And the second time she'd heard the name of this forgotten place was far more recent.
A pair of black-clad dwarves—the Hassäg'kreigi, the Stonewalkers—had spoken of it as she eavesdropped outside of High-Tower's office. Then they were simply gone when she entered to speak with the domin.
And the wraith had come at her twice, wanting this scroll as much as any folio it had killed for.
"I need more!" she demanded. "You have to finish translating what I copied so far!"
"Wynn, no," il'Sänke said. "We finally have a moment's peace. This can wait until tomorrow, after we—"
"Now!" she insisted. "I need more so I can go to High-Tower for assignment. Something happened among the dwarves during the Forgotten History, and I'm going to Dhredze Seatt across the bay. It's the only place to begin and to find out what happened, or where…"
Wynn trailed off, for il'Sänke was shaking his head.
"In the morning," he insisted, but by his following pause, she knew there was something more.
"We both go before the premin council—in the morning," he explained.
Wynn had nothing to say to this. What could one say when one's way of life was about to end? They were going to cast her out.
Did it even matter anymore? Yes, if she were ever to see the translations again, or the original texts she'd taken from Li'kän's library. None of the council knew of the scroll, but that by itself wasn't enough, even when or if it was fully translated.
"Sleep for a while," il'Sänke said. "We will rise early to eat. Facing the council's formal summons is not good on an empty stomach."
Wynn stood there numb as he retrieved the old tin case from the floor and slipped the scroll away.
"And Wynn," he added, his tone colder, "remember that whatever you have learned must be guarded… only for those who can intellectually comprehend—and face—its truth. It cannot be shared elsewhere."
Dropping on the couch, she looked up at him with her serious brown eyes.
"I know," Wynn answered. "I think I truly do know that now."
At dawn Rodian sat at his desk, exhausted and ill. He should've rested, but throughout the night's remainder he'd tried over and over to write his report. Most of those dark hours had been spent merely staring at a blank sheet of paper.
He was driven to finish it, even beyond his own strength.
Upon arriving at the barracks, he'd gone to his room and looked in a mirror. A few thin strands of light gray ran through his hair, and more laced his trim beard. Remembering what had happened to Nikolas, Rodian wondered how he was still even conscious and on his feet. Perhaps the brief touch he'd received was less than what the young sage had suffered.
And now he sat poised with quill in hand, trying to find words to explain it all to the royal family, via the minister of city affairs. The threat to the guild was over. The murderer had been destroyed. Yet what could he possibly say of the details?
What would the minister think upon reading of a black spirit that killed by touch as it sought out texts supposedly written by other «undead»? And all of it concerned a war that most believed never happened. Indeed, what would the duchess or Princess Âthelthryth have to say if he wrote such words? They trusted him to maintain order, peace… and sanity.
Rodian choked on a dry throat and sipped some water.
Garrogh was dead, and young Lúcan was unconscious in the infirmary with a fractured leg, looking little better than young Nikolas. They deserved to have the truth told, even if it would never be believed.
"Come," il'Sänke whispered, and on their way out he locked the door.
After Shade finished her morning business in the bailey's northern grove, they headed straight to the keep's main doors. The council chamber was on the third floor, and Wynn led the way in silence. Whatever might happen this morning, she had already grown certain of her path for the future.
She was tired of submission, obediently waiting until others allowed her answers.
They reached the double doors of the council's chamber, but before Wynn could knock, il'Sänke rapped lightly on the wood with one knuckle.
"You may enter," Premin Sykion called from inside.
Wynn shoved the doors open, stepping in first. This stone chamber had once been the master bedroom of the king and queen when the ancestors of the royals had resided in the first castle. In place of any large bed, chests, or wardrobes, only a long, stout table sat before the room's far end. It was surrounded on the far side and two ends by plain high-backed chairs, all of which were filled with the five members of the Premin Council.
Wynn was barely halfway into the room when her determination faltered.
Premin Adlam, in the sienna robe of naturology, sat at the table's left end. He was turned a bit away, speaking in a low voice to portly Premin Renäld of sentiology, robed in cerulean, who sat on High Premin Sykion's left. And Sykion, head of the council, seated at the table's center, was studying a document.
On her right, Premin Jacque of conamology had his elbows on the table. With both hands laced together, his forehead rested against them, hiding his face. The sleeves of his teal robe had slipped down, exposing muscular forearms.
Last, at the table's right end, sat Premin Hawes of metaology. She glanced sidelong at the visitors, and the cowl of midnight blue revealed hazel eyes almost the «yesat color of the wall's stones. Her stern glaze slipped coldly from Wynn to il'Sänke as the domin stepped forward in his like-colored robe. Then she glanced down at Shade, but her expression didn't change.
And Wynn was startled at the sight of one last person in the room.
Domin High-Tower stood near a window behind the council.
He wasn't looking outside or at the council or even at her. His head hung forward, beard flattened against his broad chest. He seemed almost cowed, or something well beyond weary.
Had he also been called before the council?
As much as il'Sänke and High-Tower didn't care for each other, their paranoia over involving outsiders had led to several ill-conceived ploys. Miriam and Dâgmund had lost their lives, and Nikolas was a mental invalid.
Wynn swallowed hard.
The council could do no worse to her than what she'd already suffered since her return home.
Premin Jacque raised his head. His blockish features filled with sadness as Premin Sykion began.
"We recognize your good intentions in what happened last night, but soundness of judgment has been… lacking in conduct. Our actions should not be driven by fear, or our security is sacrificed in such ill-conceived attempts to protect it."
High-Tower turned fully away toward the window.
"However," Sykion added, "as the cause of our great losses has finally been put to rest, we can move forward."
High Premin Sykion settled back. She carefully folded her hands in her lap, out of sight.
"Domin il'Sänke, you have been invaluable in our efforts. Our sibling guild branch in the Suman Empire should take pride in you. Having fulfilled our need, your stay should not be further drawn out. You are free to return home to family and friends."
Wynn squeezed her eyes closed. She heard not a sound from il'Sänke at those delicately phrased words. Her one confidant within these walls was politely being told to get out. Had they done the same to High-Tower? No, he wouldn't have remained if that had happened.
"Journeyor Hygeorht…"
Wynn's eyes snapped open, but Premin Sykion faltered with a sad frown. Wynn's resolve waned again in the dead silence.
"Considering your exploits in the Farlands," the premin finally continued, "you have accomplished much more than most journeyors in such a short time. But there is still concern over your well-being."