In Shade and Shadow

enough that 'thôrhk' was the only term by which Wynn could describe her absent frnother absiend's device.

Thôrhks were gifted only to thänæ, those among the dwarves most revered for their accomplishments. They were also worn by the leaders of the tribes and sometimes clans, and a few others of social status. These two dressed like warriors, but skills in battle weren't all that the dwarves found virtuous. And most warrior thänæ took service by their own choice, swearing no allegiances and serving wherever they saw need.

Wynn heard the study door slam shut.

She held her place for a few shaky breaths and then peered around the stairwell's turn. No one stood upon the landing, though she heard voices again inside High-Tower's study. The three spoke too softly, so she crept up the stairs, crouching low near the narrow space between the floor and door to listen.

'The war happened!' High-Tower growled in Dwarvish. 'You know it… we know it. But now we have the means to prove it. And something that—'

'You will not find it in those rotted texts!' the gravel voice roared. 'All you will find is ruin and—'

'And the shame of the Hassäg'kreigi?' High-Tower finished.

A moment of silence followed, but Wynn was already lost in confusion.

She couldn't make out that final word. Was it some kind of name or a dwarven clan or tribe? She struggled to think of root words from which it had been formed.

The root chas'san, if she recalled correctly, meant 'passage,' and hassäg sounded like a verbal noun in the vocative. Something about «passages» — no, someone making passage or using a passage—a «walker»? And chregh—'stone' — she knew well enough. In the vocative plural it might be pronounced kreigi.

'Stonewalkers?' Wynn whispered.

Then she flinched at her own voice, but no one inside seemed to have noticed.

'Even some of our own people are sick of your secretive ways,' High-Tower growled, 'especially the rare few who still know the myth of Bäalâle Seatt.'

'Watch your tongue, brother!' the younger voice countered. 'Thallûhearag was no myth!'

Wynn's eyes popped wide. High-Tower had a younger brother? That was why the younger visitor had looked strangely familiar.

'Spare me your misguided faith!' the domin answered. 'And don't speak to me again of that thing. I do not share your belief. I do not accept you or it. You do not even know that false abomination's real name… and no one should, if he ever existed!'

'I believe,' the same voice answered.

'Faith that denies fact is fanaticism,' High-Tower spit back. 'Not faith at all, when it tries to hide from truth. I will find truth. If you have no stomach for it go back to praying in your crypts.'

Dead silence trailed on. Wynn finally rose to her knees, leaning an n s, leaniear close to the door.

'I said get out!' High-Tower shouted.

Wynn recoiled in panic. With no time to gain her feet, she scrambled down the stairs on all fours. One hand slipped and she tumbled over.

Wynn flopped and slid along the stairwell's downward curve until her trailing knee smacked a step. She yelped before she could stop herself, and her back hit the outer wall. Finally at a stop, she rolled to sit up and dropped another step. Her rump hit stone as she grabbed her aching knee. Panic-stricken, she bit her lip and stared up the flight of steps, waiting to be caught.

No one came down. She never even heard the study door open. And another tense moment passed.

Wynn finally found the courage to rise and limp upward, but not as quietly as she wanted. She paused, listening at the study's door, but heard no voices.

'Yes?' High-Tower growled from within. 'Well, come in or be off.'

With everything else she'd done to lower the domin's opinion of her, the last thing she needed was to be caught snooping about. She gently gripped the handle and slowly opened the door.

Domin High-Tower sat behind his desk, scribbling on a scrap of paper, as if merely at work. But his rough features were flushed, and perspiration glistened upon his brow beneath the wiry tufts of his gray-streaked reddish hair.

Domin High-Tower was alone.

Wynn looked about the room. Where had the other two gone?

The only way out of the room was the door. Even so, no one had come down, and the other way led up to the tower's next level—which was the top. Had they slipped out, and gone up, and she hadn't heard them? But why and to where?

She stepped in, still uncertain if she'd been overheard outside.

It was uncommon for High-Tower's people to join the Guild of Sagecraft—and some even considered it an unworthy choice. He was the only dwarf among sages that she'd ever known. High-Tower never spoke of this, but Wynn guessed he had suffered over the decision of his chosen path. He finally looked up and let out a growling sigh.

'Well, what is it?' he asked.

Perhaps he'd been so caught up in arguing with his visitors that he hadn't heard her outside.

'News that couldn't wait,' she answered quickly. 'Today's folio wasn't returned. Master Shilwise's scribes didn't finish, and he refused to turn over work to our messengers… he kept the drafts as well.'

High-Tower stood up. 'What?'

'There is nothing you can do,' Wynn said, but he was already rushing for a cloak thrown over the spare chair. 'The shop has been closed and locked for the night.'

'Closed?' High-Tower's black pellet eyes widened as he set his jaw.

Wynn had no wish to upset him more than he already was. Neither did she care to be the only target available for his ire.

'All the scribes have gone home,' she added quickly. 'But the drafts should be safe for one night. Master Shilwise's shop is in a good neighborhood.'

High-Tower's gaze drifted—not to the stairs or the door, nor did it wander about the room. It fixed upon the study's northwest side, and Wynn followed it.

Through one deep-set window, she saw the keep's northwest wall. But upon a second check she found High-Tower wasn't looking out the window. He was staring at the study's curved wall to the left of it—in a direct line with that outer wall.

'Fools and fanatics!' he hissed to himself.

He seemed to come to his senses, glancing at Wynn. His voice rumbled like a distant sea storm closing upon the city.

'This is the last work Shilwise will ever see from us! I must tell Sykion.'

High-Tower headed for the study's open door, sidling sideways to get through it, and Wynn felt his heavy steps through the floor stones. She was lost in her own jumbled thoughts as the domin vanished down the curving stairs.

Thallûhearag… Hassäg'kreigi… Bäalâle Seatt…

That last was a myth that the world had forgotten, though Wynn knew better.

During travels in the Elven Territories, Magiere had seen the distant memories of Most Aged Father, reaching all the way back to the «mythical» war. The Enemy's forces had laid siege to a dwarven stronghold called Bäalâle Seatt. Both sides had perished, though no one then ever learned what happened there. The place itself was forgotten as much as any of the Forgotten History.

But within the domin's chamber had been two who knew it. And what of those other Dwarvish terms?

Wynn studied the wall to the window's left, whispering again, 'Stonewalkers?'

Where had High-Tower's two visitors gone?

Chane Andraso woke from dormancy with a start. Dusk had fallen, and he had not even stirred at the eighth bell marking the end of the day. He should gather his cloak and head fast for the Gild and Ink, the scribe shop of one Master Shilwise.

It had not taken him long to map out the pattern of the scriptoriums being utilized. The guild had hired five