Her light brown hair hung in loose wisps, sticking to one olive cheek at the corner of her small mouth. Candlelight warmed her brown eyes as she reached for his right hand resting on his knee. Her eyes flickered briefly to his bare chest, and he wished he had donned his spare shirt. Wynn's fingers hung for a moment above his hand.
"This may hurt," she said. "I didn't mean to injure you. I was trying to drive off that… thing, just before Domin il'Sänke appeared."
Wynn slowly applied salve to Chane's right hand. Discomfort heightened under the delicate pressure, but he did not care.
"Il'Sänke?" he echoed. "The one who carried you off?"
"Yes, and—"
"And he's a mage."
Wynn glanced up. "Yes."
"Perhaps the one who created your crystal?"
Wynn frowned. "He's the only one who believes that we're dealing with an undead, besides you… and Shade."
The dog behind Wynn, so akin to Chap, sniffed at him. Her ears flattened as her jowls twitched.
It would sense nothing of his nature—not while he wore the ring. Likely the female smelled that he was not
The black figure attacking Wynn, the dog trying to protect her, the flash of the crystal's light.
Chane flinched. Wynn jerked her fingers from a spot of raw skin on his wrist, where he had ripped away a charred sleeve.
"Sorry," she whispered.
But her voice sounded distant, as if he were some stranger she tended to. She leaned back to dip her fingers in the salve jar on the floor and looked about his small attic room.
The shabby walls, the slanting ceiling below the roof, the stool for a table, and the dusty, chipped water basin…
Chane was not accustomed to embarrassment. The son of a nobleman in life, he had lived in a lavish manor, worn fine clothes, and had even educated himself beyond what most would gain—beyond what most gentry thought was worthwhile. Now he lived—existed—in squalor, with little more than his studies to distract him.
For once he had no one else to blame, not even Welstiel.
Wynn began gently reapplying salve, working around the brass ring on his left hand without seeming to notice it. Then he realized the sting in his right hand was beginning to dull. The ointment might not heal him, but something in it still affected his dead flesh. He loosely closed his right hand, and the pain barely increased.
"Have you learned anything about the scroll?" he asked.
Wynn's expression shifted with a hint of interest. "No, I haven't had time. I was in the catacombs, studying translated portions of the texts. By evening I began to figure out which sections of the translations had been stolen."
He froze, for her words confused him on several levels.
"You have had no access before? You brought those texts back—they are yours."
Wynn sighed. Picking up the salve jar, she stood and began dabbing at his face.
"It's complicated… but no, not until today. Only masters and domins working on the project are allowed access. There is precedence for this decision."
She sounded defensive, even resentful. This was a sensitive subject, so he did not press for more.
"Do you have any idea what is in the missing pages?" he asked.
She stopped dabbing, and her eyes drifted.
"Li'kän's wall writings mentioned two companions—Volyno and Häs'saun. I don't know what became of them, but I read some translations that came just before one set of missing pages…"
She told him of ancient undead, like the white woman with strangely shaped eyes in the castle of the Pock Peaks. And of something called "Beloved," among other names, that might have been what had whispered to Welstiel and sent Magiere her dreams of that castle. And also of how those undead had "divided."
Chane wondered at those other names Wynn mentioned. Did others like the white woman still roam free in the world after centuries?
Wynn paused, lost in thought, and then looked intently down at Chane.
"Did Welstiel ever speak to you about his patron… the thing in his dreams? Magiere suspected something was guiding him."
Chane shook his head. "I know only that someone whispered to him in dormancy, perhaps telling him where to go. But in the way we wandered, I believe he was not told much. He was obsessed with herding Magiere ahead of him, as if he needed her. When you and yours entered elven land, I think he tried to turn to finding his artifact on his own."
Even speaking Magiere's name made Chane's insides heat up. He thought he saw Wynn's eyes flicker once, perhaps glancing at the scar around his neck.
"Some of what Welstiel was told in dormancy turned out to be false," Chane went on. "When did Magiere start having these dreams?"
"When we reached the northern bay of the Elven Territories," Wynn answered. "We were promised a ship to take us south."
Chane shook his head. He had wandered the Crown Range with Welstiel for so long it was impossible to match the time frames.
