The black figure attacking Wynn, the dog trying to protect her, the flash of the crystal's light.

Chane flinched. Wynn jerked her fingers from a spot of raw skin on his wrist, where he had ripped away a charred sleeve.

"Sorry," she whispered.

But her voice sounded distant, as if he were some stranger she tended to. She leaned back to dip her fingers in the salve jar on the floor and looked about his small attic room.

The shabby walls, the slanting ceiling below the roof, the stool for a table, and the dusty, chipped water basin…

Chane was not accustomed to embarrassment. The son of a nobleman in life, he had lived in a lavish manor, worn fine clothes, and had even educated himself beyond what most would gain—beyond what most gentry thought was worthwhile. Now he lived—existed—in squalor, with little more than his studies to distract him.

For once he had no one else to blame, not even Welstiel.

Wynn began gently reapplying salve, working around the brass ring on his left hand without seeming to notice it. Then he realized the sting in his right hand was beginning to dull. The ointment might not heal him, but something in it still affected his dead flesh. He loosely closed his right hand, and the pain barely increased.

"Have you learned anything about the scroll?" he asked.

Wynn's expression shifted with a hint of interest. "No, I haven't had time. I was in the catacombs, studying translated portions of the texts. By evening I began to figure out which sections of the translations had been stolen."

He froze, for her words confused him on several levels.

"You have had no access before? You brought those texts back—they are yours."

Wynn sighed. Picking up the salve jar, she stood and began dabbing at his face.

"It's complicated… but no, not until today. Only masters and domins working on the project are allowed access. There is precedence for this decision."

She sounded defensive, even resentful. This was a sensitive subject, so he did not press for more.

"Do you have any idea what is in the missing pages?" he asked.

She stopped dabbing, and her eyes drifted.

"Li'kän's wall writings mentioned two companions—Volyno and Häs'saun. I don't know what became of them, but I read some translations that came just before one set of missing pages…"

She told him of ancient undead, like the white woman with strangely shaped eyes in the castle of the Pock Peaks. And of something called "Beloved," among other names, that might have been what had whispered to Welstiel and sent Magiere her dreams of that castle. And also of how those undead had "divided."

Chane wondered at those other names Wynn mentioned. Did others like the white woman still roam free in the world after centuries?

Wynn paused, lost in thought, and then looked intently down at Chane.

"Did Welstiel ever speak to you about his patron… the thing in his dreams? Magiere suspected something was guiding him."

Chane shook his head. "I know only that someone whispered to him in dormancy, perhaps telling him where to go. But in the way we wandered, I believe he was not told much. He was obsessed with herding Magiere ahead of him, as if he needed her. When you and yours entered elven land, I think he tried to turn to finding his artifact on his own."

Even speaking Magiere's name made Chane's insides heat up. He thought he saw Wynn's eyes flicker once, perhaps glancing at the scar around his neck.

"Some of what Welstiel was told in dormancy turned out to be false," Chane went on. "When did Magiere start having these dreams?"

"When we reached the northern bay of the Elven Territories," Wynn answered. "We were promised a ship to take us south."

Chane shook his head. He had wandered the Crown Range with Welstiel for so long it was impossible to match the time frames.

"The night we found the monastery, Welstiel began shouting at the night sky. He must have believed he was being led to the castle, but that was not what we found. I think he broke with his… 'patron'… that night, after being tricked too many times. Whatever spoke to him, perhaps it decided to let Magiere find the orb without him. And she shares the nature of the Noble Dead."

Wynn studied him, perhaps wondering if he told the full truth. Chane's thoughts slipped back to the names she had spoken—and the black-robed figure hunting sages, folios, and her.

"Do you think one of these other old undead is the black-robed mage?" he asked. "Some ancient vampire, grown powerful over so much time?"

Wynn started slightly. "It's not a mage, but it is a Noble Dead."

"No… vampires are Noble Dead."

Wynn tiredly closed her eyes. "Not only vampires. There is something else… a wraith."

Before he could ask, she shook her head.

"It's the word I use for it, among older ones, though none of them may be accurate. Just something mentioned in old Numan folklore."

"Then it is not—"

"It feeds, Chane. It has to feed on life. And it is fully aware. Shade is convinced the black figure is a form of spirit."

Chane stared at the majay-hì, not quite grasping what she meant. By Wynn's words, this animal shared Chap's antagonism toward the undead. Much as that might add weight to Wynn's conclusion, it was not enough. How had she learned this from a dog?

"She's been hunting it, as much as watching over me," Wynn continued. "I don't understand everything yet, but on the way here I kept thinking of something I overheard in one of il'Sänke's seminars. Like the five Elements, the sages also divide all things in existence by the three Aspects—physical, mental, and spiritual."

Chane knew this concept by different terms, but it still did not explain her assumptions.

"A vampire is distinguished in nature from a mere raised corpse," she went on, "or anything in between those extremes… but they all are physical. So what is the difference? We both know from experience that ghosts exist, as well as other less-than-corporeal forms of the undead. But nonetheless, we've seen the dead come back… in spirit, as well as body."

Right then he wanted to deny her, for where she headed with her reasoning was too harsh and dangerous—especially for her well-being.

"It's fully aware and reasons," she whispered. "Even if it's a mage as well, then it has grown within its sense of self, as if it were still alive. And it has to feed… what else is that but a Noble Dead?"

Chane had no response, but this was not good at all. Uncertain as he was, he still trusted her intellect, as well educated as his own and then some. Caught between doubt and faith in her, which should he choose to follow?

And if she was right, how could he protect her from something he could not fight?

They still had no concrete idea what this creature—this wraith—was truly after, and they had not yet unlocked the secret of the scroll. Chane was not fanciful, but he could not help believing that the scroll had come into his possession for a reason. That the white undead had tried to show it to Wynn confirmed that instinct.

Whatever was hidden beneath the black coating might shape dangerous days ahead, and the future. At present he had no future.

"You said Li'kän wanted you to read the scroll to her," Chane began, "or perhaps just to read it yourself. I do not see why this forgotten Enemy would want or allow that, so our next step should be to solve its mystery."

Wynn looked at the floor. "I've been thinking the same thing."

"So how?"

Wynn hesitated a long while. "I might have a chance."

He stiffened. "You?"

"Do you remember when you found me at the smithy of Pudúrlatsat? You protected me from Vordana, and I was… in a state."

Yes, she had been sick, and, strangely, she could barely see.

"Just before, I attempted to give myself mantic sight via a thaumaturgical ritual—the ability to see elemental Spirit in all things."