Through Stone and Sea

Chapter 20

Chane shivered, though he did not feel the cold. Along with Wynn and Shade, he'd been locked away in pure darkness. He could not see anything at all.

"Open the door!" Wynn shouted. "You have to listen!"

"Enough," he said. "They are gone. Light your crystal … I cannot see."

"What? But … you're undead."

"Even our—my—eyes require some light."

He heard clothing rustle, and a soft glow rose in the dark, orange-red at first.

Chane watched light build, filtered through Wynn's small, rubbing hands. When she opened her fingers, her face was illuminated by the cold lamp crystal resting in her palm. They both looked around.

Shade stood nosing the stone landing's left side. Just beyond her, stairs led downward along a curved wall. The landing itself was no more than six paces square, its front and right side dropping straight off into the dark. Though the crystal lit the wall around the arch, its light barely reached the high ceiling above.

Chane peered over the landing's edge and could not make out what waited below. His thoughts were overwhelmed.

The wraith still existed. At its barest touch upon the cavern floor, fire had erupted and been shaped in a way he could not imagine. Dwarves had emerged from cavern walls. A small stone creature with one glowing eye had done so as well and then broken apart in midair around the disturbingly serene elf.

But worse, Chane was hungry.

The effort to gain the underworld, as well as swiping his hand through the wraith, had taken much from him. Possibilities for feeding were almost nonexistent. He feared what might happen if he grew desperate.

Glancing back, he expected to find defeat in Wynn's round face. What he saw startled him more.

In the crystal's upward light, her features looked so hard. Wynn's bright, sweet face was filled with anger unlike anything Chane had ever seen in her.

"Imbeciles and idiots!" she whispered sharply. "They don't know what they're dealing with, and they lock up those who do!"

Wynn glanced at him. The dark taint in her expression lingered an instant longer before it finally drained away.

"We have no weapons at all, if the wraith attacks us here," she said, "nothing to hold it off without the staff."

Overstating the obvious accomplished nothing, but Chane kept silent. In truth, he felt vulnerable without his sword or the treasured belongings in his packs.

"How could it have survived?" she whispered. "I watched it burn to nothing!"

She did not seem to expect an answer.

"It is more than just a spirit, especially by its actions," he said. "If it is a Noble Dead, even my kind are not easily dispatched."

Her gaze flickered to his throat. Beneath his cloak and shirt collar, he bore the scar around his neck as proof of that point. He too had risen from death a second time.

"What was that other thing … that leaped at the duchess and the elf?" she asked.

"I remember scant references to … constructs of a kind, from my earliest studies. Conjured things of the Elements with awareness of their own." He paused and shook his head. "We should survey our surroundings … see if there is anything of advantage."

"Why is this place so dark?" she asked, stepping past him toward Shade. "The walls don't glow like most of the outer caverns."

Much as he valued her curious nature, it now wore upon him, like the beast pacing within him, pulling against its bonds in growing hunger.

Wynn held the crystal out above Shade, illuminating the wide stone stairs, and Chane studied the wall. It was hewn smooth, unlike the caverns. This was a created rather than a natural space. No moisture crept in to coat it with glittering mineral deposits, which seemed impossible at this depth.

Chane stepped past Wynn. Only a dozen stairs down, Shade scurried into the lead, sniffing every step they took. He had not counted the steps, but too many passed before Wynn's crystal began to expose the chamber's lower reaches. If she had stumbled off that landing, it would have been a very long first—and last—step.

They passed the stairs' midpoint and circled at least halfway around the outer wall. The chamber was indeed round, though only a third as wide as it was tall. Indistinct forms took shape below, standing around the lower floor. Something in the floor's center caught the light of Wynn's crystal.

Chane felt Wynn's hand upon his shoulder.

"I've seen this place," she whispered.

"When? How?"

"Shade saw it in Ore Locks's memories."

She pushed past him, scurrying downward, and Chane hurried to keep up. Before he reached the bottom, the erect forms already looked like mute representations of standing figures. But Chane focused on that shining disk in the floor's center.

The large plate of ruddy metal, perhaps polished brass, was at least three or four strides across. There were markings upon it. Shade stepped off the last stair and began circling the floor, but Wynn went straight for the closest tall form.

"Wait!" Chane ordered.

She stopped short, an arm's length from one strangely shaped, upright black … casket. At least, that was what it looked like. Drawing closer, he saw that it more resembled a stout form of iron maiden, a torturous execution device he had only read of.

Dull black, perhaps basalt, it was slightly taller but far broader than Wynn—even greater than the breadth of a male dwarf. Narrowing slightly at its base upon the floor, its bulk widened upward, until …

Chane's gaze came to where the plain figure narrowed into the dull, domed representation of its "head." The raised shape of a riveted band was carved out of the stone, wrapping around at jaw level. Two like bands ran around its "body" at shoulder and thigh height. But he saw no seams along its sides.

It was carved whole from one solid piece. And between the two lower bands around its bulk was a vertical oblong shape of raised stone covered in engraved characters.

Chane peered around the chamber.

Seven basalt forms—trapped and bound in place—faced inward toward the floor's central disk. But between two on the far side he spotted another opening in the chamber's wall. He glanced up, barely making out the landing above. The opening was directly below it.

Then Shade rumbled.

Chane was not the only one who did not like the feel of this place. The dog paced around the chamber, remaining equally far away from the tombs and the floor disk.

"Wynn?" he said uncertainly.

When she did not answer, he turned back. Wynn was about to touch the oblong of engraved characters on a tomb.

"No!" he said. "The floor disk first."

It was the only thing he could think of to stop her. She frowned at him and headed for the floor's center.

Chane backed up, still eyeing the mute black shapes. When he spun about, Wynn had crouched at the disk's edge, holding her crystal above it.

It was made of brass, though Chane saw no sign of tarnish. Someone must clean and polish it regularly. Not truly a circle, the octagon's sides were slightly curved outward, causing that mistaken impression. Inside each edge was an emblem like a complex sigil. In the center was a depression, akin to a high-edged bowl sunken into and melded with the disk. One larger pattern rested in its bottom.

"Arhniká … Mukvadân … Bedzâ'kenge …" Wynn whispered.

With each strange word, she pointed to a symbol around the outer circumference.

"These are vubrí for dwarven Eternals," she added in puzzlement. "Eight of the Bäynæ."

Chane knew little of dwarven saints beside Bedzâ'kenge—Feather-Tongue.

Wynn flattened her hands upon the disk and leaned out to look into the center depression. Before Chane could jerk her back, she lurched away.

"Lhärgnæ!" she whispered.

"What?"

Wynn scrambled to her feet, turning unsteadily as she looked to all of the basalt figures. She darted around the chamber, examining each oblong panel, finally stopping at one tomb.

"Sundaks!" she exclaimed.

"What are you reading?"

"Avarice … one of the Lhärgnæ," she answered. "Oh, dead deities! They've locked us in with their Fallen Ones!"

"What does that mean?"

"Their devils, their demons … cursed ones! Those who represent vice—and worse—by dwarven culture."

"So, religious representations?"

"No," Wynn answered. "They were once real, at least as much as the Eternals, though their names were stripped away. They bear only titles, chosen for their singular disgrace."

"These are not true tombs," Chane countered. "They do not open. There are no bodies here."

"Then why bother? Why the disk in the floor? Is that something of the magic discipline … conjury perhaps?"

Chane looked again at the great brass disk.

Mages did not call upon deities—or saints—in their arts. Formal religions were more widely spread in this part of the world than in his. Most peasants of the Farlands clung to superstitions of nature spirits and dark influences. Some practiced forms of ancestor worship.

He knew of priests—and others—who claimed to be gifted by higher powers. They had their grand ceremonies and contrivances to dazzle the ignorant.

"Some priest's supposed ward against the damned," he replied. "It is nothing more than trappings to appease the masses … to control them through their fears."

He was about to expound further when Wynn rounded on him. "Do the Stonewalkers look like a pack of charlatans to you?"

"You are a scholar," he answered. "Do not believe in this."

"Then why did you hesitate when we first entered the temple of Bedzâ'kenge?"

Chane was struck mute.

"Yes, I figured it out," she said. "You were afraid of entering a sacred space. We both know there are things beyond reason we never wanted to believe, and still …"

Chane looked about the chamber. She was alluding to theurgy, the supposed gain or use of power from higher spiritual forces. That was only more priestly aggrandizing—was it not?

His skin began to crawl, aggravating his nagging hunger. Had he finally stepped into a true sacred space? Was this a prison for a people who believed their ancestors, saintly or otherwise, resided in this world and not some separate realm of the afterlife?

Chane strode past Wynn to the chamber's only opening. It was too dark to see into the space beyond, until light grew behind him. Wynn approached with her crystal and its light filled a small round chamber.

One lone fake tomb of basalt stood at the back. Why was this one kept apart from the others?

Chane backed up—until he bumped into Wynn and pivoted.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked.

"Besides being locked up?"

"Yes."

He could not meet her eyes or give her the answer. "I will check the wall for any more openings, as well as back along the stairs and landing."

Chane walked away, heading along the wall behind the silent basalt forms. He was not about to tell her of his hunger. They both had enough fears for the moment, and he would not add to hers concerning himself.

But they had to escape this place, soon.

Wynn watched Chane walk away and couldn't stop worrying about his colorless eyes. She'd never seen them this way for so long. Something was wrong with him—more than just this disturbing place. But she couldn't force him to tell her.

She stepped into the small chamber, wondering why this one tomb was kept isolated. And a phrase or two surfaced from the back of her mind.

Chârmun, agh'alhtahk so. A'lhän am leagad chionns'gnajh.

She remembered Chuillyon's whisper.

Chârmun, grace this place. Fill me with your absolute nature.

What did it mean? Why had he whispered of the tree called Sanctuary at the heart of First Glade, and as if it might answer … his prayer?

Wynn hadn't forgotten Magiere's revelations from wallowing in the memories of Most Aged Father. Aside from hearing mention of the fall of Bäalâle Seatt, Magiere had relived far more through the decrepit leader of the Anmaglâhk.

Most Aged Father, once called Sorhkafâré—Light upon the Grass—had been alive during the time of the mythical war. As a commander of an allied army, he'd fled with straggling remainders of his forces before a horde of undead slaughtering everything in the night. They'd rested each day and run in the dark, being picked off all the way to First Glade. Less than half of them reached that place, where they discovered that no undead was able to follow.

Wynn had always known of First Glade and its great tree, Chârmun. Few people that she knew had ever traveled to see it. She certainly hadn't … yet. No one ever realized that it had been there since the time of the Forgotten History itself, always present; neither the Lhoin'na nor their branch of sages had ever mentioned this.

It didn't seem possible that they didn't know that First Glade had existed before the war. And this elf with the duchess, dressed like a sage in a robe of no order's colors, had whispered the name of the tree called Sanctuary.

And its name, which had always been known, took on a greater meaning by what Magiere had told her.

Wynn pushed such mysteries away as she faced the lone tomb in the small chamber. She wasn't certain she truly wanted to know more of this place, but she couldn't ignore an opportunity to fathom the ways of the Stonewalkers. Not if she had to work through them, and the duchess, to get to what she needed.

She raised her crystal close to the figure's oblong panel and traced its markings with her finger. It was an epitaph of sorts, but not the kind placed on the marker of a loved one or ancestor. She struggled to decipher archaic patterns constructed entirely in round dwarven vubrí.

… outcast of stone … deceiver of honored dead … ender of heritage … the seatt-killer …

The last one almost stopped her cold, and then she reached the bottom and a final vubrí. All of the others she'd worked out made it easier to decipher.

Thallûhearag.

As with the tomb of Sundaks—Avarice—and the others, the title was written at the bottom, not the top, as was customary in almost any culture. It was the same term she'd first overheard spoken in High-Tower's chamber, when Cinder-Shard and Ore-Locks had visited and then vanished. All that Wynn had read in the epitaph's archaic Dwarvish clarified the meaning of that title.

She jerked her finger from the cold black stone, wiping it down her tunic.

Thallûhearag—Lord of Slaughter.

Dwarves used that final term differently than in other culture's languages. It referred to killing the defenseless versus carnage or execution of food animals. She tried to understand the few earlier phrases.

"Outcast of stone" could mean an outcast of the dwarven people. "Deceiver of the honored dead" implied deceased thänæ, and perhaps even their caretakers, the Stonewalkers. "Ender of heritage" was too obscure, but "seatt-killer …"

Something horrible had happened at Bäalâle Seatt during the war.

Wynn backed up one step. "Lord of slaughter …" she whispered, "… seatt-killer …"

She suddenly felt as if she were being watched.

Wynn looked to the tomb's faceless dome of a head, which was visually gagged by its raised carving of a riveted band. Everyone in that forgotten seatt, including enemy forces, had been "lost," though no one knew how or why. She realized her first translation of epitaph's final symbol lacked the true meaning, for "heritage" was everything to the dwarves.

"Thallûhearag …" she whispered, "lord of genocide!"

Shade began to snarl from behind. Before Wynn could turn, the tomb's shadow moved upon the wall.

"His true name was Byûnduní … Deep-Root."

Wynn slid back a step at the baritone voice seeming to rise from the black stone. A thick hand entered the crystal's light from behind it and settled upon the tomb's shoulder. Shade lunged in around Wynn with a snap of jaws, her hackles stiffened.

Ore-Locks stepped from the shadows, his hand sliding down the tomb of Thallûhearag.

How did he know a name for this mass murderer? The names of the Fallen Ones were washed away by time. How he had gotten in here unseen, or had he simply slipped through stone, like his brethren?

Ore-Locks raised his eyes to the tomb's head, as if he saw more than that mute form's representation. He placed both hands flat upon its oval plate, as if trying to blot out the epitaph. Melancholy in his broad features quickly turned into cold resentment.

He glanced sidelong at her, the same way the duchess had in the dangerous moment in the prince's hidden pool chamber.

Wynn's head churned with frightened notions all wrapped around this dwarf who'd been her only lead to the Stonewalkers.

"He does not belong here!" Ore-Locks whispered.

Her breaths quickened until she grew light-headed. His siblings had renounced him for his spiritual pursuit. Sliver's revulsion drove her to keep the source of his calling from their mother. And in High-Tower's study, the domin's venom for his brother had been visceral in his voice.

"What do you know?" he demanded. "What did you find in those cursed texts? Where do his bones lie … where is Bäalâle Seatt?"

A forgotten ancestor, obscured from oral tradition, had called Ore-Locks. But it wasn't a Bäynæ or any forebearer of his people as a whole. It was one in a direct bloodline that the Iron-Braids couldn't bear to acknowledge once Ore-Locks had tried to force it upon them.

She looked at his hand, pressed firmly upon that tomb of the lord of genocide—Thallûhearag.

Wynn ran out of the small chamber's entrance, screaming, "Chane!"

Chane was halfway up the stairs, feeling along the wall, when Wynn called his name.

The beast within him threw itself against the limits of its chains. His hunger broke free amid fear for her safety. His senses widened as he took the stairs three at a time for a few downward strides.

Chane lunged off the edge into midair. His legs buckled as he landed; he was only half-aware that he crouched upon the floor's brass seal as Wynn rushed out of the opening between the tombs.

Her crystal's light flooded the space, burning Chane's sight for an instant. Shade bolted out next, snarling. The sound heated Chane's frenzy.

Something moved in the dark opening. Bits of it glinted in the crystal's light.

Chane rushed in, grabbing Wynn's shoulder. As he jerked her behind himself, the drive to hunt became tangled with his need to protect her. Something had entered this place—something he might kill and feed upon. Then he heard Wynn gasp.

Chane whipped his head around and went rigid.

The cold lamp crystal lay on the chamber floor.

Wynn stared at him, eyes wide with shock, as she gripped her shoulder. Torn bits of felt from her tunic stuck out around her small fingers. A thin scent of blood began to permeate the chamber's stale air.

Chane choked on a surge of hunger. It burned cold in his throat, and he heard Shade snarl directly behind him.

"Shade, come!" Wynn called.

He shuddered so hard, clenching both hands against the spasm, and backstepped away from Wynn. He shook his head and mouthed, No, over and over, but when his lips silently parted, Wynn flinched.

Chane clamped his mouth shut, hiding the change in his teeth.

The barest creases formed on Wynn's brow over her narrowing eyes. There it was again—that fear in her face, backed by wary anger. The same as on the night she had seen him emerge from a scribe shop's window behind the wraith.

"Wynn …" he rasped, but did not know what else to say.

Shade circled wide around him, taking a position in his way, as Wynn crouched to retrieve her crystal.

Chane gazed into its light, causing pain in his widening sight. He wished it would sear him.

"I did not come to harm you."

Chane twisted back at the deep voice.

Ore-Locks stood between two tombs before the opening. The red-haired Stonewalker was dressed in a hauberk of steel-tipped scales, with two wide black-sheathed blades lashed to the front of his belt. He did not advance but only watched those before him, as if waiting for a response.

For an instant, Chane wanted to vent all his anguish on this one.

This dwarf had frightened Wynn, caused her to cry out … caused Chane's momentary loss of control. The beast inside him began to wail, and he ground his jaws, beating the monster into submission.

Chane stood shuddering as he glared at Ore-Locks.

"No one has ever breached our underworld," Ore-Locks said, fixing on Wynn. "So you are not what you seem. Did you guide that black spirit here?"

"Of course not!" she answered.

Chane knew something of what had passed between these two in the Iron-Braids' home. Ore-Locks would hardly consider Wynn a friend.

"But it followed you," Ore-Locks stated.

Chane waited, but Wynn did not answer immediately.

"I've nothing to say to you," she answered. "Not with what I know. Not with what you worship!"

Ore-Locks's eyes narrowed, but Chane was confused by Wynn's words. What did she mean?

The dwarf lifted his chin, teeth clenched between barely parted lips. Chane set himself, watching for Ore-Locks's slightest move.

"That thing in there," Wynn went on. "Somehow, he was responsible. … Whatever brought down Bäalâle Seatt … that mass murderer did it."

"No!" Ore-Locks snarled, and took a step.

Chane instantly shifted into his way.

"Then why is he here?" Wynn demanded. "Why else would Thallûhearag's representation be put aside, separated even from the Fallen Ones?"

Ore-Locks's jaw muscles clenched in mute outrage, and Chane understood what was in that small chamber. He remembered all Wynn had told him concerning Bäalâle Seatt and a forgotten title feared by the few who knew of it and wished to forget it.

Chane tried to calm himself. He needed to wash his thoughts clean if he were to have any chance at sensing deception in the dwarf's words. Letting go of everything, trying to ignore hunger and how he had recklessly injured Wynn, he closed his eyes.

But the only thing he could find to soothe him was a memory.

There had been one brief moment when he had sneaked into the guild's library with Wynn. With her so close, guiding him into her world, he had stopped and looked upon all of the volumes placed so orderly upon the shelves.

"He is not one of them!" Ore-Locks shouted. "Not as claimed by the few who remember only his title … and not his name. I have known him since I was a child, though I did not understand until later who touched me—called me through blood. He cannot be what they claim … not as my ancestor!"

Chane remained placid in that quiet memory of the library, letting each word pass through him. Though the beast moaned at his complacency, no discomforting twinge rose within him. He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on Ore-Locks.

The dwarf was not lying—or at least he believed his own words. Chane turned his head enough to glance at Wynn. He nodded at her, hoping she understood.

Wynn blinked at him, her brow wrinkling slightly.

"Now you owe me—in barter!" Ore-Locks said. "What do you know of the black spirit that followed you here?"

Wynn hesitated.

"Only that it is an undead," she answered. "One form of what is known in the Farlands as the Vneshené Zomrelé—the Noble Dead … though it isn't physical, like the type more commonly dealt with."

"Physical?" Ore Locks repeated.

Wynn shook her head. "That doesn't matter. … We're dealing with a powerful spirit, which can become corporeal in part or whole for brief periods. We believe it is a conjuror, one so old its power and skill are like nothing heard of before. But like any undead—or most—it can be injured by sunlight."

"Then it is impervious in our underworld," Ore-Locks countered.

Wynn took one step forward, passing her hand before Shade's face.

"No," she returned, "not if I have the staff."

Ore-Locks cocked his head, his eyes narrowed in doubt, but Wynn quickly went on.

"The key to stopping it is to find out what it wants! Get me access to the texts you are holding for the guild!"

Ore-Locks said nothing. Chane tensed at the dwarf's steady gaze upon Wynn—as if the Stonewalker actually considered her demand. Had Wynn finally gained them an ally here? But was it one they even wanted or could trust?

"That can wait," someone else called out.

Chane twisted about, looking around and then up.

Duchess Reine, her elven companion, and the master Stonewalker stood above, a dozen or more steps up the stairs. Chane had not heard the iron doors above slide open.

The elf stood lowest, in the lead, gazing down upon Wynn. He held the staff in his hand, its crystal unsheathed.

"I also have questions, Wynn Hygeorht," he said flatly. "But I am not here to barter."

Chane slipped in behind Wynn and gently touched her unharmed shoulder. A rush of relief came, along with guilt, when she pressed back against him. Monster though he was, besides Shade, he was all she had.

Did he too often take advantage of that?

He whispered in Wynn's ear, "Stay close. Listen for what I tell you."

Reine stood upon the curving stairs between Chuillyon below and Cinder-Shard above her. She was dazed and aching from their silent method of entrance. Chuillyon had hoped to catch whatever the captives might be discussing before revealing their presence. But the nonsense Reine heard made her want to snatch the staff from him and leave this place.

That wasn't possible until Cinder-Shard opened the portal.

She'd seen the Chamber of the Fallen only a few times, but always from the landing above. By the light of the sage's crystal, it was disturbing in its dark simplicity—more so because Ore-Locks was here. He was the last person who should be alone with this manipulative, mad sage, who'd already used him once.

"What are you doing here?" Cinder-Shard growled.

Ore-Locks rounded the great brass seal away from Wynn and approached the stairway's base. His chin lifted, but he didn't look to his master. Instead he eyed Chuillyon and the staff.

"I came for answers," Ore Locks replied. "More than the ones you seek."

Cinder-Shard gently pushed Reine against the wall and stepped down behind Chuillyon.

"You are out of place!" Cinder-Shard nearly shouted. "The others already see to our people's defense—as you should!"

"I am seeing to my people!"

Cinder-Shard turned his head, looking off to the chamber's far side.

Reine tried to follow his strange shift of attention. At first she had no idea what he was doing. Then she saw a black opening between two stone figures. It was directly below the landing above.

She'd never come down the stairs before, so had never seen it. What was in there? Obviously not another way out, or Cinder-Shard wouldn't have placed captives here.

Cinder-Shard stepped off the stairway's edge. As his boots landed upon the chamber floor, a dull thunder echoed into the heights.

"What have you done?" he demanded. "What have you told them?"

"Nothing," Ore-Locks answered. "Nothing more than what the sage read for herself."

Cinder-Shard sagged under some unseen burden, almost like a mourner in a graveyard. He ran a large hand over his face and turned his eyes on Wynn.

"You … you can read the ancient vubrí?"

All this time, Wynn had merely watched and listened. The wolf stood rigid before her and Chane behind her, his cowl pulled up and his hand upon her shoulder. She drew back against him, as if seeking refuge beneath his chin.

"Yes, I can read them," she answered. "As well as some other old writings … like those in the texts."

"So obviously you are well studied," Chuillyon interjected. "Perhaps you even think you know more than your superiors. What have you learned of this person you call … the wraith?"

The change of subject threw Reine off guard, and she didn't care for his new approach.

Wynn Hygeorht had no guard on her tongue and no respect for her guild's authority. She had a way of making superiors seem at fault for the horror and death of the past half moon—which began with two dead sages in an alley. The royal family treasured the guild, and Reine had no interest in any more of this upstart's insinuations.

Still, Chuillyon, Cinder-Shard, and even bitter old Bulwark all believed this mage was something more—something out of Wynn's wild tales. Reine couldn't bring herself to think of such nonsense, not in the face of a more real threat. She had Frey to protect.

"It's old," Wynn finally replied, "perhaps older than even First Glade."

What did that mean? Another pause passed.

"Forgive me," Chuillyon answered, "but I fail to understand your comparison."

"Lie!"

Wynn stiffened at Chane's whisper. It was barely a shaped breath, but she'd heard it just the same. How was he doing this—and was he right? She studied the puzzled frown upon Chuillyon's triangular face, but she couldn't see any sign of deception.

Chane squeezed her shoulder lightly for emphasis.

Her reference to First Glade had nothing to do with getting to the texts, but she couldn't help that one opportune prod. There was no telling when or if she might get another chance.

She'd grown up believing elves the best of all people, of all races. But after the deceit in dealing with the Anmaglâhk of the Farlands' elves, and learning one hint of the hidden history of First Glade, those experiences had left her suspicious. How much subterfuge was there among the elves of her continent—and among their branch of her own guild?

Then there was still the issue of Thallûhearag, Bäalâle Seatt … and Ore-Locks.

The way Cinder-Shard's face had twisted in sudden anguish, as he looked into the mass murderer's chamber, left Wynn frightened. He clearly knew what had called Ore-Locks to service, and the master Stonewalker had still taken in the young dwarf. How many corruptions did she now face? How many enemies surrounded her, even from avenues she'd once thought beyond question?

"You have nothing to stop the wraith," she said to Chuillyon, ignoring even the duchess. "And the staff will work only for me."

Chuillyon stepped all the way down and set the staff's butt upon the floor.

"What is it?" he asked too politely. "What does its crystal do?"

Wynn looked his robe up and down, its color mockingly white and pure.

"It is imbued with the sun's power, the nature of its light," she answered. "Sunlight is … destructive to all undead."

"So this is what you used to face it the last time?" he asked, turning the staff in his hand.

Its crystal cast faint colored glimmers around the chamber as its prism caught light from her cold lamp crystal.

"Yes," Wynn replied.

"Then it was hardly effective," Chuillyon answered.

"Enough nonsense!" Cinder-Shard cut in. "Even if … How would such a thing be made?"

"You would have to ask Domin il'Sänke," Wynn answered.

"How convenient!" Reine spit. "The domin she speaks of is from the guild's Suman branch. And he has returned home, well beyond questioning."

"It was created at my guild," Wynn countered. "From what I understand, Premin Sykion nearly fainted when she learned of its cost. Ask her … or Premin Hawes, head of Metaology."

"And from what I understand," the duchess responded coldly, "the guild took you in as an orphan, raised you, fed you … educated you, and trained you as one of them. And you thanked them with your selfish ploys!"

Wynn couldn't help flushing with anger.

"The wraith is here for something," she said. "Until you know what that is, you won't know for certain what it will do … how it will act."

"And you would know of this?" Chuillyon asked.

"I can help only if you help me," Wynn answered.

Cinder-Shard raised his dark eyebrows. "In what way?"

"Give me my staff and my belongings … give me access to the texts."

"No!" Reine cut in.

"Then you'll die," Wynn said flatly. "You'll probably die anyway. The wraith wants those texts, and it will kill anyone in its path to reach them. But why? Unless I learn that, you're fighting blind."

She looked at Chuillyon again. "Can you read old tongues … Iyindu, Heiltak lettering … old Stravinan or Belaskian?"

He shrugged idly with a raised feathery eyebrow. "Some."

"Lie!" Chane breathed behind Wynn.

A lie about what? Could Chuillyon read such languages more—or less—than he implied?

"Can you?" Chuillyon challenged. "Or is this another boast … upon which we base our slim chance of survival?"

Wynn was careful not to show any reaction. His tone implied he did know old languages, as if he might actually be a sage. This was the only way he could ever judge whether she "boasted" or not. So if he could read dead languages, why bother with her?

He was baiting her, but to what purpose?

"Yes," she answered. "Well enough that I might find something useful. After all, I was raised … cared for … and educated"—and she cast a glance at the duchess—"inside a guild branch."

Chuillyon pursed his lips and fell silent.

Cinder-Shard seemed to calm suddenly. He glanced at Chuillyon, and the old elf merely nodded to him.

"So, you have raced this thing to gain the texts," Cinder-Shard said.

It seemed too obvious a comment, and Wynn grew warier.

"And Âthkyensmyotnes will continue to try to stop you," Chuillyon added, his expression growing thoughtful.

"No!" Chane hissed. "You will not—"

"No one is speaking to you!" Cinder-Shard growled.

"Wynn," Chane whispered, "they are trying to—"

"I know," she answered.

The wraith knew both she and the texts were here. It had killed to gain translations sent to scribe shops in Calm Seatt for clean transcription. But rather than searching their content and leaving them behind, it had always taken those pages. Whatever it sought, it didn't want others to find as well. Either it hadn't found what it was after, or it wanted to keep others from doing the same. It had followed her, in her search for the originals, so it had some way of tracking or locating her.

Chuillyon wasn't baiting her; he was making her into bait.

"Yes," Chuillyon whispered.

Wynn tensed slightly, and Chane's grip tightened upon her shoulder. "What you learn of Âthkyensmyotnes's goals may help us—or not," Chuillyon added. "Either way, you will tell us all you discover … in exchange for access to the texts."

"Chuillyon!" Reine gasped.

He raised a hand to silence her.

"At the least," he went on to Wynn, "if it knows you are here, it might be more direct … less cautious … in returning. Will you consent to this?"

Wynn hesitated. They offered what she wanted, but at a price.

Chuillyon had called the wraith by another term. She knew it from delving into old folktales of her people. The elf knew more of the wraith than she'd guessed—and Cinder-Shard did as well, from his shout in the main cavern.

Wynn reached up, putting her hand over Chane's.

"Later I will need his help," she said. "He knows more about fighting the wraith than any of you. Give him back his belongings … and his sword."

Chuillyon shook his head emphatically. "Absolutely not." He pointed at Chane. "We do not want to arm that one."

"Then delve into the texts yourself," Wynn returned. "Choose."

It was a bluff, and likely the elf knew it, but no one else did. If he called her on it in front of the others, it would simply be based on what everyone knew of her: that she would want the texts no matter what. If he succumbed to her conditions, the others might not think much of it, but Wynn would know what it meant.

Chuillyon knew less than he let on, or … he had more to hide with his deceptions than Wynn could guess.

She wasn't certain whether he suppressed a soft smile, but he just stood there watching her, not saying a word. Silence lingered so long that the duchess crept down behind him, a frown growing on her face. Still, Chuillyon stood poised with the staff resting lightly in his grip.

It was Cinder-Shard who finally answered, looking to the duchess.

"Have one of your men bring their gear. If they wish to survive, they will fight and do as they are told. I will take the sage to the texts … with your permission."

He waited upon her reply, as if all had to be in agreement. The texts belonged to the guild but were ultimately under the protection of the monarchy of Malourné. The Stonewalkers were merely guardians.

Reine appeared suddenly weary. "Do what you think best."

"Very well," Cinder-Shard replied, and without turning back, added, "and Ore-Locks will come. He will stay with the sage and watch her while we attend to other matters."

Wynn didn't care for that. There was no telling what private agenda Ore-Locks had—let alone that his superior appeared to know of the young Stonewalker's ancestor. Cinder-Shard stepped closer.

"You will share all you learn. When you finish, you will report such findings to the princess and myself."

Wynn glanced at Reine's poorly hidden distaste. Cinder-Shard wasn't making a request, but Wynn answered.

"Agreed."