In Shade and Shadow

In a small inn within the Warlands of Leesil's birth, she'd sat alone with Chap in their room. It was in the early days, when her malady was still a mystery. With that memory of Chap's face, Wynn recalled the feel of his fur, her fingers curled in his thick coat, and she opened her eyes again.

Nausea welled in her stomach.

The room turned shadowy beneath the overlaid off-white mist just shy of blue.

Everything, even the stone walls, became doubled, as if variegated blue-white shapes of things overlaid and overwhelmed their real forms. She'd grown accustomed to the queasiness and the vertigo, but they were no less unpleasant for being familiar. Luckily she hadn't eaten yet, and she glanced at the bedside table.

Strongest in the grapes' small nodules, the mist waned within the table's wood and the bed's wool blanket. Only a thin trace showed within the stone walls and the tin of the fluted mug. When she glanced down at her own hands, Spirit glowed strongest within her living flesh.

To see the element of Spirit was part of her curse, if and when she could make it come at all. But if she had to accept this condition as more than just a malady, she needed more from it.

Wynn lifted her eyes to the fluted mug, whispering, "Give me… Water."

Nothing happened—then a flicker passed. Or had it?

Was that color shift real? Did the blue-white in the grapes melt for an instant… to blue-green… to a deep teal?

The mist's color surged into cascading shifts as vertigo swelled in Wynn's head.

Blue-white swirled to a yellow-white. She hadn't seen such a color before. Then it turned rapidly to dark amber-red.

Wynn sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh, no… not again!"

The mug's shape overlaid with deep black, for the water it held chilled the tin vessel. A dim umber-red blotch covered the bed's blanket, showing the remnants of her body heat from kneeling upon it.

Once before Wynn had briefly glimpsed the element of Fire.

She panicked, flinching away, and turned too quickly. Before she could shut her eyes, her gaze lit upon the desk—and the glow of her cold lamp's crystal.

Searing pain welled through nausea and vertigo, spiking through her eyes into her skull.

Light was a manifestation of Fire.

Wynn grabbed her aching head. Tears leaked through her clenched eyes, as if she'd stared into the sun, and swirling blotches of color played across the backs of her eyelids. Vertigo sharpened, and she knew mantic sight was still with her. She dared not open her eyes.

The last time she'd seen Fire, half the night passed before her altered sight faded on its own.

A knock sounded at her door.

Wynn whimpered under her breath. "Ah, damned dead deities… not now!"

She nearly fell over as she shifted. Her head ached so badly she found it hard even to think. A baritone voice called softly from beyond the door.

"Wynn, are you up?"

"Oh, no," she whispered.

The one person in this place who even knew of her malady stood outside. And he was the last person who should see her in this state. He would know exactly what she had been up to.

"Wynn, I can hear you," the voice called, strangely accented and already less than patient. "Enough solitude. Open up!"

Covering her eyes with one hand, she crawled across the cold floor. Her knee suddenly pinned her robe's gray skirt. When she tried to jerk it free, she toppled to her elbows.

In the Farlands she'd worn everything from breeches and hand-me-down shirts to elven pants and tunics. The bulky robe was one more thing to which she hadn't readjusted. She finally reached out blindly for the door, but the latch clacked and the iron hinges grated softly. Something heavy struck her shoulder—the door, of course—and she toppled sideways with a g siways wirunt.

Shuffling footsteps followed, then a pause, and then an angry exhale. Someone grabbed her robe's collar and half dragged her across the room. Before she cried out, she was dropped into a sitting position upon the bed's edge.

"You obstinate little fool," his deep voice barked. "I have told you never to do this without my supervision."

Wynn was very tired of being called obstinate, among other things. Before she could spit back a retort, slender fingers peeled her hand from her clenched eyes and settled over her face. With them came the smell of parchment dust and the lingering odor of olive oil and spices she couldn't quite name. A low and breathy chant filled her ears and ended with an exhausted sigh.

"Open your eyes."

Wynn's head still ached and her eyes still burned, but she carefully parted her left eyelid and peeked out.

Colored blotches swam over everything. Then she made out the front of a midnight blue robe and dusky tan hands. She opened both eyes and stared up into the hard glower of Domin Ghassan il'Sänke.