Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

All he did was nod, a curt bow of acknowledgment. And he was still smiling softly at her.

“What are you doing here?” Chane asked.

At a glance, Wynn saw the sword in his grip. Chane stood well away from Chârmun, as if hesitant to approach, but worse was the sheen on his face. She’d never seen him perspire, didn’t even think it was possible for the undead. His eyes were utterly colorless again.

When Wynn looked back at Chuillyon, he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“You are a never-ending source of perplexity, Wynn Hygeorht,” he said, but his gaze was fixed on Chane.

No one could know what Chane was while he wore the ring ... could they?

Ore-Locks stepped wide around Chane, but as he looked to Chuillyon, he grew visibly uncomfortable. He swallowed hard and lowered his eyes in a respectful bow. Clearly, Ore-Locks hadn’t expected to see his master’s comrade here, either.

Chuillyon clicked his tongue.

“Your sudden absence has been a great concern, stonewalker,” he said in a parentlike tone. “Master Cinder-Shard would be quite shocked to learn of the company you keep.”

Ore-Locks continued to look at the ground.

Wynn studied him. Hadn’t he told Cinder-Shard or any of the Stonewalkers where he’d gone?

“Your penchant for unusual companionship continues,” Chuillyon added.

Now he was studying Shade—and smiling again—leaving Wynn uncertain to whom he’d been speaking.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Me? Just a brief retreat of rest,” he answered, with obvious mock surprise. “It is my homeland, after all.”

She examined his hair, free of tangles, as if freshly groomed. His pristine white robe and even the toes of his soft boots showed no sign of travel. He looked as if he’d just stepped from the royal grounds for a leisurely walk in the woods.

“Turnabout is certainly fair,” he continued. “Why are you here, journeyor, other than for the peaceful welcome of Chârmun?”

“None of your affair. You have no authority over me.”

“Chârmun’s blessings!” Chuillyon said with a soft laugh.

What did he want? Had he followed her, or was his reason for rushing home a coincidence? She had long stopped believing in coincidence.

“Wynn, we should leave this place,” Chane rasped.

He sounded manic, but he was right. She’d seen First Glade for herself, but the appearance of this false sage had ruined that one moment of unblemished assurance.

Ore-Locks barely glanced up at Chuillyon. The dwarf’s broad face was a mask of urgency fighting reluctance, as if caught between explaining himself and simply leaving as quickly as possible.

Wynn decided upon the latter. She backed toward Chane, and Shade wheeled to follow.

“You came all this way,” Chuillyon called after her, “but you leave without even one touch? Come, now, have you lost all of your curiosity?”

She wasn’t about to let him bait her, and placed Chane’s hand on her shoulder, turning to lead him out. Then Shade stiffened beside her and spun sharply, making Wynn stall.

Shade hadn’t turned toward Chuillyon or Chârmun. She began twitching ever so slightly as she stared toward the clearing’s far side.

A long, almost mournful howl rose out of the forest.

“What was that?” Ore-Locks asked.

Chuillyon released a long, exhausted breath. “Oh, not now.”

That unguarded slip was like an annoyed boy’s mischief interrupted—or another snide utterance from an aging deceiver hiding beneath tranquillity.

A single form burst from the trees at the clearing’s rear side. Shade stood at full attention, but she didn’t snarl.

Tall and leggy, a silver-gray majay-hì loped purposefully forward. Another dog leaped out of the brush, and then another.

By Chârmun’s glow, Wynn watched a majay-hì pack appear one by one out of the forest, until nine paced and padded around the glade. They looked so much like the ones Wynn had seen in the Elven Territories of the Farlands ... silver and gray, or dull brown to charcoal, though none were as near to black as Shade. And they were all silent. Crystal blue eyes shone clearly as they closed in, circling watchfully around the intruders.

Then something more upright pushed through the trees where the last two dogs stood waiting.

Wynn stared in surprise at the newcomer.

She was small for an elf, shorter than an average human male. By her deeply tanned complexion, she could have passed for an an’Cróan, if not for her darker hair. It was so dark that it could’ve been brown rather than the sandy blonds of the Lhoin’na, let alone the brighter tones of an an’Cróan. Still, those locks were lined with vivid silver streaks. Her hair was bound by a circlet of green cloth, perhaps raw shéot’a by its dull shimmer.

At a distance, Wynn couldn’t see any lines in the woman’s face, though her presence gave the impression of long years. Flanked by the pair of majay-hì—a female of steel gray and a mottled brown male—she moved smoothly in a felt skirt bound in pleats by leather thongs wrapped about her narrow waist. Her firm steps were purposeful, as if soft earth and moss, or even the fragrant air itself, would move to her aide if she wished.

She glanced once at the intruders, and then her eyes narrowed as they turned upon Chuillyon.

He offered her a half bow of his head. “Always a pleasure ... Vreuvillä.”

Wynn caught the veiled, put-upon annoyance in his voice as he addressed the woman called “Leaf’s Heart.”

“I felt something twisted within the forest,” she returned pointedly. “I knew it must be you tampering with Chârmun ... again .”

Chuillyon raised one feathery eyebrow. “Then hardly a need to come and see.”

“Unless something more vile followed you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Chârmun is not your tool! Go back to your guild of ranks and orders. The glade is not—and has never been—a place for your kind.”

Wynn caught every implication. This woman thought Chuillyon was part of an official guild order, but that wasn’t possible. There were only five orders, and none of them wore white.

“What are they saying?” Chane whispered.

There wasn’t time for Wynn to translate, as Vreuvillä turned their way. The woman settled a hand upon the head of the steel gray female majay-hì.

Shade pressed into Wynn’s thigh, her tall body trembling, and a barrage of images, sounds, and smells assaulted Wynn. All of them related to Shade’s homeland; her mother, Lily; and her siblings. Shade was too young to be thrown into this foray.

—Wynn ... safe ... here....Wynn ... stay here—

Vreuvillä focused her large amber eyes on Shade, and then raised them to Wynn.

“Who are you?” she asked bluntly, and her tone implied no choice but to answer.

Chane’s grip tightened on Wynn’s shoulder, and he pulled her back. She saw his sword tip at her side. He didn’t need a translation to catch the challenge in the woman’s voice.

“My companions do not speak Elvish,” Wynn said.

“How careless of them,” Vreuvillä answered in Numanese.

Chane felt worse than on his longest day aboard the ship, testing his concoctions. Disoriented and sick from this place, from that unnatural tree, even the woman—all felt wrong to him. He was desperate to leave but could not show this to anyone but Wynn.

The elven woman was still studying him. Then she pointed back at Chuillyon.

“You are not with this self-righteous ... priest ?”

Chuillyon sighed caustically. “Vreuvillä, really—”

“Certainly not,” Wynn cut in.

But the woman’s last sharp word stuck in Chane’s head. She spoke it with such derision that it might have meant “heretic” instead. So what was she? Regardless that she spoke a language he understood, he was too ill to clear his mind. He could not tell if either this woman or Chuillyon uttered any deceits.