Shade's deafening snarl came quickly, but Wynn never had a chance to turn.
Something struck her back, and her head whiplashed as she shot out of the hearth room. Tumbling and scraping across the smithy's floor, she heard Shade barking and snapping. She tried to push up and roll over, but her hands stung sharply when she pressed against the floor.
Sliver shrieked, and Shade yelped, and Wynn flopped over on her back.
Shade stood between her and the hearth room's door, all her fur on end and her ears flattened as she lowered her head in menace. Sliver stood in the doorway with mixed shock and revulsion on her broad features. She was gripping one forearm. A bit of blood seeped between her thick fingers.
"Oh, no!" Wynn breathed. "Shade was only—"
In one fluid motion, Sliver chucked out Wynn's pack and staff.
"Don't!" Wynn cried, reaching out where she lay.
To her shock, Shade lunged sideways and under the falling staff. Its sheathed crystal's end struck near Shade's shoulders, and the haft rolled off her rump to the floor. Wynn's surprise at Shade's action was short-lived, and she caught one last glimpse of the smith.
Sliver slammed the door shut, and its crack echoed through the workshop.
Wynn sat up as Shade wheeled and padded over. Then the dog let out another warning rumble, baring her teeth as she glared beyond Wynn.
"Where did you hear that title?"
Wynn jerked around.
Ore-Locks's massive form stood above her. The light of the forge's dying embers cast his face in orange-red and glimmered faintly on his thôrhk. He looked like a hulking statue of heated rock ready to fall upon her.
"From you," she answered, "when you came to see your brother."
"So you are spying on me?" he accused. "Hunting me?"
"No … I mean, yes," she fumbled. "It was an accident. I'd gone to see the domin but heard voices. I didn't want to interrupt, so I waited."
Ore-Locks crouched, and Wynn's hand stung sharply as he took it. At another warning from Shade, Wynn waved off the dog. Ore-Locks let out a sigh.
"My sister should not have assaulted you, but the scrapes are not bad and should heal soon enough."
"I agreed with you," Wynn said, though it brought a puzzled wrinkle to his brow. "In what you said to High-Tower. The translation project isn't being handled well. That's part of why I came. Four sages dead, as well as city guards in Calm Seatt, and next to nothing has come from all the work on those texts … from the Forgotten … in the time of Bäalâle Seatt."
Wynn caught the unmistakable spark in his eyes at that last mention. She saw hunger there, and maybe some strange thirst for relief. For the first time, she wondered if he'd given her something to bargain with.
"I can read some of the languages in those texts," she rushed on. "Take me to them … and perhaps I can learn what really happened. I know Bäalâle is not a myth."
Another bluff, for she didn't know any such thing. All she had was Magiere's account of a single mention of a fallen seatt in the memories of Most Aged Father. That, and a cryptic reference found within the obscured verse of Chane's stolen scroll.
What she truly needed was to learn where Beloved's thirteen Children had gone and why.
The wraith had selectively murdered for this knowledge. More important was how the Night Voice … Beloved … il'Samar was connected to it all, past, present, and future.
Wynn sat in the forge's dim light, looking into the black eyes of a Stonewalker, the one and only who might help her.
Ore-Locks dropped her hand and stood up. As he straightened, his eyes seemed too dark for even a dwarf.
"You know no such thing," he said. "It is only myth … unless proven otherwise."
Wynn's hope withered. She'd had him for an instant and then lost him.
"Regardless of what you think you heard from my lips," he added, "my sect has sacred oaths. Fragile trusts and faiths you do not understand, even among your guild. I will not be the one to shatter them … not for the misguided guesses of one wayward sage."
Ore-Locks looked at the hearth room's door. His lips parted, but he never said a word. Instead, he turned and strode out of the smithy.
"You won't shatter them," Wynn insisted, scrambling to her knees. "You might even serve them all the better if—"
"I serve the honored dead," he returned without looking back. "Go home, Wynn Hygeorht. I pray to the Eternals that no more harm comes to you … nor that you bring further to my own."
Ore-Locks vanished, leaving Wynn kneeling on the floor with a silent Shade.
Once the duchess reached Breach Mainway, Chane worried about trailing her farther in the open. But she turned down the very next southward-side passage. He rushed to the tunnel's mouth, pausing a moment before peering around the corner.
Several large frontages carved from the passage's stone looked much like other shops and businesses. Perhaps even an inn in one case, since both dwarves and humans lingered out front, coming and going from that third establishment down the way. This made sense. At least some inns or common houses would be near a major market.
The duchess stopped before that third frontage, with its wide, heavy doors propped open. Captain Tristan was the first up the two steps, glancing inside before ushering her in. The rest followed, ducking their heads to clear the low doorway.
Chane leaned back against the mainway's wall. Wynn had been correct. Duchess Reine was not lodging with the Stonewalkers but in a place very near where she could reach them. How and why was another matter. Why had the Stonewalkers allowed her to accompany them at Hammer-Stag's funeral?
Surely she did not need to check on the texts, if some arrangement existed for the Stonewalkers to look after their safety. So what had she been doing in the time between now and when Wynn and he had been escorted out?
At least he now knew one place to pick up the duchess's trail.
Chane headed off along Breach Mainway. It was a long way down to the Iron-Braid smithy. His own task complete, he broke into a trot, hurrying to see how Wynn had fared with hers—the far more difficult one.
Wynn gathered her things and numbly headed out of the smithy. When she stepped into the narrow passage, Ore-Locks was nowhere in sight. A part of her couldn't believe what she'd just done to the Iron-Braids. Another part knew she'd had no better choice. Too much was at stake.
But Ore-Locks had spurned her just the same.
Wynn shuffled back toward Limestone Mainway, remembering the look in Ore-Locks's eyes at the mention of Thallûhearag—and then Bäalâle Seatt. He wanted to know more of the latter; that much was clear. But she couldn't mistake the conviction in his voice. He would never break the oaths of his sect, even for his own desires. She had played an all-or-nothing game … and she had lost.
She felt sick inside, and then Shade barked.
Wynn was too tired for whatever the dog wanted, but Shade wouldn't stop.
She barked twice more and halted, pawing the passage's stone floor. Her crystal blue eyes sparked in the limited light. The mainway lay just ahead, and it was early enough that other people would still be about.
"What now?" Wynn asked.
Shade dropped to her haunches and rubbed the side of her head with a paw.
Wynn sighed and crouched down. Obviously Shade had another memory she insisted on sharing.
Touching the dog's neck, Wynn whispered tiredly, "Show me."
The passage vanished.
She saw Ore-Locks rising upon the platform through the domed chamber's white metal portal. The image faded instantly, and Wynn guessed that Shade was simply identifying Ore-Locks. Just as quickly, she found herself staring through the smithy's workroom, and Ore-Locks stood in its outer doorway.
Wynn heard her own voice say, Who is Thallûhearag?