"Here," he said with a sudden stop, fingering a tall set of shelves along a passageway. "Some from the Suman lands, more from our scattered old cultures. A few have been translated into the Begaine syllabary, but not many."
She nodded, peering at the shelves. "I can read some Sumanese."
"Stick to Spirit by Fire, for the general accumulations," Tärpodious added, "or by Air, should you need to branch out into social customs based on old tales."
For an instant the references left Wynn's mind blank. Tärpodious tapped the bookshelf's end, and she saw the faded etchings filled with remnants of paint in the old wood.
Each guild order was symbolically associated with one of the Elements of existence—Spirit, Fire, Air, Water, and Earth. In turn, geometric symbols for such were used to classify, subclassify, and cross-reference subject matter by emphasis and context.
On the bookshelf's vertical end was a circle above a triangle.
Circle—for Spirit and the Order of Metaology, with its study of metaphysics, philosophy, religion, folklore, etc.
Triangle—for Fire and the Order of Cathology, with its devotion to informational and organizational pursuits.
In this section, Wynn would find works cataloguing and organizing collected information on the subject she sought.
"Thank you," she said. "I'd like to get a good start before supper."
Her breath quickened as she scanned faded titles down a few volumes with cracked leather spines. Her gaze paused briefly on one written in Dwarvish. She suddenly longed to be alone, to pore through these volumes in search of answers. But Tärpodious walked farther down the row, his gray robes dragging through the dust.
"These here are the oldest… too old to date accurately, some in varied ancient Numanese dialects and a couple in the elven Êdän script. Much of the content is poorly organized and difficult to follow. Not much is of interest anymore, so you wouldn't find it in the upper library."
"Yes, thank you," Wynn repeated anxiously. "I don't wish to keep you from your work."
He squinted again, perhaps hearing her implied intent. "Yes, yes, but don't try to reshelve anything, or it may end up out of place. Be selective, and then leave any works in the alcove. I'll check on you later."
"That would be kind," Wynn said.
Tärpodious shuffled away, only the glow of his lamp marking his passage through the dark. The instant the old domin was out of sight, Wynn backtracked to the nearest antechamber and dropped everything but her lamp on the table. She scurried back to the shelves, and began peering at spines and labels. Finally she pulled two wood-bound sheaves, each with no markings or title, and one old book. Clutching the heavy burden, she rushed back to the antechamber.
Wynn paged through the first sheaf of stacked loose sheets and found that it was a collection of various short works divided by hardened parchment separators. Though old and worn, all were in their original languages yet written in ink, which meant these weren't originals but copies, regardless of age.
Texts were often duplicated to keep originals safe in storage. Later, those of greatest importance were transcribed again using the Begaine syllabary, some in their initial language and some translated as well into Numanese—if they were of good general use for the upper library.
Not this sheaf. It remained a hodgepodge, deemed unnecessary for such expense or time. But that didn't mean it held nothing of interest. The first pages were written in Iyindu, a nearly forgotten desert dialect of the Suman Empire.
Wynn grumbled under her breath.
For all her language skills, this was one she barely understood, and her research wouldn't go quickly. She might work her way through dozens of texts before finding a single useful tidbit. She put that first stack aside and paged deeper into the sheaf.
She had no idea what she was looking for, only that she sought an undead, aware and sentient enough to desire the folios—recent ones—and that it could read the Begaine syllabary. And it could drain life without leaving a mark.
Wynn let out a sigh—too many contradictions muddling her thoughts.
The most expedient way to pinpoint a motive would've been through the translation project. Such thoughts—wishes—wouldn't help her now. She didn't even know where the original texts were being kept, let alone where translated portions were being worked on.
Normally translation was done aboveground on the main hall's third floor, close to the offices of the premins. But they and the domins feared anyone outside the project's staff finding out too much. The original texts themselves would be hidden somewhere very secure.
And Premin Sykion and Domin High-Tower would never let her near them.
No, trying to uncover the undead in question was the best she could do for now—better than doing nothing at all.
The next bundle of pages was written in Heiltak, a common enough alphabet used in pre-Numanese languages.
Wynn opened her blank journal, white-tipped quill in hand, and began reading. By the time she neared the bottom of the second stack within the sheaf, piles of sheets were all over the little table.
She barely comprehended a third of what she could actually read, and less than half of one journal page was covered in jotted notes. Not much of it related directly to what she sought. Most were odd terms unconnected to what she would call an undead, let alone a Noble Dead.
Yâksasath—a type of "demon," from Sumanese superstitious references compiled by an earlier scholar. It wasn't even a Sumanese word as far as she could work out. These creatures mimicked the form of a person their victim would recognize and trust.
Had Jeremy and Elias been tricked by someone they thought they recognized?
No, more likely that myth was a variation on the ghül, supposedly «living» demons. Banished from their mythological underworld, they were thought to range the barren mountains. Ghül had to eat their victims while still alive in order to be nourished.
Wynn shuddered at such a notion, but it was nonsense. As if there would be enough people to feed on in such remote places. And unlike vampires or yâksasath, or even the unknown undead hunting the folios, ghüls ate flesh. That would certainly leave a mark on a corpse.
She reached the last stack in the second sheaf, and it was written in Dwarvish. Wynn skimmed the text as she dipped her elven quill into the small ink bottle. She read Dwarvish better than she spoke it, giving her time to work out any older characters. Still, the text was archaic and the syntax difficult to follow, until…
Hassäg'kreigi.
Wynn's gaze locked on that one term. She scanned it twice more to be sure she'd read the characters correctly. When those black-armored dwarven warriors had secretly visited High-Tower, and vanished shortly after, the domin had called them by this title.
Stonewalkers.
She jerked the quill back to her journal—and heard something rattle on the tabletop.
Wynn sucked a frantic breath. The little ink bottle teetered and spun amid all the loose sheets. She dropped the quill and grabbed it with both hands, bringing it to sudden stillness. A few black droplets spattered over her thumb.
Wynn broke out in a sweat.
If she blemished even one sheet, Domin Tärpodious might drop dead in his tracks—but not before he took her with him. She slowly released the bottle and carefully lifted her ink-spattered hand away. Ripping a blank page from the journal, she did her best to clean her thumb. Wynn gazed hurriedly across the page of dwarven letters.