"No, it has to be on the far side. Its name is derivative of an old desert language."

Ore-Locks paused, as if uncertain. "Then a way station . . . perhaps."

Chane's discomfort increased.

Wynn stood up. "A what?"

"A land-level entrance to a seatt or its settlements," Ore-Locks continued. "Like those of my people's stronghold, Dhredze Seatt."

"A pa.s.sage?" Wynn asked. "All the way through the range to a seatt? That's not possible even for your people."

Ore-Locks gazed southward. "Something is out there, along our path."

He strode off past Chane and down the sheer slope. As Wynn pa.s.sed, following the dwarf, Chane saw thoughts working hard upon her face. He just stood there, tired and frustrated, as Shade pa.s.sed him, as well. When he turned to follow, Shade had paused at where the overhang met the slope.

Her ears p.r.i.c.ked up and she stood rigid, facing northward.

Chane tried to follow Shade's gaze but saw nothing. The rushing night breeze made it impossible to pick up a scent. Then he heard a low rustling in the scant trees. A low branch swayed, but nothing came bustling out. Shade had likely sensed a hare or perhaps a thrush attracted by the torchlight.

"Come," he said.

Shade scurried off downslope, and Chane climbed down. When he reached camp, he went straight for the fire to skin and spit the hare.

"Couldn't you find anything tonight?" Wynn asked from behind the wagon, a nearly empty burlap sack in her hands.

Chane looked to the fireside and then all about the camp. The hare was gone. He glanced upward to the outcrop above. Perhaps Shade had not sensed another hare, but something else scavenging for an easy meal.

"Chane?" Wynn asked.

What could he say? He was not about to alarm her over some fox or wildcat that had outwitted him and Shade.

Sau'ilahk hovered in the shadows of a fir tree just above Chuillyon's camp on the pa.s.s's western slope. He'd discovered the elves trailing Wynn many nights ago. Unlike Wynn's group, these elves had no majay-h to sense his proximity. He sometimes floated in the darkness, listening for bits of information they might unwittingly share.

Tonight was more difficult.

For one, the deer he had fed on provided so little life that he was still hungry. The sight of Chuillyon only thirty paces away was a nagging temptation. He had not forgotten how the old elf had hampered him, helped to trap him back in Dhredze Seatt.

But Sau'ilahk could not risk a vengeful feast just yet.

The old elf traveled with two others. By what Sau'ilahk had overheard from them, one was possibly another white-robed sage, though all three were dressed for travel. Tonight, only Chuillyon and the one called Shodh were present, both looking a little worse for wear. They had not stocked supplies as carefully as Wynn, and had been sleeping on the open ground. There was no fire, only a glowing crystal resting on the boulder they leaned against.

The elves had always kept pace with Wynn, so why had they not packed up to ride out?

Chuillyon closed his eyes and leaned back, half sitting on the waist-high boulder. However, Shodh glanced southward through the slope's trees a little too often.

Where was their third companion, the woman called Hannschi?

"How much longer will the human journeyor continue?" Shodh asked tonelessly. "They must be in a similar state to us."

Sau'ilahk sensed dissension between them as he caught the almost imperceptible tightening of Chuillyon's mouth as the old elf's eyes opened. These two had had this conversation before.

"As I have said," Chuillyon answered, "I believe she is looking for a seatt . . . which are always built in mountains or a high vantage point."

"You do not think she will turn back?"

"I do not."

Sau'ilahk wondered if perhaps against only two, he might take the old one and leave the younger alive enough for questioning.

Shodh suddenly stood up and stared southward. Tree branches wavered and snapped back, as if something had pa.s.sed through them. A strange ripple in the night formed three steps inward from that disturbance on the camp's southern side.

Hannschi stepped out of the warped air as if from water, the colors and textures of the trees and earth flowing off her.

Sau'ilahk had not seen her do this before. It confirmed she was a thaumaturge, a metaologer among the sages. And she was fairly skilled, if she could bend light to hide herself at night.

"Well?" Chuillyon asked, straightening. "Are they moving? How far are they?"

Sau'ilahk realized the female had been spying on Wynn's group.

Hannschi hesitated before answering. "No, they have not yet broken camp, but they will soon."

"Not yet?" Chuillyon echoed. "It is long past dusk."

"Come, sit," Shodh interrupted, waving Hannschi forward.

Of the three, she was the most exhausted by far-growing worse over the long nights. Sau'ilahk had noted this was another contention point between the two men. Chuillyon's annoying jovial nature had turned serious over this journey. However, he politely but more pointedly insisted that they continue.

"The pale one and the dog were out hunting," Hannschi said, settling against the boulder at Shodh's insistence. "The journeyor and the dwarf found a pile of stones high up on an outcrop. They seemed quite interested."

"Why?" Chuillyon asked, his brows creasing.

"I could not get close enough to hear. The majay-h appeared to sense me or pick up my scent." She paused. "But if we can risk a small fire, I brought something back."

The two males exchanged quizzical glances.

"Supper," Hannschi explained with a smile, opening her cloak to pull out a dead hare.

Chuillyon smiled back, a trace of his former demeanor returning.

Sau'ilahk antic.i.p.ated when he would catch that old elf alone and unaware. That one would never stand in his way again.

Gha.s.san il'Snke had traveled for more than a moon. He stood on a craggy foothill, gazing across the shallow depression before him at what appeared to be a fallen mountain.

The first part of his trek had taken him northward along the coast to the vast range's western end. There he had turned eastward along the foothills between the peaks and the desert's northern fringe of dried, dusty earth.

Tracking Wynn by the staff's sun crystal was limited, for he gained only a sense of her general direction and distance. But she was coming south from the Lhoin'na. By a map copied from the ship captain's records, Gha.s.san guessed she was nearing the end of the Slip-Tooth Pa.s.s. She would soon enter the range from the northern side, but he was not concerned. He had ample time, and she had a long, hard trek ahead of her.

With his copy of the poem fragment translated for her and the clues that it bore, Gha.s.san was certain he would find the seatt well before she did-if it existed.

He still wore his midnight blue robe with its cowl to protect him from the bright sun and the freezing nights. But he hadn't found ample firewood for the past eight days. All he had left to eat was dried flatbread. Water was not so much an issue.

Gha.s.san had grown up near the desert before joining the guild. Interaction with tribal people who still ranged the dunes taught him the ways to find water where others would see none. Even weary as he was, ever since translating that poem fragment, Gha.s.san often lingered in memories of his youth.

Allowed to sit "silently" at the evening fire with his grandfather when tribal elders came to visit, he heard many an entertaining though frightening tale-including one about a headless mountain. It was said that for any who found it, the last thing they heard in this world were whispered rumblings in the dark. Then the head of the mountain took form again, but as fire instead of stone. All there were consumed, leaving only ash that blew away in the next dawn's wind, and the mountain remained headless once again.

That tale had not been so entertaining or frightening to eight-year-old Gha.s.san. If such noises were the last thing one heard before the peak's missing head reappeared as fire, then . . . ?

"How could anyone have lived to tell of it?" he had whispered to his grandfather, not daring to speak openly, impolitely, before the hosted tribal elders.

Grandfather had smiled brightly. With a wink and pat on Gha.s.san's hand, he placed a finger over his wrinkled lips.

Gha.s.san had not thought of that tale again until after he met Wynn Hygeorht. Now he looked up the base slope of a headless-or "fallen"-mountain beyond, hidden from the desert below by the jagged hills and lower crags.

It must have once been as immense as any other peak in the range. He could almost not see from one side of its base to the other. About halfway up, the entire top half seemed to have caved in. He wondered, if he climbed all the way up, would he find a flat plateau, crumbled hillocks of boulders, or a crater?

"I am here, Wynn," Gha.s.san whispered in the cold evening breeze. "I have found it first."

He rushed downward through the depression to the mountain's base.

If this was where Balle Seatt had once existed, climbing to its top would avail him nothing. Any higher entrance would have collapsed if the mountain-top had indeed fallen. But if the tales of the "headless mountain" were based on fact, anyone who had come here and lived had never mentioned anything below it. Lower entrances, if they existed, surely would have been found. So did they even exist?

Yes, he was here. He believed he had found the location of the lost seatt.

"But how do I get inside?" Gha.s.san whispered again on the wind.

CHAPTER 19.

A few nights later, Chane was out foraging on his own. He took relief in being off by himself for a while.

In his mortal days, he had needed a share of solitude. That penchant had increased since the night he rose from death. Though he cherished Wynn's company, the last two moons in close quarters with others had begun to take its toll.

He still had some acquired life in one bottle, so he was not concerned for himself, but he strode the pa.s.s's western slope, looking for firewood or anything edible for his companions.

They had made good time in the last few nights, and mountains loomed close ahead. But even in darkness, the landscape was bleak, a rocky terrain spare of trees.

He wandered into an open area at the base of a shorn slope where no trees grew among the scattered, loose stones. Only the sharp angles of embedded boulders showed in the dark. He headed toward the straggly trees at the far side, for no game would linger here.

Chane's boot toe caught on something.

Stumbling forward before righting himself, he looked down at a square edge protruding from hardened ground. He found himself standing on a flat area, and an exposed patch of smooth stone showed where his boot had scuffed away the dirt. He bent over, studying it.

It was smooth-too smooth-and level versus the surrounding slope of dirt. Crouching, he began brushing away more dirt, and soon exposed an edge.

Though the stone was pitted with wear and age, the small patch appeared to be cut square. He began using his old shortened sword to break more of the hard earth. When he had cleared five paces' worth, he stopped to examine what he had exposed. The entire edge of stone ran straight and square for the whole distance. It might have once been the foundation of a small but heavy building set into the gradual slope. He stood up, scanning the ground around him, and let hunger rise a little to sharpen his night sight.

Those other shallow, angular protrusions were not embedded boulders. He could see the outlines for what they were-the bones of long-forgotten buildings at various points up the shallow slope.

Had there been a settlement here long ago? That was strange for the middle of nowhere.

Chane walked back along the edge he had exposed. He noticed a fallen tree, weather grayed, lower down the slope. Hacking off pieces, he gathered what he could before turning back the way he had come. But he paused, glancing back once at those ruins' remains, and remembered what Ore-Locks had claimed at the shattered pylon.

Something is out there, along our path.

Chane was tempted not to mention this place at all.

Before dawn, they had found a decent spot to camp between two ridges up the pa.s.s's western slope. A tiny, if somewhat clouded, stream trickled down a rock crevice to replenish their water casks. Walking into camp, Chane found a fire burning with the remains of last night's wood. Wynn was bent over a pot at the fireside.

"I'm telling you, they are edible," she said emphatically. "As long as they are thoroughly cooked with enough water."

Ore-Locks frowned, almost to the point of disgust, showing more emotion than usual. Lying nearby, Shade grumbled, her head on her paws.

"What is edible?" Chane asked, dropping the wood beside the fire.

Wynn looked up, and he noted her dust-laced hair. She wore it loose tonight, and instead of wispy and light brown, it looked flat and dull in the firelight.

"Oats," she answered.

Both surprised and dubious, Chane leaned over the pot. "The stone-rolled ones . . . for the horses?"

"It's the most abundant foodstuff we have left. Domin Tilswith and I were forced to live on them several times. They are perfectly edible if cooked down enough . . . but a pity we have no honey."

Shade made a little retching noise and squirmed around to face the other way.

Chane regretted the lost hare from a few nights back, more so when he studied the cream-colored goop Wynn was cooking. Fortunately, he would not have to eat it.

"Did you find anything else?" she asked.

"Nothing to eat," he returned. "Only . . . only a place."

Wynn stopped stirring. Ore-Locks was still slightly aghast, watching the pot. He blinked and looked up.

"A what?" he asked.

The look in Wynn's eyes made Chane clench his jaw, wishing he had said nothing at all. But it was too late.

Wynn held her crystal over the half-buried stone remains. Excitement-even hope-slowly built within her.

"Well?" she asked Ore-Locks.

He'd done some digging and unearthed a forearm's height of a stone wall's base. He was crouched, examining it.