Of Truth and Beasts

He paced the length of her room, a mere four steps. When he stopped, he stared at her staff in the corner beyond the door. Its sun crystal was fully sheathed, but that was the part his eyes locked upon.

“Get your cloak, your glasses, and the staff,” he commanded. “Come with me.... But Shade stays here.”

Shade lifted her head from the bed’s blankets and growled.

In all the time Wynn had known Chane, he’d never ordered her to do anything, at least not like this. He looked openly angry now, as if expecting her to argue.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked.

“Just do it!”

Wynn crossed her arms and didn’t even get up. Chane looked away, anxious, almost defeated.

“Please,” he whispered. “Leave Shade here.” Something in Chane’s pleading voice pulled at Wynn. Maybe if she did as he asked, he’d finally tell her what was wrong. With a sigh, she pulled her cloak off the chair and got up.

The glasses were always in her robe’s pocket these days, and she stepped around Chane to retrieve her staff. An instant of relief flooding his pale face was alarming.

She glanced toward Shade. “Stay.”

Shade jumped off the bed, snarling.

“Stay,” Wynn said more firmly, pulling the door open.

Shade rushed in and slammed headfirst into door. It closed with a loud bang as the dog backed up. Her snarls turned into a rolling growl.

A short wrestling match followed in which Wynn held the dog back while Chane stepped out. Wynn quickly slipped out after jerking her robe’s skirt out of Shade’s teeth, and Chane pulled the door closed. Shade immediately began howling, barking, and snarling.

“Stop,” Wynn called through the door. “Or you’ll have a crowd of apprentices come running. We’ll be back soon.”

Wynn motioned Chane onward, hoping Shade would quiet down once they were gone—although she had no idea where they were going.

Chane was silent all the way to the courtyard. He headed straight across for the northwest building that contained his quarters. Confused, Wynn followed, but he stopped her at the door. When he looked down at her, she almost backed up.

His irises had turned clear and colorless, as they did when his undead nature fully manifested itself.

“Wait here,” he said. “I will return shortly.”

Chane’s voice was as cold as his irises, and he slipped inside.

His erratic mood shifts sometimes left Wynn unsettled, but she waited, shivering a few times in the chill night air. True to his word, Chane reemerged shortly, wearing a forest green cloak with the hood up. She’d never seen it before. A matching scarf was wrapped multiple times about his neck, leaving only his hood-shadowed face exposed. He wore new, fitted calfskin gloves, suggesting they’d been custom made.

Chane didn’t need protection from the cold.

“What’s all this for?” Wynn asked.

He didn’t answer. Then she noticed a scrunched bulk of leather in his right hand. Two laces dangled from his curled fingers along with the strings of a brown felt pouch.

“This way,” he said, and headed for the gatehouse tunnel. As he turned, the side of his cloak wafted open.

The hilt of his new sword protruded above his hip, its mottled dwarven blade now couched in a new sheath. He never walked the guild grounds while armed, as it was considered poor manners.

“Chane ... ?” Wynn called, but he strode away, and she had to trot to keep up.

When he exited the tunnel, he didn’t go on to the bailey gate, but turned left into the inner bailey. They’d nearly reached the barren trees and garden below the southern tower when Wynn got fed up.

“Chane, what is going on?”

He turned to face her. Without answering, he jerked the leather sheath off her staff with his free hand, exposing the sun crystal’s long prisms.

Wynn stepped back in alarm, catching the crystal’s sheath as he tossed it at her.

“Give me your glasses,” he said, fiddling with the pouch he carried.

“First you tell me what we’re—” She stopped.

Chane held up another pair of glasses like her own. These were smaller, with delicate arms curved at the ends.

“Made for you,” he said. “Put them on, and give me your old ones.”

Confused but curious, Wynn pulled out the glasses made by Domin il’Sänke and handed them over. The lenses were clear, designed to go dark only when struck with harsh light. They allowed her to see when the sun crystal ignited.

Chane took them, shoving the new ones into her hand.

Wynn hooked their thin arms around her ears. They fit snuggly and did not shift like the old ones.

“Better,” she commented, adjusting them on her small nose. “What made you think to have them made?”

But Chane was off again.

Wynn glanced at her staff’s crystal in puzzlement and had to hurry. She’d barely caught up as he rounded the southern tower and stopped. He looked up once, and Wynn did so, as well. All the windows in the tower were dark.

He pointed toward the barren corner garden. “Stand there.”

“Chane, what is this about?”