Premin cize wo Sykion went pale, losing any crafted display of sympathy, and High-Tower flushed with rage.

But Rodian watched this exchange intently, his eyes shifting quickly among them.

"Wynn!" High-Tower rumbled. "This is no time or place for your nonsense. Tighten up your cloak. We are going home."

"Yes, my dear," Sykion added. "It is time to leave."

Wynn didn't budge. She'd heard all this before, and she no longer cared if they thought her addle-minded or even mad. There was only one option left, though it could end in her permanent dismissal from the guild.

"I want my journals from the Farlands returned," she said, not even acknowledging their evasions. "I want my property back… now."

No one said a word. Even High-Tower's blusters faltered, but Premin Sykion's expression grew sterner than Wynn thought possible.

Rodian turned his eyes on Wynn, but he wasn't glaring or scowling anymore.

"You are a cathologer of the guild—" Sykion began, and the edge in her voice belied her dignified manner.

"Very well," Wynn interrupted, "then I'll file legal claim to have the texts returned to me. I found them. I brought them halfway across the world. I allowed the guild access to them… but they are mine, by right of discovery."

"Discoveries made in service!" High-Tower snarled, finally regaining his voice. "All you are, you are because of sagecraft… and thereby the texts belong to the guild by law."

"I know of no such law," Rodian said quietly.

Sykion turned her stricken expression toward the captain, and another dead silence followed. But Wynn found Rodian studying her with cold interest. Whether from duty or ambition or anger at his being stonewalled thus far, her gamble's hope was reflected in his intense eyes.

"Do I have a legitimate claim?" she asked him.

"Certainly not!" High-Tower cut in.

Rodian raised a hand for silence. "If a journeyman smith or leather-worker finds a new technique or technology, does it belong to the master to whom the journeyman has contracted? Or if he or she develops or obtains new knowledge in the craft, is it the master who takes credit?"

High-Tower took a heavy step toward the captain, his gaping mouth working hard. But he couldn't get out one word.

"Not by law," Rodian said, supplying the answer.

"This is different," Sykion countered.

"Wynn," High-Tower rasped. "You would not do this to—"

"Give me access," Wynn demanded. "Or I will go to the high advocate—and take the texts from you! And whether my claim against your unlawful seizure is upheld or c is winot… the texts will still be revealed for the judgment."

This time outrage flushed High Premin Sykion's face. It quickly faded, as fear overwhelmed the head of Wynn's order and the guild branch as a whole.

The following morning Rodian paced around a lavish sitting room in the royal castle overlooking the bay. He'd received a summons at the barracks and was now uncertain what to expect. Perhaps the royals wished for a personal report on his progress—or rather, his failure.

Three of his men were dead. The costs of repairs to a'Seatt's shop were growing, for apparently the roof and front counter had been damaged as well. A member of the royals' favored Guild of Sagecraft had been caught in his trap, but not the perpetrators. And all he had to add to this, concerning the actual investigation, was that at least one of the suspects possessed a mage's skills the like of which he'd never thought possible.

Rodian halted in place.

He had to plan out the most logical and succinct account of events. Certainly the royal family couldn't hold him accountable for facing down someone with rare arcane skill. He could redirect his account to restore confidence in his ability. And now he had a new chance to learn what all of this was about—the texts of the guild's translation project.

Wynn Hygeorht, troublesome as she was, had given him that much.

After he'd released her last night, the trio of sages went off together, none of them speaking to one another. He'd suffered a short sleepless night wondering what might come of Wynn's demand. Would Sykion, as head of the Premin Council, legally challenge Wynn's claim? Would the journeyor back down if the premin refused to concede?

More than anything else, Rodian hated uncertainty. Wynn's determined, angry face kept slipping into his thoughts, and he pushed it aside. He still had this meeting with the royal family to get through, and he began pacing again.

He barely noticed the thick carpets and deeply polished furnishings tended with great care. Some had likely been in the Âreskynna family for generations. Couches of walnut were upholstered in silks, refined or raw, mostly dyed in shimmering sea greens and cyans, and embroidered in variegated patterns. The plastered walls were painted a rich shade of cream offset by golden yellow curtains and draperies around the entrance. The double doors were carved with the large crest of the royal family—an upright longsword upon a wide square sail over a troubled sea.

This was a world far removed from the eastern grasslands and farms of his youth, and he'd clawed his way to his current position on ability and merit. He wasn't about to fall because of some mage murdering sages over bundles of old texts.

The ornate doors opened wide.

Rodian stared into the large amber eyes of an old elf in a white robe with poorly disguised contempt on his tan face. More than the elf's age, the robe bothered him. It was cut much like that of the sages, but white wasn't a color of any of the five orders.

"Princess Âthelthryth Âreskynna and Duchess Reine Faunier- cReidivÂreskynna," the elf announced, stepping in and to the side.

Rodian breathed quickly through his nose.

From the outer crossing passage, Duchess Reine rounded through the entrance first.

Her chestnut hair hung loose, pushed back above each ear with a mother-of-pearl comb shaped like a foaming sea wave. She wasn't wearing a frontal-split gown, only her people's preferred riding boots and breeches along with a matching vestment over a white shirt of shimmering fabric. And a rider's saber hung upon her left hip from a white satin sash lashed about her waist. The effect made her look almost roguish and younger than her years.

"Captain," she greeted him. "Are you all right? You were not injured last night?"

"No, I'm well, Highness," he answered carefully, still wondering why he was here. "But I cannot say as much for my men."

Princess Âthelthryth glided in next, a sharp contrast to her sister-in-law.

Rodian had seen her only a few times in his life. Nearly as tall as him, she was as slender and upright as a young aspen tree. She shared the wheat-gold hair of the royal bloodline, as well as their aquamarine eyes, narrow features, and a blade-thin nose stretching down to a pale pink and thin-lipped mouth. Her pastel teal gown was simple and long-sleeved, but no one would ever mistake her for a minor noble. Where Reine always exuded an aura of quiet inner strength edging upon wildness, Âthelthryth filled any room with somber, intense reserve and detached awareness of everything.

Rodian dropped to one knee, bowing his head, and waited to be acknowledged.

"Captain," the princess said quietly, and he raised his head just enough to see the subtle tilt of her head.

"Come and sit," the duchess added. "We require a service from you."

Rodian rose as the duchess settled on a couch, pointing to another across from her. Then she stretched a hand up to the princess.

"Come, sister."

The royals and highest nobles always referred to the wives or husbands of brothers and sisters in this manner. It upheld the impression of unity before the people, a politically sound presence for the rulers of a nation. But as Âthelthryth approached, she lightly grasped and squeezed Reine's hand once, then took position standing behind the duchess like one of her family's Weardas, the Sentinels.