Barb Hendee: Through Stone and Sea

Wynn hurried upward with Shade, but Chane followed more slowly.

"Don't worry," Wynn assured him. "I'll have you inside in a moment."

The panicked edge in her voice was less than reassuring.

A heavy oblong arc of polished brass hung between the columns like a gateway. Suspended from the roof's front by intricate harnesses of leather, its open ends dangled a shin's length above the landing's floor. It was so tall he could have walked through and not touched its top with an upstretched hand.

Chane climbed closer and noticed its metal was formed from a hollowed tube and not a solid bar. Wynn grabbed a short brass rod from a bracket on one column as Chane looked through the strange gateway to the shadowed front doors.

The emblem of a tablet was carved into the white marble and would split down the middle when the doors opened. Harsh-stroked characters were chiseled inside the tablet's shape as if it held some ancient epitaph or edict. Or was it a warning?

Chane took the last step onto the landing's edge with sudden reluctance.

Was this a true holy place?

He had heard the tales—undead could not enter a sanctified space. There were many such superstitions concerning his kind. Some were true, such as sunlight, the essence of garlic, and fire. Others turned out to be false. He had uncovered a few of those in frightening, accidental ways.

"What's wrong?" Wynn asked.

She was watching him, as if aware he feared more than just the sun. How could he explain if she did not already know? He shook his head at her. With nowhere to hide, and no way to distinguish this truth, Chane stood trapped between sacred ground and the coming dawn.

"You are certain this is the place?" he rasped.

She didn't answer and instead struck the rod hard against the great brass arc.

Chane's whole body clenched as a baritone clang assaulted his ears. Wynn struck twice more, and the sound vibrated inside him, sharpening the prickling sting growing upon his skin. The tones rolled along the street like an orator booming for attention.

"Someone should be up," she said, but too much nervousness leaked into her voice.

The brass arc's tones died, and Chane was uncertain what to hope.

What would happen when—if—he stepped across the threshold? Would he burn as in fire; would that be what the sun did to him if he did not cross over? Or would he merely drop dead beyond the threshold like a corpse finally lifeless?

One door began to open without even the grating of metal hinges.

Wynn sighed audibly, and a solid, white-haired dwarf leaned out of the opening.

He studied the trio upon the landing, his face rather flat and wrinkled, like a half-dried grape. Wavy hair flowed down and broke over his wide shoulders, becoming one with his thick beard, though no mustache sprouted below his broad nose. He was dressed in brown breeches and typical heavy dwarven boots, his muslin shirt overlaid with a hip-long felt vestment of fiery burnt orange.

Not typical attire for any clergy that Chane had ever seen.

At the sight of Wynn's robe, the dwarf's eyes widened a little. Before he spoke, Wynn grabbed Chane's sleeve.

"May we enter?" she asked quickly.

At her anxious tone, the old dwarf stepped aside, raising an ushering hand toward the interior. Shade trotted ahead as Wynn pulled on Chane, but Chane jerked free at the last instant.

He would not have her touching him when … if something happened.

Wynn looked up, startled and frightened, cocking her head toward the door as she sidled through it. When he crept to the threshold, he forced his eyes to remain open but quickly lowered them, watching only his dragging feet until …

His left boot toe slid from the landing's granite onto a tiled mosaic floor.

Chane faltered. He stepped onward, waiting for … something, until a dull thump echoed all around. He stopped and looked up when the door closed. The first thing he saw was Shade sitting before him on the tile floor. She was watching him, her unnatural blue eyes slightly narrowed.

Shade could sense any undead but him. While he wore the arcane "ring of nothing," it blocked his nature and presence from all unnatural awareness beyond normal senses. Shade had no idea of his true nature, though she made her dislike plain enough.

She finally huffed and began padding about the entry room.

"What is the matter with you?" Wynn whispered, and Chane flinched.

He stood inside a temple, and nothing had happened to him.

"Thank you, Shirvêsh Mallet," Wynn said to the old dwarf. "We just arrived, and winter mornings are far too cold up here. It's so good to see you again."

The old dwarf—this shirvêsh—squinted. He had recognized her robe but not her. Eye-to-eye with short Wynn, he fixed upon her face. One bushy eyebrow crept upward until his eyes widened again.

"Little Apprentice Hygeorht?" he said in perfect Numanese.

"Of course! You remember me?"

"Remember?" The old one snorted.

Shirvêsh Mallet grabbed Wynn's shoulders in his bear-paw hands.

Chane was so shaken by entering unharmed that he was taken by surprise. The dwarf could have tossed her about like an empty robe. But she never even teetered as the shirvêsh leaned in and kissed her cheek.

"My hair may be white, but my mind has not turned to ash," he said. "And I warrant it is sharper than yours … with your obsessive need to write everything down!"

Chane frowned, uncertain what the last comment meant.

Wynn cleared her throat, or perhaps choked down a giggle, as if the old one's words were a common welcome. She pulled a folded tan paper from her pocket and held it out.

"I'm a journeyor now, here on assignment. Domin High-Tower sent this for you."

The shirvêsh took the paper, unfolding it as Wynn gestured to Chane. "This young scholar is Chane Andraso."

"A bit of a tall, pale one," the dwarf muttered, not looking up from the letter. "Perhaps not from around here?"

"From the Farlands, on the eastern continent," Wynn quickly explained. "He'll be assisting my research. And that's Shade."

Shade's ears pricked at her name.

"Can you spare two rooms?" Wynn asked. "I don't know how long we're staying."

All this familiarity left Chane further out of place. One did not walk into a temple and request rooms for an indefinite period. Yet here he stood in a sacred place, not quite believing he did so. And Wynn carried on as if she and the old one had stumbled upon each other at some public house. It was too casual … too presumptive.

The shirvêsh finished the letter and folded it up.

"Yes, yes, you need not ask," he returned. "Any from the guild are welcome, and it is good to hear from Chlâyard … I mean High-Tower, as you would say … though that pup could have written more than once in a decade!"

Chane had seen High-Tower, and the elder domin was certainly no puppy. How old was this shirvêsh?

"Have you eaten?" Mallet asked. "We are preparing breakfast. By the Eternals, what drove you to our doors before dawn?"

The two prattled on as if sudden visitors requesting what amounted to charity were commonplace. Chane had been born into a minor noble family in a world where no one made unannounced visits. Since rising as a Noble Dead, he had paid or fought for the smallest comfort or refuge.

"I think we're too tired to eat," Wynn said, hefting her pack again. "Could we just join you for dinner? We've been traveling all night."

"By night?" The old dwarf blinked hard. "Now I am curious about such a rush along the bay road. And with a foreigner from … where did you say?"

"Belaski," Chane rasped.

Shirvêsh Mallet nodded, giving Chane's maimed voice no notice, and ushered Wynn onward.

"Let us be off, child, and find you rooms."

The two led the way toward the open arch across from the doors, and Chane's attention wandered around the surroundings.