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

by Barb; J. C. Hendee

  “Do you have any plan?” Chane asked. “Besides showing the pass to the guards and waiting to see what happens?”

  She shook her head. “They’ll let us through, and then it’s a matter of time. Whoever arranged this is at odds with Premin Gyâr. We can only hope this comes out too late for him to stop us.”

  Wynn was even more uncertain than she sounded. They headed along the courtyard’s paths, reaching a spot beneath the northernmost spire. Upon reentering the great redwood ring, her uncertainty turned to dread.

  What if Gyâr had sent the pass? He was acting high premin and could simply claim it was forgery, no matter how legitimate it looked. He could’ve even used the council’s official seal. She’d be trapped, and he would simply misdirect all others in a hunt for whoever had illicitly used the council’s seal.

  When had she become this paranoid? Steeling herself, she pressed on. What other choice did she have?

  The entrance chamber was empty, and Wynn took a long breath before leading the way. Finally, she pointed up the sloping side passage where she’d seen the Suman sages expelled.

  Chane looked positively grim, and Shade had been rumbling intermittently along the way. The dog had even once wrinkled a jowl at Wynn, expressing displeasure at all of this. Wynn pressed onward and upward.

  They emerged to face the same two shé’ith standing before the opening to the spiral stairs. She’d forgotten how intimidating they were—tall, armed, and expressionless. She stepped leisurely forward with as much confidence as she could muster, and held out the letter.

  “I’m here on assignment,” she said in Elvish. “The Premin Council granted me this pass to enter the archives.”

  The female shé’ith looked down—not at the letter, but at Wynn.

  Wynn couldn’t help a flash of anxiety. She stood waiting, still holding out the letter.

  When the woman took it, she snapped it open and scanned its content. A flicker of surprise on her triangular face washed away under a frown. She looked beyond Wynn at Chane and Shade.

  “Is something amiss?” Wynn asked, extending her hand for the letter.

  The female shé’ith turned over the letter, taking in the wax seal on its outer wrapping sheet. Still frowning, she finally returned it to Wynn but didn’t move. All the while, her companion watched out of the corner of his eye, as if waiting for her to decide what they would do.

  “This is an order from the council,” Wynn said. “Stand aside.”

  She considered threatening to get a premin but feared the woman might agree. If the pass was some kind of bait, that would end her attempt to gain the archives right here and now.

  Finally, the woman stepped aside.

  Wynn avoided the smoldering uncertainty in the female shé’ith’s large eyes. She strode by up the stairs, never looking back, and hoped Chane and Shade would follow quickly. When she glanced back, Chane blocked the view down the steps, but she heard the guards whispering. Then Wynn heard the sound of boots rushing off.

  “Hurry,” she whispered. “I think one of them went to verify the pass.”

  Chane waved her onward, and they quickstepped upward.

  The stairway’s living wood walls narrowed, until they had to climb single file. The stairs curved sharply around and around, but then suddenly leveled off into a more gradually arcing and rising passage.

  Wynn passed a teardrop-shaped opening filled with a glass pane in the right wall. Through the window, she saw the tops of trees and knew she was looking beyond the guild’s confines to the open forest. A soft light suddenly glowed beyond the passage’s curve above.

  When Wynn finally saw the cold lamp mounted on the wall, she paused on the landing. The lamp’s cream-colored base likely contained alchemical fluids, just like those of her guild branch. The fluid produced enough warmth to keep a crystal lit instead of friction by hand. Then she spotted the door on her left, and it suddenly struck her that the guards weren’t the only obstacles.

  She’d been so focused on getting past them that she hadn’t considered any archivists waiting beyond a door. If she ran into some counterpart to Domin Tärpodious, would the letter be enough?

  Wynn reached for the door lever but didn’t press it. There were two keyholes in the lock plate; two keys were needed to open the door. That was why only the entrance below need be guarded.

  “What are you waiting for?” Chane whispered.

  She looked up the passage to another set of stairs leading farther into the redwood ring’s heights. If this door was locked, were there more above? The ring’s thickness wasn’t nearly the breadth of the Calm Seatt catacombs. Perhaps the Lhoin’na split their archives between multiple levels, but she had to start somewhere.

  Wynn pressed the lever, and to her surprise, the door opened easily. This was unexpected, after the fuss over closing the archives. Perhaps she’d come to expect that nothing she tried would ever be without obstacles. She peeked in, thinking she would find someone waiting.

  The main, northern entrance to her own branch’s archives emptied into Domin Tärpodious’s main room. Here she saw only rows of shelves beyond a smaller open space with three small tables. No one was present.

  Standard cold lamps glowed on two tables, one of which had a pile of open books upon it. Someone had recently been working in here and left that work lying out. By the low light, Wynn spotted bound volumes and sheaves, as well as scroll cases, filling the nearest casements beyond the tables.

  There was no sign of any restructuring in process.

  Her anger returned for an instant, but she’d managed to gain the archives—even if under suspicious circumstances. Now she had to hurry.

  Wynn rushed in. Chane couldn’t read Elvish, or many other languages found in archive holdings, but that didn’t matter. She pointed to the end of one freestanding casement where the faded etching of a lone triangle was still filled with remnants of paint.

  “Look for Fire by Spirit, a triangle above a circle,” she instructed. “That’s for material on myths and legends in historical context. If you can’t find that, search for a circle above a triangle for direct myths and legends possibly categorized by culture, region, and time frame.”

  The guild’s orders were often represented by geometric symbols associated with the prime Elements of Existence: Spirit, Fire, Air, Water, and Earth. In turn, any works that fell into an order’s fields of endeavor were filed in libraries and archives by those symbols. Columns of symbols on casements, individual shelves, and on some works themselves, were used to classify, subclassify, and cross-reference subject matter.

  Circle, for Spirit and Metaology, indicated works on metaphysics, philosophy, religion, and folklore. Triangle, for Fire and Cathology—Wynn’s own order—marked history and the organization of knowledge and information. The square of Air and Sentiology was for politics, law, government, economics, and so on. A hexagon for Water designated works of Conamology, including mathematics and applied sciences. The last was the octagon for Earth and Naturology, with its emphasis in natural and earth sciences, as well as prominent trades and crafts.

  “I will start over here,” Chane answered, heading off to the left.

  Wynn passed him the spare cold lamp crystal before she took off the other way with Shade. She fingered along casement ends, scanning their etched symbols, but she found only octagons alone or as the top symbol in pairs and trios. Works about earth sciences and crafts wouldn’t include what she sought. She wandered between the shelves, twice spotting Chane doing the same on the room’s far side.

  Most guild archives were much larger than what was placed in their common libraries. She’d heard that the one in the Suman branch dwarfed those of the Lhoin’na and Numan. Still, one could get lost wandering the dark catacombs of her own branch. This place appeared considerably too small, and all the casements so far held only works of various subdivisions under Naturology.

  It made no sense. Where were the texts for the other emphases of the guild?

  W
ynn stumbled upon a narrow, steep stairway in the room’s rear-right corner. Sparked with hope, she climbed into an even smaller room. Making her way through its maze of casements, she found its single central table. But all shelves along the way were marked with a leading octagon, though the columns of symbols were now three, four, or even five deep.

  Wynn grew anxious. Something was wrong here. Shade huffed twice, and not from nearby. When Wynn turned about, she couldn’t spot the dog.

  “Shade?” she called out, and the dog barked. She followed the sound and found Shade at the top of the narrow stairs.

  “Wynn, where are you?”

  Chane’s soft rasp carried from below, and Wynn hurried down the stairs.

  “Chane?”

  “Here.”

  She followed his voice around the end of a casement to where he stood scanning the shelves and slowly shaking his head.

  “I have found only octagons as lead symbols,” he said. “The only triangles are lower symbols in the columns. I have seen no circles at all.”

  Wynn’s worry increased. How was this even possible? The elven archives couldn’t be entirely devoted to the order of Naturology.

  “We’ve missed something,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps there is another level farther up. We might—”

  Chane stopped so suddenly that Wynn looked around in alarm. Then she heard the voices grow louder.

  “I swear, Domin, the books were on my desk!” one said in Elvish.

  Another voice, crackling with age, replied, “New acquisitions do not just get up to shelve themselves.”

  “I unwrapped them with my own hands,” the first returned. “It is not often that the Suman branch sends anything our way. When I saw how old they were, I locked my chamber and came for you.”

  “Yet no one else knows of a delivery,” the old one said sharply. “And your desk is bare of even the wrapping paper. Someone has been—”

  “Where is she?” demanded a third voice.

  Wynn shivered in the following pause. The newcomer’s voice, filled with such cold disdain, was familiar. She covered Chane’s hand, closing his fingers over his crystal as she smothered her own.

  “Premin?” the old one replied. “For whom are you asking?”

  Wynn scurried silently between the casements toward the light she’d seen upon first entering. When she peeked around the last shelves into the open space of tables . . .

  Premin Gyâr stood inside the entrance, and a pair of gray-robed elven sages faced him, their backs to Wynn. In the open door behind Gyâr stood two shé’ith that Wynn had never seen. Just how many of the patrollers had the premin requisitioned?

  She pulled back to find Chane behind her, his hand on his sword. In the half darkness, he mouthed something at her.

  Another way out?

  She shook her head and leaned close to whisper, “Let me do the talking.”

  Chane’s eyes widened as he grabbed her arm.

  “You, look to the next level!” Gyâr commanded. “And, you, start searching in here.”

  Chane began to pull Wynn away, but she shook her head at him. There was no way to escape. The longer they dragged this out, the worse it would end. Gyâr had come so urgently—and yet late. That meant he hadn’t been the one to draft the letter to bait her. Otherwise, he’d have been waiting and watching to catch her before she got in.

  Someone else had sent her the pass.

  Wynn barely finished that thought when she stepped into the open, feigning bafflement as best as she could. She never got out any falsely innocent question as to what was going on.

  “You are under arrest!” Gyâr spat immediately, his tight features breaking into a mask of rage. “Shé’ith, here . . . take them!”

  An elderly cathologer spun about, along with his younger counterpart. The old one stared, stunned, at the sight of Wynn. She recognized him as the elder sage who’d advised her in the meal hall. Was he the master archivist?

  Wynn heard Chane’s blade slide from its sheath. Before she could turn, both shé’ith drew their sweeping blades in the same swift motion. Shade’s snarl rose behind Wynn.

  “Wait!” she cried out, sidestepping into Chane’s way and grabbing Shade’s scruff. “What is this about?”

  “Do not confound your offense with more deceit,” Gyâr answered. “One of the guards below came to ask about the pass you showed them, since they were never told of such.”

  “Yes, I have a pass . . . with a council seal on it,” Wynn confirmed. “It was delivered to me this evening. I assumed—”

  “Give it to me,” he said, striding forward. “I do not know how you forged it, but—”

  “I forged nothing,” Wynn countered, fishing the letter from her pocket. She’d barely extended it when he snatched it from her hand.

  “I would never have entered without proper authority,” she added.

  Gyâr’s expression dulled as he studied the letter. His gaze hung the longest at its bottom, where the council seal was stamped. Confusion briefly broke the anger in his near-yellow eyes. He flipped the letter, glancing once at the wax seal on the sheet that had enveloped it.

  Wynn knew one thing.

  The council’s imprint at the letter’s bottom was no forgery. Whoever had sent it to her had—or had gained—access to the council’s official seal.

  “How is this . . . ?” Gyâr began weakly, then his voice sharpened as he fixed on her. “Who issued this for you?”

  “I assumed it came from you,” she lied. “Since an apprentice metaologer brought it to our room.”

  The premin’s tan face appeared to pale, and he closed another step. Wynn felt Chane’s hand settle on her shoulder, his fingers tightening. Both shé’ith tensed.

  “A metaologer . . . to your room?” the premin asked. “Which apprentice?”

  “I don’t know your people,” she answered. “I don’t know who it was.”

  Wynn became reluctant to mention that it had been a woman—probably a journeyor—or to provide any description at all. Whoever had made that pass, possibly someone in Gyâr’s order or the premin of another, may have used the young metaologer as an unwitting tool. That person might be a hidden ally or just another enemy trying to further hinder and malign Wynn. She wasn’t about to risk incriminating the wrong person until she was certain.

  Gyâr’s anger surfaced again as he glanced at the elderly archivist watching all of this closely. Some inner frustration seemed to keep the premin from getting out whatever he wanted to say. If the pass was real, the premin certainly couldn’t have them arrested—or worse—in front of witnesses.

  “Journeyor,” the old archivist said to Wynn, stepping forward. “What are you seeking in the Naturology archives? For your calling, I would think you would want the southwest of our five spires.”

  “The southwest spire?” she echoed.

  “Yes . . . for the Cathology archives.”

  Wynn felt ill.

  She’d asked the young initiate in the courtyard for directions to the archives, and the girl had pointed around the redwood ring to the closest way to the closest spire. There was a reason why every casement here had symbols that all began with an octagon.

  Five orders and five spires, or five archives for each order, and she’d picked the wrong one.

  “Witless” Wynn Hygeorht, the madwoman of Calm Seatt’s guild branch, had done it again.

  Even now she didn’t know which of the other four held the archives for Metaology, marked with a circle for Spirit. She wasn’t about to ask, for they were all beyond her reach. Her mysterious pass had been confiscated, more of the Shé’ith would be guarding every spire’s entrance, and she’d again drawn too much attention.

  Her stomach began to hurt.

  “Tell me who brought you this letter,” Gyâr demanded. “What did he look like?”

  Wynn feigned confusion. “I only remember a dark blue robe. I was too surprised when I saw the letter, thinking it had come from you.”

>   Gyâr took a long, slow breath, and froze in indecision.

  “Put those swords away,” the old archivist admonished, gesturing to the guards, and then turned his disapproval beyond Wynn. “You, too, young man. There has been enough irreverence here for one evening.”

  Wynn felt Chane’s hand leave her shoulder as he sheathed his blade. The elder archivist stepped past the premin toward Wynn.

  “All right, now. Back to your rooms,” he told her, as if she were a child up past her bedtime. “And mind the premin concerning the archives. We will handle the rest of this nonsense ourselves.”

  But as he reached toward Wynn, she saw a pleading in his gaze that spoke louder than his fatherly words. He was giving her a way out, a way beyond the premin’s immediate reach, and she’d better take it.

  “Of course, Domin,” she said quickly. “And our apologies for this upset.”

  To Wynn’s relief, Chane followed her with only one last glare at the elven guards. Shade scurried ahead, rumbling at the younger archivist until he backstepped in shock.

  Gyâr reluctantly let them pass, but his eyes never left Wynn.

  Her relief was short-lived. They may have escaped the premin’s anger, but they had nothing to show for it.

  Chane did not say a word all the way back to their room. Much as he would prefer to let this failure drive Wynn toward home, his thoughts raced elsewhere. He searched wildly for some way to get her into the correct archives. For certainly if he did not, what would she do next, and thereby place herself in even more danger?

  None of his abilities, his arcane tools or books, or even his recently mastered concoctions offered a single way to help her. There had to be something, though he could not yet see it.

  Wynn shuffled ahead of him through the small common room and up to the passage to their quarters. Only once did Chane catch her profile. He expected to see defeat, but instead her features were tense, eyelids half-closed in some deep thought. This made him worry even more.

  He wanted to say something, to do something, to make her feel better or divert her from whatever drastic scheme she would try next. Still, he could think of nothing, and it was driving him mad under the constant prodding of this place, this forest, all over his flesh.