Barb Hendee - Through Stone and Sea

Most Aged Father, once called Sorhkafâré—Light upon the Grass—had been alive during the time of the mythical war. As a commander of an allied army, he'd fled with straggling remainders of his forces before a horde of undead slaughtering everything in the night. They'd rested each day and run in the dark, being picked off all the way to First Glade. Less than half of them reached that place, where they discovered that no undead was able to follow.

Wynn had always known of First Glade and its great tree, Chârmun. Few people that she knew had ever traveled to see it. She certainly hadn't … yet. No one ever realized that it had been there since the time of the Forgotten History itself, always present; neither the Lhoin'na nor their branch of sages had ever mentioned this.

It didn't seem possible that they didn't know that First Glade had existed before the war. And this elf with the duchess, dressed like a sage in a robe of no order's colors, had whispered the name of the tree called Sanctuary.

And its name, which had always been known, took on a greater meaning by what Magiere had told her.

Wynn pushed such mysteries away as she faced the lone tomb in the small chamber. She wasn't certain she truly wanted to know more of this place, but she couldn't ignore an opportunity to fathom the ways of the Stonewalkers. Not if she had to work through them, and the duchess, to get to what she needed.

She raised her crystal close to the figure's oblong panel and traced its markings with her finger. It was an epitaph of sorts, but not the kind placed on the marker of a loved one or ancestor. She struggled to decipher archaic patterns constructed entirely in round dwarven vubrí .

… outcast of stone … deceiver of honored dead … ender of heritage … the seatt-killer …

The last one almost stopped her cold, and then she reached the bottom and a final vubrí . All of the others she'd worked out made it easier to decipher.

Thallûhearag.

As with the tomb of Sundaks—Avarice—and the others, the title was written at the bottom, not the top, as was customary in almost any culture. It was the same term she'd first overheard spoken in High-Tower's chamber, when Cinder-Shard and Ore-Locks had visited and then vanished. All that Wynn had read in the epitaph's archaic Dwarvish clarified the meaning of that title.

She jerked her finger from the cold black stone, wiping it down her tunic.

Thallûhearag—Lord of Slaughter.

Dwarves used that final term differently than in other culture's languages. It referred to killing the defenseless versus carnage or execution of food animals. She tried to understand the few earlier phrases.

"Outcast of stone" could mean an outcast of the dwarven people. "Deceiver of the honored dead" implied deceased thänæ, and perhaps even their caretakers, the Stonewalkers. "Ender of heritage" was too obscure, but "seatt-killer …"

Something horrible had happened at Bäalâle Seatt during the war.

Wynn backed up one step. "Lord of slaughter …" she whispered, "… seatt-killer …"

She suddenly felt as if she were being watched.

Wynn looked to the tomb's faceless dome of a head, which was visually gagged by its raised carving of a riveted band. Everyone in that forgotten seatt, including enemy forces, had been "lost," though no one knew how or why. She realized her first translation of epitaph's final symbol lacked the true meaning, for "heritage" was everything to the dwarves.

"Thallûhearag …" she whispered, "lord of genocide!"

Shade began to snarl from behind. Before Wynn could turn, the tomb's shadow moved upon the wall.

"His true name was Byûnduní … Deep-Root."

Wynn slid back a step at the baritone voice seeming to rise from the black stone. A thick hand entered the crystal's light from behind it and settled upon the tomb's shoulder. Shade lunged in around Wynn with a snap of jaws, her hackles stiffened.

Ore-Locks stepped from the shadows, his hand sliding down the tomb of Thallûhearag.

How did he know a name for this mass murderer? The names of the Fallen Ones were washed away by time. How he had gotten in here unseen, or had he simply slipped through stone, like his brethren?

Ore-Locks raised his eyes to the tomb's head, as if he saw more than that mute form's representation. He placed both hands flat upon its oval plate, as if trying to blot out the epitaph. Melancholy in his broad features quickly turned into cold resentment.

He glanced sidelong at her, the same way the duchess had in the dangerous moment in the prince's hidden pool chamber.

Wynn's head churned with frightened notions all wrapped around this dwarf who'd been her only lead to the Stonewalkers.

"He does not belong here!" Ore-Locks whispered.

Her breaths quickened until she grew light-headed. His siblings had renounced him for his spiritual pursuit. Sliver's revulsion drove her to keep the source of his calling from their mother. And in High-Tower's study, the domin's venom for his brother had been visceral in his voice.

"What do you know?" he demanded. "What did you find in those cursed texts? Where do his bones lie … where is Bäalâle Seatt?"

A forgotten ancestor, obscured from oral tradition, had called Ore-Locks. But it wasn't a Bäynæ or any forebearer of his people as a whole. It was one in a direct bloodline that the Iron-Braids couldn't bear to acknowledge once Ore-Locks had tried to force it upon them.

She looked at his hand, pressed firmly upon that tomb of the lord of genocide—Thallûhearag.

Wynn ran out of the small chamber's entrance, screaming, "Chane!"

Chane was halfway up the stairs, feeling along the wall, when Wynn called his name.

The beast within him threw itself against the limits of its chains. His hunger broke free amid fear for her safety. His senses widened as he took the stairs three at a time for a few downward strides.

Chane lunged off the edge into midair. His legs buckled as he landed; he was only half-aware that he crouched upon the floor's brass seal as Wynn rushed out of the opening between the tombs.

Her crystal's light flooded the space, burning Chane's sight for an instant. Shade bolted out next, snarling. The sound heated Chane's frenzy.

Something moved in the dark opening. Bits of it glinted in the crystal's light.

Chane rushed in, grabbing Wynn's shoulder. As he jerked her behind himself, the drive to hunt became tangled with his need to protect her. Something had entered this place—something he might kill and feed upon. Then he heard Wynn gasp.

Chane whipped his head around and went rigid.

The cold lamp crystal lay on the chamber floor.

Wynn stared at him, eyes wide with shock, as she gripped her shoulder. Torn bits of felt from her tunic stuck out around her small fingers. A thin scent of blood began to permeate the chamber's stale air.

Chane choked on a surge of hunger. It burned cold in his throat, and he heard Shade snarl directly behind him.

"Shade, come!" Wynn called.

He shuddered so hard, clenching both hands against the spasm, and backstepped away from Wynn. He shook his head and mouthed, No , over and over, but when his lips silently parted, Wynn flinched.

Chane clamped his mouth shut, hiding the change in his teeth.

The barest creases formed on Wynn's brow over her narrowing eyes. There it was again—that fear in her face, backed by wary anger. The same as on the night she had seen him emerge from a scribe shop's window behind the wraith.

"Wynn …" he rasped, but did not know what else to say.

Shade circled wide around him, taking a position in his way, as Wynn crouched to retrieve her crystal.

Chane gazed into its light, causing pain in his widening sight. He wished it would sear him.