Through Stone and Sea ndst-2

by Barb Hendee

  Shade curled her jowls, sneering at their captors, but she didn't try to leave. Or rather she dropped to her haunches, planting herself dead center in the archway. Shade licked her nose at Cinder-Shard.

  Wynn stepped out to face the master Stonewalker.

  "I'll send your packs and sword," she called to Chane, not taking her eyes off Cinder-Shard, "before I go anywhere else."

  Cinder-Shard scowled at the insinuation. "Leave the staff. It cannot be taken where we go."

  "I do not remember agreeing to return it!" Chuillyon sniped from somewhere behind Wynn.

  "This is my agreement," Cinder-Shard growled.

  Wynn heard the tall elf muttering as he pushed past her. When she glanced back, Chane held the staff, its crystal sheathed once more. She would've preferred to take it, but leaving it with him was the next best thing. At least their packs, weapons, and her companions would all be in the same place.

  Cinder-Shard turned down the passage, but Ore-Locks stood waiting. Wynn didn't move. She wasn't having him at her back. With a derisive grunt, he headed off and she followed, Reine and Chuillyon falling in behind her.

  When they reached the main cavern, Reine sent Wynn's dagger, Chane's packs, and his sword back with a female Stonewalker named Balsam. Reine then left, perhaps to look in on her husband.

  Why had the Stonewalkers hidden the prince here? Had he gone mad, his death faked to hide the truth? If so, then why had they chosen a lie that so obviously implicated Reine?

  Wynn had watched the prince sink beneath the pool. The people of the sea had done likewise in the tunnel. The chamber had filled with dull clicks and melodic tones rising from the water.

  It seemed like he'd spoken with them.

  "Take only what you need," Cinder-Shard said.

  Wynn started from the distraction. He was holding out her pack, and again she wondered exactly where she was being taken. She dug out her elven quill and a wax-sealed vial of fresh ink. Though she rummaged to the pack's bottom, all of her journals, even a new blank one, were soaked. Wynn took the one from her day in the catacombs, with her notes from the translations. She looked up, prepared to ask for spare paper or parchment.

  Cinder-Shard was staring at her hands.

  "Where did you get that?" he demanded.

  She looked down at the quill with its white metal tip. "A gift, during my travels among the elves of the eastern continent."

  "So that is how you breached the tunnel," he growled.

  She didn't understand what he meant, but she had more immediate concerns.

  "I need paper or parchment," she said. "Something for notes."

  Cinder-Shard sighed. "Chuillyon … is there anything of use in the prince's quarters?"

  "No need," the elf answered, and began digging in his robe's deep pockets.

  He pulled out a small multifold of paper stitched into a makeshift pamphlet slightly bigger than his palm. Chuillyon leafed through it, tore out two "pages" of markings, and handed over the remainder.

  "Will this do?" he asked.

  Wynn took it without answering. It wasn't much to write on, perhaps four sheets' worth of space all totaled. If she had to, she could write in her journal, hoping the ink didn't run too much.

  Then her fear and excitement began to build again over what was to come. Not since the day she'd returned home had she held the texts themselves. Would she find the answers she needed?

  Cinder-Shard was about to set her pack near the main passage's opening.

  "Send it back with the rest," she said.

  Irritation amplified the crags of his features.

  "I will see to it," Chuillyon interceded.

  "No!" Wynn snapped. She could just see him digging through her possessions and more of her journals vanishing.

  "There is no one else," Cinder-Shard stated flatly. "Or would you rather leave it here?"

  Wynn clenched her jaw. "Fine!"

  Chuillyon offered an annoyed raise of one eyebrow as he took the pack and headed off. Cinder-Shard turned across the cavern, and Wynn followed.

  Ore-Locks suddenly caught up, stepping in beside her. She had to force herself not to shrink away. The wraith wasn't the only minion here of some forgotten abomination, and she kept her eyes on Cinder-Shard's broad back.

  The first time she'd seen these two was in the doorway of High-Tower's office. Did they share a bond beyond their calling, something deeper, fouler than with the others of their caste? No doubt Cinder-Shard knew what had brought Ore-Locks to "service," so was the master Stonewalker as corrupt as the outcast of the Iron-Braids?

  "He is my mentor," Ore-Locks said. "He has taught me from my earliest days."

  Wynn said nothing to this. Cinder-Shard didn't glance back, though he must have heard.

  Ore-Locks's declaration only heightened Wynn's suspicion of his mentor. She'd become blindly entangled in unfolding events and couldn't abandon her path. In that moment, she almost wished she hadn't taken on this shadowy purpose—to halt the wraith, to learn the texts' secrets, to know for certain if the fears of Most Aged Father and others were true.

  Was the Ancient Enemy returning soon? It appeared that its servants were already on the move. Cinder-Shard halted and turned to face her.

  "We enter a place kept safe," he declared in warning. "You will swear never to speak of what you see … nor scribble about it."

  Steel streaks in his black hair glinted like fire strands by the light of the walls' orange crystals.

  Wynn flushed with fresh anger and swallowed hard. She was sick of this, always shackled by truth itself against the integrity she'd once thought the guild stood for.

  "Agreed," she finally answered.

  "Swear it … by your honor to the sages!"

  His demand went against the very thing he expected her to swear by.

  Truth through Knowledge … Knowledge through Understanding … Understanding through Truth … Wisdom's Eternal Cycle.

  But how many times since she'd returned had she lied, manipulated, held what she knew like a tool, a weapon, or a chain upon others? Oh, she could always claim a reason to uncover what others refused to acknowledge and to save them from themselves. But even that seemed a hollow excuse sometimes.

  Was she even a sage in anything more than title?

  Yet there were still a few who'd put their faith in her, from Domin il'Sänke and perhaps Tärpodious, to young Nikolas Columsarn and others. Even High-Tower in his bitter way.

  "I swear by the creed of my guild," she answered.

  Cinder-Shard led the way into a new cavern. Wynn breathed in, held it as she followed—and then exhaled and scowled.

  It was just another cavern. No orange crystals lit the space. By only the far wall's glimmer, she walked a wide, cleared path between calcified, shadowy columns. Here and there, thickened protrusions rose between those. Then she caught a looming shape in the corner of her sight.

  Wynn sidestepped in reflex, glancing as she walked on.

  A hulking stalagmite rose from the cavern floor, thick and fat all the way up to head-high. Its top joined the narrower end of a descending stalactite, but that faintly glistening bulk was too big to have formed from just drizzling, mineral-laden water. Some boulder or outcrop had once stood there, now buried beneath decades of buildup.

  Cinder-Shard veered off the path, directly into the forest of columns.

  Wynn stepped carefully, for the floor was rough and the way narrow and erratic at times. Ore-Locks fell back behind her. As Cinder-Shard made a sudden turn around a thickened protrusion, Wynn's boot toe caught on something in the dark.

  As she toppled sidelong, her shoulder struck another broad outcrop. When she recoiled, finally regaining her footing, she squinted at the dark shape. For an instant, it looked too much like a rough mockery of a Lhärgnæ's false tomb.

  Wynn's jaw locked, and the closer she looked, the more every muscle tensed. There was a resemblance.

  At the top of the wide protrusion, it narrowed over rounded "sho
ulders" to the bulk of a "head" melding into the tip of a descending stalactite. Wynn shoved her hand into her pocket, digging for her crystal.

  "No!" Ore-Locks said—and his thick fingers closed on her wrist.

  Wynn spun toward him and lurched back, bumping straight into the calcified dark form.

  "Get your hand off me!"

  Ore-Locks's grip remained, and she hadn't managed to grasp her cold lamp crystal. Cinder-Shard loomed into sight beside her.

  "Do not bring light in here!"

  Wynn barely made out his scowl in the dark. Ore-Locks slowly released his grip and held up both open hands.

  "Do not disturb their rest," he added.

  Wynn glanced frantically between them and then into the dark forest of glistening columns. She spotted at least six more protrusions nearby but couldn't see farther, not even back to the path they'd left. Her gaze fell on one hulk half-hidden beyond a stalagmite's upward spike.

  Pale phosphorescence illuminated its features.

  The female's eyes were perhaps open, though there was no way to be certain. Even her clothing was nothing more than ripples of calcification. She gripped something in her hands, long, narrow, and slightly slanted. Beneath clumped mineral deposits coating its whole length, it could have been a thick staff. The buildup had turned her hands into lumps where they held it.

  Wynn saw other dark shapes about the cavern's silent stillness. Comprehension lessened her tension but didn't bring ease.

  She was standing among the dead.

  Was this what it meant to be taken into stone? No coffins or even tombs, the Hassäg'kreigi entombed their honored dead in stone itself. Left here for years, decades, perhaps more, they would become one with the earth and stone their people cherished. But the number of them was disturbing at a guess.

  In the rush when she was locked away in the Chamber of the Fallen, she'd passed too quickly through at least two other such places. Wynn turned all the way around, a wild notion rising in her thoughts.

  "Is Feather-Tongue here?" she breathed, about to backtrack and search.

  Ore-Locks blocked her way.

  "Bedzâ'kenge is in his temple," he answered. "As are all Bäynæ who live on among us."

  Wynn's eyes narrowed. That was impossible, though she now knew she wouldn't find Feather-Tongue's remains here, Dhredze was the only known seatt still in existence, but likely not as old as the mythical war. By the tales of Feather-Tongue's life, he'd lived at a time when there were others, perhaps back beyond the war and into the Forgotten History. This left her wondering about the great statues of the Bäynæ in their temples.

  Did those statues truly hold the bones of the Thänæ who'd become the dwarves' Eternals? Or was Ore-Locks's claim just a spiritual metaphor?

  Wynn looked once more among the honored dead slowly turning to stone through the ages. She wished she hadn't sworn to keep all of this to herself.

  Cinder-Shard pulled her onward, and then stopped before the cavern's back wall. It was so dark that she couldn't be certain, but there didn't appear to be any door or opening. Was it hidden, like the one the duchess had used to come here?

  Cinder-Shard turned to her. "You have audacity. Do you also have courage?"

  She didn't know what he meant, but she answered, "Yes."

  Cinder-Shard held out his hand. "Take it."

  Wynn did so with slight hesitation—then panicked as she realized what would happen. She had seen Cinder-Shard force the wraith into the wall, perhaps trying to entomb it in stone. He knew what had called to Ore-Locks and had still taken the man in. And she had blindly gone alone with both of them.

  It would be so easy to be rid of her. No one would ever know what became of her.

  Cinder-Shard's face sank into the damp wall.

  Wynn stopped breathing as the texture of glittering rock spread down his hair and across his back. She tried to jerk free but was dragged toward the wall. A sharp voice rose behind her.

  "Do not breathe!" Ore-Locks warned. "Not until you hear him speak to you!"

  Wynn sucked in a breath and her world went black and cold.

  Chane hung near the archway behind Shade. Like her, he kept watch down the empty passage. He did not like sitting idle, feeling useless and incapable. He was so drained that he could not stop the beast's hungry mewling within himself.

  Though he had given his word to remain until Wynn's return, a promise to enemies meant nothing. There were too many tangles, hidden alliances, and secrets in this place, and all seemed to grow more complex with each night spent in this dwarven seatt. Ore-Locks seemed to genuinely believe his own denial of Wynn's accusation—that he was intricately connected to a long-dead mass murderer. And Chane was anxious that she had gone off with Ore-Locks and his master.

  He waited, trying to be patient … not to worry … and to push down the hunger.

  He was failing at all three.

  No one came down the passage, but he could not tell if anyone waited in the cavern at its end, the only exit along the path. He almost slipped out to inch down the way when a stout dwarf in black stepped through the passage's far end.

  A female Stonewalker approached carrying two packs, but she paused partway as someone else called out. The tall elf in white came in behind her and handed off a third pack. Then he turned back to vanish out the end. When the Stonewalker reached the archway, she held out all three packs with one hand—and his sword and Wynn's dagger in the other.

  Chane took them, offering no thanks. Then she pulled a bag off her shoulder, dropped it, and left without a word. She never looked back.

  He set the packs next to the staff leaning inside the archway and strapped on his sword. Opening the bag, he found a water skin, a loaf of bread, some jerky, and a wooden mug within it. He took out some jerky, poured a mug of water, and brought them to Shade.

  "Here," he said, kneeling down.

  She did not growl at him and lapped the water briefly. He set the jerky on the floor and moved away. Shade snapped it up, barely chewing, and returned to her vigil.

  He could not help but admire her patience. She had thrown herself at the wraith more than once, always protecting Wynn without hesitation. She had found the shore entrance to the underworld when he could not continue the search.

  Shade was a better companion than most Chane had known.

  "She will come back," he said.

  Shade's ears twitched, but that was all.

  He hoped Wynn would return with some answers, perhaps even concerning the scroll. In her absence, he hoped Shade might grow more used to his presence. Natural enemies or not, they were stuck with each other in a common purpose. But even that had become too complicated, from the elf's indiscernible lies, to the master Stonewalker's seeming acceptance of Ore-Locks … and the madman hidden away in the pool's locked chamber.

  Worst of all, the wraith still existed. It had gained the underworld before raising any alarm or awareness—even his own.

  Chane looked down at Welstiel's ring of nothing on his finger. He had worn it so long, so often, he sometimes forgot it was there. It was necessary, or had been. But if he had not been wearing it when they had entered this place …

  Even Shade had not sensed the wraith until too late. Chane had not sensed it at all, not while wearing the ring. The wraith would come back, and he needed to know when, if not where.

  Chane gripped the ring with his other hand. "Shade?"

  She twisted her head up and back, looking at him. He showed her what he was about to do, but she merely returned to her vigil. In one swift movement, Chane pulled the ring off.

  For an instant, the world rippled like the surface of a disturbed pond. His senses sharpened slightly as his awareness expanded, free of the ring's influence.

  Chane smelled—felt—Shade's life and the brief twinge of someone else beyond the passage's end. Then it was gone, though the beast within Chane lunged to the end of its bonds.

  Shade remained silent though Chane thought he saw her hackles pric
kle.

  Between them, he hoped one would know if—when—the wraith returned.

  Chane slid down the archway's side to settle beside the packs and the staff. Hunger kept eating at him, as if it turned upon him with nothing else to sate it. He closed his eyes, thinking of anything else… .

  Of Stonewalkers … and their secrets …

  Of white-clad, false elven sages … and their secrets …

  Of beings of the sea and a prince believed dead.

  There were moments he wished none of this had begun. It would have been so much better to slip into the guild library for the brief part of any night with Wynn, even if he spent his days hiding in some hovel. But what he had seen could not be ignored, even as he felt himself drifting at the dark edge of dormancy.

  A dead prince of this foreign land appeared to have spoken to people of the sea that Chane could never have imagined. Among other puzzles, that one lingered upon him now. What did it mean? It seemed a very desperate secret, dangerous enough that the duchess might yet kill for it.

  Chane found himself standing among the guild library's shelves.

  He tried to pick a first book to pull out. He knew there was one he needed to find, but could not think of what it was. When he turned to ask Wynn's advice, he was looking at the pool through the bars of the sea tunnel's last gate. Face-to-face, he stared at a man soaked to the skin, who reached through those bars.

  A dream … and even within it, he wondered why.

  Dormancy held no dreams for the dead. But a few times before, they had come to him.

  He heard something that made him turn, waist-deep in the tunnel's freezing water. But Wynn was not there, nor was Shade. The long darkness behind him, filling the tunnel to its round walls, seemed to twist … like black coils with soft glints of light.

  Crushing cold … suffocation … pure darkness that brought utter silence …

  Wynn felt stone's chill over her whole body and couldn't move. The pressure threatened to grind her into nothing as the heat in her flesh rapidly leached out.