“No,” he answered. “You?”
Chane shook his head once and stared at the inn’s front door. “Have you gone in? Is there any change with Shade?”
Osha eyed Chane, who in turn did not look at him. “No. Not go in. Wynn not come out.”
“So ... we have a truce between us ... for her?”
The sudden question almost made Osha snap a denial. This was a strange world; perhaps he would have to be strange as well for now.
“Yes,” he answered, “for her purpose, we have truce, but not for—”
The inn’s door swung open, and there she was. Wynn started slightly at the sight of both of them. Osha had no chance to finish, though his faltering with Numanese might have been less clear in attempting to say ... but not for Wynn herself.
“Shade?” he asked quickly, cutting in before Chane could speak.
Wynn swallowed once. “Better, I think. She ... she awoke briefly to speak with me. I don’t know yet how bad it is or ... how much.... She needs more time and care.”
And, of all the stranger things, Osha heard the tall undead heave a sigh that sounded like relief.
“All right,” Chane said. “Can she be moved to a ship, perhaps tomorrow? We need to leave here as soon as possible and head north directly to—”
“No, we’re not going to Dhredze Seatt and Ore-Locks,” Wynn cut in. “We’re heading south.”
No one said a word for a moment, and then Osha noticed something in Wynn’s hand.
She held that strangely discolored bit of metal she had used to track the orb and the duke.
“What are you talking about?” Chane demanded.
Wynn turned on him in an instant. In the argument that followed, Osha could not keep up with what was said. All he caught was what seemed to be a name he thought he had heard once before, though he was not certain.
“This is madness!” Chane finally rasped so harshly that it had to have hurt his throat. “You cannot trust him. Even any truth he utters is only a trick for his own means.”
“I know that now!” Wynn returned. “But he’s the only one left that I can approach about how to activate this again.” And she thrust the piece of an orb key into Chane’s face. “This is the quickest way to find the last orb. Even with another orb still in our hands, that’s why we have to go south now.”
“And to Magiere—and Leesil and Chap—as well?” Chane shot back.
Wynn looked away and said nothing. Osha could see that was an answer unto itself.
“I am going to look in on Shade,” Chane rasped at her.
He jerked the door open and slammed it shut after he entered.
And still stranger, in only now understanding what their argument was about, Osha found himself in agreement with the undead—concerning the orb, at least. He was finally alone with Wynn once more.
Osha held back the hundred or more questions concerning what had changed her so much. All he could ask was ...
“Who is this ... Il-san-kay?”
Epilogue
Domin Ghassan il’Sänke was shoved roughly through the doors of the great domed chamber atop the imperial castle at the center of il’Dha’ab Najuum. At present that wide, round space—at least half a stone’s throw across—was empty.
The four imperial guards in their golden raiment retreated outside and, when they shut the huge doors tight, a double boom echoed around him.
Ghassan looked about the mosaic floor. Its polished shapes of colored marble were arranged in a looping, coiling pattern centering upon a single one-step dais three yards in diameter. All of the great chamber was awash with tinted sunlight filtering through a like mosaic of glass panes in the dome above. There was only one other exit: the far doors, of purest ivory slats, with sweeping golden handles as long as his forearms. Beyond those doors would be even more imperial guards than on the route by which he had been brought here.
This was not a place that anyone wished to visit.
Aside from serving as a location where dignitaries met in negotiation with the emperor, it was a place of judgment under the heavens. He was to be judged before the emperor, perhaps for treason—or something worse.
He no longer wore the midnight blue robe of Metaology, for he had been in hiding. His short, dark brown hair with the barest flecks of silver was in disarray: strands dangled to his thick eyebrows above piercing eyes separated by a straight but prominent nose. His borrowed clothing of a plain head wrap, a dusky linen shirt, and dark pants over soft leather boots was little more than that of a wanderer.
When he had been found—however he had been ferreted out—he had not struggled to escape, though he could have. His life might end here in this highest of places, but this was where he needed to be. Among those who might come here, there was one he hoped for ... as the far doors began to open.
Ghassan il’Sänke dropped to one knee and lowered his head and eyes, but not enough to keep from watching those who entered. First came more guards, a dozen at a count, and then the “sovereign” advisors, but only three of the seven always in residence in the imperial palace.
All were either first daughters or second and third sons of the seven kings of the empire. Calling them advisors was proper, for they were the emissaries of their fathers. They were also hostages to keep the royal houses obedient to the imperial throne. But Ghassan took no notice of which were present as another trio entered under the protection of four more imperial guards.
High Premin Aweli-Jama of the guild’s Suman branch was dressed in gray as premin of Cathology. He was flanked by Premin Wôl’ya and Domin il’Bänash, both robed in midnight blue. That the head of Ghassan’s branch had chosen two metaologers to accompany him showed fear of the one to be judged.
Conjury was preferred among Suman metaologers, versus the preference for thaumaturgy in the Numan branch ... and both Wôl’ya and il’Bänash were highly skilled.
Ghassan was versed in conjury as well as the forbidden third magic, resurrected in secret by his sect more than two hundred years ago. And it was feared and reviled throughout the known world.
Suspicion of sorcery was certainly part of why he had been brought here. The presence of the metaologers also suggested to Ghassan that judgment might have already been passed upon him.
The next to enter caused him to stiffen in wariness.
Imperial Counselor Wihid al a’Yamin, personal advisor to the emperor, was in his late seventies, but his eyes—and awareness—were still as sharp as a hawk’s. Unlike many who graced the royal court, he always dressed simply, in tan pantaloons and a cream shirt beneath a sleeveless dark brown robe. By his age, his hair must be white, but he always covered it with a red headwrap, echoing colors worn by the guards—as if he fancied himself to be a warrior or wished to give that impression, although he had never served in the military. His face was lined, and he was stooped with age, appearing frail, but Ghassan was not fooled by this. Counselor a’Yamin was one of the most powerful men in the empire.
Ghassan carefully maintained his composure and gave no notice to the rest of the retinue, but the last to enter shocked him. It was not Emperor Kanal’am.
Prince Ounyal’am, firstborn heir of the imperial throne, watched only Ghassan il’Sänke as he alone stepped up onto the dais and stood at its center.
He was small for his people and darker toned in hair and skin than most, and, at thirty-eight years, he had yet to take even a first wife. This was fodder for gossip in an empire mindful of heirs and with kingdoms always vying for the closest tie to the imperial throne over generations. But even the emperor had not sired his first “legitimate” heir, Ounyal’am, until he was fifty-seven, and Kanal’am was now older than most of his recorded predecessors.