Through Stone and Sea ndst-2

by Barb Hendee

  Downpour paused outside the archway. "Anyone can come here whenever the temple is open."

  Wynn stared at the inside wall. The Hall of Stone-Words couldn't be this small, even for dwarven brevity in writing.

  "Hopefully something here will fulfill your needs," Downpour added. "Now I must get to my duties."

  Downpour headed up the passage, and Wynn moved closer to the archway. Dwarves might not care for writing everything down, but certainly they had more records than this. There had to be more than three platter-size engraved symbols of complex strokes … or vubrí.

  Certain Dwarvish words weren't always written in separate letters. Just as the sages' Begaine syllabary used symbols for whole syllables and word parts, the harsh strokes of dwarven letters could be combined into a vubrí. These emblems were used only for important concepts or the noteworthy among people, places, or things. They were also how the families, clans, and tribes emblazoned or embroidered their identity on some personal attire. It took Wynn a moment to untangle the three engraved upon the wall.

  The two to either side—Virtue and Tradition—connected by a straight line to an engraved circle holding the central emblem of Wisdom.

  Wynn stepped fully through the arch, and a sudden sense of space made her look up.

  The engraved wall went only halfway to the space's height, but it was still tall enough that she would've barely reached its top with her upstretched staff. Far above, amid stone arches supporting a high ceiling, metal mirrors reflected light down into the hall from three shafts in the ceiling.

  Wynn stepped back and saw that the ceiling's arch supports went well beyond the partition.

  She was baffled until she noticed that neither partition's end joined the hall's side walls. She headed left, finding the wall as thick as she was from shoulder to shoulder, and she peeked around its end. Wynn's mouth and eyes opened wide.

  Multiple stone partitions cut across the hall at regular intervals, like the casements of a library. Each was clear of the side walls, allowing anyone to walk around them and up and down the hall's length. The only furnishings were thick stone benches, worn by use. But there were no massive vubrí on the next partition's front side.

  Engraved Dwarvish letters filled five columns, each as wide as her spread arms. The same covered the back side of the first partition. Even the hall's side walls had columns written in twin sets, positioned to face the spaces between the partitions. Those paired side columns stretched nearly all the way to the ceiling's high arches.

  Wynn had never seen anything like this among the dwarves, not even in her visit with Domin Tilswith. But it seemed most fitting in the temple of their poet Eternal.

  "Stone-words," she whispered, "words engraved in stone."

  Dwarves recorded only what they considered worth such permanence, such as the teachings of Feather-Tongue. Even to say "written in stone" meant that what was said must never be forgotten.

  Shade pushed past, sniffing halfway down the partition's back side before Wynn regained her wits. She followed the dog, running her fingers over the engravings' sharp edges. Not only could she see these words, she could feel them. She flushed with unfamiliar awe as her fingers slipped from one column of crisp carved characters to the next.

  "Stories," she whispered.

  She'd never even seen some of the characters before. Perhaps they were older than the written form of Dwarvish she'd learned. As she reached the third partition's back side, she lingered on one obscure vubrí. Wynn knew she'd seen it before, somewhere upon these walls, and she tried again to decipher it.

  Lhärgnæ?

  She frowned, trying to remember her lessons with Domin High-Tower.

  The old Dwarvish root word "yarghaks" meant "a descent," as in a falling place or a downslope. In the vocative, it was pronounced "lhargagh," but such a formal declination implied a label or title. And the ancient, rare suffix of "-næ" or "-æ" was for a proper noun, both plural and singular.

  She knew the letters and vubrí for the Bäynæ, the Eternals. That reference had appeared often in passages she had scanned. Strangely, she didn't remember ever spotting "Lhärgnæ" written out in plain letters. But its vubrí seemed akin to the one for the Bäynæ.

  "Lhärgnæ" … the Fallen Ones?

  She scanned several more lines, and the obscure vubrí appeared again, this time in a sentence that also mentioned the Eternals. She traced back along engraved letters, reading more slowly.

  Our Eternal ancestors exalt our virtues over our vices, and shield us against the … Lhärgnæ.

  Wynn paused in thought. She knew some dwarven "virtues," such as integrity, courage, pragmatism, and achievement. There were also thrift, charity for those in need, and championship of the innocent and defenseless. The possible vices might be counterpoints to these, at least in part.

  Dwarves believed that their Eternals were part of the spiritual side of this world. They were not removed from it, to be called upon in another realm, as with the elves, nor sent to an afterlife, like most human religions taught. The Bäynæ were the revered ancestors of their race as a whole. Their presence was thought strongest wherever dwarves gathered in great numbers. They were believed to be always with their people, wherever they went.

  So what place did these Lhärgnæ—these Fallen Ones—hold in the dwarves' spiritual worldview?

  She sidestepped along the wall, scanning for more occurrences of the rare vubrí. Near the wall's bottom, it was couched in a phrase with the terms "aghlédaks" and "brahderaks"—cowardice and treachery. The rest of the sentence held too many older characters she didn't know.

  Wynn straightened up, sighing in frustration.

  She'd expected this to be easier. She was a sage, after all, and spoke a half dozen languages or dialects fluently and others in part. She could read even more. When she turned about, Shade lay at the wall's far end, her head on her paws, silently watching Wynn.

  This was all quite boring to Shade.

  For an instant, Wynn wished she had Chap here instead. His counsel had helped her choose the texts to bring home from Li'kän's ice-bound castle.

  Her gaze drifted to an oddity on the next partition's front. These columns of text were framed in engraved scrollwork. Curiosity pulled her to them.

  She read a few random lines with little effort, for it was written in contemporary Dwarvish characters. The text appeared to be a story. A way down the column, she found one familiar vubrí—Bedzâ'kenge, the poet Eternal. Another vubrí was mixed in the text closer to the first column's top.

  Wynn settled on the bench, working out its patterned strokes.

  "Sundaks"—avarice.

  But the context implied more. It should be in the vocative case as well, like a title or a name pronounced in formal fashion—Shundagh.

  Wynn lifted her eyes to the story's beginning.

  A fine family of renowned masons lived in a small but proud seatt of only one clan and one tribe among the Rughìr.

  She faltered before remembering something Domin High-Tower had mentioned. "Rughìr" was a common truncation for "Rughìr'thai'âch"—the Earth-Born—how the dwarves referred to their own kind.

  Anxious to serve their people, the family's sons and daughters sought to become merchants as well. They hoped to have more to offer—and to gain—by way of trade as well as skills plied. But over many years, all members passed into earth or went away, until only one son remained.

  Wynn came to the new vubrí formed like a title: Shundagh …

  Avarice … as the last of his line, inherited all that his family had acquired—but he had lost his love of masonry or the way of honorable barter.

  At first, he grudgingly plied his skills, but not in fair exchange for returned services or goods. Nor did he trade in worthy metals, such as iron, copper, forged steel, or even brass. He took payment only in foreign coin of silver and gold or in pristine gemstones. Soon he abandoned service altogether, selling off what remained of family wares and tools.

  Avarice
no longer bartered.

  He purchased all he desired, always in gold, silver, and gems, but offered only meager amounts to those in dire need who must accept his set price. Through trickery and profiteering, he amassed a fortune from his fellows. The people became gray and grim.

  Avarice's wealth grew as steadily as his skills dwindled.

  He forgot all that his forebears had handed down through generations. When his false wealth was greater than that of all the seatt, he demanded the clan elders title him "Thänæ." They agreed, for even the elders had been made destitute. They saw that only Avarice possessed the way to fortune and renown.

  The shirvêsh were told to sanctify a thôrhk. Avarice demanded that it be made of gold and studded in jewels of his choosing, to remind all how great he had become and why. But the shirvêsh refused.

  Avarice called in debts to have a thôrhk made to his own liking, though it was never blessed under the sight of the Eternals. It is said that the day he donned it, since no servant of the Eternals would place it upon him, all shirvêsh of the seatt left, never to return.

  With a false thänæ as the example of excellence, envy spread like plague.

  Such was Avarice's reputation that even the flow of trading foreigners dwindled, until none from the outside world came to trade and barter at that seatt. The people were left to prey only upon one another's misfortune.

  Until one dawn, a lone traveler did come.

  At first the people gave him little notice. Though he was Rughìr, he possessed nothing of worth. He carried only a pack that sagged half-empty and a stout but tarnished iron staff. His boots and garish orange tunic were overweathered and travel-worn. When he stopped at the lone greeting house, no one gave note to this shoddy traveler, not even when he stepped upon the dais without invitation.

  Wynn came to the first occurrence of the vubrí for Bedzâ'kenge.

  Feather-Tongue began his first tale.

  Offered in charity, and in the proper place for a telling, when he finished the story of Pure-Steel and the Night Blight, silence filled the greeting house. Even servers stood petrified, like dead wood poured upon for centuries until it turned rigid as stone. But the silence would be broken.

  Avarice had heard word of a telling in the greeting house.

  At first he could not believe it, but any brief diversion was rare. He came to see for himself and stood just inside the doorway. Arriving late, he had caught only the story's last half. Though it cost him nothing, it left him frustrated, as if he had paid even one precious coin but received only a portion of his purchase.

  Avarice could not help himself.

  He entreated the pauper poet for another tale—by story, song, or poem—but in private, only for himself. For the service, he offered one quarter wedge of the smallest silver piece found among the Churvâdìné.

  Wynn paused, and frowned. The old word sounded so familiar. Dené was now the common dwarven word for any "human"—Numan, Suman, or otherwise. But once they had been called the Churvâdìné… .

  The Confused or Mixed-Up People.

  No one else said a word at Avarice's offer; no one else had the coin to spare. They all waited expectantly for the poet's reply.

  With a slow shake of his head, Feather-Tongue refused.

  He would tell a tale in good charity—a story or two, a song, or a poem to break the heart—but only to those too poor to even barter a sip of ale. He would not sell his tales for coin, like possessions to be hoarded.

  Avarice became angry.

  He believed this pauper poet was either too conceited or too stupid to part with simple tales for good profit. Instead, the wanderer squandered his skills on the unworthy and beggarly. Still, the false thänæ would not turn away.

  Avarice doubled his price—and Feather-Tongue refused again.

  Avarice offered more—and more—but each time the poet declined. He offered yet again, cringing at the amount, this time for a telling before himself and the clan elders as well. At the least, he would have the credit for providing a meager treat, and the elders would owe him for it.

  Feather-Tongue refused again—then he countered.

  He would accept only if all the people were allowed to listen. The telling would take place atop the mountain in the seatt's central amphitheater, where any council was held before the people.

  Avarice would not be outbartered by some wandering street performer.

  He nearly snarled refusal, but he bit it back in the last instant. If the clan elders would have been indebted to him for a private telling, how much greater his gain would be in what the poet proposed. Though it would be hard to account and collect on such widespread debt, all in the seatt would know to whom it was owed.

  Avarice agreed.

  Feather-Tongue bowed graciously to the false thänæ, and Avarice escorted him to the mountain's top. They did not wait long.

  Word spread upon shouting voices and running feet. Soon, all came to listen. The crowd settled in, restless and noisy, until the poet raised his iron staff and let it slide down upon the amphitheater's floor. He hammered it three times upon the flagstones, and all became quiet.

  Feather-Tongue began his second tale.

  There was no silence when he finished three episodes in classic chain link. Cheers and stamps and slaps of approval upon stone were somewhat hesitant, but not for lack of heart. Many eyes turned on the poet's counterpart, seated front and center among the clan's elders.

  Avarice's aged eyes were glassy.

  The false thänæ was still caught in the tale's dreamtime, and the pauper poet waited in polite silence. Eventually a low rumble spread through the crowd, until someone finally called out for another tale.

  Avarice started to awareness.

  He leaned forward, glaring at the poet as the demand spread throughout the stands. Finally, he tossed a scant pinch of silver coins upon the flagstones in payment. But then he too demanded another tale, claiming he was not satisfied with the worth of his purchase.

  The poet nodded acceptance, never stooping to touch one coin.

  Feather-Tongue began a third tale.

  He broke into song and then slid into an epic poem, which ended upon three quintets of limericks that raised so much laughter, even Avarice smirked twice.

  Feather-Tongue fell silent and waited.

  Avarice shook off the disquieting touch of long-forgotten mirth. He leaned forward, ready to claim that he was not yet satisfied. But the way the crowd cheered, stamped, and slapped stone made him hesitate. A few even tossed out a coin or two they could hardly have spared.

  Being seen as an ingrate would not work for Avarice, but he had no leverage as yet, seeing that this vagabond was still indifferent to proper wealth. And he too wanted more tales—and more debts to collect. He held up the smallest of his purses with a sum slightly more than the last payment. When the poet nodded acceptance, he tossed it out.

  Feather-Tongue began his fourth tale.

  Throughout the morning and afternoon, the ritual of purchase repeated. With each song, history, poem, or legend, the poet grew tired a bit earlier than the last, saying he could tell no more this day.

  The crowd's adoration had grown, as had Avarice's frustration.

  Each time the poet paused, Avarice increased his offers, bit by grudging bit, until the next telling commenced. The false thänæ's servants, indentured for debts, were sent under mercenary guard to fetch more coin and even gems from his hoard. The people were puzzled, but Avarice knew that they were too ignorant and poor to calculate what he could.

  By custom and tradition, only the recipient could first touch any payment.

  Without servants, companions, or pack animals, the poet would be forced to leave the bulk of his gained wealth behind. The amount had already grown too large and heavy to handle alone. And once Avarice had exhausted all tales, he would rejoice in how little the poet could carry away. Any remainder not retrieved first by the poet himself would be forfeit.

  When dusk came, Feather
-Tongue halted midtale.

  A rumble of discontent rose in the amphitheater, but he shook his head, claiming he was too tired, famished, and parched. Before Avarice cried foul, Feather-Tongue reassured all. He would return the following day to finish—but not before.

  At that, the false thänæ relented, but he made sure of his purchase. Mercenary guards were posted outside the greeting house where the poet was lodged for the night.

  In the morning, Feather-Tongue began again—and for seven days more.

  Along the way, he often told of faraway places, events unheard-of, and ancestors long forgotten in this seatt, all glorious in wonder and some fearfully dark, so that awe filled the people's expressions, and sometimes mixed with longing.

  Each dusk, he ended midstory, midsong, or in a jarring stop at the most poignant beat in a poem. Each dawn, all hurried to the amphitheater, only to find Avarice already waiting as the poet arrived under guard.

  Not once did the poet touch coin or gem heaped upon the old stone floor. Not by a toe, let alone a finger. He could have, for any smaller part had been fairly gained in barter for what he had given so far. The piles had grown so large that even one would be unmanageable to carry off.

  On the ninth day, Feather-Tongue finished his last tale.

  When the crowd cried for more, amid shouts of praise, he only shook his head, and they slowly grew silent. He announced that he had told all that he possessed and there was nothing more he could offer.

  Avarice began to laugh.

  It was a rude, disquieting noise that carried everywhere in the silence. He claimed again that he was not satisfied for his last purchase. A wave of resentful leers spread through the crowd. Some even braved curses under their breath.

  Feather-Tongue bowed politely, offering to gladly return the last and final payment.