"Yes … you're hungry too," Wynn acknowledged, "but after we make ourselves presentable."
Getting to her pack was a wobbly exploit. She fumbled inside it for a brush and fresh kerchief, and teetered to the door-side table. She poured water from the pitcher into a basin, though she desperately wanted a full bath. All she could do was scrub her face, arms, and neck with the dampened kerchief. Finally, she tried pulling her hair back into a tail and out of her face, but without a mirror, she ended up with the usual wisps floating around her cheeks. She gave up and filled a clay mug, trying to clean her teeth with a finger.
Shade reared, forepaws jostling the little table, and began lapping the basin's water.
"Shade!" she warned. "That's dirty."
Try as Wynn might, Shade wouldn't listen, but at least the water wasn't soapy.
"We need a launderer," she mumbled. "I stink … and my clothes are no better."
She'd brought only one change of clothing, gifted to her during her time in the an'Croan's Elven Territories. Disrobing, she started to shiver, and quickly lifted the brazier's lid off the glowing crystals. She dipped into her pack and pulled out the yellow tunic of raw-spun cotton and the russet pants. Sewn for a youth of the tall Farlands elves, the sleeves and legs were too long. She had to roll them up before dressing.
Cleanly attired, Wynn felt relieved to wear pants again. She'd grown accustomed to not wrestling with a long, bulky robe, or even her shorter travel robe, during her journeys with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap. But as she turned to leave, she grew light-headed and hung on to the door handle until it passed.
Such was the price of bartering in a greeting house. If she hadn't been so foolish and botched her first meeting with Sliver, all the suffering might have been worth it. Now she could only press blindly onward.
"Come, Shade."
Wynn stepped out, waiting as Shade followed. But when she closed the door, she paused, studying Chane's door across the passage.
Hopefully he suffered no ill effects of missing a half day's dormancy. She still knew so little about the daily—nightly—existence of the Noble Dead. Chane seemed less affected by the sun than by the time of day where dormancy was concerned. Did his body sense the sun's rhythm, even when he was underground?
She wanted to check on him. Knowing her knock might not be heard, she gripped the handle of his door. The latch wouldn't budge.
"Locked?" she whispered.
Wynn couldn't remember if he'd ever done this in their stops along the bay road, but she'd never looked in on him during that time. Shade pricked her ears and huffed as she backed down the corridor.
"I know," she whispered. "Really, you're as bad as your father … thinking with your stomach!"
But Wynn strolled off after Shade, leaving Chane in privacy. She headed straight for the meal hall, and three shirvêsh looked up as she entered.
She couldn't tell whether they were acolytes or otherwise; all shirvêsh dressed the same, in simple orange vestments. Others must have finished breakfast already, and only this trio remained at the table with pots and plates of food. The dark-haired woman who'd first helped her locate this place looked up and smiled.
"Feeling better?" she called. "We heard of your adventure."
Wynn blushed, and the two others at the table chuckled. It was all good-natured, and the woman waved her over.
"I am Downpour," she said. "Anything here look appetizing … as yet?"
"Best she stick to oats and bread for a day," warned a younger male across the table.
His high, flat brow was capped by frizzy brown hair and only the barest matching beard showed on his blunt chin. He filled a bowl from a cast-iron pot while the third, an older male with creased features, nodded in silent agreement.
"Thank you," Wynn said.
In truth, something plain sounded best, but she felt uncomfortable under all this attention. She took the bowl and settled next to Downpour.
"This is Held-All, and that is Scoria," Downpour said, pointing first to the younger male and then to the rough-featured one.
Shade pushed her head in under Wynn's arm, nearly knocking the bowl over, and snuffled at its contents. Then she backed out with a grumble, craning her head to peer over the table.
"Ah, your wolf," Downpour said.
Before Wynn even asked, all three dwarves were scrounging about the table, lifting lids and peeking into pots.
"Salt-fish!" exclaimed Held-All. "Would she like that?"
Scoria snatched a stiff piece of dried fish from the pot. Wynn tensed as he rose and leaned across the table toward Shade.
"She's very shy of strangers," Wynn warned.
Scoria grunted in seriousness. "Very wise," he said, then rumbled down at Shade, "Mind your manners … you hear?"
He reached out, lowering the fish with two fingers.
Shade reared and clacked her jaws on the morsel, and Scoria snatched back his empty hand with a start.
"Shade!" Wynn scolded.
Held-All snickered, trying to stifle himself.
"Not funny!" Scoria growled at him.
"That depends," Held-All forced out with a faked cough. "Did she get any meat with that fish?"
Scoria frowned, slowly opening his hand as if counting fingers.
"A'ye! " Downpour sighed. "Stop being a bother—both of you!"
After having dealt with the greeting house and Sliver, Wynn sat silent at their quick and friendly acceptance. Dwarves took harsh offense when insulted with intent, but otherwise, nothing rattled their good nature, not even Shade's poor table manners.
Shade licked her jaws, all signs of the fish gone, and Wynn scooped a spoonful of oats.
She listened to her companions' chatter, and even answered a question or two about what it was like to be a sage. She took no offense at their perplexed glances over the human obsession with writing everything down. Finally, she paused at one more spoonful of boiled oats.
"Where is Shirvêsh Mallet this morning?" she asked. "I need to speak with him as soon as possible."
Downpour shook her head. "He is in private conference. Two elder shirvêsh from the temple of Stálghlên—um, you might say Pure-Steel—came at dawn. He has not come out since."
Wynn slumped. Something serious held Mallet's attention if he was occupied this long.
"We hate to leave you to eat alone," Downpour added. "But we have duties to attend."
Wynn put her spoon down, for she'd had enough.
"One more thing," she asked. "Do you have anything here like a records room? I mean, for whatever is worthy of being written down. May I be permitted to do some research?"
She knew this was an outside chance.
Scoria blinked twice, probably uncertain how to answer without insulting a "scribbler of words."
"Something … like it," Downpour answered. "But there may be a better place to start. We call it … well, you might say the Hall of Stone-Words. Come, I will take you there."
Wynn quickly gathered her bowl and spoon to carry them off to the kitchen.
"No, no, leave those," Downpour instructed, rising to stop her. "Others will attend the cleanup."
Downpour stood no taller than Wynn, but of course twice as wide. Shade whined, and Wynn glanced down.
The dog sat with her muzzle resting on the table's edge, gazing hopefully at the lidded pot of dried fish.
"Should I give her more?" Scoria asked, though he didn't sound too eager.
"No, she's had enough for now," Wynn replied.
Shade grumbled in clear disagreement, but Scoria nodded and ushered Held-All on his way. Wynn was more curious about this Hall of Stone-Words, so with Shade in tow, she followed Downpour out of the meal hall.
Instead of rounding the far side of the temple proper toward the passages to quarters, they slipped into the near side, traipsing the curving corridor all the way to the back. There, a wide passage lined with glyph-marked archways and doors shot deeper into the mountain.