by Barb Hendee
Wynn shook her head. "I don't understand. Heritage is everything here. Even your Eternals are considered ‘ancestors' to your people as a whole."
"And that is where their devotion lies! Nothing else means more to them. Do you not know that the honored dead, such as Hammer-Stag, are where we get our … Bäynæ?"
The last word made her mouth twist like a vile taste.
"I've heard this," Wynn answered, "but I don't fully understand how it comes to pass."
"Then you are not alone, Numan," Sliver spit. "No one does."
She looked about the meal hall, and the skin around her eyes crinkled. The smith almost fidgeted and shuddered, as if this temple—any temple—were a vile place. And Wynn began to understand just a little.
Sliver had lost one of two wayward brothers to a secret order little known to her own kind, one entrenched in dwarven mysteries. To Sliver, Ore-Locks had chosen their spiritual patrons over devotion to his own flesh and blood.
"My father passed over," Sliver continued. "For a while, Ore-Locks felt duty-bound to visit my mother … to do what he might. Even that fell beneath his devotions. He stopped coming at all, years ago. And … as you know … High-Tower left his own, his people, to live with your kind."
Wynn struggled to listen beneath Sliver's bitter words, to see the pictures Sliver painted.
Her mother would be elderly if her father had already died, yet Sliver was young for her kind; strange, since dwarves didn't usually bear children late in life. Both her brothers had abandoned the family to seek their own paths, leaving her to support their aging mother in the poorest depths of Sea-Side.
More reason for bitterness.
"What do you want from me?" Wynn asked bluntly. It seemed the only way to get anywhere with the daughter of the Iron-Braids.
Sliver's mouth twisted several times, until she spit out the words.
"My mother clings to foolish hope! She goes to temple, any she can reach, and prays for word of her eldest son. Then she heard you, the night you came!"
Wynn flinched, already fearful of where this was headed.
"She thinks the Eternals have answered her by sending you," Sliver accused. "You know one of her sons … and now you come seeking the other. She requests that you share anything you learn, for pity's sake."
One word Sliver had spoken stuck in Wynn's head.
"Eldest?" she repeated in surprise. "But Ore-Locks looks much younger than High-Tower."
Sliver was silent for a few breaths. She planted her wide hands upon the table, leaning forward.
"You will share all you learn of my brother … with me," Sliver whispered. "That is not a request!"
Wynn couldn't help leaning back under Sliver's glare. Shade began to rumble, the sound increasing to a growl, but the smith never glanced away. Wynn reached down to wave Shade closer.
None of this was helpful and only complicated finding the texts. But if managed carefully, Sliver's reluctant need might still be useful.
"Of course," Wynn answered as calmly and coldly as she could. "Tell your mother I would be honored to help her."
Sliver didn't even acknowledge the words. She rose instantly and headed for the meal hall's main entrance. She was gone before Shade finally quieted. Wynn's hand shook as she settled it upon Shade's back.
Sliver clearly clung to the last of her pride, as the last of her remaining family was coming apart. Asking, demanding help from some interloper—and a noisy scribbler of words, no less—was a final humiliation.
Wynn could barely imagine what Sliver's life must be like.
Dwarven marriages were often arranged by the families and clans, based on benefits either the bride or groom might provide. Yes, there was love, and it was considered, but if at odds with what was best, it was sacrificed. If the Iron-Braids were part of a clan, its leaders had clearly forgotten Sliver.
She had no one to speak for her, no family name of honor to offer, and no father or siblings with skills or community influence her clan might value. She possessed only a small smithy in a depressed underside and an elderly mother clinging to faith.
The more Wynn thought on this, the more depression overwhelmed fear and frustration. But she had to push aside sympathy.
Chane returned, carrying a pot of hot water, two mugs, and her small tin of mint tea leaves. He hesitated in the entrance and scanned the room once.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"Gone."
"What did she want?"
"Information—about her brother."
"Information … from us?" he scoffed.
Wynn didn't find the irony humorous.
"Should I fix you some tea?" Chane asked.
Wynn sighed. "No … no, thank you."
Something terrible was coming. She was certain of this from all she had seen and learned in company with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap—and afterward with Shade and Chane. There were larger issues at stake—the world might well be at stake. If she had to manipulate Sliver, she would.
It was an ugly thought.
Uglier still was a ploy forming in her mind.
Chapter 11
The following night, Chane led the way into the amphitheater and waited as Wynn warmed up her cold lamp crystal. The empty stands surrounded them as they faced the stage.
The cavernous amphitheater looked different tonight—ancient, stark, and silent. Not one brazier burned beside any of the upper great doors. It was startling to see the vast place so quiet and deserted compared to the crowd at Hammer-Stag's final wake.
"We should hurry," Chane said, glancing down at Shade.
Wynn crouched, cupping Shade's muzzle in her free hand. A blink of stillness passed before Shade wheeled and headed back into the tunnel. Wynn rose, holding out her glowing crystal, and took off after the dog.
Chane followed, watching Wynn's hair, bound back in a tail, swish gently across her slender back as she trotted.
They turned into a side passage midway down the tunnel, following twists and turns, stairs and ramps of stone, almost too many to remember. But Shade never faltered. As another corridor veered slightly right, ending at a corner, Wynn slowed as the dog pressed on.
"I saw this in the Shade's memories," she said. "We'll come to a sharp left, and then another slighter one." Her oval face was filled with anticipation. "Do you have the scroll?"
"Of course," he answered.
She scurried after Shade, and Chane kept up easily on his longer legs. Desire for the missing texts pushed Wynn, perhaps too much. But this was the first true, if tenuous, lead they had gained in getting anywhere near these Stonewalkers.
"From what you described," he said, "I do not know if we can get through the doors."
"We'll get through," she answered flatly. "Leesil never let a door stop him. Neither will I."
Mention of her old companion raised quick resentment in Chane. Whenever she spoke of either Magiere or Leesil, he wondered if she would have preferred them here in his place.
Shade took a left, picked up the pace, and then veered down a slant. As she reached another corner, she slowed and huffed softly. Wynn bolted down the slope to the dog.
"Here!" she called.
Chane jogged around them, his hand dropping to his sword as he looked down the next passage. There in the side wall was an archway with deep-set iron doors surrounded by frame stones. He saw no other opening along the corridor, up to where it ended in a left turn a ways down.
Wynn rushed blindly on, skidding to a halt before the arch. She leaned her staff against the frame stones and ran her hand over the metal as Shade sniffed the portal's base.
"Here's the separation," she whispered.
Shade backed up and sat at the passage's other side as Wynn traced the seam with her index finger.
Chane came up behind her, studying the flat panels. He saw no handles or latches, not even a lock or empty brackets for a bar. Wynn fingered her way around the left door's outer edge, inch by inch along the groove where it disappeared into
stone.
"What are you looking for?" he asked.
"Trip mechanisms, catches … anything," she answered. "I can't reach the top, so you start there. Feel every spot carefully for anything abnormal."
Frowning, Chane stepped in beside her. He probed slowly along the top but found only smooth iron all the way to where the door slipped deep into a groove in the stone. He worked toward the other side, but Wynn finished more quickly.
Chane wished there were something to be found, but he had doubted it from the start. When he finished, he saw no resignation in Wynn's expression. She continued to study the doors, undaunted.
"All right, we start on the walls," she said. "Last night, Shade heard a grinding sound from beyond the doors. Someone opened them from inside, and Cinder-Shard wasn't in the passage. So there has to be a way through, some hidden access he used."
Chane shook his head. "Why not take the others the same way? Why bother opening the doors at all?"
"Maybe the other access was too small for the litter, and these main doors aren't used unless necessary."
"Then would not the access be blocked as well?" he countered.
Wynn ignored him and sidestepped left along the passage, inspecting the stone wall beyond the arch.
Chane found her stubborn certainty unsettling. He finally turned to inspect the wall on the arch's other side. Together, they went over every speck of stone, going farther down the passage than Chane thought reasonable. Only then did Wynn's certainty begin fracturing.
"It has to be here!" she insisted, her words rolling along the stone passage. "How else could Cinder-Shard get inside?"
At Wynn's too-loud voice, Shade lifted her head where she lay. Wynn did not even notice as she stared at the seam between the doors.
"Get out your sword."
Chane shook his head in disbelief. "You cannot be ser—"
"I'm not walking away. Not when we're this close. Seven hells, Chane! You're undead. Put your strength to use."
Wynn's recent penchant for cursing was another sign that much had changed in her.
"This doorway was built by dwarves," he argued. "Rationally, it can withstand them. So why do you think I would fare any better?"
"Try to pry it open," she urged, "at least enough to peek inside. I know I heard grinding in Shade's memory after the doors were closed. We need to know what caused it."
Chane looked at the narrow seam. He wanted to agree with her, especially for as little as they had uncovered. But as he drew his long sword and set its point to the seam, he had no confidence in the effort.
"This will leave marks on the doors," he said.
"I don't care."
Chane gripped the hilt with one hand, keeping the blade in place, and stepped back as far as his reach allowed. He lunged sharply forward with all his mass, slamming his free hand's palm against the cross guard.
The sword's tip pierced the seam with a metallic shriek that echoed along the passage.
He peered closer. The point had sunk two fingers' width, more than expected, but the seam had widened only to the blade's thickness. It was not enough to peek through.
"Step back," he ordered. "Have your crystal ready. If the doors part, I do not know how long I can hold them."
Wynn backed up, joining Shade, and Chane shifted to the right of his embedded sword. He pulled up his cloak's hem and wrapped the fabric around the blade. With one hand gripping near the hilt, and the other nearer the tip, he began to push.
The blade flexed slightly, but the doors did not budge.
Chane released his pressure and turned sideways, facing the doors. He reached out his right foot, braced it against the arch's inner stones, and pushed again. This time, he let hunger come.
It flooded his dead flesh, and all his senses came alive as they opened fully. The crystal's light upon the iron was brighter to his eyes, almost uncomfortable. A faint sound rose from somewhere inside the walls.
Like a pinch of sand spilled upon stone.
He would not have heard it without his senses heightened. Then he felt a slight vibration through his sword. He redoubled his efforts.
"Keep going," Wynn urged.
Chane began trying to shift the sword's point deeper as he levered it, and the seam began to part.
"Now!" he rasped.
Wynn rushed in beneath the blade.
Before she even raised the crystal to the seam, Chane saw it was futile, and he heard Wynn sigh in frustration. Through the space parted by the sword, they both saw another set of iron doors tightly shut behind the first.
Chane closed his eyes in resignation. He could not possibly keep the first pair open and lever the second. The instant he released any pressure to move the sword's point to the inner doors' seam, the first set would slam closed around the blade. And he could not lever both sets at once.
Wynn slumped, leaning her forehead upon the iron.
A soft clank reached Chane's heightened hearing. He felt a dull and muted vibration shiver through the doors and into his sword.
"Get back!" he ordered.
Wynn shoved off, retreating with a stumble, as Chane pulled his foot off the arch's side. A thunderous crack shuddered through the whole passage, as if coming from inside its walls.
The doors snapped closed.
A ping of steel pierced Chane's ears. All resistance in his sword failed.
His blade tore free as something sharp and cold grazed his neck, but he was already tumbling along the doors. He hit the archway's far side, spun off, and fell into the passage as a clatter of steel rang in his ears. Wynn came to him before he could sit up.
"Chane?" she asked in alarm, touching his shoulder. "Are you all right?"
He sat up, staring at the soundly shut doors. Something had forced them closed again.
"What happened?" she asked, following his gaze.
Chane shook his head, uncertain. "Some latent countermeasure," he answered.
"You're … cut."
Only then did he feel a trickle of wetness at the side of his shirt collar. He reached up, touching his throat just above the old scar around his neck, and his fingertips came away stained.
Not red with the blood of the living but viscous black.
"It is nothing," he said. "The wound will shortly close on its own. The sword must have grazed me when forced out."
The sword was still in his hands, still wrapped in the cloak, though the fabric had slid down across its tip. Chane got up, frustrated by that one moment of false hope when the doors had parted. He swept back his cloak, lifting the blade to sheathe it.
A hand's length of the tip was gone.
Chane just stared at it.
Shade huffed once, and he saw the dog nosing the missing piece on the passage's floor.
"Odsúdýnjè!" he swore, slipping into his native Belaskian.
Wynn sighed. "We'll get it fixed or replace it."
"How?" he snarled. "A sword is not some idle purchase of a pittance. I do not have that much coin. Do you?"
"No."
Wynn dropped to her haunches, hands over her face, and began muttering, "Think, think, think," over and over. Chane closed his eyes, willing himself to remain calm.
He sheathed the broken sword and gathered up its severed end. The blade was still usable, in part, and he had little choice. It was the only worthwhile weapon he possessed. Their efforts were pointless, and now costly.
Still, Wynn would not relent. If she did not do so, and soon, he would force her, no matter any complications with Shade.
"Perhaps Cinder-Shard had another method," he suggested. "Some tool needed for the doors that Shade could not see."
He meant to imply that they had no more options and should give up for now. When Wynn lowered her hands, he could almost see her mind turning in a different direction.
"What about my mantic sight?" she asked.
He opened his mouth to protest, but she rushed on.
"Perhaps I could find traces of where someone's spiri
tual presence has passed through? If I find the exact spot, we may see something we've missed."
She took a few breaths, slowly rose, and focused on the iron doors.
Chane stood watching her, about to drag her off.
"I've never seen trails … residue of passing," she whispered, speculating aloud. "Only strength or weakness of Spirit in what is present. But it's worth a try."
Renewed hope in her eyes made Chane weary.
"It's worth a try," she repeated adamantly. "But I can't turn it off once it comes."
That was the part he did not like. Her gift was a taint, not true art, the result of a dangerous mistake when she had once tampered with a mantic form of thaumaturgy.
"Back at the guild," Wynn went on, "it took half a day or more to fade on its own. You'll need to get me back home to the temple."
Chane sighed, that leftover habit of living days. "I will always get you home," he answered.
Wynn tried to maintain her facade of confidence. Even a failed attempt to summon the sight by will could be overwhelming. Chane had seen this once, and he'd politely called her methods "undisciplined."
She knelt before the doors, afraid she might fall once mantic sight came. All Chane did—could do—was stand over her, watching. Extending her index finger, she traced a sign for Spirit on the floor and encircled it.
At each gesture, she focused hard to keep the lines alive in her mind's eye, as if they were actually drawn upon the stone. She scooted forward, settling inside the circle, and traced a wider circumference around herself and the first pattern.
It was a simple construct, but it helped shut out the world for a moment, and she closed her eyes. She focused upon letting the world's essence, rather than its presence, fill her. She tried to feel for the trace of elemental Spirit in all things. Starting first with herself, as a living thing in which Spirit was always strongest. She imagined breathing it in from the air.
In the darkness behind Wynn's eyelids, she held on to the simple pattern stroked upon the floor as she called up another image. She saw Shade's father—Chap—in her mind's eye and held on to him as well.
