And the stones that embellish these grave gifts have special significance: garnet and topaz for kings and queens, beryl for a prince, amber for a princess…the list is long, for every craft and every occupation has its own stone.”
They moved on to other chambers, where dwarf women were no less busy than the males: carving delicate ivory brooches, illuminating manuscripts with letters of gold leaf, doing fine needlework. Others made musical instruments or intricate toys. And though they visited no workshops of weavers or dyers that day, evidence of such work was everywhere. Tapestries of many colors adorned the walls; floors were covered with rugs of exquisite weaving.
“Not all of these things we make for trade with the other dwarf kingdoms,” said Prince Tyr. “Much is made for the love of fine craftsmanship, and that reason alone.” And Sindérian had a vision of level upon level of storerooms and treasuries under the earth, all of them filled with marvelous handicrafts.
What must it be like to live only to create beautiful things? She felt, momentarily, a bitter stir of envy—not for their riches, certainly, but for their splendid isolation, for their orderly, useful lives, far from the brutality of war. What must it be like to not spend a lifetime healing broken bodies—to make and not to mend?
She was still pondering this question when King Yri sent for her after dinner, specifying a private audience. Much surprised by his invitation—and more than a little apprehensive—she shook her head when Prince Ruan offered to accompany her, and followed the small page sent to escort her, out of the room and down a dim hallway. Arriving at the same audience chamber where the King had received her before, the dwarf youth bowed her through the door, then left her to cross the vast expanse of floor alone.
As she approached the dais, a familiar voice spoke in her mind, causing her heart to soar. Yet her spirits plummeted again at the sight of the white owl perched on an arm of Yri’s throne. As pleased as she was to be reunited with her father, there had been some satisfaction in believing him free while the rest of their party remained captive.
“The hawks on Penadamin told me of a bird that was not a bird,” said the King. He gestured with a hand heavy with rings. “So I sent for your owl—or, should I say, the wizard Faolein?”
The owl fluttered up from his perch on the throne and landed on her shoulder. You need not worry to see me here. The King and I have had a lengthy conversation. I believe we understand each other very well.
“Perhaps,” said Sindérian, biting her lip, “I should have told you before—”
“You might have trusted me with the information—but you were not to know that,” answered the King, more kindly than he had spoken at any time before. “But as pleasant as it is to bring you and your father together, that is not why I sent for you. Seat yourself on the top step—you are tall enough, we may speak together quite comfortably. I mean to tell you something of those you follow.”
As soon as she had seated herself at his feet, he continued: “Since taking the underground road through the catacombs, Ouriána’s priests leave a chain of disturbances wherever they go. It began when they sacrificed a horse outside the Doors of Adamant, in order to gain entry.”
“So that was how it was done,” said Sindérian under her breath. “I did wonder.”
The King gave her a sharp look under his tufted white eyebrows. “And would you shed blood to follow after them—if I were to release you? For though you would be forced to backtrack two days before you came to the doors again, the catacombs are a swifter road than any that goes over the mountains.”
She shook her head in emphatic denial. “My companions and I, we all have blood on our hands—I wish I could say otherwise—but whatever it is that opens those doors and feeds on death…No, I would not strike a bargain with that.”
“You are wise,” said the King. “In that much at least you are wise.” He leaned forward, gripping the arms of his throne. “Travelling through the hill country…perhaps you felt a presence there, ancient and malign?
Perhaps, too, you recognized what it was?”
“I think it was a durathagh, one of the Old Earth Powers,” she answered tentatively.
“Yes. And there is another one, even stronger, within the catacombs. What do you know of them?”
She tried to remember, but there was little to recall. “They were once worshipped as gods; men made sacrifices to them. Beyond that, we know very little about them on Leal.”
“When they were worshipped as gods they were very powerful,” said the King. “In this age, they can do comparatively little without creatures like ourselves to serve as their eyes, ears, and hands. Perhaps it was always so. And they are particularly drawn to young people whose powers are just beginning to unfold—that combination of potency and ignorance, power and vulnerability, is naturally attractive to them. The young woman with the Furiádhin had a very narrow escape—but you need not fear,” he added, as Sindérian started up from her seat. “She did escape, in full possession of her own mind and will. Others were not so fortunate—or at least not all who entered by the Doors of Adamant succeeded in reaching the Doors of Corundum and returning to the surface. Your own danger would be less; nevertheless, there are some bargains which never should be made. The road through the catacombs is not for you.
“But we were speaking of the durathagi,” he said as she settled back on the top step. “Of the one in the catacombs I know, alas, too much. Dwarves made the tombs—not of our own will. For many hundreds of years, our stonecutters toiled there, slaves in fact if not in name. The distant ancestors of the Men of the north were also slaves, but of a lower sort, and the kings who ruled in those days squandered their lives as you or I would spend small coins, carelessly. But when the civilization that enslaved us degenerated, dwarves and Northmen joined together to win our freedom. Yet we never forgot that it had been Men who made slaves of us in the beginning.”
“There is nothing of this in our own lore,” she said with a thoughtful frown. “Your memories, it seems, are far longer than ours.”
“That is because our records are written in stone. Then, too, we are a long-lived race. For us, not so many generations have passed. We may live as long as the greatest wizards, but not so long as the Faey.
Alas, we bear few children, and our numbers remain small. It is the same with wizards, is it not?”
She shook her head. “We bear as many children as ordinary Men, though not all of them are born to magical gifts.” She was beginning to suspect that there was some purpose to this rambling conversation, though what that purpose was remained obscure.
“Yet your own line breeds true, does it not?”
She glanced at Faolein, uncertain whether she ought to answer. Tell him, said the owl. What harm could there be in reciting our family history? He appears to like you. He may like you better for confiding in him. Confidences win trust.
So Sindérian took a deep breath. “When my father was young—as wizards reckon these things—he married a woman who possessed no magic. Wizards had been born in his family for six generations, but the children of that particular marriage were ordinary in every way. When the last of them died, he wished for a child who might outlive him, one who might inherit his gift.
“My mother had reached a similar conclusion. She was also a wizard, with a lineage to match Faolein’s, but she had lived all her long life at the Scholia. Faolein and Shionneth wed for the sole purpose of creating a child. Not a thing easily accomplished, even by wizards, when mother and father had each lived for more than a century. Yet magic eventually proved stronger than nature, and Shionneth gave birth to me. It was, I fear, a somewhat cold-blooded union.”