Of Truth And Beasts Part 36

He swung his legs over the bedside. The room swam before his eyes, and the pain in his skull and side sharpened. He had been badly damaged somehow. Hunger followed too quickly, and he forced it down.

"What happened?" he whispered.

"I had to . . . had to have Ore-Locks stop you. We brought you back, and you've been dormant all the way to this evening."

Chane glanced toward the curtained window and then stared at her. "It is the next night?"

"Yes. But I think I know where to start searching . . . sort of."

Her words barely registered.

Chane tried to stand up, and winced as something tightened around his stomach. His shirttail hung out, the left side stained with his own fluids. When he lifted the edge, a linen bandage was wrapped around his midriff. When had he been cut?

"I didn't know what else to do," Wynn said. Then she repeated, "Are you all right?"

Chane let hunger leak slightly through his cold flesh to eat away some of the pain.

"I will be." Bits and pieces of the night before started coming back. "You ran off alone," he said, unable to keep the accusation from his tone.

"And I told you to stay in Vreuvill's home," she countered. "You were foolish to go running around in that forest . . . no matter how it worked out in the end."

Chane sat silent at that. Try as he might, he remembered so little beyond the moment he had found her-and then after he had pulled her away from those moving roots.

Wynn watched him closely, with the hint of a frown. She was biting back something more, perhaps not wishing to argue. What else was wrong?

"I'm fine," she said, perhaps reading him. "I've got information that might help us find the seatt . . . and other pieces I don't yet understand."

The situation was more than disconcerting. He had never lost time like this before. The last thing he remembered clearly was pressing the ring against Wynn's shoulder in blind fear of losing her.

Wynn sat back on her knees.

"Let's just move onward," she said evasively. "I think we need to get you out of this land as soon as possible. Everything will be better, will be all right, after that."

It was not-would not be so. It was all broken in his head. And the beast began to rumble and whine inside him. He pushed his hair back with both hands and clenched at the sharpening pain in his head. Glancing once toward Welstiel's pack in the room's corner, he thought of what he needed in there. In the moment, he had a greater concern.

"You learned the location?" he asked.

"Not precisely. No one could possibly know that. I have a direction and something to look for."

Wynn related what Vreuvill had told her and what else she had surmised. When she mentioned the Fay's scratching "leaf-wing chorus" in her head, Chane was uncertain what to think. Had she truly heard these nature spirits, or could she have imagined this?

"If dwarves visited among the Lhoin'na forerunners in ancient times," she went on, "then the Slip-Tooth Pa.s.s would've been the most direct route. We'll head south down the pa.s.s to where it meets the Sky-Cutter Range. I believe the seatt is on its far south side, closer to the desert, but if we travel in a straight line from the pa.s.s's end, we'll have the best chance to spot any 'fallen mountain. ' At this point, it's the most sensible way to begin."

"What makes you think it will be on the south side?"

"Something Domin il'Snke told me. When spoken in Sumanese, 'Balle' is p.r.o.nounced min'b'alle, which is an ululation of praise for a desert tribal leader. That suggests the seatt was near the desert. Perhaps the dwarves of old were friendly with some desert tribe or people."

Taking in Wynn's oval, olive-toned face, Chane saw a hint of her old, blind confidence there. But he pondered the strange duality of what she said she had heard from the Fay. What was the difference between "the fallen dead of the Earth" and "that of the Earth?" What did "a slave to a slave" have to do with any of this?

None of it mattered against the mounting danger to her. It unsettled Chane that she had managed to gain enough information to head into what sounded like a correct direction.

"We need to restock supplies," she said, "and prepare for at least a moon's worth of travel, if not more. I don't know if there are settlements along the way. Certainly not once we head into the range."

Which meant that she had no intention of turning back, no matter what.

Chane swallowed hard, though his throat had gone dry. At least her plans offered two immediate solutions.

"Do you . . ." he began, and faltered. "Is there anything more you need here at the guild?"

She looked at him in puzzlement. "I don't think so. But it may take a few days to prepare before leaving."

"Then we should lodge elsewhere in the city-find an inn; be on our own."

Before he even finished, he saw agreement flood her expression, and perhaps relief. It would not surprise him if Premin Gyr was having them watched. Chane had not forgotten the menace on the premin's face in the archives.

"Yes," Wynn said, nodding. "On our own again."

Shade lifted her head, ears p.r.i.c.ked at full attention. She hopped off the bed ledge and padded to the door, sniffing at its bottom crack near the floor.

Chane rose, clenching his teeth against the returning pain. "Take hold of her."

Wynn started at his words, and then saw what Shade was up to. She pulled Shade back as Chane jerked open the door.

He looked both ways, seeing no one along the pa.s.sageway's gradual arc. Someone had been there. Even with the ring on, the starving beast inside him sensed this as much as Shade had smelled it. And there was something more that he sensed.

A thin and strange scent lingered in the pa.s.sage. Partly cinnamon, but with another spice or two he did not recognize.

Chane backed into the room and shut the door.

"Take Shade and find Ore-Locks," he said. "Make sure he gathers everything. We are leaving immediately."

Wynn studied him for an instant and then looked to the door. Her eyes narrowed just before she nodded. Without a word she got up, pa.s.sing her small fingers over Shade's head, and they both left. As soon as the door closed, Chane rushed to the corner.

He slumped down the wall, digging furiously into Welstiel's pack, and pulled out a brown gla.s.s bottle wrapped in a felt sc.r.a.p. 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.

Gha.s.san il'Snke 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 a.s.sisted her in translating part of an ancient scroll alluding to a place called Balle 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.

Gha.s.san 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 apt.i.tude 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 Pa.s.s. Does this a.s.sist you, Master?

Gha.s.san closed his eyes.

What he had translated of the poem in Chane Andraso's scroll, with its mention of Balle, 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.

Gha.s.san 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 a.s.signed 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, Gha.s.san 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 pa.s.sage 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 Vreuvill 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 Malourne. But even these mistakes, not of her own choice, seemed paltry compared to leading Ore-Locks to Balle Seatt.

What did he want there? If only she knew.

Shade sat down beside her in the pa.s.sage. 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?"

The question stopped her. Had there been any doubt? Why would he, of all people, even ask, since this search was all he wanted? Wynn glanced back at him, saying nothing.

"You will still travel . . . with him?" Ore-Locks asked. "Accept protection from him, even after last night?"

Wynn had hidden herself away for so long in a place of denial regarding Chane. Now Ore-Locks was determined to force the truth before her eyes. He might not know Chane's true situation, but Wynn did. Chane had killed countless people so that he might survive. He'd changed himself for her sake, but nothing could be forgotten.

"Don't be so pious," she answered. "You want him protecting me."

"I can protect you."

Wynn had no idea how to respond to this. Instead, she stepped slowly down the pa.s.sage until she heard his door close. She stopped and slumped against the wall, and Shade pressed up against her.

-not . . . go . . . Wynn . . . stay- Shade's growl sharpened in emphasis.

-not . . . go . . . Wynn . . . stay safe- "Stop it," Wynn whispered. "Not now."

All three of her companions were shoving her over the edge of reason. Everything was coming apart from the inside. The pressure of it all pushed tears from Wynn's clenched eyes.

Chuillyon's day had not been easy.

Gyr was furious at being unable to uncover who had given Wynn the pa.s.s. During the morning's council meeting, when the premin of Conamology questioned Gyr's judgment in closing the archives, Gyr had turned on her, nearly accusing her of collusion. The meeting did not end well.

Chuillyon had no desire for further discord among the council; rather, the opposite. He needed them pacified, so he could remain intimately aware of all activities at the highest levels. Like young Wynn, he, too, believed the Ancient Enemy would return. It was essential that he knew at all times exactly who was doing what, when, and where.

Should the worst come, he would require a powerful voice in the outcome of political and military decisions for the entire Numan lands. In this, he served the royals of Malourne as counselor and quietly influenced his own branch of the guild. He might in time become high premin himself, working closely with both his own government and that of Malourne. It would put him in the best position for whatever would happen.

But until recently, Chiullyon had never bargained for the antics of one headstrong human journeyor.

Wynn Hygeorht was like a wild boar crashing through a crystal shop. She distracted everyone from his careful misdirection. She drew too much attention, and yet she always seemed to get through to her goal. He had to know exactly what she was up to before anything else was broken.

"Master?" Hannschi called from above.

"Yes, come."

He was not surprised to see Shodh enter first. These two were most often found together. Chuillyon could not quite fathom what Hannschi found appealing in the company of stoic Shodh, but he never gave it much thought. Hannschi entered next, lovely and composed as always, but a few strands of her hair appeared tangled.

"Journeyor Hygeorht has left the guild," she said immediately. "She is preparing to seek out this Balle Seatt. I apologize for having learned so little, but I was behind a tree in the courtyard and only able to pick up a few words as she and her companions headed for the gate. I could not follow farther for fear of being seen."

Chuillyon stared at her, barely hearing anything after "Balle Seatt."

Hannschi smoothed her hair and waited for some response. Chuillyon sat numb, until she and Shodh exchanged a concerned glance.

"Domin?" Shodh asked.

"Yes . . . yes, I am listening."

"Again, I only picked up bits and pieces," Hannschi went on. "It appears the journeyor did go looking for Vreuvill. I can only a.s.sume that lone Foirfeahkan told her something of use."

Chuillyon let out a weary breath and looked away. Wynn's antics had frequently piqued his curiosity, and death often followed in her wake. But this was the first time her conscious choices had made him deeply nervous.

Balle had fallen long ago, burying its dark secrets of how and why. Was she purposefully trying to rush events forward in seeking that place, if she could find it? What did she know that he did not?

"Where is she now?" he demanded, his voice sounding hard to his own ears.

"They are relocating to an inn somewhere in the city," Hannschi answered, sounding distressed that she could not tell him more.