On his third time through the room, Hroch Greyarm finally stopped himself. There was nothing left that could identify the man who had slept here, nothing at all to even say that anyone had stayed aside from an unmade bed and a piece of whetstone left on the table. Brynnalia said there would have been nothing to find: Aylard kept his contacts in his head and only in his head, memorizing names and faces and occupations of acquaintances new and old alike. The man was no fool. He was careful. That was how he survived.
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Hroch rubbed his face with a hand, catching himself pacing about in tiny circles. That was how he survived, he echoed in his mind, doubt sinking deep and dark in the pit of his stomach. It was the third sun and counting since Aylard had failed to meet them at their mark and no one had so much as heard a thing from the old man.
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"This isn't like him," they'd say. "Something is wrong. Where could he be?" Angry, accusatory eyes had sought him as if it was Hroch himself that was behind Aylard's disappearance. It was his father, after all. How could he possibly lose sight of his father? "What are we going to do?"
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What are we going to do?
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Tensions had been high among he and his peers after their catastrophic failure to secure the ceruleum he and his father had been sent to Thanalan for, after the attack and explosions and fire, after Ruva took a fall that may very well have cost him the ability to walk and most certainly cost another man his life. Somewhere along the line something had gone wrong and none of them could decide what it could have been. The attack itself had come as a complete surprise: they'd snuck up from behind, their presence detected only as one of them made a false step on the bridge as they attempted to neutralize the lookouts. Only after Ruva had fallen and one sentry was murdered did they retreat, both parties licking wounds and wondering what exactly had just happened.
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Ruva. Hroch's eyes pinched shut at the stinging chill in his chest every time he thought about Daena's father. He could still hear the painful crunch his body had made when he fell, and the terrified look in his red-haired daughter's eyes. That should never have happened. Never. We should have been careful. What are we going to do?
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They set the leg as best as they could but there was no telling if it would ever fully heal. But he's alive and accounted for, Hroch caught himself thinking bitterly. Never would he have dared say it aloud and the mere act of having thought it filled him with shame and loathing. Battered as he was, Daena still had him. No self-respecting Ala Mhigan would let himself die tumbling off a catwalk and Ruva Ghurn was as proud an Ala Mhigan as any.
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But so is da, and where is he?
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His breath left him in a heavy sigh and he felt all the more empty for it. The compulsion to sift through the drawers and comb through the armoire hit him once more but he knew there would be nothing to find, just as there was nothing to be found at the mines after the attack save fire and rubble and just as he was left with fewer and fewer leads left to follow. Gharen Wolfsong spoke of to them of a student of his that had participated in the brief battle but was insistent that he be the one to speak with her. "We've enough wounded an' dead o'er this," he said to Daena in particular. "Rushin' in blindly with youthful anger an' stupidity won' help either."
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"Things are nae add'n up," he said, shaking his head. It was an obvious truth no one else wanted to admit, for admitting it would have only proven that they were not as in control of the situation as they had previously believed. What do we do?
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Hroch Greyarm fidgeted and tugged at the bed sheets into some semblance of order. Then he swore and messed them up just as they were. He'll come back and I'll have a word with him about responsibility, Hroch told himself. A man's nothing without discipline and making their beds is what responsible people do. Quietly he sat himself down on the edge of the bed and, alone and in silence, Hroch waited. It was not until bells later that he would realize that he had been weeping.
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Hroch rubbed his face with a hand, catching himself pacing about in tiny circles. That was how he survived, he echoed in his mind, doubt sinking deep and dark in the pit of his stomach. It was the third sun and counting since Aylard had failed to meet them at their mark and no one had so much as heard a thing from the old man.
Â
"This isn't like him," they'd say. "Something is wrong. Where could he be?" Angry, accusatory eyes had sought him as if it was Hroch himself that was behind Aylard's disappearance. It was his father, after all. How could he possibly lose sight of his father? "What are we going to do?"
Â
What are we going to do?
Â
Tensions had been high among he and his peers after their catastrophic failure to secure the ceruleum he and his father had been sent to Thanalan for, after the attack and explosions and fire, after Ruva took a fall that may very well have cost him the ability to walk and most certainly cost another man his life. Somewhere along the line something had gone wrong and none of them could decide what it could have been. The attack itself had come as a complete surprise: they'd snuck up from behind, their presence detected only as one of them made a false step on the bridge as they attempted to neutralize the lookouts. Only after Ruva had fallen and one sentry was murdered did they retreat, both parties licking wounds and wondering what exactly had just happened.
Â
Ruva. Hroch's eyes pinched shut at the stinging chill in his chest every time he thought about Daena's father. He could still hear the painful crunch his body had made when he fell, and the terrified look in his red-haired daughter's eyes. That should never have happened. Never. We should have been careful. What are we going to do?
Â
They set the leg as best as they could but there was no telling if it would ever fully heal. But he's alive and accounted for, Hroch caught himself thinking bitterly. Never would he have dared say it aloud and the mere act of having thought it filled him with shame and loathing. Battered as he was, Daena still had him. No self-respecting Ala Mhigan would let himself die tumbling off a catwalk and Ruva Ghurn was as proud an Ala Mhigan as any.
Â
But so is da, and where is he?
Â
His breath left him in a heavy sigh and he felt all the more empty for it. The compulsion to sift through the drawers and comb through the armoire hit him once more but he knew there would be nothing to find, just as there was nothing to be found at the mines after the attack save fire and rubble and just as he was left with fewer and fewer leads left to follow. Gharen Wolfsong spoke of to them of a student of his that had participated in the brief battle but was insistent that he be the one to speak with her. "We've enough wounded an' dead o'er this," he said to Daena in particular. "Rushin' in blindly with youthful anger an' stupidity won' help either."
 Â
"Things are nae add'n up," he said, shaking his head. It was an obvious truth no one else wanted to admit, for admitting it would have only proven that they were not as in control of the situation as they had previously believed. What do we do?
Â
Hroch Greyarm fidgeted and tugged at the bed sheets into some semblance of order. Then he swore and messed them up just as they were. He'll come back and I'll have a word with him about responsibility, Hroch told himself. A man's nothing without discipline and making their beds is what responsible people do. Quietly he sat himself down on the edge of the bed and, alone and in silence, Hroch waited. It was not until bells later that he would realize that he had been weeping.
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