Of Truth and Beasts

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.