by Barb Hendee
Strong hands caught her from behind. Chane held her up, and she let him, but not once could she bear to look into Ore-Locks’s face. Not even as she finished.
“I’m sorry,” she kept whispering, but it sounded weaker, more inadequate each time.
Ore-Locks still said nothing. And then Shade broke the silence with a snarl.
Wynn raised her eyes just enough to see Shade stalk toward the dragon by the wall. Shade looked so tiny before that great being, but it shifted immediately out of Shade’s way, never causing the dog to pause. She paced at the pocket’s back and then craned her neck, looking at Ore-Locks.
A pile of blackened shapes lay beside Shade’s forepaws. She lowered her muzzle to them as the multitongued voice spoke to Wynn again.
Tell him to take up his blood . . . take what is his.
Wynn blinked hard, wiping her face with a sleeve to clear her eyes. She squinted at bones by Shade’s feet. There weren’t enough for an entire body, but she realized whose they were.
Those were the last remains of Deep-Root. The dragons must have unearthed what they could find over the centuries.
Ore-Locks set down the orb and his staff, and he slowly walked over. He fell to his knees before the bones, and just knelt there in stillness. When he started to reach for them, Wynn pulled out of Chane’s hold, frantically trying to strip off her cloak. Chane helped her, and she clutched it as she approached.
Almost afraid to come too close, she held back until Ore-Locks looked up.
Anger crossed his broad face. She couldn’t bear it, and dropped her gaze as she held out the cloak. When he didn’t take it, she crouched to place it on his folded knees.
“They say the orb is only for you,” she whispered. “You are its guardian now.”
He still said nothing, and Wynn watched only his hands as he began lifting the bones one at a time. He was so slow and gentle, as if any one of them might crumble to ash.
Wynn watched Ore-Locks place each bone in the small cloak, but she never looked up into his eyes.
CHAPTER 27
All the way back through the seatt to the tram station, Chane kept a careful watch, peering into a thousand darkly shadowed corners. Once, he made Wynn sit and rest while he claimed to scout ahead, but that was not all he did. Out of everyone’s sight, he took another half dose of the violet concoction. They were far from out of danger yet, and he could not afford to be taken by dormancy.
When they finally crawled through the makeshift hole at the cave-in, he was not surprised to find two rather than one pump cart on the other side. Il’Sänke must have come on the second one, but the domin seemed to have vanished.
Chane wanted Wynn as far from this place as possible, and he quickly put her and Shade aboard. Then, he and Ore-Locks began pumping for the long journey back. Still, Chane watched the shadows, though il’Sänke was not foremost in his thoughts.
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.”
Wynn looked at him for a long moment, realizing what he meant, and finally nodded. “All right.”
“Do not leave the guild,” he said firmly, and looked at Shade to make certain she understood. “Ore-Locks will arrange a schooner to return me across the bay. I should only be away two nights.”
He was surprised by the distress on her face. Did she fear he might not come back? He began digging into his pack until he felt a cylinder of old, worn tin.
“Here,” he said.
Chane held out the case containing the ancient scroll that had once led him to her. The same one that bore a poem as yet fully translated, its parts having led them this far together. Giving her this was the only thing he could think of to assure her.
“For safekeeping,” he told her, and he turned to head back to port.
Something grasped his hand.
He did not turn or even dare look down. He was too afraid, for there were still too many unanswered questions between them.
But he squeezed Wynn’s hand once before letting go.
The following night, Chane stood alone in the temple proper of Feather-Tongue.
He stared up at the massive statue of that Bäynæ—dwarven Eternal—who had been missing from the great hall of Bäalâle Seatt. The oil lanterns in their brackets cast upward shadows on its features, and Chane could not help feeling as if it watched him.
Ludicrous notion.
In one blind moment, he had stepped into a sacred space, not knowing what would happen. He had not even thought about it. Not as he had when Wynn first brought him to the temple’s outer doors. Not as he had when they had walked the outer hallway beyond this round chamber, and he had flinched, drawing himself back, at each opening into this chamber.
Now he stood, whole and unbroken, in a sacred space.
All around him, the walls were marked in engraved emblems he could not read, though he wished he could. Then he heard the heavy, booted footfalls approach the temple proper’s opening behind him.
“Is it safe?” he asked without turning.
When no answer came, Chane lowered his gaze and looked back.
Ore-Locks stood inside the archway, dressed in the black, scaled armor of his brethren. He looked up at the statue of Feather-Tongue, frowning in puzzlement. When he lowered his gaze to Chane, that same perplexed expression remained.
How strange it must appear to Ore-Locks that a monster with a mindless beast within should be found standing before a patron of knowledge in a place of faith.
“I brought what you asked for,” Ore-Locks said, stepping closer, “though I wonder why. Do not eat them raw, since they must . . . be . . .”
Ore-Locks faltered, for what would a Noble Dead, an undead, want with food of any kind?
“They are not for eating,” Chane replied. “Something else . . . something for Wynn.”
Taking the cloth from the dwarf’s hand, he opened it and found a pile of strange little fungi, or mushrooms, grown only by the dwarves. Their caps were unusual, spreading in multiple branches that flattened at their ends, almost like tiny leaves. Muhkgean, they were called. Along with the white flowers of the Lhoin’na, they were one more component from the list in the Seven Leaves of Life to create a healing concoction.
He was careful not to touch the mushrooms with his bare hands. After what had happened with the anasgiah, he would take no chances.
“Thank you again,” he repeated. “How can I reach you, if necessary?”
Ore-Locks paused. “A head shirvêsh at any temple can contact Master Cinder-Shard. Send word here, and I will receive it by dawn or dusk.”
A moment’s silence passed between them. Ore-Locks looked up at Feather-Tongue once more and then glanced sidelong at Chane. A bit of old suspicion and hardness resurfaced in his broad features, though it faded after a perplexed shake of his head.
“The world I wanted is still buried,” he said. “Changed to something I do not want.”
“It has not changed,” Chane said quickly. “It has always been what it is. All that changes is what we know—or believe—though it might be other than what we wish.”
Ore-Locks nodded and hung his head, staring at the floor stones.
“A schooner waits below, as promised. Make sure you board and get below tonight. It leaves at dawn,” he muttered, then raised his eyes to Chane. “Safe journey . . . and a little peace, while it can last.”
By the time Ore-Locks’s footsteps faded down the long hall to the temple door, Chane finally turned to leave.
Walking through this place of . . . belief, he pondered everything he had been through in the past few moons, thinking on what he himself truly believed in.
He believed in Wynn.
The Wynn that he now knew was a far cry from the vision born on the first night they had met. In the guise of a minor young noble with scholarly interests, he had visited a small barracks refurbished for sages in the faraway capital of his homeland. That escape into the realm of the living had quickly died at Magiere’s appearance, that half-living, other “monster” who had taken so much from him.
Chane’s illusions of Wynn had taken longer to pass. From their first night over a rickety table strewn with ink bottles, quills, and parchments, the air laced with the scent of mint tea, she might have been all he would have wanted as a companion . . . in life.
How much had changed since then—and how much had not. He had watched her fall
bit by bit from his greater vision of all that her guild and she represented. Then she had struck him down with four words.
If you love me . . .
That utterance did not confirm that she felt the same for him. This was not something he could yet risk believing—putting his faith in—in place of knowing. But that challenge had trapped him, forced him beyond all reason and knowing. Perhaps only instinct had led him through that crisis.
How could he love her and yet deny what she believed in?
The answer had been with him, in him, since the moment she had spoken those four words.
Whether he accepted the way Wynn saw the world or he believed any part of what she saw to come did not matter. If he ever wanted her, he had to want what mattered to her. It was necessary to believe in her.
If he were ever to mean anything more to her, she had to be the heart of his faith.
Dusk had passed by the time the schooner landed the next night. Chane disembarked and made his way back to the Guild of Sagecraft.
He walked right through the inner bailey gate, for not one city guard had been posted outside. Even the outer portcullis was left raised. No attendant came out to greet him.
It seemed a season without death had fostered some irrational notion among the sages that this place was once more safe. Or perhaps the sight of the city’s oldest castle, a bastion of knowledge, being locked up and guarded was no longer acceptable before the people’s eyes by the royals of Malourné.
Either way, it was a fool’s arrogance to Chane.
He grew angry as he strode out of the gatehouse tunnel into the inner courtyard beneath the light of the great torches above him. Where was Wynn, left so exposed here—in her room, in the common hall, or perhaps the library or archives? Uncertain, he turned toward the southern barracks, where all upper apprentices and journeyors were housed.
