Of Truth and Beasts

He stood there until she pulled on his arm again.

Chane half turned, lowering his head, but all Wynn saw was a featureless leather mask and dark, round lenses. He finally pulled away, slowly and widely sidestepping around his opponent.

Wynn turned back to the leader, not knowing how to explain Chane’s disturbing appearance, so she didn’t try.

“Look at me,” she said, brushing a hand down her short robe. “I am a sage, come from Calm Seatt to deliver an official communication from my Premin Council to that of your branch. So either please escort me to the city ... or get out of my way.”

Shade stepped forward, growling at the patrol leader. He didn’t even flinch, but as he looked at her, his brow wrinkled in confusion. A majay-hì, far from where it should be, was ready to turn on him for the sake of a human.

This was the last way Wynn could’ve ever wished to enter Lhoin’na lands for the first time.

* * *

Chane lay alone beneath the canvas in the wagon’s back, listening. He heard the clop of horses to the left and the right, and he knew the patrol was still present as the wagon rolled along. But he could also hear his companions.

Ore-Locks whispered, “Why did they bother inspecting our horses for wounds before letting us onto the plain?”

“I don’t know,” Wynn answered.

Neither did Chane. He still puzzled over Wynn’s instruction that no blood be spilled in this place.

“Wait!” Wynn whispered excitedly. “Stop the wagon.”

The wagon lurched to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” Ore-Locks asked.

“Look at all of this,” Wynn breathed.

Chane frowned. This was no time for her to be taking in the view.

“Just flowers,” Ore-Locks scoffed. “Strange enough, but nothing to—”

“Not just wildflowers,” Wynn answered. “They’re anasgiah, a sacred—”

“What did you say?” interrupted a third voice.

The strange accent and blunt tone marked it as the patrol leader, the one who had finally introduced himself as Althahk.

“The flowers,” Wynn answered. “Why do you have anasgiah planted all over here?”

A long pause followed.

“You mean anamgiah?” he asked. “It is a healing and cleansing herb that grows wild, suitable to this plain’s tranquillity.”

Chane was already trying to get his mask and glasses back on. Premin Hawes had corrected him the same way when shown translated notes from the Seven Leaves of Life. If he had heard right, one of those seven was here, all around him.

“Yes, um, that’s what I meant,” Wynn answered.

Chane heard Ore-Locks cluck and then flick the reins. As the wagon lurched, Chane peeked out from beneath the canvas’s edge.

The sun had not fully set, and he ground his teeth as the glasses darkened. He waited for them to adjust, hoping he would not miss what Wynn had seen. As the wagon moved onward, a small bit of white appeared in the tall grass beyond the road’s edge.

Chane’s gaze locked as it slipped slowly by.

The dome of tiny, pearl-colored flowers was almost phosphorescent in the fading light. Their leaflike blossoms grew in clusters that shimmered like white velvet. The stems appeared so dark green, they were nearly black.

All Chane wanted was to climb out and snatch them up. Then they were gone. As the wagon rocked down the road, he searched the grass, though his view was far too limited. He caught only two more glimpses of white too far out in the deep grass to see clearly.

“Hand me the reins,” Wynn said.

“Why?” Ore-Locks returned.

“We’ll be entering the forest shortly, and I should drive.”

This was not an adequate answer to Ore-Locks’s question, but it said much to Chane. Wynn had told him of her experiences within the Elven Territories of the an’Cróan, and of what Chap had learned concerning the Ancient Enemy’s hordes of long ago.

No undead could enter an elven forest. Or, specifically, by Wynn’s reasoning, no forest protected by an ancient tree called Sanctuary, or its like offspring on Chane’s own continent.

The forest itself would sense any undead and confuse it with madness and fright. Then the majay-hì would come to pull it down and slaughter it. In Chane’s time with Welstiel, that cold madman had also mentioned this.

As an undead, how could Welstiel have known and survived to speak of it?

Chane stroked his thumb over the ring of nothing, fitted snuggly on his left third finger. Perhaps the forest had not known Welstiel was there. Chane braced himself, waiting.

He did not know what to expect, and Wynn had also worried about this moment. He lay there so long in hiding, wondering how close they were. He began feeling exhausted by tension, and at last his grogginess began to wane.

Had the sun finally set?

“Chane, you can come out,” Wynn said softly. “We’re there!”

Chane flipped the canvas aside and heard Shade, who was also in back, growl as its corner flopped over her rump. Darkness filled his view, and he pulled off the glasses and mask, immediately pivoting onto one knee. They were surrounded by the trees.