The elven root word
She pulled the book closer, rushing through the text in search of more, but the tale was only half a page long.
A black terror-ghost… sovereign of spirits?
It could touch—physically touch. This had to be another superstition. Even if this tale was an account of a true undead, it wouldn't be the first bit of nonsense concerning such.
Leesil and Magiere had tracked and impaled a vampire named Sapphire, only to have the creature vanish when they turned their backs for an instant. Staking a vampire through the heart turned out to be superstition, one that even some vampires believed in. But the tale in the book still left her wondering about Master Shilwise's scribe shop.
Someone had gotten in, without forcing entry, but then had to break out.
Perhaps the creature in this tale was a mage—like Chane or Welstiel—maybe a thaumaturge, working magic of the physical realm. Yes, a vampire mage would have many years to become highly skilled. At a guess, it might learn how to transmute its solid form into a gaseous state at will, and slip through the cracks of a door.
All right, so it was a silly notion for children's ghost tales, but she'd seen stranger things in the last two years. And there was still the puzzle of why whoever had slipped in had to break out.
Wynn took up her quill and turned a fresh page in her journal. She recorded the entire short tale in the Begaine script. For now, her best path was to search Numanese writings for any further mention of the
"Young Hygeorht!"
Wynn jumped in surprise. Domin Tärpodious stood at the antechamber's entrance, his milky eyes wide in horror. At first she wasn't certain why. He shuffled in, disapproval coloring his pale face.
"Surely you didn't need all of these at once for Tilswith's research?"
Wynn glanced about.
Disheveled piles covered the whole table, and a few sheets had slipped off to scatter about the floor.
"Oh… oops," she said. "I must've… I didn't realize…"
With the old master archivist already displeased, she knew better than to offer help in straightening up. She quickly shut the old book.
"Off with you," he huffed, almost to himself. "I should've come sooner and rousted you for supper."
Wynn stared back. "Supper?"
"Cooked, consumed, and cleaned up," he replied gruffly. "An apprentice just brought down my meal. Best get upstairs and find some leftovers."
Wynn hesitated. Now that she had a lead, there was still so much to do.
"Be off!" Tärpodious snapped, already gathering sheets into sheaves.
"Thank you for the help," she said, and retrieved her belongings. "And again, I apologize. I'll be more discerning next time."
Wynn slipped out, turning right down the corridor, her cold lamp lighting the way between the laden shelves and the catacombs' old stone columns and walls.
"Wynn!"
Tärpodious's sharp call made her whole back cinch tightly. She couldn't help a groan, thinking he'd found some blot of ink she'd missed. She reversed course and peered hesitantly around the edge of the antechamber's opening.
Domin Tärpodious scowled silently at her, and Wynn's stomach sank into her boots.
The old archivist raised a hand, pointing one bony finger toward the passage's other direction.
Wynn flushed, nodded quickly, and hurried off the correct way.
Chane waited in the shadows across the street from the Inkwell scriptorium as two young sages emerged with a folio.
He recognized the pudgy girl in gray. She had occasionally been sent out before. But he had never seen the tall young man in a deep blue robe—too old to be an apprentice but perhaps not old enough for a master or domin. It seemed strange that the guild sent a journeyor of metaology to help retrieve tonight's folio.
Chane pulled farther back out of sight.
As the pair passed by, continuing down the street, the girl clutched the folio to her chest and peered nervously about. When they reached the next intersection, Chane pulled up his cloak's hood and followed from a distance. He had no wish to be seen and remembered.
He kept himself in check rather than close too quickly. But he longed to open the folio and read its contents, and driving desire pressed him forward.
The tall journeyor stopped and turned around.
Other city dwellers moved about in the early evening, and Chane continued walking casually. The blue-robed sage scanned the street, noting a man lighting street lamps, two merchants engaged in conversation, and a flower girl closing her stand… and Chane.
