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?

Chapter 14

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.

Wynn set the bowl down in the room's center. Even as she backed to the bed, the animal didn't move. Its gaze shifted only once to the bowl.

"It's all right," she repeated, but the words made no difference.

Finally the majay-hì rose.

Holding its place for a moment, it then padded one careful step at a time to the bowl. Lowering its muzzle to lap the water, it never took its eyes off Wynn. A wave of sadness washed through Wynn as she thought of Chap—and the majay-hì's ears rose up.

She couldn't help a stab of regret that this four-footed stranger wasn't him—not by its color, let alone that it was obviously female. She remembered the pack that had helped her and Chap find Leesil's mother in the an'Cróan's Elven Territories. A yearling majay-hì had run among them.

This charcoal-colored female looked about the same age, if Wynn guessed right. But then, she didn't know the life span of the majay-hì. Its color was almost as dark as that of the grizzled pack elder. By contrast, Wynn remembered Lily, Chap's beautiful white companion with yellow-flecked blue eyes that looked green from afar. Lily's strange attributes were rare for the wild protectors of those faraway elven lands.

The strange female stopped drinking and lifted her head.

Wynn couldn't fathom how this young one, maybe only a yearling, had traveled so far from home. And why had the dog come to her, let alone at the moment the black figure appeared? She crouched to the dog's level and hesitantly stretched out her hand, palm up.

"It's all right," she said again.

The majay-hì shrank away with a twitch of jowl—but she cocked her long head as well.

And a moment passed.

The dog stretched her neck just a little, reaching out her nose, though she remained well beyond Wynn's reach. The majay-hì sniffed at Wynn, and then shook herself all over, and those pale blue eyes gazed intently into Wynn's.

The same way Chap had sometimes studied her. And the way Lily had looked her over when they first met.

The young female huffed suddenly and took a step.

Wynn remained still, with her hand extended, but the female paused as if waiting for something. The dog finally backed up. That brief instant of near acceptance—and its sudden passing—frustrated Wynn.

The majay-hì pack had also had a hard time accepting her. The grizzled black elder had barely tolerated her at all. Lily was the first to allow Wynn close.

The young female's ears pricked up again.

Even Lily wouldn't have let Wynn touch her without Chap present. How was she going to establish trust with this lost sentient being—without getting bitten? Wynn leaned forward with her hand still outstretched, until she had to brace her other hand on the floor. She hesitated every inch for fear of startling the anxious female.

The majay-hì finally extended her head in like manner, until her cold, wet nose touched the tip of Wynn's middle finger.

A barrage of memories erupted in Wynn's mind. Wobbling under the onslaught, she barely caught a glimpse of one before it washed away under the next.

Chap, his silver-gray fur glinting in shafts of sunlight lancing through the forest canopy…

Lily running somewhere nearby, more brilliant white where the light touched her coat…

Violet-tinged ferns in the underbrush whipping across them within the vast Elven Territories…

Wynn snatched her hand back with a gasp and dropped sharply on her rump.

Hazy and blurry as they were, there was something very wrong about these memories. She'd never run with Chap and Lily—not in such a moment as she'd just remembered.

The young female cocked her head and huffed once.

Even with lingering fever's heat, Wynn sat shivering on the cold stone floor.

Chap could evoke anyone's memories that he'd seen in them once before. He played upon people who were completely unaware of what he did. But he'd left the Elven Territories nearly two years ago.

And those memories had come to Wynn at a touch.

Only the majay-hì could do this. They communicated among their own kind through "memory-speak." But this wasn't possible for Wynn—or anyone. Resting one night among the pack, she'd tried to «listen» in among them, but nothing came to her.