Sau'ilahk watched through his familiar's eyes as it scampered along the upper branches in pursuit of Wynn-or in pursuit of one shiny little ring fixed in its instinctual obsession. Its eyes offered a much better view at night than those of his conjured servitors.

Chane did not look well.

The vampire might have breached the forest's safeguards, but clearly he suffered for it. Wynn led onward ahead of the dwarf as they followed the majay-h. When they came to a three-way split in the path, a loud howl carried from a distance.

The tshglh froze, backing away along the branch. Sau'ilahk seized control to keep it still.

The dwarf muttered something, but Sau'ilahk was too distracted to catch the words. After a few more distant howls, Shade darted off the path, followed by Wynn and the others in a stumbling gait through the underbrush.

Sau'ilahk forced the tshglh onward, choking off its whimpers of fright at those howls.

Chuillyon waited tensely as Gyr's heavy footfalls descended the stairs outside his chambers. Hannschi sidestepped away from the entrance. This was not a good time for a visit from the tall premin. Chuillyon snapped his fingers.

Hannschi went rigid, her eyes locking on him. He pointed at the curtained doorway to his sleeping chamber, and she rushed through, trying to still the curtain in her wake.

An instant later, Gyr pounded through the entrance, the letter held high in hand.

"We have a problem," he announced, as if the presumption that Chuillyon would share the weight of it was not debatable.

Chuillyon raised his feathery eyebrows. "And that would be?"

Gyr held out the letter. "A sympathizer . . . and traitor in our midst."

Chuillyon took it, scanning its content as if he had never seen it before. Of course, he had not seen it since the council seal had been added.

The fact that no one had sought out Hannschi meant that Wynn had given no description of the courier. This was no surprise. The errant little sage, so accustomed to persecution, would never give up another who had tried to help her.

"I a.s.sume you did not issue it," Chuillyon murmured, looking up with a carefully baffled expression. "Where did it come from?"

"From that Numan journeyor," Gyr snapped, "standing in the north archive!"

Chuillyon feigned a gasp. "What premin would issue this? Perhaps Viajhuijh? Wynn, though from another branch, is a cathologer and of his order."

"I've already challenged Viajhuijh. He seemed as surprised as you . . . and would never dare go against me, let alone steal into my study to use the seal without consent or council approval."

"Well, someone did," Chuillyon said, "and someone gave Hygeorht extensive a.s.sistance."

This was not exactly true. No one had broken into Gyr's quarters, and Wynn had been given minimal a.s.sistance in entering the archives.

Hannschi's only direct thaumaturgy had been to trick Thrchk, the master archivist's apprentice, into thinking he'd received rare tomes from the Suman branch. Thus he was lured out of the archive to his office, and Wynn had walked in unhindered. It had taken a bit more than twisted light to fake the books on Thrchk's desk, but Hannschi had managed.

Creating the pa.s.s with a council seal had been a little more mundane.

Chuillyon possessed a few sheets of the high premin's stationery and had written the letter himself. In the past, he'd more than once gotten his hands on doc.u.ments with the stamped council seal. Sometimes those doc.u.ments took a little longer than usual for their final delivery.

Hannschi would apply an alchemical mixture to a wood block, press it on a doc.u.ment's stamped seal, and lift off a reverse imprint. The captured ink could then be revitalized once or twice, and the block used to reimprint another doc.u.ment. The covert stamp was not perfect, but neither was the original. However, it was the original image-with the original ink made for use only with the seal.

Gyr paced to the entrance arch, braced a hand upon its edge, and glanced back, a predator's glint in his dark yellow eyes.

"How is this possible?" he demanded. "That Numan journeyor said one of my apprentices delivered the letter. I have spoken to all of them, and none claim any knowledge of it." His eyes narrowed. "What of the Suman entourage? Could they be responsible?"

"Why bother giving the letter away? They could have used the pa.s.s themselves."

Gyr exhaled. "At the very least, someone may have acquired a metaologer's robe from our stores to play messenger. Do you trust everyone of your order? Would any of yours have reason to do this?"

Chuillyon frowned in manufactured resentment. "I a.s.sure you, no one under me has any interest in a.s.sisting Journeyor Hygeorht."

"Then we are back to our other three premins?"

"Really, Gyr. Why would they help some wayward sage from Calm Seatt?"

"Then who else?"

Chuillyon raised his hands in feigned exasperation, although at tomorrow's council gathering, he knew exactly whom the others would suspect: him. Oh, he had been the prime suspect of lesser mischief, though nothing had ever been proven. At present, Gyr was the only one who mattered.

The premin of Metaology, sitting in as high premin, held all the power for now. Gyr's trust and need of an old ally outweighed casting suspicion the same way. The premins might be troubled over this subterfuge with the pa.s.s, but ultimately that would be the least of their concerns. All would disapprove of Gyr's rashness in pet.i.tioning the people's council to bring in the She'ith-the Serenitiers, as humans might call them. Exactly what had he done to convince the Premin Council for that?

Gyr dropped into one of the simple chairs. "Order some tea," he said. "We must reason this through . . . until a path to the answer is found."

Chuillyon gazed toward his chamber's entrance. He was not getting out of here any time soon-and neither was Hannschi.

"Keep your eyes shut tight," Wynn told Chane, pushing leafy branches out of her face.

Her sleeves were soaked through from moisture clinging to foliage as she trailed Shade. Ore-Locks followed, but it took all Wynn's effort to drag Chane blindly onward. It seemed too long that she'd been fighting through this underbrush, but the howls and yips grew steadily louder and nearer.

Wynn broke into a small clearing and found Shade poised at its center with her ears upright. Something had stalled the dog, but as Wynn reached out to touch Shade's haunches, two furred forms burst from the underbrush on the clearing's far side.

Both majay-h were long and lanky like Shade, with equally narrow muzzles and tall ears. One was a mottled brown. The other was a more traditional silver-gray. The pair split, rounding opposite sides of the small s.p.a.ce.

Rustlings rose in the brush all around the clearing.

"Watch your backs," Ore-Locks warned.

Wynn looked about frantically. Noise in the underbrush sounded as if an entire pack had surrounded the clearing, but only two dogs had shown themselves. She spun back at a clack of teeth.

Both newcomers froze. The mottled one held a forepaw up in midstep, as Shade snarled at it with her ears flattened.

Wynn had placed her trust in Shade. The last time she'd encountered a majay-h pack had been in the Farlands' Elven Territories. Only the presence of Chap and his mate, Lily, had made them tolerate her. She hoped the same would work here with Shade.

The silver majay-h turned and lowered its head. Shade snapped the air before it.

Chane's hand slipped out of Wynn's and latched onto her wrist. Before she even turned, she heard his sword sliding from its sheath.

"Chane, no!" she said, grabbing his sword arm.

Another snarl erupted, pulling her attention. The sound hadn't come from Shade.

The mottled one's jowls quivered around bared teeth as it raised its head and sniffed the air in Wynn's direction. It snorted, as if expelling a foul smell caught in its nose.

Wynn wondered why it needed to smell her at all. It should've picked up her scent without such effort. Then the reason dawned on her-perhaps it wasn't her that the newcomer smelled.

Chane was the one who didn't smell right. The bra.s.s ring could do nothing about that.

Ore-Locks pushed past Wynn into the clearing, his long iron staff at the ready but his blade still sheathed. The silver majay-h swung its head toward him.

"Everyone be still," Wynn said. "They aren't animals. They're as intelligent as you are."

Shade still rumbled, and the silver one eyed her as if puzzled by Shade's actions. It stretched out its muzzle toward her, and Shade bared her teeth.

"Easy, Shade," Wynn whispered.

Shade was caught between two opponents and swung her head back and forth to keep track of them. When the silver majay-h was a head's length away, Shade turned fully to it.

There came the briefest touch of noses.

Shade flinched back and fell completely silent. The silver-gray dog turned and dashed back into the brush the way it had entered. The mottled brown one wheeled and followed. Shade, still frozen in place, looked to Wynn.

"Go," Wynn told her.

Thrashing onward, Wynn could hear the pack on all sides in the forest. Their hidden potential threat made the way seem longer, so that when she finally broke into the open, she bent over, panting behind Shade. She was light-headed, and her breath still caught when she looked ahead.

Strange, bulging lanterns of opaque amber gla.s.s hung in the lower branches of maples, oaks, and startlingly immense firs. The trees loosely framed a broad gully with gently sloping sides that stretched ahead. Decades of leaf fall had hampered undergrowth, leaving the gully clear of underbrush. But ivy climbed over exposed boulders and around and up evergreens. Bushy ferns grew here and there, but these were all that broke the mulch, aside from the crackle of paws on fallen autumn leaves.

A dozen or more majay-h paced in the view before Wynn.

They dashed past each other, rubbing heads, cheeks, or shoulders. Wynn could only imagine the memory-speak pa.s.sing rapidly through the pack. She wished she could've listened in, as she did with Shade. All of them paused intermittently, looking at the black majay-h, before wheeling toward another of their own in whatever they shared so rapidly.

Shade's presence had caused trepidation or excitement or both.

"What is this place?" Ore-Locks asked. "It is not overgrown, like the rest of the forest. But the trunks . . . they are too large for these kinds of trees."

"Ahead . . . slightly left," Chane whispered. "Look to that fir."

Wynn looked down the gully.

The fir tree's trunk was almost as wide as a guild keep tower in Calm Seatt. The barest hint of a dark opening showed in its base. Some kind of hanging, perhaps aged hide or dyed wool, filled that entrance and made it seem part of the bark until Wynn looked right at it.

After the structures in a'Ghrihln'na, she would've never imagined that tree. But there it was, a living tree home, like those in the an'Cran's wild enclaves. It looked almost out of place in this forest.

"What are you doing here?"

The warning in that lilting voice made Wynn turn quickly, shifting her gaze. And then there she was, coming from the trees, down the slope, walking right through the pack of majay-h.

Vreuvill stopped, tensely poised like some wild spirit manifested in elven form. A circlet of braided raw sheot'a strips held back her silver-streaked hair. In place of the skirt draped to her feet, she now wore pants; high, soft boots; and a thong-belted jerkin, all made of darkened rawhide.

"I told you," she said, "your presence disturbs Chrmun."

Her Numanese was too perfect for someone who lived an isolated life so far from foreigners, let alone her own people.

Ore-Locks watched her closely but held back. Releasing Chane, Wynn took a step up behind Shade.

"We need to speak with you," she said.

Vreuvill moved toward them, barely disturbing the fallen leaves beneath her narrow feet. The mottled bark brown majay-h paced her.

"Where is your friend, that white-robed heretic?" she demanded.

"He's no friend or anything else to us," Wynn answered. "We came all the way from Calm Seatt, and I have no idea how he beat us here."

"No, I am sure you do not."

Wynn was too tired of being played at every turn to care what that meant. But she didn't care for the taunt itself. Then the silver majay-h from the first small clearing circled into Vreuvill's path and pa.s.sed close along the woman's side.

Long, tan fingers combed between the dog's tall ears.

Vreuvill slowed for an instant. Only her large amber eyes lifted to gaze beyond Wynn. And her nostrils flared.

A chill spread through Wynn. Not because it looked like Vreuvill could smell what the majay-h had. Not because the woman might suspect what Chane was. It was that touch that left Wynn shocked in disbelief.

The only reason Wynn could memory-speak with Shade through a touch was because of the taint left by a mistake with a thaumaturgical ritual. Even the an'Cran and their Anmaglhk couldn't do this with majay-h.

But had Vreuvill just done so?

"From Calm Seatt?" the woman repeated, and glanced at Shade. "With a majay-h? I do not think so."

Wynn tried to recover. "Shade came for me. She's from what is called the Elven Territories on the eastern continent. Its people are called the an'Cran-Those of the Blood."

Vreuvill closed within reach of Shade. Shade remained quietly watchful, though the woman of the woods didn't looked down again.

"So, you have met our wayward kin of old?" Vreuvill said.

"Yes. Several of them are . . . my good friends."

Vreuvill's large eyes narrowed. Little enough was known throughout the Farlands of the xenophobic an'Cran. But almost no one on this continent had ever heard of them until Wynn had returned. Yet Vreuvill knew of them and their ancient link to her own people.

What else might this woman know of older ways and times? Perhaps things the guild could never uncover from lost sc.r.a.ps of the Forgotten History.

Vreuvill took a long breath and instantly turned up the broad gully. "Come with me."

Wynn was still shaken, but she grabbed Chane's arm. His whole body was trembling.

"Can I help?" Ore-Locks asked, though his offer sounded forced.

This entire venture had been his suggestion, but he now appeared to regret it.

"No, I've got him," Wynn answered.

Chane might be sick and disoriented, but he was still aware enough to act. Wynn didn't know what he might do in this state if Ore-Locks touched him.