Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

He found no vindication in being proven right about the wraith. Much the opposite. He had terrorized Wynn before this journey began, in the hope of planting doubt in her certainty that the wraith was finished.

He wished he had been wrong. He wished he could beg her forgiveness for what he had done.

Days and nights followed, but by the time they made it through the long tunnel and emerged again into open air—taking refuge where the Slip-Tooth Pass met the Sky-Cutter Range—only one thing preoccupied Chane.

Wynn appeared broken; he could not save her from everything, most especially herself.

Too often, when she had sought what was most crucial or necessary, others paid the price. While he did not care about that, it was unbearable to watch her sit hunched before the campfire. He stood outside camp, where the firelight barely reached him. Even with Shade’s head in her lap, Wynn looked at nothing but the crackling flames.

“Why did you tell me to go ... when that Suman found us?”

The sudden question broke Chane’s train of thought. He swiveled his head to find Ore-Locks standing a few paces to his right. But the dwarf was not looking at him, only at Wynn.

Chane took too long to answer, and Ore-Locks finally turned to him. Only a hint of suspicion and revulsion lingered there, but in that moment the dwarf asked about, perhaps he had seen who Chane truly was.

“Why did you risk her,” Ore-Locks went on, “and trust me ... when she would not? How did you know you could trust me?”

“I did not know ,” Chane answered tiredly. “There was no knowing anything at all.”

It was not that simple. It was also not a real answer, but Chane did not have one yet.

How could he say that a part of him had not cared what happened to the orb, as long as he could reach Wynn? In doing what she asked, he had still made that choice to trust Ore-Locks. It had come and gone in an instant, when reason and knowing had been lost.

Only the beast had remained, half-aware behind Chane’s desire for Wynn, or so it seemed now. This frightened him, even as he obsessed over it.

“You should get some rest,” he said.

But Ore-Locks still stood there, watching Wynn.

In one piece of luck, they had found both horses nearby, drinking from a mountain brook. The animals were in surprisingly good shape and fit to pull the wagon. However, as if to quell this bit of fortune, Chane found three other horses, as well, along with three elven saddles tossed into the brush. He did not know what this meant, but it supported Ore-Locks’s earlier claim; they had been followed, and not just by il’Sänke. Perhaps the Suman sage had not been on the second cart.

Who had ridden those other horses?

“Shade and I will go hunting,” Chane said. “After that, we will stop only for food or to rest the horses. I will keep us moving at night, and you will in the day, with Shade to keep watch with you. We will find a way to cut through to the coast rather than go anywhere near the Lhoin’na ... especially with what you now carry.”

Ore-Locks sighed, nodding as he folded his arms.

Chane stepped slowly into camp but stopped short, not wanting to startle Wynn. Even as Shade lifted her head, Wynn did not move. She showed no sign of even hearing his approach. Chane was uncomfortably aware of Ore-Locks out in the dark, more so than the dwarf even knew. For Wynn’s guilt toward the wayward stonewalker was anchored by something more.

In the seatt, when they had reached the pump carts, and before even starting the journey back, Wynn requested—insisted—that Ore-Locks never openly speak of Deep-Root.

That name had been erased, replaced with a title that even those few who remembered it wanted forgotten, forever dead. Deep-Root had wanted his name buried. He had not wanted anyone to know the truth, that his brethren had gone mad and turned against their own people.

After Wynn made this request, Ore-Locks had turned on her with the first words he had spoken since finding his ancestor’s bones. The entire incident was burned into Chane’s memory forever.

Wynn had stood in silence, offering no defense, as Ore-Locks verbally tore her apart. On some level, Ore-Locks must have known she was right. Still, he assaulted her with the anger and pain he had locked away—as there was no one else to take the blame.

Chane had stood there in silence.

Though he had tensely watched Ore-Locks for any sign of violence other than words, he never interceded. Wynn would not have wanted him to. Perhaps she knew Ore-Locks deserved a chance to vent his anguish.

In the end, Ore-Locks had fallen silent, exhausted.

Even if he had wanted to clear his ancestor’s name, what proof did they have of the truth?

There was no proof.

The world knew nothing of Deep-Root. Those who knew the title of Thallûhearag—the Lord of Slaughter—knew only what it meant and not why. They wanted to forget even that. As to Deep-Root’s true fate, Ore-Locks had only the words of a scaled creature guarding a tool of a forgotten enemy.

The tale of how Ore-Locks had acquired such knowledge would be far less believable than the reviled legend of Thallûhearag, even if proclaimed in the most aggrandized telling that any greeting house of Dhredze Seatt had ever heard.

All Wynn could offer Ore-Locks was agreement to let him tell Cinder-Shard everything. The master of the Stonewalkers, who had taken in the youngest son of the Iron-Braids, might believe such a tale. Ore-Locks could lay his ancestor to rest among the honored dead of Dhredze Seatt, no longer forgotten, no longer eternally dead, at least not to him.

Chane watched Wynn before the fire, but he could not send her off to sleep. Beside her bedroll in the wagon’s back was another reminder of how little had been gained for her, as well. Yes, the orb lay there, hidden beneath a tarp, but what did that matter? Chane could not understand how or why he had obtained it so easily when the wraith had gone on ahead of them. And where was Sau’ilahk now?

Nothing was this easy. They could not be so fortunate. In that, he had no faith.

Worse still, Chane wondered why Wynn kept so silent as she stared vacantly into the flames.

All along the coastal journey north, from one ship to the next, Chane and Ore-Locks kept watch to see if they were followed. Between Sau’ilahk, il’Sänke, and perhaps some mysterious elves, there were too many who had followed them into that dead seatt.

Chane took pains to make Shade understand that she was to stay awake in Wynn’s room during the nights. He removed his ring more often to clear his own awareness on deck, though he never sensed anything, and Shade never raised warning.

Winter had passed and spring encroached by the time they reached port at Calm Seatt. They walked the city streets, making their way toward the guild. But when it loomed ahead along Old Procession Road, Chane suddenly stopped.

Wynn took three more steps before realizing. Chane faltered at first, for there was something more he had put off telling her.

“I am leaving,” he said abruptly.

Wynn’s startled face made him regret his choice of words, and he rushed on.

“No.... Do not be ... I am going with Ore-Locks to Dhredze Seatt, to keep the orb secure until he takes it into hiding with the Stonewalkers. It should be ... safer there than anywhere else. Even if Sau’ilahk still follows, he would hesitate at ever entering that place again.”

Her face was pale with exhaustion, and her eyes just as bleak as that night by the campfire.

“I should come with you.”

“No, go inside, and stay there,” he ordered, then caught himself. “For me, please. Sleep in your room, eat something decent, and rest. Ore-Locks and I can travel faster if we travel by ... his method.”