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“There can be an ocean between what we hear and what is said.”
She sounded a little out of breath so he walked faster.
“Yes, it is true, an eventful life leaves its scars, and my life has been eventful.
We consider trees peaceful, but they are not. They are warriors, fighting a very slow war.”
“What is a foul taste and a numb mouth between friends, eh?”
Usually he had found that skinny, wiry people were good climbers but Udinny was the exception to the rule. She made climbing the root look like an impossible task, one of the great labours of the old ones. Finally, with much grunting and the odd yelp, she was standing on top of the root. Looking proud of herself, though he had no idea why.
“Ranya guide you, monk,” he said. “And you too, Cowl-Rai,” she replied. “That title is…” “A mark of respect, once, in the old books,” said the monk, “and, renegade that I am, that is how I use it, in respect.” For a moment, he wondered how much she knew. Then decided it did not matter as, for the first time in as long as he could remember it did not feel bad to hear that title from another’s mouth.
But Forestals were a different matter, they were people and there were few things as dangerous and unpredictable as people.
“Those words are lies, Venn. The only truth someone with a weapon and the strength to use it hears is that which they want to hear. The only justice they can bring is that which they believe is right. Truer to call these axes tyranny and fear.”
“Bravery is a lie,” he said. “We do things because we must, because we have no choice.”
“That is another lie they tell you to control you. Fighting is about one thing and one thing only.” Venn was focused on him, like they were drinking up his words. “It is about being the one who walks away alive.”
Something had changed in the monk since they had ventured into Wyrdwood. He could not place it but she was different.
“They dream in the darkness.”
