Darryn Forgemaster came behind the knight, and his eyes widened in surprise as he spotted the elfwoman. He halted, flustered, looking at her, at the Delvers, at the knight who had become his master. For her part Belynda ignored the smith, forced herself against her revulsion to lean close to Sir Christopher.
“Be careful, my lover,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “We do not want this blind oaf to learn too much about us.”
Zystyl’s head whipped around, the gaping red nostrils flaring in suspicion. “What does she say, warrior?” he demanded. “Do you seek to betray me?”
“Of course not,” snapped the knight, irked.
“Caution!” whispered Belynda.
“I suspected you all along, traitor!” hissed the Delver arcane. “And now here is the proof!”
“Don’t be a fool!” The knight shook his head in irritation, and Belynda saw that he did not yet perceive the extent of his danger.
The sage-ambassador looked at Darryn Forgemaster, saw the anguish, the guilt and suffering written across the man’s face. He was looking into her eyes, searching for something-forgiveness, perhaps. Again she looked at the knight, but then her thoughts returned to the smith. Why did he feel such anguish? Was he not the rank traitor that everyone assumed-was there a different reason for his years of treachery, his steady labors in the name of Circle at Center’s enemies? He had been a loyal druid, a favorite friend of Miradel’s for centuries, and his work was known throughout Nayve.
With a flash she understood, and knew how to turn that knowledge to her own use.
“You had her killed, didn’t you?” she said conspiratorially to Christopher.
“Had who killed, witch? Who?” demanded the knight.
“Miradel. You knew she was murdered in her villa a few nights ago, didn’t you?” She saw instantly that one part of her guess was correct. Darryn staggered, face blanching, hate-filled eyes turned upon the knight. She was surprised, however, to see that the Knight Templar was equally shocked.
“No!” gasped Christopher. “She… she lives! She must!”
It was the Delver arcane who laughed. “The druid is dead… I would have made her my prisoner, but she fought too well. And so she died.”
The knight was obviously stunned, trying to understand the implications of new developments. He stood before the sage-ambassador, glaring at her, then shifted his accusing stare to the arcane. Belynda gently twisted an arm, and the dwarf holding her on that side released his grip, apparently content to let his comrade restrain the prisoner. Still pinioned by the other limb, she reached out a hand and stroked her fingertips along Christopher’s arm with just the tiniest rasp of sound.
“Proof!” repeated Zystyl, his voice rising hysterically. “You touch in my presence.”
“It was the witch!” cried Christopher. He backed away, reaching under his shirt to pull out the white stone on its golden chain. He clutched it in his hand, eyes wild as he regarded his ally with growing fear.
“Do not think you can flee!” declared Zystyl. He uttered no other words or sounds that Belynda could tell, but several other Delvers advanced, apparently summoned by some unseen, unheard command.
“Halt!” cried Sir Christopher. “All of you dwarves-stay where you are!”
Surprisingly, the Blind Ones ceased their advance, several twisting in place as if their feet had been glued to the floor.
“You will stay here,” Christopher shouted, clutching the stone with a white-knuckled grip. “Leave me in peace-”
A sudden, violent blow interrupted the knight as Darryn Forgemaster struck him from behind. Christopher twisted and fell, trying to strike back at the enraged blacksmith. The smith clawed at the knight, reaching for his throat, grunting inarticulately. The white stone, held by its chain, slipped from Christopher’s fingers as he drew a dagger and drove the blade again and again into the chest of the smith.
A second later Darryn collapsed onto the floor, swaying weakly on his hands and knees as crimson lifeblood spurted from a wound in his breast. Sir Christopher, still wielding the bloody dagger, scrambled to his feet, stood over the man who had served him so well, raising the blade for a killing strike. The stone on its golden chain swung loosely against him, tangled in the strands of his beard, apparently forgotten.
But now the Delvers were moving, a half dozen of the blind dwarves rushing in, grabbing the knight by his legs and arms, dragging him down. In seconds the man’s limbs were bound, and his fear-maddened attention had returned to the hideous dwarf who had once been his ally.
“I tell you-the witch is lying!” shrieked Sir Christopher, struggling vainly against Zystyl’s bonds.
Darryn Forgemaster lay dead, his blood already congealing on the slick paving stones. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly, and the sage-ambassador wished she could close them, could bring the man, at long last, some peace. But she was still held by another Delver.
Belynda turned to look at Christopher, watching coldly. This was her moment, her triumph-and though it would be the last thing she saw in her life, she would bear witness to the death of this monstrous creature who had so unspeakably violated her.
Yet why, then, could she take no pleasure in the victory?
20
Seers in the Sun
What care has the ant if his temple takes a hundred generations to build?
And what matter to the tree if her roots make home in the rotted pulp of her forebears?
But to the mortal person in midst of frantic life, the desperate present forms the purpose of eternity.
From the Tapestry of the Worldweaver
Lore of the Underworld
The sky over the Mercury Terrace was an angry red, fiery and full of smoke, unlike any sky Natac had ever seen on Nayve. He watched from the balcony of the old Iron Gallery, the building that had served as his headquarters. Tamarwind and Karkald were here with him, not talking for now, just watching the growing daylight illuminate the scene. Rawknuckle Barefist and Fionn had just departed, and Natac could see them making their way forward along the crowded street, moving among the waiting troops, encouraging and steadying by their very presence.
Around the lakeshore terrace teemed tens of thousands of Crusaders and Delvers, the latter gathering in the shadows below buildings and trees as the sun descended toward full Lighten. Vast, tentlike shelters had been raised, casting much of the terrace into protective shade for the blind dwarves. Below Natac’s position he could see the massive blocks of his own warriors, gnomes and goblins waiting restively in the city’s streets. After their valiant stand on the terrace he knew that, when the enemy attacked, the big regiments would again be ready to fight.
On the flanks of the gnomes and goblins waited the remnants of his elven and giant forces, while directly below Natac’s balcony Gallupper and his small detachment of centaurs and horse-riders waited beside a trio of Karkald’s newest weapon. The mobile batteries were each mounted on a carriage between a pair of large wheels. From above they looked like huge crosses, with steel springs coiled back and small magazines full of silver shot waiting for the release of the trigger.
“Natac!” The shout was barked from the street with unmistakable urgency, and the warrior looked down to see a white dog racing toward the building.
“Ulfgang-up here!” he called, and was immediately seized with a sense of terrible apprehension. He tried to shake off the feeling, suggesting that he was only remembering when Ulf had brought him the news of Miradel’s death, but found that he was barely breathing as the dog leaped up the outer stairway, arriving on the high balcony after a half dozen long bounds.
Natac met him at the top of the stairs, kneeling. “What is it?” asked the man.
The dog’s brown eyes met his, and he saw the sadness there, an emotion that grew to despair as Ulf lifted
