by Barb Hendee
If Domin il'Sänke found out, after her renewed promise, she might never learn how to use it correctly. But what else could she do? She couldn't go out without some means of defense. Though she still didn't know for certain what the black figure was, it had vanished after the crystal flashed. Sunlight drove all vampires into hiding.
One more thought occurred to her.
She dashed to her trunk, pulling out a tiny jar of healing salve. Would it even work on Chane? Either way, it wouldn't hurt to try. Then she spotted Magiere's old dagger tucked in the chest's side—given to Wynn as a gift.
Wynn stared at it. She'd used it more than once, even against the undead, and sometimes with disastrous results. Still, she couldn't ignore anything that might help keep her alive, and she picked it up.
Shade slipped under Wynn's arm and clamped her jaws over the dagger's sheath. At the brush of the dog's muzzle against Wynn's hand, an image erupted in her head and consumed her.
She saw the black figure.
Like a cloth-draped column of solidified night, it slipped straight through a building's back wall.
Wynn was disoriented in fright, and had no idea where she was in that memory. She seemed to be looking down an alley behind that place, but from a lower height, as if she knelt upon the filthy cobblestones. The noise of wood cracking, glass breaking, and other racket erupted from within the building.
And then everything in the alley suddenly raced by. She bolted, swift and low, along the alley floor, charging by the building and out the alley's far end. Swerving through the empty street, she rounded the city block to its front side. There she slowed, creeping along the buildings, finally coming to a stop. Above the peeling door of a garish and weathered shop, Wynn saw a worn painted sign.
Shilwise's Gild and Ink—the scriptorium where a folio had been left overnight and stolen.
She was crouched two shops down from it, but the scribe shop was now silent.
Until the weathered front door exploded outward in the night.
Shattered wood shards scattered over the porch and street as Wynn cowered back. The black figure slid out through the opening, a leather folio clutched in its cloth-wrapped hand.
It didn't waver in Wynn's sight. This was Shade's own memory.
The figure looked as solid and real as anything along the street. But when it turned, gliding along the buildings, it passed straight through a lantern post, as if the stout iron pole wasn't even there.
The memory's intensity softened.
Wynn stared at Shade, eye-to-eye, with the sheathed blade still in the dog's jaws. Had Shade been hunting the black figure, as well as watching over her all this time?
And on the night Rodian had sprung his trap, the figure had slid out through the front wall of the Upright Quill—but pulled the folio through a window. Perhaps, by whatever magic, it couldn't pass the folio through something solid.
But why destroy the front door of the Gild and Ink? With no one about, it could've simply slipped through the wall and pulled the folio through an easily breakable window. Or better yet, it could've found some less telltale way to get out, with no one around to see it.
No one but Shade, that was.
Wynn was at a loss for what any of this meant, nor why Shade had shown her this now. It had been a clear image of the undead breaking out of a shop, appearing solid, yet it had walked through an iron pole.
This attempt to talk in memories was frustrating, but it was all Wynn had. Shade was trying to tell her something about the black figure. How many Noble Dead, or even other undead, had Wynn known of since she first met Magiere, Leesil, and Chap? She had to at least eliminate the obvious, and put her hand on the side of Shade's neck.
Wynn relaxed her mind, letting memories rise, but careful not to let any of Chane come clearly to mind. There was Vordana, Welstiel, and the memory of Magiere speaking of her undead father, Bryen Massing. The first two were mages as well as Noble Dead.
Shade growled and looked away with a huff.
Wynn exhaled sharply. Shade's reaction wasn't like Chap's clear usage of two barks for "no," but it was plain enough. So now what? The only other undead that Wynn had encountered were Ubâd's animated corpses and enslaved spirits.
Shade dropped the blade and grabbed Wynn's wrist in her jaws. Rapidly alternating memories filled Wynn's head—her own memories…
The ghost of a murdered girl who served the necromancer…
Then the black figure on the night Shade had come to Wynn's aid…
Black figure and ghost child alternated over and over.
Wynn didn't like what this implied.
"A spirit?" she whispered, remembering the ghost child who'd once spoken with that vile necromancer's own voice.
Shade gently tightened her grip on Wynn's wrist.
Wynn looked at the dog and suddenly wished she still had her doubts. It would've been far less unsettling to cling to her notion of an ancient Noble Dead mage grown powerful over a thousand years.
How could a spirit, as much as it might pass through a wall, pick up a folio in its hand, rip out a city guard's chest, and look as solid and real as a cloaked man? And why hadn't Shade simply shown her ghosts in the first place?
The latter answer came quickly. Because Shade had never seen a ghost, until that memory rose in Wynn's mind when she'd thought of other forms of undead.
Shade couldn't dig for memories but only recall ones she'd seen surface in someone else's thoughts. And she'd never seen a ghost herself, because the undead couldn't enter the an'Cróan's elven homeland—Shade's homeland.
Wynn glanced at Magiere's useless dagger lying on the floor between her and Shade. And again she wished Shade was wrong.
This black spirit took lives, fed upon the living. Only Noble Dead did this to maintain their fully sentient existence, versus ghosts, mindless corpses, and such lesser undead.
Wynn felt even worse.
Was this thing—spirit—a new form of a Noble Dead? Vampires were Noble Dead, the terms merely interchangeable.
With no more time to ponder the rest of what Shade had shown her, Wynn dropped Magiere's blade into the chest; then she hesitated again. Rodian still had men outside the portcullis. Could she be lucky enough to slip by them again, this time with a large wolf? And she saw her old clothing—elven clothing, weathered and travel-worn—in the bottom of the chest.
At the very least, it was better not to be spotted beyond the guild grounds in a sage's robe. She quickly changed clothing and pulled on her old cloak.
Wynn peeked into the passage outside her room. Spotting no one, she slipped out with Shade. She checked again before they stepped into the courtyard and then hurried across—not to the keep's main doors, but to the building on the northern side, where supplies and kitchen stores were kept.
She carefully opened a door there and, finding the storeroom dark, slipped out her cold lamp crystal. With one quick stroke along her tunic's front, the crystal glowed no more than a low candle. Rows of barrels, crates, and sacks of dried goods filled the space, but she urged Shade in and turned immediately to the right. Through another door she entered the back scullery behind the kitchen.
Stacked, emptied crates and bottles waited to be taken away. And there also, spare cloaks hung on wall pegs, for anyone who had to take milk bottles or refuse out. She grabbed the largest one and pulled it on over her own. Although it was too big for her, this was easier than carrying it, and the extra bulk might further disguise her. When she reached the courtyard again, still trying to think of some way to get Shade out through the library, another notion came to her.
Pawl a'Seatt had come to escort his staff home from working all day in the guild. But had they already left, or were they still inside? Either way, what Wynn had in mind was a gamble. She hoped none of the guards outside had ever seen her before.
Wynn pocketed the crystal, smothering its light, and crouched before Shade.
She didn't know how to explain with memories that Shade needed to
keep quiet. She reached out carefully for Shade's nose—again hoping she didn't get bitten—and clamped her hand over the dog's muzzle. She quickly covered her own mouth in like fashion.
Shade let out a brief grumble and fell silent. Wynn hoped that meant the dog understood.
She headed down the gatehouse tunnel with Shade padding behind her. Before she was close enough to touch the closed portcullis, someone shifted beyond it.
In the light of the outer torches, a bearded face leaned close between the stout bars. He wore the red tabard of Rodian's men and held the shaft of a polearm in one hand.
"What's this?" the man demanded. "It's after dark… orders are that no one goes out."
"Do I look like a sage?" Wynn answered, trying to sound indignant. "I'm with Master a'Seatt, from the Upright Quill."
The man lifted his head, looking away, and Wynn lost sight of his face.
"He already left," another voice outside answered.
The first guard peered in again. "Where were you?"
"Domin High-Tower had a fit about some mislaid notes," Wynn answered, and sighed as deeply as she could. "I got stuck finding them for him."
The bearded guard scowled, but he appeared more annoyed than suspicious.
"Open the damn gate!" Wynn snapped.
His eyes widened. "Girl, you'd better—"
"Come on!" Wynn cut in. "I'm tired, I haven't had supper, and I've been dealing with stuffy, petty little scholars all day. Or do you want to tell my employer—and your captain—why I was stuck in here all night?"
The guard let out a long hissing breath and vanished from the space in the portcullis.
Wynn's stomach clenched. She was stuck. They were just going to ignore her.
"Take it up!" someone shouted.
The gatehouse tunnel filled with the racket of chains and gears as the portcullis began to rise. Wynn tried to remain still and not duck under and bolt out. She stepped onward only when the way was fully open.
"What is that?" one guard barked.
She was only three steps down the outer path to the bailey gate when she had to stop and look back. Both guards had their long halberds lowered, the wide head blades aimed at Shade.
"A wolf?" one guard uttered.
The only thing Wynn could think of was another insult.
"Oh, good, you've got eyes… very useful, since you're standing watch."
"Watch your little tongue!" the second guard warned. "What's a wolf doing inside the guild?"
"Domin Parisean said it was supposed to walk with me," Wynn countered, "since I missed my escort."
"A wolf? What do you take me for?"
"What do you expect?" Wynn snarled back. "All the nonsense in there, you wouldn't believe it… I don't! But you think I'm gonna argue?"
With that she turned away, walking steadily down the path as Shade trotted out ahead. But Wynn didn't feel steady.
She was shaking, waiting to be grabbed from behind. She was still shaking when she reached the gate and stepped out onto the Old Bailey Road.
And no one followed.
Wynn ran a hand over Shade's silky ears as they set out for the Graylands Empire. How she would get both of them back inside the guild was something she didn't care to think about just yet.
Cringing in bed, Chane cursed his weakness, and another wave of anxiety choked him.
Pain had beaten him down, and he could not banish it. He had finally succumbed and sent a message to Wynn.
Slipping it along with two silver pennies under the innkeeper's door, he had then rushed back to his room before he was seen. Not long after, the reality of what he had done caught up to him. And fear became companion to the pain.
How could he have drawn Wynn out alone into the night? Or would she just send a reply? No, she would come.
"You coward!" he hissed at himself.
If he sent another message telling her not to come, it might not reach her in time. And he needed to know if she had recovered from whatever had made her collapse. There were also questions about the Suman who had appeared from nowhere to carry her off.
Chane sat up, groaned, and struck the sulfur stick on the stool to light his one candle.
He had fed on a blacksmith working late the night before, but that one fresh life had not been enough to fully heal him. The burns on his hands were still severe, though he had carefully peeled away flecks of charred skin. The ones on his face felt worse. If not for the cloak's hood shielding his hair, he would have lost some of that as well.
His shirtsleeves and one side of his cloak had caught fire from his own flesh. Tearing charred cloth from his forearms had been excruciating. He had an extra shirt, though he was not wearing it. The touch of the cloth on his wounds was too much. But he possessed no other cloak. Without one he could not hunt effectively, as the sight of him would shock his prey into flight and cries before he could close for a kill.
Chane had never been in such a state, never needed help like this—and he had no one to trust except Wynn.
A soft knock sounded at his door.
Chane could not separate shame, relief, and fear.
"Wynn?" he whispered.
"Yes. The innkeeper sent me up."
Shame and fear grew—one for calling her here and the other at the thought of her looking upon him. But he was no longer alone in his suffering.
He lunged for the door and whimpered as he gripped the handle with his burned hand. When he cracked the door, he saw the charcoal-colored majay-hì.
Wynn pushed in past him, and the dog followed. Chane quickly shut the door, retreating to the wall beyond it and lowering his head. The one candle barely lit the room from the other end near the bed. It was enough for Chane to see, with his sight opened wide, but he cowered back as far as he could from its light.
Wynn whipped off one cloak and tossed it on the bed, along with a staff, its upper end covered in a leather sheath. She glanced at him, about to untie a second cloak beneath the first, but her fingers stopped with the strings pulled out straight.
A shudder ran through her when she peered at him.
"Oh," she whispered. "I… ah, no!"
He must look worse than he realized.
"It will pass," he rasped, and then cringed. He had become accustomed to the sound of his maimed voice, but hearing it when he spoke to her made him hate it more.
"I should not have asked you to come," he whispered.
The majay-hì began sniffing sharply, watching him. Its jowls curled.
"Stop it," Wynn said, sweeping a hand before the dog's nose.
When she looked back to Chane, her mouth opened. A frown passed briefly over her face, and her lips closed, possibly in some abandoned question she decided not to ask.
She pointed to the bed. "Sit down."
Chane stepped closer, and the dog did growl. Wynn flinched at a clearer sight of him, and a flicker of fright rose as her gaze shifted rapidly between him and the dog. He settled on the bed's edge, loathing himself for the relief her presence brought him.
Wynn gasped softly. "Your back! Did that happen last night?"
It took an instant before he understood. She had never seen him without a shirt, and his back was covered in white scars.
"No, those are old," he said. "From… before."
This was not the time or place to tell her of his life before death, or about his father. Changing the subject, he gestured at the staff lying behind him on the bed.
"Is that what you carried last night?"
Wynn remained silent too long. When Chane finally glanced up, she averted her eyes. She began digging in the pocket of her yellow tunic.
"Without Magiere or Chap," she said, "I needed my own defense."
So it was the same staff—and under the leather sheath was the searing crystal.
"Where did you get it?"
"Our guild alchemists make certain things, such as the cold lamp crystals," she answered, her tone careful and matter-of-fact. It was obvious she did not want
to say much about it. "I'm still learning to use it properly," she added.
Chane considered himself intelligent, though only moderately skilled in conjury, but to create or even conceive of a crystal that carried light that burned like the sun…
There were moments when Wynn still astonished him. What the making of the crystal had taken was beyond what he could imagine—much like most of Welstiel's items.
She drew a small ceramic jar from inside her pocket. "A healing salve," she explained.
"That will not help… me."
"You're suffering," she said bluntly, and knelt down. "It may still numb the pain."
Chane kept quiet, fearing she might vanish. It was hard to believe she was here, tending to his comfort. Only the pain seemed truly real. The rest felt as though one of his fantasies harbored over the last year had suddenly swelled into a full delusion.
Her light brown hair hung in loose wisps, sticking to one olive cheek at the corner of her small mouth. Candlelight warmed her brown eyes as she reached for his right hand resting on his knee. Her eyes flickered briefly to his bare chest, and he wished he had donned his spare shirt. Wynn's fingers hung for a moment above his hand.
"This may hurt," she said. "I didn't mean to injure you. I was trying to drive off that… thing, just before Domin il'Sänke appeared."
Wynn slowly applied salve to Chane's right hand. Discomfort heightened under the delicate pressure, but he did not care.
"Il'Sänke?" he echoed. "The one who carried you off?"
"Yes, and—"
"And he's a mage."
Wynn glanced up. "Yes."
"Perhaps the one who created your crystal?"
Wynn frowned. "He's the only one who believes that we're dealing with an undead, besides you… and Shade."
The dog behind Wynn, so akin to Chap, sniffed at him. Her ears flattened as her jowls twitched.
It would sense nothing of his nature—not while he wore the ring. Likely the female smelled that he was not right, or at least was not like other people. Chane wanted to ask Wynn about the animal, but the mention of the Suman brought back images of the night before.
The black figure attacking Wynn, the dog trying to protect her, the flash of the crystal's light.
