the corridor emptied into an open space. There stood a somewhat flabby dwarven woman in an apron, gripping a straw broom. She was chatting with a young male behind a stout desk.
“Pardon,” Wynn called, and her own vile breath made her want to cover her mouth again. “Can you tell me the time of day?”
The male leaned sideways, peeking around his companion, and both dwarves’ eyes widened.
Wynn winced—she must look worse than she imagined. But the one behind the desk corrected his expression to polite disinterest.
“Yes, miss, it is just past Day-Winter’s start.”
“My thanks.”
Wynn pulled back and shut the door. How could she have slept until midafternoon?
She had only one friendly contact in all of Dhredze Seatt. That was Shirvêsh Mallet, back in Bay-Side—all the way on the mountain’s other side. Perhaps if pressed more subtly, the old shirvêsh might give her another lead, some other way to find the Stonewalkers. Or failing that, he might provide some custom to help make amends with Sliver.
The dwarves were a people of long tradition, couched in clan and tribal rules and rituals. Yes, for now Shirvêsh Mallet was her best and only choice—in a retreat from her mistakes.
Wynn slid down the door and patted the floor for Shade’s attention. The dog just stared at her, so she held out her hands. Shade padded over, and Wynn took the dog’s face in her hands, calling up memories of the temple. Before she even raised an image of the tram, Shade backpedaled out of reach, growling at her.
“I know it was awful,” Wynn whispered, “but we have to go.”
Chane still hadn’t moved. Back at the guild, he’d slept in a bed in Domin il’Sänke’s chambers, but she’d peeked in there only occasionally. So far in this journey, they’d arranged for separate rooms, and Wynn had never seen him in full dormancy before. The sight was unnerving, but at least the sun didn’t matter inside the mountain.
If they started back now, the tram would arrive at Bay-Side by early night. They would reach the temple not long past supper—a good time to speak with Shirvêsh Mallet.
Trying to ignore her pounding head, Wynn crawled toward Chane.
She stopped near his shoulder and looked down at him, almost feeling as if she invaded his privacy. He might not like for her to study him like this—so dead and still upon the floor.
He was proud, but secretly this was one of the things she admired about him. She could not help thinking back to those distant nights in Bela, at the newly founded branch for the Guild of Sagecraft, when he visited and drank mint tea with her as they pored over historical parchments. A handsome young nobleman seeking out her company, of all people.
Then she’d learned the truth about him.
He was a vampire who drank blood to continue existing, and of course she’d shut him out of her life. But nearly every time her life was in danger, he’d appeared from nowhere to throw himself in front of her, to protect her at any cost. Once, when she’d been locked away by a brutish warlord, Chane had broken into the keep, killed several soldiers, and carried her out through an underwater tunnel.
Wynn didn’t fully understand Chane’s feelings for her. She knew they were strong, and she wasn’t the sort of woman who normally inspired such in men. There had been only one other.
Osha, a young elf and an’Cróan had been in training to be an Anmaglâhk—an assassin—though he’d been ill-suited to such a pursuit. He was not handsome, even compared to a human, with a long, horselike face. Nor was he as brooding or intellectual as Chane. Osha’s emotions were always so plain to see, but this made his wonder and kindness show as well, even when tainted by his people’s hate and fear of other races. He was unflinching and steady, and had befriended Wynn when she’d needed one. And perhaps he had felt even more than friendship for her.
If Wynn had wanted to, she could have pulled him further toward her— but she hadn’t. He’d had to return to his people, and she’d been told to return home as well. What could’ve been, couldn’t be between them.
Sometimes, she missed him, thought of him. But when his face rose in her thoughts, somehow, Chane’s always did so as well—even when she didn’t want it to.
Wynn sat there on the floor, looking down at Chane’s smooth, pale features and red-brown hair, wishing. . . .
Things could be different,