Through Stone and Sea - By Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee Page 0,47
back, apparently seeing nothing, he reached over his right shoulder. His wide callused hand gripped the battle-ax handle behind his head, but he did not pull it out.
Sau’ilahk rotated his grip, twisting the air between his hands.
A whimper rolled out of his pool of darkness, followed by a familiar terror-choked voice.
“Please . . . help . . . me!”
Hammer-Stag pulled the ax and gripped the haft with both hands. He lunged two steps and then paused with his brows furrowed.
“Who is there?” he growled.
Sau’ilahk’s satisfaction grew. This was so predictable. He twisted his hands again, feigning the familiar voice.
The thänæ craned his neck, trying to see where she was.
“Little mighty one?” he breathed, then shouted, “Where are you?”
“Please help me! It’s coming!”
“No!” he snarled. “I am! Call to me . . . I will find you!”
Hammer-Stag charged down the passage, straight toward Sau’ilahk. As he passed the place where no light reached, Sau’ilahk opened his hands. The patch of darkness died under the light as Sau’ilahk slipped out behind the thänæ.
CHAPTER 7
Wynn awoke the next morning feeling weak and rubbed her eyes. She found herself in the familiar trappings of her room at the temple. Vague, broken memories returned.
She recalled Chane helping her to bed, and Shirvêsh Mallet gently feeding her a bitter liquid. Her ill-used stomach still hurt, but her headache had dulled. She sat up and, to her surprise, felt hungry, not remembering the last time she’d eaten.
Shade lay at the bed’s foot and lifted her head to whine.
“Yes . . . you’re hungry too,” Wynn acknowledged, “but after we make ourselves presentable.”
Getting to her pack was a wobbly exploit. She fumbled inside it for a brush and fresh kerchief, and teetered to the door-side table. She poured water from the pitcher into a basin, though she desperately wanted a full bath. All she could do was scrub her face, arms, and neck with the dampened kerchief. Finally, she tried pulling her hair back into a tail and out of her face, but without a mirror, she ended up with the usual wisps floating around her cheeks. She gave up and filled a clay mug, trying to clean her teeth with a finger.
Shade reared, forepaws jostling the little table, and began lapping the basin’s water.
“Shade!” she warned. “That’s dirty.”
Try as Wynn might, Shade wouldn’t listen, but at least the water wasn’t soapy.
“We need a launderer,” she mumbled. “I stink . . . and my clothes are no better.”
She’d brought only one change of clothing, gifted to her during her time in the an’Croan’s Elven Territories. Disrobing, she started to shiver, and quickly lifted the brazier’s lid off the glowing crystals. She dipped into her pack and pulled out the yellow tunic of raw-spun cotton and the russet pants. Sewn for a youth of the tall Farlands elves, the sleeves and legs were too long. She had to roll them up before dressing.
Cleanly attired, Wynn felt relieved to wear pants again. She’d grown accustomed to not wrestling with a long, bulky robe, or even her shorter travel robe, during her journeys with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap. But as she turned to leave, she grew light-headed and hung on to the door handle until it passed.
Such was the price of bartering in a greeting house. If she hadn’t been so foolish and botched her first meeting with Sliver, all the suffering might have been worth it. Now she could only press blindly onward.
“Come, Shade.”
Wynn stepped out, waiting as Shade followed. But when she closed the door, she paused, studying Chane’s door across the passage.
Hopefully he suffered no ill effects of missing a half day’s dormancy. She still knew so little about the daily—nightly—existence of the Noble Dead. Chane seemed less affected by the sun than by the time of day where dormancy was concerned. Did his body sense the sun’s rhythm, even when he was underground?
She wanted to check on him. Knowing her knock might not be heard, she gripped the handle of his door. The latch wouldn’t budge.
“Locked?” she whispered.
Wynn couldn’t remember if he’d ever done this in their stops along the bay road, but she’d never looked in on him during that time. Shade pricked her ears and huffed as she backed down the corridor.
“I know,” she whispered. “Really, you’re as bad as your father . . . thinking with your stomach!”
But Wynn strolled off after Shade, leaving Chane in privacy. She headed straight for the