Through Stone and Sea

Chapter 7

Wynn awoke the next morning feeling weak and rubbed her eyes. She found herself in the familiar trappings of her room at the temple. Vague, broken memories returned.

She recalled Chane helping her to bed, and Shirvêsh Mallet gently feeding her a bitter liquid. Her ill-used stomach still hurt, but her headache had dulled. She sat up and, to her surprise, felt hungry, not remembering the last time she'd eaten.

Shade lay at the bed's foot and lifted her head to whine.

"Yes … you're hungry too," Wynn acknowledged, "but after we make ourselves presentable."

Getting to her pack was a wobbly exploit. She fumbled inside it for a brush and fresh kerchief, and teetered to the door-side table. She poured water from the pitcher into a basin, though she desperately wanted a full bath. All she could do was scrub her face, arms, and neck with the dampened kerchief. Finally, she tried pulling her hair back into a tail and out of her face, but without a mirror, she ended up with the usual wisps floating around her cheeks. She gave up and filled a clay mug, trying to clean her teeth with a finger.

Shade reared, forepaws jostling the little table, and began lapping the basin's water.

"Shade!" she warned. "That's dirty."

Try as Wynn might, Shade wouldn't listen, but at least the water wasn't soapy.

"We need a launderer," she mumbled. "I stink … and my clothes are no better."

She'd brought only one change of clothing, gifted to her during her time in the an'Croan's Elven Territories. Disrobing, she started to shiver, and quickly lifted the brazier's lid off the glowing crystals. She dipped into her pack and pulled out the yellow tunic of raw-spun cotton and the russet pants. Sewn for a youth of the tall Farlands elves, the sleeves and legs were too long. She had to roll them up before dressing.

Cleanly attired, Wynn felt relieved to wear pants again. She'd grown accustomed to not wrestling with a long, bulky robe, or even her shorter travel robe, during her journeys with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap. But as she turned to leave, she grew light-headed and hung on to the door handle until it passed.

Such was the price of bartering in a greeting house. If she hadn't been so foolish and botched her first meeting with Sliver, all the suffering might have been worth it. Now she could only press blindly onward.

"Come, Shade."

Wynn stepped out, waiting as Shade followed. But when she closed the door, she paused, studying Chane's door across the passage.

Hopefully he suffered no ill effects of missing a half day's dormancy. She still knew so little about the daily—nightly—existence of the Noble Dead. Chane seemed less affected by the sun than by the time of day where dormancy was concerned. Did his body sense the sun's rhythm, even when he was underground?

She wanted to check on him. Knowing her knock might not be heard, she gripped the handle of his door. The latch wouldn't budge.

"Locked?" she whispered.

Wynn couldn't remember if he'd ever done this in their stops along the bay road, but she'd never looked in on him during that time. Shade pricked her ears and huffed as she backed down the corridor.

"I know," she whispered. "Really, you're as bad as your father … thinking with your stomach!"

But Wynn strolled off after Shade, leaving Chane in privacy. She headed straight for the meal hall, and three shirvêsh looked up as she entered.

She couldn't tell whether they were acolytes or otherwise; all shirvêsh dressed the same, in simple orange vestments. Others must have finished breakfast already, and only this trio remained at the table with pots and plates of food. The dark-haired woman who'd first helped her locate this place looked up and smiled.

"Feeling better?" she called. "We heard of your adventure."

Wynn blushed, and the two others at the table chuckled. It was all good-natured, and the woman waved her over.

"I am Downpour," she said. "Anything here look appetizing … as yet?"

"Best she stick to oats and bread for a day," warned a younger male across the table.

His high, flat brow was capped by frizzy brown hair and only the barest matching beard showed on his blunt chin. He filled a bowl from a cast-iron pot while the third, an older male with creased features, nodded in silent agreement.

"Thank you," Wynn said.

In truth, something plain sounded best, but she felt uncomfortable under all this attention. She took the bowl and settled next to Downpour.

"This is Held-All, and that is Scoria," Downpour said, pointing first to the younger male and then to the rough-featured one.

Shade pushed her head in under Wynn's arm, nearly knocking the bowl over, and snuffled at its contents. Then she backed out with a grumble, craning her head to peer over the table.

"Ah, your wolf," Downpour said.

Before Wynn even asked, all three dwarves were scrounging about the table, lifting lids and peeking into pots.

"Salt-fish!" exclaimed Held-All. "Would she like that?"

Scoria snatched a stiff piece of dried fish from the pot. Wynn tensed as he rose and leaned across the table toward Shade.

"She's very shy of strangers," Wynn warned.

Scoria grunted in seriousness. "Very wise," he said, then rumbled down at Shade, "Mind your manners … you hear?"

He reached out, lowering the fish with two fingers.

Shade reared and clacked her jaws on the morsel, and Scoria snatched back his empty hand with a start.

"Shade!" Wynn scolded.

Held-All snickered, trying to stifle himself.

"Not funny!" Scoria growled at him.

"That depends," Held-All forced out with a faked cough. "Did she get any meat with that fish?"

Scoria frowned, slowly opening his hand as if counting fingers.

"A'ye! " Downpour sighed. "Stop being a bother—both of you!"

After having dealt with the greeting house and Sliver, Wynn sat silent at their quick and friendly acceptance. Dwarves took harsh offense when insulted with intent, but otherwise, nothing rattled their good nature, not even Shade's poor table manners.

Shade licked her jaws, all signs of the fish gone, and Wynn scooped a spoonful of oats.

She listened to her companions' chatter, and even answered a question or two about what it was like to be a sage. She took no offense at their perplexed glances over the human obsession with writing everything down. Finally, she paused at one more spoonful of boiled oats.

"Where is Shirvêsh Mallet this morning?" she asked. "I need to speak with him as soon as possible."

Downpour shook her head. "He is in private conference. Two elder shirvêsh from the temple of Stálghlên—um, you might say Pure-Steel—came at dawn. He has not come out since."

Wynn slumped. Something serious held Mallet's attention if he was occupied this long.

"We hate to leave you to eat alone," Downpour added. "But we have duties to attend."

Wynn put her spoon down, for she'd had enough.

"One more thing," she asked. "Do you have anything here like a records room? I mean, for whatever is worthy of being written down. May I be permitted to do some research?"

She knew this was an outside chance.

Scoria blinked twice, probably uncertain how to answer without insulting a "scribbler of words."

"Something … like it," Downpour answered. "But there may be a better place to start. We call it … well, you might say the Hall of Stone-Words. Come, I will take you there."

Wynn quickly gathered her bowl and spoon to carry them off to the kitchen.

"No, no, leave those," Downpour instructed, rising to stop her. "Others will attend the cleanup."

Downpour stood no taller than Wynn, but of course twice as wide. Shade whined, and Wynn glanced down.

The dog sat with her muzzle resting on the table's edge, gazing hopefully at the lidded pot of dried fish.

"Should I give her more?" Scoria asked, though he didn't sound too eager.

"No, she's had enough for now," Wynn replied.

Shade grumbled in clear disagreement, but Scoria nodded and ushered Held-All on his way. Wynn was more curious about this Hall of Stone-Words, so with Shade in tow, she followed Downpour out of the meal hall.

Instead of rounding the far side of the temple proper toward the passages to quarters, they slipped into the near side, traipsing the curving corridor all the way to the back. There, a wide passage lined with glyph-marked archways and doors shot deeper into the mountain.

Downpour's brisk pace offered Wynn no time to peer about. She glimpsed little of the other rooms or halls through any opening, at least not until the wide passage ended in a final grand arch of framestones. The opening spilled into a room so tall that Wynn couldn't see its ceiling from the outside. All she did see were three large emblems on a bare wall straight ahead, no more than three paces into the room.

Downpour paused outside the archway. "Anyone can come here whenever the temple is open."

Wynn stared at the inside wall. The Hall of Stone-Words couldn't be this small, even for dwarven brevity in writing.

"Hopefully something here will fulfill your needs," Downpour added. "Now I must get to my duties."

Downpour headed up the passage, and Wynn moved closer to the archway. Dwarves might not care for writing everything down, but certainly they had more records than this. There had to be more than three platter-size engraved symbols of complex strokes … or vubrí.

Certain Dwarvish words weren't always written in separate letters. Just as the sages' Begaine syllabary used symbols for whole syllables and word parts, the harsh strokes of dwarven letters could be combined into a vubrí. These emblems were used only for important concepts or the noteworthy among people, places, or things. They were also how the families, clans, and tribes emblazoned or embroidered their identity on some personal attire. It took Wynn a moment to untangle the three engraved upon the wall.

The two to either side—Virtue and Tradition—connected by a straight line to an engraved circle holding the central emblem of Wisdom.

Wynn stepped fully through the arch, and a sudden sense of space made her look up.

The engraved wall went only halfway to the space's height, but it was still tall enough that she would've barely reached its top with her upstretched staff. Far above, amid stone arches supporting a high ceiling, metal mirrors reflected light down into the hall from three shafts in the ceiling.

Wynn stepped back and saw that the ceiling's arch supports went well beyond the partition.

She was baffled until she noticed that neither partition's end joined the hall's side walls. She headed left, finding the wall as thick as she was from shoulder to shoulder, and she peeked around its end. Wynn's mouth and eyes opened wide.

Multiple stone partitions cut across the hall at regular intervals, like the casements of a library. Each was clear of the side walls, allowing anyone to walk around them and up and down the hall's length. The only furnishings were thick stone benches, worn by use. But there were no massive vubrí on the next partition's front side.

Engraved Dwarvish letters filled five columns, each as wide as her spread arms. The same covered the back side of the first partition. Even the hall's side walls had columns written in twin sets, positioned to face the spaces between the partitions. Those paired side columns stretched nearly all the way to the ceiling's high arches.

Wynn had never seen anything like this among the dwarves, not even in her visit with Domin Tilswith. But it seemed most fitting in the temple of their poet Eternal.

"Stone-words," she whispered, "words engraved in stone."

Dwarves recorded only what they considered worth such permanence, such as the teachings of Feather-Tongue. Even to say "written in stone" meant that what was said must never be forgotten.

Shade pushed past, sniffing halfway down the partition's back side before Wynn regained her wits. She followed the dog, running her fingers over the engravings' sharp edges. Not only could she see these words, she could feel them. She flushed with unfamiliar awe as her fingers slipped from one column of crisp carved characters to the next.

"Stories," she whispered.

She'd never even seen some of the characters before. Perhaps they were older than the written form of Dwarvish she'd learned. As she reached the third partition's back side, she lingered on one obscure vubrí. Wynn knew she'd seen it before, somewhere upon these walls, and she tried again to decipher it.

Lhärgnæ?

She frowned, trying to remember her lessons with Domin High-Tower.

The old Dwarvish root word "yarghaks" meant "a descent," as in a falling place or a downslope. In the vocative, it was pronounced "lhargagh," but such a formal declination implied a label or title. And the ancient, rare suffix of "-næ" or "-æ" was for a proper noun, both plural and singular.

She knew the letters and vubrí for the Bäynæ, the Eternals. That reference had appeared often in passages she had scanned. Strangely, she didn't remember ever spotting "Lhärgnæ" written out in plain letters. But its vubrí seemed akin to the one for the Bäynæ.

"Lhärgnæ" … the Fallen Ones?

She scanned several more lines, and the obscure vubrí appeared again, this time in a sentence that also mentioned the Eternals. She traced back along engraved letters, reading more slowly.

Our Eternal ancestors exalt our virtues over our vices, and shield us against the … Lhärgnæ.

Wynn paused in thought. She knew some dwarven "virtues," such as integrity, courage, pragmatism, and achievement. There were also thrift, charity for those in need, and championship of the innocent and defenseless. The possible vices might be counterpoints to these, at least in part.

Dwarves believed that their Eternals were part of the spiritual side of this world. They were not removed from it, to be called upon in another realm, as with the elves, nor sent to an afterlife, like most human religions taught. The Bäynæ were the revered ancestors of their race as a whole. Their presence was thought strongest wherever dwarves gathered in great numbers. They were believed to be always with their people, wherever they went.

So what place did these Lhärgnæ—these Fallen Ones—hold in the dwarves' spiritual worldview?

She sidestepped along the wall, scanning for more occurrences of the rare vubrí. Near the wall's bottom, it was couched in a phrase with the terms "aghlédaks" and "brahderaks"—cowardice and treachery. The rest of the sentence held too many older characters she didn't know.

Wynn straightened up, sighing in frustration.

She'd expected this to be easier. She was a sage, after all, and spoke a half dozen languages or dialects fluently and others in part. She could read even more. When she turned about, Shade lay at the wall's far end, her head on her paws, silently watching Wynn.

This was all quite boring to Shade.

For an instant, Wynn wished she had Chap here instead. His counsel had helped her choose the texts to bring home from Li'kän's ice-bound castle.

Her gaze drifted to an oddity on the next partition's front. These columns of text were framed in engraved scrollwork. Curiosity pulled her to them.

She read a few random lines with little effort, for it was written in contemporary Dwarvish characters. The text appeared to be a story. A way down the column, she found one familiar vubrí—Bedzâ'kenge, the poet Eternal. Another vubrí was mixed in the text closer to the first column's top.

Wynn settled on the bench, working out its patterned strokes.

"Sundaks"—avarice.

But the context implied more. It should be in the vocative case as well, like a title or a name pronounced in formal fashion—Shundagh.

Wynn lifted her eyes to the story's beginning.

A fine family of renowned masons lived in a small but proud seatt of only one clan and one tribe among the Rughìr.

She faltered before remembering something Domin High-Tower had mentioned. "Rughìr" was a common truncation for "Rughìr'thai'âch"—the Earth-Born—how the dwarves referred to their own kind.

Anxious to serve their people, the family's sons and daughters sought to become merchants as well. They hoped to have more to offer—and to gain—by way of trade as well as skills plied. But over many years, all members passed into earth or went away, until only one son remained.

Wynn came to the new vubrí formed like a title: Shundagh …

Avarice … as the last of his line, inherited all that his family had acquired—but he had lost his love of masonry or the way of honorable barter.

At first, he grudgingly plied his skills, but not in fair exchange for returned services or goods. Nor did he trade in worthy metals, such as iron, copper, forged steel, or even brass. He took payment only in foreign coin of silver and gold or in pristine gemstones. Soon he abandoned service altogether, selling off what remained of family wares and tools.

Avarice no longer bartered.

He purchased all he desired, always in gold, silver, and gems, but offered only meager amounts to those in dire need who must accept his set price. Through trickery and profiteering, he amassed a fortune from his fellows. The people became gray and grim.

Avarice's wealth grew as steadily as his skills dwindled.

He forgot all that his forebears had handed down through generations. When his false wealth was greater than that of all the seatt, he demanded the clan elders title him "Thänæ." They agreed, for even the elders had been made destitute. They saw that only Avarice possessed the way to fortune and renown.

The shirvêsh were told to sanctify a thôrhk. Avarice demanded that it be made of gold and studded in jewels of his choosing, to remind all how great he had become and why. But the shirvêsh refused.

Avarice called in debts to have a thôrhk made to his own liking, though it was never blessed under the sight of the Eternals. It is said that the day he donned it, since no servant of the Eternals would place it upon him, all shirvêsh of the seatt left, never to return.

With a false thänæ as the example of excellence, envy spread like plague.

Such was Avarice's reputation that even the flow of trading foreigners dwindled, until none from the outside world came to trade and barter at that seatt. The people were left to prey only upon one another's misfortune.

Until one dawn, a lone traveler did come.

At first the people gave him little notice. Though he was Rughìr, he possessed nothing of worth. He carried only a pack that sagged half-empty and a stout but tarnished iron staff. His boots and garish orange tunic were overweathered and travel-worn. When he stopped at the lone greeting house, no one gave note to this shoddy traveler, not even when he stepped upon the dais without invitation.

Wynn came to the first occurrence of the vubrí for Bedzâ'kenge.

Feather-Tongue began his first tale.

Offered in charity, and in the proper place for a telling, when he finished the story of Pure-Steel and the Night Blight, silence filled the greeting house. Even servers stood petrified, like dead wood poured upon for centuries until it turned rigid as stone. But the silence would be broken.

Avarice had heard word of a telling in the greeting house.

At first he could not believe it, but any brief diversion was rare. He came to see for himself and stood just inside the doorway. Arriving late, he had caught only the story's last half. Though it cost him nothing, it left him frustrated, as if he had paid even one precious coin but received only a portion of his purchase.

Avarice could not help himself.

He entreated the pauper poet for another tale—by story, song, or poem—but in private, only for himself. For the service, he offered one quarter wedge of the smallest silver piece found among the Churvâdìné.

Wynn paused, and frowned. The old word sounded so familiar. Dené was now the common dwarven word for any "human"—Numan, Suman, or otherwise. But once they had been called the Churvâdìné… .

The Confused or Mixed-Up People.

No one else said a word at Avarice's offer; no one else had the coin to spare. They all waited expectantly for the poet's reply.

With a slow shake of his head, Feather-Tongue refused.

He would tell a tale in good charity—a story or two, a song, or a poem to break the heart—but only to those too poor to even barter a sip of ale. He would not sell his tales for coin, like possessions to be hoarded.

Avarice became angry.

He believed this pauper poet was either too conceited or too stupid to part with simple tales for good profit. Instead, the wanderer squandered his skills on the unworthy and beggarly. Still, the false thänæ would not turn away.

Avarice doubled his price—and Feather-Tongue refused again.

Avarice offered more—and more—but each time the poet declined. He offered yet again, cringing at the amount, this time for a telling before himself and the clan elders as well. At the least, he would have the credit for providing a meager treat, and the elders would owe him for it.

Feather-Tongue refused again—then he countered.

He would accept only if all the people were allowed to listen. The telling would take place atop the mountain in the seatt's central amphitheater, where any council was held before the people.

Avarice would not be outbartered by some wandering street performer.

He nearly snarled refusal, but he bit it back in the last instant. If the clan elders would have been indebted to him for a private telling, how much greater his gain would be in what the poet proposed. Though it would be hard to account and collect on such widespread debt, all in the seatt would know to whom it was owed.

Avarice agreed.

Feather-Tongue bowed graciously to the false thänæ, and Avarice escorted him to the mountain's top. They did not wait long.

Word spread upon shouting voices and running feet. Soon, all came to listen. The crowd settled in, restless and noisy, until the poet raised his iron staff and let it slide down upon the amphitheater's floor. He hammered it three times upon the flagstones, and all became quiet.

Feather-Tongue began his second tale.

There was no silence when he finished three episodes in classic chain link. Cheers and stamps and slaps of approval upon stone were somewhat hesitant, but not for lack of heart. Many eyes turned on the poet's counterpart, seated front and center among the clan's elders.

Avarice's aged eyes were glassy.

The false thänæ was still caught in the tale's dreamtime, and the pauper poet waited in polite silence. Eventually a low rumble spread through the crowd, until someone finally called out for another tale.

Avarice started to awareness.

He leaned forward, glaring at the poet as the demand spread throughout the stands. Finally, he tossed a scant pinch of silver coins upon the flagstones in payment. But then he too demanded another tale, claiming he was not satisfied with the worth of his purchase.

The poet nodded acceptance, never stooping to touch one coin.

Feather-Tongue began a third tale.

He broke into song and then slid into an epic poem, which ended upon three quintets of limericks that raised so much laughter, even Avarice smirked twice.

Feather-Tongue fell silent and waited.

Avarice shook off the disquieting touch of long-forgotten mirth. He leaned forward, ready to claim that he was not yet satisfied. But the way the crowd cheered, stamped, and slapped stone made him hesitate. A few even tossed out a coin or two they could hardly have spared.

Being seen as an ingrate would not work for Avarice, but he had no leverage as yet, seeing that this vagabond was still indifferent to proper wealth. And he too wanted more tales—and more debts to collect. He held up the smallest of his purses with a sum slightly more than the last payment. When the poet nodded acceptance, he tossed it out.

Feather-Tongue began his fourth tale.

Throughout the morning and afternoon, the ritual of purchase repeated. With each song, history, poem, or legend, the poet grew tired a bit earlier than the last, saying he could tell no more this day.

The crowd's adoration had grown, as had Avarice's frustration.

Each time the poet paused, Avarice increased his offers, bit by grudging bit, until the next telling commenced. The false thänæ's servants, indentured for debts, were sent under mercenary guard to fetch more coin and even gems from his hoard. The people were puzzled, but Avarice knew that they were too ignorant and poor to calculate what he could.

By custom and tradition, only the recipient could first touch any payment.

Without servants, companions, or pack animals, the poet would be forced to leave the bulk of his gained wealth behind. The amount had already grown too large and heavy to handle alone. And once Avarice had exhausted all tales, he would rejoice in how little the poet could carry away. Any remainder not retrieved first by the poet himself would be forfeit.

When dusk came, Feather-Tongue halted midtale.

A rumble of discontent rose in the amphitheater, but he shook his head, claiming he was too tired, famished, and parched. Before Avarice cried foul, Feather-Tongue reassured all. He would return the following day to finish—but not before.

At that, the false thänæ relented, but he made sure of his purchase. Mercenary guards were posted outside the greeting house where the poet was lodged for the night.

In the morning, Feather-Tongue began again—and for seven days more.

Along the way, he often told of faraway places, events unheard-of, and ancestors long forgotten in this seatt, all glorious in wonder and some fearfully dark, so that awe filled the people's expressions, and sometimes mixed with longing.

Each dusk, he ended midstory, midsong, or in a jarring stop at the most poignant beat in a poem. Each dawn, all hurried to the amphitheater, only to find Avarice already waiting as the poet arrived under guard.

Not once did the poet touch coin or gem heaped upon the old stone floor. Not by a toe, let alone a finger. He could have, for any smaller part had been fairly gained in barter for what he had given so far. The piles had grown so large that even one would be unmanageable to carry off.

On the ninth day, Feather-Tongue finished his last tale.

When the crowd cried for more, amid shouts of praise, he only shook his head, and they slowly grew silent. He announced that he had told all that he possessed and there was nothing more he could offer.

Avarice began to laugh.

It was a rude, disquieting noise that carried everywhere in the silence. He claimed again that he was not satisfied for his last purchase. A wave of resentful leers spread through the crowd. Some even braved curses under their breath.

Feather-Tongue bowed politely, offering to gladly return the last and final payment.

Avarice smiled at this.

He sent out a servant to gather three pouches' worth of gold and gems. It was only what he had paid the final time. He need not try to take anything more. A hundred-fold still remained that could never be carried away by the poet.

Shouts rose from the crowd, some in pleas that the poet might have just one more telling in him. But others shouted at Avarice that the barter was complete, now that the one final payment had been returned.

Avarice grew nervous. He had no choice by law and custom, and he waved off his guards. He had finally gotten everything this vagabond possessed, and the poet was free to go.

Feather-Tongue returned a final bow—but not to Avarice.

He faced each of the eight directions, offering his humble thanks to the people, and then turned to leave. He was halfway to the northern tunnel running under the stands when a crackling voice called out.

Avarice alone stood up among the elders.

All stared dumbfounded at the great treasure littering the amphitheater's floor. Avarice asked why the poet had not taken his payment.

Feather-Tongue only shook his head.

Avarice grew gleeful. This fool now would not carry away even a meager part of the payment. Not only had Avarice gained all the tales of this idiot, but his wealth was left for him to reclaim.

Feather-Tongue turned about.

"I do accept your payment, and so it is mine," he said. "But I will touch none of it … and until I do, neither shall any other. That is the law of barter … even for purchases."

Avarice went cold with uncertainty.

Feather-Tongue's gaze passed over the elders and then around the masses gathered upon the amphitheater's stone steps and stands.

"But I offer this, by my oath, and witnessed by all," he added, and then pointed to Avarice. "Whoever gains any true barter with that one … may take an equal measure of what I leave here."

Avarice's old heart hammered in panic. His gaze raced feverishly over the wealth he had paid, mixed with the paltry offers of others.

"But only in honorable barter," Feather-Tongue repeated, still pointing to Avarice. "For those who give or take only coin with that one … shall have none of mine by fair trade."

Avarice looked about, and all eyes were on him.

He had no skills left, nor goods to spare, with which to barter in the old ways. Even trickery could not regain his payment, for he could not barter with himself in order to share in what the poet offered to all others. He could not even risk thievery, for his wealth was laid out before the eyes of the whole seatt.

Feather-Tongue retrieved his staff and pack from one astonished guard staring at the glittering mounds. He walked away from that unhappy, fallen place. It is said that no one of that forgotten seatt ever touched a single coin or gem of the poet's wealth.

Bartering with Avarice was impossible. He had nothing to offer by way of goods or services.

Perhaps the false thänæ visited his lost wealth each day, gazing at it piled up in plain sight. Certainly someone else would always come, watching him, and he dared not steal a single coin.

Perhaps in time, the taunt of the poet's wealth became too much. Its constant reminder of the shame that Avarice brought upon the seatt, and the shame of all who had made no attempt to stop him, were too much to bear. One can only guess that all left that place, slipping away with their families. Perhaps some few went in search of what they heard in Feather-Tongue's tales.

But not Avarice, that is certain.

Awaking one day to find himself alone, he would have seized upon his lost fortune—and then wept. No one remained from which to purchase anything. He had no servants, pack animals, or companions to help carry it away. But Avarice would never leave it behind.

Somewhere in a forgotten place rest the bones of a …

Wynn straightened, staring at the strange vubrí once more.

… rest the bones of a Lhärgnæ … a Fallen One … upon a great cairn of silver and gold and bright gems of all hues. But do not seek that place.

Avarice waits to purchase all who come.

Wynn sat still upon the bench, her thoughts tangled and racing.

Bedzâ'kenge—Feather-Tongue—had pulled down a Fallen One. He had freed an entire seatt from the miser's greed, and done so with nothing but wit and a telling. But the story raised more questions than it answered. The final line implied something about dwarven beliefs and their form of ancestor worship.

Bedzâ'kenge was revered as one of the Bäynæ, an ancestral spirit still among his people even now. But then what of Shundagh … what of Avarice? Did the dwarves believe that Lhärgnæ had presence and influence in this world as well? This would certainly explain the earlier account of how their Eternals not only exalted virtue but remained on guard against vice … against the Fallen Ones. Such enemies would be seen as still vital in this world, ready to lay siege and assault upon dwarven virtue.

Wynn's thoughts turned quickly to a name—no, a title—overheard in Domin High-Tower's study on the day Ore-Locks had come in secret.

Thallûhearag.

This hall held accounts of Feather-Tongue's life and exploits, and it mentioned one—or perhaps more—of the Fallen Ones for any to read. Yet Mallet had been severely upset when she'd asked about Thallûhearag. And why did the Lhärgnæ have titles in place of true names?

Though the Bäynæ she knew of had no mention of their heritage in life, such as family, clan, or tribe, apparently they retained their true names. Not the Lhärgnæ—or not the ones she had read of, like Shundagh—Avarice. If Thallûhearag was one of them, then she couldn't tell who or what he was or had been. She couldn't decipher that ancient title of a dwarf forgotten by all but the few who knew it, and who wouldn't speak openly of mythical Bäalâle Seatt.

What had Thallûhearag done in that place? Had he been involved in its fall during the great forgotten war? Anything regarding such events might be critical, and Wynn wanted to discuss her findings with … someone. A nostalgic pang made her long to read the story to Chap, to hear what he made of it.

Something wet, warm, and fuzzy burrowed in under her hand.

Shade pushed her muzzle under Wynn's fingers and rested it upon her thigh.

"If only you could understand words," she whispered, "I wonder what you would think of this." Then she half smiled. "Just more people nonsense."

Shade pricked her ears and then suddenly jerked up her head. She trotted off to peer around the partition's end.

"What is it?" Wynn asked.

A distant cry of grief echoed faintly into the Hall of Stone-Words.

Wynn rushed to join Shade, but when she reached the entrance, Shade was already trotting down the outer passage.

"Shade, wait! Stop … come!" she called, but the dog kept on.

Shade slowed only when she reached the passage's end, where it connected to the curved hallway running around the temple proper. Wynn hurried to catch up, but Shade trotted out, approaching the near-side arch into the chamber of Feather-Tongue. Wynn followed to peer in.

A group of orange-vested shirvêsh had gathered inside. There was Downpour, her large hands over her face, apparently weeping. Even Held-All had lost his grin, as everyone present listened closely to Shirvêsh Mallet, though at first his words were too low for Wynn to hear. He looked exhausted and lost.

Scoria heaved a sigh and folded his arms.

"I do not believe it!" he growled. "Only three nights past, I ate with him, and he would not keep quiet all night! This cannot be true."

Shirvêsh Mallet nodded slowly. "It is certain. Hammer-Stag passed over last night."

Wynn clutched the archway's edge. Hammer-Stag was dead?

"Once his body has been prepared by family or clan," Mallet continued, "and tribal mourning is observed, he will be carried up to Chemarré … and we will see if the Hassäg'kreigi find him worthy to pass into stone."

Wynn's breath caught. The Stonewalkers were coming—or might come?

She didn't understand why there was doubt. Weren't all thänæ who passed over to be taken? What more was—could be—required, other than a thôrhk and the title that came with it? But if the Stonewalkers did come …

Would Ore-Locks be there? Could she find a way to see him or the others, to speak with them?

And what did Mallet mean by "pass into stone"?

Wynn shivered with self-loathing. Hammer-Stag had helped her, treated her as a friend. He had fought beside Magiere, aided by Leesil and Chap. Now he was gone, and all she thought of was what it might gain her.

She stepped in behind the gathering, wanting to ask how one such as he had died. But she halted at the sight of Downpour weeping and Held-All's young face devoid of mirth. Of all present, Mallet's demeanor silenced her most of all.

Struck with grief, the old shirvêsh glanced up at the immense statue of Feather-Tongue, with hand outstretched and palm upward to the sky above the temple. When Mallet lowered his eyes, his brows wrinkled, darkening the lines on his old features.

Mallet glared at nothing, lost in a troubled thought that shadowed his face.