Of Truth and Beasts

He rarely spoke unless necessary. Bland as a river stone on the surface, he was intelligent, careful—one might say sly—and fiercely loyal to the Order of Chârmun. He was also ambitious and ethically pliable, but these characteristics had their uses.

“I will support Gyâr before the council gathering in the morning,” Chuillyon answered.

Shâodh’s brow puckered, the closest thing to dissatisfaction he would show a superior. Hannâschi’s slow shake of her head was more disapproving, a gesture that Gyâr would have considered insubordinate.

“Have you learned anything?” Chuillyon asked.

“The metaologer among the visiting Sumans gave them his room,” Hannâschi answered. “So far, only Journeyor Hygeorht and the majay-hì have ventured out.”

“Long enough to instigate closure of the archives,” Shâodh added flatly.

“So, how do we learn what she is after if she has no access?” Hannâschi asked. “She will not get past the Shé’ith, or not for long, even with her armed human and dwarven escorts. The black majay-hì is, of course, another matter.”

Chuillyon clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply through his long nose. Hannâschi was slightly tainted by her premin’s attitudes toward humans.

“She would never go that far,” he countered. “But you cannot imagine the lengths she will go, if given the slightest chance ... and a drop of assistance.”

Hannâschi cocked her head, and her voice took on a taint of suspicion. “Master ... you have something in mind.”

“I do.” Chuillyon smiled impishly. “With some simple thaumaturgical assistance.”

Hannâschi closed her eyes and slumped. “Oh ... not again.”

Shâodh was trying very hard not to smile.

Domin Ghassan il’Sänke stood near the bow of a Numan merchant vessel headed south along the coast. Harsh sea winds snapped his midnight blue robe as much as worries tugged his thoughts.

Before leaving Calm Seatt a day after Wynn Hygeorht had gone to the Dhredze Seatt, he had finished a more proper translation of fragments she had gleaned from Chane Andraso’s strange scroll. Of course, Ghassan had kept his own copy, but he had wrestled with how much of it, if any, he should leave for Wynn. In the end, he had given up trying to decide. At least in her undisciplined way, she had uncovered for him many things her Numan superiors could or would not. He prepared a letter and the translation, leaving both for her, if she returned home.

His forced exit from the Numan branch had come sooner than expected, and with too little gained. He had only one thick journal’s worth of surreptitious copies from whatever pieces of the ancient texts he had been allowed to work on or view. It was galling the way the Numan Premin Council, especially Sykion and her underling High-Tower, kept everything hidden away. Those texts should have been transferred to the Suman branch. Hints of the earliest assaults from the Ancient Enemy’s forces seemed to have come out of the great desert.

Even without such hints, Ghassan already had his reasons for both knowing and believing in which corner of the world the next war would begin. If he had been able to find those texts, he would have taken them at all costs. There was too much at stake not to do so. But nothing could be done for the moment.

Frustration left him anxious for his journey’s end. He had been away from his homeland and his guild branch for a long while. It would not be long now, maybe a few days more at best.

A sudden warmth built on his sternum.

Ghassan pressed his hand against the front folds of his robe. He glanced about the deck as he felt heat from the copper medallion he wore inside his robe. There were too many sailors close at hand.

Trying not to rush, he stepped down the forecastle’s ladder and headed belowdecks to his cabin. Once there, he settled on the bunk’s edge, pulled out the medallion, and let it rest upon his palm. He closed his eyes, waiting.

A voice rose in his mind, dull at first, but sharpening as he fixed his will upon it.

Master?

Yes, Mujahid, he answered.

She is here. I do not know how or why, or how you knew ... but she arrived last night.

Indeed, Ghassan had half expected this, for he knew her general location. He had his own way of tracking Wynn, one she would never suspect. As long as she carried the staff, he would know her whereabouts by direction and approximate distance. He could always find the staff with his mind if he focused. He had helped to make the crystal and imbued it with a fragment of his will.

Ghassan knew Wynn had left the Numan branch of the guild, traveling south at first. Much later she had turned east. He had never been completely certain where she headed, but the direction pointed toward very few places she might go. It was pure chance that Mujahid had been on assignment at the Lhoin’na branch. Ghassan had notified the young journeyor under his tutelage, who was also a prime future candidate for his inner sect.