by Barb Hendee
“Yes . . . and?”
“Stonewalkers came to the amphitheater in Old- Seatt . . . supposedly without being called. Yet as you pointed out, there is no lift up from Sea-Side to Old Seatt.”
Wynn felt some connection emerging but wasn’t certain to what. “The settlements are far apart,” she returned in confusion. “Mallet says no one ever sees Stonewalkers.”
“Do you not see it?” Chane urged. “How do they appear at such distant places without being spotted or using the trams? If they used an access point here, behind these doors, then how did Ore- Locks visit his family? There has to be—”
And they finished together—“another portal at Sea-Side.”
“Perhaps one at each settlement,” Chane added.
Wynn blinked slowly in self-spite. “I should’ve reasoned that myself.”
“This is not our usual scholarly pursuit.” Then he shook his head. “Even if we find another portal, it might be no different from what we have here. No guards, no visible locks or bars . . . and no way through.”
Why did he always do that, make helpful suggestions and then cut them apart? Before Wynn said as much, he rocked back on his heels.
“There is nothing for us here,” he said. “But Sliver’s visitation gives us an invitation.”
“I’ve already considered that.”
She stood up under Chane’s suspicious attention. Another failure tonight, and at another cost—this time Chane’s sword. It might not be the last price to pay.
“To Seaside?” he asked.
“We’ll need our gear from the temple first.”
When she turned about, Shade was already waiting at the passage’s first turn. Wynn was too obsessed to give this any thought.
Again, Sau’ilahk waited outside the amphitheater. He had followed Wynn from the temple and watched as the trio entered, but he went no farther. He did not know the interior’s layout and feared being seen if he simply appeared in the open floor to get his bearings.
Conjuring even one servitor would cost him too much. His energies were so low that the effort might drive him straight into dormancy. He feared losing Wynn, if she found a way through the doors, but keeping his continued existence secret outweighed all other concerns.
If she did not emerge, he would have to wait until the late hours before dawn and attempt to search on his own. He might still track where she had gone. He also needed to feed, to eat life, and doing so here upon the open mountaintop was risky.
Waiting gnawed at him, but being so close to the end of suffering made it impossible to alter his state of mind. As the moon reached its zenith, muted voices grew inside the closest tunnel, and he pulled back between the buildings.
Wynn stepped out of the amphitheater with her companions.
What had she learned? Had she found a path to this “underworld,” whatever or wherever it might be? If so, had she already taken the way and returned? It seemed unlikely.
Sau’ilahk saw no great defeat in Wynn’s face as she paced purposefully down the street. He saw no triumph either. With no one else about this late, he easily shadowed the trio along parallel paths. Again, they took the lift back down, but when they reached Sea-Side’s station, they paused before the mouth of the great market cavern.
Where was Wynn leading them?
After a brief exchange, Chane left, trotting up the street out of sight. Wynn remained with Shade at the far side of the cavern’s entrance.
Sau’ilahk kept his distance beyond the way station. In a short while, Chane returned, bearing three packs. Sau’ilahk suffered a moment of panic.
She was leaving. Had she given up, after all of his efforts to steer her onward?
Wynn turned into the cavern with her companions, and Sau’ilahk’s thoughts went blank for an instant. He drifted closer in a staggered glide between side streets. At this time of night, few people milled about the multitiered market. When he reached the edge of the cavern’s mouth, Wynn was heading for the tunnel to the tram station.
But why?
He blinked through dormancy as he focused upon a memory of the dark tunnel beyond the tram. Awaking there, he waited nerve- racking moments before she reappeared. The trio headed directly for the platform to Sea-Side.
Sau’ilahk backed halfway into the tunnel wall, watching.
It was a while before a tram arrived. The dog held back, curling its lips, as Wynn attempted to drag it on board. Chane tried to assist, and did, if only because the dog wheeled away from him and, by doing so, ended up inside the car. All three were seated, and the lead car’s massive crystal ignited amid belching clouds of steam.
Wynn was going back to Sea-Side.
All this sudden change filled Sau’ilahk with uncertainty. With no time to replenish himself, and too little energy to conjure a servitor to eavesdrop, he had but one choice.
Sau’ilahk followed blindly after the tram as it raced beyond him.
CHAPTER 12
Near dusk the following day, Wynn stood clinging to the sun-crystal staff before the passage to the Iron-Braids’ smithy. Shade sat expectantly nearby while Chane leaned against the wall with his eyes barely open.
They’d arrived in Sea-Side before dawn and procured two rooms at the same inn as their last visit. A decent place close to the station, it was the only one with which they were familiar. They’d slept much of the day, but before retiring, Chane had insisted that Wynn wake him by late afternoon. He believed Sliver would be less trouble if they approached during business hours, and with possible patrons about, she might be less confrontational.
Wynn was dubious about this—and about trying to rouse Chane. He seemed determined to master being awake during daylight while safe beneath the mountain. She’d reluctantly agreed, instructing the innkeeper to knock at Day-Winter in late afternoon.
As she’d anticipated, waking Chane hadn’t been easy. He’d been disoriented from the moment she’d finally dragged him to his feet. Now the three of them stood outside the fifth northbound passage off of Limestone Mainway, and Wynn hesitated.
She couldn’t botch this again, yet her plan might—would—anger Sliver even more in the end. Of course, she could always walk in and say, “Hello, we’re looking for a door to the underworld. Care to show us how your brother gets out?”
Wynn scoffed under breath, and Chane raised his bleary eyes.
“I should’ve let you rest,” she said. “Shade and I can handle this.”
“No. I am . . . better than last time.”
That was a lie, but Wynn couldn’t think of another excuse. So she stepped into the passage.
The smell of fumes and heated metal grew strong before they even neared the smithy. Peering through the open door, Wynn blinked in surprise. Sliver wasn’t alone.
Two male dwarves in char-stained leather aprons pounded upon mule shoes near the open furnace. Each hammer’s clang rose above the bellows’ hoarse breaths and sent scant sparks showering to the floor.
Sliver stood at a rear worktable examining the shorter and wider of two finished blades, both the mottled gray of fine dwarven steel. She looked impressive with her determined expression, thick red braid, and leather apron—a master crafter engrossed in her trade. She scraped her thick thumb across the sword’s edge, testing its keening, and then set it down to inspect its human-proportioned companion.
Wynn cleared her throat. “Umm, hello.”
All three occupants looked over, and Sliver’s eyes widened.
“Could we have a word?” Wynn asked more nervously than she intended.
Sliver appeared both puzzled and stunned. Perhaps she hadn’t expected Wynn to come with news so soon. The smith glanced at the workers before fixing her gaze on Wynn again. Her wide mouth parted.
The workshop’s back door slammed open and banged and shuddered off Sliver’s worktable.
A wrinkled dwarven woman stood in the opening. Wild white hair hung over the shoulders of a long sashless robe and a shift of faded blue. Shuffling out, she grab
bed a worktable to steady herself. Both workers froze, casting wary glances at Sliver.
“Here!” the old woman called, and caught her breath from the effort. “Come, sage . . . you are welcome in my home!”
That crackling, manic voice made Wynn flush with shame. But Sliver’s expression turned vicious. She set down the long sword and moved toward her visitors at a threatening pace.
Wynn tightened her grip on the staff.
Chane and Shade pushed through the door, rounding either side of her. Sliver halted beyond arm’s reach, and with one derisive snort fixed her glare on Chane.
“Spare me your display!” she growled, then turned on Wynn. “Move!”
Sliver backstepped toward the old woman.
Wynn advanced, passing the smith as steadily as she could. Shade and Chane followed closely. The old woman wobbled through the rear door and everyone but the workers followed. As soon as they were all in, Sliver slammed the door shut.
Standing in a small room carved from the mountain’s stone, Wynn spotted openings on either side near its back. Both were curtained with much-mended wool that had once been blue. Years and too many washings had rendered the fabric a pale slate color. A small hearth with a battered iron screen was set in the north wall, and an old maple table filled the room’s center.
Unglazed urns and old iron pots filled scant shelves pegged into the walls. There was no sign of meat or fish, bread or vegetables. Sliver most likely had been too busy to visit a market, and the old woman looked too infirm to do so.
Wynn ceased looking about. Could she possibly feel any worse for how she would use these poor people?
“Here, sage, come and sit,” the old woman urged, pulling out the only chair before she settled on one of three plain stools.
“Mother!” Sliver snapped. “Stop acting like these people are—”
“I’m honored, Mother Iron- Braid,” Wynn cut in, nodding politely as she sat.
Shade circled away from Sliver to settle beside Wynn. The old woman barely glanced at the “wolf.”
Chane cracked the door open, leaving it slightly inward and ajar. Perhaps he thought a lack of privacy would keep Sliver in check.
The old woman took a long breath, and when it rushed back out, her voice shook. “You have news of my son, of Ore-Locks?”
“Why else would she come?” Sliver crossed her arms, watching Wynn. “So, out with it . . . and leave!”
Chane tensed visibly at her tone, locking his nearly colorless eyes on hers.
Wynn was too confused to worry about their mutual hostility.
Sliver had visited the temple demanding that Wynn share all she learned, yet now seemed surprised that she’d come. Obviously the smith didn’t want her here—unlike the mother. But Wynn’s determination faltered at the manic hope in Mother Iron-Braid’s eyes.
She sat there, suddenly uncertain of her scheme.
Chane kept watch on Sliver as much as Wynn, but he did not follow the verbal exchange closely. The smith’s gaze often twitched his way. Sliver seemed less than pleased that he had cracked the door, but anything that kept her off balance was good enough for him.
Through the opening, something more had caught his eye. Something he had already seen once before, but now had all the more reason to notice. Widening his power of sight, Chane peered through the crack.
By the forge’s reddened light, he saw two swords lying on the rear workbench. Both were as plain and unadorned as his own, but these were whole. Beneath their crisp sheen and strange mottling, he spotted not one imperfection—not even a polish-hidden dimple.
The long sword’s end rounded to a point, though the tip was broader than normal. With no fuller or ridge down the blade, it was slightly thin for its kind. He wondered at its weight compared to his own sword. The balance would be different, likely turning closer to the guard. By estimation, an agile fit in the hand, but it looked almost fragile.
If Wynn’s claims held true concerning dwarven steel, Chane would not see its like anywhere but in a seatt. In this particular smithy, it seemed out of place.
Impoverished Sliver had somehow afforded whatever rare materials and processes were needed for that strangely mottled steel. How odd that anyone with such skill had not risen from this low life.
Chane had never coveted a weapon. All his resources, when he had any, went into his intellectual pursuits. But from the instant he had seen that sword in Sliver’s hand, he had wanted it. Even if he had coin, most dwarves did not value precious metals, and how could he barter when he could not estimate its worth? In truth, he had little to trade by way of goods or services. Was the blade even available for purchase, let alone barter?
He worried about what lay ahead, especially for Wynn. Her search for the texts had already put them in dangerous positions, some of which were not overcome by combat. That might not hold for the future. Even if—when—the texts were found, wherever their secrets led would likely be more hazardous, not less.
Keeping Wynn safe meant acquiring every advantage. A broken sword was a still sword—but not like the one he now fixated upon.
“I have no news,” Wynn finally said, steeling herself for the next tactic. “But if you help me, I might get a message to Ore- Locks . . . something to make him come.”
“More lies!” Sliver snarled. “Peddling false hopes for your own gain!”
“Mind your ways, daughter,” the mother warned. “She is a sage, likely sent by your brother High-Tower.”
“Mother, please,” Sliver returned. “High- Tower could have come himself after so many years. But he did not. This conniving scribbler is not here because of him . . . or your prayers to the Eternals. Your sons are gone . . . Ore-Locks will never return!”
Startled, Wynn caught the strange twitch of Sliver’s eye. The smith’s final declaration seemed to have escaped on its own. Perhaps she now regretted it.
Sliver’s denouncement of High-Tower clearly pained her, as if she wished at least one brother might come home. But not the other. Did Sliver believe Ore-Locks would never return—or did she wish it so?
Mother Iron-Braid didn’t even look up.
“Your daughter is correct in one thing,” Wynn said. “Domin High-Tower didn’t send me.”
The old woman’s features sagged. If faith could’ve crumbled in a wrinkled old face, it began to crack right before Wynn’s eyes. Guilt left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She was so lost regarding what drove Sliver. And by truth or ploy, she was doing damage here in that ignorance. Her only choice was to fumble along the middle ground between the two.
“In Ore-Locks’s past visits,” Wynn began, “did either of you see by what path—or where he went when he left?”
“If I knew that,” Sliver grumbled, “I would have gone my—”
“At the Off- Breach Market,” Mother Iron- Braid cut in, “on the second level, down the Breach Mainway.”
Sliver choked.
Chane shuddered, nearly convulsed.
The beast with hands inside of him suddenly rose in wary agitation. Chane pulled his gaze from the sword to look upon Sliver’s stunned face.
The smith’s eyes were so wide that the whites showed all around her black pupils. Sliver’s claim still hung in Chane’s mind.
If I knew that . . .
It was a lie—or half of one. She knew something concerning her brother’s whereabouts. Again, the warning of deceit had hit Chane when he was not paying attention.
“I believe he came from there,” the old woman went on. “I followed my son when he left but lost him near a clothier’s booth . . . and a cobbler’s stall, if they are still in the same place. I could not keep up, and he was gone.”
“When was this?” Sliver demanded, and then swallowed hard, faking composure though her eye twitched.
“Years back, before he stopped coming at all,” the mother answered. “You were busy . . . always busy.”
“I was seeing to our needs,” the daughter returned, “unlike you
r sons.”
Mother Iron-Braid raised her eyes. “Then see to them now!”
Sliver jabbed a finger at Wynn, and shouted, “She is using you—you are nothing but bait to her! Ore-Locks’s calling keeps him now!”
Chane cocked his head. At mention of Ore-Locks’s status among the Stonewalkers, a flicker of revulsion rolled across the smith’s face. It was revealing but puzzling.
“Why would he come to this sage, if not to us?” Sliver asked disdainfully.
Why indeed? Chane wondered. Why had Ore- Locks stopped visiting his family?
Chane fixed on the smith, trying to sense the truth—or the lack of it.
Wynn wished she understood.
Sliver stood shocked at her mother’s claim of following Ore- Locks, yet Sliver had come to the temple demanding that Wynn share all she learned. Perhaps Sliver had never intended anything to reach her mother’s ears. Was it Sliver, and not Mother Iron- Braid, who wanted to know all that Wynn found out? And again, why?
“Do not spit in the face of the Eternals!” Mother Iron-Braid chided her daughter. “They answered my prayers, regardless of your fallen faith! Never speak of Ore-Locks in that way again.”
“Mother, stop—”
“Your brother . . . both your brothers, sacrificed all to serve a high calling, each to his own. You will take this sage to the market. She will find Ore-Locks . . . because the Eternals wish it so!”
The old woman’s large, bony hand fell on Wynn’s tiny one, clasping it tightly.
“Tell Ore- Locks to come home,” she whispered, her voice quavering as tears welled. “Tell him I . . . we need to see his face once more. Tell him. It is so little to ask.”
Wynn wanted to pull away, and not because her hand hurt under that grip. The very ploy she planned to use to lure Ore-Locks had just spilled from Mother Iron- Braid’s lips. What better way to drive a son home than with the heartbroken desperation of a mother?
“I will,” Wynn answered. “No matter if it gains me . . . or not.”
“Show them, daughter!” the mother ordered, like a matriarch rather than a frantic old woman.