Leesil whipped the branch around his back, out of sight, and that was when Wynn got loose.
By the next midmorning, Wynn’s ire had cooled. No, it was choked off.
She had no proof that Chuillyon had interfered with any of her efforts, but she knew he had just the same. He had a penchant for turning up far too often when it was to his advantage, not hers and not anyone else’s. Vreuvillä considered him untrustworthy and self-serving.
Wynn might not know why, but she wholeheartedly agreed.
If Brot’an had not stopped her after she’d broken free of Leesil, she certainly would have punched that interloper right where he sat. She was still thinking about doing so as she paced about the camp.
Chuillyon was now essentially a prisoner, sitting near the dead fire and being closely watched by either Ghassan or Brot’an or both. This gave Wynn only minor satisfaction, for it did not solve the problem of getting rid of him. Magiere and Leesil were both in their own tent, and Leesil had put away the branch.
Wynn could see how that object might interest Chuillyon, but the “why” bothered her more. She kept eyeing him as she paced, and his serene expression gave her no clues.
Brot’an sat outside the other tent, watching, supposedly, though he rarely looked directly at Chuillyon. Then again, there was no place Chuillyon could go, and exactly how had he gotten here?
Ghassan stepped out of the other tent with a cup in hand, which he took to offer to Chuillyon.
“I thank you,” Chuillyon said with such gracious politeness that it soured Wynn’s stomach.
“Where are your white robes?” she asked.
He had barely started to sip the water and lowered the cup with a shrug.
“I have given all of that up,” he answered without looking at her.
Oh, that was unlikely. He was too power hungry to ever leave his guild branch—and his special, hidden suborder—by choice.
Ghassan, still standing nearby, raised a dark eyebrow. “How did you arrive here?”
Chuillyon let out a humming sigh through his nose as he looked out across the open desert. “I am not entirely certain, not that the south is without its ... charm.”
Wynn ground her teeth.
Ghassan would never receive any real answer, only politely dry and somewhat snide humor to fend off more questions. Wynn wished she and Magiere could have a little private “talk” with Chuillyon. That would get some answers or confirm her suspicions.
Chuillyon too often appeared—in too timely a fashion—at destinations without sufficient time to have traveled there. Once she had encountered him at Chârmun after last seeing him in Calm Seatt. That was nearly impossible, considering she had used the fastest route by sea and inland from Soráno. And last night, he had been surprised—no, astonished—and then eagerly curious at the sight of Leesil’s branch.
And that had been cut from Roise Chârmune, an ancient “child” of Chârmun.
Could it be so simple?
Wynn had seen amazing impossibilities in a handful of years. A few included Chuillyon, such as his shielding Princess Reine Faunier-Areskynna, a royal of Malourné by marriage, from conjured fire racing toward her.
“I think you have some way to transport yourself,” she accused, “though maybe it is limited ... to certain marked places.”
Chuillyon straightened, her words taking him by surprise; he calmed and took a sip from his cup. “You have always had an imagination that exceeds your exceptional intellect.”
If possible, Wynn grew angrier. “Do you know where Leesil’s branch comes from?”
For an instant, she thought he might deny such an interest, and then he blinked.
“Do tell,” he replied.
“From Roise Chârmune, the tree of the an’Cróan ancestors.”
His gaze shifted with a slower blink as he set down the cup but kept his eyes on the stark landscape.
“I am sure that means nothing to me,” he said, “but I am curious. Why are you so far east in the desert?” He smiled, still without looking at her. “The possibilities are rather limited.”
Wynn glared at him. It hadn’t taken him long to reason out where he now was, though the answer would be obvious to anyone from this half of the world.
“If you cannot enlighten us,” Ghassan cut in, startling Wynn, “in any way, perhaps another touch of Leesil’s branch will send you back to wherever you came from.”
Wynn wished Ghassan had not jumped to that implied truth. There was as much to learn from Chuillyon’s evasions as from a straight answer. But yes, however Chuillyon had arrived, it had something to do with Leesil’s branch.
Chuillyon smiled broadly. “Do you think you can manage that?”
“Yes,” Ghassan answered. “I can.”
This bothered Wynn. Suddenly she was not so eager to be rid of Chuillyon. The thought of Chârmun, or its offspring, Roise Chârmune ... or Leesil’s branch ... brought something else to mind.
What was little known before the Forgotten History was that Chârmun and the land in which it grew was the only place the Enemy’s undead minions could not go. If it weren’t for Chane’s “ring of nothing,” he couldn’t have even entered there now.
Did Leesil’s branch have such properties in a lesser way? If so, how could that be activated? And there was still Chuillyon’s method of travel to fathom. If he could pass from Chârmun to the branch, reasonably he could go the other way. And being able to take others with him might be useful if the worst came in the end.
There was much Wynn needed to know.
Chuillyon smiled softly as he turned his head, though not toward Wynn. He eyed Ghassan instead. The two obviously had some things in common.
Both were scholars once highly placed in their respective guild branches, one with arcane skills and the other with almost theurgical abilities in nature. Both had fallen and both had been cast out, though the causes for Chuillyon were not clear. Not yet.
“And what are you doing out here?” Chuillyon asked casually. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”
Brot’an still sat passively cross-legged before the second tent’s flap, but now he gazed intently at Chuillyon. Whether he saw a use for the errant once-sage or simply some reason to get rid of an “unknown variable,” Wynn wasn’t certain. She didn’t trust Chuillyon, but she did believe he would want to stop the Enemy from rising as much as any of them.
Ghassan’s sudden smile was disturbing. “We came out here to hunt undead. I do not see how you could be much help.”
“Oh, I could,” Chuillyon answered, “as Wynn can attest, at least concerning one wraith.”
Ghassan’s smile faded. He looked to Wynn. “He fought Sau’ilahk?”
Reluctantly, Wynn nodded. “Yes.”
Exactly how was unknown. Chuillyon’s influence was more akin to prayers than spells, but he had halted Sau’ilahk several times.
“What else have you done?” Brot’an asked.
Wynn still liked Brot’an more than others did, but his sudden interest after such a long silence chilled her.
At sunset, Magiere insisted they try to pick up the trail of the undead from the night before. Leesil resisted a little, but Magiere still feared they were too late. The undead traveled harder and faster than the living, especially after feeding.
In truth, she didn’t know why she’d collapsed and lost her fury when she’d tried to rush in and stop the slaughter. It shouldn’t have happened. She feared it ever happening again, and what if it did? All she could do was prepare to leave camp.
Leesil stood waiting. The look on his face told her he was still uncertain about her going back out. Maybe he doubted her as much she doubted herself.