“Kyne took her out,” Wynn said.
Though Kyne’s tutoring him in the syllabary had been Chane’s idea, he was still uncertain about the “compensation” Wynn had offered the young sage-to-be. Foremost, Shade was a fully sentient being, useful in her ability to protect Wynn ... and other things. She was not a child’s playtime companion.
And, second, on several occasions he’d gone out into the courtyard and noticed that when Shade was alone with Kyne, the dog lost all semblance of good sense or manners and ran as she pleased and ignored any instructions. The child was forced to run after her, calling out her name.
It was all very ... undignified.
In addition, he had wanted Shade present tonight to help him press Wynn on several matters. But as he backed up to let Wynn follow him inside, all thoughts but her fled from his mind. He still hadn’t become accustomed to the sight of her in that midnight blue robe, but the dark color suited her well. She hadn’t bothered braiding her wispy light brown hair tonight, and it hung loose around her pretty olive-toned face to hang past her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and warm and intelligent all at the same time.
She was so short that she could stand under his chin.
Chane had never thought himself capable of anything resembling contentment. The closest he had ever come was in her company, especially when he was alone with her.
“Did you uncover anything today?” he asked, forestalling other concerns.
The near-soundless rasp of his own voice suddenly bothered him more than usual. Some years past, Magiere had severed his head; he had become whole again only through someone else’s arcane means. But his voice had never healed and likely never would.
Still silent, Wynn shook her head and glanced around at his sparsely furnished room. He required little besides a bed, a desk, ink, quills, paper, and the books he was studying.
“No,” she finally said, “and I spent all day in the archives.”
She sounded strained—and uncomfortable—as if she did not want to be here.
Chane clenched his jaw for an instant. “As I told you ... I think the archives are a waste of your time. You and Hawes should focus on the scroll.”
Wynn looked up at him and nearly snapped, “Premin Hawes has other duties. She can’t spend all of her time playing nursemaid and tutoring me in using my mantic sight.”
“I do not want you using your mantic sight,” he shot back.
He quickly regretted that, considering that her mantic sight was required to read the scroll. They both fell silent for a long moment.
“The scroll is still the more likely option,” he said quietly.
He knew he was right, just as she did. He also knew there were issues with his perspective on this matter. Several years ago he had by happenstance stumbled upon that scroll containing a hidden and possibly prophetic poem written by one of the first thirteen vampires to walk upon the world. The verses contained metaphoric clues to the locations of the five orbs, or at least as somehow known long, long ago by the author.
And the poem had been written in the fluids of an undead and then covered with dark ink.
Wynn was the only one who could read those obscured verses.
She had once faltered in an unschooled use of a thaumaturgical ritual, and the taint of that failure had left her afflicted with mantic sight—the ability to see traces of the Elements, or at least Spirit, in all things. Once she invoked her sight, she could also see the absence of Spirit, such as in the fluids of a physical undead used for the poem hidden beneath the ink. But the aftermath was dangerous.
Wynn became dizzy and nauseated, sometimes even disoriented, and she could maintain her sight for only a short time without becoming more intensely ill. Worse, even when she wished to end her mantic sight, she could not. Someone like Premin Hawes was required to step in and help her. Strangely enough, Shade as well could sometimes help Wynn with this, but only if Wynn did not push such a session too far or too long.
So far Wynn had managed to recover and translate some useful phases, including one sentence that might bear on their current task.
The Wind was banished to the waters within the sands where we were born.
Premin Hawes reasoned that the “we” was a reference to “the Children,” those first thirteen undead—vampires—who had once served the Ancient Enemy itself. It was reasonable to assume that “Wind” corresponded to the orb of Air, for the other elemental metaphors in the poem, five in all, equally hinted at the other orbs. As to “sands,” this might refer to the great desert that spanned the continent between the northern Numan and Lhoin’na lands and the Suman Empire to the south. Hawes asserted that the climate there had changed in a thousand years and what was now a desert might have once been water, at least partly.
It was shortly thereafter when Magiere and those with her escaped from Calm Seatt to head toward il’Dha’ab Najuum. One of their first tasks upon arrival was to contact a ranking sage of the guild’s third branch, the Suman branch: Domin Ghassan il’Sänke, a domin of Metaology.
No one knew whether he would help or not, but il’Sänke favored Wynn, and he was quite possibly the only one who could help find the lost resting place of the orb of Air. Wynn, Shade, and Chane had remained behind in the hopes of launching their own search for the orb of Spirit.
And so far Wynn had uncovered nothing new of use.
The only clues she’d ever found had come from the scroll.
“We need something soon,” Chane said. “Perhaps you could ask Hawes to ... let you try the scroll again.”
Premin Hawes was cautious about Wynn using her ability too often. In truth, Premin Hawes was not as cautious as was Chane—or Shade—but he was desperate for something—anything.
Wynn took a slow breath. “I’ll ask her.” Then she turned away. “I should go and ... check on Osha.”
Chane almost grabbed Wynn’s arm.
That elf—an’Cróan, onetime assassin, interloper—should have left with Magiere. And yet Wynn insisted on being solicitous, checking on him.
It was intolerable.
“If something had changed for him, you would have heard of it,” he began, trying to find anything to dissuade her. “So why bother if you have nothing new to tell him ... or me?”
Chane only half regretted those words, as Wynn halted halfway to the door. When she did not turn to look at him, he no longer regretted them at all. Then he heard her tired sigh.
“He is all alone here,” she said, still not looking at him. “He doesn’t have anyone here besides ...”
She did not finish, so he did so for her.
“Besides you?” he nearly hissed. “And that is likely as he wishes it, planned it.”
Wynn started to turn. “Chane, we have more important matters to—”
Suddenly, he did not want to hear any more and pushed past her, opening the door to step out. “I will go check on Kyne and Shade. Someone needs to watch over them, so the girl is not run ragged.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Chane reached the stairs, never answering Wynn, and he did not hear any footfalls coming after him.
Osha—“a Sudden Breeze”—heard words, out in the passage, between Wynn and the little human girl who came before dawn each day to that undead’s chamber. He had almost stepped out of his room but then changed his mind, waiting to see whether Wynn came to him or ...
She went to that monster instead.
How she could, or why she let that little girl do so, was unbelievable. All he could do was wait in silence for her to come to him last. She would, eventually, now that she had finally returned again.
Osha spent much time in this room. His tall body, white-blond hair, long features, and slanted amber eyes brought too many curious stares from the sages here. And then the questions began, as if the sages were prodding and poking him with their words, some of which he did not understand. In another life so recently lost, he had hidden himself away inside the forest gray cowl of an anmaglâhk. Now he dressed like a human traveler, in a human world he did not understand.