Today we arrived at Second Chance Inn.
The name feels optimistic.
Perhaps deliberately so.
The inn itself is surprisingly pleasant.
Large.
Busy.
Warm.
Every common room seems occupied by someone.
Adventurers.
Merchants.
Scholars.
Travelers.
People carrying maps.
People carrying books.
People carrying entirely too many knives.
The food is excellent.
The beds are real.
And most importantly—
the roof does not leak.
This already places it above several establishments I have visited recently.
There was also a werebear.
A very large one.
Wearing armor.
According to Ryn, werebears are an old race.
According to me, he looked remarkably friendly.
At one point I considered asking whether it would be socially acceptable to pet him.
Fortunately, Spathian physically redirected me before I could discover the answer myself.
The werebear merely smiled.
Which somehow made the temptation worse.
Apparently we will remain here for several days.
The package Ryn ordered from Tailwind has been delayed.
Not enough to concern her.
She claims this was already included in her calculations.
Naturally.
The phrase "according to plan" continues to haunt my life.
Personally, I am satisfied.
Good food.
Good bed.
No monsters.
My standards have become surprisingly flexible.
The past few days have also been occupied by Old Shard's stories.
Or perhaps more accurately—
Old Shard's attempts at stories.
I am beginning to suspect there are only two possibilities.
Either I am terrible at identifying the main point of a story.
Or Old Shard is terrible at telling one.
At present I consider both equally likely.
His narratives have a tendency to wander.
Frequently.
A discussion regarding trade routes somehow became a story about a goat.
The goat later became a story about a knife.
The knife became a story about a tax collector.
The tax collector became a story about Kael.
I still do not fully understand how.
Yet beneath all the confusion, a picture has slowly begun to emerge.
One centered around the Caravan Master.
According to Old Shard, he has known Sondre since childhood.
Long before caravans crossed continents.
Long before anyone called him Caravan Master.
Back when he was simply Sondre Eldar.
The son of Master Eldar.
Old Shard spoke of Master Eldar with unmistakable respect.
And something else.
Something quieter.
The sort of affection people reserve for those they admired long ago.
According to him, Master Eldar and Lady Eldar were exceptional merchants.
Professional.
Capable.
Kind.
Much of the modern caravan structure apparently traces back to systems they helped establish.
For a time, everything seemed successful.
Then came the attack.
The caravan was destroyed.
Sondre was nineteen.
Only a handful survived.
Old Shard among them.
His tone changed when speaking about that day.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
A small shift.
Like stepping from sunlight into shadow.
Afterward, he planned to take Sondre home.
He had promised Master Eldar he would look after the boy.
According to Old Shard, the plan failed immediately.
Because Sondre was an idiot.
This conclusion appeared important.
Old Shard repeated it several times.
The problem, apparently, was that Sondre refused to return.
Instead he chose the road.
Again.
Old Shard sighed deeply while telling this part.
Then admitted he followed because abandoning him would have been even more foolish.
Several years later, they joined another caravan.
There Sondre learned.
Trade law.
Negotiation.
Logistics.
Combat.
Everything required to survive a life spent moving.
Then disaster happened again.
At twenty-six, their caravan was attacked in the western continent.
Not by bandits.
Not by monsters.
Something older.
Something stranger.
Old Shard did not know what it was.
Even now.
The only word he remembered was one Sondre used afterward.
Primordial.
The term meant nothing to me.
The expression on Old Shard's face meant considerably more.
Not fear.
Confusion.
The kind that remains even after decades.
The Caravan Master at the time died.
Only six people survived.
Sondre.
Old Shard.
And four others.
According to Old Shard, they survived because Sondre made a deal.
A deal with whatever that thing was.
What kind of deal?
Old Shard does not know.
Or perhaps was never told.
Either way, the answer remains absent.
I found myself remembering Grand Weave.
The scar around the Caravan Master's neck.
Ryn's observations.
The questions neither of them ever answered.
The memory returned so quickly it startled me.
Perhaps because the story suddenly felt less distant.
Not history.
Not anymore.
Just another piece of a puzzle I still cannot see clearly.
After that, Sondre became leader.
Not because he planned to.
Not because he wanted to.
Simply because nobody else remained.
Old Shard laughed while describing it.
Then called him an idiot again.
This time there was obvious affection beneath the insult.
Seventy percent affection.
Thirty percent frustration.
Approximately.
I omitted several additional insults from this journal.
Mostly to preserve the dignity of all parties involved.
Particularly mine.
This evening I overheard another conversation downstairs.
Merchants.
Naturally.
The upcoming Dunskar auction remains the primary topic everywhere.
According to current rumors, the Caravan Master himself will attend.
This alone generated considerable excitement.
Then came the second rumor.
Apparently he will arrive accompanied by a princess from a distant kingdom.
Possibly connected to an old race.
Possibly not human.
Nobody seemed entirely certain.
This did not stop them from speculating.
The third rumor proved even more dramatic.
If the Caravan Master is attending personally, then whatever artifact he intends to acquire must be extraordinary.
World-changing, according to one merchant.
Civilization-altering, according to another.
Catastrophic, according to a third.
Merchants become remarkably imaginative when sufficiently bored.
Still.
The rumors left me thinking.
Not about the artifact.
About the Caravan Master.
Five or six months ago, he was simply the man leading our caravan.
Now I hear stories from explorers.
Merchants.
Old friends.
Veterans.
Every person seems to describe a different version of him.
A survivor.
A negotiator.
A fool.
A genius.
A merchant.
A leader.
A man who should have gone home.
A man who never did.
The strange thing is that the more stories I hear—
the less certain I feel that I understand him.
Perhaps that is simply what happens when someone spends their entire life on the road.
Eventually they become larger than any single story.
Or perhaps they become too many stories at once.
Either way—
I am beginning to suspect the Caravan Master is far more complicated than I originally believed.
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