by Barb Hendee
Sliver must have waited until her unwanted guests departed and then reopened the door.
Chane did not have time to ponder why. The open door could be lucky or unlucky, depending upon the exact spot where Wynn had dropped her pack. Slipping along the wall, he drew as close as he dared without being seen by anyone inside. He leaned around the door frame enough to peek at the floor inside—and spotted no sign of the pack.
Ducking low, he shot across to the door's other side and peered in again.
To Chane's relief, there was the pack, just inside the door's left atop a stack of folded canvas. It blended so well in the low red light that anyone might have overlooked it. Dropping to his hands and knees, he reached in and then spotted Sliver.
Chane pulled back quickly.
Sliver stood leaning against a table with one hand covering her mouth. Embers in the open forge were waning, and it was hard to make out her face. Another movement at the workshop's rear caught Chane's attention.
A door opened in the workshop's back wall.
Sliver looked up, turning her back to Chane. An old dwarven woman with wild white hair and a long, dull blue woolen robe stepped out of some well-lit back room. Sliver hunched her shoulders as she spit out a curt string of Dwarvish.
The old woman stepped closer, and her wrinkled face twisted into desperation. She gripped a table's edge and uttered a reply so pained that Chane was riveted, wishing he understood the words.
Sliver scoffed and turned away from the old woman. Perhaps it was to hide the sudden doubt that crossed her face.
A domestic dispute was clearly in play. Chane wondered, considering it came so close behind their visit, if the two events were connected.
The old woman's next utterance was sharp if not loud, and Sliver straightened. So did Chane at the sound of one word—say-gee.
Could that word have been "sage," garbled by the old one's accent?
Sliver turned angrily to face her elder, her back to the outer door.
Chane took the opportunity and reached in for Wynn's pack.
Sau'ilahk hung motionless at the intersection as Chane scurried across the smithy's doorway. He had tried to follow all three of his quarry, but the cursed dog had picked up his presence. On some level, Chane had seemed to "feel" him as well. Sau'ilahk had been forced to slip into dormancy, vanishing quickly from either's awareness.
He waited in that pure darkness as long as he dared, then awakened once more in the same dark spot inside Limestone Mainway's end chamber. At the sound of footsteps in the upward-bound tunnel, he followed and watched as Chane hid Wynn in a doorway and turned back.
Sau'ilahk was pleased, even as he blinked away once more to let Chane pass by. He now had the chance to pull closer, to see and hear what Chane sought in this dingy, forgotten smithy. He focused on a point farther down the side tunnel, slipped into dormancy, and reappeared at that place.
Beyond the smith shop, Sau'ilahk listened to two female voices arguing within. Dwarvish was one of many tongues he had picked up over the centuries. He ignored Chane and focused on their words.
"Go back inside the house, Mother," said the first, low and bitter.
The other cried out in an age-broken voice. "If the shirvêsh of Bedzâ'kenge assisted the sage, there is good reason she seeks Meâkesa … and you sent her away! Why did you not help her to find your brother?"
Sau'ilahk knew from his servitor eavesdropping on Wynn that these people must be High-Tower's family. "Meâkesa" translated as "Ore-colored Hair." Wynn sought the Stonewalkers through a link between them and a son of the Iron-Braid family—High-Tower's brother.
"Why should I help her?" the first voice returned. "He abandoned us long ago … as did Chlâyard! Neither of them even returned when Father fell ill. Tell me, Mother, how should I have helped? We do not even know where he is!"
"It is a sign," the creaking voice wailed. "The coming of a human sage is a sign. Do you not see? We are to be rejoined with Meâkesa. Help her!"
The smithy fell silent, and Sau'ilahk saw Chane stealthily reach inside the open door. An instant later, he pulled back, holding a faded canvas pack.
This was what he came for—a forgotten pack?
Sau'ilahk mulled over the conversation.
Wynn had come all the way down here and been sent away. She had been seeking a connection to the Stonewalkers, but it seemed she had gained no lead. But that connection was here, waiting, and only an old woman seemed to care that it was fulfilled.
Sau'ilahk had little knowledge of these Stonewalkers—little more than rumors of the sect from centuries ago. At the least, they were hidden guardians of the dwarven dead. He had never had a reason to learn more.
In Calm Seatt, he had searched the guild grounds for many nights. Rumors passed on by his informants had called him to the king's city of Malourné after Wynn's return. But other than translation folios sent to scribe shops, he found neither trace nor hint of where the original texts were hidden. If the Stonewalkers knew their location, as Wynn seemed to suspect …
Then why had some cult of the dead become involved with the texts?
Sau'ilahk grew impatient with the inept sage. Wynn should be gaining information much faster! All the trouble she had caused him so far left him seething and indignant in even allowing her to live.
Chane rose, his attention no longer absorbed by his task, and then he froze. He turned about, staring deeper down the side passage. His hand dropped to his sword's hilt.
Sau'ilahk could have hissed in rage—he had been sensed! Anger turned to alarm as Chane stepped slowly in his direction. He had no fear of this man who was there and not there, but this one had survived his touch, an anomaly not to be taken lightly.
Sau'ilahk backed into—through—the tunnel's stone wall.
He lost sight of everything and twisted about—what he thought was about—hoping there was no other space behind him. He remained immersed, blinded and deafened by solid stone. But how long should he wait before Chane gave up?
Yes, Wynn was waiting, and Sau'ilahk ticked off in his mind what Chane might do.
Perhaps traverse no more than a few doorways down the tunnel. Then urgency would take him back the other way. Sau'ilahk waited even longer, and then slipped forward through stone.
As pure black broke before him into the faint red light in the passage, Sau'ilahk peered up the tunnel toward the mainway.
There was Chane, rushing away as fast as silence allowed.
Sau'ilahk stewed in envy.
Tall, pale, and handsome, yet some strange form of undead, Chane would look that way forever. Waves of jealousy grew into spite at Beloved's betrayal. Once, Chane would have been a meaningless shadow compared to Sau'ilahk's great beauty … so long ago.
Sau'ilahk hung there in self-pity.
If Wynn did not locate the Stonewalkers or draw them out, perhaps he would have to do it for her. There was only one way. But for this, he needed strength—he needed life to feed upon. Not a local, a dwarf, but a foreigner, some visiting human not quickly missed.
Sau'ilahk drifted along the twisting back ways of the dwarven underlevels.
The light of crystals grew sparse and excavation was not so smooth or painstaking. Places where the walls were jagged with small hollows and depressions offered shadows for him to meld into without arcane effort. He calmed, letting his presence sink into sensual awareness, searching for human life.
And he sensed one, not far off.
Sau'ilahk turned into a southbound tunnel that might even hook back toward the far-off mainway. The distance between smaller crystals in wall brackets decreased. He prepared to wink out into dormancy if needed. He could not be seen, not clearly noticed, or word of a strange dark figure might accidentally reach Wynn.
To his delight, footfalls drifted toward him from around another turn.
Sau'ilahk peered around the gradual corner and saw a lone human—a bearded man of dark skin with a curved sword in a fabric wrap belt. It was one of his own kin
d, or at least a descendant of such people from his lost living days. He pulled back, waiting until the man took the turn in the tunnel.
Even the approach of a victim—living in flesh—taunted him.
Long ago, he had been first among the Reverent, favorite of Beloved—before the Children came. His mere visage among the hordes and followers had inspired awe. Now he was nothing but a shadow of black robe, cloak, and hood. Not true flesh, and only by the act of feeding could he gain enough strength to take physical action. He did not even have the grace of a true ghost, to pass unseen if he wished.
All because of the bargain he had struck, once the Children first appeared.
All because of Beloved's coy consent, twisting Sau'ilahk's plea.
The bearded Suman rounded the corner. Jarred from misery, Sau'ilahk lashed out.
His black cloth-wrapped fingers passed down through the man's face. The Suman's skin paled slightly along those fingers' path. And quick as the stroke was, the man never cried out. He shuddered, his breath caught, and his hand reaching for the sword only convulsed in spasms, until …
Sau'ilahk's hand slid down through the man's throat and sank into his chest near his heart, draining his life away.
The Suman dropped hard onto his knees and toppled over. He lay there, face frozen in shock, with mouth agape, and Sau'ilahk's immaterial hand embedded in his chest.
Shots of gray spread through the Suman's dark curls and beard, until cloth-wrapped fingers withdrew, leaving no physical wound.
Sau'ilahk's weakness faded beneath the consumed life, and he could not afford to waste any of it in destroying the corpse. He might require even more life for what he needed to accomplish. He threaded a mere fragment of his gained energies into one hand, turning it corporeal, and dragged the body along the passage to a nearby shadowed depression.
Then he sank into dormancy to fully absorb his meal.
But as he dissipated into darkness, his last thoughts were of Wynn. If the bungling sage could not find the Hassäg'kreigi, the Stonewalkers, then he would have to draw them into plain sight. And the Stonewalkers emerged for only one reason.
Sau'ilahk had to kill a thänæ.
Chapter 6
Misery dragged Wynn toward consciousness. Grudgingly, she cracked open her eyes.
She lay on a rock-hard bed in a strange room, still fully dressed, but she had no strength to wonder why or where she was. Rolling over was torture, and she came face-to-face with Shade's snoring muzzle.
"Oh," she moaned, slapping a hand over her mouth and nose.
Dog's breath wasn't good for a sick stomach.
Cream-colored shimmers from Shade's undercoat peeked through her charcoal fur every time her rib cage rose in a slow breath. Fragments of the previous night returned to Wynn: the greeting house, a barter with a thänæ, and a telling before a crowd, then the smithy … and Sliver. She had enraged High-Tower's sister, alienating the one possible lead to finding the Stonewalkers.
"Oh, seven hells," she said, groaning as her stomach clenched.
Shade's left ear twitched, her crystal blue irises peeking through slitted eyelids.
Wynn rolled away to hang over the bed's side, desperately looking for anything to throw up in. Another convulsion came, and she hung there to vomit on the floor. But nothing came up.
When her dry heaves passed, they left a skull-splitting headache and a feverish flush. Something cold and wet snuffled Wynn's cheek, and a slathering warmth dragged over her face.
"Oh, don't do that!"
Wynn shoved Shade's muzzle away, but at that touch, flashes of last night poured into her head.
She remembered—Shade remembered—Wynn sitting in a doorway as Chane headed off after the forgotten pack. Clear images showed him returning to carry her down the mainway near where they'd first entered Sea-Side. He had all three packs and her staff.
"All right, I see," Wynn grumbled, looking around the unfamiliar room.
Where was Chane?
Shade growled, and Wynn rolled back. The dog sat behind her, gazing steadily beyond the bed's foot. Wynn crawled around Shade and went to look.
Chane lay prone on the floor with a pack for a pillow and his cloak as a bed-roll. His jagged red-brown hair was a mess, and his white shirt was wrinkled. With his eyes closed, his long features were smooth and relaxed.
He wasn't breathing and lay still as—was—a corpse upon the floor.
Self-pity and a throbbing head made Wynn almost envy such a state.
The tiny room had no window, of course, and was sparsely furnished with the one hard bed, a lidded brazier of dwarven crystals, and a small door-side table bearing a tin cup and clay pitcher. She desperately needed to wash the horrid taste from her mouth.
Scooting back, Wynn climbed off the bedside, not wanting to step over Chane's body, and staggered to the table. She hoisted the pitcher and gulped from it.
Her stomach felt as if it had been turned inside out. How could three or four—or was it more—sips of ale affect her like this? What was in those tankards that had worked so slowly, creeping up on her, until the night had gotten completely out of hand?
She sipped again and then grabbed the cup, pouring water for Shade. As Shade hopped off the bed to lap at the cup, Wynn plopped down on the floor, sick and miserable. She remembered Sliver's raging and pained expression.
She couldn't go back to the smithy again. She had closed that door more soundly than Sliver had. So what now? They couldn't give up. They had to locate the texts and uncover what the wraith had been seeking. She had to learn more about the orb, its purpose, and the Ancient Enemy of many names. She had to find out if it was returning … and if it could be stopped.
Something—anything—that might connect even one disjointed piece to another.
All of this made her dizzy and sick again.
She rose with effort, barely able to stand with her head pounding even more, and then slapped a hand over her mouth. For an intant, she feared she might lose the water she had just swallowed. Then she heard soft voices somewhere outside the wide oak door.
Where was she? There were only two things she could reason out: Chane had procured a room in some inn, and it must be daytime, since he was still dormant. She pulled back the slide bolt and cracked the door open.
Two doors down, the corridor emptied into an open space. There stood a somewhat flabby dwarven woman in an apron, gripping a straw broom. She was chatting with a young male behind a stout desk.
"Pardon," Wynn called, and her own vile breath made her want to cover her mouth again. "Can you tell me the time of day?"
The male leaned sideways, peeking around his companion, and both dwarves' eyes widened.
Wynn winced—she must look worse than she imagined. But the one behind the desk corrected his expression to polite disinterest.
"Yes, miss, it is just past Day-Winter's start."
"My thanks."
Wynn pulled back and shut the door. How could she have slept until midafternoon?
She had only one friendly contact in all of Dhredze Seatt. That was Shirvêsh Mallet, back in Bay-Side—all the way on the mountain's other side. Perhaps if pressed more subtly, the old shirvêsh might give her another lead, some other way to find the Stonewalkers. Or failing that, he might provide some custom to help make amends with Sliver.
The dwarves were a people of long tradition, couched in clan and tribal rules and rituals. Yes, for now Shirvêsh Mallet was her best and only choice—in a retreat from her mistakes.
Wynn slid down the door and patted the floor for Shade's attention. The dog just stared at her, so she held out her hands. Shade padded over, and Wynn took the dog's face in her hands, calling up memories of the temple. Before she even raised an image of the tram, Shade backpedaled out of reach, growling at her.
"I know it was awful," Wynn whispered, "but we have to go."
Chane still hadn't moved. Back at the guild, he'd slept in a bed in Domin il'Sänke's chambers, but she'd peeked in ther
e only occasionally. So far in this journey, they'd arranged for separate rooms, and Wynn had never seen him in full dormancy before. The sight was unnerving, but at least the sun didn't matter inside the mountain.
If they started back now, the tram would arrive at Bay-Side by early night. They would reach the temple not long past supper—a good time to speak with Shirvêsh Mallet.
Trying to ignore her pounding head, Wynn crawled toward Chane.
She stopped near his shoulder and looked down at him, almost feeling as if she invaded his privacy. He might not like for her to study him like this—so dead and still upon the floor.
He was proud, but secretly this was one of the things she admired about him. She could not help thinking back to those distant nights in Bela, at the newly founded branch for the Guild of Sagecraft, when he visited and drank mint tea with her as they pored over historical parchments. A handsome young nobleman seeking out her company, of all people.
Then she'd learned the truth about him.
He was a vampire who drank blood to continue existing, and of course she'd shut him out of her life. But nearly every time her life was in danger, he'd appeared from nowhere to throw himself in front of her, to protect her at any cost. Once, when she'd been locked away by a brutish warlord, Chane had broken into the keep, killed several soldiers, and carried her out through an underwater tunnel.
Wynn didn't fully understand Chane's feelings for her. She knew they were strong, and she wasn't the sort of woman who normally inspired such in men. There had been only one other.
Osha, a young elf and an'Cróan had been in training to be an Anmaglâhk—an assassin—though he'd been ill-suited to such a pursuit. He was not handsome, even compared to a human, with a long, horselike face. Nor was he as brooding or intellectual as Chane. Osha's emotions were always so plain to see, but this made his wonder and kindness show as well, even when tainted by his people's hate and fear of other races. He was unflinching and steady, and had befriended Wynn when she'd needed one. And perhaps he had felt even more than friendship for her.
If Wynn had wanted to, she could have pulled him further toward her— but she hadn't. He'd had to return to his people, and she'd been told to return home as well. What could've been, couldn't be between them.
