Of Truth and Beasts

“Better than too late.”

Gyâr paused for several breaths, perhaps trying to regain calm. Chuillyon had never been one to respond to a forceful persuasion.

“I cannot see how this journeyor ever came to even know of such writings,” Gyâr said, “much less try to access them. Sykion and Hawes have become lax in their protection of the recovered texts. For all of il’Sänke’s faults, at least he keeps his people under control.”

“Yes, he manages that,” Chuillyon returned dryly.

Either Gyâr ignored the sarcasm or he did not notice. Chuillyon had his own estimation of Domin Ghassan il’Sänke, and of the influence metaologers tried to wield in any of the guild branches.

“This will also cut off il’Sänke’s minion in that Suman contingent among us,” Gyâr added.

Chuillyon tried not to swallow, to sigh, or to wince as his peer, his superior, went on.

“If all is settled before T’ovar returns, she will not balk at what was done. It will simply be a relief that the decision was made, one that she’s put off time and again. May I count on you?”

Chuillyon knew things about Wynn Hygeorht that would drop Gyâr’s jaw. He had kept everything that had happened in Dhredze Seatt to himself. He had worked so hard to guide Malourné’s royal family, as had his subordinates assigned to the Numan nations and territories. It was a duplicitous game of aid balanced against subtle control, and he had fought to keep his superiors from taking things too far.

His life had been spent perched upon a pin tip, trying to keep any faction of a future alliance from trampling the others in blind panic. Now it appeared he had not paid enough attention to how easily someone closer at hand could suddenly flick that pin out from under him. And just as unexpected, it had come riding on the robed skirt of Wynn Hygeorht.

Chuillyon should have laughed at his own foolishness, for he had overlooked the most likely possibility. And now ...

“May I count on you?” Gyâr repeated pointedly.

Chuillyon looked his old comrade in the eyes and feigned a serene smile. “Always.”

“Good.” And Gyâr turned for the stairs. “I will convene the council first thing tomorrow morning.”

Chuillyon waited until the premin’s footsteps faded up the outer stairs. He then backed into his chamber, sank into a chair, and pressed his fingers to his mouth.

He could not openly oppose Gyâr and risk weakening his own position and the standing of his suborder within the Order of Metaology. His support had hastened Gyâr’s rapid rise to authority and, through the tall premin, he had often influenced the council to a degree. He had held off their suspicions, their fears concerning the humans and their two branches of the guild. All the while, he had labored carefully to retain faith in his counsel from all sides that would be needed one day. For even the Numans had their own doubts about his people, as well as one another’s nations.

Then Wynn Hygeorht returned with those ancient texts, still a secret to all but one nation among the Numans.

Everything was unraveling too quickly, and it had started from within the guild itself. He saw a day to come when he might be an enemy to all of the sides he had tried to hold together.

“Master?” a female voice called from above.

This was one he had been expecting, and he called out, “Yes, come.”

Two robed elves appeared at his chamber entrance. One was an overly slender young woman in a midnight blue robe, and her male companion wore white. Hannâschi and Shâodh—“Within a Consecrated Space” and “Care-Tender”—were among the few people he trusted. Or at least among those he trusted mostly, if not completely.

“What kept you?” Chuillyon asked.

Hannâschi bowed slightly. “We saw Premin Gyâr enter the stairwell and thought it best to wait.”

She was shorter than a human male, and so slender her closest friends sometimes called her Fohk’hannâ—a play on her name meaning “little female corn sprout.” Her hair was a deep shade of gold, and when uncoiled hung a ridiculous length down her back to her knees. She had overly expressive eyes, especially for a metaologer.

Chuillyon was unaffected by her lovely appearance, though it had proven useful more than once. The way she listened, as if with her whole being, loosened the stiffest of tongues. She was a good judge of character in general. And though she had no intention of ever leaving the main Order of Metaology, she had quickly attached herself to him more than to cold-blooded Gyâr. Chuillyon valued her for that, as well.

“Did he tell you he closed the archives?” Shâodh asked quietly.

“Yes ... he did,” Chuillyon answered, eyeing the rare journeyor among his own suborder.

Shâodh was a much different story from Hannâschi. His eyes were a bit small and closely set. Not exactly slender, he was tall enough to make it appear so, and stood a full head above his companion. Somewhat stoic and private, Shâodh disliked bothering with personal appearance. He kept his sandy hair cropped short.

“And?” Shâodh added. “How did you respond?”