by Barb Hendee
One prey among many meant nothing.
But vampires each developed different and differing degrees of abilities. In the past year, he had started to feel the difference between truth and deceit. Not often, and only when he was not expecting it. The beast inside of him snarled in warning, as if sensing a threat.
If Wynn found him gone, later asking where he had been …
Would Chane hear—feel—his own lie to her?
Sau'ilahk waited in a Sea-Side side tunnel just beyond a common dwarven tavern called Maksûin Bití—the Baited Bear. He had risen from dormancy feeling strong and alert, vital with the life of three victims. On this second night beneath the mountain, he was beginning to appreciate its many shadowy places.
Wynn had gone back to the temple at Bay-Side, but this did not matter for now. Within moments of awakening, he had conjured two servitors of Air and sent them in search of a word: "thänæ." Any such mention would trigger his elemental constructs to record all utterances until conversation ended. And one had proven useful, returning to echoing dwarven voices chattering in excitement.
"… thänæ will come tonight!"
"Where did you hear this? No one's seen him in nearly a season."
"Well's Bottom and Gatherer were at the People's Place last—"
"Oh, mirth of the Eternals! Do not believe what you hear in that place!"
"He is back—Hammer-Stag has returned! And tonight he comes to the Baited Bear!"
"Why? That is no greeting house, and even so—"
Sau'ilahk banished his servitors, not needing to hear more. It took time to find this basic house of ale and an opportune place to lie in wait. He knew a dwarven "telling" could last late into the night. It was not necessary to see the thänæ's arrival, only his departure.
The thänæ in question, like all such, had already achieved a place among the dwarves' honored dead. Ultimately, all such hoped one day to become Bäynæ, one of the Eternals, the spiritual immortals and ancestral patrons of their people. To do so, one had to accomplish great feats that exalted their virtues or served the people—and in the "telling" to be judged worthy by all. Only when the people began to demand the marking of a new thänæ would a tribe's leaders sit in conclave. A unanimous vote was required before shirvêsh of the appropriate temple were called to bless a new thôrhk for the recipient. Only the Thänæ had their names engraved upon the temple's walls, but even then, decades or centuries would pass before even one of them, one day, might be ranked among the Eternals … if any ever did.
Sau'ilahk knew these general details, and that the process was more complex in subtle ways—and that dwarves were fools.
To spend one's life, even one as long as a dwarf's, in such a pursuit was insipid. He had no interest in their superstitions or false divinities—compared to his Beloved. Only the final detail of the process mattered, the one thing that would make the Stonewalkers come.
A thänæ had to die.
And after all, was not this what they all wanted … if they wished to become false saints?
Sau'ilahk waited within sight of the alehouse, a place usually not sought for a "telling." As night dragged on, he memorized other passages along the tunnel, as well as the far end of his own leading back to this level's mainway. He had to be able to blink to the mouth of any one of them at will without line of sight. But not until dormancy threatened, warning that dawn was near, did he hear voices growing in the mainway.
People poured from the alehouse, their noise quickly overriding the indistinct murmur from inside.
"What a night!"
"I will be dead on my feet for the day, but it was worth it!"
"And I will relive that last tale unto my death!"
Exclamations and adoring claims mounted one upon another, as patrons headed off both ways along the mainway of closed shops. Finally, Sau'ilahk heard one voice that overrode all others … deep, sure, and arrogant.
"No, no, brothers and sisters, you've paid me enough drink for the next two tellings! Time for all to sleep. But I promise to share your hospitality again before I venture afar once more."
Sau'ilahk remained as still as a shadow, listening to Hammer-Stag. This one preferred wallowing with riffraff, those too ignorant to see through him. All to procure a name he hoped might last into eternity. How pitiful.
There was only one true divinity who could grant eternal life. Such as Sau'ilahk had prayed and begged for—and been given by his Beloved. But he had no time to mourn the bane hidden within that boon.
The thänæ turned the other direction down the mainway, and Sau'ilahk was forced to blink ahead of the bulky loudmouth by three intersecting passages. There, he focused on the life presence of his quarry, feeling Hammer-Stag's spirit like a breeze or running stream one touched but could not hold on to. He no longer needed to listen to the braggart's bluster.
Twice more he blinked down the mainway, staying well ahead, then again down a side passage the thänæ turned into. He watched Hammer-Stag's every turn, until the last of the well-wishers and sycophants went their own way.
Hammer-Stag was alone in the deep sleeping back ways under Sea-Side. He was still far down a passage as Sau'ilahk retreated from its other end.
Sau'ilahk hurried along the wider intersecting tunnel, and then stopped, quickly preparing. He would not take a dwarf directly. It had been a long time, but he remembered how difficult they could be. He had to put this one down before noise attracted attention. Sound carried far in these underground ways.
Sau'ilahk manifested one hand, making it solid long enough to snuff the closest lantern. He quickly began the first conjury, calling up its shapes not in the air but upon the tunnel's wall. He needed a powerful banishing.
Within his mind's eye, a glowing crimson circle appeared upon the rough stone, large enough to encompass him if stepped up to it. Another of pulsing amber rose within that one, followed by an inverted triangle. Sau'ilahk raised one incorporeal finger wrapped in frayed black cloth. He traced signs, symbols, and sigils between the shapes, his fingertip racing over the stone. Though no else could have seen, every mark burned phosphorescent.
Soon, all light reaching from down the tunnel toward him began to dim—not everywhere, but only within the great seal that only he could see. Lantern light from up or down the way faded within an expanding space bulging outward from the wall.
Sau'ilahk drifted in against the stone, poised at the center of his banishing circle.
To conjure the Elements, or construct the lowest of elemental servitors, took years of dangerous practice. Banishing was often no more than releasing them, if one did not make them last longer than willful attention. Dealing with the natural world was another matter. Banishing anything natural to the world was nearly impossible, always temporary, and not for dabblers.
Though the next and previous lanterns still burned in the tunnel, clear to see, their light touched nothing within the outward bounds of his pattern. Sau'ilahk stood unseen within a pocket of pure darkness that ate all light.
It was costing him, weakening him. Yet he had one more conjury to accomplish, as he heard the thänæ's heavy footfalls closing on the passage's exit.
As a spirit, Sau'ilahk did not posses a true "voice." Even in the brief moments he willed himself corporeal, as an undead he did not draw breath. When and if he spoke, it was by conjury, faintly manipulating any noise made by the air's natural movement. He now needed a true voice—one urgently familiar to Hammer-Stag.
Sau'ilahk put the heels of his palms together, one hand below and the other above, with fingers outstretched. As he sank halfway into the tunnel wall amid his pool of darkness, he forced his hands solid. Envisioned glowing glyphs swirled in a tiny whirlwind. He arched his hands, fingertips still touching, and those bright symbols rushed into the space between, as if inhaled by a mouth.
Sau'ilahk felt air shudder between his hands, until it became a dull, vibrating thrum.
Hammer-Stag stepped out of the passage into the tunnel, turning th
e other way without pause.
Sau'ilahk curled his fingers inward like claws. He opened his hands like a clamshell, fingers tearing at thrumming air as if prying open a mouth.
A woman's agonized shriek echoed along the passage.
Hammer-Stag halted and spun about.
He looked down the passage, eyes wide, and then the other way. When he turned back, apparently seeing nothing, he reached over his right shoulder. His wide callused hand gripped the battle-ax handle behind his head, but he did not pull it out.
Sau'ilahk rotated his grip, twisting the air between his hands.
A whimper rolled out of his pool of darkness, followed by a familiar terror-choked voice.
"Please … help … me!"
Hammer-Stag pulled the ax and gripped the haft with both hands. He lunged two steps and then paused with his brows furrowed.
"Who is there?" he growled.
Sau'ilahk's satisfaction grew. This was so predictable. He twisted his hands again, feigning the familiar voice.
"Fiáh'our … Hammer-Stag? It's me, Wynn … Wynn Hygeorht!"
The thänæ craned his neck, trying to see where she was.
"Little mighty one?" he breathed, then shouted, "Where are you?"
"Please help me! It's coming!"
"No!" he snarled. "I am! Call to me … I will find you!"
Hammer-Stag charged down the passage, straight toward Sau'ilahk. As he passed the place where no light reached, Sau'ilahk opened his hands. The patch of darkness died under the light as Sau'ilahk slipped out behind the thänæ.
Chapter 7
Wynn awoke the next morning feeling weak and rubbed her eyes. She found herself in the familiar trappings of her room at the temple. Vague, broken memories returned.
She recalled Chane helping her to bed, and Shirvêsh Mallet gently feeding her a bitter liquid. Her ill-used stomach still hurt, but her headache had dulled. She sat up and, to her surprise, felt hungry, not remembering the last time she'd eaten.
Shade lay at the bed's foot and lifted her head to whine.
"Yes … you're hungry too," Wynn acknowledged, "but after we make ourselves presentable."
Getting to her pack was a wobbly exploit. She fumbled inside it for a brush and fresh kerchief, and teetered to the door-side table. She poured water from the pitcher into a basin, though she desperately wanted a full bath. All she could do was scrub her face, arms, and neck with the dampened kerchief. Finally, she tried pulling her hair back into a tail and out of her face, but without a mirror, she ended up with the usual wisps floating around her cheeks. She gave up and filled a clay mug, trying to clean her teeth with a finger.
Shade reared, forepaws jostling the little table, and began lapping the basin's water.
"Shade!" she warned. "That's dirty."
Try as Wynn might, Shade wouldn't listen, but at least the water wasn't soapy.
"We need a launderer," she mumbled. "I stink … and my clothes are no better."
She'd brought only one change of clothing, gifted to her during her time in the an'Croan's Elven Territories. Disrobing, she started to shiver, and quickly lifted the brazier's lid off the glowing crystals. She dipped into her pack and pulled out the yellow tunic of raw-spun cotton and the russet pants. Sewn for a youth of the tall Farlands elves, the sleeves and legs were too long. She had to roll them up before dressing.
Cleanly attired, Wynn felt relieved to wear pants again. She'd grown accustomed to not wrestling with a long, bulky robe, or even her shorter travel robe, during her journeys with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap. But as she turned to leave, she grew light-headed and hung on to the door handle until it passed.
Such was the price of bartering in a greeting house. If she hadn't been so foolish and botched her first meeting with Sliver, all the suffering might have been worth it. Now she could only press blindly onward.
"Come, Shade."
Wynn stepped out, waiting as Shade followed. But when she closed the door, she paused, studying Chane's door across the passage.
Hopefully he suffered no ill effects of missing a half day's dormancy. She still knew so little about the daily—nightly—existence of the Noble Dead. Chane seemed less affected by the sun than by the time of day where dormancy was concerned. Did his body sense the sun's rhythm, even when he was underground?
She wanted to check on him. Knowing her knock might not be heard, she gripped the handle of his door. The latch wouldn't budge.
"Locked?" she whispered.
Wynn couldn't remember if he'd ever done this in their stops along the bay road, but she'd never looked in on him during that time. Shade pricked her ears and huffed as she backed down the corridor.
"I know," she whispered. "Really, you're as bad as your father … thinking with your stomach!"
But Wynn strolled off after Shade, leaving Chane in privacy. She headed straight for the meal hall, and three shirvêsh looked up as she entered.
She couldn't tell whether they were acolytes or otherwise; all shirvêsh dressed the same, in simple orange vestments. Others must have finished breakfast already, and only this trio remained at the table with pots and plates of food. The dark-haired woman who'd first helped her locate this place looked up and smiled.
"Feeling better?" she called. "We heard of your adventure."
Wynn blushed, and the two others at the table chuckled. It was all good-natured, and the woman waved her over.
"I am Downpour," she said. "Anything here look appetizing … as yet?"
"Best she stick to oats and bread for a day," warned a younger male across the table.
His high, flat brow was capped by frizzy brown hair and only the barest matching beard showed on his blunt chin. He filled a bowl from a cast-iron pot while the third, an older male with creased features, nodded in silent agreement.
"Thank you," Wynn said.
In truth, something plain sounded best, but she felt uncomfortable under all this attention. She took the bowl and settled next to Downpour.
"This is Held-All, and that is Scoria," Downpour said, pointing first to the younger male and then to the rough-featured one.
Shade pushed her head in under Wynn's arm, nearly knocking the bowl over, and snuffled at its contents. Then she backed out with a grumble, craning her head to peer over the table.
"Ah, your wolf," Downpour said.
Before Wynn even asked, all three dwarves were scrounging about the table, lifting lids and peeking into pots.
"Salt-fish!" exclaimed Held-All. "Would she like that?"
Scoria snatched a stiff piece of dried fish from the pot. Wynn tensed as he rose and leaned across the table toward Shade.
"She's very shy of strangers," Wynn warned.
Scoria grunted in seriousness. "Very wise," he said, then rumbled down at Shade, "Mind your manners … you hear?"
He reached out, lowering the fish with two fingers.
Shade reared and clacked her jaws on the morsel, and Scoria snatched back his empty hand with a start.
"Shade!" Wynn scolded.
Held-All snickered, trying to stifle himself.
"Not funny!" Scoria growled at him.
"That depends," Held-All forced out with a faked cough. "Did she get any meat with that fish?"
Scoria frowned, slowly opening his hand as if counting fingers.
"A'ye! " Downpour sighed. "Stop being a bother—both of you!"
After having dealt with the greeting house and Sliver, Wynn sat silent at their quick and friendly acceptance. Dwarves took harsh offense when insulted with intent, but otherwise, nothing rattled their good nature, not even Shade's poor table manners.
Shade licked her jaws, all signs of the fish gone, and Wynn scooped a spoonful of oats.
She listened to her companions' chatter, and even answered a question or two about what it was like to be a sage. She took no offense at their perplexed glances over the human obsession with writing everything down. Finally, she paused at one more spoonful of boiled oats.
; "Where is Shirvêsh Mallet this morning?" she asked. "I need to speak with him as soon as possible."
Downpour shook her head. "He is in private conference. Two elder shirvêsh from the temple of Stálghlên—um, you might say Pure-Steel—came at dawn. He has not come out since."
Wynn slumped. Something serious held Mallet's attention if he was occupied this long.
"We hate to leave you to eat alone," Downpour added. "But we have duties to attend."
Wynn put her spoon down, for she'd had enough.
"One more thing," she asked. "Do you have anything here like a records room? I mean, for whatever is worthy of being written down. May I be permitted to do some research?"
She knew this was an outside chance.
Scoria blinked twice, probably uncertain how to answer without insulting a "scribbler of words."
"Something … like it," Downpour answered. "But there may be a better place to start. We call it … well, you might say the Hall of Stone-Words. Come, I will take you there."
Wynn quickly gathered her bowl and spoon to carry them off to the kitchen.
"No, no, leave those," Downpour instructed, rising to stop her. "Others will attend the cleanup."
Downpour stood no taller than Wynn, but of course twice as wide. Shade whined, and Wynn glanced down.
The dog sat with her muzzle resting on the table's edge, gazing hopefully at the lidded pot of dried fish.
"Should I give her more?" Scoria asked, though he didn't sound too eager.
"No, she's had enough for now," Wynn replied.
Shade grumbled in clear disagreement, but Scoria nodded and ushered Held-All on his way. Wynn was more curious about this Hall of Stone-Words, so with Shade in tow, she followed Downpour out of the meal hall.
Instead of rounding the far side of the temple proper toward the passages to quarters, they slipped into the near side, traipsing the curving corridor all the way to the back. There, a wide passage lined with glyph-marked archways and doors shot deeper into the mountain.
Downpour's brisk pace offered Wynn no time to peer about. She glimpsed little of the other rooms or halls through any opening, at least not until the wide passage ended in a final grand arch of framestones. The opening spilled into a room so tall that Wynn couldn't see its ceiling from the outside. All she did see were three large emblems on a bare wall straight ahead, no more than three paces into the room.
