Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

Dimly lit, the place was filled with a confusing array of colored glass tubes; mortars and pestles; small, shielded burners and tin plates; and bowls of all sizes on tables variously made from stone that was resistant to dangerous substances. Rather than benches, she saw light stools, much easier to move from place to place. Aging books and a multitude of wood, ceramic, and metal containers lined floor-to-ceiling shelves along the walls. Only one person occupied the chamber.

Dressed in midnight blue, he stood hunched over a book on a table at the far side. He raised his head, half turned it, and looked toward them. Mujahid stopped abruptly, forcing Wynn to do the same, and she thought she heard him swallow quickly.

“Forgive the intrusion, Premin,” he said in fluent Elvish. “I thought to find you in your office above.”

The dark-robed elf straightened, and Wynn squinted into the dim light.

Premin Gyâr was nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular build—or at least for one of his people. His hair was more brown than gold.

“Journeyor Mujahid, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes, Premin. Again, forgive the intrusion.”

“Do not concern yourself,” Gyâr assured, waving them in.

Mujahid took a step back. “You have a messenger from Calm Seatt. I was merely showing a newcomer the way.”

He bowed respectfully to the premin, adding a quicker nod to Wynn, and turned immediately to leave.

“We’ll be out of your rooms by dinner,” she called after him.

If Mujahid heard, he didn’t answer as he stepped out. To her shame, Wynn found herself wishing that he’d stayed.

Premin Gyâr didn’t come to meet her. He stood silently by the table, taking in the sight of Shade and then Wynn’s gray robes. Finally, he looked her directly in the eyes, waiting.

Wynn was forced to cross through all the tables to him.

His face was triangular, like most elves’, though slightly long of jawline. He appeared middle-aged, which might be considered young for a premin. His eyes became more disturbing the closer Wynn drew.

They were less slanted than a typical elf’s, less amber, and glimmered with a shade of dark yellow.

“I am Journeyor Hygeorht of the Calm Seatt branch,” she said, filling the unpleasant silence as she pulled out the sealed letter. “High Premin Sykion asked me to deliver this during my visit.”

Premin Gyâr didn’t move or hold out his hand. The ghost of a frown passed over his features, but he never blinked. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Premin Sykion sent a journeyor cathologer all this way to deliver a letter? Is something amiss?”

His tone was flat, the only inflection on “cathologer,” as if the word were distasteful.

“Not that I know of,” Wynn replied in feigned ignorance. She held out the letter again, and this time he took it as she added, “I also have research assignments to conduct ... in your archives.”

Again he said nothing, simply turning the sealed message under his gaze. His dark yellow eyes then shifted and locked on her. His expression altered in an instant with a welcoming nod and faint smile.

Wynn grew even more wary.

“Be sure to see Domin In-Ridge about a room assignment,” he said. “Have you eaten?”

In spite of that smile, his voice was still cold—and jarring for the abrupt change of topic. Why would he use the domin’s translated name, as if she wouldn’t understand his native one?

“Not yet, Premin,” she answered.

“Do so before making use of our archives. If initiates have cleared the meal, tell them I sent you. Something can be found in the kitchens.”

“Thank you, Premin.”

Wynn backed up two steps before turning.

There was nothing wrong with him that she could put a finger on. But she was eager to leave, and, hopefully, wouldn’t need to meet him again. As she passed through the archway and out of that chaotic chamber, she noticed that Shade hadn’t followed. Wynn glanced back.

Shade was the one staring this time—at Premin Gyâr. The premin watched her in turn, not a bit of shock or awe in his expression.

“Come, Shade,” Wynn whispered. “Time to eat.”

Shade turned, but not with any of her earlier urgency. Once they were back in the courtyard, Wynn took a deep breath, released it slowly, and put that odd encounter behind her.

Uncertain of her current position within the redwood citadel, she backtracked along the way she’d come. When she spotted a small group exiting into the courtyard, she grabbed the door to peek in. The meal hall waited inside, and Wynn felt a little more confident about finding her way around.

Better yet, the hall was almost empty.

Some dark bread, goat cheese, and late-season blackberries still graced the end of one table. Wynn made a beeline before someone cleared them away. Shade was satisfied with the bread and cheese. In the past she’d turned up her nose at anything baked, but these days, she’d even eat jerky and biscuits.

A few elven initiates looked at them—at Shade—but no one approached.

“Mind your manners,” Wynn said, breaking off more cheese for Shade.

Shade snapped and gulped and then whined for more, sniffing at the table’s edge.

“That’s enough for now,” Wynn said. “I need to find the archives.”

The courtyard door slammed open.

Wynn stiffened on the bench when Premin Gyâr strode in, his midnight blue robe swinging around his booted feet. Two young initiates sucked in audible breaths and scrambled out of sight. Gyâr’s gaze locked on Wynn, and her stomach knotted as he came straight at her.

“I am glad to have found you,” he said, and the calm in his voice belied the hostility in his eyes. “I have been informed of a change of circumstance. Our guild is preparing for a complete restructuring of the archives. The work begins sooner than anticipated.”

Wynn dropped a hunk of cheese on her plate.

“It is unfortunate that you traveled such a distance,” he continued. “At present, no one besides the archivists and their assistants will be allowed to enter. I do apologize.”

Wynn flushed cold with shock as she stood up and carefully asked, “How long will this restructuring take?”

“Indefinitely ... as it involves a great deal of work,” he answered, and turned immediately to leave.

Wynn was left standing there, staring after him. This was far worse than what had happened in Chathburh after she’d delivered the first message.

“I am in no hurry,” she called after Gyâr.

“Then your stay will be a long one,” he said, his back to her. “Of course, you are welcome to visit the public libraries in the branch’s lower levels.”

And he was gone.

Wynn was still numb, like the moment right after a sharp blow. It had never occurred to her that she’d be shut out. Not even her own superiors had gone that far. The frustration and the loss were overwhelming, and then shock burned away in anger.

What had that damned Sykion put in this message?

Wynn had sold a sacred cold lamp crystal for a more secretive passage than she’d told her superiors. Chane had suffered through the caravan ride to get here. Ore-Locks was still on her heels, trying to force her onward.

And she’d been locked out from afar by Sykion.

What was going on inside her own guild branch? It wasn’t enough for them to just get her out of their way for as long as possible, much as they’d connived to keep her connected to the guild and under watch. It now appeared she remained a sage in name only.

Shade rumbled softly.

Wynn wondered whether the dog reacted to Premin Gyâr’s demeanor or understood what had just occurred.

Two remaining initiates still stared at the courtyard door. They cast furtive glances at Wynn, as if she’d brought something fearful among them.