"Thallûhearag …" she whispered, "lord of genocide!"
Shade began to snarl from behind. Before Wynn could turn, the tomb's shadow moved upon the wall.
"His true name was Byûnduní … Deep-Root."
Wynn slid back a step at the baritone voice seeming to rise from the black stone. A thick hand entered the crystal's light from behind it and settled upon the tomb's shoulder. Shade lunged in around Wynn with a snap of jaws, her hackles stiffened.
Ore-Locks stepped from the shadows, his hand sliding down the tomb of Thallûhearag.
How did he know a name for this mass murderer? The names of the Fallen Ones were washed away by time. How he had gotten in here unseen, or had he simply slipped through stone, like his brethren?
Ore-Locks raised his eyes to the tomb's head, as if he saw more than that mute form's representation. He placed both hands flat upon its oval plate, as if trying to blot out the epitaph. Melancholy in his broad features quickly turned into cold resentment.
He glanced sidelong at her, the same way the duchess had in the dangerous moment in the prince's hidden pool chamber.
Wynn's head churned with frightened notions all wrapped around this dwarf who'd been her only lead to the Stonewalkers.
"He does not belong here!" Ore-Locks whispered.
Her breaths quickened until she grew light-headed. His siblings had renounced him for his spiritual pursuit. Sliver's revulsion drove her to keep the source of his calling from their mother. And in High-Tower's study, the domin's venom for his brother had been visceral in his voice.
"What do you know?" he demanded. "What did you find in those cursed texts? Where do his bones lie … where is Bäalâle Seatt?"
A forgotten ancestor, obscured from oral tradition, had called Ore-Locks. But it wasn't a Bäynæ or any forebearer of his people as a whole. It was one in a direct bloodline that the Iron-Braids couldn't bear to acknowledge once Ore-Locks had tried to force it upon them.
She looked at his hand, pressed firmly upon that tomb of the lord of genocide—Thallûhearag.
Wynn ran out of the small chamber's entrance, screaming, "Chane!"
Chane was halfway up the stairs, feeling along the wall, when Wynn called his name.
The beast within him threw itself against the limits of its chains. His hunger broke free amid fear for her safety. His senses widened as he took the stairs three at a time for a few downward strides.
Chane lunged off the edge into midair. His legs buckled as he landed; he was only half-aware that he crouched upon the floor's brass seal as Wynn rushed out of the opening between the tombs.
Her crystal's light flooded the space, burning Chane's sight for an instant. Shade bolted out next, snarling. The sound heated Chane's frenzy.
Something moved in the dark opening. Bits of it glinted in the crystal's light.
Chane rushed in, grabbing Wynn's shoulder. As he jerked her behind himself, the drive to hunt became tangled with his need to protect her. Something had entered this place—something he might kill and feed upon. Then he heard Wynn gasp.
Chane whipped his head around and went rigid.
The cold lamp crystal lay on the chamber floor.
Wynn stared at him, eyes wide with shock, as she gripped her shoulder. Torn bits of felt from her tunic stuck out around her small fingers. A thin scent of blood began to permeate the chamber's stale air.
Chane choked on a surge of hunger. It burned cold in his throat, and he heard Shade snarl directly behind him.
"Shade, come!" Wynn called.
He shuddered so hard, clenching both hands against the spasm, and backstepped away from Wynn. He shook his head and mouthed, No, over and over, but when his lips silently parted, Wynn flinched.
Chane clamped his mouth shut, hiding the change in his teeth.
The barest creases formed on Wynn's brow over her narrowing eyes. There it was again—that fear in her face, backed by wary anger. The same as on the night she had seen him emerge from a scribe shop's window behind the wraith.
"Wynn …" he rasped, but did not know what else to say.
Shade circled wide around him, taking a position in his way, as Wynn crouched to retrieve her crystal.
Chane gazed into its light, causing pain in his widening sight. He wished it would sear him.
"I did not come to harm you."
Chane twisted back at the deep voice.
Ore-Locks stood between two tombs before the opening. The red-haired Stonewalker was dressed in a hauberk of steel-tipped scales, with two wide black-sheathed blades lashed to the front of his belt. He did not advance but only watched those before him, as if waiting for a response.
For an instant, Chane wanted to vent all his anguish on this one.
This dwarf had frightened Wynn, caused her to cry out … caused Chane's momentary loss of control. The beast inside him began to wail, and he ground his jaws, beating the monster into submission.
Chane stood shuddering as he glared at Ore-Locks.
"No one has ever breached our underworld," Ore-Locks said, fixing on Wynn. "So you are not what you seem. Did you guide that black spirit here?"
"Of course not!" she answered.
Chane knew something of what had passed between these two in the Iron-Braids' home. Ore-Locks would hardly consider Wynn a friend.
"But it followed you," Ore-Locks stated.
Chane waited, but Wynn did not answer immediately.
"I've nothing to say to you," she answered. "Not with what I know. Not with what you worship!"
Ore-Locks's eyes narrowed, but Chane was confused by Wynn's words. What did she mean?
The dwarf lifted his chin, teeth clenched between barely parted lips. Chane set himself, watching for Ore-Locks's slightest move.
"That thing in there," Wynn went on. "Somehow, he was responsible. … Whatever brought down Bäalâle Seatt … that mass murderer did it."
"No!" Ore-Locks snarled, and took a step.
Chane instantly shifted into his way.
"Then why is he here?" Wynn demanded. "Why else would Thallûhearag's representation be put aside, separated even from the Fallen Ones?"
Ore-Locks's jaw muscles clenched in mute outrage, and Chane understood what was in that small chamber. He remembered all Wynn had told him concerning Bäalâle Seatt and a forgotten title feared by the few who knew of it and wished to forget it.
Chane tried to calm himself. He needed to wash his thoughts clean if he were to have any chance at sensing deception in the dwarf's words. Letting go of everything, trying to ignore hunger and how he had recklessly injured Wynn, he closed his eyes.
But the only thing he could find to soothe him was a memory.
There had been one brief moment when he had sneaked into the guild's library with Wynn. With her so close, guiding him into her world, he had stopped and looked upon all of the volumes placed so orderly upon the shelves.
"He is not one of them!" Ore-Locks shouted. "Not as claimed by the few who remember only his title … and not his name. I have known him since I was a child, though I did not understand until later who touched me—called me through blood. He cannot be what they claim … not as my ancestor!"
Chane remained placid in that quiet memory of the library, letting each word pass through him. Though the beast moaned at his complacency, no discomforting twinge rose within him. He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on Ore-Locks.
The dwarf was not lying—or at least he believed his own words. Chane turned his head enough to glance at Wynn. He nodded at her, hoping she understood.