Of Truth and Beasts

An elderly cathologer spun about, along with his younger counterpart. The old one stared, stunned, at the sight of Wynn. She recognized him as the elder sage who’d advised her in the meal hall. Was he the master archivist?

Wynn heard Chane’s blade slide from its sheath. Before she could turn, both shé’ith drew their sweeping blades in the same swift motion. Shade’s snarl rose behind Wynn.

“Wait!” she cried out, sidestepping into Chane’s way and grabbing Shade’s scruff. “What is this about?”

“Do not confound your offense with more deceit,” Gyâr answered. “One of the guards below came to ask about the pass you showed them, since they were never told of such.”

“Yes, I have a pass ... with a council seal on it,” Wynn confirmed. “It was delivered to me this evening. I assumed—”

“Give it to me,” he said, striding forward. “I do not know how you forged it, but—”

“I forged nothing,” Wynn countered, fishing the letter from her pocket. She’d barely extended it when he snatched it from her hand.

“I would never have entered without proper authority,” she added.

Gyâr’s expression dulled as he studied the letter. His gaze hung the longest at its bottom, where the council seal was stamped. Confusion briefly broke the anger in his near-yellow eyes. He flipped the letter, glancing once at the wax seal on the sheet that had enveloped it.

Wynn knew one thing.

The council’s imprint at the letter’s bottom was no forgery. Whoever had sent it to her had—or had gained—access to the council’s official seal.

“How is this ... ?” Gyâr began weakly, then his voice sharpened as he fixed on her. “Who issued this for you?”

“I assumed it came from you,” she lied. “Since an apprentice metaologer brought it to our room.”

The premin’s tan face appeared to pale, and he closed another step. Wynn felt Chane’s hand settle on her shoulder, his fingers tightening. Both shé’ith tensed.

“A metaologer ... to your room?” the premin asked. “Which apprentice?”

“I don’t know your people,” she answered. “I don’t know who it was.”

Wynn became reluctant to mention that it had been a woman—probably a journeyor—or to provide any description at all. Whoever had made that pass, possibly someone in Gyâr’s order or the premin of another, may have used the young metaologer as an unwitting tool. That person might be a hidden ally or just another enemy trying to further hinder and malign Wynn. She wasn’t about to risk incriminating the wrong person until she was certain.

Gyâr’s anger surfaced again as he glanced at the elderly archivist watching all of this closely. Some inner frustration seemed to keep the premin from getting out whatever he wanted to say. If the pass was real, the premin certainly couldn’t have them arrested—or worse—in front of witnesses.

“Journeyor,” the old archivist said to Wynn, stepping forward. “What are you seeking in the Naturology archives? For your calling, I would think you would want the southwest of our five spires.”

“The southwest spire?” she echoed.

“Yes ... for the Cathology archives.”

Wynn felt ill.

She’d asked the young initiate in the courtyard for directions to the archives, and the girl had pointed around the redwood ring to the closest way to the closest spire. There was a reason why every casement here had symbols that all began with an octagon.

Five orders and five spires, or five archives for each order, and she’d picked the wrong one.

“Witless” Wynn Hygeorht, the madwoman of Calm Seatt’s guild branch, had done it again.

Even now she didn’t know which of the other four held the archives for Metaology, marked with a circle for Spirit. She wasn’t about to ask, for they were all beyond her reach. Her mysterious pass had been confiscated, more of the Shé’ith would be guarding every spire’s entrance, and she’d again drawn too much attention.

Her stomach began to hurt.

“Tell me who brought you this letter,” Gyâr demanded. “What did he look like?”

Wynn feigned confusion. “I only remember a dark blue robe. I was too surprised when I saw the letter, thinking it had come from you.”

Gyâr took a long, slow breath, and froze in indecision.

“Put those swords away,” the old archivist admonished, gesturing to the guards, and then turned his disapproval beyond Wynn. “You, too, young man. There has been enough irreverence here for one evening.”

Wynn felt Chane’s hand leave her shoulder as he sheathed his blade. The elder archivist stepped past the premin toward Wynn.

“All right, now. Back to your rooms,” he told her, as if she were a child up past her bedtime. “And mind the premin concerning the archives. We will handle the rest of this nonsense ourselves.”

But as he reached toward Wynn, she saw a pleading in his gaze that spoke louder than his fatherly words. He was giving her a way out, a way beyond the premin’s immediate reach, and she’d better take it.

“Of course, Domin,” she said quickly. “And our apologies for this upset.”