Barb Hendee - Through Stone and Sea

"Yes, I can read them," she answered. "As well as some other old writings … like those in the texts."

"So obviously you are well studied," Chuillyon interjected. "Perhaps you even think you know more than your superiors. What have you learned of this person you call … the wraith?"

The change of subject threw Reine off guard, and she didn't care for his new approach.

Wynn Hygeorht had no guard on her tongue and no respect for her guild's authority. She had a way of making superiors seem at fault for the horror and death of the past half moon—which began with two dead sages in an alley. The royal family treasured the guild, and Reine had no interest in any more of this upstart's insinuations.

Still, Chuillyon, Cinder-Shard, and even bitter old Bulwark all believed this mage was something more—something out of Wynn's wild tales. Reine couldn't bring herself to think of such nonsense, not in the face of a more real threat. She had Frey to protect.

"It's old," Wynn finally replied, "perhaps older than even First Glade."

What did that mean? Another pause passed.

"Forgive me," Chuillyon answered, "but I fail to understand your comparison."

"Lie!"

Wynn stiffened at Chane's whisper. It was barely a shaped breath, but she'd heard it just the same. How was he doing this—and was he right? She studied the puzzled frown upon Chuillyon's triangular face, but she couldn't see any sign of deception.

Chane squeezed her shoulder lightly for emphasis.

Her reference to First Glade had nothing to do with getting to the texts, but she couldn't help that one opportune prod. There was no telling when or if she might get another chance.

She'd grown up believing elves the best of all people, of all races. But after the deceit in dealing with the Anmaglâhk of the Farlands' elves, and learning one hint of the hidden history of First Glade, those experiences had left her suspicious. How much subterfuge was there among the elves of her continent—and among their branch of her own guild?

Then there was still the issue of Thallûhearag, Bäalâle Seatt … and Ore-Locks.

The way Cinder-Shard's face had twisted in sudden anguish, as he looked into the mass murderer's chamber, left Wynn frightened. He clearly knew what had called Ore-Locks to service, and the master Stonewalker had still taken in the young dwarf. How many corruptions did she now face? How many enemies surrounded her, even from avenues she'd once thought beyond question?

"You have nothing to stop the wraith," she said to Chuillyon, ignoring even the duchess. "And the staff will work only for me."

Chuillyon stepped all the way down and set the staff's butt upon the floor.

"What is it?" he asked too politely. "What does its crystal do?"

Wynn looked his robe up and down, its color mockingly white and pure.

"It is imbued with the sun's power, the nature of its light," she answered. "Sunlight is … destructive to all undead."

"So this is what you used to face it the last time?" he asked, turning the staff in his hand.

Its crystal cast faint colored glimmers around the chamber as its prism caught light from her cold lamp crystal.

"Yes," Wynn replied.

"Then it was hardly effective," Chuillyon answered.

"Enough nonsense!" Cinder-Shard cut in. "Even if … How would such a thing be made?"

"You would have to ask Domin il'Sänke," Wynn answered.

"How convenient!" Reine spit. "The domin she speaks of is from the guild's Suman branch. And he has returned home, well beyond questioning."

"It was created at my guild," Wynn countered. "From what I understand, Premin Sykion nearly fainted when she learned of its cost. Ask her … or Premin Hawes, head of Metaology."

"And from what I understand," the duchess responded coldly, "the guild took you in as an orphan, raised you, fed you … educated you, and trained you as one of them. And you thanked them with your selfish ploys!"

Wynn couldn't help flushing with anger.

"The wraith is here for something," she said. "Until you know what that is, you won't know for certain what it will do … how it will act."

"And you would know of this?" Chuillyon asked.

"I can help only if you help me," Wynn answered.

Cinder-Shard raised his dark eyebrows. "In what way?"

"Give me my staff and my belongings … give me access to the texts."

"No!" Reine cut in.

"Then you'll die," Wynn said flatly. "You'll probably die anyway. The wraith wants those texts, and it will kill anyone in its path to reach them. But why? Unless I learn that, you're fighting blind."

She looked at Chuillyon again. "Can you read old tongues … Iyindu, Heiltak lettering … old Stravinan or Belaskian?"

He shrugged idly with a raised feathery eyebrow. "Some."

"Lie! " Chane breathed behind Wynn.

A lie about what? Could Chuillyon read such languages more—or less—than he implied?

"Can you?" Chuillyon challenged. "Or is this another boast … upon which we base our slim chance of survival?"

Wynn was careful not to show any reaction. His tone implied he did know old languages, as if he might actually be a sage. This was the only way he could ever judge whether she "boasted" or not. So if he could read dead languages, why bother with her?

He was baiting her, but to what purpose?

"Yes," she answered. "Well enough that I might find something useful. After all, I was raised … cared for … and educated"—and she cast a glance at the duchess—"inside a guild branch."

Chuillyon pursed his lips and fell silent.

Cinder-Shard seemed to calm suddenly. He glanced at Chuillyon, and the old elf merely nodded to him.

"So, you have raced this thing to gain the texts," Cinder-Shard said.

It seemed too obvious a comment, and Wynn grew warier.

"And Âthkyensmyotnes will continue to try to stop you," Chuillyon added, his expression growing thoughtful.

"No!" Chane hissed. "You will not—"

"No one is speaking to you!" Cinder-Shard growled.

"Wynn," Chane whispered, "they are trying to—"

"I know," she answered.

The wraith knew both she and the texts were here. It had killed to gain translations sent to scribe shops in Calm Seatt for clean transcription. But rather than searching their content and leaving them behind, it had always taken those pages. Whatever it sought, it didn't want others to find as well. Either it hadn't found what it was after, or it wanted to keep others from doing the same. It had followed her, in her search for the originals, so it had some way of tracking or locating her.

Chuillyon wasn't baiting her; he was making her into bait.

"Yes," Chuillyon whispered.

Wynn tensed slightly, and Chane's grip tightened upon her shoulder. "What you learn of Âthkyensmyotnes 's goals may help us—or not," Chuillyon added. "Either way, you will tell us all you discover … in exchange for access to the texts."

"Chuillyon!" Reine gasped.

He raised a hand to silence her.

"At the least," he went on to Wynn, "if it knows you are here, it might be more direct … less cautious … in returning. Will you consent to this?"

Wynn hesitated. They offered what she wanted, but at a price.

Chuillyon had called the wraith by another term. She knew it from delving into old folktales of her people. The elf knew more of the wraith than she'd guessed—and Cinder-Shard did as well, from his shout in the main cavern.

Wynn reached up, putting her hand over Chane's.

"Later I will need his help," she said. "He knows more about fighting the wraith than any of you. Give him back his belongings … and his sword."

Chuillyon shook his head emphatically. "Absolutely not." He pointed at Chane. "We do not want to arm that one."