Of Truth and Beasts

The paper-wrapped package’s twine binding was already severed. He had checked the contents last night upon finding it left outside his guest quarters’ door. This was the final item of his secret needs before the journey could begin, and the sages had not supplied it. He had arranged to have it made in the city.

He grabbed the package, paper crinkling in his grip, and headed into the bedroom. Setting it atop the piled cloak, scarf, and gloves, he slowly opened the paper to stare once again at its content.

Thick but pliant, the shaped leather had laces on either side, with two openings set high and parallel. Chane lifted it to his face, aligning the holes with his eyes as he looked into the mirror. It was exactly as he had specified, spreading back to his ears, halfway across his scalp, and under his chin to his throat. But even he could not deny what it looked like....

An executioner’s mask.

Chane quickly lowered and rewrapped it in the paper, hiding it away in a dresser drawer. He now possessed everything he required, though he had yet to reveal his purpose to Wynn. He would have to let that wait until there was no time left for her to escape him. The night before they planned to leave would be best.

After pulling on a fresh shirt and his boots, he ran his fingers through his hair, though his hand was shaking when it came down. He left the room, locked the door, pocketed the key, and quickstepped all the way to the inner courtyard. Trying to wipe his thoughts clean, he was distracted as he approached the southeast dormitory.

Young voices rose on the entry door’s other side, but he did not truly hear them.

“You don’t know that, Kyne!” said one.

“It’s just a wolf,” said another. “A big one ... but just a wolf.”

“No, it isn’t!” shouted a third, a girl. “It’s a majay-hì!”

Chane was in no mood for nonsense. He reached for the latch, but the door suddenly swung open. The iron handle cracked against his fingers, and he lurched aside as the door struck his elbow and shoulder.

Three small forms in tan robes boiled out of the opened door.

“There’s no such thing,” grumbled one pudgy boy.

“I looked it up in the library!” a girl about eleven or twelve shouted back.

“Oh, pish!” grumbled a second, gangly, red-haired boy.

“Just because you two can’t read Begaine doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” the girl insisted.

And the pudgy one wrinkled his face in a pout.

“What do you think you are doing?” Chane snapped.

At his sharp, nearly voiceless rasp, all three initiates sucked in a breath. The girl’s eyes widened until the whites showed all around, and she stared up—and up—at Chane.

“Oh ... I’m ...” she stammered. “I’m ... I’m so sorry, sir.”

Her little nose and ivory cheeks were smattered with faint freckles. Two equal braids held back her dark blond hair. She looked nothing like Wynn; acted nothing like a sage. None of them did.

Chane felt the beast stir within him.

He could not see a possible hope that such whelps would ever understand what it meant to be a sage. He hung there, glaring down at them, until they began inching together, clustered yet unable to take their frightened eyes off him. How had these things, these calves of the human cattle, ever been allowed inside this place?

Chane jerked the door wide, sending the trio scurrying out of his way and running for the keep’s main doors. He was still shuddering as he headed up the stairs for Wynn’s room.

Even within the guild, there were those who did not matter, who did not belong.

Wynn sat at her desk, making a list of things to gather and tasks to complete before embarking tomorrow night. Shade lounged on the bed, her crystal blue eyes half open, but the dog seemed to be watching intently.

A knock sounded at the door.

“I am here,” Chane rasped from outside.

Wynn paused. He sounded sharp, almost loud, even for his limited voice.

“It’s open,” she answered.

Chane stepped in and shut the door. As was his habit, he wore a white shirt, black breeches, and high boots—simple attire, like that of the young nobleman he’d once been. She studied his face, looking to see if he appeared hungry or weak. He just looked disturbed.

If he hadn’t consumed the blood in the urn, what had he fed on while they were at the seatt? What had he been feeding on since? She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

“We’re leaving tomorrow night,” she said. “We have passage on a ship to Chathburh.”

Chane straightened. “Tomorrow?”

Wynn touched the two sealed letters behind the pouch of coins.

“They gave me a supposed mission to deliver these. More likely they want me gone straight off and for as long as possible, where they think I’ll do no harm. I’ll need any of my journals you still have, and the rest of the supplies you’ve been buying, so we can go through this final checklist.”

She held up her list, but he barely glanced at it.

“It is too soon,” he whispered. “I am not ready.”

Wynn turned in her chair to fully face him. “I thought you’d be relieved. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

“Yes, but ...”