“Good or ill, what are our human plans or ventures to them?” Skerry exclaimed, in a rare show of impatience. “For myself, I thought their race extinct. For two hundred years they have lived without meddling in our affairs or us meddling in theirs. Why should that change now?”
Sindérian shook her head. “We don’t know for certain that we’re the very first Men they have spoken with in two hundred years. We live in strange times, and news travels slowly.”
A heavy silence fell over the room, broken at last by Kivik, asking the question on everyone’s mind. “But if not us, then who?”
No one answered; nobody needed to. If not the allied lands, if not the men of Skyrra, Mistlewald, or Arkenfell, who but Ouriána, whose reach seemed to grow longer with every passing day?
“I wonder,” said Prince Ruan, scowling ferociously at the great oak door, “whether we would be wise or foolish to try and find out what waits on the other side?”
As if in answer, the wooden panels began to swing outward.
At first they were dazzled by torchlight pouring out from the chamber beyond. A voice bade them enter.
Once they were past the threshold, Sindérian’s eyes quickly adjusted. She found herself in a large audience chamber with a stepped dais at the center. The floor was paved with rich marbles, jade, and agate, and the rafters of that hall were the bones of some colossal creature—a fossilized leviathan of ancient seas, perhaps, or one of the shape-shifting giants, like the one whose bone was in Nimenoë’s ring. Upon the dais, on a throne carved from a single dragon’s tooth, sat King Yri.
Bent, crabbed, wrinkled, very ancient he was, with hair and beard reaching almost to his feet, so that he seemed to be clothed in a mantle of white hair. Below and to either side of the platform a crowd of dwarf lords and ladies—if not so old, nevertheless of venerable appearance—were gathered, and the jewels they wore burned brighter than the torches. In all that throng the youngest face belonged to Prince Tyr, who had changed his plain green tunic for one of unknown weave and substance and a mantle trimmed with lynx.
“Come forward,” said the King in a cracked voice. “Come forward that I may see and hear you.”
Sindérian was not deceived. As she drew near the throne and sank into a deep curtsy below the first step, she saw quite plainly that King Yri’s eyes, though pale as glass, were filled with light and singularly penetrating. Neither his sight nor his hearing was failing. He sat for a long time studying them. Only Prince Ruan gave him back look for look.
“It is many years since there have been Men on Penadamin,” said the King in his creaking old voice.
Between the wrinkles, whiskers, and bristling eyebrows, his skin was very pale and fragile looking, giving him the appearance of a wax doll. “The hills to the north do not welcome travellers, and it is wild country south of these mountains. Yet Ouriána’s people were seen on the lower slopes five days ago, before they took the underground road through the catacombs, and I think it is not mere chance that brings you so soon after them.”
As there seemed to be neither a question nor an invitation to speak, Sindérian prudently remained silent and the men did likewise.
“You have names, I suppose,” he said abruptly.
They named themselves one after the other, beginning with Prince Ruan and ending with Aell, and she could see by the expression in those disconcerting eyes that King Yri was far from ignorant of the kingdoms of men or of the houses that ruled them. Yet for all this recognition of the others, she was the one who seemed to interest him the most.
“Sindérian Faellanëos,” he repeated. “Unless I am mistaken, it is a name from the Isle of Wizards. And I ask myself: for what reason would two princes from Skyrra, a wizard woman from Leal, and a half-blood Faey wish to cross the Fenéille Galadan, particularly so late in the year?”
His gaze moved on to Kivik and then to Skerry. “There is a lady who travels with the Furiádhin; she speaks with the accent of the north. From what we have observed, they treat her with some gentleness, yet she appears to be their prisoner. I think it is she who brings you here, perhaps with some idea of rescue. A hopeless task, it seems to me—but then I have found little wisdom in the race of Men.” There was a murmur of agreement from the courtiers gathered around.
When one gnarled hand reached out to clutch the arm of his chair, it could be seen that the King wore massive rings on every finger, even his thumb. “They say the Fates intended all the peoples of the earth to live together, our very differences binding us more closely. But as the years go on, it becomes more and more plain to me that those differences only divide us.” His keen glance came to rest on Prince Ruan.
“As you should know better than most, Ni-Féa prince.”
For a moment Ruan’s handsome, colorless face was like a mask; then something flared up inside him and he flushed to the eyebrows. “You have mistaken me. I am not any prince the Ni-Féa would recognize as such.”
“Do you not bear a Ni-Féa name as well as a Man’s—Anerüian Pendawer? And are you not the grandson of Gäiä, their great queen?”
“I am—or was,” said Ruan between his teeth. “But that connection was severed many years ago.”
“And your part in this,” said the King, turning toward Sindérian again, “that I do not understand. This girl Ouriána’s priests have taken—there must be more at stake than a simple abduction, to bring you here from half a world away.”
Rather than meet that questioning gaze, she dropped her own. So many bewildering impulses were contending inside her, it was hard to know what to do. Common sense dictated that she remain silent, that she say as little as possible. Her heart told her that she ought to trust him. For she suddenly realized that this shrewd old dwarf would make a most valuable ally—if he were not already aligned with the enemy. But the heart can be a terrible liar, the Sight a cheat, if one wants to believe.
“Twice you have named the Dark Lady of Phaôrax,” she said softly. “If I knew what you were to her and she to you—”
There were gasps from the dwarf lords and ladies, a babble of indignant voices that swelled briefly and then died. “Indeed,” said the King, “who is this slip of a girl who dares to stand before me in my own hall and question my motives?” Raising her eyes to meet his, she was surprised to see a glint of amusement.
“Yet perhaps I have invited the question. In any case, I mean to answer it.
“It is five years since Ouriána sent her minions—I will not dignify them by calling them ambassadors—to bargain with us for certain of our treasures. Favor for favor is what she said: She would make us mighty in the New Age to come. We should command wide lands upon the earth as well as those under them.
Magic arts she had that she would teach to us. When we refused to bargain, her messengers resorted to threats.” There was an angry rumble throughout the room.
But of course, thought Sindérian, looking around her at necklets, bracelets, rings, and brooches glowing with gemstones, worked with consummate artistry—in the world above, artifacts of dwarfish make were highly sought after, and their value had only increased since trade with the underground realms had ceased. Ouriána would covet these riches. If not for herself, than to pay her mercenaries. But that was not alclass="underline" there were objects of legendary potency attributed to the dwarves whose value was far above gold or gemstones. It was said the Corridon had created the Dragonstones, the greatest treasure of Ouriána’s house.