"For the sake of an alliance I would do the unthinkable and invite the thirdlings to join our assembly." The high king sighed. "In times such as these, old animosities must be forgotten. We're all dwarves, after all, and kinship is what counts."
The counselor was in no doubt that Girdlegard needed every ax that could cleave an orcish skull, but he also knew his fellow dwarves too well. "After Gandogar's rabble-rousing, the assembly will be in no mood for appeasement."
"Perhaps you're right, Balendilнn. I know our vision of a united and unstoppable dwarven army is fading, but we cannot permit the assembly to sanction a war against the elves. We must convince the delegates that attacking Вlandur would be foolhardy." The high king's voice sounded weaker than ever. "We need more time."
"The timing depends on you," his counselor said gently. "Gandogar will not ascend the throne while you are strong enough to rule."
"No one should rely on the failing fires of a dying king." Gundrabur smoothed his beard. "We need something more decisive… We shall use the dwarven laws to silence the warmongers and put a stop to the matter once and for all."
He descended the throne, negotiating the steps with utmost concentration. Every movement was small and considered, but at last he reached the stelae. Balendilнn was at his side in an instant to offer him a steadying arm.
Golden sunlight poured through the slits carved into the rock, illuminating every flourish of the runes. Gundrabur's weak eyes scanned the symbols.
"Gandogar is certain to be elected," he muttered absently, "but if my memory serves me correctly, there is a way of delaying the succession. It will buy us some time so we can talk to the chieftains and strive for peace and an alliance with the elves."
His eyesight had dimmed with the cycles and was now so poor that he was forced to stand with his nose almost touching the stone. The law stated that the throne, currently occupied by a dwarf of Beroпn, should pass to one of Goпmdil's folk. On that basis, Gandogar's succession was secure. Tradition dictated that the heir should stake his claim and be elected by the assembly unless there was reason to contest the appointment.
"I'm sure it's here somewhere," he murmured to himself, fingertips gliding across the stone.
His efforts were rewarded. With a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes and pressed his brow against the cold tablet whose surface had been engraved long before he was born.
"After such a wretched beginning, the orbit has taken a turn for the better. Listen to this." He straightened up and ran a crooked index finger over the all-important words. "Should the folk in question produce more than one possible heir, the clans of that folk must confer among themselves and decide on a candidate before presenting their preferred successor to the assembly," he finished in a satisfied tone.
His counselor read the passage again, fiddling excitedly with the trinkets in his graying beard. There was nothing to say that the chosen candidate would be the existing monarch: Any dwarf could stake a claim. "Accordingly, a dwarf of any rank may be elected high king, provided be has the support of his kinsfolk."
Balendilнn saw what his sovereign had in mind. "But who would challenge Gandogar?" he asked. "The fourthling clans are in agreement. To be sure, there are those who doubt their king, but…" He stopped, baffled by the look of satisfaction on the high king's craggy face. "Or is there such a dwarf?"
"No," Gundrabur answered with a wily smile, thinking of the letter that had been sent to him several orbits ago. "Not yet, but there will be." Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle There was almost nothing left in the candleholders on Lot-Ionan's desk. The flickering light and short stumps of wax were sure signs that the magus had been in his study for hours, although it seemed to him that only minutes had elapsed.
He leaned awkwardly over the parchment, poring over the closely written runes. Inscribing the magic formula had consumed countless orbits, even cycles of his time. There was one last symbol to be added; then the charm would be complete.
He smiled. Most mortals had no experience of the mystic arts and were suspicious of magic in any form. For simple souls, the constellation of the elements was a mysterious business, but for Lot-Ionan, the sorcery that drove fear into the heart of peasants was nothing more than the logical outcome of elaborate sequences of gestures and words.
It was one such sequence that occupied him now. Everything had to be exactly right. One wrong syllable, a single character out of place, an imprecise gesture, a hurried movement of his staff, or even a sloppily drawn circle could ruin a spell or unleash a catastrophe.
The magus could name any number of occasions when his pupils had conjured fearsome beasts or caused themselves terrible harm because of their carelessness. It always ended the same way: with an embarrassed apology and a plea for help.
He never lost patience with his famuli. Once he had been an apprentice too. Now he was a magus, a master magician or wizard, as some folks called him.
Two hundred and eight-seven cycles. He stopped what he was doing, hand poised above the parchment. His gaze, alert as ever, took in his creased and blotchy skin, then roved over the jumble of cupboards, cabinets, and bookshelves in search of a mirror. At length his blue eyes came to rest on the shiny surface of a vase.
He appraised the reflection: wrinkled face, gray hair with white streaks, and a graying beard dotted with smudges of ink. There's no denying I'm older, but am I wiser? That's the question…
His beige robes had been darned and patched a thousand times, but he refused to be parted from them. Unlike some of his fellow magi, he took no interest in his appearance, caring only that his garments were comfortable to wear.
In one important respect the old scholar agreed with the common people: Magic was a dangerous thing. To minimize the fallout from failed experiments, he pursued his studies in the safety of the vaults.
Of course, the magus's motives for retreating below the surface were not entirely selfless. In the calm of the vaults he could forget about his fellow humans and their trivial concerns. He delegated the running of the realm and the settling of minor disputes to his magisters, functionaries picked expressly for the job.
The enchanted realm of Ionandar stretched across the southeastern corner of Girdlegard, covering parts of Gauragar and Idoslane, its borders defined by a magic force field, one of six in total. Certain regions of Girdlegard were invested with an energy that could be channeled into living beings, as the very first wizards had learned. Once transferred to a human, the energy became finite, but a person could renew his store of magic by returning to the field. No sooner had the magi made this discovery than they seized the land, divided it into six enchanted realms, and defended the territory against existing monarchs who had no weapons to match their magic powers. Generations of rulers had been forced to accept that swathes of their kingdoms were under foreign rule.
The force fields were the key to the magi's power. The six wizards' skills and knowledge had increased over time and now their formulae, runes, and spells were capable of working great beauty, terror, and good.
Keep your mind on the formula, he chided himself. Carefully wiping the tip of his goose quill against the inkwell, he lowered it to the parchment and traced a symbol slowly on the sheet: the element of fire. Every flourish of the quill was vitally important; a second of inattention would ruin all his work.
His diligence paid off. Satisfied, he rose to his feet.
"Well, old boy, you've done it," he murmured in relief. The formula was complete. If the sequence of runes worked as he intended, he would be able to detect the presence of magic in people, creatures, or objects. But before he put the theory into practice, it was time for a little reward.