by Barb Hendee
"But it followed you," Ore-Locks stated.
Chane waited, but Wynn did not answer immediately.
"I've nothing to say to you," she answered. "Not with what I know. Not with what you worship!"
Ore-Locks's eyes narrowed, but Chane was confused by Wynn's words. What did she mean?
The dwarf lifted his chin, teeth clenched between barely parted lips. Chane set himself, watching for Ore-Locks's slightest move.
"That thing in there," Wynn went on. "Somehow, he was responsible. … Whatever brought down Bäalâle Seatt … that mass murderer did it."
"No!" Ore-Locks snarled, and took a step.
Chane instantly shifted into his way.
"Then why is he here?" Wynn demanded. "Why else would Thallûhearag's representation be put aside, separated even from the Fallen Ones?"
Ore-Locks's jaw muscles clenched in mute outrage, and Chane understood what was in that small chamber. He remembered all Wynn had told him concerning Bäalâle Seatt and a forgotten title feared by the few who knew of it and wished to forget it.
Chane tried to calm himself. He needed to wash his thoughts clean if he were to have any chance at sensing deception in the dwarf's words. Letting go of everything, trying to ignore hunger and how he had recklessly injured Wynn, he closed his eyes.
But the only thing he could find to soothe him was a memory.
There had been one brief moment when he had sneaked into the guild's library with Wynn. With her so close, guiding him into her world, he had stopped and looked upon all of the volumes placed so orderly upon the shelves.
"He is not one of them!" Ore-Locks shouted. "Not as claimed by the few who remember only his title … and not his name. I have known him since I was a child, though I did not understand until later who touched me—called me through blood. He cannot be what they claim … not as my ancestor!"
Chane remained placid in that quiet memory of the library, letting each word pass through him. Though the beast moaned at his complacency, no discomforting twinge rose within him. He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on Ore-Locks.
The dwarf was not lying—or at least he believed his own words. Chane turned his head enough to glance at Wynn. He nodded at her, hoping she understood.
Wynn blinked at him, her brow wrinkling slightly.
"Now you owe me—in barter!" Ore-Locks said. "What do you know of the black spirit that followed you here?"
Wynn hesitated.
"Only that it is an undead," she answered. "One form of what is known in the Farlands as the Vneshené Zomrelé—the Noble Dead … though it isn't physical, like the type more commonly dealt with."
"Physical?" Ore Locks repeated.
Wynn shook her head. "That doesn't matter. … We're dealing with a powerful spirit, which can become corporeal in part or whole for brief periods. We believe it is a conjuror, one so old its power and skill are like nothing heard of before. But like any undead—or most—it can be injured by sunlight."
"Then it is impervious in our underworld," Ore-Locks countered.
Wynn took one step forward, passing her hand before Shade's face.
"No," she returned, "not if I have the staff."
Ore-Locks cocked his head, his eyes narrowed in doubt, but Wynn quickly went on.
"The key to stopping it is to find out what it wants! Get me access to the texts you are holding for the guild!"
Ore-Locks said nothing. Chane tensed at the dwarf's steady gaze upon Wynn—as if the Stonewalker actually considered her demand. Had Wynn finally gained them an ally here? But was it one they even wanted or could trust?
"That can wait," someone else called out.
Chane twisted about, looking around and then up.
Duchess Reine, her elven companion, and the master Stonewalker stood above, a dozen or more steps up the stairs. Chane had not heard the iron doors above slide open.
The elf stood lowest, in the lead, gazing down upon Wynn. He held the staff in his hand, its crystal unsheathed.
"I also have questions, Wynn Hygeorht," he said flatly. "But I am not here to barter."
Chane slipped in behind Wynn and gently touched her unharmed shoulder. A rush of relief came, along with guilt, when she pressed back against him. Monster though he was, besides Shade, he was all she had.
Did he too often take advantage of that?
He whispered in Wynn's ear, "Stay close. Listen for what I tell you."
Reine stood upon the curving stairs between Chuillyon below and Cinder-Shard above her. She was dazed and aching from their silent method of entrance. Chuillyon had hoped to catch whatever the captives might be discussing before revealing their presence. But the nonsense Reine heard made her want to snatch the staff from him and leave this place.
That wasn't possible until Cinder-Shard opened the portal.
She'd seen the Chamber of the Fallen only a few times, but always from the landing above. By the light of the sage's crystal, it was disturbing in its dark simplicity—more so because Ore-Locks was here. He was the last person who should be alone with this manipulative, mad sage, who'd already used him once.
"What are you doing here?" Cinder-Shard growled.
Ore-Locks rounded the great brass seal away from Wynn and approached the stairway's base. His chin lifted, but he didn't look to his master. Instead he eyed Chuillyon and the staff.
"I came for answers," Ore Locks replied. "More than the ones you seek."
Cinder-Shard gently pushed Reine against the wall and stepped down behind Chuillyon.
"You are out of place!" Cinder-Shard nearly shouted. "The others already see to our people's defense—as you should!"
"I am seeing to my people!"
Cinder-Shard turned his head, looking off to the chamber's far side.
Reine tried to follow his strange shift of attention. At first she had no idea what he was doing. Then she saw a black opening between two stone figures. It was directly below the landing above.
She'd never come down the stairs before, so had never seen it. What was in there? Obviously not another way out, or Cinder-Shard wouldn't have placed captives here.
Cinder-Shard stepped off the stairway's edge. As his boots landed upon the chamber floor, a dull thunder echoed into the heights.
"What have you done?" he demanded. "What have you told them?"
"Nothing," Ore-Locks answered. "Nothing more than what the sage read for herself."
Cinder-Shard sagged under some unseen burden, almost like a mourner in a graveyard. He ran a large hand over his face and turned his eyes on Wynn.
"You … you can read the ancient vubrí?"
All this time, Wynn had merely watched and listened. The wolf stood rigid before her and Chane behind her, his cowl pulled up and his hand upon her shoulder. She drew back against him, as if seeking refuge beneath his chin.
"Yes, I can read them," she answered. "As well as some other old writings … like those in the texts."
"So obviously you are well studied," Chuillyon interjected. "Perhaps you even think you know more than your superiors. What have you learned of this person you call … the wraith?"
The change of subject threw Reine off guard, and she didn't care for his new approach.
Wynn Hygeorht had no guard on her tongue and no respect for her guild's authority. She had a way of making superiors seem at fault for the horror and death of the past half moon—which began with two dead sages in an alley. The royal family treasured the guild, and Reine had no interest in any more of this upstart's insinuations.
Still, Chuillyon, Cinder-Shard, and even bitter old Bulwark all believed this mage was something more—something out of Wynn's wild tales. Reine couldn't bring herself to think of such nonsense, not in the face of a more real threat. She had Frey to protect.
"It's old," Wynn finally replied, "perhaps older than even First Glade."
What did that mean? Another pause passed.
"Forgive me," Chuillyon answered, "but I fail to understand your compar
ison."
"Lie!"
Wynn stiffened at Chane's whisper. It was barely a shaped breath, but she'd heard it just the same. How was he doing this—and was he right? She studied the puzzled frown upon Chuillyon's triangular face, but she couldn't see any sign of deception.
Chane squeezed her shoulder lightly for emphasis.
Her reference to First Glade had nothing to do with getting to the texts, but she couldn't help that one opportune prod. There was no telling when or if she might get another chance.
She'd grown up believing elves the best of all people, of all races. But after the deceit in dealing with the Anmaglâhk of the Farlands' elves, and learning one hint of the hidden history of First Glade, those experiences had left her suspicious. How much subterfuge was there among the elves of her continent—and among their branch of her own guild?
Then there was still the issue of Thallûhearag, Bäalâle Seatt … and Ore-Locks.
The way Cinder-Shard's face had twisted in sudden anguish, as he looked into the mass murderer's chamber, left Wynn frightened. He clearly knew what had called Ore-Locks to service, and the master Stonewalker had still taken in the young dwarf. How many corruptions did she now face? How many enemies surrounded her, even from avenues she'd once thought beyond question?
"You have nothing to stop the wraith," she said to Chuillyon, ignoring even the duchess. "And the staff will work only for me."
Chuillyon stepped all the way down and set the staff's butt upon the floor.
"What is it?" he asked too politely. "What does its crystal do?"
Wynn looked his robe up and down, its color mockingly white and pure.
"It is imbued with the sun's power, the nature of its light," she answered. "Sunlight is … destructive to all undead."
"So this is what you used to face it the last time?" he asked, turning the staff in his hand.
Its crystal cast faint colored glimmers around the chamber as its prism caught light from her cold lamp crystal.
"Yes," Wynn replied.
"Then it was hardly effective," Chuillyon answered.
"Enough nonsense!" Cinder-Shard cut in. "Even if … How would such a thing be made?"
"You would have to ask Domin il'Sänke," Wynn answered.
"How convenient!" Reine spit. "The domin she speaks of is from the guild's Suman branch. And he has returned home, well beyond questioning."
"It was created at my guild," Wynn countered. "From what I understand, Premin Sykion nearly fainted when she learned of its cost. Ask her … or Premin Hawes, head of Metaology."
"And from what I understand," the duchess responded coldly, "the guild took you in as an orphan, raised you, fed you … educated you, and trained you as one of them. And you thanked them with your selfish ploys!"
Wynn couldn't help flushing with anger.
"The wraith is here for something," she said. "Until you know what that is, you won't know for certain what it will do … how it will act."
"And you would know of this?" Chuillyon asked.
"I can help only if you help me," Wynn answered.
Cinder-Shard raised his dark eyebrows. "In what way?"
"Give me my staff and my belongings … give me access to the texts."
"No!" Reine cut in.
"Then you'll die," Wynn said flatly. "You'll probably die anyway. The wraith wants those texts, and it will kill anyone in its path to reach them. But why? Unless I learn that, you're fighting blind."
She looked at Chuillyon again. "Can you read old tongues … Iyindu, Heiltak lettering … old Stravinan or Belaskian?"
He shrugged idly with a raised feathery eyebrow. "Some."
"Lie!" Chane breathed behind Wynn.
A lie about what? Could Chuillyon read such languages more—or less—than he implied?
"Can you?" Chuillyon challenged. "Or is this another boast … upon which we base our slim chance of survival?"
Wynn was careful not to show any reaction. His tone implied he did know old languages, as if he might actually be a sage. This was the only way he could ever judge whether she "boasted" or not. So if he could read dead languages, why bother with her?
He was baiting her, but to what purpose?
"Yes," she answered. "Well enough that I might find something useful. After all, I was raised … cared for … and educated"—and she cast a glance at the duchess—"inside a guild branch."
Chuillyon pursed his lips and fell silent.
Cinder-Shard seemed to calm suddenly. He glanced at Chuillyon, and the old elf merely nodded to him.
"So, you have raced this thing to gain the texts," Cinder-Shard said.
It seemed too obvious a comment, and Wynn grew warier.
"And thkyensmyotnes will continue to try to stop you," Chuillyon added, his expression growing thoughtful.
"No!" Chane hissed. "You will not—"
"No one is speaking to you!" Cinder-Shard growled.
"Wynn," Chane whispered, "they are trying to—"
"I know," she answered.
The wraith knew both she and the texts were here. It had killed to gain translations sent to scribe shops in Calm Seatt for clean transcription. But rather than searching their content and leaving them behind, it had always taken those pages. Whatever it sought, it didn't want others to find as well. Either it hadn't found what it was after, or it wanted to keep others from doing the same. It had followed her, in her search for the originals, so it had some way of tracking or locating her.
Chuillyon wasn't baiting her; he was making her into bait.
"Yes," Chuillyon whispered.
Wynn tensed slightly, and Chane's grip tightened upon her shoulder. "What you learn of thkyensmyotnes's goals may help us—or not," Chuillyon added. "Either way, you will tell us all you discover … in exchange for access to the texts."
"Chuillyon!" Reine gasped.
He raised a hand to silence her.
"At the least," he went on to Wynn, "if it knows you are here, it might be more direct … less cautious … in returning. Will you consent to this?"
Wynn hesitated. They offered what she wanted, but at a price.
Chuillyon had called the wraith by another term. She knew it from delving into old folktales of her people. The elf knew more of the wraith than she'd guessed—and Cinder-Shard did as well, from his shout in the main cavern.
Wynn reached up, putting her hand over Chane's.
"Later I will need his help," she said. "He knows more about fighting the wraith than any of you. Give him back his belongings … and his sword."
Chuillyon shook his head emphatically. "Absolutely not." He pointed at Chane. "We do not want to arm that one."
"Then delve into the texts yourself," Wynn returned. "Choose."
It was a bluff, and likely the elf knew it, but no one else did. If he called her on it in front of the others, it would simply be based on what everyone knew of her: that she would want the texts no matter what. If he succumbed to her conditions, the others might not think much of it, but Wynn would know what it meant.
Chuillyon knew less than he let on, or … he had more to hide with his deceptions than Wynn could guess.
She wasn't certain whether he suppressed a soft smile, but he just stood there watching her, not saying a word. Silence lingered so long that the duchess crept down behind him, a frown growing on her face. Still, Chuillyon stood poised with the staff resting lightly in his grip.
It was Cinder-Shard who finally answered, looking to the duchess.
"Have one of your men bring their gear. If they wish to survive, they will fight and do as they are told. I will take the sage to the texts … with your permission."
He waited upon her reply, as if all had to be in agreement. The texts belonged to the guild but were ultimately under the protection of the monarchy of Malourné. The Stonewalkers were merely guardians.
Reine appeared suddenly weary. "Do what you think best."
"Very well," Cinder-Shard replied, and without turning back
, added, "and Ore-Locks will come. He will stay with the sage and watch her while we attend to other matters."
Wynn didn't care for that. There was no telling what private agenda Ore-Locks had—let alone that his superior appeared to know of the young Stonewalker's ancestor. Cinder-Shard stepped closer.
"You will share all you learn. When you finish, you will report such findings to the princess and myself."
Wynn glanced at Reine's poorly hidden distaste. Cinder-Shard wasn't making a request, but Wynn answered.
"Agreed."
Chapter 21
Upon the landing, Wynn watched Cinder-Shard and Ore-Locks walk straight through the iron door. An instant later, its first outer panel began grinding open and another realization struck: Cinder-Shard had simply entered by walking through stone—or iron, as it were. Anything of the earth must submit to their passage. But that didn't explain the duchess's and Chuillyon's presence with the doors closed.
The innermost door slid away, and Cinder-Shard stood blocking the archway. He looked first at Chane.
"You and the wolf remain here until she finishes," he ordered. "I will leave the archway open if you swear to stay unless called."
Wynn glanced nervously at Chane.
His irises still lacked any trace of brown. Her shoulder was only scratched beneath the tears in her tunic, but she understood why he'd accidentally injured her. His hunger had returned, and it was growing. How many days had passed since she'd procured the goat's blood for him?
Worse, he swayed slightly, blinking slowly as he glared at Cinder-Shard. Was dawn approaching outside the mountain?
"It's all right," she told him. "I'm in no danger at present … you rest."
She thought he might argue, but he merely answered, "Remember what I told you."
The comment lost her at first. All he'd said to her since the duchess's arrival was one word—Lie. Then she understood, careful not to glance at Chuillyon, but getting Shade to wait as well was another matter.
The instant Wynn said, "Stay," Shade snarled. Wynn grabbed the dog's face, hoping no one asked what she was doing. She recalled memories of the long day in the guild's catacombs, when she'd first gained the codex and translations. She hoped Shade understood what she was going to do. She finished by saying, "Stay with Chane."
