Of Truth and Beasts (Noble of Dead Saga Series 2 Book 3) Page 6

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

  Chuillyon made an effort to remain passive. This petty young woman would never attain journeyor status on her own merits.

  “Where is she going?” he asked softly.

  “South, to Chathburh, and then inland across Witeny . . . to your guild branch.”

  “To the Lhoin’na?”

  “That’s what she wants. She’s been begging for it since she got back from Dhredze Seatt. As I said, they give her whatever she wants . . . or she pesters them until they do.”

  “Why does she wish to visit the guild’s elven branch?”

  Regina shrugged. “Who knows? She may act deranged, but no doubt she’s up to something. She thinks she’s better than anyone because she tripped over a pile of old books halfway across the world.”

  The girl’s endless spite again wore on Chuillyon. “She gave no clear reason for this journey?”

  Regina shook her head. “But she’s to take a message to Domin Yand at the Chathburh annex . . . and then one to your branch and High Premin To . . tov . . .”

  “Yes, I understand,” Chuillyon cut in before the girl butchered the name or his people’s language.

  His mischievous nature sank like a log under troubled water.

  Wynn was not whimsical. She always had reason for whatever she did, and was methodical, even if reckless. But why had the Numan sages’ council given her the pretense of messenger duty?

  “This is what you wanted, yes?” Regina asked. “I tell you what she’s up to, what I can . . . and you speak to Premin Adlam for me? I’m ready for a journeyor’s duties. I have been for more than a year! Please make him see this.”

  Her desperation haunted Chuillyon, much as it made her useful. Looking into her hungry eyes, he saw no readiness. Doing as she asked would be no true favor. It would only send her to a harder fall.

  “Of course. Soon,” he assured. “You have been most helpful, apprentice.”

  Regina took a deep breath of relief and triumph. “Good. I mean, thank you . . . sir,” and she backed away.

  “And to you, apprentice.”

  Before he turned away, her high brow furrowed. “Sir . . . I know Premin Adlam and some others treat you as a sage, but I don’t know of any others who wear white robes. I don’t even know how to refer to you properly . . . by our ranks.”

  “It is complicated,” he answered softly, “and I have an urgent task to attend. If you would not mind, perhaps another time?”

  That “other time” would never come for her.

  He did not watch her leave. Instead, he walked on through the remainder of the obelisk trellises nearly barren but for brittle vines. Wynn Hygeorht had requested to go to his own guild branch. But why? She sought portents of the returning enemy and the prospect of another great war. In that, she knew almost as much as her superiors. It was quite surprising how far she had foraged, regardless of all obstacles. Even he was impressed.

  But too many secrets—that should be left buried—had long been hidden in the forests of the Lhoin’na. Some he could not let Wynn Hygeorht root out, but others . . .

  Such a precocious little human, aside from her growing skills as a sage, and even just thinking of her actually made Chuillyon smile. He could not help it.

  There was a time, perhaps fifty years ago, when he would’ve found even greater delight in her exploits and antics. Perhaps he might have joined her, just for the surprises along the way.

  Oh yes, he would have joined her, but these were not those days. He needed to remain apart and alone—in preparation for what was to come. That thought took away his smile.

  Chuillyon pressed on, entering a small, manicured clearing with but one barren tree at its center. From anywhere else in the garden, it was always hidden from sight. It was not shaped like a typical tall and straight ash. From its thick trunk, stout branches curved and wound and divided up into the night. Even that might not be noticed at first.

  Leafless and barkless—yet alive—a soft, golden glow emanated from its fine-grained, tawny wood to dimly light the clearing. It glistened, from its wide-reaching roots creating lumps in the earth to its thick and pale yellow trunk and limbs.

  “Not so soon, I beg,” he whispered, as if to that tree—or perhaps something greater that it represented. “A little more time . . . it is not so much to ask.”

  Chuillyon stepped into the reach of the tree’s glow. A little of his sadness washed away, but not enough.

  Wynn stood hesitantly outside the iron door of Premin Hawes’s study.

  Before coming here, she’d stopped by her own room and put her things away. In recent times, she’d justified some astonishing betrayals for the sake of a higher purpose. But what she was about to do felt extreme, even to her. Taking a deep breath, she knocked.

  “Yes?” a voice called from inside.

  “It’s Journeyor Hygeorht,” she answered. “May I come in?”

  No one responded, but barely a pause passed before the door opened.

  Premin Hawes looked out, her normally flat, cold expression betraying a hint of surprise. She glanced briefly at Shade.

  “I assumed you would be preparing for your trip,” she said.

  “Yes, that’s why I needed to see you. I have a confession to make.”

  “A confession? I’m neither the premin nor a domin of your order. Why me?”

  “Because . . .” Wynn forced her voice into a contrite, distressed tone. “Because I lost my cold lamp crystal at Dhredze Seatt.”

  A frown hardened Premin Hawes’s hazel eyes.

  For a sage, this was an egregious oversight. Only those who reached journeyor status were given a crystal of their own as a mark of rank, achievement, and a presumed life devoted to the guild—to sagecraft itself.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone,” Wynn rushed on. “So much had happened. My belongings were confiscated several times. I’m not even certain when or how it went missing.”

  The premin’s frown deepened.

  “Please don’t lecture me,” Wynn begged. “I feel terrible as it is, but I’m heading south tomorrow.” She paused, as if grief stricken. “I need a replacement . . . to prove my status at the Lhoin’na branch.”

  Hawes seemed about to speak but didn’t. The disapproval on her narrow face shifted to something more guarded and passive.

  “Haven’t you been down in the archives?” she asked. “How were you studying without your crystal?”

  Wynn swallowed hard. “Master Tärpodious took pity on me. He loaned me one reserved for apprentices approved to work in the catacombs.”

  It was plausible, and hopefully Hawes wouldn’t check—at least not before Wynn was long gone.

  Premin Hawes stepped forward so steadily that Wynn backpedaled out of the way. Shade was forced to retreat, and hit her rump against the passage’s other side.

  “Come with me,” Hawes said.

  She glided down to the middle iron door on the northward side. Just as Wynn caught up, the premin touched the tips of her narrow fingers against the door right where there should’ve been a lock. She closed them like a pincer.

  The door’s iron bulged between her fingers and thumb.

  A palm-sized disk formed out of the iron between the premin’s fingertips.

  Wynn knew—everyone here knew—that the iron doors of the laboratories had been fashioned decades ago to be as impenetrable as possible. But in all her life, she’d never seen how they opened.

  Hawes rotated her hand with a whisper, though the disk didn’t turn. Her delicate fingertips slid smoothly along the disk’s edge, and then she flattened her palm against it. The disk sank, vanishing flush into the iron.

  With one quick twist of the handle, Premin Hawes pushed the door open.

  “Wait here,” she commanded.

  Wynn was still staring as the premin disappeared inside, closing the door to the barest crack. Again she wondered at Hawes’s skills compa
red to Domin il’Sänke’s dismissive comments. She didn’t have long for those thoughts.

  Narrow fingers curled out around the door’s open edge.

  Premin Hawes pulled it partly inward and stood blocking Wynn’s sight of the inner room. From behind her back, she held out one perfectly formed cold lamp crystal.

  Wynn’s breath of relief was genuine as she took it. “Thank you . . . thank you so much!”

  With a respectful nod, she turned off down the passage. Shade scurried ahead in a clatter of claws on stone, quite eager to leave.

  “Wynn.”

  That one word made her flinch to a stumbling stop and turn.

  Premin Hawes came down the passage in that glide that barely moved her robe. When she halted an arm’s length away, her hazel eyes never blinking, a tense moment followed that Wynn would never forget.

  The premin held up another cold lamp crystal, as pure as the last.

  Wynn stared dumbly at it, unable to move, until the premin snatched Wynn’s hand holding the first crystal. Shade only let out a half snarl before swallowing audibly. The premin opened Wynn’s hand with her own thumb and placed the second crystal beside the first in Wynn’s palm.

  Wynn studied the pair, her thoughts utterly blank. When she finally looked up, Premin Hawes had turned away down the passage.

  “In case your misfortunes continue,” the premin said evenly, “and you . . . lose the first one.”

  Frideswida Hawes turned into her study. The last iron door on the right shut with a clang that echoed down the passageway.

  Wynn stood frozen. Had the premin of metaology known what she was up to? If so, how did she know?

  Chane, lying on the bed in his guest quarters, opened his eyes to darkness. He sat up, fingering the brass ring still on his finger from last night’s foray into the city.

  Climbing out of bed, he walked out of the bedchamber and into the study. Dusk’s tinted residue of light filtered through the canvas curtains beyond the desk, filling the room with enough for his night sight. As he glanced down toward the desk, the first thing he saw was one of Wynn’s journals. He looked away.

  He had slept in his breeches and shirt. Both were now quite wrinkled, and he started back for the bedroom to change before meeting Wynn. His attention lit upon a recently added item among his scattered belongings on the desk.

  The paper-wrapped package’s twine binding was already severed. He had checked the contents last night upon finding it left outside his guest quarters’ door. This was the final item of his secret needs before the journey could begin, and the sages had not supplied it. He had arranged to have it made in the city.

  He grabbed the package, paper crinkling in his grip, and headed into the bedroom. Setting it atop the piled cloak, scarf, and gloves, he slowly opened the paper to stare once again at its content.

  Thick but pliant, the shaped leather had laces on either side, with two openings set high and parallel. Chane lifted it to his face, aligning the holes with his eyes as he looked into the mirror. It was exactly as he had specified, spreading back to his ears, halfway across his scalp, and under his chin to his throat. But even he could not deny what it looked like....

  An executioner’s mask.

  Chane quickly lowered and rewrapped it in the paper, hiding it away in a dresser drawer. He now possessed everything he required, though he had yet to reveal his purpose to Wynn. He would have to let that wait until there was no time left for her to escape him. The night before they planned to leave would be best.

  After pulling on a fresh shirt and his boots, he ran his fingers through his hair, though his hand was shaking when it came down. He left the room, locked the door, pocketed the key, and quickstepped all the way to the inner courtyard. Trying to wipe his thoughts clean, he was distracted as he approached the southeast dormitory.

  Young voices rose on the entry door’s other side, but he did not truly hear them.

  “You don’t know that, Kyne!” said one.

  “It’s just a wolf,” said another. “A big one . . . but just a wolf.”

  “No, it isn’t!” shouted a third, a girl. “It’s a majay-hì!”

  Chane was in no mood for nonsense. He reached for the latch, but the door suddenly swung open. The iron handle cracked against his fingers, and he lurched aside as the door struck his elbow and shoulder.

  Three small forms in tan robes boiled out of the opened door.

  “There’s no such thing,” grumbled one pudgy boy.

  “I looked it up in the library!” a girl about eleven or twelve shouted back.

  “Oh, pish!” grumbled a second, gangly, red-haired boy.

  “Just because you two can’t read Begaine doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” the girl insisted.

  And the pudgy one wrinkled his face in a pout.

  “What do you think you are doing?” Chane snapped.

  At his sharp, nearly voiceless rasp, all three initiates sucked in a breath. The girl’s eyes widened until the whites showed all around, and she stared up—and up—at Chane.

  “Oh . . . I’m . . .” she stammered. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, sir.”

  Her little nose and ivory cheeks were smattered with faint freckles. Two equal braids held back her dark blond hair. She looked nothing like Wynn; acted nothing like a sage. None of them did.

  Chane felt the beast stir within him.

  He could not see a possible hope that such whelps would ever understand what it meant to be a sage. He hung there, glaring down at them, until they began inching together, clustered yet unable to take their frightened eyes off him. How had these things, these calves of the human cattle, ever been allowed inside this place?

  Chane jerked the door wide, sending the trio scurrying out of his way and running for the keep’s main doors. He was still shuddering as he headed up the stairs for Wynn’s room.

  Even within the guild, there were those who did not matter, who did not belong.

  Wynn sat at her desk, making a list of things to gather and tasks to complete before embarking tomorrow night. Shade lounged on the bed, her crystal blue eyes half open, but the dog seemed to be watching intently.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “I am here,” Chane rasped from outside.

  Wynn paused. He sounded sharp, almost loud, even for his limited voice.

  “It’s open,” she answered.

  Chane stepped in and shut the door. As was his habit, he wore a white shirt, black breeches, and high boots—simple attire, like that of the young nobleman he’d once been. She studied his face, looking to see if he appeared hungry or weak. He just looked disturbed.

  If he hadn’t consumed the blood in the urn, what had he fed on while they were at the seatt? What had he been feeding on since? She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow night,” she said. “We have passage on a ship to Chathburh.”

  Chane straightened. “Tomorrow?”

  Wynn touched the two sealed letters behind the pouch of coins.

  “They gave me a supposed mission to deliver these. More likely they want me gone straight off and for as long as possible, where they think I’ll do no harm. I’ll need any of my journals you still have, and the rest of the supplies you’ve been buying, so we can go through this final checklist.”

  She held up her list, but he barely glanced at it.

  “It is too soon,” he whispered. “I am not ready.”

  Wynn turned in her chair to fully face him. “I thought you’d be relieved. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  He paced the length of her room, a mere four steps. When he stopped, he stared at her staff in the corner beyond the door. Its sun crystal was fully sheathed, but that was the part his eyes locked upon.

  “Get your cloak, your glasses, and the staff,” he commanded. “Come with me. . . . But Shade stays here.”

  Shade lifted her head from the bed’s blankets and growled.


  In all the time Wynn had known Chane, he’d never ordered her to do anything, at least not like this. He looked openly angry now, as if expecting her to argue.

  “What is the matter with you?” she asked.

  “Just do it!”

  Wynn crossed her arms and didn’t even get up. Chane looked away, anxious, almost defeated.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Leave Shade here.” Something in Chane’s pleading voice pulled at Wynn. Maybe if she did as he asked, he’d finally tell her what was wrong. With a sigh, she pulled her cloak off the chair and got up.

  The glasses were always in her robe’s pocket these days, and she stepped around Chane to retrieve her staff. An instant of relief flooding his pale face was alarming.

  She glanced toward Shade. “Stay.”

  Shade jumped off the bed, snarling.

  “Stay,” Wynn said more firmly, pulling the door open.

  Shade rushed in and slammed headfirst into door. It closed with a loud bang as the dog backed up. Her snarls turned into a rolling growl.

  A short wrestling match followed in which Wynn held the dog back while Chane stepped out. Wynn quickly slipped out after jerking her robe’s skirt out of Shade’s teeth, and Chane pulled the door closed. Shade immediately began howling, barking, and snarling.

  “Stop,” Wynn called through the door. “Or you’ll have a crowd of apprentices come running. We’ll be back soon.”

  Wynn motioned Chane onward, hoping Shade would quiet down once they were gone—although she had no idea where they were going.

  Chane was silent all the way to the courtyard. He headed straight across for the northwest building that contained his quarters. Confused, Wynn followed, but he stopped her at the door. When he looked down at her, she almost backed up.

  His irises had turned clear and colorless, as they did when his undead nature fully manifested itself.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I will return shortly.”

  Chane’s voice was as cold as his irises, and he slipped inside.

  His erratic mood shifts sometimes left Wynn unsettled, but she waited, shivering a few times in the chill night air. True to his word, Chane reemerged shortly, wearing a forest green cloak with the hood up. She’d never seen it before. A matching scarf was wrapped multiple times about his neck, leaving only his hood-shadowed face exposed. He wore new, fitted calfskin gloves, suggesting they’d been custom made.