Through Stone and Sea

Chapter 13

Wynn headed for the Iron-Braids' smithy, her arms loaded full of bread, potatoes, and a burlap-wrapped halibut. She'd stopped in the market long enough to procure goods from what few vendors the market long enough to procure goods from what few vendors remained. Hopefully Mother Iron-Braid wouldn't take it as an insult, though Sliver likely would. Shade traipsed beside her, snuffling hopefully at the scent of fish.

"You'll wait—and behave yourself," Wynn said, not that Shade would understand. "We'll have dinner soon … I hope."

As she neared the smithy's open door, she paused at the sound of raised voices within.

"You refuse me … again?" a male voice boomed in Dwarvish.

"I will not repeat the reasons … again!" Sliver shouted back.

Wynn crept closer, peering inside as Shade stuck her snout around the door frame.

A stout male dwarf in fine dark pants and a cleanly oiled hauberk stood face-to-face with the smith. His mass of brown hair was pulled back in a leather thong, and his slightly darker beard was trimmed and crisply groomed. It was Carrow, Hammer-Stag's clan-kin.

"You protect nothing," he said, and then anger softened into pleading. "There is nothing left to protect. Your family name has faded. It will be lost one way or another."

"To even say so shows you know nothing of me," Sliver answered, "let alone my heart. So how could I accept you?"

Wynn swallowed hard. Hammer-Stag's clan-kin had proposed marriage—and not for the first time.

"Your brothers are long gone," he said, stepping closer and holding out his hand. "They have abandoned you—I have not—and I do know your heart. Take my family's name. Our children will be so honored to have you at our table's head."

For an instant, Wynn thought Sliver might reach for his hand, but the smith backed away.

"I cannot, Carrow … you know I cannot."

His expression turned cold. "Then marry into some lesser family, and keep your name … for what it is worth!"

He strode for the door.

Wynn scrambled down the passage, fumbling with her burdens. She quickly spun, pretending to stroll idly the other way. Carrow stomped past without a glance, and Wynn slowed, watching him fade down the passage.

Poor Sliver. A clan-kin of the great Hammer-Stag was in love with her. Maybe she had feelings for him, but she valued her lost heritage more.

Dwarven matrimony was complicated, leaning heavily on notoriety, honor, and status. If Sliver married into a family lesser than her own, her husband would've taken the Iron-Braid name. But she hadn't done this, and from her state, living in the depths of underside, how could there be a lesser family? Sliver was proud to a fault.

Wynn turned back. With her arms full, she tapped her foot on the door frame.

Sliver raised her head where she stood slumped over the forge. At sight of Wynn, the smith's surprise quickly vanished under ire.

"What now?" she growled.

"Might we share a meal?" Wynn asked, trying to hold up the food.

"Unless you have something to tell me alone … be gone!"

"Is that your mother's wish?" Wynn returned. "Or are you now the matriarch of the Iron-Braids?"

Sliver straightened instantly but faltered in answering.

"Then your mother's welcome stands," Wynn claimed, and stepped in without invitation. "Shall we cook?"

She headed straight for the rear door, not looking at Sliver.

As she passed, the smith snarled, "Where is your tall friend?"

"He had business at the market," Wynn answered.

"My mother is resting."

"Then we'll prepare the food first and wake her when it's ready."

Wynn tried to grip the door latch but couldn't get a hold with all her burdens and her staff.

"Are you going to help?" she asked. "Or should I just kick it until your mother answers?"

Sliver appeared too weary for more argument. "You are persistent … little scribbler."

Wynn shrugged. "I've been called worse."

The smith's gaze slipped to the goods in Wynn's arms. Exhausted by labor or other pressures, or not having gone to the market herself, Sliver grabbed the latch and gave it a wrench. Wynn shouldered the door open, entering the hearth room with Shade.

Preparations proceeded silently as Wynn nosed about. Sliver often had to retrieve or point out whatever Wynn needed. Otherwise, they didn't speak. Sliver prepped the hearth with lumps of raw coal from a battered pail. But while peeling potatoes, Wynn couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"I understand your reasons," she began, "for not accepting Carrow."

Sliver half turned. "You were listening!" she accused.

"You were loud."

The smith turned back to the hearth. "At least this time my mother did not hear."

Soon the coals gave birth to small flames, and Wynn waited, even until the last potato was peeled and cut.

"If one of my brothers married," Sliver whispered, "our lives would have been different … maybe."

Wynn stopped cutting bread. Sliver's tone betrayed how deeply her brothers' chosen paths had affected her. It was surprising that she spoke of this at all. Perhaps Sliver hadn't had anyone to talk to in a long while. This tentative truce wasn't something Wynn wished to shatter.

"How did … Why did High-Tower leave to join the guild?" she asked.

Sliver glanced up in suspicion, but Wynn simply waited.

"He was always strange," Sliver said. "Both of them were. Running off the moment work was done or sometimes before. Father would go looking for them. After the first few times, he always went straight to the temples. In the latter days, it was always the temple of Bedzâ'kenge."

Sliver shook her head with a breathy scoff.

Wynn took up the bread to cut once more. So Ore-Locks must have spent time at that temple as well. But why? Intuition told her it wasn't the right moment yet to speak of him—not until Sliver actually spoke his name.

"And it remained so," Sliver continued, "at least for High-Tower. The shirvêsh told Father that my brothers would not stop asking about our family's history, trying to learn more than what we had from our own ancestors. And High-Tower wrote everything down … like a human." Her voice turned cold. "Then Ore-Locks started leaving for days at a time, showing up at every temple in every settlement of the seatt. Until the day he disappeared altogether …"

Wynn paused with the knife halfway through the loaf. Before she asked about Ore-Locks, she hesitated again. The smith's voice grew quiet.

"Not long after, High Tower told us he would join the order of Bedzâ'kenge. My father tried to show pride, but he was broken, his second son gone. When High-Tower left for your guild, we stopped speaking of him at all. Father passed over soon after, and I was left to tend the smithy."

"How long ago did High-Tower leave?" Wynn asked.

Sliver paused, considering. "Thirty-seven summers."

Wynn accidentally tore the next slice of bread.

She had no idea of the domin's age, but dwarves often lived to two hundred years or a bit more. High-Tower was at least middle-aged, and yet Ore-Locks appeared in his prime.

"My girl?" a thin voice called.

It came from beyond the left curtained doorway at the room's rear, and Sliver rose from tending the fire.

"Here, Mother," she called. "Come have some bread. Supper will follow soon."

The curtain pulled back, and Mother Iron-Braid shuffled out. Upon spotting someone else present, she squinted her old milky eyes.

"Young sage?" she asked, and then her voice turned manic. "Have you reached Ore-Locks?"

Wynn wasn't certain how to answer. Should she admit that she'd spoken with him? Was Sliver ready to hear of a banished brother who might appear this night?

The hearth room's door swung inward, and for an instant, Wynn was relieved by the interruption.

Ore-Locks stood in the doorway.

He still wore only char-gray breeches and a shirt in place of his traditional attire. But the thôrhk of a Stonewalker hung around his neck.

"Mother?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

Then he spotted Wynn.

Time crawled as Chane stood behind a weaver's booth, a quarter of the way around the market from the tunnel to the Stonewalkers' hidden passage. Half of the vendors had closed or packed up their stalls. Once the rest were finished, how long before a constabulary passed by on rounds and spotted him lurking about?

Chane tensed as a flash of white caught his eye.

Around the cavern's back, Duchess Reine and her elf and guards came out of the tunnel. They headed directly across the nearly empty market for the passage to Breach Mainway.

Chane bent down and rounded the market's back wall, keeping out of sight behind scant booths and the tall, painted columns. Once he had obtained a position behind the duchess's group, he pulled up his hood and quietly closed in.

The elf spoke in hushed tones as the group neared the exit, and the duchess paused and turned.

Chane ducked behind a column and peered carefully along its side.

She looked up at her elven companion, her features stiff and unreadable. Some lingering shock or long fatigue had left her numb. But her arms were empty, the breeches and shirt gone, and no one else carried them. Barely a stone's toss behind them, Chane fully widened his senses.

A thin scent began to fill his nose.

The duchess's hair was a bit out of place. One loose tendril hung against her left temple and cheek. The sea-wave comb on that side was askew, as if removed and replaced without a mirror's aid. And her boots and cloak's hem were dark, perhaps soaked.

Chane sniffed cautiously. The scent of seawater lingered from the duchess's passing.

She never replied to the elf, and Chane never caught what the advisor said. The duchess turned and resumed her journey without any change in her withdrawn expression.

Chane crept onward, keeping Reine in his sight.

Ore-Locks's intense gaze pierced Wynn as he whispered, "You!"

Sliver stared at her brother, perhaps too shocked for outrage.

But Mother Iron-Braid nearly toppled her stool in a rush across the room.

"My son!" she wailed, grabbing Ore-Locks's shirtfront. "My son, oh, Eternals, thank you."

Ore-Locks took her shoulders, steadying her. He stood in tense discomfort, watching Wynn over the top of his stooped mother.

"You said my brother sent you," he said, "that my family was in crisis."

"What?" Sliver gasped.

Wynn stiffened. She was in it now, up to her neck in her own lies.

"Do they look well to you?" she challenged Ore-Locks.

"You already spoke to him?" Sliver demanded. "You brought him here and told me nothing?"

Ore-Locks ignored his sister, glaring only at Wynn. "Did High-Tower send you … or not?"

She had no lies left to cover her others. "No, I came on my own. I needed to speak with you. It's vital."

"Then you lied to the princess as well," he returned.

Willful deceit was notable among dwarven vices; doing so to Princess—Duchess—Reine was just that much worse. And there was little she could do to amend it.

"Only about High-Tower," she answered. "Look around. I brought the food. Sliver works too hard and long to go to market, and your mother is too—"

"No, no," Mother Iron-Braid cut in, petting her son's chest. "We are well enough, and you have come back." She turned her head a little toward Wynn. "Do not speak so, or you will drive him away!"

Ore-Locks winced at this. He carefully took his mother's hands and cast a not-so-gentle glance at Sliver. Hers in turn was even less kind for him.

Wynn knew nothing of the Stonewalkers' ways or their lives apart from their people. But she had some notion of what it had cost Ore-Locks to come home.

"Sit and rest," he said, guiding his mother toward the table.

As yet, Sliver hadn't greeted him. Instead, she intercepted him and gripped her mother's shoulders.

"Get your hands off her!" she hissed.

Ore-Locks backstepped, and Sliver settled her mother in the only chair.

The sight of his family clearly pained Ore-Locks, as if this were the last place in the world he wished to be. He glanced once at the door. Sliver crossed her arms, daring him to leave. Ore-Locks remained. Even as Mother Iron-Braid reached for his hand, he fixed his gaze on Wynn again. She couldn't help fidgeting under his scrutiny.

"I never introduced my …" she began. "I am—"

"I know who you are," he answered.

A chill sank straight through Wynn. The duchess had told him—perhaps all the Stonewalkers—about her. They knew exactly who she was and had been warned against her.

"Yes, I'm the one who … brought those texts back," she confirmed. "I'm responsible for the translation project, the one you and Master Cinder-Shard warned High-Tower to stop."

Ore-Locks carefully pulled from his mother's clinging grip and backed toward the door.

"Forgive me, Mother," he said. "There is great treachery here, and I cannot stay."

"Treachery?" Sliver echoed, glancing at Wynn. "From her?"

Mother Iron-Braid frantically turned from one to the next. "What is this … ? What are you all talking—"

"No!" Wynn snapped at Ore-Locks. "I simply need to see the texts, for all our sakes. Just listen—"

"Enough from you!" Sliver shouted, then lunged one step at her brother. "You speak of treachery? Look to yourself! We have suffered enough without you bringing your false ancestor among us!"

Ore-Locks didn't wince this time, but he didn't quite meet his sister's eyes.

"We want no part of you … or it," she went on. "I will not let you taint us further. Get out!"

Wynn was confused by this exchange.

"I never imagined High-Tower would leave," Ore-Locks whispered. "But deny our past all you want. It changes nothing. One of ours, long gone before us, called me to serve … and I am no longer part of this world."

Ore-Locks stepped out into the dim workshop, and his mother let out a mournful wail.

Wynn panicked, rushing for the doorway. "Ore-Locks, stop!"

He'd already reached the outer door and didn't turn. Wynn tried desperately to think of something to halt him. He wouldn't speak of the texts, but there must be something to give him pause, even for an instant.

"Who is Thallûhearag?" she called.

Ore-Locks paused.

"No, daughter!" Mother Iron Braid shouted.

Shade's deafening snarl came quickly, but Wynn never had a chance to turn.

Something struck her back, and her head whiplashed as she shot out of the hearth room. Tumbling and scraping across the smithy's floor, she heard Shade barking and snapping. She tried to push up and roll over, but her hands stung sharply when she pressed against the floor.

Sliver shrieked, and Shade yelped, and Wynn flopped over on her back.

Shade stood between her and the hearth room's door, all her fur on end and her ears flattened as she lowered her head in menace. Sliver stood in the doorway with mixed shock and revulsion on her broad features. She was gripping one forearm. A bit of blood seeped between her thick fingers.

"Oh, no!" Wynn breathed. "Shade was only—"

In one fluid motion, Sliver chucked out Wynn's pack and staff.

"Don't!" Wynn cried, reaching out where she lay.

To her shock, Shade lunged sideways and under the falling staff. Its sheathed crystal's end struck near Shade's shoulders, and the haft rolled off her rump to the floor. Wynn's surprise at Shade's action was short-lived, and she caught one last glimpse of the smith.

Sliver slammed the door shut, and its crack echoed through the workshop.

Wynn sat up as Shade wheeled and padded over. Then the dog let out another warning rumble, baring her teeth as she glared beyond Wynn.

"Where did you hear that title?"

Wynn jerked around.

Ore-Locks's massive form stood above her. The light of the forge's dying embers cast his face in orange-red and glimmered faintly on his thôrhk. He looked like a hulking statue of heated rock ready to fall upon her.

"From you," she answered, "when you came to see your brother."

"So you are spying on me?" he accused. "Hunting me?"

"No … I mean, yes," she fumbled. "It was an accident. I'd gone to see the domin but heard voices. I didn't want to interrupt, so I waited."

Ore-Locks crouched, and Wynn's hand stung sharply as he took it. At another warning from Shade, Wynn waved off the dog. Ore-Locks let out a sigh.

"My sister should not have assaulted you, but the scrapes are not bad and should heal soon enough."

"I agreed with you," Wynn said, though it brought a puzzled wrinkle to his brow. "In what you said to High-Tower. The translation project isn't being handled well. That's part of why I came. Four sages dead, as well as city guards in Calm Seatt, and next to nothing has come from all the work on those texts … from the Forgotten … in the time of Bäalâle Seatt."

Wynn caught the unmistakable spark in his eyes at that last mention. She saw hunger there, and maybe some strange thirst for relief. For the first time, she wondered if he'd given her something to bargain with.

"I can read some of the languages in those texts," she rushed on. "Take me to them … and perhaps I can learn what really happened. I know Bäalâle is not a myth."

Another bluff, for she didn't know any such thing. All she had was Magiere's account of a single mention of a fallen seatt in the memories of Most Aged Father. That, and a cryptic reference found within the obscured verse of Chane's stolen scroll.

What she truly needed was to learn where Beloved's thirteen Children had gone and why.

The wraith had selectively murdered for this knowledge. More important was how the Night Voice … Beloved … il'Samar was connected to it all, past, present, and future.

Wynn sat in the forge's dim light, looking into the black eyes of a Stonewalker, the one and only who might help her.

Ore-Locks dropped her hand and stood up. As he straightened, his eyes seemed too dark for even a dwarf.

"You know no such thing," he said. "It is only myth … unless proven otherwise."

Wynn's hope withered. She'd had him for an instant and then lost him.

"Regardless of what you think you heard from my lips," he added, "my sect has sacred oaths. Fragile trusts and faiths you do not understand, even among your guild. I will not be the one to shatter them … not for the misguided guesses of one wayward sage."

Ore-Locks looked at the hearth room's door. His lips parted, but he never said a word. Instead, he turned and strode out of the smithy.

"You won't shatter them," Wynn insisted, scrambling to her knees. "You might even serve them all the better if—"

"I serve the honored dead," he returned without looking back. "Go home, Wynn Hygeorht. I pray to the Eternals that no more harm comes to you … nor that you bring further to my own."

Ore-Locks vanished, leaving Wynn kneeling on the floor with a silent Shade.

Once the duchess reached Breach Mainway, Chane worried about trailing her farther in the open. But she turned down the very next southward-side passage. He rushed to the tunnel's mouth, pausing a moment before peering around the corner.

Several large frontages carved from the passage's stone looked much like other shops and businesses. Perhaps even an inn in one case, since both dwarves and humans lingered out front, coming and going from that third establishment down the way. This made sense. At least some inns or common houses would be near a major market.

The duchess stopped before that third frontage, with its wide, heavy doors propped open. Captain Tristan was the first up the two steps, glancing inside before ushering her in. The rest followed, ducking their heads to clear the low doorway.

Chane leaned back against the mainway's wall. Wynn had been correct. Duchess Reine was not lodging with the Stonewalkers but in a place very near where she could reach them. How and why was another matter. Why had the Stonewalkers allowed her to accompany them at Hammer-Stag's funeral?

Surely she did not need to check on the texts, if some arrangement existed for the Stonewalkers to look after their safety. So what had she been doing in the time between now and when Wynn and he had been escorted out?

At least he now knew one place to pick up the duchess's trail.

Chane headed off along Breach Mainway. It was a long way down to the Iron-Braid smithy. His own task complete, he broke into a trot, hurrying to see how Wynn had fared with hers—the far more difficult one.

Wynn gathered her things and numbly headed out of the smithy. When she stepped into the narrow passage, Ore-Locks was nowhere in sight. A part of her couldn't believe what she'd just done to the Iron-Braids. Another part knew she'd had no better choice. Too much was at stake.

But Ore-Locks had spurned her just the same.

Wynn shuffled back toward Limestone Mainway, remembering the look in Ore-Locks's eyes at the mention of Thallûhearag—and then Bäalâle Seatt. He wanted to know more of the latter; that much was clear. But she couldn't mistake the conviction in his voice. He would never break the oaths of his sect, even for his own desires. She had played an all-or-nothing game … and she had lost.

She felt sick inside, and then Shade barked.

Wynn was too tired for whatever the dog wanted, but Shade wouldn't stop.

She barked twice more and halted, pawing the passage's stone floor. Her crystal blue eyes sparked in the limited light. The mainway lay just ahead, and it was early enough that other people would still be about.

"What now?" Wynn asked.

Shade dropped to her haunches and rubbed the side of her head with a paw.

Wynn sighed and crouched down. Obviously Shade had another memory she insisted on sharing.

Touching the dog's neck, Wynn whispered tiredly, "Show me."

The passage vanished.

She saw Ore-Locks rising upon the platform through the domed chamber's white metal portal. The image faded instantly, and Wynn guessed that Shade was simply identifying Ore-Locks. Just as quickly, she found herself staring through the smithy's workroom, and Ore-Locks stood in its outer doorway.

Wynn heard her own voice say, Who is Thallûhearag?

The smithy vanished.

That brief memory had been one of Wynn's own, but the rapid changes were making her dizzy. Still uncertain what Shade was trying to tell her, Wynn found herself standing in a dark cavern.

A greenish phosphorescence tinged the rough, glistening walls. Stalactites and stalagmites joined together in concave, lumpy columns. Odd twisted shadows played over and between them. In a few steps, Wynn realized the walls' own glimmer caused everything to throw multiple shadows every which way.

She understood the purpose behind Shade's chain of memory-speak. Her own question in the smithy's hearth room had triggered a memory in Ore-Locks.

Wynn—or rather Ore-Locks—walked through the cavern's dim glimmer. Now and then, natural openings appeared, leading off to other places, but he never glanced aside enough for Wynn to get a peek into any of them.

Everything flickered to black—then returned.

The surroundings had changed. A rough stone path still wove in and out of adjoining caves and pockets. Two more flickers, and Wynn guessed that Ore-Locks's scattered memory had raced onward in skips rather than tracing a complete path. Something caught her attention for an instant.

In one place, out of the corner of her eye—Ore-Locks's eye—she thought she saw standing figures. They hid in the cavern's dim recesses among the lumpy, bulging columns and half-formed mineral-laden cones protruding from the ceiling. But those mute figures remained still as statues. The only sounds were the scattered patter of drips and the echoes of Ore-Locks's heavy footfalls. Then he stepped upslope toward a ragged opening ahead.

Half-hidden behind a rising stalagmite, something passed on the left as she stepped out of the cavern.

Wynn stiffened for real. Had that been a face shaped in glistening wet stone?

The memory shifted and altered. Wynn stood before an arch filled with age-darkened iron. It looked just like the triple-layered portal in the amphitheater at Old-Seatt, but smaller. Again, the memory wavered, as if Shade hadn't been able to follow or comprehend what Ore-Locks was doing.

The archway was now open.

The space beyond was so dark that Wynn couldn't see anything except a flight of stairs arcing downward along a curved wall. She took only four steps and stopped—or Ore-Locks stopped—going no farther into the depths.

She couldn't see how far down the stairs went, but far enough that any floor below wasn't visible over the stairs' outer edge. The curved wall to her other side was smooth and perfect. This wide space wasn't natural and had been carved out. But what was down there?

"Enough," she whispered—but in Ore-Locks's deep voice. "Please leave me be."

Wynn shivered, locked inside his memory. She was in the Stonewalkers' underworld.

"You called me," Ore-Locks whispered. "I came to that calling … to serve. But I have learned no more. I cannot save you … free you."

Whom was he speaking to and what did he mean by … "save you"?

"No one will believe or remember," Ore-Locks continued. "I beg you … please, leave me be!"

Everything faded.

Wynn knelt in the passage, her fingers clutching Shade's face.

"No, there has to be more!"

Shade just whined, flattening her ears dejectedly. This was all she had caught. Like her father, Shade dipped only memories that surfaced—whatever rose in a person's conscious thoughts. But Ore-Locks had known what was there in the depths, in speaking to whomever or whatever.

Wynn rocked onto her heels. Was there something down there that called Stonewalkers to a life of service? The evening had ended, and that stolen memory had begun with a question.

Who is Thallûhearag?

And Sliver had spoken of a "false" ancestor.

Wynn couldn't fit it all together, but as she stared at the smithy door, she wondered how the Iron-Braids had come to such a low state. How many generations had existed this way and why? She didn't see how this helped with her own pursuit, but the memory left her pondering one person.

Ore-Locks still might be the one to help her—if she found a way to understand the memory Shade had stolen. Together, she and Shade headed out into the Limestone Mainway.

At dusk, Sau'ilahk willfully awakened from dormancy and coalesced in a shadowed side passage across from Wynn's chosen inn. It was the last place he had followed her, when she and her companions left the tram the night before. Before sunrise had forced him into dormancy, he had slipped deep into the settlement's back ways. In that desolate place, he had drained one young dwarven female caught by surprise and dragged her body into a storage chamber filled with dust-coated crates and barrels.

That one life had been strong and still brimmed vibrantly within him.

Sau'ilahk waited outside of Wynn's inn, but no one came or went. Where else might she have gone, or had she even returned from her day's wandering? He mentally recounted her visits to Sea-Side and blinked into dormancy, envisioning one place. He reemerged in the end chamber of Limestone Mainway on the lowest level and peered at the greeting house where Wynn had first met the warrior thänæ.

Why had she come back to Sea-Side? Was she seeking more concerning Hammer-Stag's death? Again he waited, sinking almost fully into the side of the end chamber's arched opening.

Business was done for the day, but Limestone Mainway still bustled with dwarves. Frustrated, he blinked out again and materialized in a dim passage beyond the Iron-Braids' smithy.

Sau'ilahk quickly conjured, hiding himself in another pool of light-banishing darkness. He heard nothing within the smithy. Then he caught a glimpse of movement, and he looked down the passage, toward the exit leading into the mainway.

Someone short, in a long robe, huddled low beside a black form.

Wynn stood up, patting Shade's head.

Sau'ilahk had wasted energies, but he slipped from his conjured darkness, letting it fade. Wynn had visited the smithy, but he was too late, missing whatever had taken place.

Where was Chane?

Wynn must be close to something, if she returned to previously visited locations.

Sau'ilahk watched her slip into the mainway, and then he glided quickly to the passage's end and halted. Too many people still wandered about for him to follow her, but he could not continue in ignorance. He needed to hear—to see—what she said and where she went. He pulled back into the passage, steeling himself and shutting out the world.

Air for sound was not enough. Fire, in the form of Light, was needed for sight, but its emanations could betray the servitor's presence. It had to be encased with Earth as well, as drawn from Stone. But a base servitor of multiple elements, in three conjuries, would cost him dearly. And a fourth conjury had to intertwine with the others. His creation would need a hint of sentience, though this would make it less subservient.

Sau'ilahk began to conjure Air first of all.

When its quivering ball manifested, he held it and reached out. Caging the warp of Air with incorporeal fingers, he began conjuring Fire in the form of Light.

A yellow-orange glow began to radiate from within his grip.

Sau'ilahk forced his hand corporeal and slammed the servitor down into the passage floor.

He was only half-finished. The last two conjuries had to come simultaneously while he held the first pair firm. Around his flattened hand, a square of glowing umber lines for Earth via Stone rose in the passage floor. A circle of blue-white appeared around that as he summoned in Spirit and inserted a fragment of his will.

The spaces between the shapes, glyphs, and sigils of white grew iridescent, like dew-dampened web strands as dawn first broke. He called upon his reserves, imbuing his creation with greater essence. It would be birthed closer to the edge of sentience, to serve him better.

Sau'ilahk's hand began to waver in his sight. Everything faded black for an instant. Exhaustion threatened to drag him into dormancy. He exerted more will to remain present, and he straightened, lifting his hand from the floor.

All glowing marks upon the stone vanished.

He whispered only with his thoughts. Awaken!

Another glow rose beneath the passage's floor.

Mute and pale yellow, it shifted erratically, darting about as if something swam through stone beneath the passage's floor. Sau'ilahk raised his hand higher, fingers closing like a street puppeteer toying with strings.

The glow halted. The floor bulged above it, like gray mud about to belch a bubble of noxious gas. And the light emerged—and winked at him.

A single eyelid nictitated with a soft click of stone as it closed and opened over a lump of molten-formed glass. Its oblong stone body holding that glass eye surfaced next and rose. Three small holes on either side of that mass were marked by small rippling warps of air where it would take any sound it heard. It stood up on four legs of thin rock, each three jointed, with pointed ends. Where those ends touched the floor, small ripples spread in rings, like those created by an insect shifting nervously upon a still gray pond.

Then it bolted for the passage wall.

No … no return for you … until I wish it!

The stone-spider skittered to a halt and began to quiver. Whirling around, that lump of glass eye opened wide, fixing upon him, and its light shifted to hot red. The servitor dashed straight at him.

Sau'ilahk curled his fingers, crushing their tips into his palm.

Obey!

The stone-spider halted, and quivers turned to shudders as that one eye burned with conscious rage.

Sau'ilahk sank his awareness into it.

Everything tinged red in the dim passage. Darker still was a black form of gently writhing cloak, robe, and cowl. He saw himself through the servitor's singular eye.

Very good … Follow the gray-clad one beyond the passage's end, but remain out of her awareness. You will not return until I recall you. Now go!

Sau'ilahk opened his clutching fingers, and the servitor rushed the wall once more.

It shot upward and across the passage's ceiling. Faint ripples in the stone marked its passing, like a fisher-spider darting across water.

Sau'ilahk watched it scurry out of the passage's top, and he drifted closer to the exit.

The walk back along Limestone Mainway seemed longer than Wynn remembered. But as she passed the greeting house, someone called from the mainway's end chamber.

"Wynn!"

Chane's raspy voice brought some comfort, and Wynn quickened her pace. He trotted to meet her. Noble Dead he might be, but he was always there for her.

"Did Ore-Locks come?" he asked. "How was it at the smithy?"

"Brutal," she answered. "I may have lost him, even more than Sliver."

He shook his head. "How?"

Wynn briefly recounted what had happened, and then asked, "And you?" "The duchess returned," he answered, "as you guessed. She is lodged at an inn off Breach Mainway, near the market."

Wynn took a deep breath, though her relief was small. At least one thing had worked out this night. They might yet follow the duchess and learn more of why she was here. In turn, perhaps something useful would come of that.

"Come," Chane insisted. "I will show you … before we return to our lodging."

He led the way back up the curving tunnel.

Wynn was tired by the time they approached Breach Mainway, but Chane suddenly stopped short of the end chamber. He turned sharply, staring past her down the curve, and Wynn followed his gaze.

She saw nothing but the tunnel's curving dark walls. Shade had stepped beyond them but returned to Wynn's side.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Chane's brow furrowed. He looked all around, as if uncertain what he searched for.

"I thought I heard something," he whispered. "A click on stone."

He stepped farther downslope, looking beyond the curve.

"Shade would've heard it too," Wynn said. "It was probably just an echo of her claws on the floor."

Chane glanced over at her and then turned back. Wynn fell in beside him as they stepped out into Breach Mainway.

This level looked much like the one above, where the station was. Or at least, it did until she walked into a section where the ceiling rose out of sight. A gigantic gash lunged upward into the mountain above. She'd never noticed that before in all their hurrying about.

As they reached another left-side passage, Chane stepped close to the mainway's wall. Peeking down the side tunnel, he pulled her across to its right side.

"The third frontage on the left," he whispered, and pointed the way.

Wynn peered in. About to step around for a better look, she caught sight of a flash of chestnut hair that made her freeze.

The duchess stepped out of a shop farther down the way. She carried what looked like a thick, bulky comforter and headed up the passage with one of her bodyguards. With so few others about, her voice carried all the way to Wynn.

"This should help old Chuillyon," she said. "He hardly sleeps at all on these hard dwarven beds."

The bodyguard didn't answer, and they turned into the third frontage, exactly where Chane had pointed.

"Earlier," he whispered, "her boots and cloak's hem were soaked with seawater. I could smell it."

"Seawater?" Wynn whispered.

Her head began to pound. She and Shade still hadn't eaten. But a memory stolen from the duchess, of a strange room with a grate beyond a pool, pushed itself up in Wynn's head.

As if someone else had forced it there.

Wynn glanced down and found Shade watching her.

Something had moved in that dark adjoining space beyond the grated pool's chamber.

"We should return to our inn," she said quietly. "Arrange for supper and then talk." Looking up at Chane, she added, "We have to change tactics … again."

Wynn paid the innkeeper for two bowls of chowder and carried them back to the room, closing the door with her hip. It was good to be alone with Shade and Chane for a little while. She set one bowl on the floor for Shade, who hungrily lapped it up, and then sat on the solid dwarven bed.

"You should eat too," Chane said, settling on the bed's end.

She was too weary to argue—or too preoccupied to eat. While Shade finished, Wynn reiterated all that had transpired with Ore-Locks. Chane listened carefully, then shifted a bit closer.

"You did as well as you could," he said. "You lured him out and may have offered something he wants, though he would not … trade for it. It reasons that he would place loyalty above personal desire, if he holds his calling above his family. Perhaps in dwelling on it, he may yet reconsider."

His reassurance changed nothing, but it made her feel less defeated.

"I may have broken their family," Wynn whispered.

"That is nothing. Families are destroyed every day—and some do not deserve to be saved."

His coldness stunned her. She knew almost nothing about Chane's past.

"Do any of your family still live?" she asked.

"My father, as far as I know." He looked away. "Viscount Andraso of Rùrik, halfway up the peninsula from Bela toward Guèshk. My mother took her own life shortly after I encountered Toret, my maker, who was also called Ratboy. Considering my father's treatment, death was a blessing to my mother."

Wynn was dumbstruck, uncertain what to say. Another notion occurred, perhaps to avoid his last words.

"When your father … passes over," she asked, "won't you inherit his title, lands … fortune?"

Chane laughed without smiling. His maimed voice made the sounds come out like quick, hoarse pants.

"Toret took my meager wealth, for all you saw that he owned in Bela. I am the only heir of the Andraso, but the dead don't inherit from the dead. And even if … I doubt I would be recognized by the nobility."

"Well, if I muck up my next idea," Wynn said, "you might at least have someplace to run when I end up in a Calm Seatt prison."

Chane's eyes narrowed. "What are you up to now?"

"In a moment," she said, glancing at Shade.

Shade had finished supper and was trying to lick the last taste from the bowl. Wynn snapped her fingers, and Shade raised her head. With one hopeful look at the bowl, the dog padded over to butt Wynn's hand with her snout.

Wynn slid her fingers over Shade's head and closed her eyes, passing memories of Duchess Reine. She followed this with bits and pieces of the dripping corridor that she could remember—the one leading to the chamber with the iron grate half-submerged in a pool of seawater.

Shade echoed the image back, and much more clearly.

"I'm seeing through Reine's memory, through her eyes," Wynn said quietly for Chane. "She is down so deep the walls are constantly damp and glistening, and the only light I've noticed is the glow of minerals coating the walls."

She began describing all she'd seen: how Reine had gone to the chamber with the pool, how it was locked, and about the side chamber Reine had never entered. She most carefully described the half-filled dark tunnel that stretched outward beyond the iron grate.

Wynn kept her eyes closed, focusing on sharp details that Shade provided. She felt the bed's stiff, padded layers flex as Chane shifted even closer.

"A pool filled with seawater … from a tunnel?" he asked quietly, but his voice was filled with urgency. "Fresh seawater?"

Wynn let herself sink deeper into Shade's stolen memory. She breathed in as if she were Reine within that moment, and the scent of brine filled her nostrils.

"I think so. The water seems clear and clean, not fetid, though its too dim in the chamber to be certain. It just smells like the sea. Strangely, though the chamber itself is damp, it doesn't smell moldy."

With her eyes still closed, she asked, "Do you understand what I'm thinking?"

Chane didn't answer, and Shade moved forward through the memory.

So deep inside Reine's recollection, Wynn felt sudden anguish. Again she heard something move in the dark side chamber, as before. She opened her eyes, still holding Shade.

"Clever girl," she murmured, and then turned to Chane. "This place that the duchess went to … it must be in the Stonewalkers' underworld."

"Another guess," he countered, but he rose and began pacing the room. "Wherever it is, the tunnel may connect to the open sea … and the shore."

For comfort's sake, he'd undressed down to breeches and a white shirt once they'd returned. How he could stand barefoot on the cold floor was beyond her. His feet were so pale … paler than his face and hands.

"We have to find that outside entrance," she said flatly.

Chane shook his head. "If the chamber is in the underworld, I hardly think these Stonewalkers would provide easy access. The tunnel might not be large enough—"

"Then why a grated opening into the pool?" she asked. "One obviously large enough to pass through, though it's blocked."

"The entrance could just as easily be underwater. We do not know for certain where below this massive mountain to find such a—"

"Oh, stop it!" she chided. "I know that you know we're going to try anyway. And … you want to."

Chane fell silent. Finally, he replied, "With all the insurmountable obstacles so far, we should not expect this pursuit to be any better."

Wynn merely waited—until he sighed. For the first time, she noted how odd that was, considering the dead didn't need to breathe.

"Clearly the duchess is a liaison between the royals and Stonewalkers," he said, "as well as between the royals and the guild. It reasons that she also fulfills the third side of that triangle—at least in relation to the texts. We cannot afford to lose track of her if this new endeavor comes to nothing. You stay here and keep watch on her."

Wynn jumped to her feet.

"You mean you can move faster without me," she accused. "Or you're worried it might be dangerous, and I should keep out of the way."

A flash of guilt on his long, clean features confirmed both.

"It will take some time," he added. "If I find something, I will return and take you—"

"This is my purpose, Chane," Wynn cut in. "I left the guild because I was sick of taking orders from people who thought they knew better … and didn't!"

Chane's lips parted, but Wynn kept at him.

"You may be more aware than they are, but that doesn't mean you understand as much as I do—and I don't take orders from you, either!"

"Fine. Then you decide," he returned. "But one of us needs to stay—and watch the duchess."

Wynn turned away, still angry, but only because he was right. "People died in Calm Seatt," she said, "because I was … obedient … and didn't resist until too late."

She heard him step closer, and his voiceless whisper softened.

"You know this part of the world. I do not. For what little success we have had, your instincts have often been better."

Wynn glanced at him, already hearing a "but" coming, though she knew the right decision.

"I have the better senses," he added, "sight and scent … and hearing. But I would have the harder time following the duchess, considering I tower over everyone here."

"All right," Wynn relented, "but take Shade. She has the more acute sense of smell where older scents are concerned. Two can search more quickly than one."

For an instant she thought he would argue, likely thinking she would be left unprotected. Perhaps her fixed stare made him think better of saying so.

"Can you make Shade understand?" he asked. "Make her leave you and go with me?"

"I'll try."

Chane left to gather his things, and Wynn dropped before Shade, touching the dog's face.

She began with memories of Leesil and Chap traveling together. She then turned to their own trials in Calm Seatt, before battling the wraith, when she had left Shade in Chane's company.

Shade snarled and pulled away, and Wynn had to grab her neck.

Wynn raised the image of the chamber and its pool. Working with a memory that had come to her thirdhand was difficult. She tried to focus upon the water-filled tunnel beyond the grate.

The door opened, and Chane stood in the hallway fully dressed and armed. Reaching around the door, he set the old tin scroll case on the side table, leaving it in Wynn's care.

Wynn lifted Shade's muzzle and pointed at Chane.

Shade snarled again. Instead of pulling away, this time she dropped to her haunches, grinding her foreclaws on stone.

Wynn held Shade's face and tried again.

"Please understand," she said.

Shade growled, but it quickly turned to a soft whine. She peered at Chane, swung her nose back to Wynn, and then pulled away. Shade trotted toward the door, and Chane outside. Wynn sighed in relief.

Shade swerved suddenly and headed straight for the sun-crystal staff leaning against the wall.

Before Wynn could get up, the dog rose on hind legs, forelegs braced on the wall. She clamped her jaws on the staff as high as she could reach.

"Shade?" Wynn called. "Shade … stop that!"

Shade twisted off the wall. The instant her paws landed, she trotted off, dragging the staff behind the bed's far side.

Wynn clambered across the bed, reaching for the staff. Shade dropped it, planting both huge forepaws atop its haft.

"What is wrong with you?" Wynn demanded, grabbing for the staff.

She jerked it from under Shade's paws and backed across the bed. Before she got halfway, Shade clamped its haft with her teeth and heaved.

Wynn flopped facedown on the bed. "Let go!"

Shade growled and heaved again.

Wynn shot headfirst over the bed's side, hanging upside down below a stubborn Shade.

"I should go alone," Chane said. "She does not want to leave you."

No, that wasn't it. Shade was trying to tell her something else, but at the moment, Wynn didn't care.

"Give it to me!" she growled through clenched teeth.

Wynn twisted over, slapping at Shade's legs while her own were still hooked over the bed's edge. In that upside-down tug-of-war, she finally twisted the staff out of Shade's mouth. When the dog tried to grab it again, she scrambled away across the bed.

Shade hopped up and began barking, and Wynn finally realized what this was all about.

She rarely went anywhere without the staff. Shade had pinned it down, trying to insist that Wynn "stay put" in this room.

"I'm following the duchess!" Wynn growled back. "You are going with Chane. Now get!"

With a sharp huff through wrinkled jowls, Shade bounded off and out past Chane, rumbling all the way. Wynn exhaled in frustration, though Chane just shook his head and closed the door. She got up, brushing herself off, and went to return the staff to its place.

She was sick and tired of everyone telling her what to do or not do, even a dog now. She snatched the scroll case off the table and headed for the bed. Then she froze in the middle of the room.

Wynn turned very slowly and stared at the door.

She imagined Chane following a peeved Shade. Not Shade following Chane, but rather … the petulant, adolescent majay-hì had been leading the way.

"Oh … oh, you …" Wynn began, unable to get the words out.

She ran for the door, jerked it open, and rushed out.

Chane and Shade were already gone, but Wynn still knew one thing: She had shown Shade what needed to be done, but the dog had given up only once Wynn had lost her temper and ordered Shade out … using language, not memory-speak! And how could Shade have understood what Wynn planned to do as her own task while Chane—and Shade—were away?

Wynn clutched the scroll case hard. "You little sneak … just like your father!"

Shade had understood words—at least enough to know exactly what Wynn planned to do.

All this time wrestling with memory-speak until her head ached—and now it seemed Shade understood at least some of what she heard. Wynn stepped back inside and slammed the door.

"Oh … I've got some choice words for you … when you get back!"

Sau'ilahk heard and saw through his servitor half-submerged in the ceiling stone of Wynn's room. He quickly recalled it.

The servitor rose from the inn's side wall, surfacing like a four-legged spider from mottled gray water. Sau'ilahk reached out with one solidified hand and snatched its rock body.

Wynn, Chane, and Shade were on the move again, but along separate ways.

The scroll case had also caught his attention. But it was only one text among many, a paltry resource compared to others. Clutching his conjured creation, Sau'ilahk slid out toward the mainway.

In the distance, Chane and Shade headed toward Sea-Side's entrance cavern and the lift down to its lower port. The conversation regarding one called Ore-Locks had confused him. But he had forgotten all about the Iron-Braids once he heard mention of the duchess.

An Âreskynna—"Kin of the Ocean Waves"—if only by marriage, was here in the seatt. This good fortune was almost unbelievable. Duchess Reine had acted for the royals in Calm Seatt, and they were directly connected to the guild superiors and the translation project.

Sau'ilahk half submerged into the inn's wall, pulling his servitor with him. He waited there, watching for Wynn to emerge. When she did, he merely blinked along after her, slipping in and out of dormancy as his servitor scuttled and swam high along the mainway's walls.

Wynn finally paused on the next level down and peered into a side passage.

Reine Faunier-Âreskynna stepped from a shop.

Sau'ilahk knew her face. She had helped protect his interests at the guild, keeping that city captain at bay in his investigation. The nature of the texts had remained secret, in the guild's control. The translation folios had remained scattered about the city's scribe shops.

Until Wynn had intervened.

But he no longer needed her … not if the duchess could lead him right to the texts.

Sau'ilahk would soon be finished with one troublesome little sage.