by Barb Hendee
"Thanks be to Bedzâ'kenge, poet eternal among the Bäynæ. … Thanks be to Bedzâ'kenge, preserver and teacher of heritage, virtue, and wisdom."
Chane did not follow their example—neither of them noticed; then his vision flickered.
His arms felt heavy and his legs weighted. Weariness surged over him like a sudden illness. Normally he would be in dormancy by now—and was the wide chamber growing brighter around that towering statue?
Only two oil lanterns hung from iron hooks on the chamber's walls, yet there was far too much illumination for those. The statue appeared to brighten amid a widening fuzzy pool of light.
A tingling sting grew on Chane's skin. He inched carefully closer, peering into the chamber's heights.
Shield-size polished metal disks hung in the chamber's upper reaches amid complicated clusters of interlaced iron half hoops. Attached cables ran from these through rings in the ceiling and the side walls. They came down to be tied off at waist height upon ornate iron fixtures.
Chane lurched back, much to the puzzled glance of Shirvêsh Mallet.
The temple chamber was filling with sunlight. Those cables adjusted the angle of the high polished panels. Somewhere above, light entered from the outside to be reflected into the temple's interior.
"Wynn … ?" he rasped anxiously.
She glanced into the chamber's growing glow, and her happy expression melted in alarm.
"Are the rooms far?" she asked Mallet. "I'm sorry to be poor guests, but we're ready to drop."
"Of course," answered the old dwarf, puzzlement on his wrinkled face softening with sympathy. "This way."
He led them into a side passage that curved around the temple chamber. Twice they passed openings into that sunlit space.
Chane kept to the way's outer wall, as far as he could from that light. They finally veered away down an intersecting wider corridor illuminated only by sparsely placed oil lanterns. Chane's steps became more sluggish.
They met no one along the way, and the shirvêsh turned down another narrow passage lined with stout oak doors. He finally halted and opened one, ushering Chane inside, then pushed open another across the hall for Wynn.
"Find me in the meal hall at Day-Winter's end," he instructed, and then grinned with large yellowed teeth. "High-Tower's letter did not speak of your pending research. I am anxious to hear what you seek."
Wynn nodded tiredly, and the shirvêsh headed back the way he had brought them.
Chane stumbled into a sparsely furnished room containing a very wide and low bed with no foot-or headboards.
"Don't worry about joining us for dinner," Wynn mumbled tiredly from the door. "Rest—I'll come for you later."
Chane nodded as she closed the door.
Dropping his two packs, he unbuckled his sword and leaned it against them. He carefully laid his cloak over the room's single stool, made from a whole round of a tree trunk. The ancient scroll he had taken from the ice-bound castle's library was still stored in its inner pocket. But he left it there and stumbled toward the bed. One strange object stopped him.
A large iron vessel, like a shallow, wide bowl on legs with a domed lid, rested atop a short stone pedestal. The lid's handle was insulated by a wood fitting, and slots around the lid's top let dim orange light escape.
Chane lifted the lid, its handle warm even through the wood, and the light erupted into the room.
A smattering of thumb-size glowing crystals rested inside the basin in a bed of steaming sand. Unlike the sages' cold lamp crystals, these looked raw and rough, as if taken straight from the earth, and gave off heat as well as low light.
Chane was too near collapse to puzzle over small wonders in a strange new culture. He lowered the lid and fell across the bed. The jarring impact made his eyes pop for an instant. The mattress was as stiff and hard as bare ground beneath a blanket. Wide as it was, the bed was too short. Still, he closed his eyes, drawing his feet up to lie curled sideways. The last thing that came to him before he sank into full dormancy was nagging hunger.
Like a beast with hands, chained in the dark, it whined and rumbled inside of Chane.
Wynn would not stand for his killing a sentient being in order to survive, and he would not risk doing anything that might cause her to send him away. Yet how else was he to feed in this place, under these new circumstances?
Dormancy smothered hunger and the rumbling discontent of the beast within him.
Chapter 2
Wynn awoke in late afternoon with a stiff neck and aches, remembering they were in the temple. She hadn't slept on a dwarven bed in many years. Its mattress was little more than layered wool blankets upon a stone platform. The design might be comfortable support for a heavy dwarven physique, but it was hard as packed dirt to anyone else.
Shade stirred on the bed's end and hopped off as Wynn sat up, rubbing her throbbing shoulder. A pewter water pitcher and plain ceramic cup rested on the stone table near the door, and she realized her throat was dry.
"Thirsty?" she asked Shade.
She got up and filled the cup for Shade, taking a sip for herself straight from the pitcher. She was glad to be away from the guild, her superiors, and other sages, though that thought brought regret. Answerable to no one but her chosen companions, she was journeying once more.
As a girl, she'd loved life at the guild. Then she'd traveled with Domin Tilswith and others across the continent and the eastern ocean to what the sages called the Farlands. Their purpose had been the beginning of a new guild branch. But in Bela, the coastal capital of Chane's homeland, Wynn's life became entangled with two rough strangers and a dog.
Magiere, Leesil, and Chap had come hunting an upír—vampire—one of the highest of the undead they called Vneshené Zomrelé—the Noble Dead. When this trio finally left, in search of an artifact sought by a vampire named Welstiel, Domin Tilswith had sent Wynn along on her first solo assignment—and not a typical one for a freshly titled journeyor sage.
Their travels took them through Droevinka's dank lands, Stravina's foot-hills, and into the Warlands, then on to the Elven Territories of the an'Cróan. The journey ended far south from where they started, in the high frozen range of the Pock Peaks. There they finally uncovered the artifact—the "orb"—and the ancient texts Wynn had brought back to her guild.
But when she got home to Calm Seatt, nothing turned out as she'd expected. Nobody believed her stories of dhampirs, undead, and necromancers guarded by ghosts. Her superiors took over the texts and ordered her into silence, and "Witless" Wynn Hygeorht became the shunned madwoman of her cherished guild branch.
Then, less than half a moon past, four sages had been murdered in Calm Seatt, drained of life by what she labeled a "wraith." This previously unknown spiritual form of Noble Dead had been hunting translations from the texts penned by vampires who'd long ago served the Ancient Enemy of many names. And this enemy once used hordes of the undead like weapons in battle against the humans, dwarves, and elves.
In Wynn's journeys, she'd been exposed to fearful portents that this enemy might be returning. The appearance of the wraith, more terrifying and powerful than any vampire known, had driven her into her current search. She had to learn more of the history lost a thousand years ago, what signs to look for should war come again … or how to stop it from happening at all.
She had to find the texts, for there must be something in them. She had to believe this, for she had nothing else in which to place her hope.
Wynn donned her gray robe over her shift, and then stroked Shade's head.
"At least finding supper will be easy," she whispered.
By answer, Shade whined, and Wynn's head filled with sudden sights and sounds of a bustling city street. She knelt beside the dog, though Shade was much more than that in both breed and heritage.
Shade's father, Chap, had once been one with what the sages called the Fay, eternal spirits or beings behind all of Existence. He'd chosen to be "born" into the body of a majay-hì, one of the elven
dogs descended from Fay-inhabited wolves during ancient times. His dual-layered nature, Fay spirit in Fay-descended body, gave him the ability to see rising memories in anyone within his sight line. He'd met Shade's mother, a true majay-hì whom Wynn had named Lily, during the journey through the Farlands' Elven Territories. Majay-hì communicated via memories transmitted while touching. Wynn called it "memory-speak."
Shade had inherited a mix of her kind's memory-speak and her father's memory-play, though not his ability to "speak" with Wynn via thought. Shade had her own twist on her father's gifts. Not only could she dip rising memories, she could send her own to Wynn when they touched. To Wynn's knowledge, no other majay-hì and human could do this.
Memories of city life called up by Shade made Wynn want to offer comfort to her young companion.
"I know … you don't like crowded places," she said gently, "but our search begins here."
Rising, she spotted her pack and leaning behind it by the door was the staff, its long sun crystal hidden beneath a protective leather sheath.
She fumbled in her pocket, making certain the protective spectacles made by Domin il'Sänke were still there. These pewter-rimmed glasses were essential once the staff's blinding sun crystal was ignited. The lenses would darken, protecting her eyes but allowing her to see.
Reticent to leave her other belongings, she almost opened the pack to check its contents, but her things were safe here.
Wynn stepped toward the door—one step only—and stopped.
The staff's sun crystal was irreplaceable, her only weapon against the Noble Dead. But carrying it about in the temple would only draw questions. Wynn forced herself out into the corridor, leaving the staff behind, and held the door until Shade followed.
Chane's door was still closed, and he would "sleep" until sunset, so she didn't disturb him. He and his belongings would also be left in peace, and Chane carried another of their most important possessions within his cloak's inner pocket.
As he'd left the library where she'd found the texts, he stumbled upon an old tarnished case containing a scroll. It was the very one that Li'kän, one of the oldest vampires to walk the world, had tried to make Wynn read. More baffling was that Wynn wouldn't have been able to read it at all.
The scroll had been painted over with black ink.
When Chane had later caught up with her in Calm Seatt, she'd glimpsed bits of the scroll's content with her mantic sight. A long passage of verse in obscure metaphors had been recorded in the fluids of an undead, written in an old dialect of Sumanese. She'd managed a partial and flawed translation of glimpsed fragments that told them nothing at first. But she and Chane both suspected the scroll was linked to whatever the wraith had sought.
And why would an ancient Noble Dead write something in its own fluids and then cover the words with ink? Why not just destroy it, if in afterthought, the content should not be read? And why had Li'kän wanted Wynn to see it?
Turning down the corridor, Wynn pushed aside such questions and forced herself back to the task at hand. Her present peace suddenly felt unnatural, even wrong, amid trying to locate the confiscated texts. And she had very little to go on, only one word overheard in Domin High-Tower's study… .
Hassäg'kreigi … the Stonewalkers.
Two black-clad warrior dwarves had visited the dwarven sage in secret. One, the younger, had called him "brother." By the conversation, both visitors belonged to this unknown group. If she could learn of them, perhaps find this brother through High-Tower's family, she might find a clue to where the texts were hidden. For as much as the wraith had killed for folios of translation work, and had been able to pass through walls at will, why hadn't it simply gone after the original texts? The answer was obvious.
The texts weren't stored on guild grounds.
Apparently, they were always available for a day's work by the chosen few and then removed each night. And two black-clad dwarves had appeared in High-Tower's study, but no one had seen how they came or went. Stonewalkers—that one word—was all Wynn had to work with, and in a dwarven seatt her scholarly training in research was nearly useless.
Dwarven tribes, clans, and families possessed few documents of personal or group value. For the most part, they relied upon their orators—poets, troubadours, keepers of history and tradition—and memory of things deemed worthy to preserve. She would have to practice new methods of seeking.
Wynn found the curving passage around the temple proper, pausing as she reached its outer main arch. The wide and round chamber within was still aglow, sunlight transferred in by the polished steel mirrors in its heights. She craned her head back, staring up at the giant statue with one hand reaching out, palm up in an offering … of what?
Domin Tilswith once told her that Bedzâ'kenge—Feather-Tongue—was the closest thing to a saint of sages the world would ever know. A nice notion, though she wasn't certain how it mattered. Sages were people of reason, not faith.
Shade rumbled, and Wynn found the dog staring the other way.
"Ah, Mallet mentioned we had visitors."
Wynn spun about, coming face-to-face with a female dwarf in an orange vestment.
"Oh … banê," Wynn greeted her. "Could you direct me to the meal hall? I'm supposed to meet him for supper."
Wynn had read some ludicrous Stravinan folklore in the Farlands. Dwarves—by other terms—were described as gnarly earth dwellers. Some tales claimed it was impossible to tell a female from a male because both wore beards.
What nonsense!
The female shirvêsh looked her up and down, and cocked her head at the sight of a "wolf" standing guard before a small human. She had long, shiny black hair draped down over her vestment's shoulders. Some might not care for the stout structure and wide features of a dwarven woman, but to Wynn's mind this one was perfectly alluring. A bit stern and severe-looking, until her expression broke with a wide grin.
"Follow me," the shirvêsh said. "I am headed there myself."
Wynn fell into step. Only a little way to the front doors they turned into a left-side passage. Loud, cheerful voices booming in Dwarvish echoed off the walls. Before Wynn even stepped inside a long hall, she smelled the aroma of mushrooms sautéed in herbs and butter.
Six shirvêsh were gathered at the nearest table, boisterously filling mugs and chattering away. Two more long tables with wooden benches filled the room on either side, and the one on the right, near a another archway, was laden with platters of mushrooms, spiced lumpy goat cheese, boiled root vegetables, and a little stewed venison.
Wynn realized how hungry she was just as she glanced down to find Shade salivating.
"Young Hygeorht!"
Shirvêsh Mallet rose from a stool at the food table's far end and waved her over. His white beard spread with his smile of welcome, and Wynn hurried toward him, pausing at the late-afternoon repast.
"This all smells wonderful," she said, ladling mushrooms into a wooden bowl and preparing another with venison for Shade.
"Where is your young man?" Mallet asked.
"He is not my … He is still sleeping. I didn't wish to wake him yet."
The shirvêsh grunted as he settled and lifted a small pitcher. Before Wynn could intervene, he poured some steaming brown liquid into a mug, sliding it over as she sat down. She peered hesitantly into the mug, smelling its vapor, and found that it was only heated broth.
"Thank you," she breathed in relief.
At the guild, most sages sipped wine only on special occasions, and tea was Wynn's normal preference. Dwarves often drank beer or ale, sometimes heated, in place of water. They weren't nearly as affected by alcohol as humans and even drank distilled spirits from wood—a beverage deadly to other races. Mallet's gesture was most considerate.
Wynn barely got Shade's bowl on the floor before the dog began snapping up the venison.
The shirvêsh swallowed a mouthful of mushrooms and washed it down with foaming ale.
"Tell me of your project," he asked. "What ar
e you seeking to scribble in your journals?"
Wynn tried not to grimace. She was well acquainted with dwarven opinion of humans always writing everything down. It was common for dwarves to live two hundred years. But in addition, they found sages to be "funny little people" who spent their short lives hoarding tidbits of information, regardless of any practical purpose these served. To a dwarf, gathering more knowledge than one could remember, let alone use, seemed a waste of years. Better to pursue personal excellence or the enrichment of daily life and one's culture.
But for three nights Wynn had been contemplating exactly what she would say in this moment. She had to depend upon dwarven bias to make the old shirvêsh believe her.
"It's a delicate matter," she began, and leaning closer, she lowered her voice. "Our guild's Sumanese branch recently completed biographies of all their domins for their archives. They felt such records would be beneficial examples to future sages. The premin council of our branch decided to follow suit … but it's not seemly for domins to write their own accounts. I've been assigned to research and write the biography of Domin High-Tower."
Shirvêsh Mallet stopped chewing and stared at her. With a great gulp, he appeared to make great effort not to smirk at the absurdity of such a task.
"And so, you have come here," he said with forced seriousness, "where Chlâyard sought his first calling."
It took a moment for realization to set in. Wynn sat dumbstruck and then cleared her own throat.
"Chlâyard—I mean Domin High-Tower—was here … to become a shirvêsh to Bedzâ'kenge?"
Mallet's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Is that not why you came, to seek the tale of his life?"
Recovering quickly, Wynn nodded. "Yes, but journeyors assigned to this project were given no information and simply sent off. The biographies must be unbiased and come from a variety of sources. We are to seek the stories ourselves."
"A'ye!" Mallet barked, slapping his hand firmly on the table. "That, at least, was a wise decision!"
