The memory's intensity softened.

Wynn stared at Shade, eye-to-eye, with the sheathed blade still in the dog's jaws. Had Shade been hunting the black figure, as well as watching over her all this time?

And on the night Rodian had sprung his trap, the figure had slid out through the front wall of the Upright Quill—but pulled the folio through a window. Perhaps, by whatever magic, it couldn't pass the folio through something solid.

But why destroy the front door of the Gild and Ink? With no one about, it could've simply slipped through the wall and pulled the folio through an easily breakable window. Or better yet, it could've found some less telltale way to get out, with no one around to see it.

No one but Shade, that was.

Wynn was at a loss for what any of this meant, nor why Shade had shown her this now. It had been a clear image of the undead breaking out of a shop, appearing solid, yet it had walked through an iron pole.

This attempt to talk in memories was frustrating, but it was all Wynn had. Shade was trying to tell her something about the black figure. How many Noble Dead, or even other undead, had Wynn known of since she first met Magiere, Leesil, and Chap? She had to at least eliminate the obvious, and put her hand on the side of Shade's neck.

Wynn relaxed her mind, letting memories rise, but careful not to let any of Chane come clearly to mind. There was Vordana, Welstiel, and the memory of Magiere speaking of her undead father, Bryen Massing. The first two were mages as well as Noble Dead.

Shade growled and looked away with a huff.

Wynn exhaled sharply. Shade's reaction wasn't like Chap's clear usage of two barks for "no," but it was plain enough. So now what? The only other undead that Wynn had encountered were Ubâd's animated corpses and enslaved spirits.

Shade dropped the blade and grabbed Wynn's wrist in her jaws. Rapidly alternating memories filled Wynn's head—her own memories…

The ghost of a murdered girl who served the necromancer…

Then the black figure on the night Shade had come to Wynn's aid…

Black figure and ghost child alternated over and over.

Wynn didn't like what this implied.

"A spirit?" she whispered, remembering the ghost child who'd once spoken with that vile necromancer's own voice.

Shade gently tightened her grip on Wynn's wrist.

Wynn looked at the dog and suddenly wished she still had her doubts. It would've been far less unsettling to cling to her notion of an ancient Noble Dead mage grown powerful over a thousand years.

How could a spirit, as much as it might pass through a wall, pick up a folio in its hand, rip out a city guard's chest, and look as solid and real as a cloaked man? And why hadn't Shade simply shown her ghosts in the first place?

The latter answer came quickly. Because Shade had never seen a ghost, until that memory rose in Wynn's mind when she'd thought of other forms of undead.

Shade couldn't dig for memories but only recall ones she'd seen surface in someone else's thoughts. And she'd never seen a ghost herself, because the undead couldn't enter the an'Cróan's elven homeland—Shade's homeland.

Wynn glanced at Magiere's useless dagger lying on the floor between her and Shade. And again she wished Shade was wrong.

This black spirit took lives, fed upon the living. Only Noble Dead did this to maintain their fully sentient existence, versus ghosts, mindless corpses, and such lesser undead.

Wynn felt even worse.

Was this thing—spirit—a new form of a Noble Dead? Vampires were Noble Dead, the terms merely interchangeable.

With no more time to ponder the rest of what Shade had shown her, Wynn dropped Magiere's blade into the chest; then she hesitated again. Rodian still had men outside the portcullis. Could she be lucky enough to slip by them again, this time with a large wolf? And she saw her old clothing—elven clothing, weathered and travel-worn—in the bottom of the chest.

At the very least, it was better not to be spotted beyond the guild grounds in a sage's robe. She quickly changed clothing and pulled on her old cloak.

Wynn peeked into the passage outside her room. Spotting no one, she slipped out with Shade. She checked again before they stepped into the courtyard and then hurried across—not to the keep's main doors, but to the building on the northern side, where supplies and kitchen stores were kept.

She carefully opened a door there and, finding the storeroom dark, slipped out her cold lamp crystal. With one quick stroke along her tunic's front, the crystal glowed no more than a low candle. Rows of barrels, crates, and sacks of dried goods filled the space, but she urged Shade in and turned immediately to the right. Through another door she entered the back scullery behind the kitchen.

Stacked, emptied crates and bottles waited to be taken away. And there also, spare cloaks hung on wall pegs, for anyone who had to take milk bottles or refuse out. She grabbed the largest one and pulled it on over her own. Although it was too big for her, this was easier than carrying it, and the extra bulk might further disguise her. When she reached the courtyard again, still trying to think of some way to get Shade out through the library, another notion came to her.

Pawl a'Seatt had come to escort his staff home from working all day in the guild. But had they already left, or were they still inside? Either way, what Wynn had in mind was a gamble. She hoped none of the guards outside had ever seen her before.

Wynn pocketed the crystal, smothering its light, and crouched before Shade.

She didn't know how to explain with memories that Shade needed to keep quiet. She reached out carefully for Shade's nose—again hoping she didn't get bitten—and clamped her hand over the dog's muzzle. She quickly covered her own mouth in like fashion.

Shade let out a brief grumble and fell silent. Wynn hoped that meant the dog understood.

She headed down the gatehouse tunnel with Shade padding behind her. Before she was close enough to touch the closed portcullis, someone shifted beyond it.

In the light of the outer torches, a bearded face leaned close between the stout bars. He wore the red tabard of Rodian's men and held the shaft of a polearm in one hand.

"What's this?" the man demanded. "It's after dark… orders are that no one goes out."

"Do I look like a sage?" Wynn answered, trying to sound indignant. "I'm with Master a'Seatt, from the Upright Quill."

The man lifted his head, looking away, and Wynn lost sight of his face.

"He already left," another voice outside answered.

The first guard peered in again. "Where were you?"

"Domin High-Tower had a fit about some mislaid notes," Wynn answered, and sighed as deeply as she could. "I got stuck finding them for him."

The bearded guard scowled, but he appeared more annoyed than suspicious.

"Open the damn gate!" Wynn snapped.

His eyes widened. "Girl, you'd better—"

"Come on!" Wynn cut in. "I'm tired, I haven't had supper, and I've been dealing with stuffy, petty little scholars all day. Or do you want to tell my employer—and your captain—why I was stuck in here all night?"

The guard let out a long hissing breath and vanished from the space in the portcullis.

Wynn's stomach clenched. She was stuck. They were just going to ignore her.

"Take it up!" someone shouted.

The gatehouse tunnel filled with the racket of chains and gears as the portcullis began to rise. Wynn tried to remain still and not duck under and bolt out. She stepped onward only when the way was fully open.

"What is that?" one guard barked.

She was only three steps down the outer path to the bailey gate when she had to stop and look back. Both guards had their long halberds lowered, the wide head blades aimed at Shade.