Through Stone and Sea

Chapter 9

Duchess Reine Faunier-Âreskynna followed Master Cinder-Shard out of the stage's far exit. The passage widened enough for three, and Chuillyon and Captain Tristan stepped in beside her. Her other two Weardas guards, Danyel and Saln, came last, followed by five Stonewalkers bearing Hammer-Stag's remains.

No one spoke, and Reine kept her eyes on Cinder-Shard's large boots.

The official claim was that Hammer-Stag's heart had failed from strain, but other rumors had reached Reine at her inn in Sea-Side. Few details were forthcoming, and gossip and speculation varied too much. She inquired at a local clan's constabulary post but learned no more—other than that three more unexplained deaths—a Suman, and later two Northlanders—had been discovered less than a day before the thänæ's body was found.

This, as much as paying respects to an old savior, drove Reine to the final public ceremony. Now she dared not look back at the litter. Even so, she couldn't stop seeing Hammer-Stag's face in her mind—as he was now and when they'd last met, years ago.

Her husband had gone missing in a small sailing craft.

Hammer-Stag and two of his clan had brought Freädherich safely home. At that time, the thänæ's face had the mottled gray undertones of his people. Though venerable by human standards, he was of good age for a dwarf. He had strength and a spark of presence that could goad anyone out of worry and fear. When he sat with her and the royal family, assuring them that all was well with the young prince, his exaggeration still brought them momentary respite.

As the procession took another turn, Reine spotted a deep and broad arch halfway down the next passage's left wall. When they approached, she found wide double doors of iron set more than a yard deep. There was no latch or lock, no visible way to open them. Only a smooth seam showed where they separated. She looked about the archway for any mechanisms, and her attention caught briefly on the surrounding framing stones.

The vubrí of the five tribes and twenty-seven clans were engraved there. When she came to that of the Meerschaum clan, she turned to stare at Hammer-Stag's cloth-draped corpse.

When she'd stopped upon the stage, he'd looked ashen in death, and much too old. She couldn't be certain what it meant, not even after the deaths of the sages so recent in memory. A chill crept up her spine.

"Are you cold, my lady?" Chuillyon asked.

Reine looked up at his feathery eyebrows drawn together beneath his lined forehead.

"No," she whispered and closed her eyes.

She slipped back to one night, farther back than Hammer-Stag's kindness or even the first of her husband's disappearances, back to a happier time. It was a place in memory she often went that still connected her to a life of pretense and a reason for bearing loss.

The first time Reine met Freädherich—Frey—had been on her first visit to Calm Seatt, some seven years past… .

King Jacqui Amornon Faunier—or rather Uncle Jac—had been invited for another royal visit to Malourné. He was told to bring whomever he pleased among his family.

Reine's own parents had passed on long ago, and she'd inherited the duchy. It had never sat well with her. The weight of her station frustrated her, as did nobles sniffing about, circling in upon the unwed niece of a king. Uncle Jac hadn't once pressured her about this.

He politely dealt with all suitors, for any engagement to her had to be approved by him, and he would never consent unless she did. He handled Faunier's noble houses with great care whenever one sent a son, brother, or nephew seeking a royal alliance by marriage. Some were not so bad, but Reine had grown tired of being a desired acquisition.

And so, Uncle Jac insisted that his favorite niece—his only niece—join him on this visit with their nation's staunch ally. His wife, Evonné, would remain to oversee affairs of state, so he needed good feminine company, someone only half as wild as his two sons.

Reine didn't mind, nor was she fooled by his excuse. Uncle always had her happiness at heart, and she did love the freedom to be abroad at will. It was the way of the Faunier, horse people by ancestry.

She loved her homeland, especially the eastern granite steppes, where she could stand upon high stone ledges and look back across her native land. But a more distant excursion would take her beyond the reach of suitors, if only for a short while. She readily agreed to accompany her uncle for a chance to visit Calm Seatt.

The splendid city didn't disappoint her, and she couldn't help finding the third castle of the Âreskynna a marvel. However, upon meeting the royals of Malourné, Reine felt distinctly out of place.

They were too tall, too pale, too blond, seeming to float in a detached somber serenity rather than walk naturally upon the earth. They made her welcome enough, but even in their reserved hospitality, there was something not quite right in their aquamarine eyes.

Reine especially noted this on the first night.

A grand banquet was held in her uncle's honor. Along with him and her two cousins, Edelard and Felisien, Reine entered a lavish hall on one upper floor of the third castle. Three Weardas in red tabards stood to either side of the open white doors. And within the long and tall chamber, scores of people in evening regalia gathered in clusters.

They sipped from crystal goblets and polished pewter tankards while waiting to go down to dinner. The place was filled with the humming buzz of their low chatter—and a strange light.

Reine looked up to high iron chandeliers, three in all, along the domed roof. Each bore a host of oil-fed lanterns, their flames caged inside perfect glass balls in varied tints. They reminded her of fishermen's floats she'd seen on a brief pass near the city's northern piers.

King Leofwin of Malourné and his wife Queen Muriel Witon, disengaged from two serious-faced men Reine would later know as Baron Âdweard Twynam and his son, Jason. The monarchs came straight for her uncle, ushering him off after friendly greetings passed between the families.

"There he is!" Edelard declared, pointing, and Felisien leaned over to look along his brother's arm. "Come on … I'll introduce you."

Both were off, forgetting their elder cousin. Only Felisien stopped halfway and glanced back. With surprise on his lean, rather pretty face, he swung his head with a smile, urging her to follow.

Reine just shook her head.

Felisien rolled his eyes. Prim as a peacock in his glistening long coat, he went after his brother, and Reine glanced about the room.

Not one other lady present was dressed in a split riding skirt over breeches and high polished boots. Oh, yes, her attire was made of satins and elven sheot'a, as fine and proper as any royal among her people. But it wasn't like theirs. Among the men, she saw a number of officers, some bearing arms, a sword or dagger—but not the women.

Not one wore a horse saber on her hip, like Reine, regardless that it hung from a belt gilded with silver rosettes. All these ladies in their floor-length gowns and robes left Reine feeling … foreign.

She would never let it show, but she didn't care to ride into this kind of wilderness. She tried tucking her saber a little farther behind her and then stopped. Why should she be embarrassed by who and what she was? She let the blade hang in plain sight.

Cousin Edelard had set in renewing his acquaintance with Prince Leäfrich Âreskynna, each dressed in their fine uniforms. They'd met before on exchanges between the nations' militaries. Felisien was pestering a young officer with his raffish banter. The younger dazzle-eyed sublieutenant looked almost as uncomfortable under such attention as Reine felt in the hall. Amid the men were three ladies. Reine had met the tallest briefly that morning.

Princess Âthelthryth Âreskynna, heir to Malourné's throne, stood close to her brother.

Reine knew the ways of court and how to deal with its society and ploys. But as much as the Âreskynna were hospitable in their aloof way, there had to be better and more interesting places to wait until dinner. She backed one step toward the doors and …

Âthelthryth turned her head on her long neck and stared straight at Reine with her family's deep aquamarine eyes. The princess's lithe form turned, sending a gentle sway through a white gauze overskirt atop her pastel sea green gown. She moved—flowed—around her brother toward the chamber hall's doors.

Reine quickly smiled, but under her breath she exhaled. "Oh, give me a horse!"

"Pardon, Highness?" a deep voice asked.

Startled, she glanced aside—then up—into the hard eyes of a Weardas by the doors.

Triple braids on his vestment marked him as an officer, though she didn't know enough to discern his rank. A tuft of dark beard stuck out upon his square jaw.

"Nothing," she answered, then cleared her throat, repeating with disinterest, "It is nothing."

He bowed with only his head.

Reine looked away—straight into the bodice of that sea green gown. She quickly raised her eyes, more and more, until they met the studying gaze of Âthelthryth.

"I've meant to ask," said the princess in an emotionless lilt, "do you know how to use that?"

Confusion stifled Reine until Âthelthryth's focus slowly lowered, and her attention fixed briefly on the saber's protruding hilt.

"Of course," Reine answered softly, on guard for some implied slight.

"Hopefully not on anyone here," returned Âthelthryth, "much as you might wish to cut yourself free of this event."

The barest empathetic smile broke Âthelthryth's tepid serenity.

"You would not be alone in such desire," she added, letting a brief but tired sigh escape. "Regardless of what station requires of us."

With that, Âthelthryth gently took Reine's arm and steered her into the crowded hall.

Lost in confusion and growing discomfort, Reine maintained dignified composure as many an eye turned their way, along with respectful nods at the passing of two ladies of royal blood.

"At least we might keep you from being hunted," Âthelthryth whispered. "Though I've heard you handle predators well enough."

Reine wasn't certain what to make of this. As direct heir to a throne, the princess would have had her share of suitors to fend off. Then they passed Prince Leäfrich's group.

He paused midsentence, though his companions didn't notice in their chatter. Leäfrich glanced at his sister, offering a slight nod of some covert agreement. Then he looked once toward the back of the long chamber.

A shadow of concern raced quickly across the tall prince's face.

Reine tried to follow his gaze. Wherever or whoever he had sought, there were too many people to pick out his target.

Around a cluster of self-amused debutantes, Reine spotted Uncle Jac with the king and queen of Malourné. He smiled at her, though it looked forced, veiling some unspoken worry. King Leofwin, hand-in-hand with Queen Muriel, looked to his daughter.

"Keeping our cousin well cared for?" he asked.

"Always, Father," Âthelthryth answered. "Like my very own."

Familial references were common respect for royalty of allied nations, but it left Reine unsettled—more so when King Leofwin glanced in the same direction that the prince had only moments before. Reine tried again to find their source of concern.

Queen Muriel whispered something in her husband's ear, too soft and low to catch. Leofwin slumped, hanging his head. His eyes clenched shut, and Muriel grasped her husband's hand in both of hers.

"Come," Âthelthryth urged. "Let us find a defensible spot with more room to breathe."

Reine was swept onward before she heard anything more.

What was happening here? And why had her uncle looked as concerned as the Âreskynna?

At the hall's rear, before a tall window of crystal clear panes, stood a fragile-looking young man, his back turned to everyone. He was dressed plainly but elegantly in a white shirt of billowing sleeves beneath a sea green brocade vest. All alone, he faced the outside world, and dangling locks of sandy blond hair hid any glimpse of his face. His shoulders bent forward under some unseen weight, his hands braced upon the sill.

Was this where all wayward glances had turned?

"Freädherich?" whispered Âthelthryth. "Could you keep our cousin company?"

Again that familial term.

It bothered Reine even more—especially as she stared at the younger prince's back. She wouldn't have recognized him as he was now, though she had met him earlier that day. He'd been silent then as well.

"I must see to late arrivals," Âthelthryth said, and still her youngest brother didn't turn.

Reine began to heat up with barely suppressed anger.

For all Uncle Jac's supposed understanding, was he now trying to make her suitor to some foreign prince? Or had the Âreskynna coerced him into this, so quickly executed by Âthelthryth?

Reine turned on her royal "cousin," ready to remove herself, even at the cost of insult—but she held her tongue.

The princess watched her brother with the same wounded concern as had the king and queen and Prince Leäfrich. Then her gaze wandered.

Âthelthryth stared intently out the window beyond Freädherich. Her fixed eyes turned glassy until she blinked suddenly. With a shudder, she pulled Reine back a step.

"Please," she whispered, "decorum's pressure might force him to speak with you."

With a final pained glance at Freädherich, Âthelthryth turned away, gliding back through the crowded room.

Reine was left alone with the young prince, but it only made her ire grow.

She wasn't about to be played, especially under her uncle's betrayal. No wonder he'd fended off suitors in their own land. He'd kept her like a prized purebred to barter for political gain. Why not just throw one of his sons at Âthelthryth and aim directly for the crown of Malourné?

No, that would be pointless. Edelard was already heir of Faunier, and Felisien … well, his numerous indiscretions leaned entirely in another direction.

Reine turned like a cornered fox and cast her spite across the room at Uncle Jac. But King Jacqui only lowered his head with firmly pressed lips, and then cocked it slightly toward Freädherich. All Reine saw in her uncle's face was more concern, and Queen Muriel watched her with frightful expectation.

Reine slowly turned about, frustrated as she gazed at Freädherich's back.

Something more was happening here, aside from an attempt to throw her at the young prince. Much as she wouldn't allow the latter, she stepped closer, coming around two paces off so as not to startle him.

Prince Freädherich was young, certainly a few years younger than she was. Shoulder-length sandy hair framed a long, pale face. His narrow nose looked slightly hooked, but nothing too severe or unappealing. The thin lips of his small mouth were parted, as if his jaw hung slack, and his eyes …

Those eerie aquamarine irises were locked unblinking into the distance outside.

His face was barely a hand's length from the window, and quick, shallow breaths briefly fogged the chilled panes.

"My apologies for the invasion," she said quietly. "This seems the quietest corner of the hall."

He didn't respond or turn from the window.

"I am Duchess Reine Faunier, if you remember," she added. "Except for my uncle and cousins, I'm … unacquainted with anyone here."

Freädherich blinked once. His head turned just a little toward her. His eyes turned last, so reluctant to relinquish the view.

"I don't know anyone but my family," he whispered.

Unlikely for a prince of the realm, Reine thought, unless he had purposely cloistered himself for many years.

His gaze touched hers for an instant before he turned back to the window. It was enough to fill her with a sudden shiver. Over the outer castle wall, she made out the full moon hanging high above the dwarves' distant mountain peninsula. It cast a shimmering road of light across the wide bay and out into the open ocean.

Reine stood rigid, watching Freädherich stare again out the window. She knew that desperate look, or thought she did.

There were times when demands of station, even in her remote duchy, grew too smothering. She would grab her horse bow, perhaps go hunting covey in the scrub, or just ride until exhausted. Her escapes always ended in the high eastern granite steppes. She would stand where the sky was large enough that she no longer felt trapped.

Freädherich gazed the other way, to the west. The desperation on his face wouldn't let Reine back away.

"Then we'll wait here," she said, "and pretend a deep conversation. No one will bother us until dinner is announced."

It was all she could think to say.

Freädherich's eyes shifted her way but not to her face. He glanced over her foreign attire, ending not upon her sword but rather on her calf-high boots. It gave her a notion, something, anything to say.

"Have you chosen a mount for the ride?"

His thin lips parted suddenly, as if her words startled him.

"The tour of the local province?" she urged. "Your father arranged a ride. I have my horses but was wondering about the stock of your stables. I assumed that … you …"

Her voice failed as he shrank upon himself, as if no one had ever tried to force him into conversation like this.

"I don't know how to ride," he said.

"And I do not know how to swim," she answered—then regretted it instantly.

Freädherich slid away along the sill, grown wary at some implied expectation. Reine was suddenly smothered in guilt for her quip. She'd thought only about his longing to escape. Stupidly, mistakenly, she'd frightened him more in turn.

"I can teach you," she added. "With a gentle mount, it wouldn't be difficult."

Freädherich remained silent—then he nodded slightly, just once.

Another stillness hung between them for so long that Reine became self-conscious. This was something she'd seldom felt before coming to this coast among these seafaring people. When she finally grew too uncomfortable, she turned her back to the window and its disturbing view.

That seemingly endless ocean, dark yet with no firm ground to race across, could swallow her into its depths in the first step. Perhaps her ways of horse and plains and steppes were as unsettling to him.

She half sat upon the sill, and to her surprise, he turned and did the same.

But when Freädherich faced the crowd of drinking nobles, panic filled his eyes at the sight of so many people. Not like a child. More like a wild horse spotting roving winter wolves that hadn't yet noticed it. On instinct, Reine slid her hand along the sill to cover his.

Not everyone was watching them—only Uncle Jac and the royals of Malourné. Or at least these were the only ones Reine noticed. The relief in Queen Muriel's face was almost disturbing. King Leofwin took a deep breath, hand on his chest.

Reine was baffled by all of this.

When a finely suited servant rang a silver bell, announcing that dinner would be served, Freädherich's hand tightened upon the sill's edge beneath Reine's. She watched his frantic eyes race about as everyone flowed toward the doors. Then he fixed upon someone across the chamber.

Reine's cousin, Prince Edelard, offered his arm to one lady in their group. Prince Leäfrich did the same for his sister, Âthelthryth.

Freädherich looked down at Reine.

At first, she thought he might spin around, fleeing to the safety of his window view—but he did not. She kept her eyes on his until he calmed and lifted his arm for her. And she took it. They sat together at dinner, talking little throughout the meal—which consisted of more courses than Reine cared for. Afterward, Freädherich grew agitated and nervous again.

"Take me on a tour of the castle," she said.

Without a word, he got up, gripping her chair to slide it out. Reine quickly covered for him, making their excuses. Neither the king nor the queen questioned this and were more than obliging. Uncle Jac appeared pleased, and Reine shot him a cold glare before she took Freädherich's arm and they left. As they wandered through the maze of the castle, coming upon a gallery of family portraits, she had to finally ask.

"Freädherich … is something wrong?"

"You should call me Frey," he said, ignoring the question. "That's what Âthel and Lee call me."

Such nicknames were a little amusing compared to how formal the Âreskynna were with outsiders, but she wouldn't be put off so easily.

"I meant, you seem somewhat beside yourself … elsewhere," she insisted.

Again, her quiet directness startled him. This time he recovered more quickly.

"The ride," he whispered. "Father insists that I go."

That wasn't what was really on his mind, though it obviously bothered him as well. At another evasion, Reine chose not to press him into whatever more uncomfortable thoughts he wouldn't share.

"You don't wish to go?" she asked.

Freädherich—Frey—looked at the floor.

"I don't like horses," he said flatly. "I prefer to sail."

Reine was a bit stunned. Coming from a nation of horse people, she'd never met anyone who feared those proud animals. Then again, perhaps he'd never met anyone afraid of the sea … the endless ocean. Why was she so drawn to protect this strange young man?

On the edge of the next dawn, Reine secretly slipped out to meet him at the stables.

Frey was waiting outside and wouldn't enter until she pulled him in. She showed him the tall mounts her uncle brought in their entourage, but he wouldn't step near even one. When she came to her own three—Cinnamon, Nettle, and Peony—she made him stay put as she led out the latter gentle and dappled mare.

By the time Felisien came searching for her, Reine had already gotten Frey to mount. To her surprise, he learned quickly. And she later learned that he'd been forced onto a soldier's stallion by his elder brother at too early an age. But he'd never been taught in proper fashion to work with a horse. Peony took to him well.

By afternoon, the Weardas and a contingent of cavalry prepared to escort all the royals out for their tour. Reine was mounted atop Cinnamon, her muscular stallion. Frey, still atop Peony, remained at ease so long as he had Reine in his sight.

He worked easily with the calm mare, or rather she with him, even cantering past his father twice, much to everyone's shock. But Frey seldom left Reine's side. If he did, she kept watch on him. When Felisien tried to goad her into a round of tag-arrows on horseback, wheeling his mount in her way, she booted him in the rump. She wasn't about to panic Frey with the sight of such a wild game.

By the time the tour ended, and they'd returned to the castle, Reine decided that she would put off leaving when her family headed home. Something inside her didn't wish to abandon Frey—or that was how she viewed it. Three days later, she went to see off her cousins … her uncle. She hadn't spoken to him since the night of the first banquet.

Uncle Jac, mounted on his plains-bred stallion, looked sternly down at Reine.

"This was only for hope of your happiness," he said, and then added with emphasis, "nothing more. The rest is up to you … and him."

Was all of this truly only seven years ago?

Metal grating upon stone wrenched Reine into the present. She turned about as the iron doors split down their center seam. They slowly parted, sliding into the walls. A second pair began to separate as well, and then a third.

There was Cinder-Shard, on the doors' other side, standing dead center in the widening portal. Reine hadn't even seen him enter.

At his brief wave, the remaining Stonewalkers passed by, bearing Hammer-Stag's body into the chamber. Cinder-Shard turned away out of sight to the portal's left.

"Time to go," Chuillyon said from behind her.

All Reine saw between the chamber's inner rounded walls was an opening in the center of its stone floor. It looked like a shaft as wide as a bailey gate.

Filled with blackness in the low light, that hole seemed to drop straight into the mountain's bowels. She could swear she caught the scent of seawater filling the chamber, perhaps rising from the shaft. It wasn't possible, though she shivered again.

"My lady," Chuillyon said, "did you hear me?"

Reine looked up into his triangular, tan elven faced lined softly with age.

"Pardon?" she said.

"It is time," he answered softly. But as he took a step to lead her on, he paused and became still.

"What?" she asked.

Chuillyon blinked, pivoting his head quickly, and gazed down the outer passage. Reine turned, wondering if they'd been followed. Chuillyon's feathery eyebrows twisted, one cocking higher than the other. With pursed lips, he suddenly smiled and shook his head.

"I'm just getting too old," he muttered. "The mind wanders, I suppose."

Yes, old Chuillyon was becoming a bit odd at times.

Reine forced down all feeling, hardening herself. She stepped through with him, not glancing back as the triple iron doors closed behind her.

"We can't follow yet!" Wynn whispered. "Not without Shade."

Chane scowled down at her.

It was difficult to speak without being overheard. The stands were emptying as the public filed up and out of the amphitheater, but handfuls of dwarves were now carrying tables and benches onto the floor for the impending wake. Wynn tried to keep out of their way as she looked about for Shade.

She couldn't stop thinking of Hammer-Stag's pale face. It hinted too much about how he had died. Unless some other Noble Dead, another vampire other than Chane, were here among the dwarves …

"Who was that woman?" Chane asked.

"A royal of Malourné!" Wynn took a breath and tried to calm herself. "The duchess—I mean, Princess Reine, widow of Prince Freädherich. She did everything possible to hinder Captain Rodian's investigation—and to keep Premin Sykion in control of the texts. If she sees me here …"

Wynn trailed off at Chane's frown.

This was difficult to explain. He hadn't been in the middle of the murder investigation, as she had. More than once she'd run into the blockades set by the duchess for her family, keeping Wynn from getting anywhere near the texts.

What was the duchess doing here? And where had Shade gone?

"Coming through!" a young dwarf called, holding one end of a heavy table over his head.

Wynn hopped aside, tugging Chane out of the way. Had Shade picked up something in her thoughts, some rising memory? Had she gone looking for the Stonewalkers on her own? If so, which way had she gone?

Wynn didn't know—didn't believe—the dog was accustomed enough to civilization to seek anything but a direct path after her quarry. She looked about, trying to spot other openings in the side walls below the stands, and then her attention caught on Mallet.

The old shirvêsh was busy with monks from other temples, and Wynn wasn't certain about protocol. The banquet was intended for family, close friends, and any other thänæ appropriate. They would eat and drink amid a telling to celebrate Hammer-Stag's final honor in death. But from scant bits she could overhear, Mallet was making his farewells.

"He'll be leaving soon," she whispered. "And we'll have to leave with him!"

Chane straightened to his full height, looking all around.

"There," he said, jutting his chin over his shoulder. "Follow me, slowly."

He backed toward the floor's side and another opening near the tunnel where they'd first come in. Wynn followed him.

Together, they drifted along the wall amid busy preparations. When they reached the opening, Wynn ducked in ahead of Chane. She found herself in a dim chamber without internal light. She could barely make out the shadowy outlines of square openings in its other three walls.

"Oh, seven hells!" she swore.

Which way would Shade have gone, if she'd come this way at all? Wynn dug her cold lamp crystal out of her robe's pocket and rubbed it once to get light.

"Keep that covered," Chane said. "We do not want to attract attention."

Wynn bit her tongue at his needless reprimand. With the crystal couched between her palms, she stepped farther into the chamber.

Stout wooden doors were set deep in the openings ahead and to the right. Both had iron bar handles but no locks. Even so, could Shade know how to open them, let alone close either? Impossible. But the arch on the left was doorless.

Wynn headed through it, finding herself at the bottom of a short flight of stairs. At the top, a narrow passage turned right. Overall, this path headed toward the stage, not away from it. She squeezed the crystal in one hand and spun away, slumping against the dark chamber's side wall.

"This is pointless," she said. "We should wait for Shade to reappear."

Chane hung by the room's entrance, watching outside. "What if Mallet misses us?"

"We'll tell him we were looking around and got lost."

Chane glanced at her in frustration. "This could be our only chance. How often does a thänæ die?"

How often indeed?

"I can't let the duchess see me!"

Losing track of Shade was her fault. Bit by bit, her continual failures were destroying their chances of ever getting a lead on the texts.

Chane returned to watching out of the chamber's entrance, leaving Wynn alone in turmoil. Then he snapped his fingers once. She straightened as he gestured outside. Shoving the crystal in her pocket, she drew closer.

"There," he whispered, "at the tunnel where we first came in."

Wynn leaned slightly against the arch's other side.

Shade's head peeked out of the tunnel as she swiveled it, looking around the amphitheater floor.

"Shade!" Wynn called as softly as she could. "Here!"

But the dog didn't seem to hear. All the bustle of setting up the wake made too much background noise.

A sharp, piercing tone made Wynn jump and turn.

Chane uttered another brief whistle. Wynn turned back in time to see Shade's ears stand up. As Shade looked over, Wynn crouched, waving to the dog around the entrance's side. Shade slunk along the side wall, all the way to the chamber's entrance, and Wynn dropped to her knees in relief.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, grasping the dog's face.

Shade's pink tongue flipped quickly out over her nose.

A barrage of images hit Wynn so suddenly she wavered on her knees. She saw clearly through Shade's eyes.

At first, she saw the Stonewalkers carrying Hammer-Stag's body through the exit off the stage. Then she saw herself standing on the amphitheater floor, talking to Chane. It was unsettling, as if she'd become disembodied, a spirit of herself watching herself. Then she was moving away, weaving through a forest of stout dwarven legs.

When she reached the wall, she began examining low drainage openings, but they were too small to crawl into. Even stranger than this experience through Shade's eyes was the strong feeling that accompanied these memories. She could feel Shade's desperation, her need to search.

Then the floor began to rush past beneath her charcoal-colored paws.

She headed back for the tunnel through which they'd first entered. Instead of continuing to the outside street, she turned at the first side passage. She trotted in the same direction that the Stonewalkers had traveled upon leaving the stage and suddenly slowed to listen.

Distant footfalls on stone echoed faintly from down the passage. She quickened her pace to track them.

She padded down corridors, turning at intersections and creeping down stairs, always listening for heavy booted feet, until finally, she peered around a corner. Wynn could smell earthy, musky sweat and leather, as if her nose were shoved right into it. But the closest people she saw were …

Halfway down the passage, on the left side, the duchess and her entourage stood near a wide arch in the side wall. Stonewalkers stood beside them, bearing Hammer-Stag's litter.

Wynn couldn't tell what they waited for, but then she heard metal grinding on stone. When it stopped, the Stonewalkers carried the litter through the arch, vanishing from sight. The duchess and her companions remained.

Wynn found herself watching the back of a tall, white-robed elf. When he turned around with a frown, his slanted almond-shaped eyes searching, she quickly backed around the corner and lost sight of everyone.

The grinding came again, echoing softly down the passage, but she remained in hiding. Suddenly everything blurred for an instant as she—as Shade—rushed around the corner and down the passage.

A pair of iron doors were closing deep inside the arch as they slid out from the sides. She caught only a glimpse of Cinder-Shard before the portal clanged shut.

A blur followed, as if the memory skipped quickly forward in time.

Wynn felt cold metal against her ear as she leaned her head, her muzzle flattened against the doors. From inside came another sound like metal on stone, but different—rhythmic, and softly pounding, like quick, even steps. It grew louder, closer, and then stopped altogether.

She heard voices beyond the doors.

One was higher in pitch than the others. It had to be the duchess. But why had she gone in with the Stonewalkers? She'd paid her respects and left with them, but Wynn assumed that was only to avoid being caught in the crowd. Hadn't she gone her own way?

Everything went dark.

The memory ended so quickly that Wynn tottered on her knees. She wrapped her arms around Shade's neck, her thoughts reeling with all that she'd seen and heard.

News of Hammer-Stag's death couldn't have reached the duchess so quickly in Calm Seatt. So why was a member of the royal family here among the dwarves? How had she known the thänæ, and had she gone with the Stonewalkers, or passed beyond those iron doors along some other route?

Wynn leaned back, holding Shade's face, and whispered, "Clever girl!"

"What?" Chane asked.

"She saw where they went," Wynn answered. "At least the doors they passed through somewhere beyond the stage. If we can get through them, perhaps we can follow their trail."

She hadn't seen how the iron doors functioned, but maybe Shade had missed something.

Chane was studying both of them.

"Can she lead us there?" he asked.

"Right now? Tonight?"

Though eager, Wynn wavered with doubt. The amphitheater's floor was filling with dwarves who would feast and drink late into the night.

"Wynn?" a deep voice called out.

She leaned around Shade's tall form and looked out of the chamber's entrance. Shirvêsh Mallet wandered among the tables, searching, and he didn't look happy about doing so.

"Do not call to him," Chane whispered. "We cannot pass up this opportunity."

Wynn was tempted to agree, but she couldn't.

"We can't alienate him anymore. We may need his aid. If we can't find a way to follow, he's our only link to learn what happened to Hammer-Stag … and maybe why the duchess is here. She seems favored among the religious castes of the seatt."

Wynn stood, about to leave. Chane opened his mouth to argue, but she shook her head. He closed his eyes in resignation, and she stepped out into plain sight.

"We're here," she called.

Chane stepped out as well as Mallet closed on them, his bushy white eyebrows raised.

"What are you doing in there?" he asked.

Wynn searched for a quick answer. "Giving you a little time with the others. I know Hammer-Stag was dear to you as well, and we didn't want to intrude."

Mallet's expression softened. "Never mind such things. I have said my farewells, and we should leave the family and friends to their feasting and telling."

"Of course," Wynn agreed, glancing at Chane.

Mouth tightly set, he followed as they headed out.