Cinder-Shard veered off the path, directly into the forest of columns.
Wynn stepped carefully, for the floor was rough and the way narrow and erratic at times. Ore-Locks fell back behind her. As Cinder-Shard made a sudden turn around a thickened protrusion, Wynn's boot toe caught on something in the dark.
As she toppled sidelong, her shoulder struck another broad outcrop. When she recoiled, finally regaining her footing, she squinted at the dark shape. For an instant, it looked too much like a rough mockery of a Lhärgnæ's false tomb.
Wynn's jaw locked, and the closer she looked, the more every muscle tensed. There was a resemblance.
At the top of the wide protrusion, it narrowed over rounded "shoulders" to the bulk of a "head" melding into the tip of a descending stalactite. Wynn shoved her hand into her pocket, digging for her crystal.
"No!" Ore-Locks said—and his thick fingers closed on her wrist.
Wynn spun toward him and lurched back, bumping straight into the calcified dark form.
"Get your hand off me!"
Ore-Locks's grip remained, and she hadn't managed to grasp her cold lamp crystal. Cinder-Shard loomed into sight beside her.
"Do not bring light in here!"
Wynn barely made out his scowl in the dark. Ore-Locks slowly released his grip and held up both open hands.
"Do not disturb their rest," he added.
Wynn glanced frantically between them and then into the dark forest of glistening columns. She spotted at least six more protrusions nearby but couldn't see farther, not even back to the path they'd left. Her gaze fell on one hulk half-hidden beyond a stalagmite's upward spike.
Pale phosphorescence illuminated its features.
The female's eyes were perhaps open, though there was no way to be certain. Even her clothing was nothing more than ripples of calcification. She gripped something in her hands, long, narrow, and slightly slanted. Beneath clumped mineral deposits coating its whole length, it could have been a thick staff. The buildup had turned her hands into lumps where they held it.
Wynn saw other dark shapes about the cavern's silent stillness. Comprehension lessened her tension but didn't bring ease.
She was standing among the dead.
Was this what it meant to be taken into stone? No coffins or even tombs, the Hassäg'kreigi entombed their honored dead in stone itself. Left here for years, decades, perhaps more, they would become one with the earth and stone their people cherished. But the number of them was disturbing at a guess.
In the rush when she was locked away in the Chamber of the Fallen, she'd passed too quickly through at least two other such places. Wynn turned all the way around, a wild notion rising in her thoughts.
"Is Feather-Tongue here?" she breathed, about to backtrack and search.
Ore-Locks blocked her way.
"Bedzâ'kenge is in his temple," he answered. "As are all Bäynæ who live on among us."
Wynn's eyes narrowed. That was impossible, though she now knew she wouldn't find Feather-Tongue's remains here, Dhredze was the only known seatt still in existence, but likely not as old as the mythical war. By the tales of Feather-Tongue's life, he'd lived at a time when there were others, perhaps back beyond the war and into the Forgotten History. This left her wondering about the great statues of the Bäynæ in their temples.
Did those statues truly hold the bones of the Thänæ who'd become the dwarves' Eternals? Or was Ore-Locks's claim just a spiritual metaphor?
Wynn looked once more among the honored dead slowly turning to stone through the ages. She wished she hadn't sworn to keep all of this to herself.
Cinder-Shard pulled her onward, and then stopped before the cavern's back wall. It was so dark that she couldn't be certain, but there didn't appear to be any door or opening. Was it hidden, like the one the duchess had used to come here?
Cinder-Shard turned to her. "You have audacity. Do you also have courage?"
She didn't know what he meant, but she answered, "Yes."
Cinder-Shard held out his hand. "Take it."
Wynn did so with slight hesitation—then panicked as she realized what would happen. She had seen Cinder-Shard force the wraith into the wall, perhaps trying to entomb it in stone. He knew what had called to Ore-Locks and had still taken the man in. And she had blindly gone alone with both of them.
It would be so easy to be rid of her. No one would ever know what became of her.
Cinder-Shard's face sank into the damp wall.
Wynn stopped breathing as the texture of glittering rock spread down his hair and across his back. She tried to jerk free but was dragged toward the wall. A sharp voice rose behind her.
"Do not breathe!" Ore-Locks warned. "Not until you hear him speak to you!"
Wynn sucked in a breath and her world went black and cold.
Chane hung near the archway behind Shade. Like her, he kept watch down the empty passage. He did not like sitting idle, feeling useless and incapable. He was so drained that he could not stop the beast's hungry mewling within himself.
Though he had given his word to remain until Wynn's return, a promise to enemies meant nothing. There were too many tangles, hidden alliances, and secrets in this place, and all seemed to grow more complex with each night spent in this dwarven seatt. Ore-Locks seemed to genuinely believe his own denial of Wynn's accusation—that he was intricately connected to a long-dead mass murderer. And Chane was anxious that she had gone off with Ore-Locks and his master.
He waited, trying to be patient … not to worry … and to push down the hunger.
He was failing at all three.
No one came down the passage, but he could not tell if anyone waited in the cavern at its end, the only exit along the path. He almost slipped out to inch down the way when a stout dwarf in black stepped through the passage's far end.
A female Stonewalker approached carrying two packs, but she paused partway as someone else called out. The tall elf in white came in behind her and handed off a third pack. Then he turned back to vanish out the end. When the Stonewalker reached the archway, she held out all three packs with one hand—and his sword and Wynn's dagger in the other.
Chane took them, offering no thanks. Then she pulled a bag off her shoulder, dropped it, and left without a word. She never looked back.
He set the packs next to the staff leaning inside the archway and strapped on his sword. Opening the bag, he found a water skin, a loaf of bread, some jerky, and a wooden mug within it. He took out some jerky, poured a mug of water, and brought them to Shade.
"Here," he said, kneeling down.
She did not growl at him and lapped the water briefly. He set the jerky on the floor and moved away. Shade snapped it up, barely chewing, and returned to her vigil.
He could not help but admire her patience. She had thrown herself at the wraith more than once, always protecting Wynn without hesitation. She had found the shore entrance to the underworld when he could not continue the search.
Shade was a better companion than most Chane had known.
"She will come back," he said.
Shade's ears twitched, but that was all.
He hoped Wynn would return with some answers, perhaps even concerning the scroll. In her absence, he hoped Shade might grow more used to his presence. Natural enemies or not, they were stuck with each other in a common purpose. But even that had become too complicated, from the elf's indiscernible lies, to the master Stonewalker's seeming acceptance of Ore-Locks … and the madman hidden away in the pool's locked chamber.
Worst of all, the wraith still existed. It had gained the underworld before raising any alarm or awareness—even his own.
Chane looked down at Welstiel's ring of nothing on his finger. He had worn it so long, so often, he sometimes forgot it was there. It was necessary, or had been. But if he had not been wearing it when they had entered this place …