the darkest corners of his mind, a perfect barrier…
Perfect, perhaps, but not necessarily permanent.
Nayne! Why did they obsess about that accursed, sun-scoured world so much? Lord Nayfal could not understand it: for all of creation dwarves had been creatures of the First Circle, and this was where they belonged! It should have been obvious to the most obtuse Seer, especially in this literally enlightened modern era, when the miracle of coolfyre guaranteed that his people would be the supreme masters of their circle.
Wasn’t that enough?
The questions churned in the lord’s mind often, but never more so than times like now, when he lay in his luxurious bed and sought the blessed release of sleep. Instead, he was cursed with memories.
Vividly he recalled the last moments outside of Arkan Pass, when the dwarf Karkald had taken his small company of dwarves, all those who had survived the battle, and followed the mighty army of Delvers onto the Underworld plain. Nayfal watched, spellbound and horrified, as a storm of magic, great sheets of blue, flickering light, had surrounded the Delvers, their iron golems, and the Seer survivors. The entire group, tens of thousands of them, rose from the First Circle and passed right into the Midrock overhead, vanishing from Nayfal’s view.
He had returned to Axial and, not wanting to appear mad, simply reported that the army had been annihilated. Within a few cycles dwarven merchants had discovered the barrier, the same field of blue magic Nayfal had seen, and all commerce between the First and Fourth Circles had been abruptly terminated.
Nayfal could not know for certain what had occurred above that barrier, but he had a strong belief: Karkald was up there in Nayve… trapped up there for now, so long as the barrier of blue magic held. And if Karkald returned to the First Circle, then the truth about Arkan Pass would be revealed.
And Lord Nayfal would be finished.
It seemed that Darann had never fully appreciated exactly how huge was the manor that was her family’s ancestral home. There had always been life to be found in the big stone building. If nothing was happening nearby, she had known that she could walk down a hall or up a spiraling stairway, wander through some lofty corridor, and eventually come to a place where her mother was painting, or her father reading, or her brothers engaged in some trivial but fiercely contested argument.
Now, there was just the silence.
She had come here after learning of her father’s death, under the initial sense that she did not want to return to her lonely apartment, the cold chambers she had shared with Karkald so many years ago. Yet it seemed that here, in the big house by the dark sea, there were even more memories. Certainly this was a place she associated with gatherings, with jokes and feasts and lively people. She walked the long halls by herself, listening, hoping to hear echoes of long-ago galas.
She spent much of her first several days in the home seeking the letter that her father had mentioned, the note that gave some indication of Nayfal’s involvement in the death of Cubic Mandrill. Searches of her father’s apartments, of his office and his library, had been unsuccessful, and she was forced to admit that there were literally thousands of places where a piece of paper could have been concealed in the great house. With tears in her eyes, she regretted not asking him for more details, even to see the letter, on their last night together.
Finally she gave up and sat in the chair-her father’s chair-beside the great hearth. She was half afraid that she would start to hear those echoes, and that was a very scary thought, for down that road, she was certain, madness awaited.
Where were her brothers? She cursed them, halfheartedly, resenting their freedoms that were so easy to perceive as a lack of responsibility, knowing she was being irrational. They were probably safer out of the city than they would be if they were garrisoned here, she reasoned, for who was to say that Nayfal would not have looked to do them harm, as well as their father?
For that matter, how safe was Darann, herself? This was the question that had been dancing around the fringes of her awareness for the three intervals since her father was murdered. She had come up with no good answer.
Despite the chill in the large hall, she felt no desire to build a fire; that had always been her father’s job, something he did with joy and with pride. It would have been blasphemous to his memory had she stooped to arrange the peat and coal in the grate, to touch spark to tinder and ignite a blaze. She started to laugh at a whimsical notion: perhaps she should just wait for Rufus to come in and start a jolly blaze. Her laughter dissolved into a sob, even as the thought drifted past.
Irritated, she rose and crossed to the base of the great stairway, climbing to the second story with a series of stomping steps, until she heard the echoes coming up from the cavernous main floor. Shivering, she moved silently into the upper hallway.
It was in that silence that she heard a single thud of sound, something forceful but vague, originating from one of the wings of the great house. Darann didn’t wait for a repeat of the sound; instead, she jogged down the long hallway, passing the doors to her sleeping apartments and her father’s rooms without hesitation. Only when she reached the end did she pause, carefully lifting the latch and quietly entering the anteroom of one of the guest apartments.
She had chosen these rooms with a purpose, for in one of the closets she knew Rufus had stored several of his weapons: keen and sturdy, each of them, though not ornate enough to deserve display in the family’s great hall. Now she was grateful to find a silver short sword, the blade slick with preservative oil. Gingerly she girded on the scabbard, thankful that it was supple leather and thus soundless to manipulate.
Only then did she notice the tube, a golden cylinder about the size of a small knife. She picked it up, finding that it was surprisingly light; the gold must be a very thin sheet of metal. Curious, she noticed that one end of the tube screwed off; when she twisted this, she quickly discovered that the cylinder was hollow, and that it contained a single sheet of parchment. A quick look showed her a note written in a delicate, female hand. She knew this was the note that had aroused her father’s curiosity, but before she could look further, she heard another scuffing sound from below.
Strangely enough, she never even paused to wonder about the origin of the sound; she was utterly convinced that intruders were here and that they came with violent intentions. That brought to mind the second advantage of this guest chamber: the private balcony, small and well concealed, extending from the metalward end of the house.
Carefully she slipped open the door to the balcony, crouching low as she emerged to peer over the railing. Her stomach tightened nervously as she saw dark shapes moving through the courtyard, four or five dwarves scurrying past to guard the rear exit where the balcony sprawled above the dark, placid water. She forced herself to breathe slowly and calmly, watching until the dwarves were out of sight. There would be others, she knew, guarding the front, and probably still more already in the house.
As if to confirm her fears, she heard footfalls in the upper hall, doors opening as searchers probed through the sleeping apartments. They were moving quickly, more concerned with surprise than stealth.
She wasted no time in lifting herself over the rail and hanging down to the limits of her arms. She notched one toe into a gap in the building stones, then found a grip for her fingers. As quickly as possible she eased her way down the wall, dropping the last six feet to land in a shadowy corner of the outer plaza. She was still concealed from the back door as she scuttled across the open area and slipped down the steps to the rocky yard.
This was her element; she had played tag and hide-seek with her brothers for many years among these very stones. Darting from one to the next, she made her way down the slope until she reached the lakeshore.
The boat was where she had remembered it: a narrow fishing dory of metal, with light tin oars under the bench. With one last look up at the house-there were still no lights on, but she could see figures swarming across the upper balconies now-she pushed the boat away from shore, slipped over the gunwale, and silently paddled away from the house, the city, and the king, which had been constants for all of her life.
Two hours later, she judged that she was far enough from the manor to risk a light. She found a small box of matches near the lamp in the boat’s bow and quickly ignited the wick. Then she sat down, opened the tube, and took out the letter.
She read the contents with a strange sense of sadness.
Dear Lord Houseguard,
I write to you, as I know that you are a goblin friend. You must know that these hapless people are innocent of the charges leveled against them, especially in the matter of the attempt to kill King Lightbringer forty years ago.
