Barb Hendee - In Shade and Shadow

Yet the passages before her clearly held information regarding a war—or rather, battles fought in locations she'd never heard of. She struggled through broken terminology and gained a sense that different sections, further separated by blank lines, were written from the perspective of differing authors. But one dimension of content remained constant.

Details, such as numbers of combatants lost or territory taken or estimation of enemy forces slaughtered, were related as cold facts in past tense. As if death and suffering were irrelevant to those who recorded it long ago. The countless dead were of no more consequence than an itemized account of possessions, of no personal value in being lost.

Taken as a whole, in quick estimate, the numbers were staggering… unbelievable.

Wynn guessed at the original text these passages had come from, as she and Chap had looked for books that might contain references to the Forgotten History. One in particular had seemed to contain an accounting of past events, like some general's tactical campaign history. Chap advised her to take it for the sheer weight of concise information.

How had her superiors decided which pages to translate first? By sampled content topic? By estimated order in which they'd been written?

She picked up another collection of pages, looking for translator's notes on the text's internal chronology. But even strange dates mentioned were noted as vague or approximate and without correlation. In most cases a time reference wasn't present at all, leaving only a guess concerning the chronology of how one text might fit among the others.

Wynn rubbed her eyes. The elven calendar, based on the seasons, each divided into named thirds, had been taken on 483 years ago, when King Hräthgar had first united territorial clans in the beginnings of Malourné. From that time forward was now known as the Common Era. But how many years, centuries, or more came before that, since the lost time of the Forgotten History? No one knew, not even the elves, the Lhoin'na… supposedly.

Any dates mentioned by the ancient authors of these texts would be of little use. There was no point of reference to compare a long-lost calendar system used at that time with the one now part of life in the Numan Lands.

Domin Tilswith, Wynn's old master, believed the war had taken place well over a thousand years ago. No one was certain of this, even among the guild, and the large gap in time made determination of long-past events unverifiable.

And Wynn realized part of why the guild was being so secretive.

Without proof, including time frame, these writings could be dismissed as speculation or a mere collection of accounts from differing periods as well as places. And not from the same war that had devastated the known world.

Varied ideologies and religions, including the major four of the Numan Lands, believed the war never took place. Or if it had, that it wasn't nearly as far-reaching as the catastrophe suggested by the guild. Wynn knew the royal family would take great pains to avoid anything that might cause unrest or discord—or open outrage and conflict. Even if solid proof were established, what could be more threatening than having one's beliefs shown to be in error?

If anyone learned what Wynn believed—what Most Aged Father believed—that the Enemy was returning, even those convinced of the war's magnitude might turn on those who didn't, and in more than just heated disagreement. Fear would spread, and those who clung to unfounded beliefs or even incorrectly reasoned conclusions would in turn look upon others as the carriers of an incurable disease.

Wynn quieted her wandering thoughts. Was this what the undead killer searched for—proof that the enemy was returning? But to what end? She put aside any conclusions. At least now she understood part of High-Tower's and Sykion's fears—as well as il'Sänke's warning.

She began trying to determine which pages or volumes listed in the codex weren't present—the ones stolen by the black figure. She scanned section after section of the codex, taking notes on the breadth of the project. She turned to organizing and checking off volumes and pages of completed work, searching for what was missing.

Within the catacombs, without a window or the sound of city bells, she had no idea how long the task took—but long enough that the twin columns on the pages began to blur before her eyes. She took a pause before continuing.

Of course, she couldn't guess what was in those missing folios, but she could look at adjacent pages and sections that she did find. Perhaps therein was a clue to what the black figure had sought and stolen. She returned to inspecting more pages—and she found a gap.

There were pages listed in the codex as worked upon that weren't in the loose stack in her hands. She flipped back to the last present page before the gap.

She came upon something that made her cold inside.

The page was covered in dots, much of the original being unreadable, though the words could be counted. There were also blanks in the right column for equivalent parts in the left one, indicating a section of text that had so far defied translation. From what Wynn could tell, the original had been written in one or more lost dialects of Sumanese. Of what had been translated, one term appeared a number of times.

in'Ahtäben —the Children.

What children? Whose children? And why the emphasis, as if it were a title? Baffled, she scanned the three pages that followed what was missing and then stopped. Her eyes fixed on another strange phrase within an incomplete sentence.

…the Night Voice…..Beloved… of the Children.

Wynn shifted to the left column of original text rendered in Begaine symbols.

…in'Sa'umar…..Hkàbêv… myi in'Ahtäben…

At first it didn't seem like the same phrase, but she was reading ancient Sumanese. She'd heard one of the Ancient Enemy's names spoken in more current Sumanese, as repeated by Magiere and Chap, and its translation had been the same: il'Samar—the Night Voice … in'Sa'umar—the Night Voice.

By the similar prefix on in'Ahtäben , that also had to be a title—the Children. And here was one more title for the Enemy: Hkàbêv —Beloved.

Wynn wasn't reading about actual children—they were some group who'd served the Enemy of many names. She began searching for other names or anything concerning who these Children might be. On the very same page, in the left column, she sounded out two Begaine symbols for a name she would never forget.

Li'kän.

The white undead had selected a tin scroll case from her castle's library—the same one that Chane had brought to Wynn. And Wynn found two more names near Li'kän's.

Volyno and Häs'saun.

She didn't know her hands shook until the sheets' upper corners began to shiver. She'd seen these names written on castle walls in the faded black fluids of Li'kän. Three guardian undead had once inhabited that place, but Li'kän was alone when Wynn and her companions had reached the castle.

Wynn read further and came upon a reflexive proper noun. Volyno had written this passage. When she turned to the next sheet, the page's numbering jumped by three.

She stopped, quickly checking her notes, and then scanned the codex for any date on which missing pages or selected passages had been sent out for transcription. When she found it, finally realizing the time frame, Wynn sank into depression.

It was the night Jeremy and Elias had died.

Whatever was missing had been in that stolen folio, and the black figure had willingly killed for it. Wynn returned to the loose stack, reading onward, and found two more strange titles aside from the Children.

The Reverent and the Eaters of Silence.