Through Stone and Sea

Chapter 21

Upon the landing, Wynn watched Cinder-Shard and Ore-Locks walk straight through the iron door. An instant later, its first outer panel began grinding open and another realization struck: Cinder-Shard had simply entered by walking through stone—or iron, as it were. Anything of the earth must submit to their passage. But that didn't explain the duchess's and Chuillyon's presence with the doors closed.

The innermost door slid away, and Cinder-Shard stood blocking the archway. He looked first at Chane.

"You and the wolf remain here until she finishes," he ordered. "I will leave the archway open if you swear to stay unless called."

Wynn glanced nervously at Chane.

His irises still lacked any trace of brown. Her shoulder was only scratched beneath the tears in her tunic, but she understood why he'd accidentally injured her. His hunger had returned, and it was growing. How many days had passed since she'd procured the goat's blood for him?

Worse, he swayed slightly, blinking slowly as he glared at Cinder-Shard. Was dawn approaching outside the mountain?

"It's all right," she told him. "I'm in no danger at present … you rest."

She thought he might argue, but he merely answered, "Remember what I told you."

The comment lost her at first. All he'd said to her since the duchess's arrival was one word—Lie. Then she understood, careful not to glance at Chuillyon, but getting Shade to wait as well was another matter.

The instant Wynn said, "Stay," Shade snarled. Wynn grabbed the dog's face, hoping no one asked what she was doing. She recalled memories of the long day in the guild's catacombs, when she'd first gained the codex and translations. She hoped Shade understood what she was going to do. She finished by saying, "Stay with Chane."

Shade curled her jowls, sneering at their captors, but she didn't try to leave. Or rather she dropped to her haunches, planting herself dead center in the archway. Shade licked her nose at Cinder-Shard.

Wynn stepped out to face the master Stonewalker.

"I'll send your packs and sword," she called to Chane, not taking her eyes off Cinder-Shard, "before I go anywhere else."

Cinder-Shard scowled at the insinuation. "Leave the staff. It cannot be taken where we go."

"I do not remember agreeing to return it!" Chuillyon sniped from somewhere behind Wynn.

"This is my agreement," Cinder-Shard growled.

Wynn heard the tall elf muttering as he pushed past her. When she glanced back, Chane held the staff, its crystal sheathed once more. She would've preferred to take it, but leaving it with him was the next best thing. At least their packs, weapons, and her companions would all be in the same place.

Cinder-Shard turned down the passage, but Ore-Locks stood waiting. Wynn didn't move. She wasn't having him at her back. With a derisive grunt, he headed off and she followed, Reine and Chuillyon falling in behind her.

When they reached the main cavern, Reine sent Wynn's dagger, Chane's packs, and his sword back with a female Stonewalker named Balsam. Reine then left, perhaps to look in on her husband.

Why had the Stonewalkers hidden the prince here? Had he gone mad, his death faked to hide the truth? If so, then why had they chosen a lie that so obviously implicated Reine?

Wynn had watched the prince sink beneath the pool. The people of the sea had done likewise in the tunnel. The chamber had filled with dull clicks and melodic tones rising from the water.

It seemed like he'd spoken with them.

"Take only what you need," Cinder-Shard said.

Wynn started from the distraction. He was holding out her pack, and again she wondered exactly where she was being taken. She dug out her elven quill and a wax-sealed vial of fresh ink. Though she rummaged to the pack's bottom, all of her journals, even a new blank one, were soaked. Wynn took the one from her day in the catacombs, with her notes from the translations. She looked up, prepared to ask for spare paper or parchment.

Cinder-Shard was staring at her hands.

"Where did you get that?" he demanded.

She looked down at the quill with its white metal tip. "A gift, during my travels among the elves of the eastern continent."

"So that is how you breached the tunnel," he growled.

She didn't understand what he meant, but she had more immediate concerns.

"I need paper or parchment," she said. "Something for notes."

Cinder-Shard sighed. "Chuillyon … is there anything of use in the prince's quarters?"

"No need," the elf answered, and began digging in his robe's deep pockets.

He pulled out a small multifold of paper stitched into a makeshift pamphlet slightly bigger than his palm. Chuillyon leafed through it, tore out two "pages" of markings, and handed over the remainder.

"Will this do?" he asked.

Wynn took it without answering. It wasn't much to write on, perhaps four sheets' worth of space all totaled. If she had to, she could write in her journal, hoping the ink didn't run too much.

Then her fear and excitement began to build again over what was to come. Not since the day she'd returned home had she held the texts themselves. Would she find the answers she needed?

Cinder-Shard was about to set her pack near the main passage's opening.

"Send it back with the rest," she said.

Irritation amplified the crags of his features.

"I will see to it," Chuillyon interceded.

"No!" Wynn snapped. She could just see him digging through her possessions and more of her journals vanishing.

"There is no one else," Cinder-Shard stated flatly. "Or would you rather leave it here?"

Wynn clenched her jaw. "Fine!"

Chuillyon offered an annoyed raise of one eyebrow as he took the pack and headed off. Cinder-Shard turned across the cavern, and Wynn followed.

Ore-Locks suddenly caught up, stepping in beside her. She had to force herself not to shrink away. The wraith wasn't the only minion here of some forgotten abomination, and she kept her eyes on Cinder-Shard's broad back.

The first time she'd seen these two was in the doorway of High-Tower's office. Did they share a bond beyond their calling, something deeper, fouler than with the others of their caste? No doubt Cinder-Shard knew what had brought Ore-Locks to "service," so was the master Stonewalker as corrupt as the outcast of the Iron-Braids?

"He is my mentor," Ore-Locks said. "He has taught me from my earliest days."

Wynn said nothing to this. Cinder-Shard didn't glance back, though he must have heard.

Ore-Locks's declaration only heightened Wynn's suspicion of his mentor. She'd become blindly entangled in unfolding events and couldn't abandon her path. In that moment, she almost wished she hadn't taken on this shadowy purpose—to halt the wraith, to learn the texts' secrets, to know for certain if the fears of Most Aged Father and others were true.

Was the Ancient Enemy returning soon? It appeared that its servants were already on the move. Cinder-Shard halted and turned to face her.

"We enter a place kept safe," he declared in warning. "You will swear never to speak of what you see … nor scribble about it."

Steel streaks in his black hair glinted like fire strands by the light of the walls' orange crystals.

Wynn flushed with fresh anger and swallowed hard. She was sick of this, always shackled by truth itself against the integrity she'd once thought the guild stood for.

"Agreed," she finally answered.

"Swear it … by your honor to the sages!"

His demand went against the very thing he expected her to swear by.

Truth through Knowledge … Knowledge through Understanding … Understanding through Truth … Wisdom's Eternal Cycle.

But how many times since she'd returned had she lied, manipulated, held what she knew like a tool, a weapon, or a chain upon others? Oh, she could always claim a reason to uncover what others refused to acknowledge and to save them from themselves. But even that seemed a hollow excuse sometimes.

Was she even a sage in anything more than title?

Yet there were still a few who'd put their faith in her, from Domin il'Sänke and perhaps Tärpodious, to young Nikolas Columsarn and others. Even High-Tower in his bitter way.

"I swear by the creed of my guild," she answered.

Cinder-Shard led the way into a new cavern. Wynn breathed in, held it as she followed—and then exhaled and scowled.

It was just another cavern. No orange crystals lit the space. By only the far wall's glimmer, she walked a wide, cleared path between calcified, shadowy columns. Here and there, thickened protrusions rose between those. Then she caught a looming shape in the corner of her sight.

Wynn sidestepped in reflex, glancing as she walked on.

A hulking stalagmite rose from the cavern floor, thick and fat all the way up to head-high. Its top joined the narrower end of a descending stalactite, but that faintly glistening bulk was too big to have formed from just drizzling, mineral-laden water. Some boulder or outcrop had once stood there, now buried beneath decades of buildup.

Cinder-Shard veered off the path, directly into the forest of columns.

Wynn stepped carefully, for the floor was rough and the way narrow and erratic at times. Ore-Locks fell back behind her. As Cinder-Shard made a sudden turn around a thickened protrusion, Wynn's boot toe caught on something in the dark.

As she toppled sidelong, her shoulder struck another broad outcrop. When she recoiled, finally regaining her footing, she squinted at the dark shape. For an instant, it looked too much like a rough mockery of a Lhärgnæ's false tomb.

Wynn's jaw locked, and the closer she looked, the more every muscle tensed. There was a resemblance.

At the top of the wide protrusion, it narrowed over rounded "shoulders" to the bulk of a "head" melding into the tip of a descending stalactite. Wynn shoved her hand into her pocket, digging for her crystal.

"No!" Ore-Locks said—and his thick fingers closed on her wrist.

Wynn spun toward him and lurched back, bumping straight into the calcified dark form.

"Get your hand off me!"

Ore-Locks's grip remained, and she hadn't managed to grasp her cold lamp crystal. Cinder-Shard loomed into sight beside her.

"Do not bring light in here!"

Wynn barely made out his scowl in the dark. Ore-Locks slowly released his grip and held up both open hands.

"Do not disturb their rest," he added.

Wynn glanced frantically between them and then into the dark forest of glistening columns. She spotted at least six more protrusions nearby but couldn't see farther, not even back to the path they'd left. Her gaze fell on one hulk half-hidden beyond a stalagmite's upward spike.

Pale phosphorescence illuminated its features.

The female's eyes were perhaps open, though there was no way to be certain. Even her clothing was nothing more than ripples of calcification. She gripped something in her hands, long, narrow, and slightly slanted. Beneath clumped mineral deposits coating its whole length, it could have been a thick staff. The buildup had turned her hands into lumps where they held it.

Wynn saw other dark shapes about the cavern's silent stillness. Comprehension lessened her tension but didn't bring ease.

She was standing among the dead.

Was this what it meant to be taken into stone? No coffins or even tombs, the Hassäg'kreigi entombed their honored dead in stone itself. Left here for years, decades, perhaps more, they would become one with the earth and stone their people cherished. But the number of them was disturbing at a guess.

In the rush when she was locked away in the Chamber of the Fallen, she'd passed too quickly through at least two other such places. Wynn turned all the way around, a wild notion rising in her thoughts.

"Is Feather-Tongue here?" she breathed, about to backtrack and search.

Ore-Locks blocked her way.

"Bedzâ'kenge is in his temple," he answered. "As are all Bäynæ who live on among us."

Wynn's eyes narrowed. That was impossible, though she now knew she wouldn't find Feather-Tongue's remains here, Dhredze was the only known seatt still in existence, but likely not as old as the mythical war. By the tales of Feather-Tongue's life, he'd lived at a time when there were others, perhaps back beyond the war and into the Forgotten History. This left her wondering about the great statues of the Bäynæ in their temples.

Did those statues truly hold the bones of the Thänæ who'd become the dwarves' Eternals? Or was Ore-Locks's claim just a spiritual metaphor?

Wynn looked once more among the honored dead slowly turning to stone through the ages. She wished she hadn't sworn to keep all of this to herself.

Cinder-Shard pulled her onward, and then stopped before the cavern's back wall. It was so dark that she couldn't be certain, but there didn't appear to be any door or opening. Was it hidden, like the one the duchess had used to come here?

Cinder-Shard turned to her. "You have audacity. Do you also have courage?"

She didn't know what he meant, but she answered, "Yes."

Cinder-Shard held out his hand. "Take it."

Wynn did so with slight hesitation—then panicked as she realized what would happen. She had seen Cinder-Shard force the wraith into the wall, perhaps trying to entomb it in stone. He knew what had called to Ore-Locks and had still taken the man in. And she had blindly gone alone with both of them.

It would be so easy to be rid of her. No one would ever know what became of her.

Cinder-Shard's face sank into the damp wall.

Wynn stopped breathing as the texture of glittering rock spread down his hair and across his back. She tried to jerk free but was dragged toward the wall. A sharp voice rose behind her.

"Do not breathe!" Ore-Locks warned. "Not until you hear him speak to you!"

Wynn sucked in a breath and her world went black and cold.

Chane hung near the archway behind Shade. Like her, he kept watch down the empty passage. He did not like sitting idle, feeling useless and incapable. He was so drained that he could not stop the beast's hungry mewling within himself.

Though he had given his word to remain until Wynn's return, a promise to enemies meant nothing. There were too many tangles, hidden alliances, and secrets in this place, and all seemed to grow more complex with each night spent in this dwarven seatt. Ore-Locks seemed to genuinely believe his own denial of Wynn's accusation—that he was intricately connected to a long-dead mass murderer. And Chane was anxious that she had gone off with Ore-Locks and his master.

He waited, trying to be patient … not to worry … and to push down the hunger.

He was failing at all three.

No one came down the passage, but he could not tell if anyone waited in the cavern at its end, the only exit along the path. He almost slipped out to inch down the way when a stout dwarf in black stepped through the passage's far end.

A female Stonewalker approached carrying two packs, but she paused partway as someone else called out. The tall elf in white came in behind her and handed off a third pack. Then he turned back to vanish out the end. When the Stonewalker reached the archway, she held out all three packs with one hand—and his sword and Wynn's dagger in the other.

Chane took them, offering no thanks. Then she pulled a bag off her shoulder, dropped it, and left without a word. She never looked back.

He set the packs next to the staff leaning inside the archway and strapped on his sword. Opening the bag, he found a water skin, a loaf of bread, some jerky, and a wooden mug within it. He took out some jerky, poured a mug of water, and brought them to Shade.

"Here," he said, kneeling down.

She did not growl at him and lapped the water briefly. He set the jerky on the floor and moved away. Shade snapped it up, barely chewing, and returned to her vigil.

He could not help but admire her patience. She had thrown herself at the wraith more than once, always protecting Wynn without hesitation. She had found the shore entrance to the underworld when he could not continue the search.

Shade was a better companion than most Chane had known.

"She will come back," he said.

Shade's ears twitched, but that was all.

He hoped Wynn would return with some answers, perhaps even concerning the scroll. In her absence, he hoped Shade might grow more used to his presence. Natural enemies or not, they were stuck with each other in a common purpose. But even that had become too complicated, from the elf's indiscernible lies, to the master Stonewalker's seeming acceptance of Ore-Locks … and the madman hidden away in the pool's locked chamber.

Worst of all, the wraith still existed. It had gained the underworld before raising any alarm or awareness—even his own.

Chane looked down at Welstiel's ring of nothing on his finger. He had worn it so long, so often, he sometimes forgot it was there. It was necessary, or had been. But if he had not been wearing it when they had entered this place …

Even Shade had not sensed the wraith until too late. Chane had not sensed it at all, not while wearing the ring. The wraith would come back, and he needed to know when, if not where.

Chane gripped the ring with his other hand. "Shade?"

She twisted her head up and back, looking at him. He showed her what he was about to do, but she merely returned to her vigil. In one swift movement, Chane pulled the ring off.

For an instant, the world rippled like the surface of a disturbed pond. His senses sharpened slightly as his awareness expanded, free of the ring's influence.

Chane smelled—felt—Shade's life and the brief twinge of someone else beyond the passage's end. Then it was gone, though the beast within Chane lunged to the end of its bonds.

Shade remained silent though Chane thought he saw her hackles prickle.

Between them, he hoped one would know if—when—the wraith returned.

Chane slid down the archway's side to settle beside the packs and the staff. Hunger kept eating at him, as if it turned upon him with nothing else to sate it. He closed his eyes, thinking of anything else… .

Of Stonewalkers … and their secrets …

Of white-clad, false elven sages … and their secrets …

Of beings of the sea and a prince believed dead.

There were moments he wished none of this had begun. It would have been so much better to slip into the guild library for the brief part of any night with Wynn, even if he spent his days hiding in some hovel. But what he had seen could not be ignored, even as he felt himself drifting at the dark edge of dormancy.

A dead prince of this foreign land appeared to have spoken to people of the sea that Chane could never have imagined. Among other puzzles, that one lingered upon him now. What did it mean? It seemed a very desperate secret, dangerous enough that the duchess might yet kill for it.

Chane found himself standing among the guild library's shelves.

He tried to pick a first book to pull out. He knew there was one he needed to find, but could not think of what it was. When he turned to ask Wynn's advice, he was looking at the pool through the bars of the sea tunnel's last gate. Face-to-face, he stared at a man soaked to the skin, who reached through those bars.

A dream … and even within it, he wondered why.

Dormancy held no dreams for the dead. But a few times before, they had come to him.

He heard something that made him turn, waist-deep in the tunnel's freezing water. But Wynn was not there, nor was Shade. The long darkness behind him, filling the tunnel to its round walls, seemed to twist … like black coils with soft glints of light.

Crushing cold … suffocation … pure darkness that brought utter silence …

Wynn felt stone's chill over her whole body and couldn't move. The pressure threatened to grind her into nothing as the heat in her flesh rapidly leached out.

She was buried alive.

In terror, she tried to scream, but her mouth couldn't open. Even her jaw and lips wouldn't move. Her lungs began to burn, wanting to expel used-up air.

"It will pass quickly," someone said.

That sudden voice in the silence made her flinch in panic, and she collapsed. Her left arm felt instantly strained, but the darkness began to lighten.

"Breathe," someone ordered in a gravelly voice. "Open your mouth and breathe, fool!"

Wynn did so, in one tearing, heaving gasp. She grew faint, but something held her up by her left wrist and wouldn't let go.

"Do not succumb to what you feel, or it will linger!"

Wynn opened her eyes.

In the dimly lit dark, Cinder-Shard was watching her. Her left shoulder ached, and she finally realized he held her up by her wrist. The few items she'd brought lay on a damp floor of dark stone below her buckled legs. She struggled to regain her feet.

"Let go of me," she said, but it came out hoarse and broken.

"Not until you can stand," he answered.

Ore-Locks stepped into view, blocking off more of the surroundings.

"The first time is the worst," he said, "though few have ever traveled this way."

Wynn wheezed and coughed, and Ore-Locks glanced at Cinder-Shard, as if in concern. She finally planted her feet firmly on stone.

"She will recover," Cinder-Shard said.

When he released her wrist, her arm flopped numbly against her side.

"Come for me when she is finished," he added, stepping around her.

Wynn slowly wobbled around, still shivering, but all she saw behind her was the cave's rough wall. Cinder-Shard was gone, and she was alone with Ore-Locks.

"Why did he … bother coming," she got out between breaths, "if you're staying?"

"I cannot yet take another with me … as he can."

Wynn began to breathe normally and turned back, trying to make out her surroundings.

She found herself inside a large, slanted pocket of rough stone. The ceiling was low, but she could stand upright. And half blocked by Ore-Locks's bulk was a pool near the cave's left side.

There were no other openings besides the pool in the floor, its water likely held down by air pressure of the pocket itself. She had no indication of where or how far she might have come—only that she was still under the earth and near the ocean, by the smell of the water.

She froze upon seeing what waited at the cave's far end.

Three small chests were stored in a space below a set of short stone tiers. Something very familiar lay on the first deep shelf. It was a sheaf of stiff hide plates bound between two squares of thin, mottled iron. It was the first text that she and Chap had discovered, the night Li'kän had caught her amid the blizzard and dragged her to the ice-bound castle.

Wynn was still in too much shock to even feel relief. Digging in her pocket, she pulled out her crystal. It didn't even start to glimmer upon her chilled hand.

She rubbed it clumsily, until its light began to grow. When she bent slowly to retrieve her fallen items, Ore-Locks was quicker and picked them up. She took them, ignoring him, and stumbled across the cave. She was halfway to the shelves when she heard a soft splash.

Wynn teetered as she turned.

Rippling rings spread on the pool's surface as a white-tipped spearhead rose at the center of the water. It was quickly followed by a row of spikes upon a hairless, teal-tinged scalp.

Large, round black-orb eyes broke the surface, and Wynn stared eye-to-eye at one of the sea people.

In the crystal's light, she saw the slits for a nose and translucent membranes spread between the ridges of head spikes. He rose enough to expose webbing between clawed fingers, and between the spikes running along the outsides of his forearms. His stomach muscles appeared strange, different somehow, and he had no navel.

Then his lipless mouth parted slightly over interlocked needles of teeth. Without distinguishable irises, it was impossible to follow his gaze until he actually turned his head toward Ore-Locks.

Ore-Locks crouched and patted the floor, nodding. The sea man sank until the water covered the slits of his throat and his mouth—but not his eyes.

"Why is it … he … here?" Wynn asked.

"He is a guardian," Ore-Locks answered. "I cannot speak to him, but I reassured him that your presence is sanctioned."

"Who are they … and where are they from? Why did they come to the prince?"

Ore-Locks left her, heading to the shelves. "Where do you wish to begin?"

Wynn hesitated, still watching the hairless head of webbed tines and those round black eyes. She backed away toward the shelves.

"Bring all three chests out, so I can use one as a desk," she said, buying a few moments.

Until seeing this place, she'd entertained a few notions. Perhaps she could steal a few crucial pages or even one whole text. Or maybe she might spot another way in—or at least gain some sense where the texts were located, so she could find them on her own and retrieve them.

None of this would ever happen.

Only a Stonewalker could bring her and take her back out. She'd bought her way in here on a bluff, and now she needed to produce results. Her heart pounded in her rib cage.

"Haste is necessary," Ore-Locks said, sliding out the first chest. "We do not know when the … the spirit—"

"Wraith," Wynn corrected.

"Yes, as you say … and we do not know when or how it will return."

"I'm well aware of that. This isn't like looking up something in a library volume. Just get the other chests out. Search for freshly scribed folios of translations so far."

Ore-Locks dragged out the second chest.

"And the codex," she added. "It's a large volume laced together with waxed string. I need something to help decipher the originals, and their order, without my …"

Wynn went silent as she opened the first chest.

"What?" Ore-Locks asked. "Did you find it?"

Resting atop the piles therein were five volumes she hadn't seen in half a year. Their soft leather covers were lashed closed with wrapped leather laces. They looked rather worn and even travel-weary to her eyes.

"My journals," she whispered. "My stolen journals!"

Ore-Locks peered into the chest. "You wrote those?"

When she didn't answer, he turned away and hauled out the third chest.

For a moment all Wynn wanted was to gather those five leather-wrapped volumes, leave this place, and hide them where no one could take them from her again.

"Is this it?" Ore Locks asked.

Wynn looked up.

He held up the thick codex where he crouched. Inside the third chest were piles of bound sheaves, translations like the ones she'd seen at the guild. There were so many—but maybe she'd forgotten how much work had been done. It had taken her a whole day to just scan quickly through them.

"What about this other one?" Ore-Locks asked.

"What other one?"

He reached into the chest and held out a thinner volume than the first—but it had the same temporary wax stitching.

"Give it to me!"

Wynn snatched it from him and slapped it open upon the chest's edge. Inside were entries of completed or ongoing translation work, like the ones she'd seen in the first volume that day in the catacombs. She looked at all the sheaves, even a few folios, stacked inside the third chest.

"Valhachkasej'â!" she cursed.

Thoughts of Sykion—and especially High-Tower's resentments toward her—began to build until she stammered in anger.

"You … you two … !"

Wynn couldn't think of anything vile enough to call them. She was holding a second codex.

They hadn't shown her everything. Only what they thought she'd believed was all the work so far, just enough that she might lean their way, in their urgency to keep all of this a secret.

"What is wrong?" Ore-Locks demanded.

Wynn tried to regain her self-control. "Nothing," she hissed.

"Truly? You are this upset by nothing?"

She wasn't about to explain herself to him. He and Cinder-Shard had both expressed opposition to the translation project in High-Tower's study. She doubted he would empathize with her bitterness. But more important for now, she had more to work with—more translations—to help her fight her way through the original texts.

Wynn dug through the second chest to gain an idea what it held, as well as the first, which had contained her journals. She set those aside for use and looked up to the shelves filled with all the varied books, tomes, and sheaves she'd taken from Li'kän's library.

"What was it like," Ore-Locks asked, "the place where you found these?"

Her mind flashed back to that long, sleepless night. She and Chap had carefully chosen what seemed important, readable, or merely sound enough to take from among a wealth of decaying sources. Her friends had helped her carry away so little compared to what they left behind, now half a world away.

"Older than you can imagine," she answered. "So old the only guardian had forgotten the sound of speech … or her own voice."

Wynn shook off the memory of that naked, deceptively frail undead with slanted teardrop-shaped eyes like no breed of human she'd ever seen.

"Stop bothering me," she said. "I need to work."

Ore-Locks stepped back as she began pulling out translation sheaves and folios and made a quick mental account of the other two chests' contents. They contained the more frail volumes versus the ones on the shelves. Where should she start first?

At present, information concerning the wraith was most dire. It seemed to have targeted folios mentioning the Children, the Reverent, and the Sâ'yminfiäl—the Eaters of Silence. From Wynn's encounter with Li'kän, she knew it was possible that minions of il'Samar, Beloved, the Ancient Enemy by whatever name or title, still existed to this day.

Cinder-Shard had called the wraith the "dog" of Kêravägh—the Nightfaller.

Apparently he believed it was, or had been, a servant of the enemy. Li'kän, Häs'saun, and Volyno had been three of its thirteen Children, all Noble Dead but vampires. So if the wraith was a servant as powerful as they were, she reasoned that it may have been someone just as important. Perhaps someone who'd once held a position of note as part of one of the other two groups.

But Wynn had little idea what the titles "Reverent" or "Eaters of Silence" actually meant. All she had were lists of names from one day of reviewing the translations. She'd found only hints that the Reverent might be a religious order.

For survival—for credence in being here—she first had to find solid information for Cinder-Shard and the duchess. Second, she needed answers for herself on anything regarding Chane's scroll, and thereby any mention of Bäalâle Seatt.

She almost glanced back at Ore-Locks, growing sick inside at the thought of that thing—that lone tomb—separated from the Fallen Ones. Then it dawned on her that of all the Stonewalkers, if she must have a guard, Ore-Locks might be the most useful.

His eyes had lit up at mention of Bäalâle Seatt, though she hadn't fully known why at the time. Perhaps, his interest was a way to gain his compliance, if and when she needed it.

Third and last, with little time for it, she hoped for any mention of an ancient elven sanctuary.

Chap—as well as Magiere—had caught some of Most Aged Father's oldest memories from the time of the Forgotten. He had seen Aonnis Lhoin'n—First Glade—the place where no undead could enter. The place the Lhoin'na had left hidden in plain sight since that time.

Members of the elves' guild branch sometimes visited the one in Calm Seatt, yet not one had ever mentioned the great age of First Glade. At its mention, Chuillyon had feigned ignorance, according to Chane. Why would they keep this a secret?

Wynn needed to know. If the undead could not enter the glade, then such a place, such a haven, might be indispensable in days to come.

"Why do you hesitate?" Ore-Locks said. "Is something missing?"

Wynn realized she'd sat too long doing nothing. "No, I'm deciding where to begin."

"Were the texts not in your possession for some time? Did you not study them on your journey home?"

"Not enough," she whispered. "My domin, Tilswith, suggested I wait to rejoin my peers—more experienced cathologers. It made sense … because I was a naive girl! But I don't think even he expected the texts to be confiscated."

As soon as her mouth closed, she regretted telling him anything.

Yes, she'd perused some of the works on that journey. Curiosity had gotten the better of her more than once. But events in the Farlands had been fresh in her mind, along with losses. Some days of the journey, the texts had been too much of a reminder of what their acquisition had cost.

Then she remembered something she and Chap had chosen.

Wynn stood up, searching the shelves. When she couldn't find it, she dug in the chests. In the second, she found a flat volume, its two hide-coated wood covers held on with gut-thread lacing grown brittle with age.

Wynn looked more carefully at it.

Someone had removed the old lacing and rebound the volume with fresh, waxed hemp string. The cover had been rubbed with something that had revivified the leather, though it was still terribly marred by age. When she and Chap had chosen this one, she hadn't yet known about the scroll.

Ore-Locks appeared at her side, apparently unable to stay out of her way.

"Why that one?" he asked.

Like Cinder-Shard, he opposed the guild's project, but now he showed quite a bit of interest in the texts themselves.

"Because it may have been written by one called Häs'saun," she answered. "Another forgotten minion of a forgotten enemy. He was part of a group called the Children—all vampires, another kind of Noble Dead besides the wraith. In Calm Seatt, the wraith seemed especially interested in folios concerning them."

Ore-Locks watched with intensity as Wynn opened the thin volume. She'd tried for so long to tell her superiors the truth of these texts. She felt dull surprise that Ore-Locks didn't even question her words.

"What was Häs'saun's reason?" he asked.

High-Tower would've roared for silence.

"Three vampires," she said, "along with followers, took what we call an ‘orb' all the way to the Farlands. In its highest desolate range, the Pock Peaks, they built a castle. Their purpose seemed to be guarding the orb."

"For what? What does it do?"

"We don't know."

Her denial was true. Magiere, Leesil, and Chap had all offered varying accounts of what happened in the underground cavern that held the orb. But when Magiere had accidentally activated or "opened" it, the orb had consumed all free moisture within reach.

Water dripping upon the cavern's walls, bleeding down from ice above being heated by the cavern's fiery chasm, had rained inward all around into the orb's burning light. And Li'kän had been there for centuries, in a place with little or no life to feed on. The orb had somehow sustained her.

Ore-Locks frowned. "If only three went to these Pock Peaks, what of the others? You said there were thirteen of these … Children. Where did they go?"

"That may be what the wraith wants to learn."

Just as she did, especially since it had taken a furious interest in Chane's scroll.

"Now let me read," she said.

Ore-Locks folded his hands behind his back and turned away in silence.

Wynn closed the third chest. Using it as a makeshift desk, she placed Häs'saun's text upon it. She retrieved the second codex, for if what she suspected was true, she needed to know if other translations came from work noted in the first one. Again she found references to sections in numbered volumes, but how was she to know which ones those were?

She idly flipped through Häs'saun's thin text, until she spotted an inked note on the upper inner corner of its back cover. It was marked as volume two.

Turning back to the second codex, and opening the thicker first one as well, she scanned both work schedule listings. Volume numbers between the two schedules were erratic, so the codices weren't sequential. In fact, dates of work overlapped all the way back to the first moon in which she'd arrived home. Some unknown criteria had been used to determine what translation work was entered into which codex.

Wynn didn't need to check further. They'd hidden the second codex from her. Translations she'd already seen wouldn't include those from volumes listed in it.

She immediately began pulling texts off the shelves, saving the fragile ones in the third chest for last, and searched for work entries or more volume marks. There were unseen translations to go through, but she wanted the originals at hand as she did so. She looked once to the sheaf of hide pages between old iron squares.

A tip of a parchment strip peeked out of its far side.

Wynn tugged it lightly, until its end was visible, showing it was marked as volume seven. She remembered that reference from the first codex and the translations she'd already seen. Then she came to a bundle on the second shelf wrapped in brown felt cloth. Upon unwrapping it, she remembered it well.

Atop a short pile of petrified wood planks was a strip of parchment marking this collection as volume one. It made sense that this text had been worked on early. She carefully placed the slats on the chest beside Häs'saun's thin volume. She'd chosen them, having identified the author as Volyno, the last of Li'kän's trio.

Each of the seven planks was a forearm's length and two handbreadths wide. They were covered in faded ink marks she'd recognized when she'd found them. Volyno often wrote in Heiltak, an ancient writing system and a forerunner dialect of contemporary Numanese. Wynn was most familiar with it.

She set aside the volume marker and gently separated the top three planks. The first was ragged at the ends, decayed and disintegrated long ago. She scanned what remained, searching for anything that caught her eye. Halfway down the third plank she spotted one oddity—a Sumanese term rendered in Heiltak letters.

Sâ'yminfiäl—the Eaters of Silence.

"What?" Ore-Locks asked.

Wynn hadn't realized she'd sucked in a breath too quickly. "Nothing," she answered.

She traced backward from that term and came upon mention of "thirteen" and "Children." She cracked open ink, dipped her quill, and started reading again from the plank's rotted top.

Too many parts were faded, worn, or darkened with age. She'd find those same missing pieces marked in the translation with dots for obscured words or strokes where the count couldn't be guessed. About to check the second codex for what volumes had been worked on in conjunction with this one, she paused upon a sentence fragment.

… âv Hruse …

It literally meant "of the earth" or "of earth," but the capitalization meant something more. Was it a reference to Earth, as in one of the five Elements? The sentence's first half was unreadable, as was a short bit that followed. Then she saw something more easily translated.

… chair of a lord's song.

It was the same phrase as her own mistaken translation from a term in Chane's scroll. And here it was again, with the same mistake, but written in Heiltak. Il'Sanke's correction had rendered her translation into a reference to Bäalâle Seatt!

Wynn scanned the second codex and found listings for work complete on volume one—sections one through seven, likely referring to the seven planks. Why this was recorded in the second codex and not the first that she'd been shown?

Something else nagged at her. She looked between both codices at the handwriting rather than the entries. There were variations in the first, different people recording scheduled or complete work. But the second was written in one hand only.

It was High-Tower's.

The implication was clear. He'd been the only one to decide on the work she hadn't seen. How many others, even those involved in the project, were unaware of whatever he was doing—and why?

Wynn slammed the first codex shut, keeping only the second, and stared at the third plank. The decayed part between the two fragments wasn't long, but she couldn't be certain they were both part of the same sentence. Digging out any completed translation wouldn't help.

It wouldn't give her useful information to feed Cinder-Shard and the duchess, but she was too obsessed to turn away. When she read onward, other fragments made her neck muscles tighten. Somewhere behind her, Ore-Locks paced intermittently.

Wynn straightened where she knelt, still second-guessing what she was about to do.

Without turning, she asked, "Has the duchess ever been down in the Chamber of the Fallen?"

Ore-Locks's shifting steps stop, instantly.

"No, not down," he answered. "Your presence there … was unprecedented."

That brought some relief. Aside from royal involvement in suppressing the texts' existence, perhaps they didn't know about Ore-Locks's true calling.

"What do you know about Bäalâle Seatt?" she asked.

A long pause followed.

"Only the lie that Thallûhearag … Deep-Root … was its final bane."

Wynn glanced over her shoulder, wishing Chane were here to confirm Ore-Locks's lies.

"I once heard that everyone there was lost," she said carefully, watching his eyes begin to widen. "It was under siege in the war … and even the enemy's forces didn't escape."

Ore-Locks tensed, until a vein stood out upon his left temple.

"Heard?" he whispered, as if he couldn't get a full breath. "Where could you have heard anything of that place?"

Again, she wouldn't give him any more than she had to. Turning back to Volyno's text, she began reading aloud.

"‘ … of Earth …' " she began, then tried to fill in, " ‘beneath the chair of a lord's song … meant to prevail but all ended … halfway eaten in beneath.'"

That last part didn't make sense, but she read onward to what truly mattered.

"‘… even the wéyelokangas … walk in Earth … failed Beloved's will.'"

At Ore-Locks's puzzled expression, she explained.

"Beloved is how the Children referred to the Ancient Enemy, the one your master calls Kêravägh."

His brow furrowed. "What is wéy … lok … ?" he began, faltering on the word.

"It's Numanese, my language," she returned, "but so old that few would recognize it. It means ‘war lockers' or ‘war sealers.'"

Still she saw no understanding in his face.

"Traitors!" she snapped. "Oath breakers who change sides amid a war, giving advantage to the enemy. And they walked in earth … or stone!"

"Lies!" Ore-Locks breathed, as his face flushed in anger.

"They were Stonewalkers!" Wynn shouted back, though obviously he understood. "Your precious Thallûhearag … was Hassäg'kreigi … like you!"

Ore-Locks took a quick thundering step toward her as the sea man rose in the pool, leveling his spear. Wynn was frightened, but she'd never let it show.

"Don't even think of threatening me," she warned. "I'd wager Cinder-Shard doesn't even realize all that you are … not by the way he went after the wraith, one of the enemy's own."

Ore-Locks held his place only an arm's length away. He could kill her quickly enough, but he wouldn't.

She was playing a dangerous game, one Leesil or even Magiere might have tried: Make an enemy afraid of being exposed for worse than anyone suspected. Wait for him to make a mistake he couldn't erase in the sight of others—and finish him.

But just how would she do that when the time came?

"Cinder-Shard is waiting for me," she added coldly. "As is the duchess."

Ore-Locks paled, anger draining.

Wynn began to worry. Did he know what she was up to? Then he raised his hand toward the being in the pool.

That one settled once more, immersed to his slitted throat, just watching her.

"Return to work," Ore-Locks breathed.

Wynn stood her ground, not breaking eye contact, until he finally stepped back. Her hammering heart made it almost hard to breathe as she turned away. She was careful to take every step slowly, as calmly as she could, until she knelt before the chest.

One more question remained, concerning Ore-Locks's brother.

High-Tower had left home—after his brother—to take service at the temple of Feather-Tongue. In the end, that hadn't been enough for whatever drove him. It obviously wasn't some spiritual calling. He'd abandoned that place for a life in the guild—the life of a "scribbler"—a peculiar choice for any dwarf steeped in oral tradition.

Wynn looked at the second codex, written entirely in High Tower's hand.

Certainly others had been involved in its listed translation work, but all under his direction. Was he trying to find the truth of a tainted ancestor—or hiding his family's shame from anyone outside of the guild's walls?

Wynn returned to Volyno's writing, hoping an ancient Noble Dead could speak across centuries to give her answers. It took longer before her hands stopped shaking, so she could turn to the next plank.

Sau'ilahk wallowed in dormancy, drained and beaten down until night came again. Awareness slowly returned, as did memories of recent events.

He had felt his body—as if unwillingly manifested in full—when the dwarf had forced him into the wall. Stone's crush had sent him into terror, and he instantly fled into darkness. But Beloved had been silent amid Sau'ilahk's dormancy, offering no words of assistance or rebuke.

Those black-clad dwarves—Stonewalkers—had power he did not understand. They had power over him!

Sau'ilahk wanted to wail his anger, his fear, to rend and tear those who reduced him to cowering flight. He wanted to make Wynn Hygeorht suffer for this. How had she breached the underworld at all?

He could go nearly anywhere, anyplace he knew of and could remember. She was a witless, confused young woman, even with her staff and its crystal. Impudent Wynn Hygeorht saw herself as his opponent, his equal.

These Stonewalkers would die soon enough. He would find a way to kill them one by one. But Wynn would be last. Let her watch every ally fall before her eyes. She would die alone, slowly enough to remember the faces of the dead around her.

A soft hiss entered his thoughts.

Do not expose yourself—us—and give the sage's rants credence. Remain hidden … keep all in the dark.

Sau'ilahk's awareness fell to cold stillness at Beloved's words, so filled with new urgency. Was there something more beneath them, as if his god were … panicked?

He waited to see dormancy's darkness break with the appearance of stars. Each point of light would turn to a glint upon black scales, until those rolled and twisted all around him in turning coils of his Beloved's presence.

But not a single glint appeared.

True consciousness began to tingle and stir inside him. With it, rage reawoke. He quickly focused upon memory of the underworld's cavern, trying to scratch together its details and shapes. He had to remember … he had to return there and nowhere else.

And when chance comes … sever the kin from the sea!

Beloved's final words pierced Sau'ilahk, flooding his whole being. With them came a wave of hate that drowned his own anger for an instant.

Sau'ilahk materialized, quaking—and Beloved's fading hatred left only confusion.

He tried to fathom those last words, but he needed to hunt, to put an end to these centuries of searching—to put an end to that sage. And he found himself at a sudden loss.

He looked across a deserted cavern of tall and wide dwarven columns—the marketplace. He stood somewhere at its rear, where he had followed the duchess to the hidden entrance into the mountain's depths. He was not in the underworld.

Sau'ilahk had awoken in Sea-Side!

With an angry hiss, he turned down the rear tunnel. Why had he returned here? Had he not remembered the underworld cavern well enough—or had Beloved done this? What had his god meant by … sever the kin from the sea?

Those words worked upon him as he glided along dim passages. Did it mean "kin of the ocean waves"? But the only Âreskynna here was the duchess, and she bore the name by marriage, not blood. She was not truly one of them.

Rumbling voices carried from ahead, and he slowed. At the passage's branching, he slipped along its left arc, sinking halfway into the wall. Everything dimmed for an instant, almost taking him to the blackness of dormancy.

Sau'ilahk fought exhaustion, willing his awareness to clear, and peered around the curve to where the passage straightened. Six dwarves stood before the wall of blocks where the entrance was hidden. A few murmured to one another, as all kept looking along the passage.

Sau'ilahk sank fully into hiding within stone.

These were not constabulary. They were armed and fully armored in steel-reinforced hauberks and helms with heavy iron bands. An iron tripod had been placed before them, its basin filled with orange crystals that lit up the space.

The dwarves had been warned.

In his current weakness, he could not kill six quickly enough, let alone feed to satisfaction. Was his remaining servitor still within the mountain? Would it be enough for an instant's advantage?

Beloved had commanded that the knowledge of his return should be hindered. Rampant slaughter and reports of a black figure would heighten any state of alarm. Much attention would turn his way.

Sau'ilahk did not care anymore. He was tired of hiding within shadows. He needed to kill, feed, and grow stronger with every death.

The Stonewalkers worked in unison, so he would scatter them like rats in the mountain's bowels. Let them blindly pursue him, uncertain where he might strike next, and he would take them one by one. There would be no more waiting, wandering in frail hope of flesh.

And he would find Wynn—or the duchess—and torment her until she relinquished the texts' true location. Perhaps he would learn as well the meaning behind Beloved's final demand.

Sau'ilahk tried calling his last servitor.

Come to me … come to the target of my intent.

He fixed upon a point down the passage beyond the dwarves and waited, holding that one spot upon the floor with his full awareness.

The stone-worm rose there.

Liquidlike ripples spread through the floor's stone around its trunk. One dwarf shouted, pointing at it, and the others turned that way.

Sau'ilahk shot across the passage into the far wall and sank only halfway.

Two dwarves raced toward the worm, one raising a mace to shatter it.

Sau'ilahk flowed rapidly along the wall, his black-cloth-wrapped hand extending toward the first dwarf's exposed back.

Left in silence, Wynn ignored Ore-Locks and the sea guardian as she lost herself in research. Switching between chest tops as a desk, she had carefully arranged every text or translation listed in the second codex all around her. Now she tried to find references to the Children, the Reverent, or the Eaters of Silence.

She struggled through ancient languages and letter systems, some too obscure to fathom more brief phrases. Others were utterly unknown, including a system of ideograms she'd never seen before. Those might've come from Li'kän, perhaps well after she was alone, drifting into madness amid isolation. But Wynn found no further mention of traitors, warlockers, those who "walked in earth," or even Bäalâle Seatt.

So why had the last been found in Chane's scroll?

Volyno's work was the easiest to read, but it held little that was useful. She often referred to notes of names taken from direct translations she'd read in the guild's catacombs. She was halfway through another book, its pages made from some thin animal skin. The content was in Iyindu, an old Sumanese dialect, so likely written by Häs'saun. Occasional words were written with characters similar to what she'd learned of Belaskian and Old Stravinan in the Farlands.

And then she stumbled upon mention of the Reverent.

That term was recorded in her notes, though this was first time she'd seen it here.

Wynn ran her fingers over the page's surface. She was holding the actual text from which that translation had been taken, containing that term and unknown names. And here were the names she'd written in the same paragraph.

Jeyretan, Fäzabid, Memaneh, Creif, Uhmgadâ, Sau'ilahk.

She still hadn't come across a clear definition for the Sâ'yminfiäl, or the Eaters of Silence. If the Children were powerful servants to the ancient enemy, the offspring of a perceived god, and the Reverent were its priests, then who or what were the Eaters of Silence? She read on and came to a passage concerning Vespana and Ga'hetman, two of the other Children. It seemed an account of a journey.

It couldn't have taken place after the Children "divided," as mentioned in the scroll. Häs'saun would've been off on his own trek, and therefore couldn't have learned the details. Wynn made out only a few terms, and quickly searched for translations from this text. There were some, but they didn't help much.

… to the west of the world's fulcrum … [symbols obscured, possible number] long nights from K'mal … Khalidah grew tiresome … though eluded the tree-born … many tainted-blood died … a few filled our ranks …

The place references were baffling, but she copied everything word for word, even the dots indicating missing or untranslated parts. Some of it was clear. "Tree-born" had to mean the elves, likely ancestors of the Lhoin'na and the an'Cróan. "Tainted-blood" might be humans, and among the dead the few who "filled our ranks" meant only one thing.

Vespana and Ga'hetman had raised them as undead.

… were one's forces over and over … by the Sâ'yminfiäl … their mad thoughts consuming weak earth-born minds … waking slumber and … the rituals of Khalidah … that trio with their twisted whispers of thought … promises and fears … the walkers in earth, guided the anchor of Earth … eating up through the mountain's root …

The pieces hinted at strange things. Wynn lingered most over mention of "walkers in earth" and "guided the anchor of Earth." The latter was baffling, perhaps some siege engine used against the seatt. Whatever it was, it seemed the Stonewalkers had aided in this. But other parts took more time to connect, and when they did, it was so much the worse.

"Oh, no, no, no," Wynn whispered, and then quickly went silent.

The rituals of Khalidah … the trio with their whispers of thought … consuming weak earth-born minds …

Wynn understood what Sâ'yminfiäl, the Eaters of Silence, meant. They were sorcerers.

A trio of them had been part of the siege upon Bäalâle Seatt, along with Vespana and Ga'hetman.

Chane had deduced that the wraith was a conjuror, so it couldn't be one of them. That meant this Khalidah wasn't the wraith. One more name had now moved to one of her three known groups, but it still left too many others unclassified. She had nothing to truly support her notion, but she felt more and more certain that the wraith had served among the Reverent.

For whatever reason, it—he—was obsessed with seeking where the thirteen Children had gone. But also, much as she was now, had it been seeking what had happened at Bäalâle Seatt?

She was onto something, but what?

Wynn returned to Häs'saun's text, struggling with an ancient dialect she hadn't mastered. Almost as cryptic and secretive as the hidden writing in Chane's scroll, what little she fathomed was often condensed. She opened her journal to entries of names taken from the translations.

Jeyretan, Fäzabid, Memaneh, Creif, Uhmgadâ, Sau'ilahk.

The wraith had to be one of them. She didn't know what use might come of knowing its name. Perhaps it was just the need to know anything, any scrap concerning her enemy. But it might also help her understand any other references to the Reverent, anything they'd done … anything the wraith knew.

She read on, catching only every third word and doubtful of her translation, but she used these to guess at the others. She came upon a strange series of fragments that seemed connected.

… by the priest's jealousy of us … prayers like begging … with Beloved's three-edged boon … the joy of his petty vanity …

It was the closest she could translate, though she could be wrong. From Domin il'Sänke's comments concerning the scroll, it might be Pärpa'äsea rather than Iyindu, or even some other tongue. But it seemed that one of the Reverent had made a bargain with his Beloved to fulfill a vain wish.

What could an ancient Noble Dead have that anyone would envy for the sake of vanity? And why had Häs'saun claimed the boon was "three-edged"?

The metaphor of "two-edged" was part of almost any culture. It referred to a benefit that could be a downfall as well. "Three-edged" implied something worse, as if deficit outweighed any gain twofold.

… by beauty … frail the high priest was and is … his wish fulfilled … cheated with eternal life …

Wynn went cold in the pit of her stomach.

Not just one of the Reverent, but their very leader had asked for and received eternal life, but it didn't make sense. How could one be "cheated" by such a gift? And the Children were not alive; they were undead, Noble Dead.

And "was and is"? When had Häs'saun written this? How could he know what had happened, or would happen, to Beloved's high priest, considering Häs'saun had gone off with Li'kän, Volyno, and the orb?

… not mortal … not in young eternity …

Wynn sighed. That translation couldn't be right. She closed her eyes, reworking the phrases in her mind.

… never immortal … never eternally young …

"Three-edged" and a high priest's "vanity" began to connect. He hadn't just been after eternal life but eternal beauty. So why wouldn't eternal life provide that?

… Beloved's vain first [something] knew not what he would lose …

Whatever trick had been played on the high priest hadn't come to pass at the time of the siege.

… eternal being, Sau'ilahk shall never be …

Wynn came to a frantic halt.

She had found the name of the tricked priest, the last one among those identified as part of the Reverent. But it wasn't enough, and the rest of the page wasn't readable. She flipped to the next, but it started with an account of something else. There was no mention of Beloved's high priest.

"Eternal being but never be … what?" she whispered.

Or was that all there was to it? No eternal youth, no immortality, but eternal life just the same. What was the result of such a mistake in Sau'ilahk's shallow longing for beauty?

Wynn knew the answer, slowly rising to her feet.

"Ore-Locks," she said slowly, "I think I know who the wraith—"

"Someone comes," he cut in.

Wynn turned to find him facing the cave's far wall. She backstepped at the sight of a hulking figure emerging from stone and grew wary as it took form.

It wasn't Cinder-Shard.

"Master Bulwark," Ore-Locks said in equal surprise.

Wynn recognized his bony features and gray-blond hair. Her crystal's light glinted on the steel tips of his black-scaled hauberk.

Master Bulwark appeared equally surprised, then angrily suspicious. He glanced once at the guardian in the pool as he strode forward.

"I could not believe Cinder-Shard sent you here with the sage!" His eyes narrowed on Ore-Locks. "What have you been doing?"

"What I was told," Ore-Locks returned, though resentment leaked into his voice. "To wait until the sage finished and then notify Master Cinder-Shard to retrieve her."

Wynn took only a grain of comfort in the exchange. Bulwark didn't trust Ore-Locks. Perhaps he didn't even approve of Cinder-Shard taking in the outcast of the Iron-Braids. Did Bulwark know something about Ore-Locks's connection to Thallûhearag? Had Ore-Locks ever come to this cave before, trying to delve into the texts on his own?

The elder Stonewalker glowered at Ore-Locks and stepped past toward Wynn.

"Have you discovered anything useful?" he demanded.

"What?" Wynn sputtered. "Possibly … but I've barely begun. I need more time."

"The day has passed. Night has come again," he said. "You will return to your companions, as Ore-Locks is needed elsewhere. If you have something to report, I will inform the duchess, and she will come to you."

Wynn backed away. Apparently Bulwark was second only to Cinder-Shard. He was going to pull her through stone whether she wanted to go or not. She had little to tell, so little that she might never see the texts again.

"I can tell the duchess what I've learned," Wynn bluffed. "But she will want to know more once she hears it … as will Cinder-Shard."

Ore-Locks was already packing the texts away with great care. Bulwark merely stood waiting, speaking only to Ore-Locks.

"You may go. Find Amaranth and assist her until you are called."

As Ore-locks turned across the cave, Wynn sagged. She crouched to gather her things, never seeing him step into stone. One desperate notion struck her.

The wet journal she'd brought lay within reach of five more—her older ones, from her time in the Farlands. Travel-worn as they were, they couldn't be mistaken for part of the ancient texts. Bulwark wouldn't know what she had brought with her or what she found here.

Wynn closed the wet journal, sliding it onto the top of the other five.

Deceptions and lies, threats and coercion—now she could add thievery to the lot—but these were hers, stolen from her in the first place.

Wynn snatched up her quill and ink, and shoved these with her crystal into her pocket. With all six journals bundled under one arm, she rose in the cave's near darkness. Master Bulwark grasped her other wrist and dragged her toward the wall.

Wynn quickly sucked in a breath for what would come next.