Through Stone and Sea

Chapter 12

Near dusk the following day, Wynn stood clinging to the sun-crystal staff before the passage to the Iron-Braids' smithy. Shade sat expectantly nearby while Chane leaned against the wall with his eyes barely open.

They'd arrived in Sea-Side before dawn and procured two rooms at the same inn as their last visit. A decent place close to the station, it was the only one with which they were familiar. They'd slept much of the day, but before retiring, Chane had insisted that Wynn wake him by late afternoon. He believed Sliver would be less trouble if they approached during business hours, and with possible patrons about, she might be less confrontational.

Wynn was dubious about this—and about trying to rouse Chane. He seemed determined to master being awake during daylight while safe beneath the mountain. She'd reluctantly agreed, instructing the innkeeper to knock at Day-Winter in late afternoon.

As she'd anticipated, waking Chane hadn't been easy. He'd been disoriented from the moment she'd finally dragged him to his feet. Now the three of them stood outside the fifth northbound passage off of Limestone Mainway, and Wynn hesitated.

She couldn't botch this again, yet her plan might—would—anger Sliver even more in the end. Of course, she could always walk in and say, "Hello, we're looking for a door to the underworld. Care to show us how your brother gets out?"

Wynn scoffed under breath, and Chane raised his bleary eyes.

"I should've let you rest," she said. "Shade and I can handle this."

"No. I am … better than last time."

That was a lie, but Wynn couldn't think of another excuse. So she stepped into the passage.

The smell of fumes and heated metal grew strong before they even neared the smithy. Peering through the open door, Wynn blinked in surprise. Sliver wasn't alone.

Two male dwarves in char-stained leather aprons pounded upon mule shoes near the open furnace. Each hammer's clang rose above the bellows' hoarse breaths and sent scant sparks showering to the floor.

Sliver stood at a rear worktable examining the shorter and wider of two finished blades, both the mottled gray of fine dwarven steel. She looked impressive with her determined expression, thick red braid, and leather apron—a master crafter engrossed in her trade. She scraped her thick thumb across the sword's edge, testing its keening, and then set it down to inspect its human-proportioned companion.

Wynn cleared her throat. "Umm, hello."

All three occupants looked over, and Sliver's eyes widened.

"Could we have a word?" Wynn asked more nervously than she intended.

Sliver appeared both puzzled and stunned. Perhaps she hadn't expected Wynn to come with news so soon. The smith glanced at the workers before fixing her gaze on Wynn again. Her wide mouth parted.

The workshop's back door slammed open and banged and shuddered off Sliver's worktable.

A wrinkled dwarven woman stood in the opening. Wild white hair hung over the shoulders of a long sashless robe and a shift of faded blue. Shuffling out, she grabbed a worktable to steady herself. Both workers froze, casting wary glances at Sliver.

"Here!" the old woman called, and caught her breath from the effort. "Come, sage … you are welcome in my home!"

That crackling, manic voice made Wynn flush with shame. But Sliver's expression turned vicious. She set down the long sword and moved toward her visitors at a threatening pace.

Wynn tightened her grip on the staff.

Chane and Shade pushed through the door, rounding either side of her. Sliver halted beyond arm's reach, and with one derisive snort fixed her glare on Chane.

"Spare me your display!" she growled, then turned on Wynn. "Move!"

Sliver backstepped toward the old woman.

Wynn advanced, passing the smith as steadily as she could. Shade and Chane followed closely. The old woman wobbled through the rear door and everyone but the workers followed. As soon as they were all in, Sliver slammed the door shut.

Standing in a small room carved from the mountain's stone, Wynn spotted openings on either side near its back. Both were curtained with much-mended wool that had once been blue. Years and too many washings had rendered the fabric a pale slate color. A small hearth with a battered iron screen was set in the north wall, and an old maple table filled the room's center.

Unglazed urns and old iron pots filled scant shelves pegged into the walls. There was no sign of meat or fish, bread or vegetables. Sliver most likely had been too busy to visit a market, and the old woman looked too infirm to do so.

Wynn ceased looking about. Could she possibly feel any worse for how she would use these poor people?

"Here, sage, come and sit," the old woman urged, pulling out the only chair before she settled on one of three plain stools.

"Mother!" Sliver snapped. "Stop acting like these people are—"

"I'm honored, Mother Iron-Braid," Wynn cut in, nodding politely as she sat.

Shade circled away from Sliver to settle beside Wynn. The old woman barely glanced at the "wolf."

Chane cracked the door open, leaving it slightly inward and ajar. Perhaps he thought a lack of privacy would keep Sliver in check.

The old woman took a long breath, and when it rushed back out, her voice shook. "You have news of my son, of Ore-Locks?"

"Why else would she come?" Sliver crossed her arms, watching Wynn. "So, out with it … and leave!"

Chane tensed visibly at her tone, locking his nearly colorless eyes on hers.

Wynn was too confused to worry about their mutual hostility.

Sliver had visited the temple demanding that Wynn share all she learned, yet now seemed surprised that she'd come. Obviously the smith didn't want her here—unlike the mother. But Wynn's determination faltered at the manic hope in Mother Iron-Braid's eyes.

She sat there, suddenly uncertain of her scheme.

Chane kept watch on Sliver as much as Wynn, but he did not follow the verbal exchange closely. The smith's gaze often twitched his way. Sliver seemed less than pleased that he had cracked the door, but anything that kept her off balance was good enough for him.

Through the opening, something more had caught his eye. Something he had already seen once before, but now had all the more reason to notice. Widening his power of sight, Chane peered through the crack.

By the forge's reddened light, he saw two swords lying on the rear workbench. Both were as plain and unadorned as his own, but these were whole. Beneath their crisp sheen and strange mottling, he spotted not one imperfection—not even a polish-hidden dimple.

The long sword's end rounded to a point, though the tip was broader than normal. With no fuller or ridge down the blade, it was slightly thin for its kind. He wondered at its weight compared to his own sword. The balance would be different, likely turning closer to the guard. By estimation, an agile fit in the hand, but it looked almost fragile.

If Wynn's claims held true concerning dwarven steel, Chane would not see its like anywhere but in a seatt. In this particular smithy, it seemed out of place.

Impoverished Sliver had somehow afforded whatever rare materials and processes were needed for that strangely mottled steel. How odd that anyone with such skill had not risen from this low life.

Chane had never coveted a weapon. All his resources, when he had any, went into his intellectual pursuits. But from the instant he had seen that sword in Sliver's hand, he had wanted it. Even if he had coin, most dwarves did not value precious metals, and how could he barter when he could not estimate its worth? In truth, he had little to trade by way of goods or services. Was the blade even available for purchase, let alone barter?

He worried about what lay ahead, especially for Wynn. Her search for the texts had already put them in dangerous positions, some of which were not overcome by combat. That might not hold for the future. Even if—when—the texts were found, wherever their secrets led would likely be more hazardous, not less.

Keeping Wynn safe meant acquiring every advantage. A broken sword was a still sword—but not like the one he now fixated upon.

"I have no news," Wynn finally said, steeling herself for the next tactic. "But if you help me, I might get a message to Ore-Locks … something to make him come."

"More lies!" Sliver snarled. "Peddling false hopes for your own gain!"

"Mind your ways, daughter," the mother warned. "She is a sage, likely sent by your brother High-Tower."

"Mother, please," Sliver returned. "High-Tower could have come himself after so many years. But he did not. This conniving scribbler is not here because of him … or your prayers to the Eternals. Your sons are gone … Ore-Locks will never return!"

Startled, Wynn caught the strange twitch of Sliver's eye. The smith's final declaration seemed to have escaped on its own. Perhaps she now regretted it.

Sliver's denouncement of High-Tower clearly pained her, as if she wished at least one brother might come home. But not the other. Did Sliver believe Ore-Locks would never return—or did she wish it so?

Mother Iron-Braid didn't even look up.

"Your daughter is correct in one thing," Wynn said. "Domin High-Tower didn't send me."

The old woman's features sagged. If faith could've crumbled in a wrinkled old face, it began to crack right before Wynn's eyes. Guilt left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She was so lost regarding what drove Sliver. And by truth or ploy, she was doing damage here in that ignorance. Her only choice was to fumble along the middle ground between the two.

"In Ore-Locks's past visits," Wynn began, "did either of you see by what path—or where he went when he left?"

"If I knew that," Sliver grumbled, "I would have gone my—"

"At the Off-Breach Market," Mother Iron-Braid cut in, "on the second level, down the Breach Mainway."

Sliver choked.

Chane shuddered, nearly convulsed.

The beast with hands inside of him suddenly rose in wary agitation. Chane pulled his gaze from the sword to look upon Sliver's stunned face.

The smith's eyes were so wide that the whites showed all around her black pupils. Sliver's claim still hung in Chane's mind.

If I knew that …

It was a lie—or half of one. She knew something concerning her brother's whereabouts. Again, the warning of deceit had hit Chane when he was not paying attention.

"I believe he came from there," the old woman went on. "I followed my son when he left but lost him near a clothier's booth … and a cobbler's stall, if they are still in the same place. I could not keep up, and he was gone."

"When was this?" Sliver demanded, and then swallowed hard, faking composure though her eye twitched.

"Years back, before he stopped coming at all," the mother answered. "You were busy … always busy."

"I was seeing to our needs," the daughter returned, "unlike your sons."

Mother Iron-Braid raised her eyes. "Then see to them now!"

Sliver jabbed a finger at Wynn, and shouted, "She is using you—you are nothing but bait to her! Ore-Locks's calling keeps him now!"

Chane cocked his head. At mention of Ore-Locks's status among the Stonewalkers, a flicker of revulsion rolled across the smith's face. It was revealing but puzzling.

"Why would he come to this sage, if not to us?" Sliver asked disdainfully.

Why indeed? Chane wondered. Why had Ore-Locks stopped visiting his family?

Chane fixed on the smith, trying to sense the truth—or the lack of it.

Wynn wished she understood.

Sliver stood shocked at her mother's claim of following Ore-Locks, yet Sliver had come to the temple demanding that Wynn share all she learned. Perhaps Sliver had never intended anything to reach her mother's ears. Was it Sliver, and not Mother Iron-Braid, who wanted to know all that Wynn found out? And again, why?

"Do not spit in the face of the Eternals!" Mother Iron-Braid chided her daughter. "They answered my prayers, regardless of your fallen faith! Never speak of Ore-Locks in that way again."

"Mother, stop—"

"Your brother … both your brothers, sacrificed all to serve a high calling, each to his own. You will take this sage to the market. She will find Ore-Locks … because the Eternals wish it so!"

The old woman's large, bony hand fell on Wynn's tiny one, clasping it tightly.

"Tell Ore-Locks to come home," she whispered, her voice quavering as tears welled. "Tell him I … we need to see his face once more. Tell him. It is so little to ask."

Wynn wanted to pull away, and not because her hand hurt under that grip. The very ploy she planned to use to lure Ore-Locks had just spilled from Mother Iron-Braid's lips. What better way to drive a son home than with the heartbroken desperation of a mother?

"I will," Wynn answered. "No matter if it gains me … or not."

"Show them, daughter!" the mother ordered, like a matriarch rather than a frantic old woman.

Sliver spun in angry silence. She jerked the door wide, forcing Chane to step aside, and strode out into the workshop. Chane held back, waiting upon Wynn.

Amid confusion and shame, Wynn carefully pulled free of Mother Iron-Braid's grip.

"I'll reach Ore-Locks," she promised, "or tell him … somehow."

A good distance down Breach Mainway, on Sea-Side's second level, Wynn followed Sliver into the strangest open market she had ever seen. Deep inside the mountain, Off-Breach Market was set up in a huge space carved from the granite innards, rather like the interior of a great cathedral. Voluminous, it was lit in orange by massive crystals steaming upon stone pylons the circumference of oak tree trunks. Even thicker columns supported the ceiling all the way to the tile ringed opening at the dome's apex. Vapors and smoke from various coal pots and food vendors' carts wafted up to escape through the central air shaft.

The columns here were brightly painted in purples, greens, and yellows, from their sculpted base rings to their flanged tops. All were embellished with dwarven characters and vubrí surrounding wedge-arrow symbols pointing the way to sectors for produce, clothing, housewares, leatherwork, and even livestock.

A goat's bleating carried over the market's noise, and Wynn craned her head, looking for the source. She spotted a makeshift pen at the far left side. Inside a stick corral for goats and chickens, two young dwarves shoveled animal refuse into a wooden wheelbarrow.

Stalls, carts, and tents of all shapes, colors, and materials filled the spaces around the columns, defining paths between for all patrons. None of it seemed odd to Wynn, for she'd visited many open markets on two continents. No, it was the looming ceiling that struck her the most.

She understood the transport of goods, but this was the first time the underground settlement felt so artificial. Some merchandise was likely made here beneath the surface, but others, such as fresh fish, vegetables, and grain, had to be transported from outside and a long way off. Like Bay-Side, Sea-Side's outer slope was a sheer drop down to its small port.

Chane turned a full circle. "The noise is getting worse."

He looked more alert, so dusk must be close. Then Wynn noticed other tunnel mouths around the cathedral market. As the day's end neared, more people were drifting in. Dwarves swarmed the vendors, haggling over fair trade of goods. The mounting din bounced off of stone, the walls magnifying the sound downward, and wrapped Wynn in its cacophony.

Soon, hundreds of dwarves were engrossed in loud verbal bartering as they tromped about. There weren't as many humans among them as in Bay-Side. Dozens of conflicting scents filled the air, all trapped and mingling, even with the central air shaft above.

Wynn barely heard Shade's whine and settled her free hand on the dog's neck. Shade kept swiveling her head, trying to track the constantly shifting masses.

Sliver grew impatient with their gawking. "This way," she barked, shoving through the crowd.

Chane waved Wynn and Shade on ahead.

Perhaps he wanted to cover the rear or just keep her in his sight. Wynn hurried on, murmuring, "Pardon me, excuse me," over and over as she struggled to keep up with Sliver. Then Chane's hand fell on her shoulder from behind.

Wynn slowed, but he pushed her onward. His whisper came close to her ear.

"Sliver is lying … she knows more than her mother of Ore-Locks's coming and going."

"What?"

"Keep walking. Do not look back."

"How could you know this?" she asked.

"Trust me," Chane whispered. "Can you get Shade to read Sliver's memories … on command?"

"I don't know. Maybe—"

"Then try," he insisted. "But only after I ask Sliver, ‘Where to next?' Shade must wait for these words … or at least be watching for Sliver's memories when I say them."

Wynn finally grasped what he was up to.

At such a question, memories might rise in Sliver concerning the path—assuming she did know more than her mother. But how did Chane know Sliver was lying? Worse yet, how was Wynn going to explain all this to Shade with just memories—before they reached the end of Mother Iron-Braid's instructions?

Wynn curled her fingers deep into Shade's neck fur.

"Ah, Shade." She sighed, and the dog's pace slowed. "I wish you understood language, like your father. Even a few words, like ‘dip' and ‘memory.'"

She concentrated on the simplest, most ordered memories she could recall. First of Sliver, and then the sound of Chane's voice a moment ago.

… Where to next?

She followed with another glimpse of Sliver and then quick ones of any stolen memories Shade passed on from others. And again, Sliver, and again, Where to next?

Wynn repeated the sequence over and over, until her head began to ache. She glanced down and found Shade's ears upright, as if she were listening. An echo of sight and sound filled Wynn's head.

First of Sliver, then a dizzying series of memories from others, and finally a sound like a breathy, broken voice but too garbled to understand.

Wynn hadn't actually heard words at the end. Another image rose in her mind.

Chane stood in the small back room of the Iron-Braids' smithy. Though his lips didn't move, as he'd said nothing while there, the image mingled with the sound of his rasping voice.

… Where to next?

Wynn flushed with relief, though she was still uncertain Shade truly understood. Was the dog merely echoing everything back, asking for explanation? Memory-speak was so frustrating!

They passed booths selling potatoes, turnips, and dried fruits, and then a section of glazed pots, urns, and bowls. Ahead, another tunnel led out of the market's rear, but Sliver veered away from it. The vast cavern grew more and more packed.

Wynn glanced behind but couldn't see where they'd come in. Or was she even looking in the right direction? Hopefully Chane's height gave him a better view if they had to turn back. As Shade pressed against her thigh, Wynn worried that the distressing throng had hampered the dog's understanding.

Then a flash of red caught Wynn's eye.

Sliver pulled up short, pointing. "There," she said.

A stall near the market's back wall sported numerous folds of cloth hung upon wooden racks. Many bolts were dyed in a wide array of colors, though one was pure apple red. A wide dwarven woman with extra-wide hips, dressed in a myriad of colors like her wares, was straightening a cloth bolt left askew by some browser. She spotted the onlookers in turn.

"Need something for a new shirt?" she called out. "Have a look at this weave. Stout and light, it is."

"No, thank you," Wynn replied politely.

At the next stall hung leather vests and shirts, and pairs of premade boots were piled on a makeshift plank counter. Between the two merchants, Wynn saw a narrow tunnel leading off beyond the market.

"I have shown you," Sliver muttered, turning around. "For all the good it will do."

She didn't even look at Wynn as she started shoving her way back through the crowds. Wynn waited for Chane to speak, but at his silence, she called after Sliver, "And that's all?"

"That is all I was told to do," the smith retorted. "This is as far as my mother got."

Wynn pivoted, watching Chane and waiting.

He dropped his hand onto Sliver's shoulder.

She instantly slapped it away and turned on him, outrage flushing her face.

"But not as far as you went," Chane said. "Where … to … next?"

Sliver froze, and Wynn's fingers cinched in Shade's neck fur.

The smith's eyes widened with anger—or perhaps a flicker of panic? She lingered, as Chane waited in silence, and then her brow furrowed.

"Do not make that mistake again," she warned. "The only deceiver here is your puppy of a sage!"

With that, Sliver strode off.

Chane whirled about, glancing once at Shade before turning expectant eyes on Wynn.

"Well?" he whispered.

Wynn tried raising a memory of Sliver, hoping Shade would pick up her intent.

A cascade of images answered.

Stone corridors … branching paths … fewer people at every turn …

Wynn was following a wide, short figure concealed in a full cloak and hood. It tromped ahead along the path, and she ducked into hiding whenever the figure slowed or paused.

Wynn raised her face to Chane, as he watched her hopefully.

Then Shade lunged.

"Oh—wait—Shade!" Wynn squeaked, nearly jerked off her feet. "Chane, come on … she's got it!"

Chane was already on her heels.

Shade took off through the crowd, dragging Wynn by her grip on the dog's scruff. But Shade didn't bolt between the cobbler and clothier. She veered along the stalls at the market's rear wall.

Wynn stumbled after, fearful of letting go, and not everyone saw the overly tall wolf in time. Twice Shade snarled at someone in her way. Twice Wynn got a startled or nasty look from whoever twisted aside. Too many times she bumped rudely into someone as she tried to hold on to Shade.

"Slow her down, before I lose you!" Chane called, and his maimed voice seemed a bit far behind.

"I can't!" Wynn shouted. "Shade, stop!"

But Shade didn't, and then Wynn did, very suddenly. She slammed into something like rock beneath leather.

Her hold on Shade broke as she recoiled, careening backward. Wynn toppled as her footing failed, and she tensed, waiting for her back to hit the flagstones. She tried to hold out the staff to keep its crystal from striking.

Strong hands hooked her under the arms.

Chane hoisted Wynn up from behind, and she came face-to-face with the solid wall of padded rock … or rather an armored dwarf with a perplexed expression.

A fringe of beard ran around his jawline beneath his steel pot helmet. His leather hauberk was overlaid with an orange diagonal chest sash embroidered with a yellow vubrí. He also carried a tall iron staff.

"Oh, no," Wynn moaned. "I'm so sorry."

She had just slammed headlong into a member of a local clan's constabulary. The dwarf glowered as if she were some rambunctious child run amok.

"Mind your pace, missy," he warned. "There's too many people to go rushing about."

"Pardon us," Chane said. "Our dog got away."

"Then get a leash." With a final frown, the constable turned off through the crowd.

"A leash," Wynn muttered, but right then it was an appealing notion. "Shade, where are you … Shade!"

One bark carried over the market's ruckus.

Wynn couldn't see Shade, but at the dog's noise, a few people turned to look.

"There … go," Chane urged.

They wove through shoppers, vendors, and stalls, until Wynn spotted the top of a large tunnel. One brief break in the crowd exposed Shade hunkering in that opening.

Wynn pushed on. "Shade … come here!"

The dog backed another step into the tunnel, glowering at the crowd. She openly snarled at anyone who got too close, gaining far too much attention. Wynn rushed into the tunnel opening and clamped her hand over Shade's muzzle.

"She must learn not to growl at these people," Chane admonished, jogging up behind. "Can you not get that much through to her?"

Wynn only heard Shade's answering snarl and felt the vibration beneath her small hand.

"It's not her fault."

Apparently, whatever Shade had learned from Sliver's memories had immediately become an excuse to bolt out of the market.

"If she is as intelligent as her father," Chane returned, "then she should understand simple commands."

"Not now, Chane."

Shade seemed uninterested in communicating in any way other than memory-speak, which was understandable. But Wynn wished Shade might've picked up a few spoken words by now.

Shade shook her nose free and snapped her jaws closed on Wynn's sleeve. She jerked on it as she backed down the tunnel. Her intent here was clear enough.

Wynn pulled her sleeve free and stood, but as she turned to Chane, a passing white figure appeared briefly amid the crowd. Wynn froze, peering around Chane's side, and there it was again.

A stark-white-robed and cowled figure towered above the dwarves in the market.

"Oh, no … no … no!" she breathed, and grabbed Chane, wrenching him in against the tunnel wall.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Shush. Don't move!"

She reached back, urging Shade in behind herself, and then peeked around Chane. There in the crowd was the white-clad elf she'd seen at Hammer-Stag's funeral. Beyond him, she quickly spotted the Weardas. And last …

Duchess Reine stood a little ways beyond the tunnel mouth, bartering with a clothier. She inspected a pair of folded pants and a heavy wool shirt. Both were simple—quite plain, in fact—and certainly not what a royal of Malourné would wear. And they were obviously too large for her.

Wynn frowned at this. The duchess was out shopping? That hardly seemed likely, since she would have anything she needed.

"It's the duchess," Wynn whispered.

She grabbed Chane's belt, pulling him as she backed down the tunnel. Shade kept huffing impatiently behind her. Once they were far enough along a curve and lost sight of the market, Wynn let go of Chane—only to find him scowling at her.

"She would not be coming our way," he said, and spun her around to push her onward.

Shade wheeled and took off, and they followed the trail she held in her mind.

Along twists and turns, they passed people in the crystal-lit tunnels, most heading back toward the market. But at each divergence, they encountered fewer passersby, until Shade made two turns in which they saw no one for a long while. Orange crystals mounted in the iron fixtures upon the walls grew scarce, until Wynn had to pull out her cold lamp crystal.

Then Shade halted.

By the crystal's light, they saw that the narrowing passage ahead split in two directions. Both branches sloped downward, arcing away from each other into the dark distance, for neither had any crystals mounted upon the walls.

Shade stood at the split, looking down one branch and then the other.

"What is wrong?" Chane asked.

Wynn crouched, touching Shade's back, and the dog looked at her with a whine. Wynn tried remembering the cloaked figure Shade had shown her from Sliver's memory. It was difficult, since it wasn't truly her memory. But in turn, Shade just whined.

"She doesn't know which way," Wynn said. "Maybe Sliver lost Ore-Locks here, or Shade didn't catch the whole memory of the way Sliver went. We've already come quite a ways and—"

"Then we must guess," Chane said, "and continue with …"

He never finished. Chane lowered his head, turning it to one side as his eyes half closed.

"What is it?" she asked.

He hesitated and then answered, "Just footsteps, some group headed off to the …" He trailed off again.

Chane spun around, staring back the way they had come. Shade paced past Wynn, following his gaze as she sniffed the air. Even stranger, Wynn saw Chane's nostrils flare.

"They are coming!" he whispered.

"Who?"

Then she heard the footsteps—more than one pair—and Shade's jaws snagged in her robe and jerked.

"Douse the crystal!" Chane whispered.

Wynn shoved the crystal in her pocket as they fled down the right-side passage. Chane got ahead and veered in against the wall. He pulled her in beside himself, and they flattened there.

"Be ready to hurry on if they come our way," he whispered.

Wynn peered up, still wondering why they hid. She just made out the branch head around the wall's gradual curve—and light was growing there. Chane pulled his cloak's hood forward, and Wynn did the same with her robe's cowl.

Over the rise at the passage's head, a sharp point of light appeared. It glowed from the hand of a tall and slender figure in a white robe.

"The elf," Chane whispered.

Wynn glanced up. Was that what he'd smelled? She tensed as the tall elf paused and looked back. Behind him came a much shorter figure in a deep sea green cloak, followed by three Weardas.

Duchess Reine was carrying a folded stack of clothing.

Chane gripped Wynn's hand, flattening his other against the wall. She knew he was preparing to bolt, and his hand in hers felt as cold as the stone. Shade stood poised at her hip, unblinking eyes watching up the passage.

The duchess approached the elf holding up a bright cold lamp crystal.

Yes, that was what it was, and Wynn's eyes widened. There were no orders of the guild that wore white, so where had the elf acquired a guild crystal?

The duchess passed the elf and disappeared down the other passage branch, the left one. The tall white-clad elf followed her, as did her bodyguards, and they all vanished from sight.

Chane's grip slackened on Wynn's hand. "Let us continue down this direction for now."

"No, wait," she whispered.

Wynn wondered why the duchess was wandering these lonely backways under Sea-Side, the same in which Sliver had followed her brother. Wynn took a step upslope.

"What are you doing?" Chane hissed.

"You saw her," she whispered. "At the funeral, she and the others were the only ones allowed to leave the same way as the Stonewalkers."

It was too dark to clearly see Chane's face, but she heard the incensed tone of his breathy voice.

"You told me at the amphitheater's iron door that you did not know if she went with them."

"Just the same," Wynn countered, "she's the best lead we have."

She strode up the passage in soft steps, ignoring Shade's sudden huffing and growling. When she reached the top and peered around the sharp corner into the left branch, light receded below, beyond the passage's gradual curve.

Wynn stepped out to follow, until Chane grabbed the back of her robe. She glared up at him, but he held fast, and Shade quickly slunk by down the passage branch. Only then did Chane let go, and he slipped in ahead. Wynn followed them both in silence.

It wasn't long before Shade slowed her creeping advance, and Wynn saw that the surface of the walls had changed.

She hadn't even noticed until she spotted thin seams next to her shoulder. Finely masoned mortarless blocks fit tightly together in place of smoothly chiseled mountain stone. Why were masoned walls needed in place of native rock?

Shade stopped, and Chane swept back a hand in warning.

Wynn slipped up behind him, peering around his side.

The passage had straightened, but she could see a spot of light spreading on the walls ahead. There stood the elf with his stolen crystal, its light revealing the duchess and her guards.

Duchess Reine looked worn. Strands of chestnut hair had loosened from her sea-wave combs. She merely stared at the passage's stone-block wall as her companions waited in silence. Then she took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

She handed her burdens to a Weardas and flattened her hands upon the wall's stone—but not together. Separated beyond shoulder width, her left landed distinctly higher than her right. She held them there, and none of the others made a sound, as if this act was familiar.

Wynn couldn't tell if the duchess applied any pressure, but it didn't seem so. Then she heard the sound of stone grating.

The block beneath the duchess's left hand shifted slowly inward. She lifted her hand, but the stone continued to sink. In another moment the grating grew louder as the block under her right hand sank as well. Wynn watched as the duchess repeated the process over painfully long moments, until prolonged touch sent five scattered wall blocks sliding inward, and all without any pressure applied.

The grating amplified even more, echoing down the passage.

Wynn had leaned so close to Chane that she felt him flinch with her.

All of the blocks before the duchess slipped and twisted, spreading away into a hidden space beyond the wall. As the opening formed, so did a risky notion in Wynn's mind.

Perhaps there was a reason Sliver and her mother had lost track of Ore-Locks.

No one with the duchess appeared surprised at what they saw. Yet none had opened the strange portal for her. Even if Wynn remembered which stones to touch, would the wall later respond for her or Chane? Did it even lead anywhere she wanted to go?

Duchess Reine stepped through the opening, and her entourage began to follow.

Wynn dodged around Chane.

"She will see you!" he hissed.

"And that's our only chance."

She scurried down the passage before he could stop her.

One Weardas saw her coming and jerked out his sword.

"Captain!" he shouted.

The only other one still in the passage was the tall elf in white. He twisted about, revealing a lined face of advanced age. Wynn hadn't covered half the distance when the duchess's voice carried from the opening.

"Wait here!"

All three Weardas encircled the duchess as she stepped out. The white-robed elf shifted closer, and everyone was watching Wynn. All of the duchess's people stood in the passage, so whom had she told to wait inside that hidden place?

"Wynn … Journeyor Hygeorht," the duchess began.

In those three words, her tone slipped from surprise to disdain. Wynn knew the duchess had gained more than a passing familiarity with the young sage who'd caused so much trouble.

"Ah, the curious one," added the elder elf.

When Wynn glanced at the crystal in his hand, the barest smile spread upon his lips, crinkling the corners of his mouth. He nodded slightly to her, but his eyes held no malice—unlike Reine's.

"Duchess," Wynn said, bowing respectfully.

Reine's gaze shifted slightly, and Shade and Chane stepped into plain sight.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "How did you find this place?"

"Domin High-Tower sent me … on a family matter," Wynn answered. Lying was getting far too easy for her. "I must speak with his brother among the Stonewalkers immediately. The domin said you would be at Dhredze Seatt, and if I located you, you could help."

"Answer my question!" the duchess ordered.

Wynn flinched, and then again for visibly flinching the first time.

"We've been looking for you for several days. The Off-Breach Market was one place Domin High-Tower suggested. This man was sent as my guard."

Wynn stepped slightly aside, gesturing to Chane.

Reine's lips parted, but the elf spoke first. "And you are far out of place."

Wynn wondered how this elf of no known guild order knew that Chane was a foreigner. But his gaze was low and to her other side. He was looking at Shade.

A quick laugh rolled out of him, and Shade answered with a rumble. Puzzled as Wynn was that the elf seemed to recognize Shade, she couldn't afford the distraction. Not if she were to gain more from the duchess.

Reine remained quiet and swept a hand downward before her bodyguards.

"My lady?" the chin-bearded one returned sharply.

"It's all right, Tristan," she said.

Unlike the other two, he only lowered his sword rather than sheathing it, and with visible reluctance.

"Very well, journeyor," the duchess continued. "Since our honored domin is in need, I would never refuse. Give me whatever letter you bear for him. I will see that Ore-Locks receives it."

Wynn caught Reine's slip. Not only did the duchess know the Stonewalkers, she knew High-Tower's brother by name. Duchess Reine advanced half the distance and held out her hand.

"Do not get any closer to her," Chane whispered.

He spoke in Belaskian, so only Wynn understood, but the captain, the one called Tristan, inched forward with his gaze fixed on Chane.

"I have no letter," Wynn replied.

"And I have no patience for more of your meddling!"

Wynn shook her head. "Forgive me, but as I said, this is a family matter … a private matter … difficult for the domin to speak of."

"Then tell me. I will pass it to his brother privately."

"Domin High-Tower's instructions were explicit. I must deliver it personally. Please take me to Ore-Locks."

The duchess dropped her hand. Suspicion mounted in her expression.

If the Stonewalkers truly guarded the texts, had Wynn just hinted too much concerning her true goal?

Chane slipped a hand beneath his cloak to his sword's hilt. He did not dare step in front of Wynn and cause this whole standoff to suddenly crumble. Beneath the duchess's suspicion, he saw discomfort and uncertainty surface. It was not hard to guess what troubled her.

If the duchess believed Wynn at all but did nothing to help, there could be repercussions with the guild. But if the duchess even suspected Wynn was lying …

Chane's gaze slipped to the saber's hilt protruding from the duchess's cloak.

It was not the weapon that troubled him but rather the way it hung, not high near the belt, dangling like the ornament of a royal. It was slung low, raked back, loose on its suspension strap.

Duchess Reine knew how to use it—or at least how to set it for a smooth draw. If something went wrong, she could be on Wynn as the guards came at him. Even if he broke Wynn free, they would be running with no hope of ever getting near the texts.

The captain watched him, never seeming to blink, but Chane ignored the man. He shut out everything, even Wynn, waiting for the duchess to speak again.

"Surely, even for a family crisis," the duchess began, "High-Tower would have faith in the royal family. He would trust my discretion, as we have always trusted his."

Chane caught no deception beneath those words—he felt nothing at all. Why could he not tell truth from lies when it mattered? Why did such warnings only come when he was not focused on trying to listen for deception?

The duchess shifted weight between her feet. She was obviously disturbed by Wynn's sudden appearance. But that was all Chane could discern.

"I can't break my word," Wynn insisted. "I'm allowed to speak only with Ore-Locks."

"And I cannot take you to him," Reine answered flatly.

Again, Chane could not tell if that was a lie. Wynn took a step forward, and he tensed.

"This is urgent, Highness," she pleaded. "Domin High-Tower assured me you would help."

"Of course I will," Reine answered sharply, and then sighed. "There may be a way."

All amusement washed from the tall elf's lined face. "My lady," he warned.

"I know, Chuillyon," she answered, and then studied Wynn. "Come with me."

As the duchess turned away, Wynn advanced, but Shade did not. Chane found the dog standing tense, eyes locked on the duchess's back. Was Shade trying to catch the woman's memories?

"Shade?"

The dog shook herself, peered up at him, and then padded after Wynn. Chane hurried onward, still dumbfounded at the risks Wynn took.

The duchess could detain them and send an inquiry to High-Tower, uncovering Wynn's deception. Wynn had already related that Duchess Reine, acting for Malourné's royals, had used her influence to keep the texts in the hands of guild premins. The Stonewalkers' involvement was still only an educated guess, but Chane was certain of two things.

First, Duchess Reine was hiding something, and second, she was only playing Wynn's polite game for now.

Wynn inhaled a sharp breath an instant before he stepped through the opening. His attention immediately fixed on what he saw there, even as he heard the bodyguards enter behind him.

At the back of a hidden stone room was another pair of iron doors, just like the ones at the amphitheater of Old-Seatt. But these doors were guarded.

A dwarf in plated leather armor stood to either side, and both held iron staves. Both wore sashes, one of russet with green lines and the other of pure plum. Embroidered emblems on each were different, so their clans were not the same. But both were obviously constabulary.

Chane's frustration grew.

A hidden door behind a hidden opening in a deep lonely passage—and guarded as well. The only other difference was a recessed iron panel behind the guard with the plum-colored sash.

"Now, please," the duchess said.

The dwarf turned, grasping the panel's handle, and then paused and glanced back. Duchess Reine turned to face Wynn.

"You and yours will turn around, until told otherwise."

Wynn pivoted, and Chane saw her dejected frown before he turned as well.

He heard the panel slide open.

A series of steady scrapes followed, like honed metal sliding on smooth stone. He could only guess at some set of rods being pressed or pulled, like the ones Wynn had described beyond the amphitheater's iron doors. It made him wonder why that other door's lock had been on the inside.

A louder grinding began—once, twice, and three times.

Chane shook his head. He knew this portal had the same triple-layered doors as the last.

Every new sound reaffirmed how impossible it would be to come this way again if Wynn's gamble did not get them to the Stonewalkers. Despite his claim to her about using mixed intimidation and manipulation, that ploy had worked only on humans who had viewed Welstiel as a powerful noble. It would not work here.

Whatever lay beyond the doors was of such importance that the dwarves took no chance of anyone finding—let alone gaining—the entrance.

"This way," said the elf.

Chane turned around to find the iron portal fully open. But he was not looking into another chamber, rather at the head of a wide passage that turned sharply left. The duchess and her elven advisor stepped through, disappearing around the portal's left.

As Chane followed Wynn and Shade, he entered the passage's head and saw that it curved away, gradually downward. The Weardas came last, and the captain still had his sword out. Chane quickened his step, closing behind Wynn. Strategically set orange crystals lit their path.

He remained silent, hearing only an indiscernible whisper or two pass between the duchess and the elf walking ahead. This was too easy, and going far too well from Chane's perspective.

The journey continued along the tunnel's gradual spiral down—and down. Soon, Chane lost all sense of which direction they headed through the mountain. They had been walking for something less than an eighth-night when the tunnel finally ended in a small round chamber.

Another door waited between two more armored constables, though it was normal wood and overly broad. Both guards clearly knew the duchess. One began unlocking the door as the second studied Wynn and Shade—and Chane. The elf said something in Dwarvish. Other than his higher-pitched voice, it sounded as if he was fluent. The guard studying Wynn shook his head, perhaps not liking surprise guests, and then motioned everyone forward.

Chane stepped through the door into a wide domed chamber of smooth stone. His gaze immediately locked upon the floor's center.

Embedded there was a perfectly round mirror big enough to hold a wagon. Light from the elf's crystal bounced off its surface, sending flickers across the domed walls. But the closer Chane stepped, the less certain he became.

The mirror was not glass.

Milky, perhaps a gray nearly white, it appeared made of some kind of metal. Chane spotted a hair-thin seam dividing the great disk. Another portal, this time in the floor, but again, no bars, locks, latches, or handles of any kind. What was it made of, and where had he seen such metal before?

Wynn whispered, "Chein'âs … the Burning Ones!"

Wynn stared at the glistening portal in astonishment. She wasn't even aware she'd spoken until her own whisper filled her ears. She clamped her mouth shut, hoping no one had heard her clearly, but there was no mistaking that metal.

It was the same as the head of the elven quill given to her by Sgäile's uncle, Gleann, while she'd been in the Elven Territories. It was the same metal as the weapons gifted to Leesil and Magiere by …

The Chein'âs—the Burning Ones.

They were one of the five races of the mythical Úirishg, though only dwarves and elves were commonly known to exist. At least until Sgäile had taken Magiere, Leesil, and Chap on a secret side trip during the journey to Pock Peaks in search of the orb.

Were the Chein'âs here as well, hidden somewhere below the seatt?

It didn't seem possible they had been so close all these centuries and remained unknown to the world. Then again, First Glade, at the center of the Lhoin'na's lands, had been hiding in plain sight since the great war and beyond. Or had the dwarves learned to mine this metal themselves from somewhere deep in the earth? That was unlikely.

From what little Wynn had learned, the Chein'âs lived in the depths amid severe heat. Only they seemed to know the working of this white metal.

Shade's quick huff startled Wynn to awareness.

Four dwarves stood post around the domed chamber at equidistant points, but they weren't constabulary. Though they carried tall iron staves, their armor was more layered bands of steel than leather, and their iron-banded helms would've been too heavy for a human male. Two were armed with double-bladed axes, harnessed head-down on their backs. Another held a long hafted mace, its butt resting on the floor, while the last had a wide sword in a scabbard on his waist. All carried paired war daggers sheathed on their belts. And the one beyond the Chein'âs portal rounded toward the duchess and her attendant.

Wynn spotted a thôrhk wrapped around the raised steel collar of his armor. Its ends were spiked like Hammer-Stag's, and she quickly saw all four wore the same. All four guardians were warrior thänæ.

The one paused before the duchess, offering a curt nod, as if that were all she were due, and then he glanced slowly between Wynn and Chane.

Wynn couldn't clearly see his face between the helm's brow and cheek wings, but his posture seemed challenging enough. He looked back at the duchess.

"Why have you done this?" he demanded.

Duchess Reine returned her own slower nod. "A family matter for one of the guardians of the honored dead."

"No matter is enough to breach the secrecy of this place!"

"It involves other kin as well, one who is a member of her guild," the duchess added, and she looked toward Wynn, as she continued speaking to the thänæ. "I would never do this lightly. They will go no farther, and I will vouch for their sealed lips … at any cost."

The duchess's wintry gaze explained it all.

One slip, one hint of ever having been here, would get Wynn—and Chane—killed. There would be no court or tribunal, no charges at all for them to defend against. Wynn could only nod her understanding as she grew sick to her stomach. But it didn't matter how deep she'd mired herself, so long as she had any chance to find the texts.

"So … is everyone now clear on the matter?" Chuillyon interjected, his tone a little too mockingly bored. "Very good then."

He went straight to the far wall and grasped a rope Wynn hadn't noticed. Unwinding it from an iron tie mount, he heaved with all his weight.

The chamber rang with a deep tone, and Wynn clamped hands over her ears. She felt the floor stones vibrate beneath her and looked up. In the dome's height hung a great brass bell. It was mounted to one side, out of the way of a wide shaft running upward from the ceiling's center. The opening's circumference appeared to match that of the floor's white metal portal. Then the elf rang the bell again.

Wynn cringed through six tones vibrating her whole body before the duchess's companion released the rope.

"What's happening?" she finally asked.

"We wait," Reine answered.

"Aren't we going on to meet Ore-Locks?" Wynn asked, growing worried.

Duchess Reine's eyes widened just barely, as if she'd heard something of keen interest—and Wynn knew she'd said too much.

"Your promise to Domin High-Tower will be kept," the duchess answered. "You will pass your message directly to his brother."

An awkward silence followed. Wynn used every ounce of self-control to keep her expression relaxed. Her seemingly successful bluff was vaporizing with each long moment.

A familiar grinding began to grow in the chamber. Wynn had heard it only in Shade's memories.

She glanced upward to the ceiling's large opening but saw nothing. When she lowered her gaze, Shade had crept to the edge of the white metal floor portal. With her ears flattened, the dog then backed away.

The portal's center hairline split.

Its two halves began sliding smoothly away beneath the floor. A stone platform slowly rose, filling the opening as it came level with the chamber. It held only one occupant.

Ore-Locks stepped off, looking annoyed.

His thôrhk hung around his neck, but otherwise, he wore only dusty char-gray breeches and an untucked shirt. Red hair hung loose to his shoulders, as if he'd been engaged in something that required little attention to appearance.

"My lady?" he said. "Is something wrong? Why did you not just come down?"

His tone suggested resentment for the summons.

"Forgive us, but … something else required that we wait here." The duchess half turned toward Wynn. "This young sage says she has a message from your brother, and she was entrusted to tell no one but you. I could not ignore this and I brought her here."

Ore-Locks looked Wynn up and down.

"From High-Tower?" he asked.

Wynn swallowed hard. This wasn't how she expected things to play out. She'd hoped upon spotting the duchess that she might make it all the way to the Stonewalkers. Now she was stuck with nothing more than another lie.

"In … in private," she stammered.

Ore-Locks's brow wrinkled. He closed on her, taking her firmly by one arm.

Chane took a step, but Wynn shook her head, warning him off. Shade trotted after as Ore-Locks pulled Wynn out through the chamber's entrance. No one stopped the dog, though Wynn thought she saw Chuillyon watching with too much interest.

"Please wait inside," Ore-Locks told the outer guards, and once they'd stepped in and closed the door, he faced her. "What message is so urgent that my brother sends a little sage all the way from Calm Seatt?"

He was so close that she smelled his breath—dusty, yet dank at the same time. Most male dwarves wore beards, but he was clean shaven. His mouth was a wide slash like Sliver's, but his black eyes reminded her of High-Tower by shape rather than the common dwarven color. Somehow Ore-Locks was more intimidating than either of them, and that was no easy feat.

But Wynn stood face-to-face with one of the elusive Stonewalkers.

A hundred questions filled her head. Foremost was whether he knew anything of the texts. He would never answer that, so she straightened and said the only thing she could.

"A crisis in your family." She paused, considering her words. "Your brother asks that you take leave and visit your mother."

Resentment faded from Ore-Locks's expression, but his forehead wrinkled again.

"Crisis? And how would High Tower …" He broke off and took a heavy breath. "Has my brother come back? That is not possible." He shook his head. "What has happened with my mother and … ?"

Wynn never heard him speak the obvious final word—"sister."

"Why would my mother," he continued, "if not my sister, send word all the way to the guild? Why not to me?"

He faltered, as if knowing the answer.

"Because no one could contact you here, until now," Wynn confirmed. "It's not that easy, is it?"

"What else? What crisis?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. He begs that you take leave to see them."

"And that is all to your message? Nothing more specific?"

Wynn realized how flimsy this sounded, but she couldn't risk expanding the lie. She could think only about four words he'd spoken—if not my sister.

Sliver had vehemently opposed any attempt to bring her elder brother home. Ore-Locks seemed to imply that she never would've sent for him. He now paced the entrance chamber, lost in his own thoughts, and finally turned to face Wynn. His features hardened as if he resented the messenger because of the message.

Ore-Locks wheeled and shoved the door open, leaving his hand extended, commanding her to return to the inner chamber. When she and Shade stepped inside, the duchess was waiting, blocking their way.

"Your task is complete?" Reine demanded.

"It is," Ore-Locks answered before Wynn could.

"Tristan!" Reine called out.

The captain quickly joined her. "Yes, my lady?"

"Escort them back to the market," the duchess instructed, and when he nodded, she turned to Wynn. "You have well served your domin. You may now return home."

Wynn couldn't mistake that as anything but an order. The other two bodyguards closed on Chane, and he was ushered out as the outer guards regained their stations. Wynn was about to follow at the captain's silent urging, but Duchess Reine never moved.

"Are you not returning to the market as well?" Wynn asked.

The duchess looked her up and down, then turned away to join her elven advisor and Ore-Locks.

Chane looked down questioningly at Wynn as she exited with Shade, but he kept silent.

Captain Tristan pointed up the passage for the long walk back.

Wynn was seething by the time the escort unceremoniously showed her, Chane, and Shade into the market. It was late, and the place was nearly empty. Many of the stalls were closed or gone. But only when the Weardas turned back into the tunnel were they free to speak.

"What is the duchess doing here?" Chane immediately asked.

"Clearly more than paying respects," Wynn answered. "There are too many implied connections between the royals and the Stonewalkers … not to mention Ore-Locks's previous visit to High-Tower."

"Yes, the guild is involved as well," Chane agreed. "That is a trio of powerful factions in our way."

"And the duchess has gone to the Stonewalkers. I suppose we could hide here, wait until she comes out, and try to follow her."

"If she comes out," Chane countered. "Likely she did go with them after the funeral. She may be staying with them."

Wynn wasn't so sure. "Why shop in the market for clothes she wouldn't need and didn't fit her? She may be welcome among them, but I hardly think a royal would take quarters in the underworld. No, she's here for something else."

Shade whined loudly, and Wynn looked down.

The dog scratched the flagstones with one paw and barked.

"Shush," Wynn said, but knelt to grip Shade's face with both hands.

Everything blurred in Wynn's vision as a dark image overtook her mind.

She was walking down a damp tunnel. Mineral-glazed walls of natural rock glistened, faintly phosphorescent, though the floor beneath her feet felt level and smooth. She could smell … seawater.

The tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, or one dwarf. The rough walls were calcified, as if the path had been created long ago. For some reason, no one had seen fit to finish them smoothly.

Near the path's end was an iron door, slightly mottled by rust.

The memory wavered.

Wynn suddenly stood before the door, looking down. She glimpsed the long hem of a deep green cloak around high riding boots—those of the memory's owner. Then her attention caught on a palm-size shining oval on the door where a lock's keyhole should've been.

There was no mistaking that silvery white—more Chein'âs metal.

Wynn felt herself reach up into her hair, pulling something out. When her hand lowered, she held a pearly sea-wave comb in her palm, and she knew the memory's owner.

Duchess Reine took the comb and pressed its concave side to the door's oval.

Wynn heard the scrape of metal sliding.

She passed the comb to someone behind her and pushed the door open. Its hinges squeaked lightly. As she stepped through, no other footsteps followed, though someone shut the door. She stood in a dark chamber of natural stone where the smell of the sea permeated the air.

Just beyond a near ledge, Wynn spotted a pool filling most of the chamber's floor. An iron grate in the back wall was half-submerged in its water. Beyond that was a dark tunnel half-filled as well, though she couldn't see more than a few yards down it. She suddenly turned left.

A rough opening led to another chamber, but it was too dark to see what lay there, and she didn't even approach. Dim light came from somewhere, but Wynn wasn't certain of its source. The sight of the opening became misty, blurred… and her eyes began to sting.

There were tears running down her cheeks.

Something wet slapped stone, the sound echoing from that next chamber.

Something moved in there.

She began to feel dizzy, trapped between her own fears and the grief welling from within the duchess's memory. And then everything winked black.

Wynn was shaking as she looked into Shade's crystal blue, yellow-flecked irises. She crumpled on the market's flagstones.

"Wynn?" Chane said in alarm, crouching beside her.

While she'd been tangled in a failing scheme inside the white portal's domed chamber, Shade had been quite busy. Wynn took a long, shaky breath and pressed her cheek against Shade's as she closed her eyes. The dog was clearly trying to tell her something, but she wanted—needed—more than what she'd seen.

"Wynn?" Chane insisted. "Say something!"

"An underground room … a pool in its floor … and an iron grated tunnel," Wynn whispered, still trying to make sense of it.

"Whose memory?"

"The duchess … she started crying."

"Why would Shade show you this?"

"I don't know."

Without warning, another flash surged upon her.

She sat at the table in the Iron-Braids' back room. At first, she thought it was her own memory of just a short while ago. But Chane and Shade weren't present.

The table was laden with roasted venison, fresh sliced bread, and baked apples, all served in plain clay bowls. Mother Iron-Braid hobbled about, setting out bleached wooden plates and tin forks and knives as she babbled away with shining joy on her face. But Wynn was staring across the table at Sliver, who sat glaring back. Unlike her mother, the smith didn't care for …

Whom did this memory belong to?

Mother Iron-Braid rounded the table, reaching out a gnarled hand to lay it on Wynn's cheek.

"It is so good to see you again, my son," she whispered.

Wynn shivered, her fingers closing in Shade's neck fur. The spoken words were much clearer this time than anything Shade had shared with her before.

It was Ore-Locks's memory.

Everything winked black for an instant.

Wynn stood in a dark passage where orange crystals were few. It looked familiar, like someplace she'd walked herself at some recent time. At the sound of heavy footfalls behind, she paused and turned.

There was Sliver again, following her.

"No more," the smith hissed in Dwarvish. "No more of you … and your twisted calling! No more of your shame and hidden sin upon us. Mother does not know what you are, what really took you—and I will keep it that way."

"I was called," Wynn answered—in Ore-Locks's deep voice. "Called by one that so few remember … and none know for the truth. But I hold that truth."

"You hold a lie!" Sliver nearly screamed back. "And if it calls you, then faith itself is a plague—and you are nothing but its carrier. Is it not enough that we've fallen so low that you try to infect us with its horror? Follow it alone and keep away! Do not come again!"

Sliver backed up the passage as she began to shake—as she had upon Wynn's visit when the smith first uttered Ore-Locks's name.

"Stay away from us!" she shouted. "Go to your fall … alone!"

The memory faded, and again Wynn looked into Shade's eyes.

Whatever called Ore-Locks to service among the Stonewalkers horrified Sliver, and perhaps High-Tower as well. Was that why the domin had nearly denounced his brother in that one secret visit to the guild?

Shade had been very … very busy, indeed. Wynn sat astonished, now realizing just how intelligent the majay-hì were as a whole—or Shade for her youth.

"Did you see more?" Chane asked. "Did she show you anything that would help us locate the texts?"

Wynn shook her head. "No, it was Ore-Locks's this time. I'm not certain, but I may have gotten to him. I'll tell you more later. Right now, I need you to stay and watch for the duchess, while I go back to the Iron-Braids'."

Chane frowned. "I do not like that plan."

Wynn stroked Shade's head. "I can't miss a chance to catch Ore-Locks if he goes home. And someone has to watch for the duchess. Shade will come with me, and I'll be fine."

Chane paced, and Wynn waited for him to accept the only option.

"If the duchess comes out, I will follow her," he finally agreed. "But once you leave the smithy, go directly to the inn, so I can find you."

Wynn nodded and stood, picking up her staff. She still wished Shade could grasp language more than just remembering sounds, but at least in that she understood it was meaningful. And there was no denying certain advantages of memory-speak. She reached for her pack hooked over Chane's shoulder. When she saw his face, she stopped with her hand gripping the strap.

He looked expectantly down at her, perhaps a hint of hope glittering in his eyes, which now had a touch of their original brown.

"We made contact with a Stonewalker," he whispered. "We are getting closer."

"Yes," she agreed. "So no matter what else, don't you get caught."

He touched the back of her hand, still high upon his shoulder. "I will find you later."

Wynn took the pack and started off with Shade pressed against her leg.