Wynn tried to keep sharply focused, but her thoughts kept wandering.
Last night, Chane had acted more strangely than ever when he’d finally arrived. He’d paced about, barely speaking to her. When she’d asked him again what was wrong, he wouldn’t answer. She’d tried talking to him, but pushing him harder seemed to make things worse. And for the first time, he hadn’t mentioned the wraith—Sau’ilahk—even once. After only a few moments, he’d left early on more errands.
So what had he been worried about?
Wynn felt quite alone in the world except for Shade and Chane, but he was making her nervous about the journey ahead.
Shade’s ears suddenly perked. She raised her head to peer at the alcove’s archway.
“What is it?” Wynn asked, looking up. Then she heard shuffling footsteps.
“Young Hygeorht?” a reedy voice called.
“Here,” she called back.
Light grew upon the shelves outside the archway, and Master Tärpodious shuffled into view in his sagging, old gray robe. As someone who rarely ventured into the light of day, Tärpodious’s wrinkled skin looked almost pallid. With a glimmering cold lamp in his boney hand, the effect was even starker, like an apparition gliding through a dark, abandoned library. He blinked at her, his milky eyes enlarged by his oversized spectacles.
“Ah, there you are,” he said.
Wynn stood up. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no, just an initiate down with a message. High-Tower wants to see you in his study.”
A hollow formed in Wynn’s stomach. Had the council finally made its decision? She glanced at the stacks of books and sheaves on the small table.
“I’ll see to those,” Tärpodious said, voice crackling like rumpled paper. “Don’t keep High-Tower waiting.... He might swallow his own tongue.”
Wynn half smiled at his jest and gathered up her journal, quill, and cold lamp.
“Did the initiate say anything else?” she asked.
“No, just to go straightaway.” Tärpodious began pushing sheets back into a sheaf. “Off with you.”
She nodded and headed out with Shade. The prospect of a private meeting with High-Tower wasn’t attractive, but perhaps the stalemate with the council had finally ended—one way or another.
Crossing the old archivist’s entry chamber, Wynn reached the stairs before Shade and hiked her robe’s hem as she hurried upward. The stairs actually ended at the base of the northern tower, where High-Tower’s study was two levels up the next spiraling staircase. She stopped at the landing before his door, all the more anxious over what he would say. Her entire future could be decided within moments.
Shade whined.
“I know,” Wynn said, and, unable to hesitate any longer, she knocked.
“Come,” someone called in a deep voice.
Wynn opened the door. She’d expected to find him at his desk, but he stood before one of the narrow window slits in the nearer stone wall. His massive bulk blocked most of late afternoon’s light. She’d learned basic Dwarvish under his tutelage, and he had been fond of her ... once. Now, the only emotion left between them was a constant exchange of suspicion, if not open animosity.
“You asked for me?” she said, stepping inside. Shade followed, and Wynn closed the door.
Without a glance in her direction, High-Tower headed to his desk and picked up what looked like two wax-sealed, folded parchments.
“The council is sending you south,” he said, his voice more gravelly than usual. “You’ll deliver two messages along the way.”
Wynn’s small mouth parted, but she was too stunned to speak, and High-Tower went on.
“One is for Domin Yand of the small annex at Chathburh ... the other is for High Premin T’ovar of the Lhoin’na branch—immediately upon your arrival there.”
“Messages?” she repeated.
The council hadn’t simply granted her request; they were giving her two tasks.
“I’ve booked passage for you,” he went on, “and the majay-hì and your ... companion. A Numan merchant vessel is bound for Chathburh. From there, you’ll travel inland, south to the northern tip of the Lhoin’na lands. Stay inside their forests all the way to a’Ghràihlôn’na, their southern capital.”
“Inland ... from Chathburh?” Wynn asked.
Regional maps were fresh in her mind. If she disembarked at Chathburh, she’d be forced to cross most of Witeny and the Tillan Ridge at its southern border. The overland trip alone would take several moons, barring complications from oncoming winter and delays in the sea voyage.
The council wanted to be rid of her all right, and for as long as possible. But the delay to her destination was unacceptable.
“It’s faster to continue by sea,” she said. “I can make port farther south at Drist and bypass the Tillan Ridge.”
High-Tower’s complexion reddened like a slowly heated fire iron.
“A cesspit like Drist is no place for a sage!” he sputtered. “The last thing we need is you getting your throat cut in broad daylight or ending up on some slaver’s vessel. Your request was approved, even funded ... and you still question duty and common sense?”
Wynn hesitated. She couldn’t lose what little ground she’d gained.
“Are you refusing the council’s orders?” he demanded.
“Of course not. I was just suggesting a quicker route between both destinations.”
High-Tower calmed slightly. “Traveling through Witeny is safer.”
You mean longer, Wynn thought, but said, “Yes, certainly.”
Stepping forward, she took the letters from him.
“And the funding for food and lodging?” she asked. “And possibly horses in Chathburh ... if I’m to cross half of Witeny.”
High-Tower grunted, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a small pouch.
“This should suffice, if you are frugal.” Then he dug in his robe’s outer pocket and handed over a folded slip of millet paper. “A voucher for your return passage from Chathburh. Any Numan vessel will honor the guild seal, possibly even some Suman, but stay off vessels coming out of the free ports ... like Drist!”
She took the voucher and the pouch. By its weight, the council hadn’t given her much for anything but basic needs. Certainly it wouldn’t be enough for further sea passage, but it didn’t matter. In truth, this was more than she’d dared hope: guild approval and some financial assistance. Once she was out of their sight, there were other options to consider.
“I’ll deliver both messages,” she said, and turned away without thanking him.
“Wynn ... ?”
She slowed to glance back, and he looked uncomfortable, as if he had something to ask that was difficult to get out. She offered him no help and stood waiting.
“Have you,” he started, and then paused. “Ore-Locks has not been seen since you left Dhredze Seatt. Do you know of his whereabouts?”
Another strange state of events in an odd maze of connections—Ore-Locks was Domin High-Tower’s brother. But why in the world would he think she knew anything of Ore-Locks?
“No,” she lied.
Her response had nothing to do with loyalty. She didn’t want anything to do with Ore-Locks, but she wasn’t about to give High-Tower any more information than she had to.
He kept studying her, perhaps uncertain if he believed her or not, then scowled and looked away.
“Then go. I am sick to death of your deceptions.”
This was the last thing he should’ve ever said to her.
“My deceptions?” she returned. “While I was trying to keep sages from dying in the streets, you swore to show me all the translations and the codex. But it was Master Cinder-Shard who gave me access to the texts—all of them—while I was with the Stonewalkers.”