Through Stone and Sea - By Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee Page 0,51

grim.

Avarice’s wealth grew as steadily as his skills dwindled.

He forgot all that his forebears had handed down through generations. When his false wealth was greater than that of all the seatt, he demanded the clan elders title him “Thänæ.” They agreed, for even the elders had been made destitute. They saw that only Avarice possessed the way to fortune and renown.

The shirvêsh were told to sanctify a thôrhk. Avarice demanded that it be made of gold and studded in jewels of his choosing, to remind all how great he had become and why. But the shirvêsh refused.

Avarice called in debts to have a thôrhk made to his own liking, though it was never blessed under the sight of the Eternals. It is said that the day he donned it, since no servant of the Eternals would place it upon him, all shirvêsh of the seatt left, never to return.

With a false thänæ as the example of excellence, envy spread like plague.

Such was Avarice’s reputation that even the flow of trading foreigners dwindled, until none from the outside world came to trade and barter at that seatt. The people were left to prey only upon one another’s misfortune.

Until one dawn, a lone traveler did come.

At first the people gave him little notice. Though he was Rughìr, he possessed nothing of worth. He carried only a pack that sagged half- empty and a stout but tarnished iron staff. His boots and garish orange tunic were overweathered and travel-worn. When he stopped at the lone greeting house, no one gave note to this shoddy traveler, not even when he stepped upon the dais without invitation.

Wynn came to the first occurrence of the vubrí for Bedzâ’kenge.

Feather-Tongue began his first tale.

Offered in charity, and in the proper place for a telling, when he finished the story of Pure-Steel and the Night Blight, silence filled the greeting house. Even servers stood petrified, like dead wood poured upon for centuries until it turned rigid as stone. But the silence would be broken.

Avarice had heard word of a telling in the greeting house.

At first he could not believe it, but any brief diversion was rare. He came to see for himself and stood just inside the doorway. Arriving late, he had caught only the story’s last half. Though it cost him nothing, it left him frustrated, as if he had paid even one precious coin but received only a portion of his purchase.

Avarice could not help himself.

He entreated the pauper poet for another tale—by story, song, or poem—but in private, only for himself. For the service, he offered one quarter wedge of the smallest silver piece found among the Churvâdìné.

Wynn paused, and frowned. The old word sounded so familiar. Dené was now the common dwarven word for any “human”—Numan, Suman, or otherwise. But once they had been called the Churvâdìné. . . .

The Confused or Mixed-Up People.

No one else said a word at Avarice’s offer; no one else had the coin to spare. They all waited expectantly for the poet’s reply.

With a slow shake of his head, Feather-Tongue refused.

He would tell a tale in good charity—a story or two, a song, or a poem to break the heart—but only to those too poor to even barter a sip of ale. He would not sell his tales for coin, like possessions to be hoarded.

Avarice became angry.

He believed this pauper poet was either too conceited or too stupid to part with simple tales for good profit. Instead, the wanderer squandered his skills on the unworthy and beggarly. Still, the false thänæ would not turn away.

Avarice doubled his price—and Feather-Tongue refused again.

Avarice offered more—and more—but each time the poet declined. He offered yet again, cringing at the amount, this time for a telling before himself and the clan elders as well. At the least, he would have the credit for providing a meager treat, and the elders would owe him for it.

Feather-Tongue refused again—then he countered.

He would accept only if all the people were allowed to listen. The telling would take place atop the mountain in the seatt’s central amphitheater, where any council was held before the people.

Avarice would not be outbartered by some wandering street performer.

He nearly snarled refusal, but he bit it back in the last instant. If the clan elders would have been indebted to him for a private telling, how much greater his gain would be in what the poet proposed. Though it would be hard to account and collect on such widespread debt, all in the