Something in there slapped his mental intrusion aside, as surely as if it had slapped his face. He nearly lost hold of Wynn.
The wolf lurched forward, one slow paw at a time, and Ghassan stared in surprise.
A simple beast should not have resisted his command so easily, let alone felt—or responded—when he entered its thoughts. He turned away, heading down the road toward the guild. He had no time to deal with getting some strange wolf onto the grounds, even if Wynn wanted it.
The animal's snarls intensified, and he paused, glancing over his shoulder.
It had not kept up, but it still made headway against his will sainhei.
Ghassan sighed. In a quick flash of symbols and a silent chant, he ripped the command from the wolf's mind.
It lunged forward and circled him.
Ghassan hissed back at it, hurrying on, and the wolf hopped aside before it got caught by his boots.
Chane lay on the far side of a leather shop, gritting his teeth in pain. Thin trails of smoke rose from his charred face and hands. It took effort not to whimper and betray his presence as he climbed to his feet and peered around the shop's side.
A tall sage with dusky skin and dark hair knelt beside Wynn's curled form. He was older and wore the midnight blue of a metaologer. Chane remembered him from the night the first two sages were found murdered in an alley.
At least the black figure was gone, and in the company of one of her own, Wynn might be safe for the moment.
The dark-skinned sage picked up the crystal-adorned staff, but when he tried to touch Wynn's forehead the dog lunged at him. What followed cut through Chane's suffering as he watched, to the instant Wynn floated up into the sage's arms.
This man was more than a sage. Chane's amazement succumbed to pain as Wynn's savior headed off, carrying her in his arms. And the dog followed, still snarling and circling.
Chane barely fumbled his sword back into its sheath. He was almost grateful for the Suman's arrival, as he certainly could not carry Wynn anywhere in his present state. He needed to feed, and soon, and he didn't care whom he found. Almost anyone would do, but he continued to watch the retreating deep blue robe.
Chane knew conjury, though he was less skilled than a true mage. Nothing in that art could have raised Wynn from the ground without a telltale sign—perhaps a geyser of conjured air. He had felt no wind, let alone one powerful and controlled enough to lift her small body from the street.
Thaumaturgy's manipulation of the physical world had better possibilities, but he had never heard nor read of a thaumaturge who could turn a breeze into wind so precisely shaped and with such strength.
This sage had appeared suddenly, in just the right place and moment, barely an instant after the black figure had vanished.
Chane grew anxious—and frustrated with his own weakness—for there was nothing he could do. Had he left Wynn in the hands of some new and unknown threat living within the walls of her own guild?
Wynn groaned as she opened her eyes. She found herself in her own bed, in her own room.
She felt as if she had both a fever and a sunburn, and her right hand tingled uncomfortably. When she raised it, her hand and forearm were their normal tone. She remembered falling in the street, burning inside, as if the crystal's light had sunk within…
Wynn sat up too quickly.
Colored blotches spun over her sight, and she blinked against dizziness. How had she ended up in her room, and where was the inky-colored majay-hì? And what had become of Chane after the crystal ignited?
She remembered him rushing toward her, but no more, and she had no way to find him. At a grunt and a whine from the room's far corner, her mouth dropped open.
The majay-hì lay curled on the floor near her desk. The tip of its bushy tail covered its nose, and its crystal blue eyes stared back at her.
"How did you get in here?" Wynn breathed in wonder.
The dog's tall ears pricked at the sound of her voice. But when she swung her legs over the bedside, trying and failing to stand up, the majay-hì lifted its head with a rumble.
Wynn sat perfectly still. "It's all right," she whispered.
Then she realized she wore only her shift.
She scanned the room in panic for her cloak and spotted it draped over the desk's wooden chair. The majay-hì rumbled again as she wobbled to her feet. She stumbled over and dug into the cloak's inner pocket. At the feel of old tin, Wynn exhaled and pulled out the scroll case.
It looked the same as when Chane had offered it to her—safe and sound. She tucked it back into the cloak and turned about.
The majay-hì watched her intently, ears slightly flattened at her close proximity.
A pitcher of water and a clay mug rested on her bedside table. Ignoring the mug, Wynn retrieved the washbowl atop her chest and filled it from the pitcher. But when she tried to step back across the little room, she made it only halfway.
The majay-hì let out a sharper rumble.
