Then there was Shade, descended of a Fay-born father and majay-hì mother.
And now a prince of Wynn's own land whom all had thought dead.
Why now? What did it mean? And how much ruin had she brought down upon the last?
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Reine merely returned to staring across the water, until the wind dried all of her tears.
"What now, sage?" she asked. "For such a price … what have you gained?"
How could Wynn answer? Swirling questions wrapped in secrets hidden beneath myths already overwhelmed her. One place in the world had lain hidden for centuries in plain sight. Another had been lost beyond remembering. And a traitor, remembered by only a few who wished to forget him, had gained a worshipper in the dark among the honored dead.
First Glade … Bäalâle Seatt … Thallûhearag … Ore-Locks …
"It's too much to consider," Wynn finally said. "More answers must be found."
And she had to face it all without the texts.
Reine shook her head. "In the few years since Frey's ‘death,' we learned nothing more concerning the family's heritage, though Lady Tärtgyth Sykion has kept watch for anything to help me … to help Frey."
Reine turned, and in two quick steps, she hung over Wynn, her voice a harsh threatening whisper.
"And you will do the same!"
A snarl rose in the dark. Shade closed, head low and jowls quivering in warning.
Reine's gaze never left Wynn, and Wynn quickly waved Shade off.
"You will keep watch for anything to help," Reine went on. "Whatever you do, wherever you seek, this as well as your silence is what your life depends on. You owe your people … you owe my husband … you owe me!"
Reine walked away, never looking down as she passed Shade.
Wynn sat in the dark, listening for the sound of Chane's footsteps.
The following night, Wynn walked through the gates of the Guild of Sagecraft with Chane and Shade.
She'd sat up late the night before upon the ship, waiting for Chane, but then she grew tired and went to a cabin that Captain Tristan had assigned. It wasn't until the next day that she learned Chane had finally arrived at the ship just before dawn. Perhaps it had taken longer for him to find blood than she'd imagined.
At least he'd arrived and taken cover on board before the ship sailed.
Now … they were back in Calm Seatt, back at the guild.
The guild courtyard was empty, but by now her superiors might have heard she was returning. If they hadn't, at the moment she had little desire to tell them herself. High-Tower would want a word with her—and she with him concerning the second codex. He would be more than relieved that she was leaving again soon, and less than pleased that she would expect more funding.
Shade trotted straight to the door of the southeast dormitory. By the time Wynn shut the door of her old room, Shade had bounded onto the bed and dropped in a huff.
"Don't get too comfortable," she said. "We're not staying long."
She'd barely leaned the staff in the corner as Chane set their packs by her desk, when someone knocked at her door.
Wynn almost groaned. Someone had spotted them and told High-Tower or Sykion. She wasn't ready to face either but opened the door just the same.
A young man stood in the passage wearing the midnight blue robe of the Order of Metaology. He thrust out something flat, wrapped in plain brown paper.
"I was ordered to place this directly in your hands," he said, already turning to leave.
Wynn took the package. There were no markings upon it, and she leaned out the door.
"Wait … ordered by whom?"
The messenger had already rounded the passage's far end and gone down the stairs. Wynn stepped back and shut the door. Considering the messenger's robe color, she wondered if this was something from Premin Hawes, head of Metaologers. But that didn't make any sense.
"What is it?" Chane asked.
"I don't know."
The flat, flexing square hadn't been bound with twine, but every edge of the paper wrap was sealed with glue. Its contents were completely enclosed. With no name or hint of the sender, she carefully tore one corner until she could unwrap it safely.
Inside, atop a folded parchment sheet, was a note—from Domin il'Sänke.
Wynn, if you are reading this, it means you are still alive. A relief, I am certain, though a surprise to me, considering your nature. …
Wynn wrinkled her nose at this poor humor.
The enclosed may be of interest in your pursuits, though it is incomplete. I can do nothing more, since I have not seen the whole of the original from which it is translated. Make of it what you will, and as always, keep your secrets.
With hesitation and affection, Domin Ghassan il'Sänke, Order of Metaology Guild of Sagecraft in Samau'a Gaulb, il'Dha'ab Najuum
In the brief days she'd been gone, he couldn't have returned home, let alone sent this all the way back. He must have left it before he departed, with instructions for its delivery if and when she returned. Wynn unfolded the parchment, and there was il'Sänke's scrawl upon it.
The Children in twenty and six steps seek to hide in five corners
The anchors amid Existence, which had once lived amid the Void.
One to wither the Tree from its roots to its leaves
Laid down where a cursed sun cracks the soil.
That which snuffs a Flame into cold and dark
Sits alone upon the water that never flows.
The middling one, taking the Wind like a last breath,
Sank to sulk in the shallows that still can drown.
And swallowing Wave in perpetual thirst, the fourth
Took seclusion in exalted and weeping stone.
But the last, that consumes its own, wandered astray
In the depths of the Mountain beneath the seat of a lord's song.
Wynn recognized some phrases. But the impact of what she read, yet didn't understand, overwhelmed everything but her academic nature. She knew nothing of Suman poetry, let alone whatever ancient forms it took on. Likely the translation had broken much of its structure.
"This here … and that," Chane said, pointing at the parchment. "Those are close to phrases you already translated."
Wynn hadn't even realized he was reading over her shoulder.
Compared to what she'd worked out, incorrectly or not, il'Sänke had revealed much more. She'd have to check her journals, but his translation appeared to be all of what she'd blindly copied from Chane's scroll. Even il'Sänke had stumbled over the few phrases she'd first shown him. He must have worked furiously trying to finish the rest before he left.
"Eternals bless you!" Wynn whispered.
After all she'd been through, all the damage she'd done, she desperately needed something of worth … something to guide her next steps. Certain phrases upon the parchment began to nag her—like ants in her skull searching erratically for something she'd forgotten… .
Something right before her—something she unconsciously hadn't wanted to recognize.
"What are the five corners?" Chane asked. "It is a lead phrase, connected to the thirteen Children. You told me they divided … and here are five cryptic entries."
"Destinations," Wynn whispered absently.
Chane was silent for a long moment.
"Why?" he asked. "Your white undead and her companions took the orb into the Pock Peaks. Where did the others go? I cannot even tell which one of these nonsense lines relates to her or that place."