Of Truth and Beasts (Noble of Dead Saga Series 2 Book 3) Read online

  Wynn opened the door to their room and stepped inside.

  “Where have you been?”

  Chane looked over her head to see Ore-Locks standing inside their room. Without answering, Wynn walked past him and sank down on her bed ledge. This penchant of hers was also beginning to worry Chane. More and more, she often shifted between suffering in defeat and rushing into thoughtless action.

  “We had a chance and we took it,” she sighed.

  Ore-Locks crossed his arms. “What chance?”

  Wynn looked up at him, hesitating, and then told him everything up to the point where Gyâr had come for them.

  “We were in the wrong archive,” she finished. “Now I have no way to gain the right one.”

  Ore-Locks grimaced, his anger no better contained than the premin’s, though his reason was exactly the opposite. Whatever his ultimate motivation might be, his goal was for Wynn to succeed in finding the lost dwarven seatt.

  “We cannot stay here doing nothing,” Chane finally said. “Yet we cannot continue until we learn where to go. We are without options.”

  “I know that!” Wynn nearly shouted, and then shut her eyes. “Sorry,” she said more softly, “but I’m well aware of our situation.”

  Ore-Locks glanced sidelong at Wynn, his broad face thoughtful. His resentment had vanished, which left Chane wary. Dwarves were not quick to real anger, but once it came, it did not fade easily.

  “If you cannot access written words,” Ore-Locks said, “then turn to truer spoken ones.”

  Wynn lifted her head, looking at him in puzzlement. Then she dropped her chin back into her hands.

  “Oral tradition may be your people’s way,” she said, “but not for the guild or the elves.”

  “The elves are long-lived,” he went on. “They may not be as oral as my people, but more so than humans. Someone here must know something of use.”

  Wynn sat upright. Something in Ore-Locks’s words must have sparked another wild notion.

  “No one here will talk to us,” Chane interrupted. “They have been warned against us by now.”

  “Then find someone who disagrees with them,” Ore-Locks stated, looking only at Wynn. “We have already met one such who finds the guild quite distasteful . . . because of Chuillyon.”

  Wynn lifted her eyes to him and whispered in astonishment, “Vreuvillä!”

  Chane’s chest tightened the instant that name crossed her small lips, for Ore-Locks might be correct. That wild woman—priestess, whatever she was—might tell them whatever she knew simply out of spite, if she knew anything useful at all.

  Chane could not bear the thought of going anywhere near First Glade again. The first night had been horrible.

  Wynn’s soft brown eyes shifted to him, concern and questions on her face, as if she’d read his thoughts. Chane knew it was too late now to stop her, but he raised a hand before she spoke.

  “We have no idea where or how to find her in this . . . forest.”

  The anticipation on her face faltered. It crushed him to crush her hope. Yet Wynn would still push blindly forward, now that Ore-Locks had prodded her.

  Chane simply hoped he could stall a little longer—long enough to find a better answer. Only then did he notice an oddity from the only silent one in the room.

  This time, Shade had not protested at all.

  CHAPTER 14

  Sau’ilahk observed a’Ghràihlôn’na through the tâshgâlh’s eyes. Not one elf walking the city’s paths noticed the animal darting between sculpted shrubs and bushes. The beast was easy to control, but once it reached the guild’s living structure, it paused under Sau’ilahk’s own astonishment.

  He had never searched the Lhoin’na lands before. Sight of the guild left him briefly stunned before sending his new familiar clawing up the thick bark. It peered through crystal-paned windows in search of Wynn, but found no sign of her. When it scaled the structure’s heights, slipping through a tight saddle between treetop spires, Sau’ilahk looked down into a deep inner space.

  The guild was not a solid mass, as he had first thought. It was a ring, its inner space left open between them. The tâshgâlh took longer than the upward climb to skitter down into the courtyard’s green growth. It ducked in beneath a rhododendron’s bulk and hid beneath the large purple blossoms.

  Tall elves robed in various colors walked the shale pathways, but Sau’ilahk was looking for any way into the structure. Then he spotted Wynn by pure chance.

  She emerged from a door with Shade—and Chane.

  A glint from Chane’s left hand caught the tâshgâlh’s attention, and it began to croon. Sau’ilahk eyed Chane’s brass ring with unsettling envy.

  The ring had to be how Chane had breached the forest. No other explanation would justify a mere dabbler in conjury achieving such a feat as an undead. The ring became all the more desirable.

  Ore-Locks came out behind the trio.

  Sau’ilahk exerted will upon the tâshgâlh, stopping it from chasing after the object of both their obsessions. He held the creature back until certain of Wynn’s destination, another door across the courtyard. To follow, the animal had to do so at the correct instant.

  He directed it ever closer from bush to bush. As Wynn pulled open the door, the animal bolted toward the wall to the portal’s right, ducking behind a hedge. When Ore-Locks stepped inside last, the tâshgâlh slipped through before the door closed. It darted into the dim entry chamber’s nearest corner and curled in the shadows, waiting to follow unseen.

  Chuillyon paced his outer room beneath the southern spire’s base. He was not precisely worried. He was simply waiting—and waiting—for news.

  Too much talk had spread among the domins and masters concerning an illicit entry into the Naturology archives. For such quick gossip, there were very few useful details. Naturology was the last branch of the archives Chuillyon would have guessed Wynn would seek. What, by Chârmun’s grace, was she doing in there?

  “Domin?” a lilting voice called from above.

  “Yes, come!”

  Hannâschi appeared at the chamber’s entrance.

  “What have you learned?” he asked immediately.

  “The journeyor and her companions left the grounds and headed north, out of the city. They eventually took the Birth Path, likely all the way to First Glade.”

  Chuillyon was dumbstruck. There was no telling what Wynn Hygeorht might do next.

  “Wait, go back,” he said. “What happened in the archive? Have you learned anything new?”

  For a mere journeyor of Metaology, Hannâschi’s skills were exceptional. She could bend light by her thaumaturgy, creating simple illusions, or twist what it did or did not illuminate. She never attained the complete elimination of light, but her abilities made eavesdropping much easier.

  “I could not get close enough,” she answered. “I waited nearby in an unoccupied side passage. Premin Gyâr is furious about the letter. He believes someone broke into his office and used the council’s seal.”

  Hannâschi offered Chuillyon the most irritated glare her elegant face could portray. He forced himself not to smile.

  “I caught up with the premin,” she continued, “as he closed himself inside his office with the master archivist. I amplified any sound within the wall’s wood. His first instinct was to suspect you.”

  Chuillyon almost rolled his eyes. That much would be obvious.

  “But there was doubt,” she added. “He still believes you are his ally, yet he assumes none of the other premins would dare such an act. He is frustrated in not finding an answer.”

  “Good enough for now.”

  “He will not let this go,” she warned, as if shocked by his satisfaction. “Tomorrow morning’s gathering will be difficult.”

  Hannâschi had a polite way with euphemisms. “Difficult” would hardly describe it. Chuillyon would not be at all surprised if Gyâr called an emergency meeting tonight.

  “What about Journeyor Hygeorht?” he asked.
“What was she after?”

  Hannâschi shook her head. “I suspect she did not realize that the archives are divided by the orders into five separate locations.”

  Chuillyon digested this notion. At least it explained Wynn’s baffling choice of destination in using the pass. However, not only had she used up her chance, and a hard-won chance at that; she had wasted his capability to assist her further.

  “And she is heading for First Glade?”

  “Yes.”

  It was not difficult to guess why. The place itself held nothing useful for Wynn, even in seeking Chârmun’s grace. As a somewhat typical human sage, she would have only scholarly wonder and curiosity in the tree.

  Something—someone—else had been present there on Wynn’s first brief visit.

  Chuillyon let out a tired exhale. “Oh . . . rotted roots!”

  Hannâschi’s eyes blinked rapidly at his near obscenity.

  “I had better follow her,” he muttered, more to himself than to Hannâschi. “I should make certain—”

  “Chuillyon!” a deep, angry voice called from above.

  Hannâschi jumped slightly at the sound, her eyes popping wide, and Chuillyon’s neck muscles tightened.

  “Yes, Gyâr,” he called back. “What may I do for you?”

  Wynn pressed on along the narrow path to First Glade. With the sun crystal staff in hand, she followed Shade’s lead, and Ore-Locks brought up the rear. Chane once more held on to her shoulder under the forest’s growing influence, and she felt him tremble through his grip. When she glanced up, his eyes were closed. His face was covered by the same sheen as the last time they’d come this way.

  Chane’s gaze darted about. He flinched twice, as if something had jumped out of the dark at him.

  At the rear, Ore-Locks was watching him closely.

  “Almost there,” Wynn whispered.

  Chane’s grip tightened briefly.

  She wished she knew of a way to help him, but had he possessed an ounce of sense, he would have stayed behind. Really, how much protection could he provide in his current state?

  They reached the path’s strange three-way split, only this time Shade came to a dead stop. Her ears pricked as she raised her head high, nose in the air.

  “What’s wrong?” Ore-Locks asked.

  Shade turned a tight circle and lowered her head as she appeared to search the forest. She suddenly huffed, and Wynn heard something in the distance.

  A lone howl carried from far off.

  Chane’s grip tightened again.

  A second howl rose, a little longer than the last. Wynn was still uncertain where it had come from.

  Shade turned, looking between the trees. As another howl came, she wheeled around, and a single word sounded in Wynn’s mind, in her own voice.

  —Follow—

  Shade bolted into the underbrush.

  “What’s she doing?” Ore-Locks called.

  Wynn grabbed Chane’s belt to pull him along, but he gripped her wrist and hauled her back. His colorless eyes shifted in every direction.

  “Not into the trees!” he rasped. “You are not going in there.”

  Wynn couldn’t see Shade. She heard the dog huff twice and that was all as she peeled off Chane’s fingers and took his hand.

  “Close your eyes and trust me,” she said.

  Sau’ilahk watched through his familiar’s eyes as it scampered along the upper branches in pursuit of Wynn—or in pursuit of one shiny little ring fixed in its instinctual obsession. Its eyes offered a much better view at night than those of his conjured servitors.

  Chane did not look well.

  The vampire might have breached the forest’s safeguards, but clearly he suffered for it. Wynn led onward ahead of the dwarf as they followed the majay-hì. When they came to a three-way split in the path, a loud howl carried from a distance.

  The tâshgâlh froze, backing away along the branch. Sau’ilahk seized control to keep it still.

  The dwarf muttered something, but Sau’ilahk was too distracted to catch the words. After a few more distant howls, Shade darted off the path, followed by Wynn and the others in a stumbling gait through the underbrush.

  Sau’ilahk forced the tâshgâlh onward, choking off its whimpers of fright at those howls.

  Chuillyon waited tensely as Gyâr’s heavy footfalls descended the stairs outside his chambers. Hannâschi sidestepped away from the entrance. This was not a good time for a visit from the tall premin. Chuillyon snapped his fingers.

  Hannâschi went rigid, her eyes locking on him. He pointed at the curtained doorway to his sleeping chamber, and she rushed through, trying to still the curtain in her wake.

  An instant later, Gyâr pounded through the entrance, the letter held high in hand.

  “We have a problem,” he announced, as if the presumption that Chuillyon would share the weight of it was not debatable.

  Chuillyon raised his feathery eyebrows. “And that would be?”

  Gyâr held out the letter. “A sympathizer . . . and traitor in our midst.”

  Chuillyon took it, scanning its content as if he had never seen it before. Of course, he had not seen it since the council seal had been added.

  The fact that no one had sought out Hannâschi meant that Wynn had given no description of the courier. This was no surprise. The errant little sage, so accustomed to persecution, would never give up another who had tried to help her.

  “I assume you did not issue it,” Chuillyon murmured, looking up with a carefully baffled expression. “Where did it come from?”

  “From that Numan journeyor,” Gyâr snapped, “standing in the north archive!”

  Chuillyon feigned a gasp. “What premin would issue this? Perhaps Viajhuijh? Wynn, though from another branch, is a cathologer and of his order.”

  “I’ve already challenged Viajhuijh. He seemed as surprised as you . . . and would never dare go against me, let alone steal into my study to use the seal without consent or council approval.”

  “Well, someone did,” Chuillyon said, “and someone gave Hygeorht extensive assistance.”

  This was not exactly true. No one had broken into Gyâr’s quarters, and Wynn had been given minimal assistance in entering the archives.

  Hannâschi’s only direct thaumaturgy had been to trick Thrûchk, the master archivist’s apprentice, into thinking he’d received rare tomes from the Suman branch. Thus he was lured out of the archive to his office, and Wynn had walked in unhindered. It had taken a bit more than twisted light to fake the books on Thrûchk’s desk, but Hannâschi had managed.

  Creating the pass with a council seal had been a little more mundane.

  Chuillyon possessed a few sheets of the high premin’s stationery and had written the letter himself. In the past, he’d more than once gotten his hands on documents with the stamped council seal. Sometimes those documents took a little longer than usual for their final delivery.

  Hannâschi would apply an alchemical mixture to a wood block, press it on a document’s stamped seal, and lift off a reverse imprint. The captured ink could then be revitalized once or twice, and the block used to reimprint another document. The covert stamp was not perfect, but neither was the original. However, it was the original image—with the original ink made for use only with the seal.

  Gyâr paced to the entrance arch, braced a hand upon its edge, and glanced back, a predator’s glint in his dark yellow eyes.

  “How is this possible?” he demanded. “That Numan journeyor said one of my apprentices delivered the letter. I have spoken to all of them, and none claim any knowledge of it.” His eyes narrowed. “What of the Suman entourage? Could they be responsible?”

  “Why bother giving the letter away? They could have used the pass themselves.”

  Gyâr exhaled. “At the very least, someone may have acquired a metaologer’s robe from our stores to play messenger. Do you trust everyone of your order? Would any of yours have reason to do this?”

  Chuillyon frow
ned in manufactured resentment. “I assure you, no one under me has any interest in assisting Journeyor Hygeorht.”

  “Then we are back to our other three premins?”

  “Really, Gyâr. Why would they help some wayward sage from Calm Seatt?”

  “Then who else?”

  Chuillyon raised his hands in feigned exasperation, although at tomorrow’s council gathering, he knew exactly whom the others would suspect: him. Oh, he had been the prime suspect of lesser mischief, though nothing had ever been proven. At present, Gyâr was the only one who mattered.

  The premin of Metaology, sitting in as high premin, held all the power for now. Gyâr’s trust and need of an old ally outweighed casting suspicion the same way. The premins might be troubled over this subterfuge with the pass, but ultimately that would be the least of their concerns. All would disapprove of Gyâr’s rashness in petitioning the people’s council to bring in the Shé’ith—the Serenitiers, as humans might call them. Exactly what had he done to convince the Premin Council for that?

  Gyâr dropped into one of the simple chairs. “Order some tea,” he said. “We must reason this through . . . until a path to the answer is found.”

  Chuillyon gazed toward his chamber’s entrance. He was not getting out of here any time soon—and neither was Hannâschi.

  “Keep your eyes shut tight,” Wynn told Chane, pushing leafy branches out of her face.

  Her sleeves were soaked through from moisture clinging to foliage as she trailed Shade. Ore-Locks followed, but it took all Wynn’s effort to drag Chane blindly onward. It seemed too long that she’d been fighting through this underbrush, but the howls and yips grew steadily louder and nearer.

  Wynn broke into a small clearing and found Shade poised at its center with her ears upright. Something had stalled the dog, but as Wynn reached out to touch Shade’s haunches, two furred forms burst from the underbrush on the clearing’s far side.