He spoke as if his words were the essence of reason and truth, as if there were no other answer than that he was right. The humans had a way of doing that, of believing in themselves until history and evidence changed in their favor. If it weren’t for his own stubbornness, Belgar might have believed him, too. Why couldn’t he just answer the blasted question, as it was asked? Why couldn’t he forgive the follies of a heated moment, and give Belgar what he wanted?
Leave it, her voice told him, an echo from within a thousand memories. It isn’t worth your energy. Be better than this.
She was right. She was always right. He had already made a fool of himself. Besides, there was a semblance of an answer between Coren’s words, behind the ridicule and before the circumvention. The Vantha were artists with their language, and as he sorted through the words from the mage’s mouth, the bear could not even remember his own. One thing was for certain: whatever questions Coren had returned, Belgar would not do him the honor.
Instead, he pointed a furious finger at the man, backing away through the valley of snow he had already created. “The day will come when you will pay for your insolence,” he said. He had more to say, about magic and the law and the rebellion of cowards, but he did not know how to say it. So with that he turned and left, gave the mage the solitude he craved. He did not have answers, but he did not need them. He had heard her in his head, had felt her close if only for a moment, and was contented.