Wynn should've felt grateful at being included, and that thought made her feel all the worse. When she'd first asked Shirvêsh Mallet if she and Chane might attend—on the pretense of learning more about dwarven customs—she'd been stunned when he'd agreed.
"Of course," he had said. "You will stand with me."
Mallet had explained that the Hassäg'kreigi did not come for all departed thänæ. Only those deemed worth preserving for the people would "pass into stone." When she'd asked what that meant, he shook his head. Answering seemed difficult for him.
Stone was revered for permanence, like the bones of the world. Even when broken, it was still stone, and its parts one day were reborn anew. To be part of such was to become part of what held up the world and kept it sound. Even among the Thänæ, only those strongest in the virtue they exemplified would bring the Stonewalkers. The bones of earth deserved nothing less. Mallet said that in all his years, he had seen the Stonewalkers only twice before.
Wynn had then asked if something else was wrong. The old monk's intense expression within the temple proper was still stuck in her mind. Mallet didn't answer, but the suspicious glare returned briefly beneath his grief, as if his mind wandered into darker thoughts. Wynn's own thoughts kept turning back upon the Stonewalkers. The guilt made her shrivel inside.
Hammer-Stag, so strong and alive, had died the night after she'd met him. Death followed too often in her wake. And now, how did she honor this loss? With sacrilege, using him as bait. She could barely lift her gaze to the stage.
Beneath a shimmering gray cloth draped over a litter upon a waist-high stone block, the body of Hammer-Stag rested, hidden from sight.
On one side of him stood an aging, white-haired thänæ in a bright girdle of steel splints, with two war daggers lashed to his chest. On the other stood three shirvêsh in white vestments from the temples devoted to three Bäynæ called Stálghlên, Skâpagi, and Mukvadân—Pure-Steel the champion, Shielder the guardian, and Wild-Boar the warrior.
Funerary ceremonies had been going on for several days. First the body was carefully prepared, though Wynn didn't know what that entailed. Then came a series of wakes overseen by immediate family, clan, and then tribe. This night was the culmination. If the Stonewalkers didn't come, Hammer-Stag might be cremated or interred, according to his relatives' wishes. Either his corpse or ashes would be carried away to a prepared family barrow.
"Will he be uncovered or taken as is?" Chane asked softly.
Wynn glanced up. He appeared to suffer none of her guilt or anything besides fascination with the spectacle.
"If they come to take him into stone," Mallet answered, "he will be uncovered … presented to the people one last time. For now, we wait."
Wynn pondered those words again—"into stone." Earlier, as they'd rode the lift up to Old-Seatt, Mallet had also mentioned the "underworld" when speaking of the Stonewalkers. Did the two terms mean the same thing, or was the latter something separate? But she believed the Stonewalkers would come.
Hammer-Stag had been special. Judging by all who gathered here, he'd achieved greatness in a world where others sought it only in self-service—if they sought it at all in more than wishes and fantasies.
She noticed Chane looking down at her, studying her. Perhaps he saw her shame or sadness. He looked much better since they'd returned to the temple. Although he was still pale, a hint of color showed in his narrow face. The goat's blood must have helped.
The three shirvêsh upon the stage held up their hands, and the crowd's buzz quickly died.
Wynn saw movement everywhere around her.
All the shirvêsh on the amphitheater's floor slowly formed a line. Mallet followed with a quick gesture for her and Chane to wait. One by one, they filed up the steps to the stage as the trio of shirvêsh in white stepped back, bowing their heads with closed eyes. Each passing shirvêsh paused, laying a hand upon Hammer-Stag's draped form, and their lips moved in some unheard whisper to the dead thänæ.
Wynn remembered the an'Cróan's elders that she'd encountered in the Farlands. Compared to their tall, cloaked forms and reserved expressions, these wide, stout dwarven monks in breeches and bright vestments were a stark contrast.
One white-haired woman in a deep azure vestment stopped beside the cloth-draped body. Unlike those before her, she lifted her eyes to the people.
"I will miss your fine voice and the just swing of Burskâp," she said aloud to all.
Wynn grew confused, wondering if that final word were some nickname for Hammer-Stag.
"Joy be with you … always," that woman said, then leaned over and kissed Hammer-Stag's covered head. "May Arhniká favor you."
Tears welled in Wynn's eyes.
Arhniká—Gilt-Repast—was one of the oldest Bäynæ she knew, revered for the virtue of charity. Her shirvêsh were known for helping the destitute to find placement for learning new trades and skills to rebuild lives of honor. Wynn wondered how a warrior like Hammer-Stag had gained such affection from a monk of Arhniká.
One by one, the shirvêsh offered silent blessings, acting as avatars of their respective Eternals. Wynn watched as Mallet approached near the line's end. His eyes closed in a moment of stillness, and he too whispered something to Hammer-Stag. With his hand still upon the thänæ's covered form, he raised his head.
"You were our strong arm, a champion of those in need," he said simply. "You will live among us in our tellings. May Bedzâ'kenge sing to you."
Wynn looked away, anywhere else. She peered among those upon the floor who watched the blessing of the dead, and then raised her eyes to the crowded stone stands. Her gaze caught on a familiar face.
Sliver sat in the lowest stand nearest the stage's far side still dressed in blacksmith's attire, as if she'd come straight from her forge. Her expression was tightly set in distaste.
Wynn tugged lightly on Chane's sleeve, whispering, "Look."
Chane followed where she pointed, spotting High-Tower's sister, and his eyes narrowed in a flicker of hostility. Then he frowned in the same puzzlement Wynn felt.
Sliver would've had to close the smithy for several days, traveling by tram to attend the ceremony. There was no direct lift from far Sea-Side to the mountain's top. Had she known Hammer-Stag personally, or was she just here like all the others, paying her respects? Her expression said otherwise. She didn't appear to notice Wynn and only glared at the stage—or at one of two square entrances in its back wall.
Before Wynn pondered further, a rolling resonance grew in the amphitheater. All the shirvêsh began to sing in deep baritone voices as they filed back down the stairs. Their chant vibrated between the high stone walls.
Their song was too difficult for Wynn to follow, perhaps uttered in some ancient dialect reserved for such ceremonies. All she picked out were the names of Eternals, but to her, their thundering tones mattered more than their words. Mallet finally stepped down to the amphitheater floor, but any new questions Wynn had were cut short.
Three armored and armed dwarves, two graced with thôrhks of spiked ends, stood at the floor's far side. The third warrior looked somehow familiar to Wynn. With them was a young shirvêsh in the white vestment of one of the three warrior Bäynæ. All four spoke close together until the younger warrior cocked his head at Mallet's passing.
Wynn suddenly recognized him. It was Carrow, Hammer-Stag's kinsman from the greeting house.
The monk among them quickly reached out, and Mallet turned to join them.