managed carefully, Sliver’s reluctant need might still be useful.
“Of course,” Wynn answered as calmly and coldly as she could. “Tell your mother I would be honored to help her.”
Sliver didn’t even acknowledge the words. She rose instantly and headed for the meal hall’s main entrance. She was gone before Shade finally quieted. Wynn’s hand shook as she settled it upon Shade’s back.
Sliver clearly clung to the last of her pride, as the last of her remaining family was coming apart. Asking, demanding help from some interloper—and a noisy scribbler of words, no less—was a final humiliation.
Wynn could barely imagine what Sliver’s life must be like.
Dwarven marriages were often arranged by the families and clans, based on benefits either the bride or groom might provide. Yes, there was love, and it was considered, but if at odds with what was best, it was sacrificed. If the Iron-Braids were part of a clan, its leaders had clearly forgotten Sliver.
She had no one to speak for her, no family name of honor to offer, and no father or siblings with skills or community influence her clan might value. She possessed only a small smithy in a depressed underside and an elderly mother clinging to faith.
The more Wynn thought on this, the more depression overwhelmed fear and frustration. But she had to push aside sympathy.
Chane returned, carrying a pot of hot water, two mugs, and her small tin of mint tea leaves. He hesitated in the entrance and scanned the room once.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Gone.”
“What did she want?”
“Information—about her brother.”
“Information . . . from us?” he scoffed.
Wynn didn’t find the irony humorous.
“Should I fix you some tea?” Chane asked.
Wynn sighed. “No . . . no, thank you.”
Something terrible was coming. She was certain of this from all she had seen and learned in company with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap—and afterward with Shade and Chane. There were larger issues at stake—the world might well be at stake. If she had to manipulate Sliver, she would.
It was an ugly thought.
Uglier still was a ploy forming in her mind.
CHAPTER 11
The following night, Chane led the way into the amphitheater and waited as Wynn warmed up her cold lamp crystal. The empty stands surrounded them as they faced the stage.
The cavernous amphitheater looked different tonight—ancient, stark, and silent. Not one brazier burned beside any of the upper great doors. It was startling to see the vast place so quiet and deserted compared to the crowd at Hammer-Stag’s final wake.
“We should hurry,” Chane said, glancing down at Shade.
Wynn crouched, cupping Shade’s muzzle in her free hand. A blink of stillness passed before Shade wheeled and headed back into the tunnel. Wynn rose, holding out her glowing crystal, and took off after the dog.
Chane followed, watching Wynn’s hair, bound back in a tail, swish gently across her slender back as she trotted.
They turned into a side passage midway down the tunnel, following twists and turns, stairs and ramps of stone, almost too many to remember. But Shade never faltered. As another corridor veered slightly right, ending at a corner, Wynn slowed as the dog pressed on.
“I saw this in the Shade’s memories,” she said. “We’ll come to a sharp left, and then another slighter one.” Her oval face was filled with anticipation. “Do you have the scroll?”
“Of course,” he answered.
She scurried after Shade, and Chane kept up easily on his longer legs. Desire for the missing texts pushed Wynn, perhaps too much. But this was the first true, if tenuous, lead they had gained in getting anywhere near these Stonewalkers.
“From what you described,” he said, “I do not know if we can get through the doors.”
“We’ll get through,” she answered flatly. “Leesil never let a door stop him. Neither will I.”
Mention of her old companion raised quick resentment in Chane. Whenever she spoke of either Magiere or Leesil, he wondered if she would have preferred them here in his place.
Shade took a left, picked up the pace, and then veered down a slant. As she reached another corner, she slowed and huffed softly. Wynn bolted down the slope to the dog.
“Here!” she called.
Chane jogged around them, his hand dropping to his sword as he looked down the next passage. There in the side wall was an archway with deep-set iron doors surrounded by frame stones. He saw no other opening along the corridor, up to where it ended in a left turn a ways down.
Wynn rushed blindly on, skidding to a halt before the arch. She leaned her staff