But how could Magiere protect Leanâlhâm from herself?
Chap huffed and nudged her leg, and Magiere finally followed him down the alley, where they left the wagon behind. It was no longer needed.
As Leesil crept through the strange library with Brot’an, he never wanted to see another library ever again. Most especially not one made by the sages.
Every time they cleared another row of shelves, casements, or little cleared spaces with tables and stools, he spotted a light ahead on the ceiling rafters. And every time he had to slow and peek about, only to find no one was there.
The absurdity of his task struck him anew. Yes, this had all been his idea, but that wasn’t the point. Of all the things he’d expected to do in Calm Seatt, breaking Wynn out of her own guild wasn’t one of them.
And who in seven hells left this many lights on all night?
He and Brot’an had even stopped to puzzle over one. Leesil was familiar with Wynn’s crystal, but hers was powered by body heat, friction. What kept these others glowing in their wall mounts? He glanced about nervously. Did someone come at regular intervals to warm the crystals? If so, he needed to move faster.
“There,” Brot’an whispered, pointing.
Leesil spotted the next staircase leading down. He quickly headed for it, and they descended—finally—to the last floor of this bookworm’s labyrinth.
They neither saw nor heard anyone. Their only company was an overwhelming number of books, parchments, sheaves, tables, and chairs—and wall-mounted cold lamps spaced far enough apart to leave spaces of shadow among the casements.
Leesil glanced back at Brot’an, and the old butcher almost appeared to scowl. When they reached the inner wall of the first floor, Leesil hurried southeast, looking for a door. They found one—right below yet another cold lamp.
“Easy enough,” Leesil whispered.
Brot’an didn’t respond, and Leesil carefully gripped the door handle. He twisted slowly, and it didn’t budge. He pressed harder, and then again with more of his weight ... to no effect.
There was a reason why they’d found no sages about. The place was locked.
Dropping to his knees, he took a closer look. The door was heavy, but the light from the lamp above exposed a simple lock plate. The only problem would be light spilling out the door once it was opened and thereby drawing attention.
He glanced up, about to tell Brot’an to remove the crystal once the door had been unlocked, and then noticed a glint above the lamp. Something was higher up, near the ceiling, and it didn’t look exactly like another crystal.
It was set in a pewter oval like a bulky pendant, though he couldn’t make out how it clung to the wall. It wasn’t cut in facets; this “crystal” was almost round or domed, with perhaps half of it sunk into the pewter. He couldn’t be certain, but it appeared the pewter frame was etched with a pattern or maybe tiny markings.
Leesil turned back to the task at hand.
“Take the lamp’s crystal out,” he told Brot’an. “Once I have the door unlocked, tuck it away so it doesn’t betray us. We might need it later.”
He had no reluctance at stealing from the guild, not after they’d locked up Wynn.
Brot’an shook his head. “Let me unlock the door.”
“I’ve got it.”
Reaching behind, Leesil pulled out his shirt’s tail and removed a long, slender box from inside the back of his shirt. He set it on the stone floor before opening it.
There was empty space within that had once held his own lost bone knife and two white metal stilettos. He folded back a panel on the lid’s inside and revealed an array of slim tools of dark metal. Most were about the size of a noblewoman’s hatpin. Choosing two, he studied the lock as Brot’an crouched, glowing crystal already in hand.
“Where did you get that box?” Brot’an asked.
Leesil had no intention of sharing his youth with Brot’an or explaining that the box had been a gift from his mother the day he turned seventeen. That was a birthday he would much rather forget. Without answering, Leesil went to work on the lock.
Chane fought to stifle panic when he realized he could not move.
The hand that had clutched his shirt and cloak and pulled him into the wall let go as soon as he felt air again on his face. But more than half of his body remained trapped in stone.
He could not turn his head; the back of his skull was held fast. With only his eyes, he looked wildly about, but the room was too dark even for him to see much.
It appeared to be a gathering place, a small room of arranged benches facing toward the small chamber’s left side. In the right far corner was a closed door, and from what he remembered, it must lead out into the main passage along the keep’s front. But that was all he could see without being able to turn his head.
Except for a figure standing ahead of him in the dark little seminar room, and it certainly was not Ore-Locks.
Its robe was so dark it appeared almost black, though Chane knew it was midnight blue. The garment covered a slight form that reached up with one narrow hand to pull back a matching cowl. The other hand came out of a pocket, bearing the harsh light of a cold-lamp crystal.
Premin Frideswida Hawes appeared before Chane.
Every time he grew warier of her skills, she became even more dangerous than he had imagined. She watched him silently from well beyond arm’s length, her bristling gray hair and hazel eyes glittering in the crystal’s light. It did not take Chane long to realize what had happened.
She had not gone south down the main passage. Instead, she had slipped into this room and waited for him to draw near in heading toward the entrance. Somehow she had sensed him enough to seize and pull him through—no, into—the wall. The only things he could move now were his face, his eyes, and most of his left hand.
Chane could not remember ever being this helpless.
Panic and then rage began to awaken the sleeping beast within him—and it rose in a frenzy, wanting to break free. As his senses sharpened further, he knew his eyes would lose all color; his teeth would begin to shift, exposing fangs; and in the beast’s panic, he could not stop himself from trying to pull free.
All of his hunger feeding him strength did no good.
Still, Hawes studied him like some creature easily captured for her chill curiosity. Though her jaw was clenched tight, her expression remained otherwise unreadable.
Chane fought to stop the change but could not, and surely she saw all of it. He was helpless against himself and helpless against her. And he hated both conditions, but he remained silent.
Shouting would only make things worse, endangering Wynn and Ore-Locks, should they hear him and come running. Even if he were about to be finished off, here and now, he would do nothing to betray Wynn.
Hawes raised one hand, and her fingers twitched once, as if making a quick gesture.
“What are you?” she demanded.
Perhaps it was the sound of her voice in this silent room that caught Chane off guard. Was this a chance to distract her, to keep her here for a while? In that at least, he might keep one obstacle out of Wynn’s way. He bit down, trying to force the beast within back into its cell.
With a sense of hysteria, he wondered if telling her the truth would stun—rivet—her all the more.
To his shame, he was afraid. If he gave an answer she did not care for, she might easily shove him back inside the wall, not knowing how to finish him. She could leave him there, forever unseen, forever undead in a tomb no one would find, let alone try to open.