Through Stone and Sea - By Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee Page 0,76

would not have heard it without his senses heightened. Then he felt a slight vibration through his sword. He redoubled his efforts.

“Keep going,” Wynn urged.

Chane began trying to shift the sword’s point deeper as he levered it, and the seam began to part.

“Now!” he rasped.

Wynn rushed in beneath the blade.

Before she even raised the crystal to the seam, Chane saw it was futile, and he heard Wynn sigh in frustration. Through the space parted by the sword, they both saw another set of iron doors tightly shut behind the first.

Chane closed his eyes in resignation. He could not possibly keep the first pair open and lever the second. The instant he released any pressure to move the sword’s point to the inner doors’ seam, the first set would slam closed around the blade. And he could not lever both sets at once.

Wynn slumped, leaning her forehead upon the iron.

A soft clank reached Chane’s heightened hearing. He felt a dull and muted vibration shiver through the doors and into his sword.

“Get back!” he ordered.

Wynn shoved off, retreating with a stumble, as Chane pulled his foot off the arch’s side. A thunderous crack shuddered through the whole passage, as if coming from inside its walls.

The doors snapped closed.

A ping of steel pierced Chane’s ears. All resistance in his sword failed.

His blade tore free as something sharp and cold grazed his neck, but he was already tumbling along the doors. He hit the archway’s far side, spun off, and fell into the passage as a clatter of steel rang in his ears. Wynn came to him before he could sit up.

“Chane?” she asked in alarm, touching his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He sat up, staring at the soundly shut doors. Something had forced them closed again.

“What happened?” she asked, following his gaze.

Chane shook his head, uncertain. “Some latent countermeasure,” he answered.

“You’re . . . cut.”

Only then did he feel a trickle of wetness at the side of his shirt collar. He reached up, touching his throat just above the old scar around his neck, and his fingertips came away stained.

Not red with the blood of the living but viscous black.

“It is nothing,” he said. “The wound will shortly close on its own. The sword must have grazed me when forced out.”

The sword was still in his hands, still wrapped in the cloak, though the fabric had slid down across its tip. Chane got up, frustrated by that one moment of false hope when the doors had parted. He swept back his cloak, lifting the blade to sheathe it.

A hand’s length of the tip was gone.

Chane just stared at it.

Shade huffed once, and he saw the dog nosing the missing piece on the passage’s floor.

“Odsúdýnjè!” he swore, slipping into his native Belaskian.

Wynn sighed. “We’ll get it fixed or replace it.”

“How?” he snarled. “A sword is not some idle purchase of a pittance. I do not have that much coin. Do you?”

“No.”

Wynn dropped to her haunches, hands over her face, and began muttering, “Think, think, think,” over and over. Chane closed his eyes, willing himself to remain calm.

He sheathed the broken sword and gathered up its severed end. The blade was still usable, in part, and he had little choice. It was the only worthwhile weapon he possessed. Their efforts were pointless, and now costly.

Still, Wynn would not relent. If she did not do so, and soon, he would force her, no matter any complications with Shade.

“Perhaps Cinder-Shard had another method,” he suggested. “Some tool needed for the doors that Shade could not see.”

He meant to imply that they had no more options and should give up for now. When Wynn lowered her hands, he could almost see her mind turning in a different direction.

“What about my mantic sight?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she rushed on.

“Perhaps I could find traces of where someone’s spiritual presence has passed through? If I find the exact spot, we may see something we’ve missed.”

She took a few breaths, slowly rose, and focused on the iron doors.

Chane stood watching her, about to drag her off.

“I’ve never seen trails . . . residue of passing,” she whispered, speculating aloud. “Only strength or weakness of Spirit in what is present. But it’s worth a try.”

Renewed hope in her eyes made Chane weary.

“It’s worth a try,” she repeated adamantly. “But I can’t turn it off once it comes.”

That was the part he did not like. Her gift was a taint, not true art, the result of a dangerous mistake