Through Stone and Sea - By Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee Page 0,30

heart and wise enough to best her. Not by ax or sword or feats of might, but by my voice, my words . . . my telling . . . given in charity to her.”

Wynn fell silent, pulled her robe and cloak closed around herself, and bowed her head.

Chane stood rooted to the floor.

He had never seen this side of Wynn. Her sense of drama, of the moment, was surprising if not perfect. It took several breaths for others to realize she had finished, and then the rumble began. One dwarf shouted out in Numanese, “No, that cannot be the end! What happened after? Did you find the treasure?”

Wynn raised her head with the hint of a smile.

“That is another story . . . another telling . . . for another time.” She turned her large brown eyes upon Hammer-Stag, adding, “And for some other fair trade.”

At first, Hammer-Stag simply gazed at her, his expression unreadable. Then he slowly shook his head. He began rumbling with laughter, and suddenly he slapped the table, making the nearest mugs jump and shudder.

“By the Eternals, fair trade indeed! You will sit with me, little one!”

Wynn’s gaze wandered to Chane.

He could not help wondering if the dwarves believed a single word of her tale. Elven assassins and ancient white undeads? But it did not seem to matter. Several raised their mugs high as she joined Hammer-Stag and took a seat. Shade trotted after her, and Chane reluctantly followed, settling beside her at the table.

Another dwarf remained sitting with Hammer-Stag, younger and wearing a cleanly oiled leather hauberk. His mass of brown hair was pulled back with a leather thong, and his slightly darker beard was trimmed and groomed. He observed Wynn, but did not speak.

Hammer-Stag gestured to his companion.

“My kinsman, Carrow,” he said simply. He gathered a pitcher and mugs from the table, shoving one down to Chane.

Chane did not touch it. Then Hammer-Stag slapped a hand over his heart.

“I am Fiáh’our,” he claimed, as if only the sound of his name was needed for anyone to recognize him.

“Hammer-Stag?” Wynn interjected.

He pondered her translation. “Yes!” he agreed. “Hammer-Stag of the family of Loam, Meerschaum clan of the Tumbling-Ridge tribe. And who are you, girl, and your young man?”

“He is not my . . .” Wynn began through clenched teeth, and then fidgeted. “My name is Wynn Hygeorht, of the Calm Seatt branch of the Guild of Sagecraft. This is Chane Andraso, a scholar I met in the Farlands, a region of the eastern continent.”

Chane frowned. Her words were now slurring, and her eyes appeared overly bright. Amid the tale, he had lost track of how much ale she had sampled.

“I see,” said Hammer-Stag, raising thick eyebrows. He glanced down at Shade, who flattened her ears but did not growl. “A fine tale,” he went on. “And well told.”

“So, why is a thänæ telling tales in this poor neighborhood, in the middle of the night?” Wynn blurted out.

Chane’s eyes widened, as did Carrow’s, but Hammer-Stag did not appear insulted.

“Tales must be told . . . a telling is the way . . . most especially if one is honored among the living,” he said. “How else will they be retold, molded over years by the many, and hopefully stand the test of time? That is the only way to become one of the honored dead, to be reborn among the people. So was it with all of the Eternals, whose tales belong to all of the people, no matter where they live.”

Chane frowned. Wynn had mentioned that the dwarves believed their “saints” lived on in this world, watching over them. To claim that their Eternals—their patron saints—still lived seemed strange.

Hammer-Stag waved his hand, brushing off Wynn’s question. “Now, what is it you wish to learn from me?”

Wynn had made that clear from the start, and Chane said, “The location of the Iron-Braid family.”

Carrow winced visibly at that family name.

“Ah, yes.” Hammer-Stag’s expression turned thoughtful, almost sad. “Continue down Limestone Mainway, and turn in at the fifth tunnel to the north. You’ll find a smithy a short way down; you cannot miss it. But only two Iron-Braids remain among us—Skirra Yêarclág Jäyne a’Duwânláh, the daughter, and her mother, Meránge.”

The long dwarven title jumbled in Chane’s head, but he knew from Wynn that Yêarclág meant “Iron- Braid,” based on some respected ancestor in their direct family line.

Wynn tettered on the bench. “Why are . . . you . . . sad . . . when you speak