The only «outsiders» who'd come and gone unseen from the guild—who seemed to possess real knowledge of the texts—were High-Tower's brother and the other elder hassäg'kreigi.

The translation project would go on without her—had proceeded without her. Hopefully, since she'd said nothing of her plans, the guild would see no need to change the current location of the texts. Wherever the texts truly were, the city of dwarves was the only place to begin her search.

Six and twenty steps… to five corners.

She'd wondered about five ancient Noble Dead uncovered by name, who had «divided» — and the strange mention of "five corners" in the scroll. Li'kän was locked away beneath the ice-bound castle, and hopefully Häs'saun and Volyno were simply no more. That left only the other pair of the five—Vespana and Ga'hetman.

But another grain of truth began to dawn upon her, and it was so much worse.

The double column of sages, thirteen in count, fell into shadow as they tramped out of daylight into the gatehouse's tunnel.

"Oh, no more of this… please!" Wynn whispered to herself.

Not five corners for five ancient Noble Dead. Not six and twenty—twenty-six—steps taken, as some metaphor of distance. Whatever the five corners meant, the other measure was for pairs of feet—two by two, totaling thirteen.

The Children numbered thirteen.

How many of the other names she'd read were those of other ancient undead, possibly still somewhere in the world? It was bad enough that the one she'd banished with the sun crystal couldn't be one of them. The Children were ancient vampires, and the wraith had been some new spirit form of Noble Dead.

And Wynn thought immediately of Pawl a'Seatt.

The stoic master scribe with the odd family name had claimed to have been hunting undead in his city. He'd implied that he had sensed the wraith's presence, though he hadn't been able to find it. Magiere was the only other person Wynn knew of, besides Chap, who had such ability. Chane had been fervent in claiming that Pawl a'Seatt was an undead, yet Wynn had seen the scribe master in daylight. None of it made sense.

He couldn't be a dhampir, not for what Wynn knew of Magiere's singular birth and what great efforts that had taken. He couldn't be one of the Children, if Wynn's guess that Li'kän's forced servitude was common to all such.

Who—what—was Pawl a'Seatt?

The only other thing Wynn knew was that none of the Upright Quill's staff showed any fear of the shopowner, beyond his strange actions on the night of Jeremy's and Elias's deaths. Pawl a'Seatt wasn't guilty of those deaths. He had always been protective of his employees, watching over them each night when they left the guild grounds. And he had a long-standing and respected relationship with the guild.

Wynn turned toward the keep's main doors, rather than heading on to il'Sänke's quarters. She had one more stop to make.

When she reached the hospice, Nikolas was reclined against the bed's headboard. He gazed up, perhaps at the ceiling or at nothing at all. At the sight of his lost eyes, Wynn almost wished she'd just slipped away instead. But she couldn't be so cruel, and she had something important to tell him.

Shade trotted in on her heels, and thankfully, Domi «haningn Bitworth wasn't present.

"Your color is better," she said.

Nikolas rolled his head toward her, only then realizing someone was there, and he half smiled.

"Do I still have gray streaks in my hair?"

She pulled over a stool and sat beside him. "You may be stuck with those, but they make you look distinguished."

Then he noticed her clothing and the pack, and any hint of happiness drained from his fragile features.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes, I have an assignment," she lied. "I just came to say good-bye… and that I'm glad to have your friendship."

He rolled his head back and focused on the ceiling again. What else could she say? This poor young man had more demons in his past than the memory of the black-robed wraith. His few friends here had either died or left him.

"Nikolas, listen to me," she said. "Look at me. If anything like this ever happens again…"

She grabbed his hand.

"If something… unnatural ever plagues you or the guild, don't waste time going to Sykion or High-Tower or even Captain Rodian. They cannot help."

At this Nikolas's brown eyes filled with confusion.

"Go to Master a'Seatt," she insisted, "at the Upright Quill. Tell him everything. He will know what to do."

Nikolas blinked and then nodded once as he squeezed her hand.

"I have to get going," she said, and stood up, shouldering her pack.

"But you'll come back?" he asked quickly.

Wynn glanced back from the doorway. "When I can."

She hoped that wasn't a lie as she headed outside into the courtyard with Shade.

Wynn blindly made her way through the northwest door, down the hallway through the storage house, and into the workshop building. She had barely rounded the hallway's end and climbed the stairs, pulling out the key to the quarters, when she spotted il'Sänke in the upper passage.

"Where have you been?" he shouted.

The domin's dark-skinned face glistened with perspiration. His eyes looked wild with panic instead of the anger in his voice. He looked her up and down, taking in her pack and traveling attire, then shook his head.

"You… you idiot!" He rushed at her.

Shade snarled in warning, and Wynn had to grab her.

Il'Sänke snatched the key from Wynn's hand and turned back to unlock his quarters. He slamme «teriv d the door inward with his palm.

"Get in here!"

Wynn still felt shamed for what had happened to him before the council. But she'd just had a horrible revelation, and she was sick of being told what to do. She just stood in the passage, returning his glare in silence.

"You do not even know what you have done," he hissed. "How much danger your dramatic gesture could bring you. Nor what you might have done instead!"

And Wynn grew so very confused.

"Inside," he said, and this too was not a request.

Wynn slipped silently past il'Sänke into the study, with Shade rumbling all the way.

Domin il'Sänke tossed the key onto his desk. His robe's hood fell back as he ran both hands through his dark brown hair. Then he jammed one hand into his pocket and pulled out a cold lamp crystal.

"Take this back!" he demanded, and thrust it out.

Wynn looked at her crystal and shook her head.

"I cannot," she said. "I won't be shut away, left to do nothing, while they do little more than that."

"Why let them?" he said. "You can choose not to."

There was something in il'Sänke's gaze that unsettled her, as if her next denial might make him more outraged or frightened or both. Thundering footsteps rolled down the passage outside, and Domin High-Tower barreled through the open door, his bushy red hair disheveled.

"Wynn," the dwarf exhaled. "Think, girl! You have pushed things to the limit, but do not throw away all you have—"

"She does not have to," il'Sänke snarled over his shoulder. "You… and your council gave her all she needs to see to that."

Wynn looked up, at il'Sänke. "Make some sense… please!" she said.

He shook his head, gritting his teeth. "Can you not see it for yourself? Any rope they try to bind you with can be pulled on both ways."

"The guild does not play at politics!" High-Tower snapped.

"Oh, spare me!" il'Sänke spit back. "This is all about politics, the politics of fear." And he fixed on Wynn. "You can choose your own assignment and still remain one of us. In the end, the council will have no choice but to accept this."

Wynn barely grasped what he was getting at. When she glanced at High-Tower, the dwarf's face was flushed, but he remained silent. That was strangest of all, that he didn't even try to cut il'Sänke off. As if he wanted her to hear this but dared not say it himself.