The truth turns out to be three words. 'He's dead. Fever.' Wren says it flatly, because there is no soft way to say it and she has not had time to learn one. 'Three days ago. I found the parchment and the armour in his room and I put them on and I came, because someone had to and no one else would.' She does not mention that she is not entirely sure she counts as someone. The brook_woman goes very still — not the stillness of shock, but the older kind, the kind that has spent years being braced for bad news. Her gaze drops to the sun-clasped box on its flat rock. A long breath out. 'Three days,' she says quietly, as though measuring the distance of it. Then she straightens and looks at Wren with eyes that have made some quiet decision. 'Sit down, child. I knew Aldric a long time. And I think I know where he was going.' Her hand rests on the lid of the box. 'The question is whether I give it to you, or find someone more sensible.'