“What were these people doing in the catacombs?” she demanded. “And why did you violate another rule by letting outsiders into our archives?”
Wynn blinked, thrown by the sudden question, and a hollow formed in the pit of her stomach. How had the premin learned so quickly about trespassers? Even Domin Tärpodious hadn’t known and only chastised her for leaving the archive unlocked—which she hadn’t. That was Leesil’s doing. Wynn almost blurted out that she hadn’t let them in, but the truth would do no good for her friends.
Lady Tärtgyth Sykion, once a minor noble of nearby Faunier, was aging and slender but tall and straight. A single braid of her long, silver-gray hair hung out the side of her cowl and down the front of her pristine gray cathologer’s robe. She always maintained a temperate and motherly veneer to obscure whatever she truly thought, but she’d long since given up that maternal pretense in dealing with Wynn.
“And you can skip your usual denials,” Domin High-Tower added to Sykion’s demand.
As the only dwarf in any branch of the guild, he stood out. Tall enough to look Wynn in the eyes, he was an intimidating hulk, stout and double-wide under his gray cathologer’s robe. Coarse, gray-laced reddish hair hung barely past his shoulders, the color matching his thick beard with its small end braid. His broad, rough features made his people’s black-pupiled eyes look like iron pellets embedded in pale, flesh-colored granite.
Considering how good-natured dwarves generally tended to be, an angry or resentful one was something to worry about. High-Tower’s warning troubled Wynn even more. How much did her superiors know about what was happening here? And how did they know?
Shade backed toward Wynn but remained between her and Sykion. That, too, wasn’t a good sign. Worse again, Wynn heard Magiere’s slow, hissing breath and took a furtive glance.
Magiere eyed only High-Tower. Chap let out a brief rumble, but his gaze wandered over the entire entourage, one by one. Suddenly, Leesil stepped out with a lighthearted smile.
Wynn tried to grab him, but she stumbled over Shade’s rump before she could get a grip. Leesil, balancing the travel chest on his shoulder with his left hand, held out his right hand to Sykion and spoke in Belaskian.
“Forgive our rudeness. I don’t think we’ve met.”
He probably assumed most sages would understand him, which they wouldn’t. That language was almost unknown on this side of the world, and only those sages traveling to the Farlands would work to learn it.
Wynn’s stomach knotted, for she knew what Leesil was doing. More than likely, he didn’t care about the actual words. He was just using disarming charm in playing the ignorant foreigner.
It wasn’t going to work, and Sykion ignored his extended hand.
Wynn knew something was very wrong here. Outsiders weren’t allowed in the archives without special prior arrangements, but visitors were never treated with this kind of open hostility.
All five sages looked Leesil up and down, from his slightly slanted amber eyes, white-blond hair, and tan face, to his battered leather hauberk with some of its rings badly scarred, the strange winged punching blades strapped to his thighs, and his cracked and worn calf-high boots.
Wynn could only guess what he looked like to them—some outcast elven mercenary, if they didn’t catch that he was only half-elven. As the sages assessed him, Wynn took stock of the two others flanking Premin Hawes.
Both were metaologers, and both men in their early twenties, so likely journeyors. Positioning and demeanor made them look more like bodyguards. Wynn knew firsthand that the premin of metaology didn’t need protection, but then she recognized one of the journeyors.
The one on the left ... what was his name? Dorian?
He was wide shouldered, with dark, straight hair, and Wynn hadn’t seen him around the keep since before she’d first left for the Farlands with Domin Tilswith. He’d been a third-year apprentice back then, and likely he’d been off on his first journeyor’s assignment while she was away. But when journeyors returned, it was either for a new assignment or to attempt the arduous petition process to achieve master status. Later, should an official position open up, one might achieve the official rank of domin.
Here were two journeyor metaologers at the same time, neither one tucked away preparing for petition and examinations or a new assignment. It didn’t make sense, and Wynn turned her eyes on Premin Hawes.
Frideswida Hawes was late middle–aged, judging by her short-cropped hair, which was as fully grayed as dull silver. But her narrow features were smooth, from her cold hazel eyes down to the clean, tapered jaw that ended in a slightly pointed chin. Her expression rarely betrayed mood or thought, only calculating awareness.
Right now, Wynn definitely thought Premin Hawes looked ... tense.
She pushed all of this aside. She needed to get her friends out of the courtyard to someplace where they could speak alone. And then she’d have to face whatever Sykion wanted from her.
“Premin,” Wynn began, as deferentially as she could. “These are friends of mine from the Farlands. They don’t know our ways or—”
“Go to your room immediately,” Sykion cut in, and she turned to Leesil, though her words were still for Wynn. “Tell them to leave. Now.”
Wynn’s mouth fell open.
“Then Wynn leaves with us,” Magiere said, her voice barely shy of a growl.
At that, Leesil’s head swiveled toward Magiere with worry plain on his face.
Magiere’s foreign accent was heavy, but her Numanese was good enough to catch all five sages’ attention.
“Out!” High-Tower barked at her, taking a pounding step and pointing toward the gatehouse tunnel. “You do not tell us how things will be!”
And the realization hit Wynn that Sykion and High-Tower must know exactly who these visitors were. Wynn had written extensively of Magiere, Leesil, and Chap in her journals, which Sykion and High-Tower had once taken from her. This was all escalating too quickly, and by Magiere’s reaction, it was going to turn ugly.
Sykion dropped a slender hand to her side and snapped her narrow fingers, and Dorian quick-stepped straight toward Wynn.
Shade growled at him, but he ignored the dog. The instant the journeyor raised a hand toward Wynn’s shoulder, Shade clacked her teeth at him. Still, Dorian’s hand came down on Wynn’s shoulder.
Chap lunged three quick steps, baring his teeth.
Magiere gripped her falchion’s hilt. “Get your hand off her!”
Leesil rushed into Magiere’s way, but she pressed forward against him, almost driving him off his feet as he struggled with the chest.
“No!” Wynn shouted, and shifted in front of Dorian to block Shade. “It’s all right.”
Even with her friends in such trouble, Wynn couldn’t risk being thrown out of the guild. The archives were her only resource for information regarding the remaining two orbs. If her friends were driven out, at least they would be nearby somewhere.
Wynn looked to Chap and slowly shook her head.
He was silent, as opposed to Shade’s continued growls, but his voice didn’t rise in Wynn’s head. He kept eyeing Dorian, his jowls quivering, but his gaze flicked more than once toward Sykion ... and then fixed on Hawes.
Leesil appeared even more hesitant, still holding Magiere back, but even his expression had gone flat as he scanned the courtyard and all within it. Magiere’s state was always plain to read, but there was no telling what scheme Leesil was concocting even now.
“Chap!” Wynn whispered in desperation, turning all of her attention upon him.
She tried to pull a memory to the forefront of her mind, hoping he would catch it. She pictured all of those shelves of old texts she had searched through in the guild’s archives. She pictured the open books, bound sheaves, papers, and her journals as she sat in alcoves late into the night amid her search. And lastly, she pictured the first orb they had all found together, not knowing what it truly was as they prepared to leave the ice-bound castle hidden in the heights of the Pock Peaks.