On her right, Premin Jacque of conamology had his elbows on the table. With both hands laced together, his forehead rested against them, hiding his face. The sleeves of his teal robe had slipped down, exposing muscular forearms.

Last, at the table's right end, sat Premin Hawes of metaology. She glanced sidelong at the visitors, and the cowl of midnight blue revealed hazel eyes almost the «yesat color of the wall's stones. Her stern glaze slipped coldly from Wynn to il'Sänke as the domin stepped forward in his like-colored robe. Then she glanced down at Shade, but her expression didn't change.

And Wynn was startled at the sight of one last person in the room.

Domin High-Tower stood near a window behind the council.

He wasn't looking outside or at the council or even at her. His head hung forward, beard flattened against his broad chest. He seemed almost cowed, or something well beyond weary.

Had he also been called before the council?

As much as il'Sänke and High-Tower didn't care for each other, their paranoia over involving outsiders had led to several ill-conceived ploys. Miriam and Dâgmund had lost their lives, and Nikolas was a mental invalid.

Wynn swallowed hard.

The council could do no worse to her than what she'd already suffered since her return home.

Premin Jacque raised his head. His blockish features filled with sadness as Premin Sykion began.

"We recognize your good intentions in what happened last night, but soundness of judgment has been… lacking in conduct. Our actions should not be driven by fear, or our security is sacrificed in such ill-conceived attempts to protect it."

High-Tower turned fully away toward the window.

"However," Sykion added, "as the cause of our great losses has finally been put to rest, we can move forward."

High Premin Sykion settled back. She carefully folded her hands in her lap, out of sight.

"Domin il'Sänke, you have been invaluable in our efforts. Our sibling guild branch in the Suman Empire should take pride in you. Having fulfilled our need, your stay should not be further drawn out. You are free to return home to family and friends."

Wynn squeezed her eyes closed. She heard not a sound from il'Sänke at those delicately phrased words. Her one confidant within these walls was politely being told to get out. Had they done the same to High-Tower? No, he wouldn't have remained if that had happened.

"Journeyor Hygeorht…"

Wynn's eyes snapped open, but Premin Sykion faltered with a sad frown. Wynn's resolve waned again in the dead silence.

"Considering your exploits in the Farlands," the premin finally continued, "you have accomplished much more than most journeyors in such a short time. But there is still concern over your well-being."

Wynn's anger returned. After all that had happened, and here in private where no one else could see or hear, she was still treated as mentally unfit. The lie was perpetuated, regardless that they knew the truth of what she'd told them all along.

"We wish you to take Domin Tärpod «ke theious as your new master," Sykion said.

Wynn's mind went blank. She wasn't being cast out?

"As he is a close friend of your former master, Domin Tilswith," Sykion continued, "Tärpodious's tutelage would further shorten your steps to master's status in the guild. Your experience in far cultures, with new languages and knowledge, would be a great—"

"No!" Wynn cut in loudly.

Premin Sykion's eyes fixed upon her as High-Tower spun about. The worry on his face confirmed Wynn's suspicion.

"What are you doing?" il'Sänke whispered. "Do not give them a reason to be rid of you!"

He didn't see what this was really about, but Wynn did.

They offered her a new journeyor's assignment, to continue her training. To sweeten it further, they dangled a carrot before her, hinting that she might achieve master at a younger age than any before her. But there was a price.

Stuck in the archives, cataloguing and referencing with old Tärpodious, she would be well out of sight, with no need to ever leave the guild grounds. They could keep her under watchful eyes, controlling everything she did… everything she had access to.

"I'm interested only in the texts," Wynn said. "Where are they?"

Premin Jacque exhaled heavily, leaning his head on his hands once again.

Premin Hawes's hazel eyes narrowed as if in warning. "This will never work," she snapped.

"The debate is over," Adlam responded. "Leave it alone!"

Hawes leaned on the table, glaring along its length at Adlam. Sykion raised a hand before either spit another barb, but her gaze had never left Wynn.

"The texts are not your concern," Sykion answered. "Captain Rodian has assured us—again—that no charges will be brought against you for your interference. But if seeking suit to regain the texts is still your intention, it will do you no good, considering—"

"That the texts are not even here?" Wynn finished.

Sadness washed from High-Tower's face. His dark pellet eyes fixed on her. He was always so stern and self-possessed, but Wynn could swear she saw fright in his stony expression.

"Your lack of good judgment is reason enough," Sykion said.

That wasn't an answer to her question. And along with High-Tower's reaction, it confirmed Wynn's belief: What she wanted wasn't even being kept inside the guild.

Wherever the texts were, they were being brought in and out, so no offered journeyor's «assignment» would ever get her near them.

She was now an unnecessary pawn in their little safety game—their hope that they could forestall facing an opponent returning from the Forgotten «tht sHistory. Wynn couldn't help remembering wayward friends whom she'd longed for often in the past two seasons.

Magiere had been born in the worst of ways to be the leader of forces for the Ancient Enemy. Leesil, raised and trained by his own mother, was to be the instrument of dissidents among the Anmaglâhk and strike at that Enemy they knew almost nothing about. And Chap…

Having chosen to be born into flesh to guard them both, he had no idea how much his own kin, the Fay, had kept hidden from him. Beneath lies and omissions, all the Fay had truly expected from him was to keep Magiere and Leesil from taking any action at all.

And now it seemed the council wished the same for Wynn.

All this caution, this driven paranoia to do nothing for fear of doing the wrong thing—what did it amount to?

Wynn knew what each of her dear friends had done in the end.

"Give me the key to your study," she said to il'Sänke. "I need to get my things left there if I'm to proceed."

The domin looked at her with doubt and then appeared relieved that she no longer fought the council's plans for her. He handed over the key, and Wynn reached into her own pocket.

She pulled out her cold lamp crystal—the emblem of journeyors and higher ranks among the guild.

Wynn approached the council, directly in front of High Premin Sykion, and tossed her crystal upon the table.

Sykion's eyes widened at the implication even before Wynn said a word.

"I resign," she whispered.

It was still loud enough to hear in the chamber as the crystal's tumble finally came to a halt.

Wynn finished gathering her things from her own room. She arranged it all inside her pack, leaving behind the gray robe in favor of the elven clothing she had worn all the way from the Farlands. Wearing the robe would be a lie, for she was no longer a sage.

Shade watched her, occasionally following her around the small room or sniffing in the trunk.

Wynn tried not to think as she finished up.

This was too much like facing a death, and yet still left walking the world. She tried to keep her mind on one thing—Dhredze Seatt, the "Sea-foam Stronghold" of the dwarves across Beranlômr Bay.