Ireheart could not deny that he found Balodil weird. “What will you do after you’ve found them all?”
He shrugged his shoulders and puffed out the air in his lungs, looking like a dwarf-child being told off by its mother. “This and that. Perhaps I’ll go to the freelings, perhaps I’ll leave Girdlegard, perhaps I’ll jump off a cliff.” He gurgled and rubbed his beard. “Or perhaps I’ll go to the Outer Lands and look for an army to invade Girdlegard with.” He watched Ireheart’s face carefully. “Well?”
“You wouldn’t do that.” Ireheart studied him. “You know there are too many heroes who can stop you.” Now Ireheart bent forward. “And I know your weak point: Tungdil’s son could never destroy his own father’s inheritance.”
Balodil jerked back and gave a malicious laugh. “No, I was never his son. I picked up the story and liked the idea of joking around with the name.” He giggled again. “It fooled you, didn’t it?”
“Nearly,” Boindil admitted, relieved. “I wish you luck with your plans.”
The Zhadar saluted. “If you ever need me, call my name to the east wind. The wind is my friend and will send me your message,” he said earnestly, stepping out into the outer corridor, where the torches had suddenly been extinguished. “May your god protect you.” And with that he was gone.
Almost too late Ireheart remembered. “Where did you hear Balodil’s story?”
“A friend told me,” came the answer out of the darkness. “The one you called the Growler. He claimed he was Tungdil’s son.”
The dwarf felt his blood run cold. “What?” He followed the Zhadar into the dark. “Is that true?”
There was no answer.
With a head full of thoughts Boindil went back to his quarters. Some dwarves were leaving, carrying heavy boxes and wooden chests.
The move was underway. Everything had been packed and was ready to go to its real home.
It’s really a bit of a shame. Ireheart was beginning to feel nostalgic and passed his hand over the granite of the walls. Evildam had been built according to his plans and had been home to him, his children having grown up here. I shall often come back, even if the journey’s only in my mind.
He entered the room where his family were sitting with Coira, Mallenia and Rodario. His wife was talking with the maga and waved him to come in as soon as she noticed him.
Ireheart knew she had attended the funeral for Kiras: A swift and simple ceremony. He had not gone, himself. The murderess of his best friend could expect neither pity nor respect.
“Ho! Have the magae been dividing up Girdlegard?” he joked, putting casket and flask on the table.
“No. We shall live in peace and harmony with one another,” Coira answered. “We have decided that I shall use and guard the magic source in the former alfar realm. I shall do this together with the two elves. It is regrettable but I shall have to govern Weyurn from a distance. Goda will protect the source in the Blue Mountains.”
“The new king of Gauragar may not like that idea.”
“She will,” said Mallenia. “The new king is going to be a queen.”
“You?” Ireheart bowed in her direction. “You have really earned it after so many cycles fighting for freedom. I offer my hearty congratulations, Queen Mallenia. Is our actor friend going to be taking Idoslane under his wing perhaps?” He winked.
“No. I’m happy for her to reign in both those lands. I’m applying for Urgon,” Rodario answered calmly. “The assembly there is interviewing candidates; I’ll address it on my way home. What with my heroic deeds and the legendary theater tours I’ve undertaken, the throne should be in my pocket.”
Mallenia and Coira both laughed at him. “And he really believes it, the poor thing,” the Ido woman teased.
“Yes, I do!” Rodario pouted. “You’ll see! I’ll be ruler there!”
“In your dreams or your next life,” joked Coira. “You should have enough on your plate, going to and fro between your two women. You wouldn’t have time for such an important office.” She put on a sad face. “Or are you saying that we don’t mean as much to you as a throne?”
Rodario burst out laughing. “If you ever get fed up with running a country and being a maga you can always get a job in my theater.”
Mallenia only grinned, one hand on the hilt of her sword. “Let’s go. Goda and Ireheart must have things to talk about.”
The two women and Rodario shook hands with the others and left.
“The long-uns are a strange lot,” said Ireheart, kissing Goda on the forehead. “Sometimes just the one of you is too much for me, but the actor wants to take on two women.”
Goda grinned and sent the children out to help with the packing. “You will make a good king. Your children will support you.” She kissed him. “As I do.”
“Do you?” he blurted out the question.
She started to reply but instead stroked his silvery black hair. “It is the only issue we disagree on, dear husband. Kiras was right to do what she did.”
Ireheart looked deep into her eyes. “You know I see things very differently. We won’t mention it again.” He turned away, teeth clenched, so as not to say more, not to hurt her. He loved her too much for that.
Ireheart heard her sigh and leave the room.
Relieved to be alone with his thoughts he turned to the table, where two items waited for his attention: The casket and the drinking pouch.
He strode over, touching first the cool vraccasium and then the leather drinking vessel. He took his own flask out from under his chain mail and was disgusted to hear the black liquid inside swill thickly about.
It’s this stuff that caused Tungdil’s death. This and the curse that rests on me.
Ireheart took his crow’s beak, stepped over to the huge fireplace and started to feed the blaze, putting log after log on the pile of burning wood until the flames rose high. He went over the events of recent orbits in his mind. So many of his questions would stay unanswered forever. You and I shall meet again in the eternal forge. Then we shall have time to talk.
“I don’t need to ask the elf goddess for mercy,” he said quietly, throwing his own drinking pouch into the flames. The heat scorched and blackened the leather and the black liquid seeped out. When it touched the glowing wood it bubbled away to dark smoke. “I am Boindil Doubleblade of the clan of the Ax Swingers, a child of the Smith and king, from the tribe of secondling dwarves.” He hurled the second vessel into the fire. “Vraccas made us out of stone and gave us life. I will overcome the curse on my own, as true as I stand here!”
He watched fascinated as the second vessel was devoured by the flames. Resting his hands on top of the crow’s beak, he drew himself up tall and straightened his back, looking every inch the born ruler.
Then he turned round and went back to the table, contemplating the vraccasium urn that shone in the reflected firelight, as if it had an inner strength. He placed a hand on it and felt its warmth.
“I shall miss you, Scholar,” he whispered. Then, picking up the urn he left the room without looking round. The Blue Mountains were waiting for their king.