Wynn became reluctant to mention that it had been a woman—probably a journeyor—or to provide any description at all. Whoever had made that pass, possibly someone in Gyâr’s order or the premin of another, may have used the young metaologer as an unwitting tool. That person might be a hidden ally or just another enemy trying to further hinder and malign Wynn. She wasn’t about to risk incriminating the wrong person until she was certain.
Gyâr’s anger surfaced again as he glanced at the elderly archivist watching all of this closely. Some inner frustration seemed to keep the premin from getting out whatever he wanted to say. If the pass was real, the premin certainly couldn’t have them arrested—or worse—in front of witnesses.
“Journeyor,” the old archivist said to Wynn, stepping forward. “What are you seeking in the Naturology archives? For your calling, I would think you would want the southwest of our five spires.”
“The southwest spire?” she echoed.
“Yes ... for the Cathology archives.”
Wynn felt ill.
She’d asked the young initiate in the courtyard for directions to the archives, and the girl had pointed around the redwood ring to the closest way to the closest spire. There was a reason why every casement here had symbols that all began with an octagon.
Five orders and five spires, or five archives for each order, and she’d picked the wrong one.
“Witless” Wynn Hygeorht, the madwoman of Calm Seatt’s guild branch, had done it again.
Even now she didn’t know which of the other four held the archives for Metaology, marked with a circle for Spirit. She wasn’t about to ask, for they were all beyond her reach. Her mysterious pass had been confiscated, more of the Shé’ith would be guarding every spire’s entrance, and she’d again drawn too much attention.
Her stomach began to hurt.
“Tell me who brought you this letter,” Gyâr demanded. “What did he look like?”
Wynn feigned confusion. “I only remember a dark blue robe. I was too surprised when I saw the letter, thinking it had come from you.”
Gyâr took a long, slow breath, and froze in indecision.
“Put those swords away,” the old archivist admonished, gesturing to the guards, and then turned his disapproval beyond Wynn. “You, too, young man. There has been enough irreverence here for one evening.”
Wynn felt Chane’s hand leave her shoulder as he sheathed his blade. The elder archivist stepped past the premin toward Wynn.
“All right, now. Back to your rooms,” he told her, as if she were a child up past her bedtime. “And mind the premin concerning the archives. We will handle the rest of this nonsense ourselves.”
But as he reached toward Wynn, she saw a pleading in his gaze that spoke louder than his fatherly words. He was giving her a way out, a way beyond the premin’s immediate reach, and she’d better take it.
“Of course, Domin,” she said quickly. “And our apologies for this upset.”
To Wynn’s relief, Chane followed her with only one last glare at the elven guards. Shade scurried ahead, rumbling at the younger archivist until he backstepped in shock.
Gyâr reluctantly let them pass, but his eyes never left Wynn.
Her relief was short-lived. They may have escaped the premin’s anger, but they had nothing to show for it.
Chane did not say a word all the way back to their room. Much as he would prefer to let this failure drive Wynn toward home, his thoughts raced elsewhere. He searched wildly for some way to get her into the correct archives. For certainly if he did not, what would she do next, and thereby place herself in even more danger?
None of his abilities, his arcane tools or books, or even his recently mastered concoctions offered a single way to help her. There had to be something, though he could not yet see it.
Wynn shuffled ahead of him through the small common room and up to the passage to their quarters. Only once did Chane catch her profile. He expected to see defeat, but instead her features were tense, eyelids half-closed in some deep thought. This made him worry even more.
He wanted to say something, to do something, to make her feel better or divert her from whatever drastic scheme she would try next. Still, he could think of nothing, and it was driving him mad under the constant prodding of this place, this forest, all over his flesh.
Wynn opened the door to their room and stepped inside.
“Where have you been?”
Chane looked over her head to see Ore-Locks standing inside their room. Without answering, Wynn walked past him and sank down on her bed ledge. This penchant of hers was also beginning to worry Chane. More and more, she often shifted between suffering in defeat and rushing into thoughtless action.
“We had a chance and we took it,” she sighed.
Ore-Locks crossed his arms. “What chance?”
Wynn looked up at him, hesitating, and then told him everything up to the point where Gyâr had come for them.
“We were in the wrong archive,” she finished. “Now I have no way to gain the right one.”
Ore-Locks grimaced, his anger no better contained than the premin’s, though his reason was exactly the opposite. Whatever his ultimate motivation might be, his goal was for Wynn to succeed in finding the lost dwarven seatt.
“We cannot stay here doing nothing,” Chane finally said. “Yet we cannot continue until we learn where to go. We are without options.”
“I know that!” Wynn nearly shouted, and then shut her eyes. “Sorry,” she said more softly, “but I’m well aware of our situation.”
Ore-Locks glanced sidelong at Wynn, his broad face thoughtful. His resentment had vanished, which left Chane wary. Dwarves were not quick to real anger, but once it came, it did not fade easily.
“If you cannot access written words,” Ore-Locks said, “then turn to truer spoken ones.”
Wynn lifted her head, looking at him in puzzlement. Then she dropped her chin back into her hands.
“Oral tradition may be your people’s way,” she said, “but not for the guild or the elves.”
“The elves are long-lived,” he went on. “They may not be as oral as my people, but more so than humans. Someone here must know something of use.”
Wynn sat upright. Something in Ore-Locks’s words must have sparked another wild notion.
“No one here will talk to us,” Chane interrupted. “They have been warned against us by now.”
“Then find someone who disagrees with them,” Ore-Locks stated, looking only at Wynn. “We have already met one such who finds the guild quite distasteful ... because of Chuillyon.”
Wynn lifted her eyes to him and whispered in astonishment, “Vreuvillä!”
Chane’s chest tightened the instant that name crossed her small lips, for Ore-Locks might be correct. That wild woman—priestess, whatever she was—might tell them whatever she knew simply out of spite, if she knew anything useful at all.
Chane could not bear the thought of going anywhere near First Glade again. The first night had been horrible.
Wynn’s soft brown eyes shifted to him, concern and questions on her face, as if she’d read his thoughts. Chane knew it was too late now to stop her, but he raised a hand before she spoke.
“We have no idea where or how to find her in this ... forest.”
The anticipation on her face faltered. It crushed him to crush her hope. Yet Wynn would still push blindly forward, now that Ore-Locks had prodded her.
Chane simply hoped he could stall a little longer—long enough to find a better answer. Only then did he notice an oddity from the only silent one in the room.
This time, Shade had not protested at all.
Chapter 14
Sau’ilahk observed a’Ghràihlôn’na through the tâshgâlh’s eyes. Not one elf walking the city’s paths noticed the animal darting between sculpted shrubs and bushes. The beast was easy to control, but once it reached the guild’s living structure, it paused under Sau’ilahk’s own astonishment.