Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

“You guess,” Chane whispered.

“Yes, I guess. Every guild branch has its region from which it recovers lost information unearthed in various ways. We know Bäalâle Seatt was likely in the Sky-Cutter Range, considering its name was based in terms of tribal dialects once spoken in the great desert. This is the closest branch to the range.”

“Anything that old should have been shared with all branches,” Chane returned.

“Yes ... it should have,” Wynn echoed coldly.

Ore-Locks closed on her, holding out slices of apple. “If the premin here exposes the content of your branch’s message, these sages might not be any more helpful than those of Chathburh.”

“I don’t need their help. I’m a journeyor, and guild branches share—are supposed to share—archives with all ranks of journeyor and above.” She looked back to Chane. “So long as they don’t learn what I’m really after, I’ll find the information myself. All we can do is avoid Chuillyon until I dig up something useful ... something to tell us where to begin searching an immense range that crosses an entire continent.”

Thinking that, let alone saying it aloud, prompted Wynn to drop tiredly on the bench beside Chane. After so many days on the road, and switching back to being awake in daylight, she wasn’t accustomed to being up all night. She was about to say more when she heard a soft rattle.

It carried through the archway from the main chamber nearer the courtyard. She stepped over to look out.

“What is it?” Chane asked, rising.

The outer chamber was empty all the way to the courtyard door.

“Nothing. I just thought I heard—”

The door’s handle twisted and the door swung open.

It was shoved by the shoulder of a slender figure not tall enough to be an elf, dressed in a midnight blue robe. Dark hands juggled a small pile of books as the visitor stepped in, trying to keep the top book from sliding off. With another shoulder nudge, he shut the door and turned about.

Wynn saw that he most certainly wasn’t an elf.

Dusky skin and kinky black hair inside the midnight blue cowl of a metaologer marked him as Suman, though certainly not as tall or distinguished as Domin il’Sänke.

He froze at the sight of her.

He looked about twenty, though his self-assured expression made him seem older. A triangular tuft of beard on his chin was so well manicured it could’ve been there awhile. He smiled, bowed his head without lowering his eyes.

Then he noted the sliced apples in her hand. His dark eyes rose to see Chane standing beside her, as Shade nudged her way into the arch between the chambers. The barest hint of surprise crossed the young man’s face, followed by what Wynn thought was ... an instant of recognition.

That brief change vanished, and she was certain she’d never seen him before.

“Apologies,” he said in Numanese, and his accent was even thicker than il’Sänke’s. “I did not know anyone would be here so early. I would have announced my presence properly.”

“We arrived too early—I mean late—for room assignments,” Wynn returned.

He bowed slightly again, still smiling. “I am Journeyor Mujahid il’Badrêyah of the guild branch in Samau’a Gaulb, il’Dha’ab Najuum.”

Wynn knew little of Suman Empire culture, or, rather, its many cultures, but it was considered polite to make proper introductions right away. She stepped closer so that her companions could enter behind her.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said. “I’m Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht of the Calm Seatt branch. This is Chane Andraso, and Ore-Locks Iron-Braid.”

“Ah, so I am not the only one far from home,” he replied.

“You are up very early,” Chane observed. “It is not even light out.”

If his rasp affected the journeyor, the young man didn’t show it. Nor did he appear surprised by a dwarf’s presence in elven lands. Instead, he glanced toward one stairway leading up on the left, and then back to Wynn, as if trying to reach a decision.

“Yes, I hoped for some quiet time to study,” he said, and his expression filled with a sort of formal concern. “Perhaps I can assist you. I, too, came with companions. This is not the traveling season, and the guest wing is nearly empty. I cannot procure rooms for you, but you are welcome to rest in mine and the adjoining one, until something proper is arranged.”

His offer struck Wynn as odd, but she had no idea why. He was just so amiable and eager to help. However, the thought of lying down even for a short while was tempting, and she needed to secure Chane someplace before he fell dormant at dawn.

“We’re so tired that we may sleep all day,” she said. “Will that be all right?”

“Most certainly,” Mujahid answered. “I have a full day with no need to disturb you until after dinner.”

Again, he was all too eager to help, but Wynn couldn’t fault his generosity.

“Thank you,” she told him, and then something more occurred to her. “I’m sorry to ask, but would you let the journeyor on watch know where we are? He’ll be looking for us as soon as his domin awakens.”

“You mean Domin In-Ridge?” Mujahid queried.

That answered Wynn’s question on how to shorten the unknown domin’s name in translation.

Mujahid nodded with a slow close of his eyes. “I will ... as you would say, pass the word.”

Still uncertain but aching for sleep, Wynn followed him to the stairwell leading up.

Sau’ilahk desperately needed life. Conjuring a servitor with consciousness and the long struggle to control it had drained him. When his creation had come upon that strangely lit glade while following Wynn, the black lash of its destruction had wounded him somehow. It was as if in riding the servitor’s consciousness, he had stepped into the clearing himself.

Whatever had disassembled the servitor had partly reached him, and he had lost track of Wynn’s whereabouts.

Sau’ilahk stood upon the road through the plain with no animate life within his awareness. The forest’s trees were like a wall beyond which he could see or sense nothing. Worst of all, he did not have the strength to blink elsewhere by memory over a great distance.

He studied the tree line stretching in both directions beyond sight. Even if he found sustenance, even if he made another, more suitable servitor, how would he locate Wynn?

Sau’ilahk began to fade, sinking into dormancy, and cried out in that darkness upon the edge of his god’s dream.

“Beloved ... help me!”

Do you follow the sage ? Does she still lead you?

“I starve for my efforts!”

Then find life, as small as it might be. Consume it in the hunt for a greater feast ... so you may serve.

This was no answer, and frustration frayed Sau’ilahk’s wits even more.

“There is no life substantial enough for my need that I can reach here and now .”

His patron’s hiss sharpened like spit-upon coals—or the grind of massive scales upon sand.

A droplet of moisture from a corpse can be lifted from the desert, though it be barely enough for a burrowing carrion beetle.

“ Wynn Hygeorht is beyond my reach ,” Sau’ilahk argued. “I cannot sense even the forest’s own life. Even if I could, how am I to find her singular spark in such a place?”

Where life is ... death follows. Find the latter to find the former.

Sau’ilahk paused. In a land teeming with life that shut him out as unliving, perhaps “death” had walked into those trees if Chane had somehow followed Wynn in there. Beloved’s cryptic retort seemed to confirm this, but Sau’ilahk had so rarely been able to sense Chane’s presence. Perhaps that strange ring had also allowed the vampire to enter where no other undead could.