Through Stone and Sea ndst-2

by Barb Hendee

  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.

  Chapter 8

  Two long nights passed, and Wynn entered the great amphitheater atop the mountain at Chemarré—Old-Seatt. In her freshly laundered gray robe, she was dressed as a sage of the guild. Shirvêsh Mallet and Chane stood with her, while Shade pressed against the backs of her legs amid a throng of dwarves milling about upon the flagstones. The size of the place made her feel so very small, even more than the great council clearing of the Farland's elves.

  On their way through the streets of Old-Seatt, she had seen ancient fortifications and tiered walls built to withstand any assault, and twice as thick as those of Calm Seatt. The amphitheater itself was more daunting.

  As the traditional meeting place of Dhredze Seatt and its last-stand fallback fortification, the amphitheater's round outer wall was at least twenty feet thick and as high as any castle's first battlements. Two dozen stone tiers for seating rose all around to the broad promenade running along the wall's inner circumference. Entrances made of great iron doors were flung wide between framed obelisk columns, opening above the steps of the aisles. The stands were already half-filled, and still people poured in. Constabularies from various clans walked the aisle steps with their tall staves, assisting attendees and overseeing proper order.

  Hammer-Stag, boisterous and loud, had been well-known to his people.

  And this was his final appearance among them.

  Wynn was aware of the favor bestowed upon herself and Chane. They stood with Mallet on the floor's far right, just within sight of the nearer steps leading up to the raised stone stage. Only family, close friends and comrades, as well as clan elders and thänæ, were allowed on the floor among the shirvêsh in attendance. One elder shirvêsh from each Eternal's temple, such as Mallet, was present, along with more from a temple appropriate to Hammer-Stag's calling.

  Wynn should've felt grateful at being included, and that thought made her feel all the worse. When she'd first asked Shirvêsh Mallet if she and Chane might attend—on the pretense of learning more about dwarven customs—she'd been stunned when he'd agreed.

  "Of course," he had said. "You will stand with me."

  Mallet had explained that the Hassäg'kreigi did not come for all departed thänæ. Only those deemed worth preserving for the people would "pass into stone." When she'd asked what that meant, he shook his head. Answering seemed difficult for him.

  Stone was revered for permanence, like the bones of the world. Even when broken, it was still stone, and its parts one day were reborn anew. To be part of such was to become part of what held up the world and kept it sound. Even among the Thänæ, only those strongest in the virtue they exemplified would bring the Stonewalkers. The bones of earth deserved nothing less. Mallet said that in all his years, he had seen the Stonewalkers only twice before.

  Wynn had then asked if something else was wrong. The old monk's intense expression within the temple proper was still stuck in her mind. Mallet didn't answer, but the suspicious glare returned briefly beneath his grief, as if his mind wandered into darker thoughts. Wynn's own thoughts kept turning back upon the Stonewalkers. The guilt made her shrivel inside.

  Hammer-Stag, so strong and alive, had died the night after she'd met him. Death followed too often in her wake. And now, how did she honor this loss? With sacrilege, using him as bait. She could barely lift her gaze to the stage.

  Beneath a shimmering gray cloth draped over a litter upon a waist-high stone block, the body of Hammer-Stag rested, hidden from sight.

  On one side of him stood an aging, white-haired thänæ in a bright girdle of steel splints, with two war daggers lashed to his chest. On the other stood three shirvêsh in white vestments from the temples devoted to three Bäynæ called Stálghlên, Skâpagi, and Mukvadân—Pure-Steel the champion, Shielder the guardian, and Wild-Boar the warrior.

  Funerary ceremonies had been going on for several days. First the body was carefully prepared, though Wynn didn't know what that entailed. Then came a series of wakes overseen by immediate family, clan, and then tribe. This night was the culmination. If the Stonewalkers didn't come, Hammer-Stag might be cremated or interred, according to his relatives' wishes. Either his corpse or ashes would be carried away to a prepared family barrow.

  "Will he be uncovered or taken as is?" Chane asked softly.

  Wynn glanced up. He appeared to suffer none of her guilt or anything besides fascination with the spectacle.

  "If they come to take him into stone," Mallet answered, "he will be uncovered … presented to the people one last time. For now, we wait."

  Wynn pondered those words again—"into stone." Earlier, as they'd rode the lift up to Old-Seatt, Mallet had also mentioned the "underworld" when speaking of the Stonewalkers. Did the two terms mean the same thing, or was the latter something separate? But she believed the Stonewalkers would come.

  Hammer-Stag had been special. Judging by all who gathered here, he'd achieved greatness in a world where others sought it only in self-service—if they sought it at all in more than wishes and fantasies.

  She noticed Chane looking down at her, studying her. Perhaps he saw her shame or sadness. He looked much better since they'd returned to the temple. Although he was still pale, a hint of color showed in his narrow face. The goat's blood must have helped.

  The three shirvêsh upon the stage held up their hands, and the crowd's buzz quickly died.

  Wynn saw movement everywhere around her.

  All the shirvêsh on the amphitheater's floor slowly formed a line. Mallet followed with a quick gesture for her and Chane to wait. One by one, they filed up the steps to the stage as the trio of shirvêsh in white stepped back, bowing their heads with closed eyes. Each passing shirvêsh paused, laying a hand upon Hammer-Stag's draped form, and their lips moved in some unheard whisper to the dead thänæ.

  Wynn remembered the an'Cróan's elders that she'd encountered in the Farlands. Compared to their tall, cloaked forms and reserved expressions, these wide, stout dwarven monks in breeches and bright vestments were a stark contrast.

  One white-haired woman in a deep azure vestment stopped beside the cloth-draped body. Unlike those before her, she lifted her eyes to the people.

  "I will miss your fine voice and the just swing of Burskâp," she said aloud to all.

  Wynn grew confused, wondering if that final word were some nickname for Hammer-Stag.

  "Joy be with you … always," that woman said, then leaned over and kissed Hammer-Stag's covered head. "May Arhniká favor you."

  Tears welled in Wynn's eyes.

  Arhniká—Gilt-Repast—was one of the oldest Bäynæ she knew, revered for the virtue of charity. Her shirvêsh were known for helping the destitute to find placement for learning new trades and skills to rebuild lives of honor. Wynn wondered how a warrior like Hammer-Stag had gained such affection from a monk of Arhniká.

  One by one, the shirvêsh offered silen
t blessings, acting as avatars of their respective Eternals. Wynn watched as Mallet approached near the line's end. His eyes closed in a moment of stillness, and he too whispered something to Hammer-Stag. With his hand still upon the thänæ's covered form, he raised his head.

  "You were our strong arm, a champion of those in need," he said simply. "You will live among us in our tellings. May Bedzâ'kenge sing to you."

  Wynn looked away, anywhere else. She peered among those upon the floor who watched the blessing of the dead, and then raised her eyes to the crowded stone stands. Her gaze caught on a familiar face.

  Sliver sat in the lowest stand nearest the stage's far side still dressed in blacksmith's attire, as if she'd come straight from her forge. Her expression was tightly set in distaste.

  Wynn tugged lightly on Chane's sleeve, whispering, "Look."

  Chane followed where she pointed, spotting High-Tower's sister, and his eyes narrowed in a flicker of hostility. Then he frowned in the same puzzlement Wynn felt.

  Sliver would've had to close the smithy for several days, traveling by tram to attend the ceremony. There was no direct lift from far Sea-Side to the mountain's top. Had she known Hammer-Stag personally, or was she just here like all the others, paying her respects? Her expression said otherwise. She didn't appear to notice Wynn and only glared at the stage—or at one of two square entrances in its back wall.

  Before Wynn pondered further, a rolling resonance grew in the amphitheater. All the shirvêsh began to sing in deep baritone voices as they filed back down the stairs. Their chant vibrated between the high stone walls.

  Their song was too difficult for Wynn to follow, perhaps uttered in some ancient dialect reserved for such ceremonies. All she picked out were the names of Eternals, but to her, their thundering tones mattered more than their words. Mallet finally stepped down to the amphitheater floor, but any new questions Wynn had were cut short.

  Three armored and armed dwarves, two graced with thôrhks of spiked ends, stood at the floor's far side. The third warrior looked somehow familiar to Wynn. With them was a young shirvêsh in the white vestment of one of the three warrior Bäynæ. All four spoke close together until the younger warrior cocked his head at Mallet's passing.