Barb Hendee - Through Stone and Sea

They passed the stairs' midpoint and circled at least halfway around the outer wall. The chamber was indeed round, though only a third as wide as it was tall. Indistinct forms took shape below, standing around the lower floor. Something in the floor's center caught the light of Wynn's crystal.

Chane felt Wynn's hand upon his shoulder.

"I've seen this place," she whispered.

"When? How?"

"Shade saw it in Ore Locks's memories."

She pushed past him, scurrying downward, and Chane hurried to keep up. Before he reached the bottom, the erect forms already looked like mute representations of standing figures. But Chane focused on that shining disk in the floor's center.

The large plate of ruddy metal, perhaps polished brass, was at least three or four strides across. There were markings upon it. Shade stepped off the last stair and began circling the floor, but Wynn went straight for the closest tall form.

"Wait!" Chane ordered.

She stopped short, an arm's length from one strangely shaped, upright black … casket. At least, that was what it looked like. Drawing closer, he saw that it more resembled a stout form of iron maiden, a torturous execution device he had only read of.

Dull black, perhaps basalt, it was slightly taller but far broader than Wynn—even greater than the breadth of a male dwarf. Narrowing slightly at its base upon the floor, its bulk widened upward, until …

Chane's gaze came to where the plain figure narrowed into the dull, domed representation of its "head." The raised shape of a riveted band was carved out of the stone, wrapping around at jaw level. Two like bands ran around its "body" at shoulder and thigh height. But he saw no seams along its sides.

It was carved whole from one solid piece. And between the two lower bands around its bulk was a vertical oblong shape of raised stone covered in engraved characters.

Chane peered around the chamber.

Seven basalt forms—trapped and bound in place—faced inward toward the floor's central disk. But between two on the far side he spotted another opening in the chamber's wall. He glanced up, barely making out the landing above. The opening was directly below it.

Then Shade rumbled.

Chane was not the only one who did not like the feel of this place. The dog paced around the chamber, remaining equally far away from the tombs and the floor disk.

"Wynn?" he said uncertainly.

When she did not answer, he turned back. Wynn was about to touch the oblong of engraved characters on a tomb.

"No!" he said. "The floor disk first."

It was the only thing he could think of to stop her. She frowned at him and headed for the floor's center.

Chane backed up, still eyeing the mute black shapes. When he spun about, Wynn had crouched at the disk's edge, holding her crystal above it.

It was made of brass, though Chane saw no sign of tarnish. Someone must clean and polish it regularly. Not truly a circle, the octagon's sides were slightly curved outward, causing that mistaken impression. Inside each edge was an emblem like a complex sigil. In the center was a depression, akin to a high-edged bowl sunken into and melded with the disk. One larger pattern rested in its bottom.

"Arhniká … Mukvadân … Bedzâ'kenge …" Wynn whispered.

With each strange word, she pointed to a symbol around the outer circumference.

"These are vubrí for dwarven Eternals," she added in puzzlement. "Eight of the Bäynæ."

Chane knew little of dwarven saints beside Bedzâ'kenge—Feather-Tongue.

Wynn flattened her hands upon the disk and leaned out to look into the center depression. Before Chane could jerk her back, she lurched away.

"Lhärgnæ!" she whispered.

"What?"

Wynn scrambled to her feet, turning unsteadily as she looked to all of the basalt figures. She darted around the chamber, examining each oblong panel, finally stopping at one tomb.

"Sundaks!" she exclaimed.

"What are you reading?"

"Avarice … one of the Lhärgnæ," she answered. "Oh, dead deities! They've locked us in with their Fallen Ones!"

"What does that mean?"

"Their devils, their demons … cursed ones! Those who represent vice—and worse—by dwarven culture."

"So, religious representations?"

"No," Wynn answered. "They were once real, at least as much as the Eternals, though their names were stripped away. They bear only titles, chosen for their singular disgrace."

"These are not true tombs," Chane countered. "They do not open. There are no bodies here."

"Then why bother? Why the disk in the floor? Is that something of the magic discipline … conjury perhaps?"

Chane looked again at the great brass disk.

Mages did not call upon deities—or saints—in their arts. Formal religions were more widely spread in this part of the world than in his. Most peasants of the Farlands clung to superstitions of nature spirits and dark influences. Some practiced forms of ancestor worship.

He knew of priests—and others—who claimed to be gifted by higher powers. They had their grand ceremonies and contrivances to dazzle the ignorant.

"Some priest's supposed ward against the damned," he replied. "It is nothing more than trappings to appease the masses … to control them through their fears."

He was about to expound further when Wynn rounded on him. "Do the Stonewalkers look like a pack of charlatans to you?"

"You are a scholar," he answered. "Do not believe in this."

"Then why did you hesitate when we first entered the temple of Bedzâ'kenge?"

Chane was struck mute.

"Yes, I figured it out," she said. "You were afraid of entering a sacred space. We both know there are things beyond reason we never wanted to believe, and still …"

Chane looked about the chamber. She was alluding to theurgy, the supposed gain or use of power from higher spiritual forces. That was only more priestly aggrandizing—was it not?

His skin began to crawl, aggravating his nagging hunger. Had he finally stepped into a true sacred space? Was this a prison for a people who believed their ancestors, saintly or otherwise, resided in this world and not some separate realm of the afterlife?

Chane strode past Wynn to the chamber's only opening. It was too dark to see into the space beyond, until light grew behind him. Wynn approached with her crystal and its light filled a small round chamber.

One lone fake tomb of basalt stood at the back. Why was this one kept apart from the others?

Chane backed up—until he bumped into Wynn and pivoted.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked.

"Besides being locked up?"

"Yes."

He could not meet her eyes or give her the answer. "I will check the wall for any more openings, as well as back along the stairs and landing."

Chane walked away, heading along the wall behind the silent basalt forms. He was not about to tell her of his hunger. They both had enough fears for the moment, and he would not add to hers concerning himself.

But they had to escape this place, soon.

Wynn watched Chane walk away and couldn't stop worrying about his colorless eyes. She'd never seen them this way for so long. Something was wrong with him—more than just this disturbing place. But she couldn't force him to tell her.

She stepped into the small chamber, wondering why this one tomb was kept isolated. And a phrase or two surfaced from the back of her mind.

Chârmun, agh'alhtahk so. A'lhän am leagad chionns'gnajh.

She remembered Chuillyon's whisper.

Chârmun, grace this place. Fill me with your absolute nature.

What did it mean? Why had he whispered of the tree called Sanctuary at the heart of First Glade, and as if it might answer … his prayer?

Wynn hadn't forgotten Magiere's revelations from wallowing in the memories of Most Aged Father. Aside from hearing mention of the fall of Bäalâle Seatt, Magiere had relived far more through the decrepit leader of the Anmaglâhk.