Wynn’s stomach knotted as she realized she was being taken to the council chamber. Sykion wasn’t the only one Wynn would have to face.
After everything she’d been through tonight, she wasn’t prepared for this. Hawes walked right through the open chamber doors, and Dorian slowed to push Wynn in after the premin. All four of the other premins were already seated behind the long council table.
Hawes glanced back to Dorian. “Close the doors and wait outside.”
Wynn stood there as she heard the doors shut behind her, and Hawes took her place at the council table. The premin silently settled in the smoothly crafted, high-back chair at the table’s right end. All five such chairs were now filled with the members of the Premin Council, each in the robes of their own order.
Premin Adlam, in the light brown of Naturology, sat at the table’s left end. Next, on High Premin Sykion’s left, sat portly Premin Renäld of Sentiology in cerulean. Sykion, as head of the council, sat at the table’s center, dressed in the gray of Cathology—Wynn’s own order. On her right, Premin Jacque of Conamology had his elbows on the table, as was his habit.
And Hawes sat at the far right end, not even looking at Wynn.
There was one other person present, just like the last time Wynn had been hauled before the council. No real surprise there, since he’d always been present for her interrogations.
Domin High-Tower stood beyond the table, at the chamber’s rear, staring out one of the narrow windows. Someone else might have thought these proceedings didn’t interest him. Wynn knew he simply wouldn’t look at her until he had to.
She was so bone weary as she faced her superiors that she didn’t care anymore. All that mattered was how long she’d have to stand here before they’d give up.
“Journeyor Hygeorht,” Sykion began, “Tell us how and why your visitors this evening entered our archives without our consent or knowledge.”
With the exception of Hawes—and possibly High-Tower—the others all looked equally self-righteous. Anger—at their self-deceptions, at their ignorance and arrogance—began to feed Wynn a little strength.
“My friends came a long way to see me. They had no idea they needed permission. They’ve never been to a full guild branch and don’t know our ways.”
Sykion’s brows arched. “You will verify who they are.”
Had the situation been less dire, Wynn would’ve rolled her eyes—“verify,” not “identify.” She simply remained silent.
Her journals from travels in the Farlands had been confiscated upon her return, along with the ancient texts she’d brought back from where the first orb had been uncovered. Likely the entire council had read everything she’d written. But unlike with Chane, Wynn hadn’t foreseen the need to hide the identities of Leesil, Magiere, or Chap in her writing.
Premin Jacque cleared his throat. “Then you admit these were the same people who accompanied you on the journey in which you recovered the ancient texts?”
Yet another obvious question that Wynn wouldn’t answer. Where was all of this going?
“Why did they follow you here?” Sykion asked.
“You threw them out before I could ask,” Wynn finally responded. “Is this why I’ve been called before the council—to account for a few visitors who didn’t know our rules?”
Sykion’s mouth tightened. “You’ve been called to account for your recent assignment to the south ... in which you were required to complete only two tasks: to deliver one message to our guild annex in Chathburh and a second to the premin of the Lhoin’na guild branch. Apparently, you traveled much farther south, as your journey took longer than it should have.”
The high premin stopped briefly, as if weighing her next words, and Premin Renäld leaned over to murmur in her ear. She nodded, and in turn whispered softly to Premin Jacque as she shuffled through three separate papers on the table before her.
Wynn’s breath caught for an instant.
Beneath that small stack of sheets was an aquamarine ribbon, the kind always used to bind royal communications from the Âreskynna family. Wynn could swear she’d seen the remnants of a broken green wax seal on one other document. If so, that one likely had come from the guild branch of the Lhoin’na, the elves of this continent.
Her anger began to fade, replaced by growing anxiety.
Premin Renäld looked out at Wynn. “Do not doubt that we know you traveled much farther than your assigned duty required.”
Wynn kept silent, but her anxiety sharpened more when he glanced down at the paper stained by green sealing wax. Of course she’d used the pointless assignment they’d given her to serve her own goals, but she wasn’t giving them even a clue that she’d gone in search of Bäalâle Seatt, let alone found it.
“After leaving the Lhoin’na guild,” Renäld went on, “you traveled south along the Slip-Tooth Pass. That leads to few destinations, and it ends at the Rädärsherând, the Sky-Cutter Range above the Suman desert. Why did you take this route?”
Wynn felt herself being boxed in, and anxiety shifted to panic. How could the council know even this much?
Domin il’Sänke had appeared inside Bäalâle Seatt. He knew she’d made it all the way. The hinted origins of the papers before Sykion didn’t suggest a connection to il’Sänke’s guild branch in the Suman Empire. But what of the one with a broken green wax seal?
Wynn doubted il’Sänke would volunteer any information to Premin Sykion, let alone share it with the Lhoin’na. But upon emerging from the underground tunnel leading out of the Bäalâle, she and Chane had found three abandoned horses with their elven saddles lying nearby.
Who among the Lhoin’na might have followed her? Based on the first letter that had been bound with that aquamarine ribbon, who else might have connections to the royal family? Only one name fit both possibilities. Wynn was loath to even think it. One of the Lhoin’na had always been in the company of Duchess—Princess—Reine Faunier-Âreskynna.
Chuillyon. A white-robed elf who appeared to serve both the Lhoin’na guild and the royal family of Calm Seatt, but whom Wynn suspected mainly served himself.
“Journeyor Hygeorht!” Sykion snapped. “What were you seeking in that mountain range?”
Wynn was terrified that they already knew, and this was some ploy to see how much she would lie.
“I had no return schedule,” she answered. “It was my first time in that region. I simply wished to explore and take notes that might be of use to our guild. Isn’t that what a journeyor does, if without a specific assignment?”
Sykion’s pale skin tinged red.
“So you were not seeking one little known Bäalâle Seatt?” Premin Jacque barked.
It was over—they knew—but Wynn blinked innocently. “And what is that?”
High-Tower turned from the window and glowered at her. “Then you deny that you traveled in the company of a stonewalker—my ... brother?”
It was beyond a breach of decorum for a domin to speak here unless first spoken to by a member of the council. No one reproached him. The premins watched Wynn, and only Hawes showed no sign of anger, suspicion, contempt, or outrage at Wynn’s evasions. Her face held no expression at all.
Wynn simply shook her head once.
“I was lucky enough to actually see the Stonewalkers,” she answered High-Tower, “at a funeral during my last visit to Dhredze Seatt. Which one is your brother?”
The room fell deadly silent.
Wynn stood waiting for the next question—and the next—that she wouldn’t answer.
Rodian passed through the royal castle’s courtyard without challenge, for he was well-known here. Though the first bell of quarter night had rung before he arrived, not even the gatehouse guards had asked his business. They’d immediately raised the outer portcullis, and a stableboy had appeared to tend to Snowbird. But as Rodian stepped up the tall, broad granite steps and more guards opened the castle’s main doors, he found two Weardas—“the Sentinels”—standing at attention in his path.