“Close your eyes and trust me,” she said.
Sau’ilahk watched through his familiar’s eyes as it scampered along the upper branches in pursuit of Wynn—or in pursuit of one shiny little ring fixed in its instinctual obsession. Its eyes offered a much better view at night than those of his conjured servitors.
Chane did not look well.
The vampire might have breached the forest’s safeguards, but clearly he suffered for it. Wynn led onward ahead of the dwarf as they followed the majay-hì. When they came to a three-way split in the path, a loud howl carried from a distance.
The tâshgâlh froze, backing away along the branch. Sau’ilahk seized control to keep it still.
The dwarf muttered something, but Sau’ilahk was too distracted to catch the words. After a few more distant howls, Shade darted off the path, followed by Wynn and the others in a stumbling gait through the underbrush.
Sau’ilahk forced the tâshgâlh onward, choking off its whimpers of fright at those howls.
Chuillyon waited tensely as Gyâr’s heavy footfalls descended the stairs outside his chambers. Hannâschi sidestepped away from the entrance. This was not a good time for a visit from the tall premin. Chuillyon snapped his fingers.
Hannâschi went rigid, her eyes locking on him. He pointed at the curtained doorway to his sleeping chamber, and she rushed through, trying to still the curtain in her wake.
An instant later, Gyâr pounded through the entrance, the letter held high in hand.
“We have a problem,” he announced, as if the presumption that Chuillyon would share the weight of it was not debatable.
Chuillyon raised his feathery eyebrows. “And that would be?”
Gyâr held out the letter. “A sympathizer ... and traitor in our midst.”
Chuillyon took it, scanning its content as if he had never seen it before. Of course, he had not seen it since the council seal had been added.
The fact that no one had sought out Hannâschi meant that Wynn had given no description of the courier. This was no surprise. The errant little sage, so accustomed to persecution, would never give up another who had tried to help her.
“I assume you did not issue it,” Chuillyon murmured, looking up with a carefully baffled expression. “Where did it come from?”
“From that Numan journeyor,” Gyâr snapped, “standing in the north archive!”
Chuillyon feigned a gasp. “What premin would issue this? Perhaps Viajhuijh? Wynn, though from another branch, is a cathologer and of his order.”
“I’ve already challenged Viajhuijh. He seemed as surprised as you ... and would never dare go against me, let alone steal into my study to use the seal without consent or council approval.”
“Well, someone did,” Chuillyon said, “and someone gave Hygeorht extensive assistance.”
This was not exactly true. No one had broken into Gyâr’s quarters, and Wynn had been given minimal assistance in entering the archives.
Hannâschi’s only direct thaumaturgy had been to trick Thrûchk, the master archivist’s apprentice, into thinking he’d received rare tomes from the Suman branch. Thus he was lured out of the archive to his office, and Wynn had walked in unhindered. It had taken a bit more than twisted light to fake the books on Thrûchk’s desk, but Hannâschi had managed.
Creating the pass with a council seal had been a little more mundane.
Chuillyon possessed a few sheets of the high premin’s stationery and had written the letter himself. In the past, he’d more than once gotten his hands on documents with the stamped council seal. Sometimes those documents took a little longer than usual for their final delivery.
Hannâschi would apply an alchemical mixture to a wood block, press it on a document’s stamped seal, and lift off a reverse imprint. The captured ink could then be revitalized once or twice, and the block used to reimprint another document. The covert stamp was not perfect, but neither was the original. However, it was the original image—with the original ink made for use only with the seal.
Gyâr paced to the entrance arch, braced a hand upon its edge, and glanced back, a predator’s glint in his dark yellow eyes.
“How is this possible?” he demanded. “That Numan journeyor said one of my apprentices delivered the letter. I have spoken to all of them, and none claim any knowledge of it.” His eyes narrowed. “What of the Suman entourage? Could they be responsible?”
“Why bother giving the letter away? They could have used the pass themselves.”
Gyâr exhaled. “At the very least, someone may have acquired a metaologer’s robe from our stores to play messenger. Do you trust everyone of your order? Would any of yours have reason to do this?”
Chuillyon frowned in manufactured resentment. “I assure you, no one under me has any interest in assisting Journeyor Hygeorht.”
“Then we are back to our other three premins?”
“Really, Gyâr. Why would they help some wayward sage from Calm Seatt?”
“Then who else?”
Chuillyon raised his hands in feigned exasperation, although at tomorrow’s council gathering, he knew exactly whom the others would suspect: him. Oh, he had been the prime suspect of lesser mischief, though nothing had ever been proven. At present, Gyâr was the only one who mattered.
The premin of Metaology, sitting in as high premin, held all the power for now. Gyâr’s trust and need of an old ally outweighed casting suspicion the same way. The premins might be troubled over this subterfuge with the pass, but ultimately that would be the least of their concerns. All would disapprove of Gyâr’s rashness in petitioning the people’s council to bring in the Shé’ith—the Serenitiers, as humans might call them. Exactly what had he done to convince the Premin Council for that?
Gyâr dropped into one of the simple chairs. “Order some tea,” he said. “We must reason this through ... until a path to the answer is found.”
Chuillyon gazed toward his chamber’s entrance. He was not getting out of here any time soon—and neither was Hannâschi.
“Keep your eyes shut tight,” Wynn told Chane, pushing leafy branches out of her face.
Her sleeves were soaked through from moisture clinging to foliage as she trailed Shade. Ore-Locks followed, but it took all Wynn’s effort to drag Chane blindly onward. It seemed too long that she’d been fighting through this underbrush, but the howls and yips grew steadily louder and nearer.
Wynn broke into a small clearing and found Shade poised at its center with her ears upright. Something had stalled the dog, but as Wynn reached out to touch Shade’s haunches, two furred forms burst from the underbrush on the clearing’s far side.
Both majay-hì were long and lanky like Shade, with equally narrow muzzles and tall ears. One was a mottled brown. The other was a more traditional silver-gray. The pair split, rounding opposite sides of the small space.
Rustlings rose in the brush all around the clearing.
“Watch your backs,” Ore-Locks warned.
Wynn looked about frantically. Noise in the underbrush sounded as if an entire pack had surrounded the clearing, but only two dogs had shown themselves. She spun back at a clack of teeth.
Both newcomers froze. The mottled one held a forepaw up in midstep, as Shade snarled at it with her ears flattened.
Wynn had placed her trust in Shade. The last time she’d encountered a majay-hì pack had been in the Farlands’ Elven Territories. Only the presence of Chap and his mate, Lily, had made them tolerate her. She hoped the same would work here with Shade.
The silver majay-hì turned and lowered its head. Shade snapped the air before it.
Chane’s hand slipped out of Wynn’s and latched onto her wrist. Before she even turned, she heard his sword sliding from its sheath.