He told them enough. He told them that the god wanted to die and had asked for his help. He told them that he meant to take Serath away from Tarn's Rest, out of harm's reach, and draw the danger north with him, so that the village would be left in peace. He did not say what the god had refused to say. He did not describe the weight or the sea. He kept those things behind his teeth.
It was enough. Dessa's shoulders loosened a fraction. Harl Dunmore, who had been braced for a fight, deflated a little, and sat down again with a grunt. A murmur ran through the hall, relief laced with shame, the sound of people who have been handed a way to be brave without having to decide anything.
"Then go, with our blessing," Dessa said, and her voice was thick. "Take whatever you need from the stores. We will hold the village."
Orrin bowed his head. It was not the whole truth, and it sat in his stomach like swallowed iron. But later that night, in the dark behind the smithy, when the village had gone to its beds, Lysa found him sitting alone with his back against the wall. "You didn't tell them," she said. It was not an accusation. It was almost relief. "I don't think you should have. I'd not have told them either." She slid down the wall beside him. "But I'm coming with you. Someone has to know." Brannoch limped out of the dark a moment later, and said nothing at all, and sat down on the other side of Orrin with a grunt, and the three of them kept the vigil together until the stars began to fade.
The village would sleep easier. But the lie of omission was already on him, and he knew that sooner or later, one of the people he had spared would find out what he had left out.