by Barb Hendee
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 cho
colate-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 difficul
t—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.
