Through Stone and Sea Page 13

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 s
tory’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.