To his delight, footfalls drifted toward him from around another turn.
Sau'ilahk peered around the gradual corner and saw a lone human—a bearded man of dark skin with a curved sword in a fabric wrap belt. It was one of his own kind, or at least a descendant of such people from his lost living days. He pulled back, waiting until the man took the turn in the tunnel.
Even the approach of a victim—living in flesh—taunted him.
Long ago, he had been first among the Reverent, favorite of Beloved—before the Children came. His mere visage among the hordes and followers had inspired awe. Now he was nothing but a shadow of black robe, cloak, and hood. Not true flesh, and only by the act of feeding could he gain enough strength to take physical action. He did not even have the grace of a true ghost, to pass unseen if he wished.
All because of the bargain he had struck, once the Children first appeared.
All because of Beloved's coy consent, twisting Sau'ilahk's plea.
The bearded Suman rounded the corner. Jarred from misery, Sau'ilahk lashed out.
His black cloth-wrapped fingers passed down through the man's face. The Suman's skin paled slightly along those fingers' path. And quick as the stroke was, the man never cried out. He shuddered, his breath caught, and his hand reaching for the sword only convulsed in spasms, until …
Sau'ilahk's hand slid down through the man's throat and sank into his chest near his heart, draining his life away.
The Suman dropped hard onto his knees and toppled over. He lay there, face frozen in shock, with mouth agape, and Sau'ilahk's immaterial hand embedded in his chest.
Shots of gray spread through the Suman's dark curls and beard, until cloth-wrapped fingers withdrew, leaving no physical wound.
Sau'ilahk's weakness faded beneath the consumed life, and he could not afford to waste any of it in destroying the corpse. He might require even more life for what he needed to accomplish. He threaded a mere fragment of his gained energies into one hand, turning it corporeal, and dragged the body along the passage to a nearby shadowed depression.
Then he sank into dormancy to fully absorb his meal.
But as he dissipated into darkness, his last thoughts were of Wynn. If the bungling sage could not find the Hassäg'kreigi, the Stonewalkers, then he would have to draw them into plain sight. And the Stonewalkers emerged for only one reason.
Sau'ilahk had to kill a thänæ.
Chapter 6
Misery dragged Wynn toward consciousness. Grudgingly, she cracked open her eyes.
She lay on a rock-hard bed in a strange room, still fully dressed, but she had no strength to wonder why or where she was. Rolling over was torture, and she came face-to-face with Shade's snoring muzzle.
"Oh," she moaned, slapping a hand over her mouth and nose.
Dog's breath wasn't good for a sick stomach.
Cream-colored shimmers from Shade's undercoat peeked through her charcoal fur every time her rib cage rose in a slow breath. Fragments of the previous night returned to Wynn: the greeting house, a barter with a thänæ, and a telling before a crowd, then the smithy … and Sliver. She had enraged High-Tower's sister, alienating the one possible lead to finding the Stonewalkers.
"Oh, seven hells," she said, groaning as her stomach clenched.
Shade's left ear twitched, her crystal blue irises peeking through slitted eyelids.
Wynn rolled away to hang over the bed's side, desperately looking for anything to throw up in. Another convulsion came, and she hung there to vomit on the floor. But nothing came up.
When her dry heaves passed, they left a skull-splitting headache and a feverish flush. Something cold and wet snuffled Wynn's cheek, and a slathering warmth dragged over her face.
"Oh, don't do that!"
Wynn shoved Shade's muzzle away, but at that touch, flashes of last night poured into her head.
She remembered—Shade remembered—Wynn sitting in a doorway as Chane headed off after the forgotten pack. Clear images showed him returning to carry her down the mainway near where they'd first entered Sea-Side. He had all three packs and her staff.
"All right, I see," Wynn grumbled, looking around the unfamiliar room.
Where was Chane?
Shade growled, and Wynn rolled back. The dog sat behind her, gazing steadily beyond the bed's foot. Wynn crawled around Shade and went to look.
Chane lay prone on the floor with a pack for a pillow and his cloak as a bed-roll. His jagged red-brown hair was a mess, and his white shirt was wrinkled. With his eyes closed, his long features were smooth and relaxed.
He wasn't breathing and lay still as—was—a corpse upon the floor.
Self-pity and a throbbing head made Wynn almost envy such a state.
The tiny room had no window, of course, and was sparsely furnished with the one hard bed, a lidded brazier of dwarven crystals, and a small door-side table bearing a tin cup and clay pitcher. She desperately needed to wash the horrid taste from her mouth.
Scooting back, Wynn climbed off the bedside, not wanting to step over Chane's body, and staggered to the table. She hoisted the pitcher and gulped from it.
Her stomach felt as if it had been turned inside out. How could three or four—or was it more—sips of ale affect her like this? What was in those tankards that had worked so slowly, creeping up on her, until the night had gotten completely out of hand?
She sipped again and then grabbed the cup, pouring water for Shade. As Shade hopped off the bed to lap at the cup, Wynn plopped down on the floor, sick and miserable. She remembered Sliver's raging and pained expression.
She couldn't go back to the smithy again. She had closed that door more soundly than Sliver had. So what now? They couldn't give up. They had to locate the texts and uncover what the wraith had been seeking. She had to learn more about the orb, its purpose, and the Ancient Enemy of many names. She had to find out if it was returning … and if it could be stopped.
Something—anything—that might connect even one disjointed piece to another.
All of this made her dizzy and sick again.
She rose with effort, barely able to stand with her head pounding even more, and then slapped a hand over her mouth. For an intant, she feared she might lose the water she had just swallowed. Then she heard soft voices somewhere outside the wide oak door.
Where was she? There were only two things she could reason out: Chane had procured a room in some inn, and it must be daytime, since he was still dormant. She pulled back the slide bolt and cracked the door open.
Two doors down, the corridor emptied into an open space. There stood a somewhat flabby dwarven woman in an apron, gripping a straw broom. She was chatting with a young male behind a stout desk.
"Pardon," Wynn called, and her own vile breath made her want to cover her mouth again. "Can you tell me the time of day?"
The male leaned sideways, peeking around his companion, and both dwarves' eyes widened.
Wynn winced—she must look worse than she imagined. But the one behind the desk corrected his expression to polite disinterest.
"Yes, miss, it is just past Day-Winter's start."
"My thanks."
Wynn pulled back and shut the door. How could she have slept until midafternoon?
She had only one friendly contact in all of Dhredze Seatt. That was Shirvêsh Mallet, back in Bay-Side—all the way on the mountain's other side. Perhaps if pressed more subtly, the old shirvêsh might give her another lead, some other way to find the Stonewalkers. Or failing that, he might provide some custom to help make amends with Sliver.
The dwarves were a people of long tradition, couched in clan and tribal rules and rituals. Yes, for now Shirvêsh Mallet was her best and only choice—in a retreat from her mistakes.