Barb Hendee - In Shade and Shadow

Wynn was familiar with all this, and it seemed the domin was politely diverting from the original question. That same young initiate raised his hand, waving it in the air.

Il'Sänke let out a low chuckle.

"Yes, I know… the term Spirit is used for both an Aspect and an Element. But let's leave that puzzle for another day. It is the Aspects, not the Elements, in which we find the grounding for the ideologies of magic. Thaumaturgy is the body, the physical ideology, while conjury is the spiritual or essence-based approach…"

The domin took a deep breath. Perhaps he thought that would be the end of it, but Wynn saw that it wasn't. That persistent little initiate leaned forward expectantly.

"As to sorcery," il'Sänke finally said, "it is little known… and no one known to us practices it, even among metaologers. It is… severely frowned upon."

Wynn choked—it was more than frowned upon.

Mages and lesser practitioners weren't common, even among the guild. Thaumaturgy was the most accepted, and conjury of limited sorts was tolerated. But sorcery, by whatever term in varied cultures, was feared—hated—and rightly so. The power and skill to apply one's will against the world and other beings had been a death knell as far back as any bits of history uncovered.

And she did know of one such person—Vordana. Fortunately Leesil had sent that one to his final end.

Wynn forced herself to leave the domin's lecture.

Juggling her burdens, she heaved open the antechamber's heavy door. Across that small space she reached one of two doors to be found in either the north tower or the east tower. They were always left unlocked whenever any of the archivists were in the catacombs, and so she pushed this one open.

The cold lamp's crystal illuminated stone steps spiraling downward into the dark. A slight smell of stale dust filled her nose, and she could taste it on her tongue. No candles, torches, or flames of any kind were allowed below. All those entering the catacombs had to acquire a cold lamp from the archivists or bring one of their own. And only those with their own—journeyor status or above—were allowed below without supervision.

How long since she'd been down here? Certainly not since she and Domin Tilswith had left for the Farlands over two years ago. Most texts of general use had been copied and placed in the new upper library. Few of her peers had reason to go digging for anything else.

Gripping the cold lamp's handle with her right hand, she shifted her burdens under that same arm. Tugging up her robe's hem with her left, she descended. Soon a dim light grew from below, and, taking the last step, Wynn emerged into a cavernous main cellar.

In spite of the recent tragedy and frustration, she felt like a scholar again.

Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with matching bound volumes of dark leather among a few cedar-plank sheaves of loose pages. Several tables filled the space, lit by cold lamps hung at the chamber's four corners. And a withered old man in a gray robe sat hunched over a table, writing rapidly.

"Domin Tärpodious?" she said, stepping closer.

Likely engrossed in recataloguing old volumes, he finally glanced up.

Old Tärpodious squinted milky eyes over a long beaked nose, as if uncertain who had spoken. The expression made him look like an old crow, though his wrinkled skin was the ashen white of someone who rarely ventured out-of-doors. His white hair was thin, and his hands looked brittle, but he rose suddenly with a smile that multiplied the lines in his face threefold. He greeted her with genuine pleasure.

"Young Hygeorht?" the old archivist asked, still squinting. "Is that you?"

Years of working by only a cold lamp's light had limited his eyesight. It happened to all cathologers posted as archivists.

"Yes," Wynn answered. "I've come seeking your help once again."

"But I'm a journeyor now, and I received a letter from him," she added. "He asked me to come see you. Many outer regions of Belaski are filled with superstitions. And you know how that piques his interest. You once guided him to folklore references… especially one about the àrdadesbàrn , the 'dead's child.»

Tärpodious scratched his bony chin. "Truly?"

Wynn held up her journal and shrugged with a forced roll of her eyes. "He wants direct copies of any similar folklore, so I may be down frequently over the next few days. Can you guide me?"

It pained her to lie to the old archivist. Tärpodious lived in such seclusion that he would have no knowledge of—or interest in—the social politics of the guild, and certainly not regarding High-Tower's order that she never mention the undead.

The cavernous chamber, once the keep's main storage room, boasted three archways of large and heavy frame stones. Tärpodious lifted his cold lamp from the table and shuffled toward the east one.

"Tilswith and his superstitions!" He chuckled. "How far he might've gone, if only he'd turned his mind to something real. Come, child."

Swallowing guilt, Wynn followed. She knew how the archives were organized, but it had been a long time since her last visit. And one could quickly get lost in the catacombs.

Hundreds of years past, when the guild took possession of the first castle, they immediately began to excavate with the assistance of dwarven masons and engineers. The work continued over decades. What had once been basic chambers for storage and dungeons were carefully expanded in whatever direction didn't encroach on the city's growing sewer system. There was also a double level of basements below the northeast workshops, where the laboritorium was housed, for the making of cold lamp crystals and other items.

Rooms led into chambers that led through clusters of alcoves… which led into more rooms. Faded wooden cubicles and antechambers along the way provided places to sit and peruse texts, for no material could be removed without the archivists' explicit permission—and a very good reason for it.

All spaces and walls along the way were filled with endless rows of shelves, and Wynn soon lost count as everything began to look the same. She blinked once, and the backs of her eyelids projected images of sheaves; bound books, some spineless with only cord stitching showing; and scroll cases everywhere. No cold lamps were placed this far in, and she stayed close on Tärpodious's heels, their two lamps the only illumination to ward off the blackness.

"Here," he said with a sudden stop, fingering a tall set of shelves along a passageway. "Some from the Suman lands, more from our scattered old cultures. A few have been translated into the Begaine syllabary, but not many."

She nodded, peering at the shelves. "I can read some Sumanese."

"Stick to Spirit by Fire, for the general accumulations," Tärpodious added, "or by Air, should you need to branch out into social customs based on old tales."

For an instant the references left Wynn's mind blank. Tärpodious tapped the bookshelf's end, and she saw the faded etchings filled with remnants of paint in the old wood.

Each guild order was symbolically associated with one of the Elements of existence—Spirit, Fire, Air, Water, and Earth. In turn, geometric symbols for such were used to classify, subclassify, and cross-reference subject matter by emphasis and context.

On the bookshelf's vertical end was a circle above a triangle.

Circle—for Spirit and the Order of Metaology, with its study of metaphysics, philosophy, religion, folklore, etc.

Triangle—for Fire and the Order of Cathology, with its devotion to informational and organizational pursuits.

In this section, Wynn would find works cataloguing and organizing collected information on the subject she sought.

"Thank you," she said. "I'd like to get a good start before supper."