'Many novice practitioners discount Air as a lesser element,' il'Sänke continued, 'believing it less useful than Fire or Water… or even Earth.' He slowly spread his palms, as if moving them consciously through the air.
Some domins and masters could prattle on until their students drooped, half-conscious, but all those here fixed their eyes on the dark-skinned domin. And Wynn noted a particular tall young man in midnight blue sitting far off to the left.
'Dâgmund?' she whispered.
She hadn't seen him in years, and knew him only in passing. He'd made journeyor and left on assignment before she'd even headed to the Farlands with Domin Tilswith. But now he was back? Perhaps he was finished, and returned for a new assignment.
Or was he here to petition for master's status already? It couldn't have been more than three years. And he certainly wouldn't be attending such a general introduction to metaphysical elements.
'Yet Water and Fire, even the dust of Earth, can be carried within Air,' il'Sänke continued. 'And thus Air could be viewed as most essential among the five elements, via either conjury or thaumaturgy. It can hold a special place as facilitator when dealing in works of higher complexity.'
Wynn sighed. How nice it would be to simply join in, to listen to il'Sänke's teachings. But she didn't have time for such diversions.
Then Dâgmund turned his head, peering toward the door, and Wynn held her place a moment longer.
Stout cheekbones were his most prominent feature beneath pale blue eyes. At first he seemed troubled by the sight of her—or perhaps just confused. Then his high forehead smoothed. With the barest smile he nodded to her, but it took a moment before she nodded back.
She'd grown so accustomed to disdain, suspicion, and wariness cast her way that even a brief friendly acknowledgment was unsettling. Perhaps he hadn't been back long enough to hear about her. She'd barely known him, considering their differing paths, and hadn't seen him since her earliest days as an apprentic Cs ahere.
But she remembered one time in a room like this one.
Some apprentices of cathology wanted to hear a lecture by Premin Hawes on mantic practices of thaumaturgy. It wasn't really of interest to her, but Wynn tagged along anyhow. By the time it was over her curiosity had grown, and Dâgmund had been there among a great number of apprentices from metaology. She'd asked him a few questions in passing, wanting to read more on the theories and practices of information gathering via the arcane arts. He gave her the title of an obscure text hidden in the archives that covered the basics of rituals in thaumaturgical manticism. Little did she know then how much trouble that would cause her later.
'But what about sorcery?' a small voice peeped up. 'That's got none of the Elements in it.'
The entire room went quiet. Dâgmund turned sharp eyes of concern on one of the tan-robed initiates sitting in the front row. That word—sorcery—was rarely even spoken.
Domin il'Sänke was still and somber, folding his hands in his lap. How would he answer without squelching simple curiosity?
'Well, it does and it does not,' he finally replied. 'The Elements are not
Wynn was dubious, but at least he'd done better than Premin Hawes, or especially High-Tower, in dealing with a naïve initiate.
'Each of the five Elements have three forms, according to the Aspects,' he added. 'For example, take my own order. Metaology is associated with Spirit among the elements, but it has three references or representations according to the Aspects: Spirit is, well, the spiritual side, while its intellectual reference is Essence, and its physical symbol is the Tree. Similarly we have Air, Gas, and Wind, and then Fire, Flame or Light, and Energy… and so on.'
Wynn was familiar with all this, and it seemed the domin was politely diverting from the original question. That same young initiate raised his hand, waving it in the air.
Il'Sänke let out a low chuckle.
'Yes, I know… the term Spirit is used for both an Aspect and an Element. But let's leave that puzzle for another day. It is the Aspects, not the Elements, in which we find the grounding for the ideologies of magic. Thaumaturgy is the body, the physical ideology, while conjury is the spiritual or essence-based approach…'
The domin took a deep breath. Perhaps he thought that would be the end of it, but Wynn saw that it wasn't. That persistent little initiate leaned forward expectantly.
'As to sorcery,' il'Sänke finally said, 'it is little known… and no one known to us practices it, even among metaologers. It is… severely frowned upon.'
Wynn choked—it was more than frowned upon.
Mages and lesser practitioners weren't common, even among the guild. Thaumaturgy was the most accepted, and conjury of limited sorts was tolerated. But sorcery, by whatever term in varied cultures, was feared—hated—and rightly so. The power and skill to apply one's will against the world and other beings had been a death knell as far back as any bits of history uncovered.
And she did know of one such person—Vordana. Fortunately Leesil had sent that one to his final end.
Wynn forced herself to leave the domin's lecture.
Juggling her burdens, she heaved open the antechamber's heavy door. Across that small space she reached one of two doors to be found in either the north tower or the east tower. They were always left unlocked whenever any of the archivists were in the catacombs, and so she pushed this one open.
The cold lamp's crystal illuminated stone steps spiraling downward into the dark. A slight smell of stale dust filled her nose, and she could taste it on her tongue. No candles, torches, or flames of any kind were allowed below. All those entering the catacombs had to acquire a cold lamp from the archivists or bring one of their own. And only those with their own—journeyor status or above—were allowed below without supervision.
How long since she'd been down here? Certainly not since she and Domin Tilswith had left for the Farlands over two years ago. Most texts of general use had been copied and placed in the new upper library. Few of her peers had reason to go digging for anything else.
Gripping the cold lamp's handle with her right hand, she shifted her burdens under that same arm. Tugging up her robe's hem with her left, she descended. Soon a dim light grew from below, and, taking the last step, Wynn emerged into a cavernous main cellar.
In spite of the recent tragedy and frustration, she felt like a scholar again.
Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with matching bound volumes of dark leather among a few cedar- plank sheaves of loose pages. Several tables filled the space, lit by cold lamps hung at the chamber's four corners. And a withered old man in a gray robe sat hunched over a table, writing rapidly.
'Domin Tärpodious?' she said, stepping closer.
Likely engrossed in recataloguing old volumes, he finally glanced up.
Old Tärpodious squinted milky eyes over a long beaked nose, as if uncertain who had spoken. The expression made him look like an old crow, though his wrinkled skin was the ashen white of someone who rarely ventured out-of-doors. His white hair was thin, and his hands looked brittle, but he rose suddenly with a smile that multiplied the lines in his face threefold. He greeted her with genuine pleasure.
'Young Hygeorht?' the old archivist asked, still squinting. 'Is that you?'
Years of working by only a cold lamp's light had limited his eyesight. It happened to all cathologers posted as archivists.
'Yes,' Wynn answered. 'I've come seeking your help once again.'
'But I'm a journeyor now, and I received a letter from him,' she added. 'He asked me to come see you. Many outer regions of Belaski are filled with superstitions. And you know how that piques his interest. You once guided him to folklore references… especially one about the
Tärpodious scratched his bony chin. 'Truly?'
Wynn held up her journal and shrugged with a forced roll of her eyes. 'He wants direct copies of any similar
