by Barb Hendee
Wynn suddenly shrieked, though it was Deep-Root’s voice that cut loose. He arched away from a deep pain in his back so sharp that everything dimmed before Wynn.
When her sight cleared, she saw that he’d turned, knocking aside someone’s arm. Yet the pain only increased as he chopped down with the sword. The blade cleaved through a young stonewalker’s skull, and Wynn saw the dwarf’s face split open.
Deep-Root groped at his lower back, and Wynn felt the protruding hilt that he grabbed.
Now . . . before our deaths are wasted.
Deep-Root instantly released his hold on the blade in his back and turned.
The dragon lifted its head toward the cave ceiling. Amid a nerve-tearing clack of its jaws, flickers of fire rose between its teeth. Wynn thought she heard Deep-Root whispering something, over and over, but she was lost within herself.
If she’d been there, she would’ve done anything to help him. If nothing else, she would’ve thrown herself in front of any adversary to give him even one more moment to succeed. Inside of him, inside of this memory, she couldn’t help but wonder . . .
Would she be trapped here to end along with him?
Deep-Root rushed in, placing the sword’s point against the dragon’s side, still whispering frantically.
Remember him . . . his words . . . our end, my children.
Before Wynn fathomed those last leaf-wing whispers she heard, Deep-Root threw his bulk against the sword.
A world of fire erupted, and then there was only whiteness. There was no one left to hear the silence in place of those gale whispers.
Wynn cried out as the memory ended. Remnants of the forgotten events washed though her with heat that couldn’t be real.
Deep-Root and the dragon had sacrificed themselves, along with a seatt gone mad, to stop enemy forces from gaining access to the northern lands.
A multitongued voice rose in Wynn’s mind.
Remember!
That word hung alone in the whiteness, which grayed and grew darker.
A flicker like a flame rose—but not in the dark. It reflected on twin obsidian orbs so large they blocked out everything else. Those twin eyes watched Wynn, as the dancing shimmers of orange-red within them spread everywhere in the dark . . . spread like memories in Wynn’s mind. As the last of Deep-Root’s images faded, a fresh ache assaulted her. It was like something fiercely pulling at her thoughts, and she felt her own memories rising.
The world went black again for an instant. Then she saw herself moving backward in time, each memory coming more rapidly than the last. First was a clear image and the sensation of the pump cart as it moved, but it was moving backward. Every memory flowed in reverse to another as she relived . . .
. . . driving the wagon down the Slip-Tooth Pass . . .
. . . the attack of the Fay in the Lhoin’na great forest . . .
. . . traveling with Chane, Shade, and Ore-Locks on the ship as they journeyed toward Drist . . .
. . . fighting the wraith in the underworld of Dhredze Seatt . . .
. . . being shunned by her peers in the guild at Calm Seatt . . .
. . . Chane crouching on the ground near a stable, when he first handed her the scroll, lonely hope in his eyes . . .
. . . Shade diving from a dark street to protect her from the wraith . . .
. . . the journey from the Farlands to her homeland with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap . . .
And the images came even more rapidly.
. . . Sgäile lying dead under a willow tree . . .
. . . Chap helping her remove ancient texts from the ice-bound castle’s library . . .
. . . battling Welstiel’s feral vampires in that castle . . .
. . . jumping from a burning elven ship into a lifeboat with Osha . . .
. . . facing Most Aged Father before the council of the an’Cróan . . .
. . . sobbing with her head on Chane’s bloody chest after Magiere cut off his head...
. . . standing beside Leesil as he uncovered the remains of the five races sacrificed for Magiere’s birth . . .
. . . drinking mint tea with Chane, before she knew he was an undead, as they pored over historical parchments in peace and quiet at the guild annex in Bela . . .
Memories rushed back and back, until she stood in the central council hall of Bela. Leesil, Magiere, and Chap came walking down the broad passage. She looked down at Chap and then smiled up at Leesil, seeing his amber eyes for the very first time.
“Stop!” Wynn cried out.
Her shoulder suddenly ached, but her life continued to race by, as if it were only these tiny blinks of time.
Memories suddenly halted, leaving her in darkness, but the pain in her shoulder sharpened. Behind a leaf-wing’s cacophony, broken words echoed over and over.
—Wynn . . . come back.... Wynn . . . wake up—
Wynn opened her eyes to Shade standing above her. Shade’s jaws were clamped on her shoulder, biting through the cloak, as the dog pulled and shook her.
“Don’t,” Wynn moaned, reaching up.
But lying there on the tunnel floor, the unfamiliar presence remained inside her head. The sensation was nothing like the feel of sharing memories with Shade, or Chap’s multilingual voice in her head. It was harsh and unbreakable, and Wynn clamped her eyes shut again.
It was so deep inside her that she could feel emotions that weren’t her own. Hope and suspicion, spite and hesitation, all crawled about inside her, as if that presence was searching for something.
Wynn cracked open her eyes.
She looked up into twin obsidian orbs in a reptilian head that filled her view. The dragon stared down at her, unblinking, its presence so deep inside her that she began to sense something of it in turn.
It was a descendant of the one who’d come for Deep-Root. It had been waiting here for so long . . . for something. That other, greater dragon and that forgotten and fallen stonewalker raised one question in Wynn’s mind.
Where was Ore-Locks?
A pounding sound overlayed with the grating of massive claws finally broke through her haze. She lifted her head at the vibrations in the tunnel floor beneath her back.
Another dragon, not quite as large as the first, crawled down the tunnel from the direction of the breach into the Chamber of the Fallen. Shade released her grip on Wynn’s shoulder and turned to snarl at it.
The second dragon halted, fixing on Shade.
Wynn was frozen in confusion. A soft sound of lighter footsteps echoed from down the tunnel into the dark. When she looked, a light came bobbing up out of the dark behind the first dragon.
Chane ran into view, and Wynn pushed herself up to sit. He had his sword in one hand, and his eyes sparked without color in the light of his crystal. His features were twisted with panic and blind rage, like that night back in First Glade.
The first dragon snaked its head back toward him, and Chane raised his blade.
“No!” Wynn shouted.
Chane saw Wynn on the tunnel floor with the reptile’s massive head hovering over her. The sight magnified his fear until even the beast within him struggled to rouse from under the violet concoction that kept him awake. He raised the sword, ready to strike once and slip past to Wynn.
Shade snarled and whirled the other way.
But then Chane saw the second winged monster up the tunnel, and his self-control drained away completely. He lunged as the first one turned its head his way. Wynn cried out, but he only heard her panic and not her words. As he swung, the nearer creature drew its head aside, opening its maw with a hiss. Not even the threat of all-consuming fire cut through Chane’s madness to get to Wynn.
“Chane, stop it!”
He heard Wynn’s call at the edge of his awareness, distant and echoing, like something tapping him awake from dormancy.
“He’s not what you think,” she shouted, her voice echoing in the tunnel.
Chane faltered before he swung. Those words had not been for him—but for whom?<
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The question awakened reason, and Chane stopped no more than a sword’s reach from the creature’s jaws. He smelled its breath, hot and stinking like something akin to smoke and oil. The stench cleared his thoughts a little more.
Rushing in blindly would not save Wynn. Somehow, he knew this.
Chane fought for reason, struggling to swallow down the hunger and rage and the half-awakened beast inside him. The reptile’s maw slowly closed, but it did not turn from him. He kept his sword cocked upward as he looked at Wynn.
“Did you find it?” she called to him, her voice desperate.
It? What did she mean?
Wynn glanced once down the tunnel, beyond him. She appeared less afraid of those creatures penning her in than of something else.
Chane remembered the orb.
“Where is Ore-Locks?” she asked in alarm. “Where’s the wraith?”
Chane’s clarity sharpened, and he cowed the stirring beast inside him.
“Ore-Locks . . .” he began. “I sent him. . . . He took the orb into stone before il’Sänke could take it.”
Wynn’s eyes widened. “Il’Sänke? What are you—?”
“He is here. He tried to take it.”
“You gave the orb to Ore-Locks?”
Chane faltered in shame, not knowing what to say. He had let Ore-Locks take the one thing she sought at all cost, because reaching her mattered more to him than anything.
“I had to,” he finally answered.
To his surprise, Wynn nodded. “It’s all right. He’ll come back.”
Chane stared at her, dumbfounded by her sudden calm. She knew no such thing.
“You did everything right,” she said. “Everything.”
At a complete loss, he stood there looking at this small woman who had brought him halfway across the world. He understood only that she was alive, whole, and unharmed. This was all that mattered.
Wynn watched in relief as the soft but pale brown color flooded Chane’s irises. He lowered his sword. Before she could take a step toward him, multitongued words exploded in her head.
There is more to learn . . . and to discern.
As before, she felt emotions—hesitation and suspicion and doubt. She spun sharply to see the second dragon coil and turn, heading back up the tunnel. Shade rumbled, backing up, but then she turned, rounding Wynn with a nudge. Yet when Wynn looked back at the first dragon, she found it still blocking Chane’s way. Before she could say anything, more words filled her head in every language she knew.
Not this unliving thing. It will no longer defile this place of sacrifice.
The dragon had seen all her memories. It should know better.
“You know how I see him,” she answered. “Without him, I wouldn’t be standing here. And the orb wouldn’t have been saved without him.”
You saved nothing!
At those sharp words, Wynn heard Shade yelp, and everything darkened for an instant before her eyes. The dragon swung its head away from Chane and turned on her. Its jaws parted in a hiss as spittle struck the tunnel floor.
We have no faith in your kind, no trust in you to keep a prisoner of Existence out of the claws of the first slave. The shackled one is not for you! We give the anchor of Earth only to the blood of the sacrifice. It is now his to protect. Move on . . . or die with your walking dead!
Wynn forced herself not to flinch at a flickering flame sparking between the creature’s grinding teeth. Her mind raced over its words.
The “blood of sacrifice” was clearly the descendant of Deep-Root. But Ore-Locks was gone, and she didn’t know where he was or when he would return. The “anchor” had to mean the orb itself. But the strange reference to a “shackled one,” a “prisoner,” and keeping it from a “first slave,” left her bewildered.
What did any of this have to do with the orb?
More than you deserve to know.
Wynn stilled her thoughts, for every one of them was exposed to this ancient being. She looked at Chane, and as much as she feared shattering this very fragile respite, she couldn’t accept leaving him after what he had done.
Then it is upon your life that he comes.
Again, the reply came before Wynn could speak. She carefully waved Chane to her. Without hesitation, he sidled around the creature, coming to her as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. The open relief on his face pulled at Wynn.
“Put the sword away,” she whispered. “Don’t draw it again, no matter what happens.”
Chane shook his head, his expression hardening, and the color began to fade from his eyes.
“Trust me,” she said.
He tensed at her urging. She wasn’t certain anything she said or did would get through to him. Finally, he slid his sword back into its sheath.
The dragon watched his every move.
The second one had stopped up the tunnel, as if waiting. Wynn headed after it, with Chane behind her and Shade in the lead. The first creature followed, and soon all Wynn could hear was the sound of claws scraping stone.
“Where are we—?” Chane began.
She quickly glanced back and shook her head at him. There was so much she had felt in the ancient memories of these beings. She knew they were descended from the one who’d sacrificed itself with Deep-Root. They had been here, one generation after another, guarding the orb, but for reasons she couldn’t fathom.
That they continued to fulfill their ancestor’s stand against the enemy was clear. But whether they were truly allies was not so certain. They wanted something from her, and she didn’t believe she would walk out of this seatt unless she fulfilled whatever they required.
Soon they passed the breach into the Chamber of the Fallen, but the lead dragon continued up the tunnel’s other way. Along the winding passage, Wynn saw it pause briefly ahead at turns, breaks, and splits in the tunnel. They kept on at a pace that forced her into a half trot, and soon she emerged in a pocket of deeply sloping stone.
The smaller, lead dragon settled on a rise of stone near one of the side walls. The surface beside it was strangely smooth, though it slanted toward the pocket’s roof. Wynn squinted, letting out a bit more light from the crystal in her hand.
There were ragged marks in the walls, as if clawed into the stone, but the longer Wynn looked, a pattern began to emerge.
You will wait here . . . for him.
She looked back to find the first dragon inside the pocket’s opening, blocking the way.
“I don’t know where Ore-Locks is,” she answered. “How could he find us here?”
The blood will come to its own.
As if on cue, heavy footfalls echoed from the tunnel beyond the pocket.
Ore-Locks appeared at the opening, carrying the orb under one arm and the iron staff in his other hand. At first, Wynn could only focus on the orb. She remembered how heavy the orb of Water had been. She was astonished he could carry the orb of Earth with one arm.
At the sight awaiting him, Ore-Locks’s eyes widened. He backstepped, leveling his staff one-handed at the first dragon. It didn’t even look at him, but shifted to make room for him to enter.
“Ore-Locks,” Wynn said, waving him in.
He blinked at her, hesitated longer, and then cautiously crept down the passage.
“What is happening?” he asked.
The answer lashed every other thought from Wynn’s mind.
Look upon the last words, and speak them to him.
The second dragon swung its head toward the marred wall.
Wynn stepped closer, examining the claw marks. “I cannot read these,” she said, but words began filling her head.
Chane watched Wynn’s face as she flinched. Words poured from her mouth in Numanese as if she performed a recitation.
May I be forgotten for what I do.
May I die in Eternity for the choice I make.
May the necessity never be used to forgive me.
Let my people live again, but without the horror that I am.
Let my name be forgotten by all but one.
May only my brother . . .
Wynn faltered, and her breath caught sharply. She covered her mouth, and a tear slipped from her left eye.
Chane put a hand on her shoulder, but before he could speak, she went on.
May only my brother . . .
And again the words seemed to catch in her throat.
. . . remember me,
As I was before this fall.
In that, by our blood, I bind him,
To silence my name forever.
I, Deep-Root, of the family of Rain, Tangle-Root clan of the
Laughing Crag tribe in the nation of the Seatt under a Lord’s Song,
wish to be no more.
Chane felt Wynn shudder at every word, though she had faltered twice on one phrase. The brother mentioned in the verse had been admonished never to tell of Deep-Root, should that brother have actually survived what had happened here a thousand years ago.
Wynn heard every word in every language she knew. She could never have read the gouges on the wall, for those marks of these creatures were utterly unknown to her. And even so, what they’d recorded was from a lost dialect of Dwarvish.
The dragon guardians had recorded and passed down the last words—the last whispers—of Deep-Root damning himself to eternal death.
Without remembrance, he chose to pass into nothingness rather than the afterlife of this world in his people’s beliefs. He cut himself off from them. The few who remembered only the title of Thallûhearag were no better than Wynn in their ignorance.
But Wynn had recited less than what the dragons had read into her thoughts. Strangely, neither of them had reproached her for this.
A command erupted in her head.
You will tell him everything we showed you of the past.
Wynn turned around. “Ore-Locks . . . Ore-Locks, I’m . . .”
He looked so stricken that she faltered at where to begin. She looked to those marks on the wall, and then to the floor—to anywhere besides his face. She began recounting what she’d lived within Deep-Root’s memories. She never heard a sound from him. When she came to the moment of Deep-Root’s choice, tears were running down her face. Her knees went weak and she sank.
