by Barb Hendee
Shade whined, a pitiful sound, full of uncertainty.
“You didn’t know,” Wynn whispered. “You didn’t know you could do that . . . with me, did you?”
“What is going on here?” someone demanded.
The sharp tone made Wynn jerk upright where she sat.
Shirvêsh Mallet stood over her, his hands on his hips.
“This solemn occasion is not the place for such behavior!” he growled, and his outrage turned on Chane. “Your presence is a privileged consideration. Do not take it lightly!”
Wynn cringed, searching for a plausible lie to explain all this away, but Chane cut in.
“What about he-air-va?” he asked Mallet. “What ‘slaughter’ were you talking about?”
Mallet went slack-jawed and backed up a step.
“Chane, watch your manners!” Wynn warned. She’d been so overwhelmed by Shade that she’d forgotten what Chane had somehow overheard.
“My apology,” Chane said, though his civility sounded forced.
Mallet was still stunned speechless, but the shock in his expression quickly vanished.
“I see no need to answer to a thief!” he snarled, “who steals words not given to him.”
Wynn quickly got up. Mallet’s choice of words implied something worse than eavesdropping, considering he was an elder monk of a poet Eternal in a culture of oral tradition.
“Please, shirvêsh,” she pleaded. “There’s no time for formality. What happened in the shattered passage? How did Hammer-Stag die?”
Mallet turned renewed astonishment on Wynn. The obvious unspoken question was how did she know that? But there was no time to cover up her blunder.
“It could be very important,” she said. “We need to know.”
The old shirvêsh eyed her as if he had indeed caught a thief in his temple.
“Nothing is certain,” he finally answered, “only that a vicious battle took place. Passersby found him and alerted the local clan guard. No one knew what to make of what they found. His ax lay just beyond his hand and . . . and as you said, the passage was shattered all around him. Yet no blood . . . as if not one of his blows had struck true on his opponent, and there were no wounds on him. He was just . . . pale, eyes still open . . . as if his heart gave out in an instant and all blood drained from his face.”
Wynn grew colder with every word that Mallet uttered. Hammer-Stag was renowned as a warrior. In that narrow tunnel that Shade had shown her, how could he not have struck his attacker even once?
A thunderous beat echoed about the amphitheater. Any low sounds among those present died instantly. Four more beats of an unseen drum echoed around the high curved walls, and Mallet spun about.
His eyes roamed the stage and then fixed as she heard him inhale. Wynn forgot everything as her gaze followed his.
From out of the far square opening upon the platform came six dwarves, all dressed in black and dark gray. The drum kept on, its thunder matched to their steps. Wynn barely caught that two of them were women, dressed exactly like the men, before she focused entirely on their leader.
Black, steel-streaked hair framed an old face with a broad nose over a mouth rimmed by a cropped and bristling steely beard. Like all the others, he wore char-gray breeches and a shirt beneath a hauberk of oily black leather scales that glinted strangely. In the low light, it took a moment to make out those sparks. Polished steel fixtures covered the tips of each scale upon his armor.
Wynn had seen him once before in the doorway of Domin High-Tower’s study. As much as his attire, she remembered that face, that bearing. If Death personified stepped into the path of this one, the grim dwarf would walk right through him without acknowledgment. Or Death would scurry out of the way.
Wynn stared at the Stonewalkers as their elder paced straight to the litter upon the stone block. The amphitheater’s silence was so complete that she heard every grind of his heavy boots upon stone. He stopped directly behind the head of Hammer-Stag’s draped corpse. The five remaining Stonewalkers took places around the litter, two to either side and one at his feet. The last caught Wynn’s full attention.
His red hair was unmistakable . . . the one she’d overheard High- Tower call “brother.”
It was Ore-Locks.
Wynn took one furtive glance toward Sliver in the stands.
The smith was on her feet. She leaned hard upon the stone rail, but without eagerness in her face. Her expression twisted over and over, as if she might weep in pain, but then instantly hardened in resentment at the sight of Ore-Locks.
Wynn understood why Sliver had come tonight—to hopefully catch a glimpse of one long-lost brother. But Wynn didn’t know why hate rather than love shone upon Sliver’s face.
A roaring voice like cracking stone jerked Wynn’s gaze to the stage.
“Who brings this one to wait upon us?” called the eldest of the Stonewalkers.
“Stálghlên—Pure-Steel—brings him,” answered a white-clad shirvêsh.
There was hesitation in his voice, as if Hammer-Stag’s fate remained uncertain.
“Then he comes by virtue of championship?” asked the eldest stonewalker.
“Most certainly Fiáh’our—Hammer-Stag—was this and more,” the monk answered.
Another long silence left Wynn fearful that something had gone wrong. A shout rose from the silver-streaked elder of the Stonewalkers.
“An honored thänæ!”
The entire amphitheater erupted in shouts and cries, and the crowd’s noise pounded in Wynn’s ears. It was so loud she could almost feel it upon her skin. Warriors upon the floor before the stage unsheathed weapons, raising them in the air. Every dwarf in the place was on his or her feet, chanting that Hammer-Stag was to be taken “into stone.”
Chane’s hissing voice rose close to Wynn’s ear.
“We should slip out amid the distraction,” he insisted. “We must find out how they got in before they take the corpse. This may be our only chance to catch them.”
Wynn came to her senses. She was here for a reason, but how could she just slip away? What would Mallet say when he discovered his guests were gone? She hadn’t thought through her hopes for this night, but High-Tower’s brother was right here. She couldn’t miss the chance of getting to him.
The elder stonewalker abruptly jerked off the gray cloth, and his comrades instantly tilted the litter up. Shouts for Hammer-Stag’s acceptance turned into an incomprehensible roar.
Wynn’s gasp was drowned in the cacophony.
Hammer-Stag’s body stood carefully dressed and groomed, his armor oiled and polished. The sides of his hair were braided, the two tendrils bound at the ends by tight rings of dark metal. His arms were folded and bound across, clutching his great ax against his chest. But Wynn stared only at his face and hands.
They were ashen—almost gray beyond the mottled undertones of his people.
His features weren’t twisted as in the memory Shade had passed. But whatever attempt had been made to relax them in final repose hadn’t fully succeeded.
Hammer-Stag was as sallow as the victim of a Noble Dead.
Wynn looked up at Chane. He too stared at the dead thänæ.
A few others on the floor nearest the stage exchanged disturbed glances. Those in the stands were too far off to notice. The roar in the amphitheater continued as Wynn struggled to get hold of herself.
She grasped Chane’s sleeve.
“Say nothing!” he insisted, but his eyes flickered in rapid thought.
The Stonewalkers lowered the litter and re- covered Hammer-Stag with the shimmering cloth. They jointly hoisted the litter upon their shoulders as their elder turned toward the stage’s far exit.
“We must catch up with them,” Chane whispered, and grasped Wynn’s hand.
She half turned, following him, and then spotted a small group entering the amphitheater.
Duchess Reine Faunier-reskynna swept out of the dark tunnel onto the flagstones. A trio of the weardas surrounded her,
followed by the white-robed elf so often seen at her side. Everyone standing near the tunnel’s mouth quickly stepped aside for the entourage.
“Valhachkasej’â!” Wynn cursed, and pulled out of Chane’s hold.
She grabbed the back of his cloak, jerking him halfway around as she ducked in behind him. Then she had to grab him again to keep him from turning around on her.
“Don’t move!” she whispered, and peeked cautiously around his side.
Dressed in high riding boots and a dark sea green cloak, Duchess Reine had thrown back her hood. Thick chestnut hair was pinned up with twin combs of mother-of-pearl, shaped like foaming ocean waves. Neither she nor any of her companions broke stride as they drove straight through the crowd.
What was a member of Malourné’s royal family doing here?
“Master Cinder-Shard,” the duchess called out. “Please wait.”
And the leader of the Stonewalkers paused.
Wynn’s mixed fears faded for an instant. The duchess had called the dark elder by a given name.
Duchess Reine had done everything possible to turn aside investigation into the murders surrounding the guild’s translation project. In acting for the royal family, as well the domins and premins of the sages, she’d also tried within the law to keep the texts out of Wynn’s reach. She could very well do so again, if she saw Wynn here.
Wynn leaned out a little farther, trying to see without being noticed behind Chane’s tall form. The duchess had never seen Chane or Shade, and Wynn didn’t wish to be spotted, not until she understood what was happening.
As the duchess’s entourage reached the nearest steps, Reine walked lightly up onto the stage. The other Stonewalkers lowered the litter at her approach. She paused briefly before Cinder-Shard with a respectful bow of her head.
Duchess Reine peeled back the shimmering cloth and looked down upon Hammer-Stag’s face.
Wynn couldn’t see her expression, but it seemed the duchess froze for a long moment. Then she pulled off one glove and placed her bare hand upon the thänæ’s—gripping the ax. She didn’t look up as Cinder-Shard drew near, though she nodded.
Reine’s hand slipped off of Hammer-Stag’s. As she pulled the cloth back over his body, the stonewalkers hoisted Hammer-Stag again. The duchess, the white-clad elf, and all three Weardas followed as the Stonewalkers carried the litter toward the far exit at the stage’s rear.
Shade’s whine startled Wynn in the silence.
The dog watched her with questioning blue eyes, as if sensing Wynn’s uncertainty. Wynn dropped to her knees. Touching heads with Shade, Wynn passed every memory she could summon of the duchess back in Calm Seatt. Hopefully Shade would understand some part of why Wynn had to keep out of sight. As she finished, Chane lowered his head, glancing down at her.
“We have to go . . . now!” he whispered.
“I can’t,” she whispered back, rising behind him.
What could she do? The Stonewalkers were leaving, and Ore-Locks with them, but Duchess Reine was in their company. Until she parted ways with the Stonewalkers, Wynn couldn’t risk being seen.
One of the white-vested shirvêsh on the stage held up both hands.
“Hammer-Stag is taken into stone,” he called. “The bones of our world will be strengthened by him.”
Everyone in the amphitheater became still. Many bowed their heads with closed eyes.
Chane mimicked this, yet looked at Wynn in obvious urgency.
“I can’t be seen by the duchess,” she whispered.
“Then we keep back until she leaves,” he answered. “But we will lose all of them if we do not go now!”
It was a terrible option, but for as little as Wynn had uncovered so far, she could see no other choice. She finally nodded, ready to send Shade ahead of them. Shade would be far better at sensing whether they got too close, yet still be able to track the Stonewalkers.
Wynn turned carefully about, her fingers still cinched tightly into Chane’s cloak. But when she reached down with her other hand . . .
Shade was gone.
CHAPTER 9
Duchess Reine Faunier-reskynna followed Master Cinder-Shard out of the stage’s far exit. The passage widened enough for three, and Chuillyon and Captain Tristan stepped in beside her. Her other two Weardas guards, Danyel and Saln, came last, followed by five Stonewalkers bearing Hammer-Stag’s remains.
No one spoke, and Reine kept her eyes on Cinder-Shard’s large boots.
The official claim was that Hammer-Stag’s heart had failed from strain, but other rumors had reached Reine at her inn in Sea-Side. Few details were forthcoming, and gossip and speculation varied too much. She inquired at a local clan’s constabulary post but learned no more—other than that three more unexplained deaths—a Suman, and later two Northlanders—had been discovered less than a day before the thänæ’s body was found.
This, as much as paying respects to an old savior, drove Reine to the final public ceremony. Now she dared not look back at the litter. Even so, she couldn’t stop seeing Hammer-Stag’s face in her mind—as he was now and when they’d last met, years ago.
Her husband had gone missing in a small sailing craft.
Hammer-Stag and two of his clan had brought Freädherich safely home. At that time, the thänæ’s face had the mottled gray undertones of his people. Though venerable by human standards, he was of good age for a dwarf. He had strength and a spark of presence that could goad anyone out of worry and fear. When he sat with her and the royal family, assuring them that all was well with the young prince, his exaggeration still brought them momentary respite.
As the procession took another turn, Reine spotted a deep and broad arch halfway down the next passage’s left wall. When they approached, she found wide double doors of iron set more than a yard deep. There was no latch or lock, no visible way to open them. Only a smooth seam showed where they separated. She looked about the archway for any mechanisms, and her attention caught briefly on the surrounding framing stones.
The vubrí of the five tribes and twenty- seven clans were engraved there. When she came to that of the Meerschaum clan, she turned to stare at Hammer-Stag’s cloth-draped corpse.
When she’d stopped upon the stage, he’d looked ashen in death, and much too old. She couldn’t be certain what it meant, not even after the deaths of the sages so recent in memory. A chill crept up her spine.
“Are you cold, my lady?” Chuillyon asked.
Reine looked up at his feathery eyebrows drawn together beneath his lined forehead.
“No,” she whispered and closed her eyes.
She slipped back to one night, farther back than Hammer-Stag’s kindness or even the first of her husband’s disappearances, back to a happier time. It was a place in memory she often went that still connected her to a life of pretense and a reason for bearing loss.
The first time Reine met Freädherich—Frey—had been on her first visit to Calm Seatt, some seven years past. . . .
King Jacqui Amornon Faunier—or rather Uncle Jac—had been invited for another royal visit to Malourné. He was told to bring whomever he pleased among his family.
Reine’s own parents had passed on long ago, and she’d inherited the duchy. It had never sat well with her. The weight of her station frustrated her, as did nobles sniffing about, circling in upon the unwed niece of a king. Uncle Jac hadn’t once pressured her about this.
He politely dealt with all suitors, for any engagement to her had to be approved by him, and he would never consent unless she did. He handled Faunier’s noble houses with great care whenever one sent a son, brother, or nephew seeking a royal alliance by marriage. Some were not so bad, but Reine had grown tired of being a desired acquisition.
And so, Uncle Jac insisted that his favorite niece—his only niece—join him on this visit with their nation’s staunch ally. His wife, Evonné, would remain to oversee affairs of state, so he needed good feminine company, someone only half as wild as his two sons.
Reine
didn’t mind, nor was she fooled by his excuse. Uncle always had her happiness at heart, and she did love the freedom to be abroad at will. It was the way of the Faunier, horse people by ancestry.
She loved her homeland, especially the eastern granite steppes, where she could stand upon high stone ledges and look back across her native land. But a more distant excursion would take her beyond the reach of suitors, if only for a short while. She readily agreed to accompany her uncle for a chance to visit Calm Seatt.
The splendid city didn’t disappoint her, and she couldn’t help finding the third castle of the reskynna a marvel. However, upon meeting the royals of Malourné, Reine felt distinctly out of place.
They were too tall, too pale, too blond, seeming to float in a detached somber serenity rather than walk naturally upon the earth. They made her welcome enough, but even in their reserved hospitality, there was something not quite right in their aquamarine eyes.
Reine especially noted this on the first night.
A grand banquet was held in her uncle’s honor. Along with him and her two cousins, Edelard and Felisien, Reine entered a lavish hall on one upper floor of the third castle. Three Weardas in red tabards stood to either side of the open white doors. And within the long and tall chamber, scores of people in evening regalia gathered in clusters.
They sipped from crystal goblets and polished pewter tankards while waiting to go down to dinner. The place was filled with the humming buzz of their low chatter—and a strange light.
Reine looked up to high iron chandeliers, three in all, along the domed roof. Each bore a host of oil- fed lanterns, their flames caged inside perfect glass balls in varied tints. They reminded her of fishermen’s floats she’d seen on a brief pass near the city’s northern piers.
King Leofwin of Malourné and his wife Queen Muriel Witon, disengaged from two serious-faced men Reine would later know as Baron dweard Twynam and his son, Jason. The monarchs came straight for her uncle, ushering him off after friendly greetings passed between the families.
“There he is!” Edelard declared, pointing, and Felisien leaned over to look along his brother’s arm. “Come on . . . I’ll introduce you.”