Eillean had thrown away her life trying to save a human who was already lost.
They severed Gavril's head next and ran off into the forest with their trophies.
Brot'an saw no more of them. By the time he could bring himself to climb down, he no longer heard their running feet. He set Cuirin'nen'a's unconscious form on the ground. He crouched over Eillean's headless corpse, at a loss over what he could do for her so far from their homeland.
Chap understood what Ventina and Faris had done. In fear of punishment, they stripped the skulls of flesh and presented these tokens to Dar-mouth. Their lord knew of only one elven female, and an elf's skull was proof enough of the couple's success.
This token of death had deceived Darmouth. And Brot'an had used it again to goad Leesil's rage. In turn, master and slave set upon each other. All for the skull of the wrong woman…
The last remains of Eillean, Leesil's grandmother.
In the aftermath of the crypt battle, the memory of Most Aged Father's withered face surfaced in Brot'an's memory… along with the request made by the patriarch. Brot'an knew he could not fight his way past both Leesil and Magiere to reach Darmouth. Magiere had wounded him too badly. But he was determined to preserve Most Aged Father's trust. The only way was to force Leesil to murder the warlord.
Chap shook off Brot'an's memories and snarled again. He could not give these memories to Leesil and only recalled Cuirin'nen'a's-Nein'a's- face over and over as he barked twice for "no." Leesil cowered away, covering his ears.
"Enough!" Magiere ordered. "Stop this-now, Chap!"
Chap glared at her. He kept his eyes locked straight into hers, then nosed the skull toward her. He barked twice for "no" and slowly swung his head back and forth.
Magiere held Leesil close in her arms, but anger faded from her face. She looked down to the skull between Chap's paws.
"No?" she whispered, her head shifting slightly side to side, mimicking Chap's own. "Not… Nein'a?"
Chap barked once for "yes." He lay down, his head upon the skull of the woman who had first brought him to Leesil, and closed his eyes. Magiere's dawning awareness of the truth was no relief to him.
"Wynn…" Magiere said, voice hesitant, and then she shouted in panic. "Wynn, get the talking hide… get it now!"
As dawn approached, Chane crawled into a forest thicket and buried himself with dead leaves, tree needles and snow-crusted earth. He had tried to get back into the city, but the gates were sealed in the night. Soldiers openly patrolled the rampart with loaded crossbows.
Hunger kept him from settling into full dormancy. Even hidden and shielded, the sting of sunlight crawled over his flesh like biting insects as he thought of Wynn. He lingered in discomfort until the sun finally set, and then crawled out shuddering, as if once again rising from that second grave. He was covered in cold earth and mulch. It was no less unsettling. When he neared the gates of Venjetz once more, hunger squelched his unpleasant memories.
But he could not release Wynn from his thoughts. Had she even truly seen him in the keep?
A few wagons and peasants on foot gathered before the city's main entrance, but the gate was still shut tight. A soldier upon the wall beside the gatehouse shouted down that "Captain" Omasta had closed the city until further notice. No one was allowed in or out.
Chane did not know what had become of Wynn. Or his horse. Or Welstiel, for that matter.
He stepped back into the forest. Wynn had his cloak and, except for his sword and the clothes he wore, everything he owned was still at the Ivy Vine inn. He lingered behind a tree and searched the gathering of wagons and people for an opportunity to feed.
Most of those on foot stood before the city gate, arguing and pleading to be let in. A few remained behind among the wagons and carts. One was alone, sitting on the lowered gate of a wagon with a small lantern.
She was young, perhaps not yet in her teen years. It was hard to tell with the blanket draped over her head and pulled tightly about her. She had folded her legs beneath the covering as well, and only her face was visible. Lean cheeked, with a nose blushed by the cold, she looked down into her lap.
Chane crouched low, darting to the next closest tree. He could take this one and drag her into the forest. A feeble peasant girl was easy enough to smother into silence until he was done with her.
She struggled with the blanket to free one slender hand, and turned a piece of parchment in her lap.
Chane froze behind the tree.
It was not a parchment, but the page of a book. He saw it clearly now. When she turned the next page, Chane saw lines of faded writing on the yellowed paper, stained with age.
Hunger's ache reminded him they were only mortal cattle, breeding and toiling, and living out their short existence in such ignorance that their deaths were no loss to the world. No loss at all, but…
The girl was reading.
Chane clenched his teeth. Where and how had this peasant whelp become literate? As he was, as Wynn was?
"Skulking?" someone whispered behind him.
Chane turned, ready to satisfy himself with whatever fool had managed to catch him unaware. A few paces into the woods, the shadowed silhouette of Welstiel stepped from between the tree trunks.
"How did you get out?" Chane rasped.
"Most likely the same way you did."
There was something akin to defeat in Welstiel's voice.
"What's wrong?" Chane asked.
Welstiel gazed toward the city gates. "It is probable that Magiere still follows Leesil into the elven territory."
Chane did not care, but he had nowhere else to go. "Then we find our horses and a way to retrieve our possessions, and we follow-as always."
"We cannot."
"Why?"
"She and her companions can enter that land. She travels with a half-elf and a majay-hi. We do not. If we tried to enter, we would fail. The dead cannot walk in to those lands."
Chane stood there, absorbing his companion's words. There were too many times Welstiel revealed knowledge and awareness of things only when it suited him. Chane was growing very tired of this.
"And we cannot reenter the city," Welstiel continued. "Now that Darmouth has been assassinated, there is no telling how long before the gates will be unsealed, if at all."
"Our money, clothing, my bird… my books are still inside!" Chane rasped at him. "We have no horses. We have nothing, and now you tell me we cannot follow Wynn… Magiere any longer? There has to be a way to get to the inn."
Welstiel shook his head. "Omasta knows my face, and yours will be remembered as well. I have coins with me, and we will find horses and make our way."
Chane could scarcely believe Welstiel's calm demeanor. "To where?"
Welstiel looked him in the face. "The Crown Range. I have my own notion of where to look, and for the moment there is nothing more to be done with Magiere. If we find the location of the object I seek, we may better drive her to it once she finishes this nonsense with Leesil. She will have to pass through the mountains again when she leaves the elven lands. If we cannot follow Magiere, we must wait and make her come to us."
Chane leaned back against the tree.
Wynn would go north with Magiere to play interpreter, a human thrown in among elves who despised her kind. Welstiel had once again bungled his attempt to control Magiere, and once again Wynn walked a hazardous road. This time Chane could not follow.
"Leesil will protect her," Welstiel said, guessing his thoughts. "I believe he has much to answer for. He will look out for her, as will Magiere."
Such sentiment was unexpected-and unwanted-but Chane saw no choice but to follow his companion yet again. Sooner or later he would make Welstiel answer many questions… answer for the way he played with Wynn's well-being.