Through Stone and Sea ndst-2

by Barb Hendee

  Reine stood rigid, watching Freädherich stare again out the window. She knew that desperate look, or thought she did.

  There were times when demands of station, even in her remote duchy, grew too smothering. She would grab her horse bow, perhaps go hunting covey in the scrub, or just ride until exhausted. Her escapes always ended in the high eastern granite steppes. She would stand where the sky was large enough that she no longer felt trapped.

  Freädherich gazed the other way, to the west. The desperation on his face wouldn't let Reine back away.

  "Then we'll wait here," she said, "and pretend a deep conversation. No one will bother us until dinner is announced."

  It was all she could think to say.

  Freädherich's eyes shifted her way but not to her face. He glanced over her foreign attire, ending not upon her sword but rather on her calf-high boots. It gave her a notion, something, anything to say.

  "Have you chosen a mount for the ride?"

  His thin lips parted suddenly, as if her words startled him.

  "The tour of the local province?" she urged. "Your father arranged a ride. I have my horses but was wondering about the stock of your stables. I assumed that … you …"

  Her voice failed as he shrank upon himself, as if no one had ever tried to force him into conversation like this.

  "I don't know how to ride," he said.

  "And I do not know how to swim," she answered—then regretted it instantly.

  Freädherich slid away along the sill, grown wary at some implied expectation. Reine was suddenly smothered in guilt for her quip. She'd thought only about his longing to escape. Stupidly, mistakenly, she'd frightened him more in turn.

  "I can teach you," she added. "With a gentle mount, it wouldn't be difficult."

  Freädherich remained silent—then he nodded slightly, just once.

  Another stillness hung between them for so long that Reine became self-conscious. This was something she'd seldom felt before coming to this coast among these seafaring people. When she finally grew too uncomfortable, she turned her back to the window and its disturbing view.

  That seemingly endless ocean, dark yet with no firm ground to race across, could swallow her into its depths in the first step. Perhaps her ways of horse and plains and steppes were as unsettling to him.

  She half sat upon the sill, and to her surprise, he turned and did the same.

  But when Freädherich faced the crowd of drinking nobles, panic filled his eyes at the sight of so many people. Not like a child. More like a wild horse spotting roving winter wolves that hadn't yet noticed it. On instinct, Reine slid her hand along the sill to cover his.

  Not everyone was watching them—only Uncle Jac and the royals of Malourné. Or at least these were the only ones Reine noticed. The relief in Queen Muriel's face was almost disturbing. King Leofwin took a deep breath, hand on his chest.

  Reine was baffled by all of this.

  When a finely suited servant rang a silver bell, announcing that dinner would be served, Freädherich's hand tightened upon the sill's edge beneath Reine's. She watched his frantic eyes race about as everyone flowed toward the doors. Then he fixed upon someone across the chamber.

  Reine's cousin, Prince Edelard, offered his arm to one lady in their group. Prince Leäfrich did the same for his sister, thelthryth.

  Freädherich looked down at Reine.

  At first, she thought he might spin around, fleeing to the safety of his window view—but he did not. She kept her eyes on his until he calmed and lifted his arm for her. And she took it. They sat together at dinner, talking little throughout the meal—which consisted of more courses than Reine cared for. Afterward, Freädherich grew agitated and nervous again.

  "Take me on a tour of the castle," she said.

  Without a word, he got up, gripping her chair to slide it out. Reine quickly covered for him, making their excuses. Neither the king nor the queen questioned this and were more than obliging. Uncle Jac appeared pleased, and Reine shot him a cold glare before she took Freädherich's arm and they left. As they wandered through the maze of the castle, coming upon a gallery of family portraits, she had to finally ask.

  "Freädherich … is something wrong?"

  "You should call me Frey," he said, ignoring the question. "That's what thel and Lee call me."

  Such nicknames were a little amusing compared to how formal the reskynna were with outsiders, but she wouldn't be put off so easily.

  "I meant, you seem somewhat beside yourself … elsewhere," she insisted.

  Again, her quiet directness startled him. This time he recovered more quickly.

  "The ride," he whispered. "Father insists that I go."

  That wasn't what was really on his mind, though it obviously bothered him as well. At another evasion, Reine chose not to press him into whatever more uncomfortable thoughts he wouldn't share.

  "You don't wish to go?" she asked.

  Freädherich—Frey—looked at the floor.

  "I don't like horses," he said flatly. "I prefer to sail."

  Reine was a bit stunned. Coming from a nation of horse people, she'd never met anyone who feared those proud animals. Then again, perhaps he'd never met anyone afraid of the sea … the endless ocean. Why was she so drawn to protect this strange young man?

  On the edge of the next dawn, Reine secretly slipped out to meet him at the stables.

  Frey was waiting outside and wouldn't enter until she pulled him in. She showed him the tall mounts her uncle brought in their entourage, but he wouldn't step near even one. When she came to her own three—Cinnamon, Nettle, and Peony—she made him stay put as she led out the latter gentle and dappled mare.

  By the time Felisien came searching for her, Reine had already gotten Frey to mount. To her surprise, he learned quickly. And she later learned that he'd been forced onto a soldier's stallion by his elder brother at too early an age. But he'd never been taught in proper fashion to work with a horse. Peony took to him well.

  By afternoon, the Weardas and a contingent of cavalry prepared to escort all the royals out for their tour. Reine was mounted atop Cinnamon, her muscular stallion. Frey, still atop Peony, remained at ease so long as he had Reine in his sight.

  He worked easily with the calm mare, or rather she with him, even cantering past his father twice, much to everyone's shock. But Frey seldom left Reine's side. If he did, she kept watch on him. When Felisien tried to goad her into a round of tag-arrows on horseback, wheeling his mount in her way, she booted him in the rump. She wasn't about to panic Frey with the sight of such a wild game.

  By the time the tour ended, and they'd returned to the castle, Reine decided that she would put off leaving when her family headed home. Something inside her didn't wish to abandon Frey—or that was how she viewed it. Three days later, she went to see off her cousins … her uncle. She hadn't spoken to him since the night of the first banquet.

  Uncle Jac, mounted on his plains-bred stallion, looked sternly down at Reine.

  "This was only for hope of your happiness," he said, and then added with emphasis, "nothing more. The rest is up to you … and him."

  Was all of this truly only seven years ago?

  Metal grating upon stone wrenched Reine into the present. She turned about as the iron doors split down their center seam. They slowly parted, sliding into the walls. A second pair began to separate as well, and then a third.

  There was Cinder-Shard, on the doors' other side, standing dead center in the widening portal. Reine hadn't even seen him enter.

  At his brief wave, the remaining Stonewalkers passed by, bearing Hammer-Stag's body into the chamber. Cinder-Shard turned away out of sight to the portal's left.

  "Time to go," Chuillyon said from behind her.

  All Reine saw between the chamber's inner rounded walls was an opening in the center of its stone floor. It looked like a shaft as wide as a bailey gate.

  Filled with blackness in the low light, that hole seemed to drop straight into t
he mountain's bowels. She could swear she caught the scent of seawater filling the chamber, perhaps rising from the shaft. It wasn't possible, though she shivered again.

  "My lady," Chuillyon said, "did you hear me?"

  Reine looked up into his triangular, tan elven faced lined softly with age.

  "Pardon?" she said.

  "It is time," he answered softly. But as he took a step to lead her on, he paused and became still.

  "What?" she asked.

  Chuillyon blinked, pivoting his head quickly, and gazed down the outer passage. Reine turned, wondering if they'd been followed. Chuillyon's feathery eyebrows twisted, one cocking higher than the other. With pursed lips, he suddenly smiled and shook his head.

  "I'm just getting too old," he muttered. "The mind wanders, I suppose."

  Yes, old Chuillyon was becoming a bit odd at times.

  Reine forced down all feeling, hardening herself. She stepped through with him, not glancing back as the triple iron doors closed behind her.

  "We can't follow yet!" Wynn whispered. "Not without Shade."

  Chane scowled down at her.

  It was difficult to speak without being overheard. The stands were emptying as the public filed up and out of the amphitheater, but handfuls of dwarves were now carrying tables and benches onto the floor for the impending wake. Wynn tried to keep out of their way as she looked about for Shade.

  She couldn't stop thinking of Hammer-Stag's pale face. It hinted too much about how he had died. Unless some other Noble Dead, another vampire other than Chane, were here among the dwarves …

  "Who was that woman?" Chane asked.

  "A royal of Malourné!" Wynn took a breath and tried to calm herself. "The duchess—I mean, Princess Reine, widow of Prince Freädherich. She did everything possible to hinder Captain Rodian's investigation—and to keep Premin Sykion in control of the texts. If she sees me here …"

  Wynn trailed off at Chane's frown.

  This was difficult to explain. He hadn't been in the middle of the murder investigation, as she had. More than once she'd run into the blockades set by the duchess for her family, keeping Wynn from getting anywhere near the texts.

  What was the duchess doing here? And where had Shade gone?

  "Coming through!" a young dwarf called, holding one end of a heavy table over his head.

  Wynn hopped aside, tugging Chane out of the way. Had Shade picked up something in her thoughts, some rising memory? Had she gone looking for the Stonewalkers on her own? If so, which way had she gone?

  Wynn didn't know—didn't believe—the dog was accustomed enough to civilization to seek anything but a direct path after her quarry. She looked about, trying to spot other openings in the side walls below the stands, and then her attention caught on Mallet.

  The old shirvêsh was busy with monks from other temples, and Wynn wasn't certain about protocol. The banquet was intended for family, close friends, and any other thänæ appropriate. They would eat and drink amid a telling to celebrate Hammer-Stag's final honor in death. But from scant bits she could overhear, Mallet was making his farewells.

  "He'll be leaving soon," she whispered. "And we'll have to leave with him!"

  Chane straightened to his full height, looking all around.

  "There," he said, jutting his chin over his shoulder. "Follow me, slowly."

  He backed toward the floor's side and another opening near the tunnel where they'd first come in. Wynn followed him.

  Together, they drifted along the wall amid busy preparations. When they reached the opening, Wynn ducked in ahead of Chane. She found herself in a dim chamber without internal light. She could barely make out the shadowy outlines of square openings in its other three walls.

  "Oh, seven hells!" she swore.

  Which way would Shade have gone, if she'd come this way at all? Wynn dug her cold lamp crystal out of her robe's pocket and rubbed it once to get light.

  "Keep that covered," Chane said. "We do not want to attract attention."

  Wynn bit her tongue at his needless reprimand. With the crystal couched between her palms, she stepped farther into the chamber.

  Stout wooden doors were set deep in the openings ahead and to the right. Both had iron bar handles but no locks. Even so, could Shade know how to open them, let alone close either? Impossible. But the arch on the left was doorless.

  Wynn headed through it, finding herself at the bottom of a short flight of stairs. At the top, a narrow passage turned right. Overall, this path headed toward the stage, not away from it. She squeezed the crystal in one hand and spun away, slumping against the dark chamber's side wall.

  "This is pointless," she said. "We should wait for Shade to reappear."

  Chane hung by the room's entrance, watching outside. "What if Mallet misses us?"

  "We'll tell him we were looking around and got lost."

  Chane glanced at her in frustration. "This could be our only chance. How often does a thänæ die?"

  How often indeed?

  "I can't let the duchess see me!"

  Losing track of Shade was her fault. Bit by bit, her continual failures were destroying their chances of ever getting a lead on the texts.

  Chane returned to watching out of the chamber's entrance, leaving Wynn alone in turmoil. Then he snapped his fingers once. She straightened as he gestured outside. Shoving the crystal in her pocket, she drew closer.

  "There," he whispered, "at the tunnel where we first came in."

  Wynn leaned slightly against the arch's other side.

  Shade's head peeked out of the tunnel as she swiveled it, looking around the amphitheater floor.

  "Shade!" Wynn called as softly as she could. "Here!"

  But the dog didn't seem to hear. All the bustle of setting up the wake made too much background noise.

  A sharp, piercing tone made Wynn jump and turn.

  Chane uttered another brief whistle. Wynn turned back in time to see Shade's ears stand up. As Shade looked over, Wynn crouched, waving to the dog around the entrance's side. Shade slunk along the side wall, all the way to the chamber's entrance, and Wynn dropped to her knees in relief.

  "Where have you been?" she demanded, grasping the dog's face.

  Shade's pink tongue flipped quickly out over her nose.

  A barrage of images hit Wynn so suddenly she wavered on her knees. She saw clearly through Shade's eyes.

  At first, she saw the Stonewalkers carrying Hammer-Stag's body through the exit off the stage. Then she saw herself standing on the amphitheater floor, talking to Chane. It was unsettling, as if she'd become disembodied, a spirit of herself watching herself. Then she was moving away, weaving through a forest of stout dwarven legs.

  When she reached the wall, she began examining low drainage openings, but they were too small to crawl into. Even stranger than this experience through Shade's eyes was the strong feeling that accompanied these memories. She could feel Shade's desperation, her need to search.

  Then the floor began to rush past beneath her charcoal-colored paws.

  She headed back for the tunnel through which they'd first entered. Instead of continuing to the outside street, she turned at the first side passage. She trotted in the same direction that the Stonewalkers had traveled upon leaving the stage and suddenly slowed to listen.

  Distant footfalls on stone echoed faintly from down the passage. She quickened her pace to track them.

  She padded down corridors, turning at intersections and creeping down stairs, always listening for heavy booted feet, until finally, she peered around a corner. Wynn could smell earthy, musky sweat and leather, as if her nose were shoved right into it. But the closest people she saw were …

  Halfway down the passage, on the left side, the duchess and her entourage stood near a wide arch in the side wall. Stonewalkers stood beside them, bearing Hammer-Stag's litter.

  Wynn couldn't tell what they waited for, but then she heard metal grinding on stone. When it stopped, the Stonewalkers carried the litte
r through the arch, vanishing from sight. The duchess and her companions remained.

  Wynn found herself watching the back of a tall, white-robed elf. When he turned around with a frown, his slanted almond-shaped eyes searching, she quickly backed around the corner and lost sight of everyone.

  The grinding came again, echoing softly down the passage, but she remained in hiding. Suddenly everything blurred for an instant as she—as Shade—rushed around the corner and down the passage.

  A pair of iron doors were closing deep inside the arch as they slid out from the sides. She caught only a glimpse of Cinder-Shard before the portal clanged shut.

  A blur followed, as if the memory skipped quickly forward in time.

  Wynn felt cold metal against her ear as she leaned her head, her muzzle flattened against the doors. From inside came another sound like metal on stone, but different—rhythmic, and softly pounding, like quick, even steps. It grew louder, closer, and then stopped altogether.

  She heard voices beyond the doors.

  One was higher in pitch than the others. It had to be the duchess. But why had she gone in with the Stonewalkers? She'd paid her respects and left with them, but Wynn assumed that was only to avoid being caught in the crowd. Hadn't she gone her own way?

  Everything went dark.

  The memory ended so quickly that Wynn tottered on her knees. She wrapped her arms around Shade's neck, her thoughts reeling with all that she'd seen and heard.

  News of Hammer-Stag's death couldn't have reached the duchess so quickly in Calm Seatt. So why was a member of the royal family here among the dwarves? How had she known the thänæ, and had she gone with the Stonewalkers, or passed beyond those iron doors along some other route?

  Wynn leaned back, holding Shade's face, and whispered, "Clever girl!"

  "What?" Chane asked.

  "She saw where they went," Wynn answered. "At least the doors they passed through somewhere beyond the stage. If we can get through them, perhaps we can follow their trail."

  She hadn't seen how the iron doors functioned, but maybe Shade had missed something.

  Chane was studying both of them.