Through Stone and Sea Page 4

  “Oh . . . banê,” Wynn greeted her. “Could you direct me to the meal hall? I’m supposed to meet him for supper.”

  Wynn had read some ludicrous Stravinan folklore in the Farlands. Dwarves—by other terms—were described as gnarly earth dwellers. Some tales claimed it was impossible to tell a female from a male because both wore beards.

  What nonsense!

  The female shirvêsh looked her up and down, and cocked her head at the sight of a “wolf” standing guard before a small human. She had long, shiny black hair draped down over her vestment’s shoulders. Some might not care for the stout structure and wide features of a dwarven woman, but to Wynn’s mind this one was perfectly alluring. A bit stern and severe- looking, until her expression broke with a wide grin.

  “Follow me,” the shirvêsh said. “I am headed there myself.”

  Wynn fell into step. Only a little way to the front doors they turned into a left-side passage. Loud, cheerful voices booming in Dwarvish echoed off the walls. Before Wynn even stepped inside a long hall, she smelled the aroma of mushrooms sautéed in herbs and butter.

  Six shirvêsh were gathered at the nearest table, boisterously filling mugs and chattering away. Two more long tables with wooden benches filled the room on either side, and the one on the right, near a another archway, was laden with platters of mushrooms, spiced lumpy goat cheese, boiled root vegetables, and a little stewed venison.

  Wynn realized how hungry she was just as she glanced down to find Shade salivating.

  “Young Hygeorht!”

  Shirvêsh Mallet rose from a stool at the food table’s far end and waved her over. His white beard spread with his smile of welcome, and Wynn hurried toward him, pausing at the late-afternoon repast.

  “This all smells wonderful,” she said, ladling mushrooms into a wooden bowl and preparing another with venison for Shade.

  “Where is your young man?” Mallet asked.

  “He is not my . . . He is still sleeping. I didn’t wish to wake him yet.”

  The shirvêsh grunted as he settled and lifted a small pitcher. Before Wynn could intervene, he poured some steaming brown liquid into a mug, sliding it over as she sat down. She peered hesitantly into the mug, smelling its vapor, and found that it was only heated broth.

  “Thank you,” she breathed in relief.

  At the guild, most sages sipped wine only on special occasions, and tea was Wynn’s normal preference. Dwarves often drank beer or ale, sometimes heated, in place of water. They weren’t nearly as affected by alcohol as humans and even drank distilled spirits from wood—a beverage deadly to other races. Mallet’s gesture was most considerate.

  Wynn barely got Shade’s bowl on the floor before the dog began snapping up the venison.

  The shirvêsh swallowed a mouthful of mushrooms and washed it down with foaming ale.

  “Tell me of your project,” he asked. “What are you seeking to scribble in your journals?”

  Wynn tried not to grimace. She was well acquainted with dwarven opinion of humans always writing everything down. It was common for dwarves to live two hundred years. But in addition, they found sages to be “funny little people” who spent their short lives hoarding tidbits of information, regardless of any practical purpose these served. To a dwarf, gathering more knowledge than one could remember, let alone use, seemed a waste of years. Better to pursue personal excellence or the enrichment of daily life and one’s culture.

  But for three nights Wynn had been contemplating exactly what she would say in this moment. She had to depend upon dwarven bias to make the old shirvêsh believe her.

  “It’s a delicate matter,” she began, and leaning closer, she lowered her voice. “Our guild’s Sumanese branch recently completed biographies of all their domins for their archives. They felt such records would be beneficial examples to future sages. The premin council of our branch decided to follow suit . . . but it’s not seemly for domins to write their own accounts. I’ve been assigned to research and write the biography of Domin High-Tower.”

  Shirvêsh Mallet stopped chewing and stared at her. With a great gulp, he appeared to make great effort not to smirk at the absurdity of such a task.

  “And so, you have come here,” he said with forced seriousness, “where Chlâyard sought his first calling.”

  It took a moment for realization to set in. Wynn sat dumbstruck and then cleared her own throat.

  “Chlâyard—I mean Domin High- Tower—was here . . . to become a shirvêsh to Bedzâ’kenge?”

  Mallet’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Is that not why you came, to seek the tale of his life?”

  Recovering quickly, Wynn nodded. “Yes, but journeyors assigned to this project were given no information and simply sent off. The biographies must be unbiased and come from a variety of sources. We are to seek the stories ourselves.”

  “A’ye!” Mallet barked, slapping his hand firmly on the table. “That, at least, was a wise decision!”

  Wynn’s guilt welled over lying so easily. More bad skills learned in Leesil’s company, no doubt, but she had to continue the ruse.

  “I didn’t know High-Tower sought to become a shirvêsh.”

  High-Tower was a private individual. He would be mortified at such information landing upon Wynn’s ears.

  “He was my acolyte for only a short time,” Mallet replied. “But I can introduce you to a few who knew him better. We were all stunned by his decision to . . . to become a scribbler of words.”

  Again, Wynn ignored the slight.

  “I prefer to start with his earlier life,” she corrected. “Can you direct me to his family?”

  At this, Mallet straightened on his stool as if thinking carefully.

  Wynn grew worried that she’d asked the wrong thing but had no idea why it was wrong. Had she made Mallet suspicious?

  He looked her straight in the eyes. “I do not know an exact location and can only point the way. He hails from the Yêarclág—the Iron-Braids, in your tongue. A small family, and the last I knew, they lived in Chemarré . . . in its underside.”

  Wynn faltered once more. “Underground?”

  Shirvêsh Mallet didn’t answer.

  Chemarré, or “Sea-Side,” was one of the seatt’s four main settlements, situated on the mountain’s far side facing the open ocean and the Isle of Wrêdelîd. “Underside” was a polite reference for those living in the deepest—poorest—levels below the surface.

  “Go back to the Cheku’ûn market and take the tram to Chemarré,” Mallet instructed. “I do not know that settlement’s underways, but someone at the Chemarré way station can start you off.”

  His tone had changed, as if speaking of something embarrassing, but Wynn wasn’t finished.

  “Shirvêsh, while I’m here, I wanted to conduct research for the guild’s archives on the Stonewalkers. So little is . . . known of . . .”

  Wynn trailed off as Mallet’s eyes stopped blinking. His black pupils looked like hard pinpoints.

  “Young Hygeorht . . .” he began, voice lowered, “your guild has ferreted out more than I realized . . . or did High-Tower mention this to you? How do you know of the Hassäg’kreigi?”

  “I’ve heard the term only a couple of times,” Wynn replied. “I know little other than they are a sacred sect among your people.”

  “Little more is known by my own people,” he countered, but the way he spoke implied that he knew more.

  Mallet sighed through his nose, plainly resigned to an annoyance he couldn’t politely escape. This chat clearly covered much different ground than he’d expected.

  “The Stonewalkers, as you call them, are guardians of our most honored dead.” He paused, either for emphasis or to weigh his words. “Only Thänæ, who wear the thôrhk around their necks, so marked for their great achievements, are tended by the Stonewalkers. When a thänæ dies . . . and is to pass into earth . . . Stonewalkers may come to take him or her to the underworld. In their care, a thänæ of the greatest renown might one far day become known to the people as one of the Bäynæ—what you call our Eternals—and an ancestor to all of us, like our blessed Bedzâ’kenge.”

  Wynn’s fascination didn’t stop her from blurting out the obvious questions.

  “This ‘underworld,’ where the Stonewalkers live . . . this is a real place? Where can I find it?”

  Mallet rolled his eyes and rose, and this time his sigh was disapproving.

  “That is not a question to be asked, let alone answered . . . or recorded!” His tone softened as he patted her shoulder like an indulgent grandfather. “What I have told you is all you need to know. Now, finish your supper, perhaps walk that beast of yours—outside, please! Then focus on your biography of High-Tower. Only the Eternals know if something useful will come of it.”

  Wynn knew that in his kindness, Mallet had no idea how condescending he could be. She’d pushed the limits of good judgment with her questions, but who knew when she would be granted his undivided attention again? She rose, halting him before he left.

  “Shirvêsh, forgive me, but one more question. In all your remembered tales, do you recall anything of a place called Bäalâle Seatt . . . and someone named Thallûhearag who—”

  A rushing pallor flooded Mallet’s wrinkled features, and Wynn stiffened in silence.

  He looked as if her words had struck him ill. Revulsion spread across his broad face. A long moment followed before his calm finally returned. Wynn grew frightened under his silent scrutiny.

  Mallet glanced sidelong over his shoulder, but none of the other shirvêsh had looked up. Either they hadn’t heard or they didn’t know what Wynn spoke of. Mallet turned on her, leaning into her face as he whispered through clenched teeth, “Where did you hear that title?”

  It was so sha
rp and abrupt that she flinched as she struggled for an answer. She could think of only one.

  “Domin High-Tower must have mentioned it to me.”

  Mallet settled back.

  “I am disappointed in my former acolyte,” he said. “No one, especially one so young as you, should be told of such a thing . . . let alone seek it out! It is all but dead in my people’s memories, and lives on in fewer by the years . . . I will not resurrect it!”

  The meal hall had grown too quiet.

  Barely a murmur passed among the others at the far table. Wynn found herself the object of blank and puzzled stares. She was an outsider who’d given some serious offense.

  “Thank you for the meal,” she said quietly. “I should check on Chane.”

  Wynn backed away under Mallet’s intense scrutiny, passing her hand over Shade’s head to bring the dog along.

  “We’ll head to the station tonight,” she added, “and take the tram to Sea-Side, as you suggested. We might not return for a couple of days.”

  “You are always welcome,” Mallet answered calmly.

  But as Wynn hurried toward the main corridor, she grew obsessed with his reaction. Mallet had said nothing of Bäalâle Seatt, and she wasn’t about to ask him again anytime soon. But as to Thallûhearag . . .

  Mallet had called that a title, not a name—and a thing not to be remembered. That was a serious condemnation for an oral culture, where loved and honored ones lived on in remembered stories. Why was he so repulsed at the mention? He even wished to deny its immortality in memory . . . yet whatever, whoever, it was had been given a title, raising it above the common.

  It was all very confusing, and try as Wynn might—and she’d done so before—she couldn’t decipher the term. Perhaps it was some older form of Dwarvish, one of the most changeable languages known to her guild. As Wynn rounded the temple chamber, her thoughts drifted to Chane.

  She and Shade weren’t the only ones who needed sustenance. Chane’s “food” wasn’t pleasant to consider, but she couldn’t just let him go hungry. It was unkind, if not dangerous. Wynn looked down, uncertain how much to share with Shade.

  Wynn spun about and hurried to the front marble doors.

  “Come, Shade. We have an errand to run before dusk.”

  Chane opened his eyes to a dim glow escaping through slits in the iron pot’s lid. A moment’s disorientation passed, and as he sat up, the previous night came back to him. He was in a room in the temple of a dwarven “Eternal,” and he had fallen dormant while still dressed, creasing and rumpling his clothing.

  Rising, he tried to brush out his attire. Without even thinking, he went to check his cloak’s inner pocket.

  The old scroll case was still there. This action had become a nervous habit.

  Deciphering the scroll’s mystery was what had brought him to Wynn. It had given him a justifiable reason to seek her out. Losing it would be like losing any chance to stay within her world, aside from the puzzle it held.

  His other worldly possessions sat on the floor where he had dropped them, including his cloak and sword. Both packs were lightly stained from a night two years ago when he and Welstiel had abandoned a sinking ship and swum for shore. His own pack contained mainly personal items but also a small collection of texts and parchments acquired from a monastery of healers. They too were water damaged, though he had wrapped them carefully before jumping overboard.

  Wynn had not seen these. Considering what Welstiel had done to the monks who had first possessed them, Chane was uncertain whether he would ever show them to her. But it had seemed wrong to abandon them in high, barren mountains.

  Most of the works were written in old Stravinan, which he could read somewhat. One often stuck in his mind. It was the thinnest one, an accordion- style volume of thick parchment folded back and forth four times between grayed leather cover plates. The title read, The Seven Leaves of . . . something. The final word was obscured by age and wear.

  Though Chane had taken these texts from others, he saw himself as their keeper now. There was no one else left to care for them. This sentiment did not carry to the second pack’s contents, which had once belonged to Welstiel.

  Chane had stolen it the night in the ice-bound castle when he had betrayed Welstiel to Magiere. He crouched to flip open its canvas flap and look inside. The pack contained an array of arcane and perhaps mundane creations. Though technically they were now his, Chane never stopped thinking of those items as belonging to his old companion. Perhaps he never would.

  Hunger flushed through him, and he began digging into Welstiel’s pack. Aside from two arcane journals, with scant Numanese writings scattered amid pages of indecipherable symbols and diagrams, there were odd objects and boxes.

  Chane eyed three unmarked rods, each a forearm’s length and as thick as his thumb. One was red brass or copper, the second gray like pewter but harder, and the last looked obsidian, though it clinked like metal. Lying against them was a thick, polished steel hoop the diameter of a plate, with hair-thin etchings that smelled of char.

  Two boxes lay in the pack’s bottom.

  He ignored the long and shallow one bound in black leather and wrapped in indigo felt. Instead, he pulled out the other walnut box. Inside of it, resting in burgundy padding, were three hand- length iron rods with center loops, a teacup-size brass bowl, and a stout bottle of white ceramic with an obsidian stopper.

  Chane had partially fathomed the steel hoop, but he had not learned its full power. Welstiel had been able to pick it up while it was still searing hot, and Chane could not. He understood the brass cup as well, though he could not use it. Welstiel used it to drain and trap a mortal’s life energy in thrice-purified water from the ceramic bottle. This had allowed him to go for long periods without feeding otherwise.

  Chane had drunk that burning, bitter fluid more than once. The draft was revolting, devoid of the hunt’s joy and feeding’s euphoria. But as he was Wynn’s companion among the living, feeding had greater risks. Foremost that she would learn how he continued to survive—to exist.

  So far, the cup’s actual usage remained unfathomable. But his intellect and knowledge of minor conjury made him long to learn the secrets of Welstiel’s creations, including that filthy little cup. If he could feed only once per moon, it would be one less obstacle to remaining at Wynn’s side. But he would still have to keep such an act from her awareness, for the victim still died in the process.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Are you awake?” Wynn called from the other side.

  “One moment,” Chane rasped loudly.

  He hurriedly returned the cup’s box to Welstiel’s pack, went to open the door, and then froze.

  Wynn carried a glazed clay urn. She looked visibly queasy, a thin sweat leaving a sheen on her face.

  “Are you ill?” he asked.

  When she did not answer, his gaze dropped to the urn. A familiar scent began to reach his nostrils.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Wynn swallowed audibly and pushed past him into his room. Before Shade could follow, she kicked the door, slamming it shut. Shade began barking and scratching outside, but Wynn ignored her.

  “It is . . . is . . .” But she never quite finished, and Chane already caught the coppery, salty scent.

  “Blood?” he whispered.

  “Goat’s blood,” she blurted out, nearly squeaking. “I went to a butcher . . . so it’s . . . it’s fresh.”

  Wynn swallowed again, or rather gagged. Chane quickly snatched the urn out of her grip, horrified at what she had done.

  “I told the butcher it was for . . . blood sausage,” she whispered, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ll come back in a while,” she mumbled. “I have things to gather before we set out tonight.”

  She quickly turned for the door and slipped out. Shade finally ceased barking.

  Chane just stared at the urn.

  Wynn must have realized his hunger had grown each night of their journey here, though he thought he had kept that much from her. He had come as her protector—or that was what they both professed. In truth, he would have sworn anything to remain close to her. Now she had requested—perhaps watched—a goat be slaughtered, so she could purchase its blood as fresh as possible.

  It had sickened her, and worse . . . it was a wasted effort.