Through Stone and Sea

Chapter 5

Wynn sucked air, trying to clear her head of pipe smoke as she stumbled from the greeting house. That was why she felt dizzy and nauseous. She wasn't drunk—not on a few gulps of ale.

Limestone Mainway was a dim and hazy umber in her sight. Chane still gripped her arm, and she pulled away, instantly unsteady under her feet.

"Five tunnels down … on the right," she mumbled.

Shade pricked up her ears with a whine.

"No, we go to an inn," Chane stated flatly.

"I'm fine … now come on."

"You need to sleep this off."

Wynn flushed indignantly. "Sleep what off?"

Who did he think he was? He wouldn't even be here if not for her, and now he was acting like … like High-Tower—sanctimonious, overbearing, and stuffy.

"I'm fine," she repeated. "I just need some fresh air."

"Where would we find that, this far underground?" he rasped back. "I grew up among nobles who started drinking as soon as the sun set. I know someone drunk when I hear them!"

A pair of dwarves in laborers' attire stepped from the greeting house and glanced at the two humans arguing in the empty mainway.

"We are going to an inn," Chane whispered.

"No! To the Iron-Braids … now!"

Wynn spun about—and all the tunnel's columns suddenly leaned hard to the right. Great crystals steaming on pylons blurred before her eyes. But no one was ever again going to order her about. Not even Chane … especially not Chane.

"It is late," he said behind her, and then paused. "But we will locate their smithy, so we know where it is. Then return tomorrow evening at an appropriate time."

Even through Wynn's haze—from smoke and glaring crystals, not ale—this made sense. So how could she argue if he was right? She hated that. Rational counters were another ploy her superiors had used to manipulate her.

Wynn found herself leaning with the columns, until she accidentally sidled into one. She braced a hand on its gritty stone until the columns straightened.

"Very well," she finally agreed.

Shade huffed, and Wynn found the dog peering around her side.

"Don't you start," she warned, and headed off.

Her boot toe snagged in her robe.

She teetered for an instant and righted herself in a few tangled steps. She wasn't going to give Chane's accusation any credence. She wasn't drunk, damn him. It was just the greeting house's stinky air.

Shade padded beside her, intermittently whining and huffing. Chane caught up on her other side. Why was he so tall? He towered over everyone here among the dwarves. That too annoyed her.

They passed varied closed shops so worn and nondescript she couldn't even tell what they were.

"You never told me that story," Chane said, catching her off guard.

"What … what story?"

"About the white woman—the one you call Li'kän. I did not know that you had kept her from killing you by the power of words."

Wynn peered up at him and almost tripped again. His pale features were drawn and pensive.

"Oh … that." She hesitated. "I didn't figure everything out by myself."

"I assumed as much," he answered.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he returned quickly. "It seemed too brief and simple—but necessary for a tale. I see that."

"Chap figured it out," she admitted. "I helped once he understood what we should do … embellishment is part of dwarven ‘telling.' The teller has to be the hero. Facts wouldn't have gained fair trade."

"You did well," he said. "Very well. I had no idea you could give such a performance."

Wynn flushed, surprised by the effect of his praise.

"I thought they would jeer you off the floor in three or four phrases," he went on.

She stopped in her tracks. "You thought what?"

Chane's expression went blank. "I only meant—"

Wynn hissed at him, mocking his voice, and trudged onward. Jeered off the floor? Indeed! Was that what he thought of her? She lost count of the tunnels, and spun about to check again.

"Five!" she said tartly, and turned back to the last one they'd passed. "Let's find the smithy."

Then her stomach rolled. Or the stone beneath her seemed to do so. An acrid taste coated her tongue.

Chane's mouth tightened, as if he were still puzzled by her offense—the dolt.

Just as Hammer-Stag had said, they couldn't have missed the smithy. Of the few establishments or residences cut into the dark path's stone, it was the only one still aglow. With its old door shoved inward, warm red-orange light flickered upon the tunnel's floor and opposite wall.

"It's still open?" Wynn said in surprise.

"Not likely," Chane answered. "It is well past the mid of night … unless …"

Wynn didn't need him to finish. How long had they lingered in the greeting house? Was dawn already near?

Shade sniffed—and then sneezed—as she crept toward the door.

The scent of char and metal increased around Wynn, sharpening her dizziness, but she spotted no smoke. That seemed impossible at this depth. She stepped in beside Shade, peeking through the smithy's open door.

Inside, a young dwarven woman pounded on a red-hot mule shoe gripped in iron tongs. Sparks flew at the hammer's dull clanks. Although wide like her people, she looked slight for a dwarf. A mass of sweaty red hair was tied back at the nape of her neck.

Her simple shirt was of some coarse, heavy fabric and rolled up at the sleeves. She wore leather pants with a matching apron darkened from labor. Strangest was her glistening, soot-marred face.

All dwarves had small, pure black irises, but hers seemed a bit larger than High-Tower's. Her nose was a touch smaller, and she didn't have his blockish wide jaw. Hers was smoothly curved. Severe-looking, she still didn't bear much resemblance to her older brother.

Was she an Iron Braid or a hired craftswoman in the family's smithy?

Glancing into the red-lit space, Wynn took in the long, open stone forge, its hot coals so bright they stung her eyes. Thick-planked tables lined the walls, laden with tools as well as rough collections of goods either finished or needing more work. A pile of mule shoes rested on the table nearest the door. A way back was another table burdened with ax, pick, and sledge heads, and other implements for miners.

There was so much for such a small, out-of-the way place that Wynn realized other workers must be employed here. But on this late night, the young woman labored alone. That didn't seem right for hired help.

Then, upon the rearmost table, Wynn caught a soft glint—two glints, actually.

A pair of swords lay beside one heavy buckler shield. One was shorter and broader, with a thickened hilt obviously made for a dwarf. The second was a single-handed longsword suitable for a human. Both had the distinctive dark, mottled gray sheen of dwarven steel.

Not all smiths were weaponers. It was a specialty of great skill, though Wynn knew little about the craft either way. But those weapons, simple and unadorned, as preferred by the dwarves, looked finer than all she remembered from her travels.

Someone here had higher skills than the making of mule shoes.

A strange sound filled the smithy, like a rhythmic puffing of breath, as a gray mass slowly descended beyond the open forge. Two cask-size iron counterweights, one rising as the other fell, hung on a chain over a cart-wheel-size gear mounted to the ceiling. At each jolting descent, a smaller gear did a full turn, driving an iron arm connected to a bellows pump. But the coals did not pulse with the bellows.

A wide tin flue above the forge caught rising smoke and seemed to suck it up like a mouth. Each "breath" came in time with the bellows' pumps. The counterweights halted, and the tin mouth went silent.

Wynn saw thin smoke spill upward over the flue's lip.

The woman jammed the mule shoe into the coals in a burst of sparks and stepped around to grab a chain dangling from the higher counterweight. She hauled upon it, thick muscles bulging in her arms as it changed places with its counterpart. When she released her grip, the clicking of chains and gears resumed, along with the flue's pulsing breaths. The woman rounded the forge and picked up her iron tongs.

Though dizzy, Wynn clearly remembered Hammer-Stag's accounting of names. High-Tower's sister was named Skirra, which roughly meant "Sliver" in Numanese. As the smith jerked the mule shoe from the coals and set its red-hot metal upon the anvil, Wynn stepped in and dropped her pack inside the doorway.

"Is this the Iron-Braid smithy?" she called out. "Run by Sliver?"

The woman's hammer hung poised in the air. Her dark eyes rested briefly on Wynn, shifted to Chane, and finally dropped to Shade.

"We are closed," she said in a deep voice.

The hammer fell with a sharp clank, sparks spitting from struck metal.

Wynn hesitated. "Are you … Sliver Iron-Braid?"

"Come back tomorrow," the woman said.

That wasn't a denial. Wynn's stomach rolled again as she took two steps, trying not to trip on her robe.

"We're not seeking s-s-services," she said, and then stopped, trying to swallow away the cottony sensation in her mouth.

The woman lowered her hammer until its head barely clicked upon the anvil.

"I am Wynn Hye … Hyj … orth … of the Guild of Sagecraft," Wynn added. "I … we stay at the temple of Bezu … Bedaka …" She gave up on Dwarvish. "We stay at the temple of Feather-Tongue. We traveled a long way for news of your brother."

Sliver's expression hardened. Even her cheekbones appeared to bulge above a clenched mouth.

"The smithy is closed!" she snarled. "And maybe you would know more of my brother than I!"

Shade paused in sniffing about the nearest table legs, and Chane stepped in quickly, placing a warning hand on Wynn's shoulder. Wynn didn't know how she'd given offense.

"No … not High-Tower," she corrected. "Your other brother."

Sliver straightened slowly, not blinking once as she stared back. She sucked air through reclenched teeth and took a fast step toward Wynn, the hammer still in her fist.

"Get out!" she roared.

Before Wynn finished a cringe, Chane stood partially in front of her. Sliver sneered at him, not the least bit intimidated.

"I said leave," she repeated, full of warning. "I have no other brother!"

Wynn's brief fright faded. Perhaps it was how dwarves respected strength and forthrightness, or maybe just pride at her successful "telling" in the greeting house. Something emboldened Wynn, but it certainly wasn't the ale. She stepped directly into Sliver's face.

"Don't lie to me!" she shouted back. "I saw him when he came to the guild to visit High-Tower. He's one of your people's Stonewalkers."

Sliver's mouth gaped, and she backed one step. "Meâkesa … went to Chlâyard?"

Then her voice failed, and so did Wynn's.

Why did a meeting between brothers shock their sister so much? Then Wynn realized through her haze that Sliver had just given her the name of a stonewalker.

Meâkesa … Ore-Locks.

"We need to speak with Ore-Locks," Wynn insisted. "It's critical. Where do I find him?"

Sliver shuddered as her face twisted in revulsion … or was it fear, perhaps pain?

When Wynn had eavesdropped outside of High-Tower's study, she got the sense that he hadn't seen his brother in years. They were both so bitter, with no connection other than blood. Shirvêsh Mallet hadn't heard from High-Tower for a decade or more, and the mention of Ore-Locks visiting High-Tower had struck Sliver even harder.

How long had it been since either brother had looked in upon their younger sister?

Sliver snatched the front of Wynn's robe.

Wynn sucked in a breath in fright. Before she shouted a warning, Chane latched onto the smith's thick wrist, and Wynn never got out a word. Sliver released her hammer and rammed her flat palm into Chane's lower chest.

Chane was gone before Wynn heard the hammer clank onto the floor.

She heard Chane hit the outer passage's far wall in a clatter of packs as Shade let out a savage rolling snarl. Sliver's face twisted in an echo of the dog's noise as she hoisted Wynn higher.

Wynn's feet left the floor, and ale welled up in her throat.

She couldn't even gasp as Sliver threw her out of the smithy after Chane. She slammed against something yielding but firm, and the staff clattered from her grip as she flailed. Then Chane's arms wrapped around her as they both fell back against the passage's far wall.

The tunnel's dimness, welling ale, and the haze in Wynn's head mounted one upon another. She slid down Chane's legs to the floor, struggling to get untangled from her twisted cloak. She heard and saw Shade poised and snapping in the doorway before the maddened smith.

"Shade … no!" she gagged out.

Foam built in the back of Wynn's throat, filling her whole mouth with a bitter, acrid taste. She tumbled forward onto all fours as Chane crab-stepped aside to get his footing.

"Shade!" Wynn choked out. "No!"

The dog finally backed into the passage, still growling.

Sliver spun away into the smithy and slammed the door shut.

Wynn's last glimpse of High-Tower's sister was of a face warped by outrage and fright. She tried to get up, but the floor seemed to roll beneath her hands like a ship's deck.

Her stomach clenched so hard she squeaked in pain.

Chane watched helplessly as Wynn vomited all over the tunnel floor. When she retched again, he dropped to his knees and pulled back her hair. He had to grab her when she almost collapsed in the pool of slightly foaming ale.

She felt so small in his arms as her body clenched and heaved, and she finally collapsed against him. Her eyes closed as she went limp with a shuddering inhale.

"Wynn?" he whispered, afraid to even shake her a little.

Shade rushed over, whining in open alarm, and began pawing at Wynn's robe.

"Back," Chane rasped, but the dog either did not understand or would not listen.

"Witless …" Wynn mumbled. "Witless … Wynn … me and my stupid—"

Another heave cut off her babble, and she curled over Chane's folded knees, trying to hold it back.

Chane looked frantically up and down the tunnel.

Lost in an underground city of foreign people, with only an antagonistic elven dog and a half-conscious sage, what could he possibly do? If not for Shade's presence, he would have hunted down some lone resident and forced answers to his need.

Down the way, a bulky figure stepped out of a draped doorway.

Chane glanced at Shade and gritted his teeth.

"Pardon," he rasped in Numanese, hoping his maimed voice did not startle the person.

The figure paused and turned and then came thumping down the way. As the man entered the bit of red light seeping through the smithy door's cracks, Chane looked into the face of a young male dwarf. Beardless and dressed in burlap breeches and jerkin under a rabbit fur vest, he wore a sloppy hat of lime-striped canvas slouched upon his head of wiry brown hair.

"I need to find the nearest inn … common house … lodge," Chane said in frustration.

The young dwarf crouched, frowned at the pool foaming ale, and then peered at Wynn's huddled form.

"A'ye, dené beghân thuag-na yune rugh'gire!" he said, and shook his head with a sympathetic sigh.

Chane sagged. His first lone encounter was with a dwarf who did not speak Numanese. Even intimidation would gain him nothing. He slid Wynn's staff into the lashing on his own pack, mounting the whole of it onto his back, and then grabbed for his other pack, preparing to head out in search of an inn.

"Cheâ, âha a-chadléag silédí?" said the dwarf, jutting his broad chin at Wynn, and then glanced expectantly at Chane.

Chane shook his head in confusion.

The young dwarf huffed his own frustration. He slapped his hands together, fingers flush, then tilted them and laid his cheek against them. All through this, Shade quietly crept closer, staring fixedly at the dwarf. With his eyes closed, the young dwarf made a show of snoring. Then he opened his eyes, pointed at Wynn, and repeated insistently, "Chadléag!"

Shade bolted off up the tunnel, but Chane had no time for her nonsense.

"Yes … sleep!" he replied. "She needs sleep! Where … where do I go?"

"Kre?" said the dwarf.

Chane set down his second pack. He walked two fingers across the floor, mimicking someone on their way, and then pointed in every direction. Finally, he held up his hands in mock futility.

"Chad-lay-ag?" he tried to repeat.

The young dwarf chuckled. He slapped the floor, held up four fingers, and pointed to the tunnel roof.

Chane stared back in confusion. To make matters worse, somewhere behind him up the tunnel, Shade began barking.

The dwarf shook his head again. He walked his own fingers across the floor, and then up and up into the air in a steady rise. He slapped the floor, held up four fingers, and pointed upward again.

Chane finally understood, but it was not the best news. A place for Wynn to sleep was at least four levels up, possibly all the way to the tram level, if he had correctly counted the levels down.

Shade kept on with her noise.

"Be quiet!" Chane rasped, turning on one knee.

Shade snarled at him, pacing near the intersection. She then lunged partway down the tunnel, wheeled about, and rushed back to its end. She stood there rumbling before the side way's exit.

"You are an idiot," Chane whispered to himself, remembering how the dog had stared at the dwarf.

Shade already knew where to go. She had caught the young man's memories as he tried to make his instructions understood.

Chane hooked Wynn's legs and shoulders in his arms. The dwarf scooted forward, as if to help. Chane shook his head and rose up, towering over his happenstance guide. The young dwarf's expression blanked in surprise at how easily he bore all that he carried.

"Thank you," Chane said flatly with a nod.

The young dwarf acknowledged him silently in turn, and Chane hurried off, carrying Wynn.

Shade ducked into the mainway ahead of him, trotting too quickly. Then she suddenly stopped.

The instant Chane caught up, a twinge halted him as well—so quick it was but a feathery touch. Or rather it felt as if something should be there but was not, like stepping into an empty room that did not feel empty. Then it was gone.

Shade rumbled. Her sound broke and stuttered. The charcoal fur on her neck stood on end.

Chane held Wynn tighter against his chest. That presence, or lack of it … had it been there at all?

Shade fell silent and inched forward, swinging her lowered head side to side, and watching all ways with each step. Chane knew he was not the only one who had felt it. Something had been there, was not there but should have been, or …

He turned a full circle but felt nothing—truly nothing at all.

Chane had worn Welstiel's ring of nothing for moons. As much as it hid his nature and inner self from all unnatural detection, it also dulled his awareness as a Noble Dead. Taking it off in Shade's presence was not an option; she would instantly sense what he was. But was something near, something even Shade could not pinpoint?

Shade quieted and raised her head as if listening.

Wynn moaned in discomfort, and Chane took off down the mainway. Shade finally darted ahead to lead.

He had a long way to go, and hunger was beginning to weaken him. As they followed the wide turns to the upper levels, he walked as fast as he dared without breaking into a run. He was nearly to the top, or so he thought, when Wynn stirred in his arms and open her glazed eyes.

"Be still," he said. "Shade is leading us to a place where you can rest."

"I'm so sick," she whispered.

"I know."

She groaned when he shifted his arms; then her eyes widened. "My pack … where … do you have it?"

Chane halted on the sloping turn. He had not even thought about it; he had thought only of the staff. And now, he could not remember her pack in the passage when he had knelt next to her.

Then he did remember. Wynn had dropped her pack inside the smithy.

She struggled in his arms. "Put me down. Everything … my notes … elven quill … translations … someone will find them!"

Chane cursed under his breath—another oblivious stupidity on his part. For an instant, he considered abandoning the pack, but he could not. Wynn was right on every count. Her journals held recent notes of folklore research on undead, of their encounters with the wraith and pieces from the ancient texts … and the partial translation from his scroll.

It was all in her pack.

He had to get to it quickly before anyone stumbled upon it, digging inside to figure out where it had come from or to whom it belonged. Or worse, walked off with it, not even knowing what they had.

Chane trotted past Shade around the turn, entering one of the end caverns of a mainway tunnel. He spotted the first shop down the way with a thick stone archway, and he caught a hint of sea salt in the air. They had reached the uppermost level, though he had not noticed. Chane hurried over and set Wynn inside the door's shadowed archway.

"Shade will stay with you. I can go faster alone. Rest here and stay out of sight."

Wynn bit her lower lip, her sallow face scrunched in a grimace.

"I ruined our only real lead!" she whispered.

There was plenty of blame to share for this fouled exploit, but Chane had no time to console her. Wynn's head rolled back, and he feared she would be sick again, but she just leaned against the archway's cold stone.

"Shade!" Chane rasped, and pointed to Wynn. "Stay."

Shade wrinkled a jowl at him. The order was unnecessary, as the dog had never willingly left Wynn's side. Halfway to the end cavern and downward passage, Chane stopped one last time, gazing at Wynn's pretty face—so miserable.

As Chane backed away, Shade drew in next to Wynn. He turned and jogged back into the depths, his own emotions a puzzle to him.

For so long, he had tortured himself with visions of Wynn the sage, the perfect and pure scholar—the one he could never have. In his mind, she was always in clean gray robes, her brown hair tucked back, a parchment before her, a glowing cold lamp and a mug of mint tea nearby. Always studious, intellectual, inquisitive, she was so far above the human cattle of the world.

Yet this night, she had entertained a mass of common dwarves, performing for them—something he could not possibly have imagined. Now drunk, her own vomit staining her hands, she slumped in a doorway, bemoaning her mistakes.

This Wynn was nothing like the one in Chane's mind. Yet, he was driven to care for her, to protect her, even more than the one of his fantasies. He hated leaving her alone, but he kept hearing her words concerning all that was in her pack.

Someone will find them.

Chane rushed into a cavern where the downward-curving tunnel ended. He ran past the greeting house, counting off northbound passages until the fifth. He slowed near its mouth, looking inward. A full red glow spilled into the passage where the smithy was positioned.

Sliver must have waited until her unwanted guests departed and then reopened the door.

Chane did not have time to ponder why. The open door could be lucky or unlucky, depending upon the exact spot where Wynn had dropped her pack. Slipping along the wall, he drew as close as he dared without being seen by anyone inside. He leaned around the door frame enough to peek at the floor inside—and spotted no sign of the pack.

Ducking low, he shot across to the door's other side and peered in again.

To Chane's relief, there was the pack, just inside the door's left atop a stack of folded canvas. It blended so well in the low red light that anyone might have overlooked it. Dropping to his hands and knees, he reached in and then spotted Sliver.

Chane pulled back quickly.

Sliver stood leaning against a table with one hand covering her mouth. Embers in the open forge were waning, and it was hard to make out her face. Another movement at the workshop's rear caught Chane's attention.

A door opened in the workshop's back wall.

Sliver looked up, turning her back to Chane. An old dwarven woman with wild white hair and a long, dull blue woolen robe stepped out of some well-lit back room. Sliver hunched her shoulders as she spit out a curt string of Dwarvish.

The old woman stepped closer, and her wrinkled face twisted into desperation. She gripped a table's edge and uttered a reply so pained that Chane was riveted, wishing he understood the words.

Sliver scoffed and turned away from the old woman. Perhaps it was to hide the sudden doubt that crossed her face.

A domestic dispute was clearly in play. Chane wondered, considering it came so close behind their visit, if the two events were connected.

The old woman's next utterance was sharp if not loud, and Sliver straightened. So did Chane at the sound of one word—say-gee.

Could that word have been "sage," garbled by the old one's accent?

Sliver turned angrily to face her elder, her back to the outer door.

Chane took the opportunity and reached in for Wynn's pack.

Sau'ilahk hung motionless at the intersection as Chane scurried across the smithy's doorway. He had tried to follow all three of his quarry, but the cursed dog had picked up his presence. On some level, Chane had seemed to "feel" him as well. Sau'ilahk had been forced to slip into dormancy, vanishing quickly from either's awareness.

He waited in that pure darkness as long as he dared, then awakened once more in the same dark spot inside Limestone Mainway's end chamber. At the sound of footsteps in the upward-bound tunnel, he followed and watched as Chane hid Wynn in a doorway and turned back.

Sau'ilahk was pleased, even as he blinked away once more to let Chane pass by. He now had the chance to pull closer, to see and hear what Chane sought in this dingy, forgotten smithy. He focused on a point farther down the side tunnel, slipped into dormancy, and reappeared at that place.

Beyond the smith shop, Sau'ilahk listened to two female voices arguing within. Dwarvish was one of many tongues he had picked up over the centuries. He ignored Chane and focused on their words.

"Go back inside the house, Mother," said the first, low and bitter.

The other cried out in an age-broken voice. "If the shirvêsh of Bedzâ'kenge assisted the sage, there is good reason she seeks Meâkesa … and you sent her away! Why did you not help her to find your brother?"

Sau'ilahk knew from his servitor eavesdropping on Wynn that these people must be High-Tower's family. "Meâkesa" translated as "Ore-colored Hair." Wynn sought the Stonewalkers through a link between them and a son of the Iron-Braid family—High-Tower's brother.

"Why should I help her?" the first voice returned. "He abandoned us long ago … as did Chlâyard! Neither of them even returned when Father fell ill. Tell me, Mother, how should I have helped? We do not even know where he is!"

"It is a sign," the creaking voice wailed. "The coming of a human sage is a sign. Do you not see? We are to be rejoined with Meâkesa. Help her!"

The smithy fell silent, and Sau'ilahk saw Chane stealthily reach inside the open door. An instant later, he pulled back, holding a faded canvas pack.

This was what he came for—a forgotten pack?

Sau'ilahk mulled over the conversation.

Wynn had come all the way down here and been sent away. She had been seeking a connection to the Stonewalkers, but it seemed she had gained no lead. But that connection was here, waiting, and only an old woman seemed to care that it was fulfilled.

Sau'ilahk had little knowledge of these Stonewalkers—little more than rumors of the sect from centuries ago. At the least, they were hidden guardians of the dwarven dead. He had never had a reason to learn more.

In Calm Seatt, he had searched the guild grounds for many nights. Rumors passed on by his informants had called him to the king's city of Malourné after Wynn's return. But other than translation folios sent to scribe shops, he found neither trace nor hint of where the original texts were hidden. If the Stonewalkers knew their location, as Wynn seemed to suspect …

Then why had some cult of the dead become involved with the texts?

Sau'ilahk grew impatient with the inept sage. Wynn should be gaining information much faster! All the trouble she had caused him so far left him seething and indignant in even allowing her to live.

Chane rose, his attention no longer absorbed by his task, and then he froze. He turned about, staring deeper down the side passage. His hand dropped to his sword's hilt.

Sau'ilahk could have hissed in rage—he had been sensed! Anger turned to alarm as Chane stepped slowly in his direction. He had no fear of this man who was there and not there, but this one had survived his touch, an anomaly not to be taken lightly.

Sau'ilahk backed into—through—the tunnel's stone wall.

He lost sight of everything and twisted about—what he thought was about—hoping there was no other space behind him. He remained immersed, blinded and deafened by solid stone. But how long should he wait before Chane gave up?

Yes, Wynn was waiting, and Sau'ilahk ticked off in his mind what Chane might do.

Perhaps traverse no more than a few doorways down the tunnel. Then urgency would take him back the other way. Sau'ilahk waited even longer, and then slipped forward through stone.

As pure black broke before him into the faint red light in the passage, Sau'ilahk peered up the tunnel toward the mainway.

There was Chane, rushing away as fast as silence allowed.

Sau'ilahk stewed in envy.

Tall, pale, and handsome, yet some strange form of undead, Chane would look that way forever. Waves of jealousy grew into spite at Beloved's betrayal. Once, Chane would have been a meaningless shadow compared to Sau'ilahk's great beauty … so long ago.

Sau'ilahk hung there in self-pity.

If Wynn did not locate the Stonewalkers or draw them out, perhaps he would have to do it for her. There was only one way. But for this, he needed strength—he needed life to feed upon. Not a local, a dwarf, but a foreigner, some visiting human not quickly missed.

Sau'ilahk drifted along the twisting back ways of the dwarven underlevels.

The light of crystals grew sparse and excavation was not so smooth or painstaking. Places where the walls were jagged with small hollows and depressions offered shadows for him to meld into without arcane effort. He calmed, letting his presence sink into sensual awareness, searching for human life.

And he sensed one, not far off.

Sau'ilahk turned into a southbound tunnel that might even hook back toward the far-off mainway. The distance between smaller crystals in wall brackets decreased. He prepared to wink out into dormancy if needed. He could not be seen, not clearly noticed, or word of a strange dark figure might accidentally reach Wynn.

To his delight, footfalls drifted toward him from around another turn.

Sau'ilahk peered around the gradual corner and saw a lone human—a bearded man of dark skin with a curved sword in a fabric wrap belt. It was one of his own kind, or at least a descendant of such people from his lost living days. He pulled back, waiting until the man took the turn in the tunnel.

Even the approach of a victim—living in flesh—taunted him.

Long ago, he had been first among the Reverent, favorite of Beloved—before the Children came. His mere visage among the hordes and followers had inspired awe. Now he was nothing but a shadow of black robe, cloak, and hood. Not true flesh, and only by the act of feeding could he gain enough strength to take physical action. He did not even have the grace of a true ghost, to pass unseen if he wished.

All because of the bargain he had struck, once the Children first appeared.

All because of Beloved's coy consent, twisting Sau'ilahk's plea.

The bearded Suman rounded the corner. Jarred from misery, Sau'ilahk lashed out.

His black cloth-wrapped fingers passed down through the man's face. The Suman's skin paled slightly along those fingers' path. And quick as the stroke was, the man never cried out. He shuddered, his breath caught, and his hand reaching for the sword only convulsed in spasms, until …

Sau'ilahk's hand slid down through the man's throat and sank into his chest near his heart, draining his life away.

The Suman dropped hard onto his knees and toppled over. He lay there, face frozen in shock, with mouth agape, and Sau'ilahk's immaterial hand embedded in his chest.

Shots of gray spread through the Suman's dark curls and beard, until cloth-wrapped fingers withdrew, leaving no physical wound.

Sau'ilahk's weakness faded beneath the consumed life, and he could not afford to waste any of it in destroying the corpse. He might require even more life for what he needed to accomplish. He threaded a mere fragment of his gained energies into one hand, turning it corporeal, and dragged the body along the passage to a nearby shadowed depression.

Then he sank into dormancy to fully absorb his meal.

But as he dissipated into darkness, his last thoughts were of Wynn. If the bungling sage could not find the Hassäg'kreigi, the Stonewalkers, then he would have to draw them into plain sight. And the Stonewalkers emerged for only one reason.

Sau'ilahk had to kill a thänæ.