“Neither do I.” Hornfel said. Gneiss understood then that his friend had not been losing sleep only to the matter of the refugees. Hornfel was careful where he did his breathing. He went to the garden outside the Court of Thanes. He paced the fine gravel paths, a measured march.
He was happy for the victory he’d won. And no, he’d had no plan to let “his ragged eight hundred” lounge and sleep the winter away. Nor had he wished to offer what looked, even to him, like indentured servitude. It was no way to win allies, and he knew he would need allies soon. He’d seen the confirmation of that in Realgar’s eyes today.
He paused in his measured pacing. His circuit of the garden brought him to the largest areas of planting. Here, the wildly colored mountain flowers of summer bloomed, as they did all year round, in the carefully controlled climate of the underground gardens.
Slim-leafed bell heather and the gray-green mountain everlasting blossomed side by side. Royal fern spread wide fronds, more gold than green. Hearty yellow-flowered gorse poked through those sweeping fans as though caring little for the prerogatives of royalty, and rosebay crept up the border of the planting in low growing mats.
Hornfel touched a finger to one of the rosebay’s delicate flowers. The soft pink petals were wide in the light shining down from the many shafts of crystal leading to the surface. The rosebay’s tender flower shivered a little.
Hornfel drew back his hand and looked up at the light shaft positioned almost directly above him. The lavender glow of approaching twilight drifted down to the garden, but during the day, a diffused golden light nourished the plantings.
The same system of crystal shafts illuminated the six cities as though they lay in sunlight and provided the light needed to grow the crops that fed hungry Thorbardin.
We may love the mountains and all their deep secrets, thought Hornfel, but we love the light, too. At least, some of us do.
A soft footfall and a roughly cleared throat startled Hornfel. He turned slowly, not showing his surprise. As he met the black eyes of the Theiwar’s thane, Hornfel had the clear impression that Realgar, squinting in what to him must seem the bright glare of the garden, had been watching him for some moments. He saw the shadow of dark thoughts in Realgar’s eyes. The back of his neck went cold as though the breath of winter mourned through the garden.
“Your … guests await you,” the derro mage said. He spoke the word as though naming a plague. With a scornful smile, the Theiwar left as silently as he’d arrived.
Dark thoughts and red fury, Hornfel thought. Realgar had fought to the last moment of a long and exhausting council session, insisting that no good would come of admitting humans into the mountain kingdom. He used to think that he would be the first Realgar would murder if he could. Hornfel thought now that if the chance presented itself, Realgar would certainly murder him. But not before he killed Gneiss, whose temporizing had opened the doors to the refugees just as effectively as a firm commitment.
He supposed that the only reason they weren’t dead yet was Realgar hadn’t found the Kingsword. How long before he did? Or how long before he tired of waiting for the symbol and mounted his revolution without it?
Hornfel was no longer certain that the sword would be found. It had been too many days since word first came that Stormblade had been seen. Last night, in the dark of midnight, Hornfel began to consider what must be done if Kyan, Piper, and Stanach were dead; if Stormblade were lost again. All his plans were for defense.
Gneiss, he realized, must be considering the same plans. Three of Gneiss’s Daewar warriors seemed always to be nearby. Yet, how would they defend him against magic should Realgar swerve from his usual path of assassins and daggers in the dark?
Not at all, Hornfel thought bitterly, as he left the garden and prepared to dole out his ragged hospitality.
Gneiss’s guards did not enter the Court of Thanes with Hornfel, but stayed behind at the door within sound of his call. Three others, their weapons close to hand, waited in the council chamber. They made no pretense to politeness, but stood within an easy hand’s reach of the refugees’ representatives.
Hornfel, studied the two messengers carefully as he walked the length of the great hall. One, a red-bearded half-elf turned at the sound of the dwarf’s footfalls. He wore a sword at his hip and a longbow over his shoulder. His green eyes were hard and sharp.
His companion, a tall woman dressed in the buckskins of the Plains, laid a slim hand on the hunter’s arm as she heard Hornfel’s approach. Hair that was both moon-silver and sun-gold glistened in the glow of newly lighted torches when she moved. She murmured a word, no more, and the half-elf relaxed.
At least, he seemed to. Those green eyes never softened. Here’s one, Hornfel mused, who doesn’t like playing the supplicant! Aye, well, I can’t blame you, hunter. I wouldn’t care for the role myself.
At Hornfel’s open-handed gesture of welcome, the guards moved back a pace or two.
“I thank you for waiting,” the dwarf said.
The half-elf drew a breath to speak, but the light hand on his arm moved in a way meant both to be gentle and, unconsciously, to command. The woman spoke and her voice was low and soft. The soothing whisper of a dove’s wings lay behind that voice, the whisper of a heart at peace.
“We have been enjoying the beauty of your hall.”
I doubt it, Hornfel thought, or at least your friend hasn’t been. He motioned toward an alcove off the main hall, large enough to hold a map table made from a single cut of rose-streaked marble.
“Lady,” he said as he lifted a torch from a nearby cresset, “be comfortable.”
She nodded graciously, and when she stepped into the shadowed alcove and took a seat, Hornfel thought he couldn’t be convinced to lay wager which dispelled the shadows, the lady’s own beauty or the light of the torch. The hunter followed her closely, as though he were her bodyguard, with the three Daewar on his heels. Hornfel drew an impatient breath as he observed their maneuvering. He spoke as he positioned the torch on the wall.
“You,” he said to the half-elf, “go hover behind your lady if that makes you comfortable.” He jerked a thumb at the guards. “You can all crowd in here behind me or go ward the door, whichever makes you happiest.”
The Daewar looked confused, but they knew a command when they heard one. They left the alcove. Though the half-elf finally grinned sheepishly, he went to stand behind the lady.
“Do they guard you against us?”
Hornfel shook his head and dropped into the chair opposite the woman.
“They guard me, but it hasn’t to do with you or your lady. We don’t guard ourselves against friends.”
The Plainswoman considered this, then nodded. “We are happy to be named friends.” She gestured gracefully to her guardian. “This is Tanis Half-Elven.” She smiled. “Though I am not his lady, I could be no safer with him if I were. I am Goldmoon, Chieftain’s Daughter of the Que-Shu.” Her eyes lighted with dawn’s own softness.
“The goddess I serve is Mishakal,” she said, “and I am her cleric. In her name we have come to learn if you will help the homeless refugees from Verminaard’s slavery.”
Hornfel shook his head. “Lady, there hasn’t been a true cleric in Krynn for these three hundred years past.”
“I know it, thane. Not since the Cataclysm. There is now.”
The dwarf closed his eyes. Mishakall Mesalax, the dwarves called the goddess, and they loved her no less than they loved Reorx, whom they named Father. For, if he was the maker of the world, Mesalax was the fountain from which its beauty sprang.
Hornfel looked from Goldmoon to the one called Tanis. Was it true?
He thought it might be. Gods moved in Krynn now, lending their fire to Kingswords and their dragons to Highlords. Why wouldn’t Mesalax grant her blessing to a woman out of the barbarian Plains?