She should've been relieved—and part of her was. People like Rodian wouldn't understand the breadth and importance of the project. But if he were kept from delving deeper into these horrid events, he might never uncover what she already believed. The killer was unnatural, and sages would keep dying and pages would keep disappearing, unless someone pulled the truth from denial.
The apprentice il'Sänke had sent off came running back with two others dressed in brown robes. They settled a stretcher on the bench beside the table. Premin Adlam entered on their heels. All activity in the room focused on getting Nikolas to the hospice for proper attention.
Nikolas never even moved as High-Tower and Adlam lowered him onto the stretcher and the apprentices rushed him off. But there was nothing to be done for Miriam or Dâgmund.
"As you wish, Highness," Rodian said. Without even a nod to her, he backed toward the hall's main exit.
"Expect the royal physician tomorrow," Duchess Reine told him.
The captain turned and left without another word.
After polite farewells, the duchess and her bodyguards followed. Wynn stood uncom Knn divfortably with silent High-Tower and il'Sänke. She wasn't certain whether fear, anxiety, or denial was thickest in the hall.
"I must report to Premin Sykion," High-Tower muttered.
"May I go to Nikolas?" Wynn asked.
"No!" he growled. "Premin Adlam doesn't need you. Return to your room."
Stung, almost hating him, Wynn stalked out and down the passage to the front doors.
Two more of their own were dead! A third barely clung to life, struck down by something no one would admit was real. And she was sick of being treated like some addle-brained mental invalid who should be shut away.
She nearly ran across the courtyard and up to her room, slamming the door behind herself. Sinking onto her bed, she felt her anger drain away, but despair rose in its wake.
She tried not to imagine what had happened to Miriam and Dâgmund, and what it meant when Rodian said only one had died like Elias and Jeremy. Why hadn't the captain sent his guards to protect them? Or had he, and they arrived too late? Had they seen anything to shed light on the murders and who—
Wynn sat there, sinking in hopelessness for so long that her cold lamp's crystal nearly winked out.
A soft knock came at her door, but she had no wish to see anyone, except perhaps the captain.
"Who is it?" she called weakly.
"Open up," il'Sänke answered.
Wynn remained where she sat, uncertain whether she even wanted to see the one person who believed any of her "wild tales." She finally rose to let him in.
Domin il'Sänke pushed her back as he entered and turned to close the door. He held something long in his hand, nearly as tall as himself, but it was hidden beneath loose wraps of dull burlap. He glanced toward the dwindling cold lamp on her table.
"Fix that," he said with a curt gesture.
Wynn was staring at the strange long bundle, but she couldn't bring herself to ask about it yet. Hope was something she'd grown wary of, but she went to the table-desk and rubbed the lamp's crystal back to life. As light filled the room, she found il'Sänke standing by her bed, gazing down at the unwrapped item laid there.
Amid the folds of opened cloth lay a polished oak staff. One end was sheathed in a long, loose leather sleeve, held closed around the wood by a drawstring.
"Such an item takes time," il'Sänke said. "And cost, in trial and error as much as resources… more for as much as I hurried."
Moons had passed since Wynn had first gone to the domin. To her, that hardly seemed like a hurry. But she now understood what was beneath that leather sheath.
"Finished?" she breathed. "Finally finished?"
"Finished?" He snorted. "Perhaps… but there is no more time to test it further."
Wynn swallowed hard. "I'm not complaining, just—"
"Come here," he commanded.
He reached down and gripped the staff's tawny shaft, lifting it. Turning it over, he let it slide through his soft grip until its butt thumped upon the floor. And finally he pulled the sheath off its top end.
Mute glimmers exploded around the room as light struck the sun crystal. Its prisms played multicolored wisps upon the walls. Wynn was so mesmerized, she barely heard the domin's warning.
"Do not judge High-Tower," he said harshly. "He is stricken by Miriam's death… as I am by Dâgmund's."
Wynn's gaze shifted to his face, seeing cold anger beneath suppressed grief. She'd had no idea that Dâgmund had any close association to the visiting domin. But her eyes quickly returned to the crystal.
"This will take time and practice to use," he said. "And you will treat this object with great care, as a replacement might not even be possible. Are you prepared for a first lesson?"
Wynn was suddenly hesitant, especially when he looked down at her.
Domin il'Sänke's dark brown eyes held none of their habitual sly humor. They were hard and frightening. But she reached out and grasped the polished staff.
"Yes… I've been ready all along."
