Of Truth and Beasts

He slumped down the wall, digging furiously into Welstiel’s pack, and pulled out a brown glass bottle wrapped in a felt scrap. Fumbling from exhaustion, he managed to open it, and he downed what was left of its contents. In his rush, a single dribble rolled out the side of his mouth to his jawline. The fluid was so dark red, it was nearly black.

That stolen life, taken by Welstiel’s filthy little cup, burned down Chane’s throat to the pit of his stomach. He buckled over, shuddering and clenching as life flooded through his dead flesh.

It seared him, and he suffered all the more for his broken state. It would heal him somewhat, though it would not bring back his memories of what had happened in the clearing.

And this made Chane feel more powerless than ever in protecting Wynn.

Ghassan il’Sänke sat in his small camp among the thin palm trees along the coast. He required time to think. His instincts had once told him to silence Wynn forever. He had chosen otherwise, and even assisted her in translating part of an ancient scroll alluding to a place called Bäalâle Seatt.

Had he chosen wrongly? He could not count how many times he had second-guessed that decision since he had last heard from Mujahid.

The medallion against his chest began to grow warm.

Ghassan jerked it out by its chain and squeezed it in his hand, and Mujahid’s voice filled his mind.

Domin?

Yes, I am here.

She leaves soon, a few days at most. I am sorry I did not learn more. I was outside her room, and their voices were uneven. I picked out only a few words.

Do you know her destination?

The young journeyor’s grasp of thaumaturgical alchemy was sound, perhaps beyond his years, but he showed less aptitude for ... more subtle skills. He was forced to rely on stealth and his above-average hearing.

I do not. Only that she will follow the Slip-Tooth Pass. Does this assist you, Master?

Ghassan closed his eyes.

What he had translated of the poem in Chane Andraso’s scroll, with its mention of Bäalâle, had combined with other bits and pieces he had gleaned over a lifetime. During the great war, word had spread to the westernmost forces that a dwarven seatt had fallen. For that message to have reached them, the seatt in question had to have been somewhere on the western third of what the Numans now called the Sky-Cutter Range.

Ghassan had never learned a name for that lost seatt until Wynn had tampered with that scroll. And now, knowing her penchants, she had to be seeking that mythical fallen seatt. But for what purpose?

Master, do you wish me to follow her? If so, I should find a map and—

No. Where possible, complete work assigned by your group’s leader, Domin Nahid. When it is time, return home as if nothing is amiss. I may not be reachable again for some time.

Good fortune, my domin.

And to you ... to all of us.

As the medallion cooled, Ghassan rose and stood gazing down into the small fire. So little light tried to push back the dark. How ironic that in darkness was where he had always learned what would be needed in the coming days.

Wynn slipped down the passage but hesitated at knocking on Ore-Locks’s door. If only he hadn’t been there in First Glade to hear even the smallest part of where they would go next. She might’ve taken Shade and Chane and slipped away before Ore-Locks knew. But he had been there.

And if he hadn’t, what would’ve happened when Chane went mad? No matter who might’ve died in that moment, she wouldn’t have gained anything from Vreuvillä either way. Still she couldn’t help wanting this tainted stonewalker gone.

The wraith had once followed her to the ancient texts. She’d unwittingly led it right to the dwarven underworld and a hidden prince of Malourné. But even these mistakes, not of her own choice, seemed paltry compared to leading Ore-Locks to Bäalâle Seatt.

What did he want there? If only she knew.

Shade sat down beside her in the passage. Steeling herself, Wynn knocked. She heard heavy footfalls. The door cracked open, and Ore-Locks looked out at her.

His long, reddish hair hung past his shoulders. He’d removed the burnt orange vestment and wore only breeches and a loose shirt. There was a shadow of beard stubble on his face.

“We’re being watched,” she told him. “Pack up. We’re moving to an inn until we’re ready to leave.”

She turned away.

“So you intend to continue, as before?”