Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

Wynn fled the meal hall, pulling Shade along. Once outside, she was panting in anger, frustration, and panic. This time the courtyard’s serenity didn’t help her. She wanted to hit something—or someone.

Had Sykion’s unknown warning been so dire that Gyâr had closed down the entire archives? It didn’t seem believable. Or were the archivists really engaged in such a vast reorganization while giving Gyâr a few moments’ notice? That was just as far-fetched.

The sound of shuffling footsteps and sloshing water barely cut through Wynn’s thoughts. A young initiate, perhaps fourteen, was hauling a bucket along the path in the other direction.

“Pardon,” Wynn called, hurrying after the girl. “Could you point me to the archives?”

The girl blinked. The question appeared to confuse her as she looked over Wynn’s gray robe. She pointed upward, above the courtyard.

“There,” she said.

Wynn peered up, trying to follow the girl’s finger. At a guess, the initiate pointed to one side of the redwood ring below one of its five spires.

“Thank you,” Wynn said. “Shade, come.”

They hurried around the courtyard’s perimeter, leaving the elven girl staring after them.

Wynn kept looking upward, trying to gauge when they were somewhere below where the girl had pointed. When she thought they were close, she went for the first door she saw. She and Shade slipped inside a chamber barely larger than an alcove. It emptied into a wide passage lined with more doors that ran along the middle of the redwood ring. Almost immediately, she heard raised voices.

Wynn followed the sound. She hurried into the passage, saw a branch that sloped upward, and scurried onward.

“What is the meaning of this?” someone shouted in Elvish, but he had a heavy Suman accent. “You have no authority over the archives! I was here this morning, and there was no indication that it would be closed.”

Wynn saw the top of a teal cowl over the passage’s rise and crept a little closer.

Two Suman conamologers in teal robes, one a middle-aged man with peppered black hair and another, perhaps a journeyor, were raising a fuss. To the passage’s left side stood a pair of armed patrollers, the Shé’ith. The first stood his place, staring ahead, as if the Suman sages no longer existed. He and his female counterpart blocked an opening.

Wynn shifted to the sloping passage’s right side for a better look. Beyond the patrollers, inside the opening, broad steps curled sharply upward through the structure like a spiral staircase. She couldn’t see where they led, but for an instant, she was distracted from the dispute.

There was no lockable door in the opening, as there were in the stairwells down to the archives of her branch. In part, that explained the presence of the Shé’ith, though she’d never heard of armed guards placed inside any guild branch. Even when the threat of the wraith had come to her branch, there were limits upon what Captain Rodian had been allowed to do with his city guard contingent.

“Apologies, sir,” the female patroller stated flatly. “The archives have been closed until further notice.”

“Where was the first notice?” the elder Suman sputtered. “I will speak to the Premin Council about this breach of interbranch protocol.”

The female patroller didn’t even blink. Her male counterpart was equally silent and expressionless. With no response from either Shé’ith, the Suman sages turned away. The younger one spotted Wynn as they passed.

“Do not bother,” he said in Numanese. “It would seem that not all sages have the full amenities in this branch.”

The elder was muttering angrily in Sumanese as they headed downward.

Wynn knew those two would get nowhere if Premin Gyâr had any say. And he did, as one of the Premin Council here, as well as sitting in for the high premin. Was there something happening here beyond just hampering her? It made Wynn wonder what else was in Sykion’s message.

Regardless, Wynn hadn’t come all this way for nothing. She had to gain access to the archives if there was any chance they held some long-forgotten mention of an ancient fallen seatt. But without the means to even look for such, what was she going to do?

Chuillyon had kept the same rooms at the guild for nearly sixty years, though in the last thirty, he hadn’t enjoyed them often. Most of his time was spent with the royal family in Calm Seatt, but he had no intention of ever giving up his quarters here. They suited him. Down in the earth beneath the base of the south spire—even beneath the giant roots of the redwood ring—he enjoyed nearly absolute peace and quiet.

Although his chambers in Calm Seatt’s third castle were lavish, he preferred this place. Every item here was carefully chosen for a balance between subtle elegance and a monastic simplicity. In the main room, the desk and a small table had been shaped into flowing bentwood curves. A few shéot’a cushions of plain forest colors softened three basic chairs of polished mahogany. His more private room was in the back, beyond a pale blue, curtained doorway. That space was filled with only a bed covered in a cream quilt of duller raw shéot’a, a wardrobe, a cushioned rocker to match his outer furniture, and a modest collection of favored texts. Oh, but there were a few little amusing toys from his youth, as well.

One small, carved scene, which could fit in his lap, had a twist crank in its bottom. When wound up, a woodsman hacked away at a tree until it toppled. The tree would bounce repeatedly off the woodsman’s head, pounding him into the ground like a peg until only his head peeked out.

Nature had a wicked wit.

This toy had been a gift in his boyhood from what humans would call a favorite aunt. If only she had known what mischievous notions it would inspire over a lifetime. If nothing else, Chuillyon loved his jests. Or perhaps that was his refuge against what he hated most: sadness. There had been too much of that.

He sat at his desk, awaiting two visitors, hoping they would bring him more news than he had gleaned for himself. Why had Wynn traveled all this way? What was she up to now?

“Chuillyon ... are you in?”

The deep voice was not one he had expected. He rose, stepping into the masoned passageway between the guild’s great roots.

“Premin?” he called back, glancing toward the stairwell leading upward.

“May I come down?”

“Please do.”

Despite knowing the caller, Chuillyon was perplexed at the sight of Premin Gyâr descending the stairs, bowing his head to avoid the ceiling. By necessity, they had been closely connected over the decades, but they did not visit each other’s private chambers.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Gyâr said.

To Chuillyon’s further surprise, his tone was almost apologetic—and quite out of character. Gyâr’s dark yellow eyes were troubled or angry, which was not out of character. A stray strand of light brown hair hung forward over one of his eyes, as if he was too distracted to notice it.

“What is wrong?” Chuillyon asked.

“A journeyor arrived from Calm Seatt with a message for the high premin.”

Chuillyon took a deep, slow breath. “You mean young Hygeorht?”

“You know her?”

“Yes. What has she done now?”

Gyâr took a folded paper from inside his dark robe. Its wax seal had been broken.

“High Premin Sykion of Calm Seatt sent this,” he said, holding it out.

Chuillyon hesitated. “What is it?”

“Read it.”

“Really,” Chuillyon scoffed. “Is all this drama necessary?”

But he took it just the same. It was double wrapped, and he unfolded both enveloping sheets to view the letter within.

Dear T’ovar ...