by Barb Hendee
“All right, come on,” she said softly.
Wynn barely opened the outer door when Shade squirmed through and bolted out in a ruckus of scrabbling claws. Wynn rolled her eyes and followed, not bothering to call after the dog.
The narrow passage didn’t exactly resemble a hallway—more like a strange, bark-covered, organic tunnel. Taller than it was wide, it burrowed through the place in a gradual curve ahead. Tall, teardrop-shaped doors, no two ever alike, were spaced sporadically along both sides. Wynn finished the arcing downward slope, reached the flowing stairs, and followed them downward.
When she reached the chamber where she’d met Mujahid, Shade already stood wriggling before the door to the courtyard. The instant Wynn opened it, Shade shot out, and Wynn followed more slowly.
The day was cold and clear outside, though the walls of the redwood citadel cast the courtyard in dusk as she waited on Shade. Hopefully, Shade wouldn’t desecrate some labor-intensive shrubbery.
Wynn craned her head back, looking straight up. By the light of the circle of sky above, she guessed it was early afternoon. Perhaps lunch was still being served. If so, and if she could find the meal hall, she might find assistance with directions, as well.
Shade came back at a leisurely trot, looking much relieved, and Wynn opened the door.
Upon stepping back in, Wynn heard voices echoing from the next inner chamber. She shooed Shade ahead and followed the sound into a passage much wider than the one outside the guest quarters. She’d lost track of how far around the redwood ring they might have gone when she stepped into a cavernous chamber of flowing bark walls.
Light filled the busy place from crystal-paned windows that went up and up along the inner wall. Though the tree ring had to be quite broad, it wasn’t as deep as the hall of Wynn’s guild branch. Instead of spreading out, it spiraled upward.
A central, bark-covered pillar as big as a single redwood rose out of the shale-tiled floor into the heights. Anchored between it and the chamber’s walls were at least five partial levels that she could see. Stairs of bare wood sprouted from the walls, leading from one level to the next. Sages and even others in plain elven clothing sat at tables on each level and chatted away in their lyrical tongue.
And, as usual, too many eyes looked Wynn’s way, or, rather, at Shade.
Apparently, the sight of a majay-hì was almost as bizarre among the Lhoin’na as in Calm Seatt. More so, since such creatures were known to be real to these people—and this one kept company with a human. Many present stared openly, but not even the closest queried Wynn as Shade pressed against her leg.
Remnants of lunch were still spread on tables as young elven initiates busily cleared plates and bowls. Wynn tried to see where the food was being served from, but she noted two things instead.
First, while nearly all the occupants were elves, a small group of Suman sages—including Mujahid—were gathered around one table. He bowed his head politely to her, and Wynn nodded back. His cowl was down, and Wynn was a little surprised at his curly black hair hanging almost to his shoulders. Ghassan il’Sänke, whom she still counted as a friend, kept his quite short, like the few other Suman males she’d met.
She couldn’t help noticing he was the only metaologer in his group. The others were robed in cerulean and teal, the orders of Sentiology and Conamology.
Second, there wasn’t a single white-robed sage in the place, though she hadn’t expected such. If Chuillyon belonged to some legitimate but unknown order, it had to be a small one, and that was a big if.
Ignoring quizzical glances amid sudden silences, Wynn hoped everyone would just go back to their conversations. Between her and the Suman contingent, one elderly male elf in a gray robe sat sipping a cup of broth. He had a serene countenance, and he wasn’t staring at her or Shade.
“Pardon,” Wynn said in Elvish, approaching him. “I have a message from the Calm Seatt branch for your high premin. Could you direct me?”
He glanced at Shade before looking up at her.
“Our high premin is on a mission of mercy,” he said. “She is assisting other healers in combating the fever at a human settlement.”
He said “the fever” as if she knew what he meant, though she didn’t.
“Premin Gyâr of Metaology can take your message for now,” he continued. “He is handling basic affairs in her absence.”
Wynn hesitated. A high premin off grounds was unexpected; leaving the head of Metaology in charge was unprecedented. In a high premin’s absence, the premin of Cathology usually stood in, if the two weren’t one and the same. After that, the premin of Sentiology was typically next in line.
All Wynn wanted was to get rid of the message, and perhaps if she didn’t treat it as urgent, it might be held unopened until the high premin returned. This might gain her a bit of time and willing assistance, if needed, should this message have a similar effect to the one she’d delivered in Chathburh.
“Where can I find Premin Gyâr?” she asked.
“I am heading that way myself,” someone said. “I will take you.”
Wynn turned at the thick accent, and Mujahid stood up among his companions. Sitting so close, he couldn’t have missed her conversation. Something about his eager manner put her on guard again.
The elderly elven cathologer nodded, as if relieved of a burden, and Wynn couldn’t refuse Mujahid’s offer. He gathered up his short pile of books and gestured toward the hall’s back and its courtyard door. Lips pursed, Wynn had started to follow Mujahid when a loud growl halted her.
Shade hadn’t budged. She eyed Wynn and then a nearby table where people were still eating. Shade shook her large head wildly and sniffed the air with great drama.
“We’ll eat soon enough. Now come,” Wynn urged. “First things first.”
Then she noticed the room had gone too quiet.
Even Mujahid stared at the human casually talking to a majay-hì, as if it were normal.
About to speak again, Wynn swallowed hard and cringed under all that scrutiny. She whispered through her teeth, “Come on.”
Shade curled a jowl and slunk toward the door that Mujahid still held open. All three of them ventured outside into the courtyard’s cool air, where there were far fewer eyes.
“Most premins and domins keep offices in the west side,” Mujahid said matter-of-factly. “Metaologers prefer the south.”
“I’d guess by your order that you know Domin il’Sänke,” she said. “Have you studied with him?”
“Certainly,” he answered. “All of my guild branch knows the domin.”
That was puzzling. Metaologers were a reclusive lot and mixed sparingly with all of a guild branch.
“He helped me during his stay in Calm Seatt,” Wynn added. “When you see him again, please give him my best.”
Mujahid returned a deep nod. “Most certainly,” he said, a phrase he used too frequently.
Wynn fell silent as they walked an outer path. The courtyard was even lovelier in its dusky daylight. She wondered how all of this growth thrived here, considering that direct light would enter only when the sun was at its highest point of the day.
Glistening ivy climbed the guild’s bark walls. A few birds flew from tree to tree, peeping and rustling among the leaves. The entire courtyard was filled with life, and she couldn’t count the varieties of flowers she saw. A large squirrel bolted across the path, into the shrubberies on the far side.
Shade’s ears stood on end.
“No,” Wynn said quickly, though Shade hadn’t taken pursuit.
As Mujahid neared another door, Wynn again tilted her head back, staring upward. High overhead, the structure’s upper reaches were not even. Marked with remaining branches and foliage, the ancient redwoods’ tops had melded together in five places that rose well above the rest of the structure.
Wynn lowered her head to find Mujahid holding the door. As she stepped in, she genuinely wished he would stop being so helpful.
“The premin’s offic
e is higher up, at midpoint,” he said.
This entry chamber was smaller than the one where she’d first met him. He led her through a rear archway into a vast, open chamber. Elves favored light, space, and organic order, but none of those things existed here.
Dimly lit, the place was filled with a confusing array of colored glass tubes; mortars and pestles; small, shielded burners and tin plates; and bowls of all sizes on tables variously made from stone that was resistant to dangerous substances. Rather than benches, she saw light stools, much easier to move from place to place. Aging books and a multitude of wood, ceramic, and metal containers lined floor-to-ceiling shelves along the walls. Only one person occupied the chamber.
Dressed in midnight blue, he stood hunched over a book on a table at the far side. He raised his head, half turned it, and looked toward them. Mujahid stopped abruptly, forcing Wynn to do the same, and she thought she heard him swallow quickly.
“Forgive the intrusion, Premin,” he said in fluent Elvish. “I thought to find you in your office above.”
The dark-robed elf straightened, and Wynn squinted into the dim light.
Premin Gyâr was nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular build—or at least for one of his people. His hair was more brown than gold.
“Journeyor Mujahid, is it not?” he asked.
“Yes, Premin. Again, forgive the intrusion.”
“Do not concern yourself,” Gyâr assured, waving them in.
Mujahid took a step back. “You have a messenger from Calm Seatt. I was merely showing a newcomer the way.”
He bowed respectfully to the premin, adding a quicker nod to Wynn, and turned immediately to leave.
“We’ll be out of your rooms by dinner,” she called after him.
If Mujahid heard, he didn’t answer as he stepped out. To her shame, Wynn found herself wishing that he’d stayed.
Premin Gyâr didn’t come to meet her. He stood silently by the table, taking in the sight of Shade and then Wynn’s gray robes. Finally, he looked her directly in the eyes, waiting.
Wynn was forced to cross through all the tables to him.
His face was triangular, like most elves’, though slightly long of jawline. He appeared middle-aged, which might be considered young for a premin. His eyes became more disturbing the closer Wynn drew.
They were less slanted than a typical elf’s, less amber, and glimmered with a shade of dark yellow.
“I am Journeyor Hygeorht of the Calm Seatt branch,” she said, filling the unpleasant silence as she pulled out the sealed letter. “High Premin Sykion asked me to deliver this during my visit.”
Premin Gyâr didn’t move or hold out his hand. The ghost of a frown passed over his features, but he never blinked. Finally, he broke the silence.
“Premin Sykion sent a journeyor cathologer all this way to deliver a letter? Is something amiss?”
His tone was flat, the only inflection on “cathologer,” as if the word were distasteful.
“Not that I know of,” Wynn replied in feigned ignorance. She held out the letter again, and this time he took it as she added, “I also have research assignments to conduct . . . in your archives.”
Again he said nothing, simply turning the sealed message under his gaze. His dark yellow eyes then shifted and locked on her. His expression altered in an instant with a welcoming nod and faint smile.
Wynn grew even more wary.
“Be sure to see Domin In-Ridge about a room assignment,” he said. “Have you eaten?”
In spite of that smile, his voice was still cold—and jarring for the abrupt change of topic. Why would he use the domin’s translated name, as if she wouldn’t understand his native one?
“Not yet, Premin,” she answered.
“Do so before making use of our archives. If initiates have cleared the meal, tell them I sent you. Something can be found in the kitchens.”
“Thank you, Premin.”
Wynn backed up two steps before turning.
There was nothing wrong with him that she could put a finger on. But she was eager to leave, and, hopefully, wouldn’t need to meet him again. As she passed through the archway and out of that chaotic chamber, she noticed that Shade hadn’t followed. Wynn glanced back.
Shade was the one staring this time—at Premin Gyâr. The premin watched her in turn, not a bit of shock or awe in his expression.
“Come, Shade,” Wynn whispered. “Time to eat.”
Shade turned, but not with any of her earlier urgency. Once they were back in the courtyard, Wynn took a deep breath, released it slowly, and put that odd encounter behind her.
Uncertain of her current position within the redwood citadel, she backtracked along the way she’d come. When she spotted a small group exiting into the courtyard, she grabbed the door to peek in. The meal hall waited inside, and Wynn felt a little more confident about finding her way around.
Better yet, the hall was almost empty.
Some dark bread, goat cheese, and late-season blackberries still graced the end of one table. Wynn made a beeline before someone cleared them away. Shade was satisfied with the bread and cheese. In the past she’d turned up her nose at anything baked, but these days, she’d even eat jerky and biscuits.
A few elven initiates looked at them—at Shade—but no one approached.
“Mind your manners,” Wynn said, breaking off more cheese for Shade.
Shade snapped and gulped and then whined for more, sniffing at the table’s edge.
“That’s enough for now,” Wynn said. “I need to find the archives.”
The courtyard door slammed open.
Wynn stiffened on the bench when Premin Gyâr strode in, his midnight blue robe swinging around his booted feet. Two young initiates sucked in audible breaths and scrambled out of sight. Gyâr’s gaze locked on Wynn, and her stomach knotted as he came straight at her.
“I am glad to have found you,” he said, and the calm in his voice belied the hostility in his eyes. “I have been informed of a change of circumstance. Our guild is preparing for a complete restructuring of the archives. The work begins sooner than anticipated.”
Wynn dropped a hunk of cheese on her plate.
“It is unfortunate that you traveled such a distance,” he continued. “At present, no one besides the archivists and their assistants will be allowed to enter. I do apologize.”
Wynn flushed cold with shock as she stood up and carefully asked, “How long will this restructuring take?”
“Indefinitely . . . as it involves a great deal of work,” he answered, and turned immediately to leave.
Wynn was left standing there, staring after him. This was far worse than what had happened in Chathburh after she’d delivered the first message.
“I am in no hurry,” she called after Gyâr.
“Then your stay will be a long one,” he said, his back to her. “Of course, you are welcome to visit the public libraries in the branch’s lower levels.”
And he was gone.
Wynn was still numb, like the moment right after a sharp blow. It had never occurred to her that she’d be shut out. Not even her own superiors had gone that far. The frustration and the loss were overwhelming, and then shock burned away in anger.
What had that damned Sykion put in this message?
Wynn had sold a sacred cold lamp crystal for a more secretive passage than she’d told her superiors. Chane had suffered through the caravan ride to get here. Ore-Locks was still on her heels, trying to force her onward.
And she’d been locked out from afar by Sykion.
What was going on inside her own guild branch? It wasn’t enough for them to just get her out of their way for as long as possible, much as they’d connived to keep her connected to the guild and under watch. It now appeared she remained a sage in name only.
Shade rumbled softly.
Wynn wondered whether the dog reacted to Premin Gyâr’s demeanor or understood what had just occurred.
&nbs
p; Two remaining initiates still stared at the courtyard door. They cast furtive glances at Wynn, as if she’d brought something fearful among them.
Wynn fled the meal hall, pulling Shade along. Once outside, she was panting in anger, frustration, and panic. This time the courtyard’s serenity didn’t help her. She wanted to hit something—or someone.
Had Sykion’s unknown warning been so dire that Gyâr had closed down the entire archives? It didn’t seem believable. Or were the archivists really engaged in such a vast reorganization while giving Gyâr a few moments’ notice? That was just as far-fetched.
The sound of shuffling footsteps and sloshing water barely cut through Wynn’s thoughts. A young initiate, perhaps fourteen, was hauling a bucket along the path in the other direction.
“Pardon,” Wynn called, hurrying after the girl. “Could you point me to the archives?”
The girl blinked. The question appeared to confuse her as she looked over Wynn’s gray robe. She pointed upward, above the courtyard.
“There,” she said.
Wynn peered up, trying to follow the girl’s finger. At a guess, the initiate pointed to one side of the redwood ring below one of its five spires.
“Thank you,” Wynn said. “Shade, come.”
They hurried around the courtyard’s perimeter, leaving the elven girl staring after them.
Wynn kept looking upward, trying to gauge when they were somewhere below where the girl had pointed. When she thought they were close, she went for the first door she saw. She and Shade slipped inside a chamber barely larger than an alcove. It emptied into a wide passage lined with more doors that ran along the middle of the redwood ring. Almost immediately, she heard raised voices.
Wynn followed the sound. She hurried into the passage, saw a branch that sloped upward, and scurried onward.
“What is the meaning of this?” someone shouted in Elvish, but he had a heavy Suman accent. “You have no authority over the archives! I was here this morning, and there was no indication that it would be closed.”
Wynn saw the top of a teal cowl over the passage’s rise and crept a little closer.
