Barb Hendee - Through Stone and Sea

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 grabbed 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."