'd gotten back in her room, no doubt others knew she'd broken curfew. Either Sykion or High-Tower now came for her, or a messenger sent to summon her before the council. She was in deep trouble, enough to ruin any chance of seeing the translations. And how could she ever explain a «wolf» in her room?

"You are finally awake," someone called from outside.

The familiar voice was far less than patient. Wynn knew it was Domin il'Sänke even before she squeezed the latch.

The instant the door cracked open, il'Sänke pushed it wide, not waiting to be invited. Shooing Wynn back with a flick of his hand, he stepped in and closed the door. He was carrying the staff with its crystal now sheathed.

Wynn shrank a little inside.

Entranced by the majay-hì, she'd forgotten even to check for the staff. And if il'Sänke had it...

"Yes, I found you," he said coldly.

Wynn backed away from his glare.

"Before someone... or something else did," he added. "Not that I should have had to."

The dog watched him carefully, her jowls twitching, but she didn't growl. Her yellow-flecked eyes locked on the staff he carried.

"You were not to use this without my supervision," il'Sänke snapped, and then softened only a bit. "Though I suppose you had little choice, amid your foolish outing."

Wynn braced for an onslaught. What was she doing alone outside the guild at night? Why would the black-robed murderer be hunting her if she carried no folio? Where had this wolf come from, and why had she come to protect Wynn?

To her surprise, il'Sänke walked over and leaned the staff in the corner by her desk.

"You might have died," he whispered, his back still to her.

For an instant, Wynn was struck mute by his concern.

"I'm all right," she managed to say. "That thing never touched me, so I'm—"

"You lost your focus!" he hissed, and then whirled around.

Wynn flinched away from the fury tightening all of il'Sänke's features.

"You are not an adept, let alone a mage," he continued. "Though it was neither spell nor ritual that you toyed with, it is still thaumaturgy imbued in the crystal... as well as a trigger of my own devising."

Wynn was tired, feverish, and overwhelmed. The last thing she needed was another lecture from a superior.

"Then why make it so hard to use?" she asked angrily.

"To keep it from those wise but malicious," he nearly snarled, "as well as the witless! And I did not make it difficult. Magic is difficult—and dangerous... even when embedded in an object through artificing!"

The domin slid forward, too much like that black assailant in the night.

Wynn backed up at his threatening tone, until her legs bumped against the bedside. Even Chap's daughter circled away to the room's far corner, though she growled.

Anger's flush further darkened il'Sänke's complexion, until his face appeared to sink deep within the shadow of his cowl. Before Wynn could muster another retort, his voice lashed at her again.

"No created artifact is used by brandishing it with arrogance, or waving it about while babbling some poetically arcane phrase. Such nonsense is for children's fables and peasant lore! A thaumaturge feels the inherent connections of the five elements within the physical world. But he detaches himself in manipulating them, holds himself outside the web of things... or succumbs to the very effects that he—"

"You told me already," Wynn warned, as anger got the better of her fright.

"Then remember it!" il'Sänke whispered loudly. "Unless you enjoy the feel of elemental Fire cooking your insides! Disobey again, and I am done with you!"

Wynn remained quiet. Il'Sänke's ire was born of fearful concern as much as disapproval. But another rumble rose in the room.

The female majay-hì paced warily around the domin along the door's wall and crossed over to join Wynn.

"I see." Il'Sänke sighed, frowning tiredly at the animal. "One of your elven dogs."

Wynn glanced up at him. How did he know that?

He seemed to feel her eyes on him and straightened, still studying the female.

"Like any who have worked on the translations," he said, "I have read some of your journals."

Wynn was almost relieved. She didn't care for any more mysteries at the moment. Not that she would ever see her journals again, after last night.

"Now sit," il'Sänke commanded.

The young majay-hì remained on all fours.

"I meant you," he added, looking at Wynn.

She settled on the bed's edge. He came to her, laying his tanned palm upon her forehead as he closed his eyes. In that moment of silence, more questions popped into Wynn's head.

She wasn't the only one who'd broken Sykion's curfew. What was he doing outside the guild last night? And for that matter, how had he managed to come upon her? Had he seen Chane?

Domin il'Sänke opened his eyes with a muffled grunt. "You are well enough. The remaining backwash you suffer should fade in a day or two."

Wynn studied his dark brown eyes. Well enough for what? His right eyebrow arched as he watched her in turn.

"Yes?" he asked.

"You saw it," she said, challenging him to deny this. "The black-robed figure in the street, so silent in movement. I'm not losing my wits!"

"I never said you were." Il'Sänke's mouth tightened, and he nodded with an answer. "Only for an instant, before the crystal flashed."

"Do you know what it is?" she blurted out. "Rodian insists it is some malevolent mage, after seeing it walk through the scriptorium's wall. Maybe it is, but it's more than that. He is just seeking a rational explanation for the royals."

The domin turned away, gazing at the floor, and laced his fingers together in his lap.

"I am not certain. Its abilities are a serious concern, and in that, the captain may be partially correct, but that does not account for the way in which our young ones have died."

Wynn's mind reeled. Not only was he admitting that the killer could be unnatural, but it seemed he knew more than he said.

"Even in folktales, I've never heard of any mage who could walk through walls," she rushed on. "Let alone one that could let a sword pass through him and then tear out a man's chest."

"Yes, yes." And il'Sänke held up a hand before she continued. "Such skill seems difficult to accept, but I will not make conjectures based on a few moments of what anyone has seen."

He paused, and his expression hardened.

"And not a word of this to anyone, Wynn. No more wild rumors without substantiation. It might yet cut you off from what you have been waiting to see."

Wynn tensed, afraid to grow hopeful.

"And I trust," il'Sänke went on, rising and heading for the door, "that you will use equal discretion regarding anything you find? This knowledge must be protected. Now get dressed. I will wait outside."

He grabbed the latch and opened the door, but Wynn couldn't budge.

"Well?" he said. "Are you coming or not? Your precious translations and codex will not sprout legs and come to you."

"But..." she started.

Domin il'Sänke turned halfway, with the barest hint of a smile beneath his sly eyes.

"No one knows either of us was out. Now put some clothes on!"

The door thumped shut. Wynn didn't care how he'd done this. She snatched up her robe, struggling to get it on in a hurry. As the robe's neck finally cleared her head, she found the majay-hì standing before her.

The young female tilted her head with only one ear raised. She stared with wide unblinking eyes, as if trying to figure out what Wynn was doing.

The dog—the female... the charcoal colored majay-hì... Chap's daughter. None of these seemed right for a being that Wynn knew was as sentient as herself in its own way.

The an'Cróan elves of the Farlands had an aversion to forcing a name upon another sentient being. Even their children eventually went before their ancestral spirits for what they called "name-taking." By whatever vision was gained there, they chose a name of their own in place of the one given at birth. And still...

"What am I going to call you?" Wynn asked, though she wouldn't get an answer.

As she gathered her elven quill, a bottle of ink, and a journal, stuffing these in a satchel, she thought of other dogs she'd known, aside from Chap or Lily. She slung the satchel's strap over her shoulder, but when she reached for the door's latch, a cascade of images flickered through her mind.

Chap alone—then with Lily, their heads touching—and finally a hazy secondhand memory of the old wolfhound.

"I know who your parents are," she said. "It doesn't help."

She wasn't certain what those raised memories truly meant. When she opened the door, the majay-hì trotted out before Wynn could stop her.

"Wynn... what are you doing?" il'Sänke asked, an edge of warning in his voice as he glared at Chap's daughter.

"She stays with me," Wynn answered.

"And how will you explain a wolf's sudden company amid curfew?" he asked. "Do you want your outing to be discovered?"

Yes, that was another matter, as well as how il'Sänke had managed to conceal it.

She stepped off down the passage with the female close behind, not giving the domin further opportunity to argue. Chap and Lily had sent their daughter. Much as Wynn questioned that decision, she would keep this young female as close as she'd once kept Chap.

Il'Sänke remained silent as he followed.

Wynn knew she should thank him for saving her, but he hadn't been the only one there. She dropped her hand, uncertain of how much Chap's daughter had become accustomed to her in so short a time.

Wynn's hand suddenly lifted and dragged across furred ears, as the female pushed under her palm.

Chane had been there, too. She longed to ask il'Sänke about him, but she held her tongue. As she opened the door to the courtyard, she glanced over her shoulder.

"How did you get us back?" she asked, and her gaze dropped to the majay-hì as they approached the main keep's double doors. "How did you get her to come?"

"She was persistent," he answered. "And I was too burdened carrying you to get rid of her. My first thought was to bring you to the hospice, but you didn't seem in serious danger. Taking you both to your room was best, before anyone learned you were gone."

Yes, but how did he get past the guards? He hadn't offered that, so she suspected he wouldn't answer.

Wynn opened one of the double doors and stepped into the main building's entryway. Amid the rush of others coming and going, she reached the common hall. As expected, the sight of her with a tall wolf brought a sea of stunned stares and frantic whispers.

"You and your dramatics!" il'Sänke grumbled.

Wynn forced an outward show of calm, but inside she was thankful not to spot Domin High-Tower among the forest of faces. He would've confronted her directly for an explanation. Then a less than proper notion popped up into her head, and she stroked the head of Chap's daughter.

"Perhaps I should introduce you to Regina Melliny and her pack of gossips," she whispered.

The female rumbled, and a quiver ran through the dog's back under Wynn's hand.

Wynn glanced down to find the dog looking about nervously.

Wynn's small room had been hard enough on the female—a strange and alien place for a majay-hì, who'd known only the forest wilds and perhaps the elves' tree enclaves before arriving in this city. But this enormous half-filled hall of humans must be nearly overwhelming. Wynn stepped quickly to the nearest table.

"Wynn?" il'Sänke called in warning.

She leaned between a pair of initiates and grabbed two bowls of vegetable stew and a doughy wheat roll.

"What do you think you're doing?" someone hissed.

"You lunatic!" another growled. "Get that thing out of here!"

Before Wynn spotted either source, the young initiate to her right screeched.

The boy nearly threw himself into the lap of a willowy apprentice in pale blue next in line on the bench. He stared off behind Wynn as his startled savior glared first the same way, and then at Wynn.

"Haven't you caused enough trouble?" the apprentice demanded.

Suddenly the boy's breathing turned to rapid whimpers as others around the table lunged away in all directions. A rumble rose directly behind Wynn.

"Wynn, move on! Now!" il'Sänke snapped at her.

She glanced back.

The majay-hì crept in with a soft snarl, but the dog was shaking almost as much as the boy. Who feared whom more?

"She won't hurt you," Wynn quickly tried to assure the boy.

She reached for his small hand, and the apprentice holding him slapped her hand away.

Chap's daughter snarled as Wynn quickly swung her arm back to block the dog. She'd made another terrible mistake.

Her brethren saw only an overly tall and ominously dark wolf—not a majay-hì.

The very term meant "hound of the elementals" or "Fay dog," something she'd learned in scant writings and the mentions of Domin Tilswith. It was a quaint fable for a young girl not even an initiate at the time. Even others who might've heard of these beings in the deep forests of Lhoin'na to the south probably never saw one. No one had, not even Wynn, until she'd met Chap. But she'd recognized him—or at least guessed in wonder at what he was that first time some two years ago.

But Chap's daughter looked nothing like him, and she wasn't like him. She'd been born wild, for all her sentience, in a far-off land, where humans were an enemy to be guarded against. How many ways could Wynn alienate herself inside her own guild?

"Get going!" il'Sänke growled, his voice directly behind her.

Wynn pushed the majay-hì along and headed straight for the narrow side archway. Wide-eyed initiates and apprentices glowered at her until she slipped from sight into the outer passage. All the way to the heavy stairway door leading to the catacombs, she heard Domin il'Sänke muttering behind her. And they descended into the shadowy spiraling stairwell.

Although Wynn would've never agreed, it seemed strange that il'Sänke hadn't demanded that she get rid of the dog. Her life in the guild was going to get more complicated than before. As they emerged into the catacombs' cavernous entry room, Master Tärpodious sat at the back table, scribbling rapidly with a quill. But he looked up.

"Ah, young Hygeorht," the old archivist began, his tone chill.

He scowled over the bowls and bread clutched in her hands. Food wasn't allowed in the archives. Then his gaze shifted to the female with a harsh squint.

"What... is... that?" he sputtered. "I was asked to prepare space for reviewing the codex, and assist you as needed. What is that beast doing in my archive?"

Assist indeed—more likely keep an eye on her. High-Tower or Sykion must've gotten to him, and she'd lost another friendly acquaintance.

"She must remain with me," Wynn answered without apology, and kept a hand on the female's back. "She won't even nudge the shelves, I promise, but it's my duty to watch over her."

"Not in here!" Tärpodious croaked, and heaved himself up with wrinkled hands.

Domin il'Sänke slipped around Wynn, straight at the old man, and began whispering. The old archivist sneered in a twist of astonishment.

"That is nonsense!" he hissed. "I've never heard of anyone even seeing one... let alone the notion of it outside Lhoin'na lands!"

Wynn's gaze narrowed on il'Sänke, still whispering in Tärpodious's ear. If the Suman had read her journals, others involved in translation had done so, High-Tower especially. Yet they still refused to believe her recordings any more than her verbal claims concerning more deadly matters than a majay-hì.

"Fine, if she's that far gone," Tärpodious grumbled. "But you're responsible, Ghassan, if that animal causes damage."

Wynn also hoped Chap's daughter would behave, but she didn't like the hint of how il'Sänke had gained the elder sage's agreement. Tärpodious hunched where he braced upon the table's edge and eyed Wynn like a vulture waiting for her to drop dead.

"But no food inside!" he warned. "You may finish it here or leave it behind."

Domin il'Sänke ushered Wynn to a table farthest from the archivist.

"What did you just tell him?" she demanded in a whisper.

"If you are thought a madwoman—or act like one—at least take advantage of it... and anything that seemingly soothes your addled mind."

She glanced down at Chap's daughter.

"I'm not mad!" Wynn hissed. "And you of all people know it."

"Not by that nonsense in the common hall," il'Sänke returned. "Keep your new companion away from the populace. Now finish your meal, and Tärpodious will show you to your place."

With that he turned and left, and Wynn settled at the table, unshouldering her satchel. She set one bowl of stew on the floor for her "companion." The female sniffed it uncertainly, but finally began lapping at her stew, finishing off the gravy but not touching the vegetables.

Wynn sighed. "We'll find you something better tonight."

She quickly ate her own meal, pocketing the roll for later, and shouldered her satchel once more.

"Where am I to study the translations?" she asked.

Tärpodious grunted and gestured to the archway behind himself. "In there."

Wynn walked over to peer inside.

There were few shelves in the small antechamber. It was probably an old storage room turned into a temporary holding place for material waiting to be reshelved. Dust trails on the floor suggested the shelves had been recently moved. The room now contained a table for her special workspace. The table had been placed in a direct sight line with the room's doorless opening.

Tärpodious had been told to watch over her.

Why did Sykion and High-Tower always have to paint her as untrustworthy? But the arrangement was better than none—and all she planned to do was read and take notes.

"Thank you," she said politely, and stepped into her prepared space.

Four heavy stacks of scribed sheets lay upon the table, some bound and some not. Beside them rested a large makeshift book, laced together with temporary waxed string—the codex. Forgetting hurt pride, Wynn motioned to the dog.

"Come."

Whether Chap's daughter understood or not, she trotted in, sniffing the floor and scanning the strange surroundings.

"Stay in here with me," Wynn said softly, "and do not knock anything over."

The female cocked her head, whined once, and went back to sniffing about.

"Come here," Wynn insisted, settling into her chair.

The majay-hì didn't look at her.

Master Tärpodious glanced over his shoulder, watching with his lips pressed tightly together in disapproval. Wynn pretended not to notice him.

Chap's young daughter hadn't traveled as her father had. Likely she didn't understand spoken words, let alone human tongues. But perhaps she'd heard a little of the an'Cróan dialect, enough to understand a few basic words—if she chose to.

Wynn pointed at the floor beside her chair. "A'Shiuvalh, so-äiche! Walk... come, here!"

The female craned her head around, and then sneezed. Snorting to clear her nose of dust, she wandered about the room, but finally settled beside the chair.

With a long exhale, Wynn turned to the materials before her, suddenly daunted. She'd waited so long for this, but now where to start?

Some sheets were bound in thin volumes of hardened cloth covers. It was easy to discern that these were complete sections, perhaps whole chapters, kept together because they related to a particular text. But others were merely neat, loose collections awaiting further translation or transcribed passages. Wynn closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts.

Translation had been ongoing for half a year. A good deal of work had been accomplished from the look of things, but Wynn knew better. She'd brought back two large bundles and one iron-bound sheaf of hardened leather sheets. The inked content here was written with compact Begaine symbols but with extra space between lines for further notes and corrections. At a guess, less than a fifth of what she had brought had even been touched. But the murders and thefts had only recently begun, so she knew she shouldn't spend much time on the pages completed earlier.

But which ones were they?

And more important, she had to be able to cross-reference which pages existed in the codex but weren't present on the table—as the murderer had taken them. These would be the pages she needed to examine, and she wouldn't receive an ounce of guidance from her superiors.

She opened the codex, flipped to its rearmost pages, and breathed in relief. The record of scheduled work had been kept intact, all the way to the project's beginning. At least she could roughly determine which pages were most recently translated. She took a moment to scan the names of those who'd been involved.

Cathology was the second smallest of the orders, next to metaology. Of course High-Tower's name appeared time and again, as well as two others. But there were also domins and masters from the other orders, as needed. Ghassan il'Sänke appeared infrequently. It seemed even he, as an outsider, had seen only a minimum of the work.

Wynn picked up a thin, bound volume and looked at the opening page—volume seven, section two. But which text did this refer to? Most of the texts she'd selected hadn't had any titling on their crude bindings.

She didn't know how her superiors had tabulated the originals, so she checked the reference against the codex's schedule of completed work. This thin volume had its last addition made on the fourth of Billiagyth—Leaf's Shower—the last third of autumn by the elven calendar used throughout the region. And that was within the present moon.

Taking up loose pages, Wynn prepared to read, but she stopped upon seeing two running columns of text on each page.

Both were scripted in the Begaine syllabary, but the left column represented the original language, while the right was a translation into Numanese. Her estimate of how much work had been completed had just been cut in half again.

Many passages didn't make sense, for only bits and pieces had been finished. In some she found strings of dots between the syllabic symbols, which indicated the number of words that remained unreadable or untranslatable from the original. There were also long strokes across entire columns for anyplace in a text that was too faded or worn to count words. And there were margin notes wherever a readable word or phrase had defied translation so far.

Yet the passages before her clearly held information regarding a war—or rather, battles fought in locations she'd never heard of. She struggled through broken terminology and gained a sense that different sections, further separated by blank lines, were written from the perspective of differing authors. But one dimension of content remained constant.

Details, such as numbers of combatants lost or territory taken or estimation of enemy forces slaughtered, were related as cold facts in past tense. As if death and suffering were irrelevant to those who recorded it long ago. The countless dead were of no more consequence than an itemized account of possessions, of no personal value in being lost.

Taken as a whole, in quick estimate, the numbers were staggering... unbelievable.

Wynn guessed at the original text these passages had come from, as she and Chap had looked for books that might contain references to the Forgotten History. One in particular had seemed to contain an accounting of past events, like some general's tactical campaign history. Chap advised her to take it for the sheer weight of concise information.

How had her superiors decided which pages to translate first? By sampled content topic? By estimated order in which they'd been written?

She picked up another collection of pages, looking for translator's notes on the text's internal chronology. But even strange dates mentioned were noted as vague or approximate and without correlation. In most cases a time reference wasn't present at all, leaving only a guess concerning the chronology of how one text might fit among the others.

Wynn rubbed her eyes. The elven calendar, based on the seasons, each divided into named thirds, had been taken on 483 years ago, when King Hräthgar had first united territorial clans in the beginnings of Malourné. From that time forward was now known as the Common Era. But how many years, centuries, or more came before that, since the lost time of the Forgotten History? No one knew, not even the elves, the Lhoin'na... supposedly.

Any dates mentioned by the ancient authors of these texts would be of little use. There was no point of reference to compare a long-lost calendar system used at that time with the one now part of life in the Numan Lands.

Domin Tilswith, Wynn's old master, believed the war had taken place well over a thousand years ago. No one was certain of this, even among the guild, and the large gap in time made determination of long-past events unverifiable.

And Wynn realized part of why the guild was being so secretive.

Without proof, including time frame, these writings could be dismissed as speculation or a mere collection of accounts from differing periods as well as places. And not from the same war that had devastated the known world.

Varied ideologies and religions, including the major four of the Numan Lands, believed the war never took place. Or if it had, that it wasn't nearly as far-reaching as the catastrophe suggested by the guild. Wynn knew the royal family would take great pains to avoid anything that might cause unrest or discord—or open outrage and conflict. Even if solid proof were established, what could be more threatening than having one's beliefs shown to be in error?

If anyone learned what Wynn believed—what Most Aged Father believed—that the Enemy was returning, even those convinced of the war's magnitude might turn on those who didn't, and in more than just heated disagreement. Fear would spread, and those who clung to unfounded beliefs or even incorrectly reasoned conclusions would in turn look upon others as the carriers of an incurable disease.

Wynn quieted her wandering thoughts. Was this what the undead killer searched for—proof that the enemy was returning? But to what end? She put aside any conclusions. At least now she understood part of High-Tower's and Sykion's fears—as well as il'Sänke's warning.

She began trying to determine which pages or volumes listed in the codex weren't present—the ones stolen by the black figure. She scanned section after section of the codex, taking notes on the breadth of the project. She turned to organizing and checking off volumes and pages of completed work, searching for what was missing.

Within the catacombs, without a window or the sound of city bells, she had no idea how long the task took—but long enough that the twin columns on the pages began to blur before her eyes. She took a pause before continuing.

Of course, she couldn't guess what was in those missing folios, but she could look at adjacent pages and sections that she did find. Perhaps therein was a clue to what the black figure had sought and stolen. She returned to inspecting more pages—and she found a gap.

There were pages listed in the codex as worked upon that weren't in the loose stack in her hands. She flipped back to the last present page before the gap.

She came upon something that made her cold inside.

The page was covered in dots, much of the original being unreadable, though the words could be counted. There were also blanks in the right column for equivalent parts in the left one, indicating a section of text that had so far defied translation. From what Wynn could tell, the original had been written in one or more lost dialects of Sumanese. Of what had been translated, one term appeared a number of times.

in'Ahtäben—the Children.

What children? Whose children? And why the emphasis, as if it were a title? Baffled, she scanned the three pages that followed what was missing and then stopped. Her eyes fixed on another strange phrase within an incomplete sentence.

Wynn shifted to the left column of original text rendered in Begaine symbols.

At first it didn't seem like the same phrase, but she was reading ancient Sumanese. She'd heard one of the Ancient Enemy's names spoken in more current Sumanese, as repeated by Magiere and Chap, and its translation had been the same: il'Samar—the Night Voice... in'Sa'umar—the Night Voice.

By the similar prefix on in'Ahtäben, that also had to be a title—the Children. And here was one more title for the Enemy: Hkàbêv—Beloved.

Wynn wasn't reading about actual children—they were some group who'd served the Enemy of many names. She began searching for other names or anything concerning who these Children might be. On the very same page, in the left column, she sounded out two Begaine symbols for a name she would never forget.

Li'kän.

The white undead had selected a tin scroll case from her castle's library—the same one that Chane had brought to Wynn. And Wynn found two more names near Li'kän's.

Volyno and Häs'saun.

She didn't know her hands shook until the sheets' upper corners began to shiver. She'd seen these names written on castle walls in the faded black fluids of Li'kän. Three guardian undead had once inhabited that place, but Li'kän was alone when Wynn and her companions had reached the castle.

Wynn read further and came upon a reflexive proper noun. Volyno had written this passage. When she turned to the next sheet, the page's numbering jumped by three.

She stopped, quickly checking her notes, and then scanned the codex for any date on which missing pages or selected passages had been sent out for transcription. When she found it, finally realizing the time frame, Wynn sank into depression.

It was the night Jeremy and Elias had died.

Whatever was missing had been in that stolen folio, and the black figure had willingly killed for it. Wynn returned to the loose stack, reading onward, and found two more strange titles aside from the Children.

The Reverent and the Eaters of Silence.

Upon her return home with the texts, Domin il'Sänke had been asked to extend his visit and assist with any ancient Sumanese dialects found therein. Likely he'd worked on these terms. Unable to stop, she read on and found more proper names scattered throughout the pages.

Jeyretan, Fäzabid, Memaneh, Creif, Uhmgadâ, Sau'ilahk, and more...

In places, she could tell where another person was referred to, but next to these were only a blank space or a margin note—"marks or letter system unknown" or "symbol or ideogram unknown." She counted these anyway, making note in her journal. It was impossible to tell if any name belonged to any particular group or none of them at all. But she found two closely positioned near another mention of Li'kän.

Vespana and Ga'hetman.

She didn't like the implication.

In the very next sentence—or fragments of it—the white undead was referred to as "daughter of Beloved."

Wynn froze.

Daughter, as in a child—Li'kän was one of the Children. Vespana and Ga'hetman were mentioned with her as well. And Volyno and Häs'saun had been with her at one time in that ice-bound castle.

The Children—like Li'kän—were all ancient Noble Dead.

"Valhachkasej'â!" Wynn swore in a whisper, more from fright than anger.

Vampires from a thousand or more years ago had served their «Beloved» in a war that erased the world's history. There were five, not one, not Li'kän alone, and that one had survived for so long...

Wynn didn't want to finish that thought.

How many of the other four still walked the world to this day?

A vampire versed in one of the three magics, who had existed for a thousand years, might develop power beyond what any mage could hope for in one lifetime. Perhaps even the power to walk through walls, to become incorporeal at will, and yet physically tear out a city guard's chest.

Was Rodian half-right concerning the black figure? She had even seriously entertained his notion. Was it a mage as well as a vampire—like Chane?

Was it one of the other four among the Children?

Wynn flipped to a blank page in her journal and began writing every name she could find.

She marked the names of five of the Children. The rest remained to be identified as either the Reverent or the Eaters of Silence, or someone separate altogether. She scanned onward, reaching a place where the original text had decayed too much. Only fragments of Volyno's entry remained.

Wynn paused with her quill hanging motionless above her journal.

The Children, the five, divided—what did that mean? Did they become at odds with one another? And why had the Beloved taken refuge, and from what?

Volyno and Häs'saun had gone with Li'kän and the orb into the Pock Peaks, where the castle had been built by minions in that high frozen waste. Wynn knew too well what had become of those "obedient chattel." Magiere had seen hundreds of ancient skeletons, only some of them human, left crouched and curled in obeisance within small stone cubbies—left to starve in the cavern below the castle. The sanctuary they had built housed the orb that Magiere, Leesil, and Chap now attempted to hide somewhere in safety.

But what had happened to Volyno and Häs'saun?

It was hard to imagine that they'd simply left, since Li'kän seemed trapped there. Every time the white undead had tried to do anything, something unknown and unseen had reined her in. In over a thousand years she'd never left that place. Alone for so long, and sinking into her madness, Li'kän had even forgotten the sound of spoken words. It seemed likely that for whatever reason, Volyno and Häs'saun were no more.

And if «divided» did mean "separated," there was still the question of where Vespana and Ga'hetman had gone. And why decrease their strength in numbers, as well as abandon their master? Three had gone with the orb, so what had the other two done?

And most of all, where had their Beloved gone?

Perhaps these answers were what the black-robed undead was searching for—other ancient servants of the Enemy. Wynn reached a disconnected phrase so puzzling it knocked out all other questions.

She checked the left column. Its translated part sounded like some kind of Sumanese, possibly Iyindu, but the rest was missing. If Domin il'Sänke had translated this, she would have to ask him. But when she scanned the rest of the column and looked to the codex for any further reference, she found nothing more. Surely if il'Sänke had any notion of its possible meaning, he would've noted it for others working on translations. With no other texts as old as these ever found, internal referencing was what would be leaned upon most.

Volyno's writing grew more and more sketchy, more broken by untranslated or unreadable pieces. Soon Wynn found it difficult to distinguish between a possible name and just indefinable proper nouns. She did come across a word translated as «priests» near another reference to "those of the Beloved."

She remembered the calcified remains Magiere had spoken of along the curving tunnels and cavern of the orb. Li'kän had walked between those long-dead worshipers in utter disregard. Again Wynn found herself understanding—sharing—the fear that drove Sykion and High-Tower to deception and subterfuge.

Had a dark religion existed behind the force that sought the end to all sentient life?

Wynn didn't care to think how people like Rodian would take that, coupled with an ancient history they denied. Had the Children also been a religious order?

No, not with other groups mentioned. Those ancient Noble Dead might have been seen as holy, but by mere title, the more likely «priests» were the Reverent. So which of the other names belonged to the third group—the Eaters of Silence? And who or what had they been?

Wynn bit her lower lip in frustration and turned the page. It was the last one in the stack.

She dug through the piles, checking volume numbers for any section that followed, but she never found one. Further work on volume seven hadn't been completed yet.

In the end, she had a list of seventeen names and nine blanks as possible names where the writing systems were unknown to the translators. Of the former, five were the Children of the Beloved—Li'kän, Volyno, Häs'saun, Vespana, and Ga'hetman.

Wynn swallowed hard and then started at a grumbling whine.

"Young Hygeorht!" Tärpodious croaked from the outer room. "If that animal has an accident in my archives, you'll answer for it! It is late for supper already."

Had an entire day slipped by again? Wynn glanced down.

The female looked up, not even raising her head from her paws, and a wave of guilt hit Wynn. Her new companion hadn't gone outside all day.

She restacked all the pages as best she could and gathered her things. About to close her journal, she glanced once more over the names there. The majay-hì finally raised her head and sat up, peering over the tabletop.

"Names and more names." Wynn sighed, carefully stroking the female's head, remembering the day she'd haphazardly named Lily. "And I still don't know what to call you."

A quick chain of images shuffled through her thoughts—Chap alone, then with Lily, their heads touching, and finally the old wolfhound.

Wynn groaned. "Stop that. It doesn't mean anything to me."

But it didn't stop. The images merely slowed in repetition.

She saw Chap leaning into Lily, slowly sliding his head along hers, as the majay-hì did in memory-speak. This time, when the wolfhound's image rose in Wynn's mind, it flickered with the image of a charcoal-colored pup tussling with her siblings.

Again, and again, until the image of Chap speaking to Lily faded into the mother's memory of a dark-coated daughter—now sitting beside Wynn. That last memory wasn't Wynn's own.

Wynn slipped from the chair, kneeling before Chap's daughter. She had no experience in memory-speak, so it had taken time for the meaning to finally sink in. Another instant of looking into the female's yellow-flecked eyes finally brought clarity.

Wynn didn't need to find a name.

Chap had already supplied one, taught to Lily, and through her to their daughter, in a way without words. A name called from his own memory of an aging wolfhound, honoring a simple animal who'd once saved him.

Wynn carefully put her hands around the face of Chap's daughter.

"Shade," she whispered.

The dog didn't respond in any way. Wynn relaxed all conscious thought to let her own memory of the wolfhound rise. As an answer, she received a warm, wet lap of tongue across her face.

It was going to take time and effort before they understood each other better.

With that, she gathered her things to leave, and Shade followed her into the outer chamber.

"Master Tärpodious, will everything be kept as I've arranged it? I didn't know if the materials would be secured for the night or left out for me."

For a moment his wrinkled face softened, perhaps at the concern and diligence of her studies. He was an archivist, after all, dedicating his life to the catalogues of knowledge. Then he scowled at the "wolf's" presence.

"I'll return it myself... to its safe place," he said. "But I'll pay heed to your arrangements when it is brought back out tomorrow."

"Thank you," Wynn said, but she wondered where the translations were being kept.

"Come, Shade," she said. "We'll have to hurry if you're going out to the gardens before the portcullis closes for the night. I don't think anyone would appreciate your relieving yourself in the courtyard."

She hurried for the stairs, and Shade trotted beside her without being urged. As they neared the side arch of the common hall, Wynn began to fret. Better to take the main passage around to the front than go through there again. Before she even passed the entrance, Domin High-Tower came thumping down the passage from the other way.

"Oh, perfect," Wynn grumbled, quickly grabbing Shade's scruff.

No doubt the domin had heard about her new companion and came to put an end to such nonsense. But High-Tower barely glanced at Shade. His brow wrinkled, and he seemed agitated.

"What?" she asked.

"Nikolas is awake and..." High-Tower didn't finish, and his frown turned to a frustrated glower. "Captain Rodian has arrived... but Nikolas is asking for you."