Wynn picked up one book. Its flaked, gilded title, written in exaggerated elven script, read The Wells of the Elements, by Premin Glhasleò ácärâj Jhiarajua Avcâshuâ. She vaguely recognized the name.
Premin “Gray Light” or “Dusk Light” had been one of a few metaologers to become a high premin—and the only such among the Lhoin’na. About three hundred years ago, he’d been criticized and suspected by his peers for his manic interest in the arcane. He’d died in bed at only seventy-two, after eating a plate of mushrooms. It was recorded that he’d gathered them himself, so theories of foul play were dismissed.
Wynn lifted a finely crafted parchment from the desk and scanned its Elvish writing. It was a conservative treatise on the hazards of thaumaturgical practices involving elemental Spirit. What, exactly, was Mujahid researching here?
Suddenly, Shade growled, bit down on Wynn’s robe, and jerked, making her stumble back. Wynn dropped the book and page on the table. Shade’s urgency also left her feeling a bit too nosy. Whatever Mujahid’s reasons, he’d been generous with his rooms, and she shouldn’t take advantage.
She pulled on her formal, full-length robe and retrieved the sealed message entrusted to her. Then she paused to scavenge a scrap of paper and a small charcoal stick. She scrawled a quick noted in Belaskian for Chane, telling him she’d try to be back at dusk.
“All right, come on,” she said softly.
Wynn barely opened the outer door when Shade squirmed through and bolted out in a ruckus of scrabbling claws. Wynn rolled her eyes and followed, not bothering to call after the dog.
The narrow passage didn’t exactly resemble a hallway—more like a strange, bark-covered, organic tunnel. Taller than it was wide, it burrowed through the place in a gradual curve ahead. Tall, teardrop-shaped doors, no two ever alike, were spaced sporadically along both sides. Wynn finished the arcing downward slope, reached the flowing stairs, and followed them downward.
When she reached the chamber where she’d met Mujahid, Shade already stood wriggling before the door to the courtyard. The instant Wynn opened it, Shade shot out, and Wynn followed more slowly.
The day was cold and clear outside, though the walls of the redwood citadel cast the courtyard in dusk as she waited on Shade. Hopefully, Shade wouldn’t desecrate some labor-intensive shrubbery.
Wynn craned her head back, looking straight up. By the light of the circle of sky above, she guessed it was early afternoon. Perhaps lunch was still being served. If so, and if she could find the meal hall, she might find assistance with directions, as well.
Shade came back at a leisurely trot, looking much relieved, and Wynn opened the door.
Upon stepping back in, Wynn heard voices echoing from the next inner chamber. She shooed Shade ahead and followed the sound into a passage much wider than the one outside the guest quarters. She’d lost track of how far around the redwood ring they might have gone when she stepped into a cavernous chamber of flowing bark walls.
Light filled the busy place from crystal-paned windows that went up and up along the inner wall. Though the tree ring had to be quite broad, it wasn’t as deep as the hall of Wynn’s guild branch. Instead of spreading out, it spiraled upward.
A central, bark-covered pillar as big as a single redwood rose out of the shale-tiled floor into the heights. Anchored between it and the chamber’s walls were at least five partial levels that she could see. Stairs of bare wood sprouted from the walls, leading from one level to the next. Sages and even others in plain elven clothing sat at tables on each level and chatted away in their lyrical tongue.
And, as usual, too many eyes looked Wynn’s way, or, rather, at Shade.
Apparently, the sight of a majay-hì was almost as bizarre among the Lhoin’na as in Calm Seatt. More so, since such creatures were known to be real to these people—and this one kept company with a human. Many present stared openly, but not even the closest queried Wynn as Shade pressed against her leg.
Remnants of lunch were still spread on tables as young elven initiates busily cleared plates and bowls. Wynn tried to see where the food was being served from, but she noted two things instead.
First, while nearly all the occupants were elves, a small group of Suman sages—including Mujahid—were gathered around one table. He bowed his head politely to her, and Wynn nodded back. His cowl was down, and Wynn was a little surprised at his curly black hair hanging almost to his shoulders. Ghassan il’Sänke, whom she still counted as a friend, kept his quite short, like the few other Suman males she’d met.
She couldn’t help noticing he was the only metaologer in his group. The others were robed in cerulean and teal, the orders of Sentiology and Conamology.
Second, there wasn’t a single white-robed sage in the place, though she hadn’t expected such. If Chuillyon belonged to some legitimate but unknown order, it had to be a small one, and that was a big if.
Ignoring quizzical glances amid sudden silences, Wynn hoped everyone would just go back to their conversations. Between her and the Suman contingent, one elderly male elf in a gray robe sat sipping a cup of broth. He had a serene countenance, and he wasn’t staring at her or Shade.
“Pardon,” Wynn said in Elvish, approaching him. “I have a message from the Calm Seatt branch for your high premin. Could you direct me?”
He glanced at Shade before looking up at her.
“Our high premin is on a mission of mercy,” he said. “She is assisting other healers in combating the fever at a human settlement.”
He said “the fever” as if she knew what he meant, though she didn’t.
“Premin Gyâr of Metaology can take your message for now,” he continued. “He is handling basic affairs in her absence.”
Wynn hesitated. A high premin off grounds was unexpected; leaving the head of Metaology in charge was unprecedented. In a high premin’s absence, the premin of Cathology usually stood in, if the two weren’t one and the same. After that, the premin of Sentiology was typically next in line.
All Wynn wanted was to get rid of the message, and perhaps if she didn’t treat it as urgent, it might be held unopened until the high premin returned. This might gain her a bit of time and willing assistance, if needed, should this message have a similar effect to the one she’d delivered in Chathburh.
“Where can I find Premin Gyâr?” she asked.
“I am heading that way myself,” someone said. “I will take you.”
Wynn turned at the thick accent, and Mujahid stood up among his companions. Sitting so close, he couldn’t have missed her conversation. Something about his eager manner put her on guard again.
The elderly elven cathologer nodded, as if relieved of a burden, and Wynn couldn’t refuse Mujahid’s offer. He gathered up his short pile of books and gestured toward the hall’s back and its courtyard door. Lips pursed, Wynn had started to follow Mujahid when a loud growl halted her.
Shade hadn’t budged. She eyed Wynn and then a nearby table where people were still eating. Shade shook her large head wildly and sniffed the air with great drama.
“We’ll eat soon enough. Now come,” Wynn urged. “First things first.”
Then she noticed the room had gone too quiet.
Even Mujahid stared at the human casually talking to a majay-hì, as if it were normal.
About to speak again, Wynn swallowed hard and cringed under all that scrutiny. She whispered through her teeth, “Come on.”
Shade curled a jowl and slunk toward the door that Mujahid still held open. All three of them ventured outside into the courtyard’s cool air, where there were far fewer eyes.
“Most premins and domins keep offices in the west side,” Mujahid said matter-of-factly. “Metaologers prefer the south.”