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Wynn's anger returned. After all that had happened, and here in private where no one else could see or hear, she was still treated as mentally unfit. The lie was perpetuated, regardless that they knew the truth of what she'd told them all along.

"We wish you to take Domin Tärpod «ke theious as your new master," Sykion said.

Wynn's mind went blank. She wasn't being cast out?

"As he is a close friend of your former master, Domin Tilswith," Sykion continued, "Tärpodious's tutelage would further shorten your steps to master's status in the guild. Your experience in far cultures, with new languages and knowledge, would be a great—"

"No!" Wynn cut in loudly.

Premin Sykion's eyes fixed upon her as High-Tower spun about. The worry on his face confirmed Wynn's suspicion.

"What are you doing?" il'Sänke whispered. "Do not give them a reason to be rid of you!"

He didn't see what this was really about, but Wynn did.

They offered her a new journeyor's assignment, to continue her training. To sweeten it further, they dangled a carrot before her, hinting that she might achieve master at a younger age than any before her. But there was a price.

Stuck in the archives, cataloguing and referencing with old Tärpodious, she would be well out of sight, with no need to ever leave the guild grounds. They could keep her under watchful eyes, controlling everything she did… everything she had access to.

"I'm interested only in the texts," Wynn said. "Where are they?"

Premin Jacque exhaled heavily, leaning his head on his hands once again.

Premin Hawes's hazel eyes narrowed as if in warning. "This will never work," she snapped.

"The debate is over," Adlam responded. "Leave it alone!"

Hawes leaned on the table, glaring along its length at Adlam. Sykion raised a hand before either spit another barb, but her gaze had never left Wynn.

"The texts are not your concern," Sykion answered. "Captain Rodian has assured us—again—that no charges will be brought against you for your interference. But if seeking suit to regain the texts is still your intention, it will do you no good, considering—"

"That the texts are not even here?" Wynn finished.

Sadness washed from High-Tower's face. His dark pellet eyes fixed on her. He was always so stern and self-possessed, but Wynn could swear she saw fright in his stony expression.

"Your lack of good judgment is reason enough," Sykion said.

That wasn't an answer to her question. And along with High-Tower's reaction, it confirmed Wynn's belief: What she wanted wasn't even being kept inside the guild.

Wherever the texts were, they were being brought in and out, so no offered journeyor's «assignment» would ever get her near them.

She was now an unnecessary pawn in their little safety game—their hope that they could forestall facing an opponent returning from the Forgotten «tht sHistory. Wynn couldn't help remembering wayward friends whom she'd longed for often in the past two seasons.

Magiere had been born in the worst of ways to be the leader of forces for the Ancient Enemy. Leesil, raised and trained by his own mother, was to be the instrument of dissidents among the Anmaglâhk and strike at that Enemy they knew almost nothing about. And Chap…

Having chosen to be born into flesh to guard them both, he had no idea how much his own kin, the Fay, had kept hidden from him. Beneath lies and omissions, all the Fay had truly expected from him was to keep Magiere and Leesil from taking any action at all.

And now it seemed the council wished the same for Wynn.

All this caution, this driven paranoia to do nothing for fear of doing the wrong thing—what did it amount to?

Wynn knew what each of her dear friends had done in the end.

"Give me the key to your study," she said to il'Sänke. "I need to get my things left there if I'm to proceed."

The domin looked at her with doubt and then appeared relieved that she no longer fought the council's plans for her. He handed over the key, and Wynn reached into her own pocket.

She pulled out her cold lamp crystal—the emblem of journeyors and higher ranks among the guild.

Wynn approached the council, directly in front of High Premin Sykion, and tossed her crystal upon the table.

Sykion's eyes widened at the implication even before Wynn said a word.

"I resign," she whispered.

It was still loud enough to hear in the chamber as the crystal's tumble finally came to a halt.

Wynn finished gathering her things from her own room. She arranged it all inside her pack, leaving behind the gray robe in favor of the elven clothing she had worn all the way from the Farlands. Wearing the robe would be a lie, for she was no longer a sage.

Shade watched her, occasionally following her around the small room or sniffing in the trunk.

Wynn tried not to think as she finished up.

This was too much like facing a death, and yet still left walking the world. She tried to keep her mind on one thing—Dhredze Seatt, the "Sea-foam Stronghold" of the dwarves across Beranlômr Bay.

The only «outsiders» who'd come and gone unseen from the guild—who seemed to possess real knowledge of the texts—were High-Tower's brother and the other elder hassäg'kreigi.

The translation project would go on without her—had proceeded without her. Hopefully, since she'd said nothing of her plans, the guild would see no need to change the current location of the texts. Wherever the texts truly were, the city of dwarves was the only place to begin her search.

Six and twenty steps… to five corners.

She'd wondered about five ancient Noble Dead uncovered by name, who had «divided» — and the strange mention of "five corners" in the scroll. Li'kän was locked away beneath the ice-bound castle, and hopefully Häs'saun and Volyno were simply no more. That left only the other pair of the five—Vespana and Ga'hetman.

But another grain of truth began to dawn upon her, and it was so much worse.

The double column of sages, thirteen in count, fell into shadow as they tramped out of daylight into the gatehouse's tunnel.

"Oh, no more of this… please!" Wynn whispered to herself.

Not five corners for five ancient Noble Dead. Not six and twenty—twenty-six—steps taken, as some metaphor of distance. Whatever the five corners meant, the other measure was for pairs of feet—two by two, totaling thirteen.

The Children numbered thirteen.

How many of the other names she'd read were those of other ancient undead, possibly still somewhere in the world? It was bad enough that the one she'd banished with the sun crystal couldn't be one of them. The Children were ancient vampires, and the wraith had been some new spirit form of Noble Dead.

And Wynn thought immediately of Pawl a'Seatt.

The stoic master scribe with the odd family name had claimed to have been hunting undead in his city. He'd implied that he had sensed the wraith's presence, though he hadn't been able to find it. Magiere was the only other person Wynn knew of, besides Chap, who had such ability. Chane had been fervent in claiming that Pawl a'Seatt was an undead, yet Wynn had seen the scribe master in daylight. None of it made sense.

He couldn't be a dhampir, not for what Wynn knew of Magiere's singular birth and what great efforts that had taken. He couldn't be one of the Children, if Wynn's guess that Li'kän's forced servitude was common to all such.

Who—what—was Pawl a'Seatt?

The only other thing Wynn knew was that none of the Upright Quill's staff showed any fear of the shopowner, beyond his strange actions on the night of Jeremy's and Elias's deaths. Pawl a'Seatt wasn't guilty of those deaths. He had always been protective of his employees, watching over them each night when they left the guild grounds. And he had a long-standing and respected relationship with the guild.