Night stars, tall grass, and white flowers, and the darker shapes of the forest trees faded back into Sau’ilahk’s view. He hung there on the plain, clinging to returning self-awareness. For an instant, he had fallen into dormancy.
He reached out through his connection, the fragment of his will embedded inside his servitor. It was not there, not anywhere. This was impossible. He should have felt his creation at even a greater distance. How could it be gone, and why at the instant he was about to see where Wynn had gone?
Something in that clearing had not allowed the servitor to enter. Something had too easily taken it apart, banishing it into nothingness.
Sau’ilahk wanted to shriek, and, indeed, any living creature near enough would have fled from the wind of his conjured voice. Slowly, he reclaimed his self-control.
He needed a servant to be his eyes and ears, one capable of invading in the elves’ forest. It now seemed he needed something more natural to that place. There had been that pressure he had felt, even without willing himself to a physical state. As if something in there tried to force him out.
Sau’ilahk had felt this before, though not with such force. And the last, too recent time had been ...
“Chuillyon?” Wynn whispered again.
Anger drove the numbness of shock out of her, but she still couldn’t believe her eyes. She’d seen him head off for the royal castle of Calm Seatt barely seven days before her journey began. No one could have reached the forest before her, let alone known where she would go first upon arrival.
All he did was nod, a curt bow of acknowledgment. And he was still smiling softly at her.
“What are you doing here?” Chane asked.
At a glance, Wynn saw the sword in his grip. Chane stood well away from Chârmun, as if hesitant to approach, but worse was the sheen on his face. She’d never seen him perspire, didn’t even think it was possible for the undead. His eyes were utterly colorless again.
When Wynn looked back at Chuillyon, he wasn’t smiling anymore.
“You are a never-ending source of perplexity, Wynn Hygeorht,” he said, but his gaze was fixed on Chane.
No one could know what Chane was while he wore the ring ... could they?
Ore-Locks stepped wide around Chane, but as he looked to Chuillyon, he grew visibly uncomfortable. He swallowed hard and lowered his eyes in a respectful bow. Clearly, Ore-Locks hadn’t expected to see his master’s comrade here, either.
Chuillyon clicked his tongue.
“Your sudden absence has been a great concern, stonewalker,” he said in a parentlike tone. “Master Cinder-Shard would be quite shocked to learn of the company you keep.”
Ore-Locks continued to look at the ground.
Wynn studied him. Hadn’t he told Cinder-Shard or any of the Stonewalkers where he’d gone?
“Your penchant for unusual companionship continues,” Chuillyon added.
Now he was studying Shade—and smiling again—leaving Wynn uncertain to whom he’d been speaking.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Me? Just a brief retreat of rest,” he answered, with obvious mock surprise. “It is my homeland, after all.”
She examined his hair, free of tangles, as if freshly groomed. His pristine white robe and even the toes of his soft boots showed no sign of travel. He looked as if he’d just stepped from the royal grounds for a leisurely walk in the woods.
“Turnabout is certainly fair,” he continued. “Why are you here, journeyor, other than for the peaceful welcome of Chârmun?”
“None of your affair. You have no authority over me.”
“Chârmun’s blessings!” Chuillyon said with a soft laugh.
What did he want? Had he followed her, or was his reason for rushing home a coincidence? She had long stopped believing in coincidence.
“Wynn, we should leave this place,” Chane rasped.
He sounded manic, but he was right. She’d seen First Glade for herself, but the appearance of this false sage had ruined that one moment of unblemished assurance.
Ore-Locks barely glanced up at Chuillyon. The dwarf’s broad face was a mask of urgency fighting reluctance, as if caught between explaining himself and simply leaving as quickly as possible.
Wynn decided upon the latter. She backed toward Chane, and Shade wheeled to follow.
“You came all this way,” Chuillyon called after her, “but you leave without even one touch? Come, now, have you lost all of your curiosity?”
She wasn’t about to let him bait her, and placed Chane’s hand on her shoulder, turning to lead him out. Then Shade stiffened beside her and spun sharply, making Wynn stall.
Shade hadn’t turned toward Chuillyon or Chârmun. She began twitching ever so slightly as she stared toward the clearing’s far side.
A long, almost mournful howl rose out of the forest.
“What was that?” Ore-Locks asked.
Chuillyon released a long, exhausted breath. “Oh, not now.”
That unguarded slip was like an annoyed boy’s mischief interrupted—or another snide utterance from an aging deceiver hiding beneath tranquillity.
A single form burst from the trees at the clearing’s rear side. Shade stood at full attention, but she didn’t snarl.
Tall and leggy, a silver-gray majay-hì loped purposefully forward. Another dog leaped out of the brush, and then another.
By Chârmun’s glow, Wynn watched a majay-hì pack appear one by one out of the forest, until nine paced and padded around the glade. They looked so much like the ones Wynn had seen in the Elven Territories of the Farlands ... silver and gray, or dull brown to charcoal, though none were as near to black as Shade. And they were all silent. Crystal blue eyes shone clearly as they closed in, circling watchfully around the intruders.
Then something more upright pushed through the trees where the last two dogs stood waiting.
Wynn stared in surprise at the newcomer.
She was small for an elf, shorter than an average human male. By her deeply tanned complexion, she could have passed for an an’Cróan, if not for her darker hair. It was so dark that it could’ve been brown rather than the sandy blonds of the Lhoin’na, let alone the brighter tones of an an’Cróan. Still, those locks were lined with vivid silver streaks. Her hair was bound by a circlet of green cloth, perhaps raw shéot’a by its dull shimmer.
At a distance, Wynn couldn’t see any lines in the woman’s face, though her presence gave the impression of long years. Flanked by the pair of majay-hì—a female of steel gray and a mottled brown male—she moved smoothly in a felt skirt bound in pleats by leather thongs wrapped about her narrow waist. Her firm steps were purposeful, as if soft earth and moss, or even the fragrant air itself, would move to her aide if she wished.
She glanced once at the intruders, and then her eyes narrowed as they turned upon Chuillyon.
He offered her a half bow of his head. “Always a pleasure ... Vreuvillä.”
Wynn caught the veiled, put-upon annoyance in his voice as he addressed the woman called “Leaf’s Heart.”
“I felt something twisted within the forest,” she returned pointedly. “I knew it must be you tampering with Chârmun ... again.”
Chuillyon raised one feathery eyebrow. “Then hardly a need to come and see.”
“Unless something more vile followed you.”
“Unlikely.”
“Chârmun is not your tool! Go back to your guild of ranks and orders. The glade is not—and has never been—a place for your kind.”
Wynn caught every implication. This woman thought Chuillyon was part of an official guild order, but that wasn’t possible. There were only five orders, and none of them wore white.
“What are they saying?” Chane whispered.
There wasn’t time for Wynn to translate, as Vreuvillä turned their way. The woman settled a hand upon the head of the steel gray female majay-hì.