Wynn blinked at him, her brow wrinkling slightly.
"Now you owe me—in barter!" Ore-Locks said. "What do you know of the black spirit that followed you here?"
Wynn hesitated.
"Only that it is an undead," she answered. "One form of what is known in the Farlands as the Vneshené Zomrelé—the Noble Dead … though it isn't physical, like the type more commonly dealt with."
"Physical?" Ore Locks repeated.
Wynn shook her head. "That doesn't matter. … We're dealing with a powerful spirit, which can become corporeal in part or whole for brief periods. We believe it is a conjuror, one so old its power and skill are like nothing heard of before. But like any undead—or most—it can be injured by sunlight."
"Then it is impervious in our underworld," Ore-Locks countered.
Wynn took one step forward, passing her hand before Shade's face.
"No," she returned, "not if I have the staff."
Ore-Locks cocked his head, his eyes narrowed in doubt, but Wynn quickly went on.
"The key to stopping it is to find out what it wants! Get me access to the texts you are holding for the guild!"
Ore-Locks said nothing. Chane tensed at the dwarf's steady gaze upon Wynn—as if the Stonewalker actually considered her demand. Had Wynn finally gained them an ally here? But was it one they even wanted or could trust?
"That can wait," someone else called out.
Chane twisted about, looking around and then up.
Duchess Reine, her elven companion, and the master Stonewalker stood above, a dozen or more steps up the stairs. Chane had not heard the iron doors above slide open.
The elf stood lowest, in the lead, gazing down upon Wynn. He held the staff in his hand, its crystal unsheathed.
"I also have questions, Wynn Hygeorht," he said flatly. "But I am not here to barter."
Chane slipped in behind Wynn and gently touched her unharmed shoulder. A rush of relief came, along with guilt, when she pressed back against him. Monster though he was, besides Shade, he was all she had.
Did he too often take advantage of that?
He whispered in Wynn's ear, "Stay close. Listen for what I tell you."
Reine stood upon the curving stairs between Chuillyon below and Cinder-Shard above her. She was dazed and aching from their silent method of entrance. Chuillyon had hoped to catch whatever the captives might be discussing before revealing their presence. But the nonsense Reine heard made her want to snatch the staff from him and leave this place.
That wasn't possible until Cinder-Shard opened the portal.
She'd seen the Chamber of the Fallen only a few times, but always from the landing above. By the light of the sage's crystal, it was disturbing in its dark simplicity—more so because Ore-Locks was here. He was the last person who should be alone with this manipulative, mad sage, who'd already used him once.
"What are you doing here?" Cinder-Shard growled.
Ore-Locks rounded the great brass seal away from Wynn and approached the stairway's base. His chin lifted, but he didn't look to his master. Instead he eyed Chuillyon and the staff.
"I came for answers," Ore Locks replied. "More than the ones you seek."
Cinder-Shard gently pushed Reine against the wall and stepped down behind Chuillyon.
"You are out of place!" Cinder-Shard nearly shouted. "The others already see to our people's defense—as you should!"
"I am seeing to my people!"
Cinder-Shard turned his head, looking off to the chamber's far side.
Reine tried to follow his strange shift of attention. At first she had no idea what he was doing. Then she saw a black opening between two stone figures. It was directly below the landing above.
She'd never come down the stairs before, so had never seen it. What was in there? Obviously not another way out, or Cinder-Shard wouldn't have placed captives here.
Cinder-Shard stepped off the stairway's edge. As his boots landed upon the chamber floor, a dull thunder echoed into the heights.
"What have you done?" he demanded. "What have you told them?"
"Nothing," Ore-Locks answered. "Nothing more than what the sage read for herself."
Cinder-Shard sagged under some unseen burden, almost like a mourner in a graveyard. He ran a large hand over his face and turned his eyes on Wynn.
"You … you can read the ancient vubrí?"
All this time, Wynn had merely watched and listened. The wolf stood rigid before her and Chane behind her, his cowl pulled up and his hand upon her shoulder. She drew back against him, as if seeking refuge beneath his chin.
"Yes, I can read them," she answered. "As well as some other old writings … like those in the texts."
"So obviously you are well studied," Chuillyon interjected. "Perhaps you even think you know more than your superiors. What have you learned of this person you call … the wraith?"
The change of subject threw Reine off guard, and she didn't care for his new approach.
Wynn Hygeorht had no guard on her tongue and no respect for her guild's authority. She had a way of making superiors seem at fault for the horror and death of the past half moon—which began with two dead sages in an alley. The royal family treasured the guild, and Reine had no interest in any more of this upstart's insinuations.
Still, Chuillyon, Cinder-Shard, and even bitter old Bulwark all believed this mage was something more—something out of Wynn's wild tales. Reine couldn't bring herself to think of such nonsense, not in the face of a more real threat. She had Frey to protect.
"It's old," Wynn finally replied, "perhaps older than even First Glade."
What did that mean? Another pause passed.
"Forgive me," Chuillyon answered, "but I fail to understand your comparison."
"Lie!"
Wynn stiffened at Chane's whisper. It was barely a shaped breath, but she'd heard it just the same. How was he doing this—and was he right? She studied the puzzled frown upon Chuillyon's triangular face, but she couldn't see any sign of deception.
Chane squeezed her shoulder lightly for emphasis.
Her reference to First Glade had nothing to do with getting to the texts, but she couldn't help that one opportune prod. There was no telling when or if she might get another chance.
She'd grown up believing elves the best of all people, of all races. But after the deceit in dealing with the Anmaglâhk of the Farlands' elves, and learning one hint of the hidden history of First Glade, those experiences had left her suspicious. How much subterfuge was there among the elves of her continent—and among their branch of her own guild?
Then there was still the issue of Thallûhearag, Bäalâle Seatt … and Ore-Locks.
The way Cinder-Shard's face had twisted in sudden anguish, as he looked into the mass murderer's chamber, left Wynn frightened. He clearly knew what had called Ore-Locks to service, and the master Stonewalker had still taken in the young dwarf. How many corruptions did she now face? How many enemies surrounded her, even from avenues she'd once thought beyond question?
"You have nothing to stop the wraith," she said to Chuillyon, ignoring even the duchess. "And the staff will work only for me."
Chuillyon stepped all the way down and set the staff's butt upon the floor.
"What is it?" he asked too politely. "What does its crystal do?"
Wynn looked his robe up and down, its color mockingly white and pure.
"It is imbued with the sun's power, the nature of its light," she answered. "Sunlight is … destructive to all undead."
"So this is what you used to face it the last time?" he asked, turning the staff in his hand.
Its crystal cast faint colored glimmers around the chamber as its prism caught light from her cold lamp crystal.