Barb Hendee: Through Stone and Sea

And why would an ancient Noble Dead write something in its own fluids and then cover the words with ink? Why not just destroy it, if in afterthought, the content should not be read? And why had Li'kän wanted Wynn to see it?

Turning down the corridor, Wynn pushed aside such questions and forced herself back to the task at hand. Her present peace suddenly felt unnatural, even wrong, amid trying to locate the confiscated texts. And she had very little to go on, only one word overheard in Domin High-Tower's study… .

Hassäg'kreigi … the Stonewalkers.

Two black-clad warrior dwarves had visited the dwarven sage in secret. One, the younger, had called him "brother." By the conversation, both visitors belonged to this unknown group. If she could learn of them, perhaps find this brother through High-Tower's family, she might find a clue to where the texts were hidden. For as much as the wraith had killed for folios of translation work, and had been able to pass through walls at will, why hadn't it simply gone after the original texts? The answer was obvious.

The texts weren't stored on guild grounds.

Apparently, they were always available for a day's work by the chosen few and then removed each night. And two black-clad dwarves had appeared in High-Tower's study, but no one had seen how they came or went. Stonewalkers—that one word—was all Wynn had to work with, and in a dwarven seatt her scholarly training in research was nearly useless.

Dwarven tribes, clans, and families possessed few documents of personal or group value. For the most part, they relied upon their orators—poets, troubadours, keepers of history and tradition—and memory of things deemed worthy to preserve. She would have to practice new methods of seeking.

Wynn found the curving passage around the temple proper, pausing as she reached its outer main arch. The wide and round chamber within was still aglow, sunlight transferred in by the polished steel mirrors in its heights. She craned her head back, staring up at the giant statue with one hand reaching out, palm up in an offering … of what?

Domin Tilswith once told her that Bedzâ'kenge—Feather-Tongue—was the closest thing to a saint of sages the world would ever know. A nice notion, though she wasn't certain how it mattered. Sages were people of reason, not faith.

Shade rumbled, and Wynn found the dog staring the other way.

"Ah, Mallet mentioned we had visitors."

Wynn spun about, coming face-to-face with a female dwarf in an orange vestment.

"Oh … banê ," Wynn greeted her. "Could you direct me to the meal hall? I'm supposed to meet him for supper."

Wynn had read some ludicrous Stravinan folklore in the Farlands. Dwarves—by other terms—were described as gnarly earth dwellers. Some tales claimed it was impossible to tell a female from a male because both wore beards.

What nonsense!

The female shirvêsh looked her up and down, and cocked her head at the sight of a "wolf" standing guard before a small human. She had long, shiny black hair draped down over her vestment's shoulders. Some might not care for the stout structure and wide features of a dwarven woman, but to Wynn's mind this one was perfectly alluring. A bit stern and severe-looking, until her expression broke with a wide grin.

"Follow me," the shirvêsh said. "I am headed there myself."

Wynn fell into step. Only a little way to the front doors they turned into a left-side passage. Loud, cheerful voices booming in Dwarvish echoed off the walls. Before Wynn even stepped inside a long hall, she smelled the aroma of mushrooms sautéed in herbs and butter.

Six shirvêsh were gathered at the nearest table, boisterously filling mugs and chattering away. Two more long tables with wooden benches filled the room on either side, and the one on the right, near a another archway, was laden with platters of mushrooms, spiced lumpy goat cheese, boiled root vegetables, and a little stewed venison.

Wynn realized how hungry she was just as she glanced down to find Shade salivating.

"Young Hygeorht!"

Shirvêsh Mallet rose from a stool at the food table's far end and waved her over. His white beard spread with his smile of welcome, and Wynn hurried toward him, pausing at the late-afternoon repast.

"This all smells wonderful," she said, ladling mushrooms into a wooden bowl and preparing another with venison for Shade.

"Where is your young man?" Mallet asked.

"He is not my … He is still sleeping. I didn't wish to wake him yet."

The shirvêsh grunted as he settled and lifted a small pitcher. Before Wynn could intervene, he poured some steaming brown liquid into a mug, sliding it over as she sat down. She peered hesitantly into the mug, smelling its vapor, and found that it was only heated broth.

"Thank you," she breathed in relief.

At the guild, most sages sipped wine only on special occasions, and tea was Wynn's normal preference. Dwarves often drank beer or ale, sometimes heated, in place of water. They weren't nearly as affected by alcohol as humans and even drank distilled spirits from wood—a beverage deadly to other races. Mallet's gesture was most considerate.

Wynn barely got Shade's bowl on the floor before the dog began snapping up the venison.

The shirvêsh swallowed a mouthful of mushrooms and washed it down with foaming ale.

"Tell me of your project," he asked. "What are you seeking to scribble in your journals?"

Wynn tried not to grimace. She was well acquainted with dwarven opinion of humans always writing everything down. It was common for dwarves to live two hundred years. But in addition, they found sages to be "funny little people" who spent their short lives hoarding tidbits of information, regardless of any practical purpose these served. To a dwarf, gathering more knowledge than one could remember, let alone use, seemed a waste of years. Better to pursue personal excellence or the enrichment of daily life and one's culture.

But for three nights Wynn had been contemplating exactly what she would say in this moment. She had to depend upon dwarven bias to make the old shirvêsh believe her.

"It's a delicate matter," she began, and leaning closer, she lowered her voice. "Our guild's Sumanese branch recently completed biographies of all their domins for their archives. They felt such records would be beneficial examples to future sages. The premin council of our branch decided to follow suit … but it's not seemly for domins to write their own accounts. I've been assigned to research and write the biography of Domin High-Tower."

Shirvêsh Mallet stopped chewing and stared at her. With a great gulp, he appeared to make great effort not to smirk at the absurdity of such a task.

"And so, you have come here," he said with forced seriousness, "where Chlâyard sought his first calling."

It took a moment for realization to set in. Wynn sat dumbstruck and then cleared her own throat.

"Chlâyard—I mean Domin High-Tower—was here … to become a shirvêsh to Bedzâ'kenge?"

Mallet's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Is that not why you came, to seek the tale of his life?"

Recovering quickly, Wynn nodded. "Yes, but journeyors assigned to this project were given no information and simply sent off. The biographies must be unbiased and come from a variety of sources. We are to seek the stories ourselves."

"A'ye! " Mallet barked, slapping his hand firmly on the table. "That, at least, was a wise decision!"

Wynn's guilt welled over lying so easily. More bad skills learned in Leesil's company, no doubt, but she had to continue the ruse.

"I didn't know High-Tower sought to become a shirvêsh."

High-Tower was a private individual. He would be mortified at such information landing upon Wynn's ears.