Perhaps in time, the taunt of the poet's wealth became too much. Its constant reminder of the shame that Avarice brought upon the seatt, and the shame of all who had made no attempt to stop him, were too much to bear. One can only guess that all left that place, slipping away with their families. Perhaps some few went in search of what they heard in Feather-Tongue's tales.
But not Avarice, that is certain.
Awaking one day to find himself alone, he would have seized upon his lost fortune—and then wept. No one remained from which to purchase anything. He had no servants, pack animals, or companions to help carry it away. But Avarice would never leave it behind.
Somewhere in a forgotten place rest the bones of a …
Wynn straightened, staring at the strange vubrí once more.
… rest the bones of a Lhärgnæ … a Fallen One … upon a great cairn of silver and gold and bright gems of all hues. But do not seek that place.
Avarice waits to purchase all who come.
Wynn sat still upon the bench, her thoughts tangled and racing.
Bedzâ'kenge—Feather-Tongue—had pulled down a Fallen One. He had freed an entire seatt from the miser's greed, and done so with nothing but wit and a telling. But the story raised more questions than it answered. The final line implied something about dwarven beliefs and their form of ancestor worship.
Bedzâ'kenge was revered as one of the Bäynæ, an ancestral spirit still among his people even now. But then what of Shundagh … what of Avarice? Did the dwarves believe that Lhärgnæ had presence and influence in this world as well? This would certainly explain the earlier account of how their Eternals not only exalted virtue but remained on guard against vice … against the Fallen Ones. Such enemies would be seen as still vital in this world, ready to lay siege and assault upon dwarven virtue.
Wynn's thoughts turned quickly to a name—no, a title—overheard in Domin High-Tower's study on the day Ore-Locks had come in secret.
Thallûhearag.
This hall held accounts of Feather-Tongue's life and exploits, and it mentioned one—or perhaps more—of the Fallen Ones for any to read. Yet Mallet had been severely upset when she'd asked about Thallûhearag. And why did the Lhärgnæ have titles in place of true names?
Though the Bäynæ she knew of had no mention of their heritage in life, such as family, clan, or tribe, apparently they retained their true names. Not the Lhärgnæ—or not the ones she had read of, like Shundagh—Avarice. If Thallûhearag was one of them, then she couldn't tell who or what he was or had been. She couldn't decipher that ancient title of a dwarf forgotten by all but the few who knew it, and who wouldn't speak openly of mythical Bäalâle Seatt.
What had Thallûhearag done in that place? Had he been involved in its fall during the great forgotten war? Anything regarding such events might be critical, and Wynn wanted to discuss her findings with … someone. A nostalgic pang made her long to read the story to Chap, to hear what he made of it.
Something wet, warm, and fuzzy burrowed in under her hand.
Shade pushed her muzzle under Wynn's fingers and rested it upon her thigh.
"If only you could understand words," she whispered, "I wonder what you would think of this." Then she half smiled. "Just more people nonsense."
Shade pricked her ears and then suddenly jerked up her head. She trotted off to peer around the partition's end.
"What is it?" Wynn asked.
A distant cry of grief echoed faintly into the Hall of Stone-Words.
Wynn rushed to join Shade, but when she reached the entrance, Shade was already trotting down the outer passage.
"Shade, wait! Stop … come!" she called, but the dog kept on.
Shade slowed only when she reached the passage's end, where it connected to the curved hallway running around the temple proper. Wynn hurried to catch up, but Shade trotted out, approaching the near-side arch into the chamber of Feather-Tongue. Wynn followed to peer in.
A group of orange-vested shirvêsh had gathered inside. There was Downpour, her large hands over her face, apparently weeping. Even Held-All had lost his grin, as everyone present listened closely to Shirvêsh Mallet, though at first his words were too low for Wynn to hear. He looked exhausted and lost.
Scoria heaved a sigh and folded his arms.
"I do not believe it!" he growled. "Only three nights past, I ate with him, and he would not keep quiet all night! This cannot be true."
Shirvêsh Mallet nodded slowly. "It is certain. Hammer-Stag passed over last night."
Wynn clutched the archway's edge. Hammer-Stag was dead?
"Once his body has been prepared by family or clan," Mallet continued, "and tribal mourning is observed, he will be carried up to Chemarré … and we will see if the Hassäg'kreigi find him worthy to pass into stone."
Wynn's breath caught. The Stonewalkers were coming—or might come?
She didn't understand why there was doubt. Weren't all thänæ who passed over to be taken? What more was—could be—required, other than a thôrhk and the title that came with it? But if the Stonewalkers did come …
Would Ore-Locks be there? Could she find a way to see him or the others, to speak with them?
And what did Mallet mean by "pass into stone"?
Wynn shivered with self-loathing. Hammer-Stag had helped her, treated her as a friend. He had fought beside Magiere, aided by Leesil and Chap. Now he was gone, and all she thought of was what it might gain her.
She stepped in behind the gathering, wanting to ask how one such as he had died. But she halted at the sight of Downpour weeping and Held-All's young face devoid of mirth. Of all present, Mallet's demeanor silenced her most of all.
Struck with grief, the old shirvêsh glanced up at the immense statue of Feather-Tongue, with hand outstretched and palm upward to the sky above the temple. When Mallet lowered his eyes, his brows wrinkled, darkening the lines on his old features.
Mallet glared at nothing, lost in a troubled thought that shadowed his face.
Chapter 8
Two long nights passed, and Wynn entered the great amphitheater atop the mountain at Chemarré—Old-Seatt. In her freshly laundered gray robe, she was dressed as a sage of the guild. Shirvêsh Mallet and Chane stood with her, while Shade pressed against the backs of her legs amid a throng of dwarves milling about upon the flagstones. The size of the place made her feel so very small, even more than the great council clearing of the Farland's elves.
On their way through the streets of Old-Seatt, she had seen ancient fortifications and tiered walls built to withstand any assault, and twice as thick as those of Calm Seatt. The amphitheater itself was more daunting.
As the traditional meeting place of Dhredze Seatt and its last-stand fallback fortification, the amphitheater's round outer wall was at least twenty feet thick and as high as any castle's first battlements. Two dozen stone tiers for seating rose all around to the broad promenade running along the wall's inner circumference. Entrances made of great iron doors were flung wide between framed obelisk columns, opening above the steps of the aisles. The stands were already half-filled, and still people poured in. Constabularies from various clans walked the aisle steps with their tall staves, assisting attendees and overseeing proper order.
Hammer-Stag, boisterous and loud, had been well-known to his people.
And this was his final appearance among them.
Wynn was aware of the favor bestowed upon herself and Chane. They stood with Mallet on the floor's far right, just within sight of the nearer steps leading up to the raised stone stage. Only family, close friends and comrades, as well as clan elders and thänæ, were allowed on the floor among the shirvêsh in attendance. One elder shirvêsh from each Eternal's temple, such as Mallet, was present, along with more from a temple appropriate to Hammer-Stag's calling.