Of Truth and Beasts

Shade’s ears stood on end.

“No,” Wynn said quickly, though Shade hadn’t taken pursuit.

As Mujahid neared another door, Wynn again tilted her head back, staring upward. High overhead, the structure’s upper reaches were not even. Marked with remaining branches and foliage, the ancient redwoods’ tops had melded together in five places that rose well above the rest of the structure.

Wynn lowered her head to find Mujahid holding the door. As she stepped in, she genuinely wished he would stop being so helpful.

“The premin’s office is higher up, at midpoint,” he said.

This entry chamber was smaller than the one where she’d first met him. He led her through a rear archway into a vast, open chamber. Elves favored light, space, and organic order, but none of those things existed here.

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.