The door’s iron bulged between her fingers and thumb.
A palm-sized disk formed out of the iron between the premin’s fingertips.
Wynn knew—everyone here knew—that the iron doors of the laboratories had been fashioned decades ago to be as impenetrable as possible. But in all her life, she’d never seen how they opened.
Hawes rotated her hand with a whisper, though the disk didn’t turn. Her delicate fingertips slid smoothly along the disk’s edge, and then she flattened her palm against it. The disk sank, vanishing flush into the iron.
With one quick twist of the handle, Premin Hawes pushed the door open.
“Wait here,” she commanded.
Wynn was still staring as the premin disappeared inside, closing the door to the barest crack. Again she wondered at Hawes’s skills compared to Domin il’Sänke’s dismissive comments. She didn’t have long for those thoughts.
Narrow fingers curled out around the door’s open edge.
Premin Hawes pulled it partly inward and stood blocking Wynn’s sight of the inner room. From behind her back, she held out one perfectly formed cold lamp crystal.
Wynn’s breath of relief was genuine as she took it. “Thank you ... thank you so much!”
With a respectful nod, she turned off down the passage. Shade scurried ahead in a clatter of claws on stone, quite eager to leave.
“Wynn.”
That one word made her flinch to a stumbling stop and turn.
Premin Hawes came down the passage in that glide that barely moved her robe. When she halted an arm’s length away, her hazel eyes never blinking, a tense moment followed that Wynn would never forget.
The premin held up another cold lamp crystal, as pure as the last.
Wynn stared dumbly at it, unable to move, until the premin snatched Wynn’s hand holding the first crystal. Shade only let out a half snarl before swallowing audibly. The premin opened Wynn’s hand with her own thumb and placed the second crystal beside the first in Wynn’s palm.
Wynn studied the pair, her thoughts utterly blank. When she finally looked up, Premin Hawes had turned away down the passage.
“In case your misfortunes continue,” the premin said evenly, “and you ... lose the first one.”
Frideswida Hawes turned into her study. The last iron door on the right shut with a clang that echoed down the passageway.
Wynn stood frozen. Had the premin of metaology known what she was up to? If so, how did she know?
Chane, lying on the bed in his guest quarters, opened his eyes to darkness. He sat up, fingering the brass ring still on his finger from last night’s foray into the city.
Climbing out of bed, he walked out of the bedchamber and into the study. Dusk’s tinted residue of light filtered through the canvas curtains beyond the desk, filling the room with enough for his night sight. As he glanced down toward the desk, the first thing he saw was one of Wynn’s journals. He looked away.
He had slept in his breeches and shirt. Both were now quite wrinkled, and he started back for the bedroom to change before meeting Wynn. His attention lit upon a recently added item among his scattered belongings on the desk.
The paper-wrapped package’s twine binding was already severed. He had checked the contents last night upon finding it left outside his guest quarters’ door. This was the final item of his secret needs before the journey could begin, and the sages had not supplied it. He had arranged to have it made in the city.
He grabbed the package, paper crinkling in his grip, and headed into the bedroom. Setting it atop the piled cloak, scarf, and gloves, he slowly opened the paper to stare once again at its content.
Thick but pliant, the shaped leather had laces on either side, with two openings set high and parallel. Chane lifted it to his face, aligning the holes with his eyes as he looked into the mirror. It was exactly as he had specified, spreading back to his ears, halfway across his scalp, and under his chin to his throat. But even he could not deny what it looked like....
An executioner’s mask.
Chane quickly lowered and rewrapped it in the paper, hiding it away in a dresser drawer. He now possessed everything he required, though he had yet to reveal his purpose to Wynn. He would have to let that wait until there was no time left for her to escape him. The night before they planned to leave would be best.
After pulling on a fresh shirt and his boots, he ran his fingers through his hair, though his hand was shaking when it came down. He left the room, locked the door, pocketed the key, and quickstepped all the way to the inner courtyard. Trying to wipe his thoughts clean, he was distracted as he approached the southeast dormitory.
Young voices rose on the entry door’s other side, but he did not truly hear them.
“You don’t know that, Kyne!” said one.
“It’s just a wolf,” said another. “A big one ... but just a wolf.”
“No, it isn’t!” shouted a third, a girl. “It’s a majay-hì!”
Chane was in no mood for nonsense. He reached for the latch, but the door suddenly swung open. The iron handle cracked against his fingers, and he lurched aside as the door struck his elbow and shoulder.
Three small forms in tan robes boiled out of the opened door.
“There’s no such thing,” grumbled one pudgy boy.
“I looked it up in the library!” a girl about eleven or twelve shouted back.
“Oh, pish!” grumbled a second, gangly, red-haired boy.
“Just because you two can’t read Begaine doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” the girl insisted.
And the pudgy one wrinkled his face in a pout.
“What do you think you are doing?” Chane snapped.
At his sharp, nearly voiceless rasp, all three initiates sucked in a breath. The girl’s eyes widened until the whites showed all around, and she stared up—and up—at Chane.
“Oh ... I’m ...” she stammered. “I’m ... I’m so sorry, sir.”
Her little nose and ivory cheeks were smattered with faint freckles. Two equal braids held back her dark blond hair. She looked nothing like Wynn; acted nothing like a sage. None of them did.
Chane felt the beast stir within him.
He could not see a possible hope that such whelps would ever understand what it meant to be a sage. He hung there, glaring down at them, until they began inching together, clustered yet unable to take their frightened eyes off him. How had these things, these calves of the human cattle, ever been allowed inside this place?
Chane jerked the door wide, sending the trio scurrying out of his way and running for the keep’s main doors. He was still shuddering as he headed up the stairs for Wynn’s room.
Even within the guild, there were those who did not matter, who did not belong.
Wynn sat at her desk, making a list of things to gather and tasks to complete before embarking tomorrow night. Shade lounged on the bed, her crystal blue eyes half open, but the dog seemed to be watching intently.
A knock sounded at the door.
“I am here,” Chane rasped from outside.
Wynn paused. He sounded sharp, almost loud, even for his limited voice.
“It’s open,” she answered.
Chane stepped in and shut the door. As was his habit, he wore a white shirt, black breeches, and high boots—simple attire, like that of the young nobleman he’d once been. She studied his face, looking to see if he appeared hungry or weak. He just looked disturbed.
If he hadn’t consumed the blood in the urn, what had he fed on while they were at the seatt? What had he been feeding on since? She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.
“We’re leaving tomorrow night,” she said. “We have passage on a ship to Chathburh.”