by Barb Hendee
It was easier for the two of them to speak in Elvish, he in his an’Cróan dialect and she in that of the Lhoin’na (“[Those] of the Glade”)—the elves of this continent. But he often attempted either Belaskian or Numanese, either for practice or to be polite.
In the journey’s previous moon, he’d improved a little in both . . . sort of.
“Where to go,” she corrected, glancing back at Osha following behind Chane. “From what I’ve read, the guild’s Suman branch is a huge compound with numerous structures located on the capital’s northwest side. If we stay near the waterfront, we should spot it down an inland street.”
Chane frowned, as if he’d expected her to know more—or perhaps because she spoke to Osha and not him.
Wynn turned ahead, taking a slow breath. Dealing with those two in their separate feelings for her, let alone any feelings she had for either of them, wasn’t something she could let distract her right now.
A sandstone arch stretched between two buildings like a gate into the city. Wanting out of the crowd and trying to appear confident, Wynn walked through the arch. When they reached the next street parallel to the waterfront, she turned north again. Along the way, she peered up the side streets, looking for one wide enough that it might reveal their destination.
Shade kept pressed into her leg, and when Wynn glanced back, she noticed that Osha was carrying his own belongings on his back and both of Chane’s packs in his arms. Wynn carried her own pack over her left shoulder, and Chane carried the chest with the orb—which was heavy—but Osha was burdened with everything else. She would have noticed sooner if she hadn’t been so distracted.
And then Chane looked back as well and half turned. “Put one of my packs on top of the chest.”
Osha slowed, keeping more than an arm’s length behind Chane. “I . . . fine.”
Chane moved on with a subtle sneer, and Wynn sighed as she headed onward. She’d hoped the two would’ve learned to tolerate each other by now. This quietly hostile competition was becoming annoying.
The mainway was almost as well lit as the waterfront by streetlamps hung high at every intersection. As she’d expected, the smells grew stronger, trapped by still air between the buildings. The scent of jasmine sharpened in her nose, though she saw none blooming along the rows of shops and eateries they passed. It thickened even more as she passed a dark-haired woman in a gauzy wrap and bangles of brass around her neck and wrists.
Even the people here overperfumed themselves; without warning, memory-words rose in Wynn’s mind.
—Too many . . . people . . . too many . . . smells—
“I know,” she whispered.
Shade was no ordinary dog as a majay-hì. She was descended from wolves of ancient times inhabited by the Fay during the Great War at the end of the world’s Forgotten History. The descendants of those first Fay-born had become the guardians of the elves, first the Lhoin’na and then later the separate an’Cróan on the world’s far side. In the lands of the latter, Shade’s homeland, majay-hì barred all but the elves from entering their vast so-called Elven Territories. More than this, and due to a plan hatched by her father, Chap, Shade had traveled across the far ocean and the whole central continent to protect Wynn.
Among a few unusual abilities, Shade communicated with Wynn by raising memory-words in her mind.
“We’ll find the guild soon,” Wynn added, scratching lightly between Shade’s shoulder blades. “We’ll be welcome there and maybe it won’t be so . . . scented.”
In truth, she didn’t know what kind of welcome they would receive. As a sage, she should be offered shelter for herself and her companions. But of the few Suman sages she’d met, even fewer shared much about the customs of their own branch. She respected Domin il’Sänke’s knowledge and abilities but didn’t exactly trust him. He had assisted her in the past, but at other times he’d done everything he could to stop her own pursuits.
“Wait, stop,” Chane rasped.
Wynn looked back to find him halted before the side street she’d just passed. He jutted his chin up that street.
“This looks best, if we need to go farther inland,” Chane added.
Wynn nodded and headed for the side street. From what she saw, there were no street signs or markers pointing toward anything, and she grew worried. In order to find Magiere, she needed to find the domin, and to find him, she needed to find the guild. Then she spotted an elderly man with a heavily lined dusky face coming her way, and she tried her best in simple Sumanese.
“Pardon.”
The man stopped, blinked several times, and took in the sight of her companions. Perhaps his eyes widened a little at the huge black “dog,” since few Sumans would have ever seen a “wolf.”
“Guild . . . Sagecraft?” she asked in Sumanese, hoping either word came out like a question.
He looked over her short-robe and nodded once. Instead of answering, he held up six fingers and then pointed up the way. Before she could nod, he pointed northward and held up four fingers. Wynn smiled—six blocks inland and four to the north.
“Thank you,” she said, or hoped it was a close equivalent.
He nodded more slowly, with a smile of his own, and continued onward.
Wynn pressed on along the route she’d been given. Before she’d even finished the final four blocks, she saw a low wall beyond and out the end of the street.
“There it is,” she said, though likely the others saw it before she had.
She quickened the pace and soon reached a seemingly endless stone wall stretching in both directions. It was surprisingly short and was probably just something to mark the extents of the grounds and keep the public from wandering in. Standing on tiptoes, Wynn pulled herself up to peek over the wall’s top.
Around a vast courtyard stood numerous enormous buildings of tan stone with ornately peaked rooftops. The courtyard had been painstakingly cobbled with dark brown and red tiles in an arcing diamond pattern. Paths between buildings were well swept and benches had been placed at comfortable intervals. She felt a little daunted at the sight of it all.
These grounds were far larger than those of the Numan branch, which by comparison looked like little more than a squat stone keep tucked tightly inside a four-towered old wall.
“The entrance,” Chane said, pointing.
Following his finger extended along the chest’s side, Wynn indeed saw an opening about forty paces to the right down the wall.
“We’ll have rooms and supper soon,” she assured, leading the way. Much more important, they should soon learn where to find Magiere.
Upon reaching the entrance, she halted before a set of opened iron gates between two immense sandstone columns. Four men—obviously not sages—were stationed inside the columns, and all four turned to stare at her.
They wore identical tan pants of fine fabric tucked into matching tall, hard boots. Dark brown tabards overlaid their cream shirts, and red wraps were mounded atop their heads. Each had an ornately sheathed curved sword tucked into the heavy red fabric of his waist wrap.
Wynn hadn’t expected armed guards. She was staring at them with growing concern when one barked a question in Sumanese. She didn’t quite catch it and shook her head.
“Do any of you speak Numanese?” she asked.
All four guards looked over the visitors with a wariness that bordered on fear of a threat.
Wynn’s worry increased, though she resisted glancing back at either Chane or Osha. She hadn’t heard Chane drop the chest yet, so that was good, but Osha could draw and nock an arrow faster than a man could draw a sword.
Then Wynn heard the sound of packs being dropped on the street stones behind her.
Both men, along with Shade, were far too protective of her. When Shade rumbled at the guards, Wynn clenched her fingers on the dog’s scruff. One guard with a close-trimmed beard took a step toward her.
“I speak your tongue,” he said, eyeing her robe. “What is your business here, sage?”
&
nbsp; His accent was thick, but his command of Numanese was sound, and at least he recognized her for what she was. Still, none of the guards stepped aside, and intuition warned her not to mention Domin il’Sänke just yet. This unexpected “welcome” at the gate left her wondering if the domin might be a questionable figure within his own branch.
“I am visiting from the Numan branch,” she answered. “Could you please direct us to High Premin Aweli-Jama.”
Asking to see the branch’s highest-ranking sage was presumptuous but safest. For the sake of good manners, Aweli-Jama would have to offer hospitality to a fellow sage—albeit a foreign one—and her companions.
The bearded guard simply studied her. Then his gaze shifted beyond her, likely to Osha and Chane. He twisted slightly, whispering something to the other guards, and then . . .
“Wait here.”
Wynn’s mouth gaped as he turned away and walked across the courtyard. She watched as he entered the beautiful sandstone building straight ahead with six peaks along the top of its roof. Her view was then cut off as the other three guards positioned themselves across the entrance’s opening. There was another strange thing Wynn noted.
Though it was well past dusk, the evening meal couldn’t have finished long before, and yet she saw no one walking the paths of this huge complex. There had to be many sages of all ranks staying on the grounds full-time, especially in a place as big as this.
So where were they? Had a curfew been ordered for some reason?
“What is happen?” Osha whispered in Numanese.
“Happening,” she corrected. “And I’m not certain.” She eased and then squeezed her grip on Shade. “Anything?”
That was all that was needed between them in situations like this. The dog could catch rising memories within anyone in sight and show such to Wynn, so long as they were touching. Wynn waited three breaths, far too long for any sights or sounds to enter her thoughts.
Shade shuddered once beneath her hand and whined in agitation.
At that, one guard lifted a hand to grip the hilt of his sword.
“Easy, sister,” Wynn whispered to Shade. “What’s wrong?”
—Nothing . . . is . . . there—
Wynn’s confusion increased at these words called up and then reassembled from her own memories of things heard from others in the past. What did Shade mean?
—No . . . memories— . . . —All . . . blank—
Wynn’s breath caught. No one’s thoughts were ever completely blank, at least not at all times. Something was blocking Shade from dipping the guards’ memories. How—or, for that matter, why? No one here could’ve known they were coming, let alone what Shade could do.
Movement across the tiled courtyard caught Wynn’s attention.
Four people walked brusquely toward the gate, and the guard who had told her to wait led the way. Behind him came a tall man hidden within the gray robe of a cathologer, with the full cowl up and shadowing his face from the courtyard lanterns. Last came a more disturbing pair: a stout man and a spindly woman, both robed in midnight blue, like Wynn, for the order of Metaology.
That the high premin was flanked by two metaologers was troubling, especially after what Shade had claimed. As far as Wynn knew, conjury was favored among metaologers of this branch versus thaumaturgy in the Numan branch.
This time, Wynn did glance back . . . just in time to see Chane whisper aside to Osha. The chest now sat on the street, along with the packs Osha had carried.
Osha silently nodded to Chane.
“Oh, not again,” Wynn moaned under her breath.
Chane must have sensed something, for anytime those two agreed about anything it meant there would be trouble. Osha shrugged his left shoulder, and his bow slipped off and dropped down his arm. He caught it without even looking, but at least Chane hadn’t yet reached for one of his swords.
“You will not bring that canine onto the grounds.”
Wynn flinched around toward the gate and came face-to-face—or face-to-throat—with the sage in gray. He was tall for a Suman, and both metaologers still flanked him. The four guards had broken into pairs at both of the gateway’s columns.
“Such beasts are not permitted here,” High-Premin Aweli-Jama declared, for that was who he had to be.
Of all the things Wynn expected to hear first, that was not among them.
Other than his accent, his Numanese was perfect, and up close it was easier to see his face. He was likely in his mid-sixties, at a guess, and his gray hair was cropped short beneath his cowl. Dark-toned skin covered a slightly wizened and narrow face with slanted cheekbones. He pressed his hands nervously together, though his expression was unreadable.
“Good evening, High Premin,” she said politely as she stroked Shade’s back. “I am Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht of the Numan branch. This is Shade, who is not a common animal and will harm no one. She travels with me for my protection, as do my other two companions.”
Both metaologers were entirely fixed on her, but she’d been the subject of scrutiny many times before. Both were middle-aged, which suggested they each held at least the rank of domin.
“We have come a long way, and we’re weary,” she added. “If we could only—”
“Why are you here with so much protection?” Aweli-Jama asked abruptly. “Your branch’s council did not inform us of sending a journeyor.”
This grew stranger and stranger.
“I wasn’t aware anyone needed to be informed for a passing visit,” she answered, still not giving him the real reason she had come. In the brief silence that followed, she listened for the slightest sound behind her. Both Chane and Osha were quiet and hopefully hadn’t moved.
Aweli-Jama shook his head in what appeared to be a dismissal.
“Of course not,” he answered flatly, as if her comment was pointless. “I meant that if I had been informed, I could have responded with proper regrets to your premin, who might have informed you. At this time, you and your companions cannot be accommodated based on recent and unanticipated concerns for security. I am sorry you have traveled such a distance, but please seek lodgings elsewhere.”
Without another word, the high premin began to turn away.
Wynn’s jaw slackened until her lips parted. Something here was very wrong . . . from guards posted at the gate to Shade’s inability to pick up any memories to Aweli-Jama’s refusing shelter to a journeyor sage of another branch. The metaologers turned to follow the high premin as the guards spread out to block the way in.
Her thoughts raced for something to say that might stall the high premin for an instant. She stiffened when Chane’s hand settled on her shoulder, for she hadn’t heard him close in behind her.
“Do not mention . . . the others,” he whispered in Belaskian.
After an instant of confusion, she realized he meant Magiere, Leesil, and Chap, but she had to say something.
“Premin,” she called. “I’ve come to see Domin Ghassan il’Sänke.”
That was the last topic she wished to raise openly, but it was the only thing she could think of in an instant. She had to get in there and find the domin.
“May I at least speak with him,” she went on, and then half lied, “He was one of my tutors when he visited Calm Seatt.”
High Premin Aweli-Jama stopped abruptly, as did the pair of metaologers.
* * *
Chane tried to still his mind amid the overriding sense—the stench—of fear emanating from the Suman sages. It was so strong that the beast inside of him, his inner feral nature, strained at its bonds. Fear made the beast hungry for prey, and Chane bit down until his jaws ached.
When Wynn spoke il’Sänke’s name, the sages halted and that stench thickened.
Chane fought to clear his thoughts amid the beast’s snarling.
The high premin spun and fixed on Wynn. For an instant, fear was evident on his lined face. This vanished as his expression became outwardly cold and measured.
“Why do you wish to
see him?” Aweli-Jama asked with a slight tremor in his voice.
The metaologers had also turned, one eyeing Wynn, who retreated a step and bumped into Chane. The other looked over everyone with her, one by one.
“As I said,” Wynn answered, her voice wavering. “He was my tutor during his stay in the north. I wish to pay my respects. It would be rude to come all this way without doing so.”
Aweli-Jama’s cold expression remained unchanged, though his voice became even and more controlled. “What exactly is your mission here, Journeyor?” His gaze shifted upward. “One that requires a swordsman and a Lhoin’na archer.”
This high premin would not know that Osha was of the an’Cróan elves from the eastern continent. Chane had no intention of enlightening him, and instead wondered how Wynn would answer. He pushed that aside, trying to clear his head again so he could listen to how the premin would respond to Wynn’s next words.
“No mission, Premin,” she replied. “I’m simply . . . journeying to learn about a land and people I’ve never seen for myself. While I’m here, can I not see my old tutor and thank him for his kindness? Why would you force me to be rude in not doing so?”
The premin studied her long in silence, perhaps trapped by the cultural manners Wynn intimated. His expression remained flat, though the stench of fear had not lessened.
Chane eyed the guards. Behind Wynn’s back, he slowly inched his free hand across toward the hilt of his longsword. The two metaologers worried him the most, but if anything happened, Osha could disable at least one while Chane readied to hold off the guards.
“Domin il’Sänke is not in residence at present,” Aweli-Jama said, “but as you are a past student of his”—he half turned, sweeping a narrow hand toward the main building with the six-peaked rooftop—“perhaps we can accommodate you . . . until he returns.”
The beast within Chane lurched back in wary retreat; the premin was lying about something.
In the past, he and Wynn had used this odd ability of his. She would ask questions, and behind her, keeping his thoughts still, he would squeeze her shoulder when the beast grew wary or outright vicious. For whatever reason, his inner nature knew when it heard a lie. But the question—and its answer—had been too broken, mixed, and vague to know which part was the deception.
