Icelin sat up and reached for her pack and her spare set of clothes. She’d been too tired the night before to change. After their audience with the king, Joya had escorted them to a large stone dwelling in one of the smaller caverns. Icelin hadn’t known it then, but it was the private residence of the Blackhorns. Neither Garn nor Obrin had been at home when they arrived, so Joya had led them to a pair of rooms at the back of the house, which faced the cluster of forges in the back of the cavern.
“These are Ingara’s rooms,” Joya had explained. “Most of her things have already been moved to the house she and her husband will share, and she’s been eating and sleeping at the forges while she finishes her wedding gift, so you’re welcome to them. These days, the house is empty. My father and brother are out on patrol for days at a time, and when I’m not with them, I’m at the temple. It’ll be nice to have some voices in the house to make it feel lived-in again.”
Joya was right. The large, empty rooms felt lonely and neglected. It had taken a long time for the fire to chase the chill away.
Icelin lifted the water basin and set it before the fire. Whoever had left it for her-Joya had said there was a pair of dwarves, a husband and wife, who looked after the house and would see to their needs-had left a washcloth and soap as well. Icelin splashed cold water on her face and used the cloth and soap to clean the sweat and road dust off her. When she’d finished, she slipped quickly into her spare clothes and sat close to the fire to warm herself. Her hair was full of tangles and knots. She leaned over the basin and dipped it into the soapy water. Shivering, she wrung out the strands and combed them with her fingers. She pointedly ignored the gray streaks that stood out against the darker black.
Wisdom comes with the gray, her great uncle used to say. Icelin wished she could dream about him instead of cryptic images of blank books and disembodied voices. Then again, she rarely slept through the night anymore. Maybe her spellscar was to blame, or maybe it was just that she wanted to waste as little time sleeping as she could.
Though, what had brought her awake so early this morning wasn’t hard to guess. Visions of the Arcane Script Sphere floated in Icelin’s mind. Her excitement at learning that the artifact contained a piece of Mystra was eclipsed only by her trepidation when she considered King Mith Barak’s bargain.
Nothing is settled. You can still back out.
Would the king truly let her and her friends go if she did? Icelin wondered. Or were they only guests here as long as the king got what he wanted from them? They would find out soon enough.
For now, her hair clean and with fresh clothes on her back, Icelin felt renewed. Joya had tended her wound the previous night, and she must have slept off the last vestiges of the drow poison, for she detected no lingering weakness. Even the wild magic she’d unleashed the day before hadn’t left her as weary as she’d thought it would, which was a good sign.
In the next room, Sull’s snores had stopped. He and Ruen must be stirring, Icelin thought. The king had promised to let her speak to the drow today, and Icelin was curious to see more of Iltkazar. The underground city, spread over several large caverns, bore the most intricate carved stonework Icelin had ever seen. Such beauty, all of it buried underground where most of Faerun would never see it.
She met Sull and Ruen in the hall. The rest of the house was quiet. Joya must have already left for the day.
“I’m feelin’ fine today,” Sull said. He stretched and yawned hugely. “Slept better than I have in months.”
“How were you able to sleep in a dwarven bed?” Icelin asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Didn’t need a bed,” Sull said proudly. “I made myself a nice stack of blankets by the fire. I’m a travelin’ man now, and I can sleep anywhere.”
Icelin grinned. “And you?” she said to Ruen. “Sull’s wild beast snores didn’t keep you awake?”
“I’ve grown used to them,” Ruen said, “which is frightening in itself. What about you?” he said, looking Icelin over carefully. “Are the effects of the drow poison gone?”
“Gone completely.” Icelin turned in a circle, lifting her hands in the air. “What do you think? Am I fit for polite company?”
Ruen pursed his lips. “Polite company?”
Icelin made a face at him. “Fit for the king’s company, at least, and time’s wasting.”
“Oh, wait a breath or two, lass,” Sull interjected hastily. “We need to eat something first, don’t we? Joya says the skeleton and I are going out on patrol with the Blackhorns. Who knows when we’ll get to eat again?”
“The skeleton?” Icelin said.
“He means me,” Ruen said, sighing. “A new nickname.”
“It’s for your own good, too,” Sull told her, ignoring Ruen. “You’ll fall asleep on your feet if you don’t have a decent meal.”
“Let me guess,” Icelin said. “You found the larder last night, and you have some new recipes you want to try?”
Sull’s smile took in his whole face. “You should see the seasonin’s,” the excited butcher said. “Dried mushrooms, roots-I’ve never heard of half of them! You think the Blackhorns would let me take a few samples back to Waterdeep with me?”
“You can ask them yourself,” Ruen said. “I think they’re home.”
Icelin listened and heard movement and voices coming from the front of the house. The Blackhorn family chattered away at each other in Dwarvish. She couldn’t understand a word, but they sounded cheerful, more cheerful than they had on the journey to the city.
The three of them entered the kitchen to see Ingara and Obrin taking plates and cups from a shelf, while Garn stoked the kitchen fire. Obrin laughed at something his sister said. The boisterous sound echoed in the room, and Icelin marveled at how the humor transformed the dwarf’s features. The hard lines at his eyes and lips softened. He stroked his beard excitedly, twirling the mahogany strands around his index finger. He and Ingara laughed like a pair of mischievous children, and they looked and sounded so alike in that breath that Icelin, with a sudden insight, realized the two were likely twins.
Icelin would have been content to stand in the doorway for a long while, soaking up the dwarves’ mirth and good cheer, but Garn looked up from the fire just then and saw the three of them standing there.
“Up at last, are you?” he said, giving the fire another good poke. “We thought you’d sleep the day away.”
Instantly, Obrin and Ingara’s laughter ceased. An awkward silence fell over the room as dwarves and humans regarded each other, neither seeming to know what to say. For Obrin, it was as if a shutter had closed over his face. In silence, he took the rest of the cups and plates from his sister and set them out on a round table across from the fire.
Icelin’s heart sank a little. She regretted staying now. They’d obviously intruded on a family ritual that was no less sacred for its casualness.
Thankfully, the silence didn’t last long. Ingara broke it. “Look at us all, standing around as if we’ve never had guests in the house before. Come in, all of you. We don’t have any food on the table yet, but the fire is warm, and you can have some drink. Father, will you show them?”
“You’re very kind,” Icelin said as Garn laid out a pitcher of something that smelled a little too strongly of liquor for her stomach. Wordlessly, Obrin handed around cups while Ingara retrieved more chairs from the next room. They were large enough for all but Sull, who settled himself on the floor near the fire.
“I couldn’t help but notice your larder,” Sull said, addressing Ingara before another awkward silence fell over the group. “Lovely stock you’ve got in there, just lovely. I … er, hope you didn’t mind me nosin’ around. I have an eye for cookin,’ see, and you have some herbs that are new to me. For instance, those jars of blue powder-what are they used for?”
Ingara blinked. “In truth, I’m not sure. Garryin and Foruna look after the house and do most of the cooking.”