Of Truth and Beasts

In her crystal’s light, a shadow of that lone effigy appeared to move upon the wall behind it. A baritone voice rose as if from the black basalt form.

“His true name was Byûnduní ... Deep-Root.”

Ore-Locks stepped from the shadows, his hand stroking down the effigy. He raised his eyes to where the head would be, as if seeing more than the mute form’s representation. He placed both hands flat on the oval plate of its engraving, as if trying to blot out the epitaph.

“He does not belong here,” Ore-Locks whispered.

The memory ended as abruptly as it began.

Wynn opened her eyes, still holding Shade’s face, and realized what Shade was trying to tell her.

“Deep-Root?” she breathed.

Did Ore-Locks actually hope to find his traitorous ancestor among the honored dead of Bäalâle?

“What did she show you?” Chane asked.

“I know what Ore-Locks is looking for, and he will not find it here.”

Rising, she ran into the next cave, and then the next. The farther in she went, the more the entombed forms became indistinguishable from the cave’s glistening stone. She found Ore-Locks inside the fifth and last cave. He looked pale and stricken, down on his knees. When he saw her watching him, he stood up, his expression hardening.

She had no idea what to say. Her feelings were as mixed and blended as the remains of the dead and the cave’s stone. She was angry with him for leading them astray. After the carnage they had seen above in the seatt, how could he ever have thought to find his genocidal ancestor here? Even if any stonewalkers had survived the seatt’s fall, why would they ever place a monster among the honored dead? Or did Ore-Locks merely wish it so, as proof that the little-known tale of his treacherous ancestor was a lie?

But a small part of her pitied him. Was this truly why he had come all this way—to somehow change the truth of the past?

“We are finished here,” he said coldly. “We move on.”

“To where?”

“You wished to go lower.” He strode past her, ignoring Chane and Shade.

Chane kept glancing about as they walked. When Ore-Locks neared where they’d entered, Chane slowed. Wynn stopped, wondering what was wrong.

“Feather-Tongue would find this tomb a tragedy,” Chane said.

Wynn shook her head, uncertain what he meant.

“These thänæ are forgotten,” he went on. “The tales that brought them here are forgotten. They will not continue in the memories of their people. These here are now truly dead, forever.”

She hadn’t considered that. First, Ore-Locks had tried to clear his genocidal ancestor’s name in a place where the dead were forgotten, and now Chane waxed philosophical like a shirvêsh of Bedzâ’kenge. The world felt upside down.

“We have to go,” she said.

He nodded and followed her as they hurried.

Ore-Locks was waiting by the portal. This time Wynn, Chane, and Shade all stepped out, and he closed the doors from the inside before passing through the iron to join them. They wouldn’t need to enter that place again.

Ore-Locks still looked pale and sickened. He took the lead, and when they reached the narrow, sloping passage, he turned downward again.

A small part of Wynn wished to offer him some word of comfort; the wiser part knew that was foolish—and wrong. 

Ghassan lingered near the entrance to the hall of the Eternals, noting the great gash in its far right end, but he did not step inside just yet. The wraith must be somewhere ahead of him. He did not wish to risk exposing his presence to it or to Wynn.

Footsteps and voices carried down the engraved entry passage behind him.

Ghassan looked back. Who else could possibly be down here? He could not make out the words, but he heard the lilt and guttural turn in those voices. Elves?

He hurried inside the hall. Quietly rushing down its length, he looked for a vantage point where he could still remain hidden. Then he froze midway.

The wraith lingered at an archway beyond the last great statue along the hall’s far wall. Its back was turned to him.

Ghassan knew he had only moments before it might turn around or the elves would enter this place. He formed sigils and shapes in his mind, focusing on the wraith. He did not know if he could hide his presence from its unnatural awareness, but it was all he had left to try.

On pure hope, he ran between the statues on the hall’s other side, ducking behind the shoulder-high base of the effigy of a dwarven warrior.

The wraith turned. It floated farther out into the hall, but did not look his way.

Ghassan stifled an exhale of relief. He remained rigid, listening to the footsteps approaching the hall.

Sau’ilahk thought he heard something and turned quickly. He saw nothing, but he was not given to hearing things that did not exist. He drifted to the hall’s center and then heard something else.

Footfalls and voices carried from the hall’s entrance.