waerth, n. [Origin unknown; found in early southern regional dialects, prenationalization of the Numan Lands.] One of several possible alternate spellings for the obscure modern Numanese term wraith [râth].
Wynn flipped pages to find the referenced entry for “wraith”: a dark or black apparition, sometimes similar to, or in the likeness of, a particular person. Found in folklore as an omen of immediate impending demise, though sometimes said to be seen shortly after an individual's death.
Wynn slammed the thick book shut—portents indeed!
More superstitious nonsense, which brought her no closer to the truth concerning what hunted her people and the folios. She jotted down the new term and definition next to her entry for the warth and left the library, hurrying all the way to her room.
Once inside, with the door tightly shut, Wynn flopped onto her bed. After a while she crawled over to peer out her narrow window. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the keep's walls, she heard eight bells ring out softly.
The last eighth of day, called Geuréleâ—“day's winter”—in the dwarven time system used throughout the Numan Lands. Dusk was coming, and the day's work hardly seemed useful.
Every time she thought of how she'd carried back a wealth of texts written by ancient undead but wasn't even allowed to see them, it left her so angry that her stomach burned. If she could only find some common thread within the folios' contents, she might provide Premin Sykion with a possible motive.
But for this to happen, the premin council had to acknowledge that the folios—and the entire project—were connected to the deaths and thefts. Otherwise, even a sound theory of motive would be disdainfully dismissed, like her tales of dhampirs, vampires, ghosts, and…
Wynn sighed and dropped back down on the bed. Rubbing her temples, she tried to drive angry obsession from her head. She needed clarity and calm as she went to her table-desk and began reviewing her notes.
Nonsensical accounts of animated corpses feeding on flesh replaced anger's burn with queasiness. She wished Domin il'Sänke would finish the sun crystal. But at least she was shut away in her room once again, where she worked best.
Her possessions were simple: a bed, a table for a desk, her cold lamp, a small chest, and all her journaling equipment. In spite of slight nausea, she was getting a bit hungry, having not eaten since breakfast.
At a knock on her door her heart thumped hard, and she thought, Please let it be il'Sänke, with the sun crystal finally completed. She ran for the door and jerked it open.
Nikolas stood outside, his face drawn and pale.
Wynn sagged in disappointment but tried to express concern. "What's wrong?"
He opened his mouth once, then closed it, and Wynn forgot her own worries.
Others called him little Nervous Nikolas, but he wasn't exactly little. He was slender, but not spindly, and of medium height. Perhaps his constant cringing and the twitching worry in his plain brown eyes had led to that nickname. She wondered what in his past had rooted this perpetual anxiety.
"Come in," she said, stepping back, "and tell me what's wrong."
He quickly slipped past her, but not before glancing both ways along the outer passage.
"I'm… I'm…" he began in a stammer.
Wynn took a deep breath and waited patiently.
"I'm being sent for tonight's folio!" he blurted out. "Me, with Miriam and Dâgmund, and they were followed last night!"
Wynn froze in disbelief.
"Domin il'Sänke must have told Domin High-Tower what happened," he rushed on. "So how could he send more of us out?"
"Nikolas!" Wynn said. "Calm down."
"I don't want to go!" he half shouted, and ended in stuttering whimpers. "But if I refuse I will… seem unhelpful."
Pity mixed with Wynn's frustration. The one thing an apprentice never wished to be called was «unhelpful» — a thinly veiled euphemism for «lazy» or "incapable." But in spite of two deaths, a ransacked scriptorium, and an account of two messengers being followed, her superiors remained insistent that these events were unconnected and had nothing to do with the translation project.
Nikolas stared at her expectantly, as if she had the power to save him.
"I cannot change their minds," she said bitterly. "And I can't go with you. They won't allow me anywhere near the translation work."
Nikolas seemed on the verge of tears as his lips began quivering.
"But I can do something," she said, returning to her table.
Wynn tore a blank page from her journal and scribbled a quick note. She held it out for Nikolas to read with her.
To Captain Rodian, commander of the Shyldfälches,
Two sage messengers returning last night with a folio believe they were followed. Neither was injured, but three more go now, as of dusk. Please send men to Master Calisus's shop—the Feather & Parchment—and make certain they return safely.
"I'll have an initiate run this to the captain," she said. "He wants no more trouble over the folios. I'm certain he'll send guards to protect you."
Nikolas's brown eyes flooded with relief. "Thank you, Wynn… Wait, what if Domin High-Tower finds out? He's already angry with you over that day you returned home with the captain."
"I don't care," Wynn answered coldly. "All that matters is that the three of you come back."
If her instincts were correct and the killer was a Noble Dead, Rodian's men might not be able to stop it. But it had always struck when no one was watching, perhaps wishing to remain unseen. The sight of a few city guards might give it pause, and any vampire would think twice about engaging multiple armed soldiers.
Nikolas dropped his gaze to the floor. "I should've thought of this myself. Elias would have. He always knew what to do."
Wynn patted his arm. "Go get ready, and I'll find a messenger."
Nikolas nodded quickly, and they both le Kd ter.ft the room. As he took off across the inner courtyard, Wynn's ire at her superiors sharpened. But so did her concern for any innocent sage caught in harm's way.
The premins and domins were denying the plain facts before their eyes—and it made less sense every night. Rodian left the barracks that evening with Lieutenant Garrogh. They headed for supper at a favored local inn called Mother's.
Its founder was long dead, and her grandson now ran the establishment. Close by, with modest prices and good basic food, it was popular among the forces of the second castle. Sooner or later most of the city guards and regulars, and even some of the cavalry, stepped across its threshold. Though the barracks boasted a full cooking staff, and the food was healthy and plentiful, sometimes it felt good to eat elsewhere than the meal hall.
Tonight Rodian picked at a bowl of thick seafood stew with his spoon while Garrogh shoveled in mouthfuls. The lieutenant stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth.
"Don't you like it?"
"It's fine," Rodian answered, glancing idly about.
A group of his city guard sat at a nearby table, though he saw few regular soldiers tonight. The place was packed, just the same. Aside from price and quality, people were more at ease anywhere they saw the city guard—the People's Shield—take their rest. All around, private citizens and red surcoated Shyldfälches ate and drank with boisterous chatter.