Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

“Well, someone did,” Chuillyon said, “and someone gave Hygeorht extensive assistance.”

This was not exactly true. No one had broken into Gyâr’s quarters, and Wynn had been given minimal assistance in entering the archives.

Hannâschi’s only direct thaumaturgy had been to trick Thrûchk, the master archivist’s apprentice, into thinking he’d received rare tomes from the Suman branch. Thus he was lured out of the archive to his office, and Wynn had walked in unhindered. It had taken a bit more than twisted light to fake the books on Thrûchk’s desk, but Hannâschi had managed.

Creating the pass with a council seal had been a little more mundane.

Chuillyon possessed a few sheets of the high premin’s stationery and had written the letter himself. In the past, he’d more than once gotten his hands on documents with the stamped council seal. Sometimes those documents took a little longer than usual for their final delivery.

Hannâschi would apply an alchemical mixture to a wood block, press it on a document’s stamped seal, and lift off a reverse imprint. The captured ink could then be revitalized once or twice, and the block used to reimprint another document. The covert stamp was not perfect, but neither was the original. However, it was the original image—with the original ink made for use only with the seal.

Gyâr paced to the entrance arch, braced a hand upon its edge, and glanced back, a predator’s glint in his dark yellow eyes.

“How is this possible?” he demanded. “That Numan journeyor said one of my apprentices delivered the letter. I have spoken to all of them, and none claim any knowledge of it.” His eyes narrowed. “What of the Suman entourage? Could they be responsible?”

“Why bother giving the letter away? They could have used the pass themselves.”

Gyâr exhaled. “At the very least, someone may have acquired a metaologer’s robe from our stores to play messenger. Do you trust everyone of your order? Would any of yours have reason to do this?”

Chuillyon frowned in manufactured resentment. “I assure you, no one under me has any interest in assisting Journeyor Hygeorht.”

“Then we are back to our other three premins?”

“Really, Gyâr. Why would they help some wayward sage from Calm Seatt?”

“Then who else?”

Chuillyon raised his hands in feigned exasperation, although at tomorrow’s council gathering, he knew exactly whom the others would suspect: him . Oh, he had been the prime suspect of lesser mischief, though nothing had ever been proven. At present, Gyâr was the only one who mattered.

The premin of Metaology, sitting in as high premin, held all the power for now. Gyâr’s trust and need of an old ally outweighed casting suspicion the same way. The premins might be troubled over this subterfuge with the pass, but ultimately that would be the least of their concerns. All would disapprove of Gyâr’s rashness in petitioning the people’s council to bring in the Shé’ith—the Serenitiers, as humans might call them. Exactly what had he done to convince the Premin Council for that?

Gyâr dropped into one of the simple chairs. “Order some tea,” he said. “We must reason this through ... until a path to the answer is found.”

Chuillyon gazed toward his chamber’s entrance. He was not getting out of here any time soon—and neither was Hannâschi.

“Keep your eyes shut tight,” Wynn told Chane, pushing leafy branches out of her face.

Her sleeves were soaked through from moisture clinging to foliage as she trailed Shade. Ore-Locks followed, but it took all Wynn’s effort to drag Chane blindly onward. It seemed too long that she’d been fighting through this underbrush, but the howls and yips grew steadily louder and nearer.

Wynn broke into a small clearing and found Shade poised at its center with her ears upright. Something had stalled the dog, but as Wynn reached out to touch Shade’s haunches, two furred forms burst from the underbrush on the clearing’s far side.

Both majay-hì were long and lanky like Shade, with equally narrow muzzles and tall ears. One was a mottled brown. The other was a more traditional silver-gray. The pair split, rounding opposite sides of the small space.

Rustlings rose in the brush all around the clearing.

“Watch your backs,” Ore-Locks warned.

Wynn looked about frantically. Noise in the underbrush sounded as if an entire pack had surrounded the clearing, but only two dogs had shown themselves. She spun back at a clack of teeth.

Both newcomers froze. The mottled one held a forepaw up in midstep, as Shade snarled at it with her ears flattened.

Wynn had placed her trust in Shade. The last time she’d encountered a majay-hì pack had been in the Farlands’ Elven Territories. Only the presence of Chap and his mate, Lily, had made them tolerate her. She hoped the same would work here with Shade.

The silver majay-hì turned and lowered its head. Shade snapped the air before it.

Chane’s hand slipped out of Wynn’s and latched onto her wrist. Before she even turned, she heard his sword sliding from its sheath.

“Chane, no!” she said, grabbing his sword arm.

Another snarl erupted, pulling her attention. The sound hadn’t come from Shade.

The mottled one’s jowls quivered around bared teeth as it raised its head and sniffed the air in Wynn’s direction. It snorted, as if expelling a foul smell caught in its nose.

Wynn wondered why it needed to smell her at all. It should’ve picked up her scent without such effort. Then the reason dawned on her—perhaps it wasn’t her that the newcomer smelled.

Chane was the one who didn’t smell right. The brass ring could do nothing about that.

Ore-Locks pushed past Wynn into the clearing, his long iron staff at the ready but his blade still sheathed. The silver majay-hì swung its head toward him.

“Everyone be still,” Wynn said. “They aren’t animals. They’re as intelligent as you are.”

Shade still rumbled, and the silver one eyed her as if puzzled by Shade’s actions. It stretched out its muzzle toward her, and Shade bared her teeth.

“Easy, Shade,” Wynn whispered.

Shade was caught between two opponents and swung her head back and forth to keep track of them. When the silver majay-hì was a head’s length away, Shade turned fully to it.

There came the briefest touch of noses.

Shade flinched back and fell completely silent. The silver-gray dog turned and dashed back into the brush the way it had entered. The mottled brown one wheeled and followed. Shade, still frozen in place, looked to Wynn.

“Go,” Wynn told her.

Thrashing onward, Wynn could hear the pack on all sides in the forest. Their hidden potential threat made the way seem longer, so that when she finally broke into the open, she bent over, panting behind Shade. She was light-headed, and her breath still caught when she looked ahead.

Strange, bulging lanterns of opaque amber glass hung in the lower branches of maples, oaks, and startlingly immense firs. The trees loosely framed a broad gully with gently sloping sides that stretched ahead. Decades of leaf fall had hampered undergrowth, leaving the gully clear of underbrush. But ivy climbed over exposed boulders and around and up evergreens. Bushy ferns grew here and there, but these were all that broke the mulch, aside from the crackle of paws on fallen autumn leaves.

A dozen or more majay-hì paced in the view before Wynn.

They dashed past each other, rubbing heads, cheeks, or shoulders. Wynn could only imagine the memory-speak passing rapidly through the pack. She wished she could’ve listened in, as she did with Shade. All of them paused intermittently, looking at the black majay-hì, before wheeling toward another of their own in whatever they shared so rapidly.