by Barb Hendee
“Can you direct us to an inn?” he asked in Numanese.
The fine-boned man in a long shift of saffron cotton over matching pantaloons looked up—and up—at the tall an’Cróan. After an instant of shock, he smiled and pointed down the way at a two-story tan building. Leesil couldn’t be sure, but the whole place looked as though it was all made of dried brown clay.
“Our thanks,” Brot’an said.
As the man shrugged with a smile and walked on, Brot’an didn’t move. Instead he glanced back, his amber eyes moving over Chap, Magiere, Leesil, and finally Wayfarer. He exhaled audibly.
“One more time we take rooms at an inn,” he said flatly, and the notion didn’t appear to please him. “Tomorrow we try to find another ship.”
In spite of Leesil’s disgust at ever agreeing with Brot’an, his thoughts echoed one more time. He wondered how many more times there would be until all of this was over, and they could finally go home.
• • •
Two evenings after Chane had given Wynn the scant description of the messenger, he once again sat in his room at the guild with little to do. After her cursory visit at dusk, she had taken that brooding elf to the main hall for supper.
Chane had no desire to join them, to sit at a crowded table, pretending to eat, while Wynn slathered pity all over Osha, who would pick at his food and speak to her in Elvish. Chane had already suffered through that once the night after Osha’s arrival. He would not repeat it again.
Instead he paged through a history text not intended for public use and fought to read the complex and compact Begaine symbols. If he could master these, he would be more help to Wynn in her research—unlike Osha. In fairness to Kyne, the girl was an adequate teacher, and her natural talent with texts and languages was enviable; he was progressing quickly enough.
Chane turned another page.
Later he was uncertain what pulled his attention.
Something made him look up to his room’s outer door . . . as the wall beside it appeared to shift. He grabbed the hilt of his longsword leaning against the desk and stripped off its sheath as he rose, his legs shoving his chair back with a scrape across the floor.
Gray wall stones bulged inward as something pushed through them. The color of stone flowed away as a cloak’s hood overshadowing a broad face surfaced out of the wall.
Chane relaxed—and frowned irritably—as he set his sword’s mottled dwarven steel blade on the desktop’s side.
Thudding footfalls landed upon floor stones. A cloaked and stout hulk, easily twice as wide as Wynn but no taller, stood within the room. One overly broad hand pulled back the hood, and a stocky dwarf looked Chane up and down after a glance at the sword.
“Could you not use the door for once?” Chane rasped.
“I did not wish to be heard knocking,” Ore-Locks replied. “Especially after our last outing in this keep.”
Chane had no response for that, considering what his . . . friend . . . ally . . . or something less definable had done in helping to free Wynn from confinement here not long ago.
Beardless, something uncommon for male dwarves, Ore-Locks’s red hair flowed to the shoulders of an iron-colored wool cloak. Though he looked young, perhaps thirty by human standards—so likely sixty or more for a dwarf—Chane knew better.
Ore-Locks was older than that, because of his life among the Hassäg’kreigi—the “Stonewalkers”—of Dhredze Seatt, the caretakers for their people’s honored dead. He no longer wore a stonewalker’s armor of steel-tipped black leather scales, though he still bore their twin battle daggers upon his belt. But the stout dwarven sword sheathed on his belt, and the long iron staff in his large hand, were both a bad sign.
Why would he feel the need to travel fully armed?
He was dressed plainly in brown breeches and a natural canvas shirt, and Chane saw the burnt-orange wool tabard through the split of the dwarf’s cloak. Again, not a good sign.
Ore-Locks had donned his past travel disguise as a holy shirvêsh of Bedzâ’kenge—“Feather-Tongue”—the Eternal, or dwarven saint, of history, tradition, and wisdom.
Chane had once been enemies with this dwarf, but by the end of their journey to Bäalâle Seatt—a fallen civilization of the dwarves—they had forged something between them that led to an unexplainable trust. Even Wynn had entrusted the dwarf with the safety of the orb of Earth.
However, Ore-Locks did not make social calls.
“What has happened?” Chane asked.
Ore-Locks leaned his iron staff against the wall and stepped closer. “Someone breached the underworld . . . managed to get through the portal below the market in Chemarré.”
“That is not possible.”
Frowning, Ore-Locks glanced away. “We think the would-be thief must have slipped through unseen when the portal was opened to bring down supplies.”
“Would-be thief?”
“Whoever it was headed straight for the . . . the spot through which Wynn was first taken to the hidden pocket in the earth where we store the ancient texts for the guild. The same place, with no physical entrance, where I had the orb hidden.”
Chane went silent, more than alarmed now.
Wynn had removed a small wealth of ancient texts—written by the first vampires to walk the world—from the library of the six-towered castle in the Pock Peaks of the eastern continent. This was the same place where Chane had stumbled upon the scroll that he brought to her later. Upon Wynn’s return to her own guild branch, her superiors had confiscated all the texts and given them to the Stonewalkers for safekeeping. One or two stonewalkers were occasionally given the task of bringing certain texts to the guild for the ongoing translation work.
This was done with great secrecy, and only guild superiors had access to the material.
At present Chane was far more worried about the orb.
“You have to move it,” he said.
Ore-Locks shook his head. “The orb is safe where it is. Only a member of my caste could walk through stone to it, let alone know where it is . . . though . . . that wall in line with the deeper cave pocket was where the interloper was spotted. All clan leaders and constabularies have been alerted with a description of the thief.”
“You do not have him in custody?”
Stonewalkers could move through any earth and stone, and nothing could elude them. They had once even pinned down the wraith Sau’ilahk.
Ore-Locks drew himself to full height with a long exhale. “No, she—or he—vanished.”
Chane’s whole body tightened: he had heard a similar uncertain description too recently.
“What do you mean, ‘she or he’?”
Ore-Locks settled in the chair before the desk as if weary, which was not like him. “I only caught the barest glimpse of the intruder. My brethren were closing in when the interloper simply disappeared. I had barely arrived at that particular cave and . . . was hit in the face by a strange wind. The others shared what they saw, claiming it was either a tall woman or a slender man, human by build and wearing a black cloak, gloves, and a mask. Master Cinder-Shard ordered a full search that uncovered nothing.”
Suddenly Chane needed to sit as well. Cinder-Shard was the leader of the Stonewalkers, the most skilled among them.
“When did this happen?”
“The night before last. I came as soon as I could after the search and preparations. When I did not find Wynn in her room, I came looking for you, as you should both be informed.”
Chane locked eyes with Ore-Locks. At a guess, Stonewalkers could make the journey here in less than a day by quickly passing through stone and earth. But there was something more disturbing about the timing of certain events.
“Three nights ago someone matching that description brought a message here for a young apprentice sage . . . from the young man’s homeland.”
Ore-Locks
straightened up in his chair, his mouth partly open but silent as he stared at Chane.
Chane stood up, heading for the door. “We need to find Wynn. She must be told.”
Ore-Locks rose instantly. “I cannot be seen here. You know this.”
Chane looked back, seeing the torn expression on the dwarf’s face.
Ore-Locks might be an ally, but if his brethren learned that he had come here . . .
The Stonewalkers guarded their secrets with a vengeance. Should word get back to Cinder-Shard that Ore-Locks had been seen on guild grounds—with Chane or Wynn—then Ore-Locks could suffer serious consequences.
“I will tell her,” Chane said. “Go back before you are spotted. We will investigate from here and try to learn about this intruder . . . messenger . . . and the young sage who received the letters. There may be something more to that. I will let you know, if I can.”
Still appearing troubled, Ore-Locks retrieved his staff. “Do not fear for the orb. No one can reach it.”
“It was good to see you,” Chane said without thinking—and then felt uncomfortable about this, as it was so uncommon for him. Chane was thankful that Ore-Locks did not respond in kind and only nodded once before sinking into the room’s stone wall.
• • •
In the keep’s common hall, Wynn finished her supper of lentil stew and grain bread while attempting safe conversation with Osha—and that was becoming more difficult. Worse, Shade didn’t care for lentils, and, after a couple of halfhearted laps from her bowl on the floor, a broken barrage of memory-words kept popping into Wynn’s head.
—Meat?—
“No, this is all there is.”
—Fish?—
“Eat and just be quiet.”
—Cheese!—
Wynn sighed.
“Here,” Osha said, and he tossed a large piece of bread spread with thick butter at the dog.
He hadn’t needed any memory-words from Shade to understand, and she snapped the bread in midflight. It was gone in three chomps.
With a frown at Shade, Wynn rose from the bench. “Shall we take her outside?”
All around them, other sages glanced or outright stared at Osha. He had tried not to attract attention, but that was pointless.
As far as the company Wynn had kept here at the guild, Chane had been a curiosity and Shade more so. But Osha’s height, eyes, and more deeply tan skin and whiter blond hair than a typical Lhoin’na—the elves of this continent—drew far more attention than he or Wynn would have desired. And more so if any gawker knew from where he had truly come.
Still, Wynn felt it was best to drag him out of his room for supper. If nothing else, he was less likely to start prodding her about their past, although she still had many questions about what had happened to him, about his changes, since she’d left him nearly two years ago.
A walk in the courtyard would do him good as well. Together the three of them left the hall and made their way down the passage to the entry alcove. Just as they reached it, one of the huge main doors swung open.
Chane walked in, appearing openly relieved at the sight of her. Then he glowered briefly at Osha.
Wynn didn’t have time for the “boys” and their mutual distaste.
“Something happened?” she asked in alarm.
Chane looked both ways, and his gaze settled on the door of a nearby seminar room. “In there,” he rasped before walking over.
“Chane, no!” she whispered loudly. The room would be empty at this time, but Wynn did not like the idea of a premin or domin coming along and catching them talking.
“Hurry,” he insisted.
With her mouth pursed, she followed him in, and perhaps if Shade hadn’t been the last one to enter, Chane might have shut the door in Osha’s face.
Wynn pulled out her small cold-lamp crystal, swiped it hard down her robe for the heat of friction, and the crystal ignited with dull light. The small room was empty but for rows of wooden benches all facing two chairs and a single lectern at the back wall.
“What is wrong?” she whispered.
Chane glanced sidelong, just once, at Osha—who glared back—before he said, “Ore-Locks visited me only moments ago.”
At that Wynn fell silent and let Chane speak. Ore-Locks wouldn’t come here unless it was important. But as Chane recounted the story he’d heard from the dwarf, Wynn’s stomach began growing tighter and tighter.
That someone . . . someone else . . . had breached the dwarven underworld seemed impossible. That this someone had gone straight for the wall through which Wynn had been dragged to the ancient texts a season ago was even worse. When Chane assured her that the orb Ore-Locks held in custody was safe, that wasn’t quite enough to quell her fear.
Someone had somehow still known where to look for that orb and gone straight to that wall, even though only a stonewalker could reach the tiny pocket in the mountain that held the texts and the orb of Earth.
“The invader was briefly seen,” Chane added.
Panic took hold of Wynn again when Chane described the would-be thief.
“Ore-Locks is certain?” she managed to ask. “That’s what he saw?”
Osha and Shade were both quiet through this exchange, but Shade was watching Chane, and Osha was watching Wynn.
“Yes,” Chane answered, “though he only caught a glimpse of the invader with his own eyes. Others of his caste described someone attired too much like the messenger who brought letters for Nikolas and Premin Hawes.”
Wynn stood there trying to breathe.
“How far Dhredze Seatt?” Osha asked in Belaskian. “Enough time?”
That was exactly what was on Wynn’s mind. If the messenger and the would-be thief were the same person, then even if a ship had been prearranged and waiting . . .
“I do not think so,” Chane said. “There was not enough time to make the journey to the seatt, let alone breach the underworld, from when the letters were delivered.”
Perhaps the thief and messenger were not connected at all, and their similar appearances were a coincidence. After the past two years, and all that had happened surrounding the orbs, Wynn did not believe in coincidences.
A greater fear flooded her.
Only Sau’ilahk, the wraith, knew that the dwarven underworld was involved with the texts. Only he might guess at where an orb could be hidden, considering that Ore-Locks had been seen with her and Chane when they’d gone to Bäalâle Seatt. Sau’ilahk had even invaded the dwarven underworld in following Wynn there before she’d learned of that lost dwarven city.
The Stonewalkers had cast out Sau’ilahk, or at least they first thought he had been finished off. But what if it wasn’t the wraith but some other new minion? Sau’ilahk had been—was—a conjuror whose skills and power had grown over a thousand years.
Or . . .
Was another faction who served the Ancient Enemy now on the move, somehow having gained clues in trying to seek out orbs on this continent?
Either way, someone had brought Nikolas a message from his father, who in turn had requested texts on folklore going back as far as possible to the Forgotten History.
“I have to speak to Premin Hawes,” she said quietly. “Now.”
• • •
Down in Premin Hawes’s study, Wynn rambled out the entire story, the interloper and messenger descriptions, and all of her hypotheses while barely taking a breath. Shade stood listening at her side and for once wasn’t causing trouble or sniffing in corners where she shouldn’t.
Hawes sat in the corner armchair and listened with her typical cold expression, which could unnerve anyone. But when Wynn finished and finally sucked a breath, she was already too frantic to be affected by the premin’s chilling stare.
“What do you think?” she asked. “What should we do?”
Premin Hawes di
dn’t answer. Her gray-hazel eyes shifted, looking here and there but not at anything specific, at least as far as Wynn could tell.
“Domin High-Tower approved Nikolas’s leave of absence, along with funding,” she finally said. “Nikolas sails the day after tomorrow for the small port of Oléron on the southern end of Witeny’s coast. From there he can arrange transport by land to the duchy.”
The premin’s eyes came back to Wynn’s face.
“I cannot accompany him,” the premin added. “I have too much . . . There are preparations to finish for the pending expedition.”
Wynn started slightly. She knew exactly what “expedition,” as Hawes had told her of this guild secret in confidence. Some factions of the guild’s upper ranks were planning to launch a journey to the eastern continent, back to the Pock Peaks to the library of the six-towered castle, where Wynn had found the ancient texts. She’d brought back only a small fraction of what existed there.
This was beyond foolhardy for a pack of defenseless sages!
Magiere and Leesil had locked away a thousand-year-old Noble Dead—one of the first thirteen called the Children—in a cavern beneath that castle. Wynn had no certainty that the undead called Li’kän had not escaped, or would not.
Hawes had mentioned that the documented reason for the expedition would simply be to help expand and stock the small but growing guild annex in Bela, on the west coast of the eastern continent. However, Wynn suspected that Premin Hawes was working in quiet ways to ensure that the expedition never took place.
Wynn noticed that Shade had slipped around to her other side and now sat staring in the corner between Hawes’s old armchair and the back wall’s closest bookcase.
“Shade,” she whispered, patting her leg.
The dog looked up, glanced once more into that hidden corner, and finally sidled over next to Wynn.
“You will go with Nikolas,” Hawes said suddenly. “If there is a connection between the messenger and the other who breached the Stonewalkers’ realm . . .”
The premin never finished, but Wynn knew what was expected of her, what she had wanted in the first place: to go with Nikolas and find any trail to anyone after the orbs. She was then caught off guard by a strange sight.
