Of Truth and Beasts

Then he hesitated, glancing down at himself. He still wore his boots from the night before, along with his rumpled breeches. He quickly began tucking in his loose white shirt.

Wynn didn’t care how he was dressed. It didn’t matter.

“Only me,” she said. “I was even ordered to leave Shade in my room.”

Chane froze. He knew Shade almost never left Wynn’s side. The dog rarely tolerated that. He returned to tucking in his shirt.

“I am as responsible as you,” he insisted, “for all that happened. You are not facing them alone.”

As he came to the door, Wynn looked up, meeting his eyes in silence. She felt ashamed by her relief at the thought of his standing beside her to face the council. But that wasn’t the way this would work.

“I don’t think they’ll let you—”

“I am coming,” he repeated, and stepped out, closing the door.

He headed down the passageway toward the stairs before she could argue further. Without intending to, she sighed—in relief, resignation, or at the weight of her burdens. Perhaps all three.

Wynn still felt cowardly in her relief at Chane’s presence as they climbed the stairs to the second floor of the guild’s main hall. With all that had happened in the Stonewalkers’ underworld, deep below Dhredze Seatt, she could imagine the Premin Council like some Old World mock court. Its verdict would be predetermined before any trial began.

But it wasn’t a trial. This was a guild matter, and what she’d done would never be revealed publicly. She would have no statute of law to protect her against any unofficial conviction.

She glanced up at Chane beside her, his expression grim with determination. Perhaps his presence might keep the council in check, for there were internal affairs they might not raise before an outsider. But she doubted it.

When they stepped onto the upper floor, two sages waited outside the council’s chamber down the broad passage. Chane never slowed, and Wynn tried not to falter, but the closer they came to the council chamber, the odder it all looked.

A middle-aged woman in cerulean, from the Order of Sentiology, and a younger man in a metaologer’s midnight blue stood in silence on either side of the great oak double doors. Wynn didn’t immediately recognize either one, although, with their differing orders, they made a strange combination. She’d never seen attendants outside this chamber before.

Both watched her as she approached, which made her nervous. Then they both reached out at the same time and opened the doors without a word.

Inside, standing about, waiting, was the entire Premin Council. And Domin High-Tower, the only dwarven sage and head of Wynn’s order, was present, as well.

Folklore of the Farlands, Chane’s world, spoke of dwarves as diminutive beings of dark crags and earthen burrows. High-Tower, like all of his people, was an intimidating hulk compared to such superstitions. Though shorter than humans, most dwarves looked Wynn straight in the eyes. What they lacked in height, they doubled in breadth.

Stout and wide as he was, he showed no hint of fat under his gray robe. Coarse reddish hair laced with gray hung past his shoulders, blending with his thick beard, which was braided at its end. His broad, rough features made his black-pupiled eyes seem like iron pellets embedded in pale, flesh-colored granite.

He glowered at her from where he stood beyond the council’s table. Suddenly, his glower turned to an incensed glare, quite disturbing from any hulkish dwarf. He rounded the table and tall-back chairs, coming straight toward the opened doorway, his long red hair bouncing with each stride.

“Does your impudence know no limits?” he rumbled, halting within arm’s reach.

For an instant, Wynn had thought Chane was the domin’s target, but High-Tower’s anger was fixed on her.

“This is a guild matter,” he growled. “It is no business of any outsider!”

Wynn glanced up at Chane—who stared down at the broad domin.

“You need to leave,” she said quietly. “Wait for me in my room.”

“No,” Chane rasped.

Wynn stiffened. Most times, she no longer noticed his maimed voice. But there was warning in that one word. Chane passively looked at everyone inside the chamber, and this only heightened Wynn’s tension.

Chane’s resolve might have given her relief at first, but now it was making things worse.

“You will leave,” someone else said flatly.

Wynn followed the sharp shift of Chane’s eyes.

Premin Frideswida Hawes of Metaology stepped straight toward them in a smooth gait that didn’t even sway her long, midnight blue robe. Within the shadow of her cowl, her hazel eyes watched them both. She stopped six paces off and focused fully on Chane. In place of High-Tower’s anger, she appeared mildly disdainful.

Chane didn’t move—and Wynn began to panic. What could anyone here possibly do to force him?

“High-Tower,” Hawes said.

The dwarven domin lunged and grabbed Wynn’s arm, jerking her into the chamber.

Chane took one step. “Release her!”

A sharp utterance cracked the air between the wide chamber’s walls.

Wynn twisted her head to see.