by Barb Hendee
But not as much as they once had—not since the night the Children had walked out of Beloved’s sanctuary, naked and pale under the full moon.
Later, their victims in battle rose from the corpse-strewn sands, at least the few still whole enough to do so. The bows to Sau’ilahk from even Beloved’s lowest among the horde were no longer as deep as they had once been.
He ignored them all as he climbed upward through the darkness. Beloved had called amid his dreams. His reward was finally at hand.
At the cavernous entrance, pairs of locatha stood to either side beneath burning braziers upon pike- high poles. Covered in thick scales of muted olive green, except for their ocher underbellies of banded plates, they rose from all fours to full height on their hind legs. Each gripped a spear with a haft thick as a man’s wrist and a head like a Numan broadsword. Their clear eyelids slowly nictitated over black orb eyes. They lowered their long heads with jaws of serrated teeth.
Sau’ilahk did not crane his neck to look up at them. That they stood in his presence was another reminder of how things had changed since the Children’s appearance. Those pale, blood-gorging, undying ones took his glory and had replaced him in Beloved’s prime affection.
That would change this night, as he stepped into the mountain.
He paced through seemingly endless tunnels, always downward. He wandered into the deep, where even sparse braziers along the rough walls thinned and were soon gone altogether. There was only darkness as he stepped purposefully through the sanctuary of his god.
To be called here, after so long since his plea, was a good sign. Though others had come here over the years, some called and some not, only he had ever returned. . . .
Except for the Children.
Finally he reached a chasm, guessing the distance of its near edge by the changing sound of his footfalls’ echoes. Uncertain whether he should raise a light, defiling this sacred place, he could not see how else to go on.
Sau’ilahk raised his hand and filled his mind’s eye with scintillating glyphs and sigils. A spark ignited in the air, and he quickly dulled its sharp white to amber, hoping this would be less offensive.
He stood upon the chasm’s lip, but its depth was beyond the reach of his conjured light. It did not go straight down but twisted with broken sides, as if torn open ages ago by something immense that ripped wide the bowels of the earth. Above was the same, a great gash that rose into the peak somewhere high above. Across the chasm on the other side, he saw another wound in the mountain’s stone.
It was so large a dozen pachyderms could have fit through it.
But there was no bridge to that other side, and that far hollow was so deep his sparse light could not penetrate its pitch-black. Then he heard the grating sound.
Soft at first, it grew, until he feared the great gash beyond his boot’s toe might widen.
Something moved in the far cavern, shifting on broken stone. He thought he saw the darkness within it glitter, perhaps conjured light catching upon something smooth and writhing.
Sau’ilahk dropped to his knees, bowing until his forehead touched the chasm’s edge.
“My Beloved,” he whispered. “I come as you bade me.”
A grating hiss rolled from the far gash, echoing off raw stone.
Are you worthy?
He heard the words only within his thoughts, but they were as breathy as the noise surrounding him. He lifted his head but kept his eyes down.
Worthy of what? Of his hope, his desire?
“Yes, my divine sovereign,” he whispered, but doubt made him tremble. “Always, I serve. Do you have . . . Have I given . . . cause to doubt it?”
He could not help but raise his eyes a little more. He saw only a still and silent darkness across the chasm.
Not as yet.
Sau’ilahk quickly lowered his gaze. It fell upon his own slender, tan fingers, so perfectly shaped like his face, but vanity meant nothing to his patron. Such a small deviance could not be judged a transgression. At times, he could not help reveling in his own beauty. Along with the fear he inspired, all looked upon him with awe. But he quaked, knowing that beauty would fade—unlike the Children, eternal and undying.
I am pleased . . . perhaps enough to answer your prayers.
Sau’ilahk wanted one thing—to never end, to forever see awe in the eyes of all who looked upon him.
“Eternal life, my Beloved?” he dared ask again.
Are you so certain of your heart’s desire?
Sau’ilahk faltered.
The Children were mere tools of bloodshed, powerful, useful, but only because Beloved had made them so. They had not labored as Sau’ilahk had in service and devotion, given with no expectation, until now. Yet they were treasured and favored—gifted by his god. Was it so much to ask that he be allowed to continue, devoted as he was?
Then just as you have wished . . . so it is.
Sau’ilahk grew anxious, and barely lifted his head, waiting . . . for something.
Perhaps he expected to feel . . . anything . . . different. But he felt the same as he had an instant before. Yet his god had spoken, granting him the one and only boon he had ever asked for.
Was it that simple now, after waiting so long, suffocating in want?
Joy crept in like a hesitant child wondering if its parent were truly pleased. Just a little, and then it filled him fully. To think he would be alive and beautiful forever, and he dared to raise his head ever higher. He straightened fully upon his knees as he whispered.
“My love is eternal as well . . . my Beloved.”
He meant those words, even as utter relief made him suddenly weary—even as he stiffened when he saw the eyes.
On the chasm’s far side, two pinpricks of light appeared. From a distance, they were no larger than latent sparks in a dying fire. The pair drifted downward like eyes lodged in the head of some figure walking toward the far cavern’s edge.
Sau’ilahk was awestruck.
He looked upon the barest hint of his god’s presence. Such blessing had never been given to any that he knew. He began weeping, not realizing it until the salt of tears seeped between his lips.
Sau’ilahk had been granted eternal life.
His beauty would never fade.
Sau’ilahk recoiled from the memory as he sank toward true dormancy. On the edge of his fading awareness, the familiar hiss rose again in his mind.
I watch . . . as you draw nearer . . . the answer almost within your grasp.
Despite centuries that had melded love to hate within his devotion, whenever Beloved called, Sau’ilahk could not help but answer. As he vanished into dormancy, to a place between life and death in the dreamland of his god, he whispered . . .
“Yes . . . my Beloved.”
Wynn followed Chane into the temple’s entryway, planning to drag him away into privacy as soon as it seemed polite. She knew she’d better force him to promise not to go back to the amphitheater tonight—or he’d just get himself caught. But she made it only a few steps inside when a young shirvêsh trundled up the hallway.
“Journeyor Hygeorht,” he said quickly, “a visitor is asking for you.”
Wynn stalled in confusion. She couldn’t guess who’d come looking for her here.
“Who is it?” she asked.
The young one shook his head. “She will speak only to you.”
“She?” Chane asked, but the acolyte just shrugged.
“How long has she been waiting?” Wynn added.
“Not long,” he answered. “She is in the meal hall, when you are ready.”
With a curt bow, he left. Wynn exchanged puzzled glances with Chane and then turned to Mallet.
“Thank you for letting us join you this evening. Please excuse us, so I can see who has come.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Off with you.”
The old dwarf looked exhausted, the wrinkles of his face deepening. In part, that was best. Wynn didn’t want to counter any more questions about
how she and Chane had overheard him in the amphitheater.
Wynn hurried on with Shade and Chane. Had someone come from the guild, perhaps Premin Sykion or another as equally opposed to her pursuits? She couldn’t imagine the duchess had tracked her down. But when she reached the meal hall’s entrance, she stopped, hand still on the framing stones. The woman waiting was the last she whom Wynn could’ve expected.
Sliver sat at one long table.
Grim and dark as the last time, she had her arms folded tightly. She barely turned her head at Wynn’s appearance and glared in silence. Wynn wasn’t even sure what to say, though Shade growled softly as she inched into the hall.
Wynn grabbed the dog’s tail, halting her, though Chane stepped in as well and stood there, tense and watchful. Wynn brushed him back as she approached her visitor.
“My apology for the other night,” she blurted out. “To learn your home’s location, I had to trade stories in a cheag’anâkst. And . . . with all the ale, I wasn’t myself.”
“Save your excuses,” Sliver growled, and looked away, staring at the tabletop. “I am here at my mother’s insistence. I will have words with you . . . alone!”
“Your mother sent you?”
Sliver said nothing more, but she cast a challenging glare at Chane.
“I have some fine mint tea in my room,” Wynn told him. “Would you please get it for us? And send for hot water.”
Chane’s jaw twitched. “No.”
“Please,” she whispered. “I’ll be all right.”
“Then Shade stays,” he said loudly enough for Sliver to hear.
“I care nothing about a wolf,” Sliver returned disdainfully.
Wynn glanced back. There were moments when she kept forgetting the way other people saw Shade, rather than as the intelligent creature she was.
Chane pursed his lips and left.
Wynn sighed once in relief before returning to Sliver. Shade immediately inched in behind her, watching them both.
“He’ll be back with some tea,” Wynn said.
“I will not be here that long. My mother wishes to know why you seek my brother.”
Wynn settled on the bench across from the smith. Looking into Sliver’s angry, pain-filled face, she gave up on any further polite conversation.
“That is a guild matter. But it is important.”
“Have you learned anything for your guild?” Sliver snarled.
“I mean him no harm. But you would know a good deal more about him than I.”
“I do not.”
Wynn fell silent at that. It raised questions she wasn’t sure were safe to ask.
“No one does,” Sliver finally said, her voice turning weak and tired. “The Hassäg’kreigi are little known to anyone. When one of our people joins them . . . is called to their service . . . all other ties are broken.”
Wynn shook her head. “I don’t understand. Heritage is everything here. Even your Eternals are considered ‘ancestors’ to your people as a whole.”
“And that is where their devotion lies! Nothing else means more to them. Do you not know that the honored dead, such as Hammer-Stag, are where we get our . . . Bäynæ?”
The last word made her mouth twist like a vile taste.
“I’ve heard this,” Wynn answered, “but I don’t fully understand how it comes to pass.”
“Then you are not alone, Numan,” Sliver spit. “No one does.”
She looked about the meal hall, and the skin around her eyes crinkled. The smith almost fidgeted and shuddered, as if this temple—any temple—were a vile place. And Wynn began to understand just a little.
Sliver had lost one of two wayward brothers to a secret order little known to her own kind, one entrenched in dwarven mysteries. To Sliver, Ore-Locks had chosen their spiritual patrons over devotion to his own flesh and blood.
“My father passed over,” Sliver continued. “For a while, Ore- Locks felt duty-bound to visit my mother . . . to do what he might. Even that fell beneath his devotions. He stopped coming at all, years ago. And . . . as you know . . . High-Tower left his own, his people, to live with your kind.”
Wynn struggled to listen beneath Sliver’s bitter words, to see the pictures Sliver painted.
Her mother would be elderly if her father had already died, yet Sliver was young for her kind; strange, since dwarves didn’t usually bear children late in life. Both her brothers had abandoned the family to seek their own paths, leaving her to support their aging mother in the poorest depths of Sea-Side.
More reason for bitterness.
“What do you want from me?” Wynn asked bluntly. It seemed the only way to get anywhere with the daughter of the Iron-Braids.
Sliver’s mouth twisted several times, until she spit out the words.
“My mother clings to foolish hope! She goes to temple, any she can reach, and prays for word of her eldest son. Then she heard you, the night you came!”
Wynn flinched, already fearful of where this was headed.
“She thinks the Eternals have answered her by sending you,” Sliver accused. “You know one of her sons . . . and now you come seeking the other. She requests that you share anything you learn, for pity’s sake.”
One word Sliver had spoken stuck in Wynn’s head.
“Eldest?” she repeated in surprise. “But Ore- Locks looks much younger than High-Tower.”
Sliver was silent for a few breaths. She planted her wide hands upon the table, leaning forward.
“You will share all you learn of my brother . . . with me,” Sliver whispered. “That is not a request!”
Wynn couldn’t help leaning back under Sliver’s glare. Shade began to rumble, the sound increasing to a growl, but the smith never glanced away. Wynn reached down to wave Shade closer.
None of this was helpful and only complicated finding the texts. But if managed carefully, Sliver’s reluctant need might still be useful.
“Of course,” Wynn answered as calmly and coldly as she could. “Tell your mother I would be honored to help her.”
Sliver didn’t even acknowledge the words. She rose instantly and headed for the meal hall’s main entrance. She was gone before Shade finally quieted. Wynn’s hand shook as she settled it upon Shade’s back.
Sliver clearly clung to the last of her pride, as the last of her remaining family was coming apart. Asking, demanding help from some interloper—and a noisy scribbler of words, no less—was a final humiliation.
Wynn could barely imagine what Sliver’s life must be like.
Dwarven marriages were often arranged by the families and clans, based on benefits either the bride or groom might provide. Yes, there was love, and it was considered, but if at odds with what was best, it was sacrificed. If the Iron-Braids were part of a clan, its leaders had clearly forgotten Sliver.
She had no one to speak for her, no family name of honor to offer, and no father or siblings with skills or community influence her clan might value. She possessed only a small smithy in a depressed underside and an elderly mother clinging to faith.
The more Wynn thought on this, the more depression overwhelmed fear and frustration. But she had to push aside sympathy.
Chane returned, carrying a pot of hot water, two mugs, and her small tin of mint tea leaves. He hesitated in the entrance and scanned the room once.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Gone.”
“What did she want?”
“Information—about her brother.”
“Information . . . from us?” he scoffed.
Wynn didn’t find the irony humorous.
“Should I fix you some tea?” Chane asked.
Wynn sighed. “No . . . no, thank you.”
Something terrible was coming. She was certain of this from all she had seen and learned in company with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap—and afterward with Shade and Chane. There were larger issues at stake—the world might well be at stake. If she had to manipulate Sliver, she would.
It w
as an ugly thought.
Uglier still was a ploy forming in her mind.
CHAPTER 11
The following night, Chane led the way into the amphitheater and waited as Wynn warmed up her cold lamp crystal. The empty stands surrounded them as they faced the stage.
The cavernous amphitheater looked different tonight—ancient, stark, and silent. Not one brazier burned beside any of the upper great doors. It was startling to see the vast place so quiet and deserted compared to the crowd at Hammer-Stag’s final wake.
“We should hurry,” Chane said, glancing down at Shade.
Wynn crouched, cupping Shade’s muzzle in her free hand. A blink of stillness passed before Shade wheeled and headed back into the tunnel. Wynn rose, holding out her glowing crystal, and took off after the dog.
Chane followed, watching Wynn’s hair, bound back in a tail, swish gently across her slender back as she trotted.
They turned into a side passage midway down the tunnel, following twists and turns, stairs and ramps of stone, almost too many to remember. But Shade never faltered. As another corridor veered slightly right, ending at a corner, Wynn slowed as the dog pressed on.
“I saw this in the Shade’s memories,” she said. “We’ll come to a sharp left, and then another slighter one.” Her oval face was filled with anticipation. “Do you have the scroll?”
“Of course,” he answered.
She scurried after Shade, and Chane kept up easily on his longer legs. Desire for the missing texts pushed Wynn, perhaps too much. But this was the first true, if tenuous, lead they had gained in getting anywhere near these Stonewalkers.
“From what you described,” he said, “I do not know if we can get through the doors.”
“We’ll get through,” she answered flatly. “Leesil never let a door stop him. Neither will I.”
Mention of her old companion raised quick resentment in Chane. Whenever she spoke of either Magiere or Leesil, he wondered if she would have preferred them here in his place.
Shade took a left, picked up the pace, and then veered down a slant. As she reached another corner, she slowed and huffed softly. Wynn bolted down the slope to the dog.