'True enough,' it said, sitting up and standing. 'My name is Starglimmer.'
Then, right before Lynaelle's eyes, the orc began to change. Its form shifted, bulged, grew larger yet sleeker. Its features transformed into a reptilian face, all shiny in the girl's magical light. The change had taken only a few heartbeats, but where the orc had stood previously, a silvery dragon, not much taller than Lynaelle herself, held himself proudly.
'Do I have you to thank for saving me from Torixileos and protecting my treasure?' the silver asked, his voice a slightly higher and softer version of the mysterious tones Lynaelle had heard challenging the white.
'I did nothing,' Lynaelle said softly, shyly. 'Only tried to save myself. Something else seems to have arrived and chased the white dragon away. I heard a second voice.'
'That would be Mother,' Starglimmer said, 'coming to check on me. Torixileos wouldn't stick around if she's here. Come on,' the dragon added, moving toward the tunnel.
Lynaelle followed the creature, too overwhelmed to speak.
Out beyond the tunnel leading to the treasure, the main chamber was empty, and as the pair moved toward the domed room with the ice shaft, a great form, larger even than Torixileos, dropped through the ceiling and landed elegantly.
'Mother!' Starglimmer said, rushing toward the much larger dragon, a silver that gleamed like a finely tempered blade in the eerie blue glow. 'What happened?'
'Torixileos won't be bothering you ever again,' the larger dragon said, and it was, indeed, the honeyed voice Lynaelle had heard before. The sound made the girl want to cry with joy, so comforting it was. 'What happened?'
'Torixileos was here when I returned from a jaunt,' Starglimmer said. 'I had been out hunting with the orcs, hoping to catch wind of any raids they were planning. He caught me by surprise, and I barely managed to slip into a place too small for him to follow before I passed out.'
'You should be more careful,' the larger dragon admonished. 'You're only barely old enough to be out on your own.'
'I know,' Starglimmer replied, and Lynaelle could hear embarrassment in the tone of his voice.
'Now,' the mother said, looking down at Lynaelle, 'Who is this?'
Lynaelle blushed as both of the wyrms regarded her.
'I'm Lynaelle Dawnmantle, a humble wizard on her way to Silverymoon.'
'Then you are just as foolish as my son, here,' the huge silver said. 'No one should be using the pass this time of year, especially not young girls unescorted. How did you end up in here?'
'I was captured by Torixileos and brought here to help him recover 'his' treasure.' When the larger dragon cocked her head sideways at that last comment, Lynaelle hurriedly added, 'He told me that Starglimmer was actually an orc thief, but I didn't believe him.'
'And how did you know, Lynaelle Dawnmantle?' the massive dragon asked, her voice rumbling, though it sounded to the girl as though there was appreciation in the creature's words. 'How did you figure out that he was not what he seemed?'
'Just a guess, really,' the half-elf replied. 'No orc planning to thieve a dragon's treasure would haul the entire hoard deeper into the tunnels and freeze it there. But I didn't realize that Starglimmer wasn't really an orc until I began to wonder why Torixileos needed me to help him kill it. Why didn't the dragon just blast it with his icy breath? Once the 'ore' told me that Torixileos was actually the thief, I began to understand-that treasure definitely belongs to a dragon, not an orc.
'I remembered my teacher, Ambriel, telling me once that silver dragons often take on the form of humans and other people to interact with them. And like white dragons, silvers are at home in the cold. The cold can't hurt you, and you very easily could have protected your treasure by freezing it. An orc couldn't survive Torixileos' breath, but a silver dragon disguised as one could. I figured it out just in time.'
'Very clever, little Lynaelle,' the larger dragon said, seeming to smile. 'And if this Ambriel you speak of is who I think he is, then he would know the truth of the matter about silvers.'
Lynaelle's eyes widened slightly and she asked, 'You know my teacher?'
'I believe I do. We were friends once, many years ago. We studied magic together at the Lady's College, where I still spend time, interacting with the students and teachers. I have not seen Ambriel in a long time. When next you see him, you must tell him that Symarra Brightmoon sends greetings.'
In a very quiet, awestruck voice, Lynaelle swallowed and said, 'I have a book for you, a gift from Ambriel.'
STANDARD DELVING PROCEDURE
7 Eleint, the Year of Wild Magic (1372 DR)
Frivaldi strode up to the door. It was massive, made of solid iron, its hinges bolted into the rough stone wall of the tunnel. Its handle was a simple lever. The keyhole under it was shield-shaped. Under the rust that mottled the door's surface, he could see a raised symbol: a curved hunting horn with a six-pointed star above and below it.
'You were right,' he called back over his shoulder. 'It's the Sign of the Realm, just where you said it would be.'
Durin, several paces behind in the darkened tunnel, grunted.
'Oh come on,' Durin,' Frivaldi exclaimed. 'You've got to be just a little bit excited. Nobody's been through this door in more than seven thousand years. We'll be the first dwarves to set foot in Torunn's Forge since it fell to the goblins. Smile a little!'
'We're not inside yet.'
Frivaldi waggled his fingers and said, 'Easy as splitting slate. I've yet to meet a lock that was my match.'
'You, who became a Delver just eight months ago. This is only your second delve.'
'My third,' Frivaldi corrected.
'If it was your one hundred and third delve, it might impress me.'
Frivaldi shrugged off the snide comment. Durin never lost an opportunity to remind him how young he was- probably because Durin was so old. The veteran Delver was a hundred and ninety-seven, well past his prime. His weathered face had a diagonal scar that carved a valley through his eyebrow, nose, and cheek, and the joints of his fingers were knobby with age. His hair-what remained of it-was steel-gray. His beard, which hung in a single braid tossed over one shoulder with its tip dragging on the ground behind him, was as white as quartz.
Frivaldi's beard, as dark and curly as lichen, had sprouted only the year before. He'd been a late bloomer, celebrating his coming of age at twenty-seven-two years later than most dwarves. He didn't appreciate being reminded of that fact.
He flipped his long, unruly hair out of his eyes and turned back to the door. He squatted and blew dust out of the lock-and blinked furiously as it stung his eyes. Ignoring Durin's chuckle, Frivaldi twisted the magical ring on the forefinger of his right hand, causing a prong to spring from the plain iron band. He inserted it in the lock.
Durin interrupted with a cough.
'What?' Frivaldi asked, irritated.
Closing his eyes, he probed the lock's interior with the prong and located its first pin.
'Standard delving procedure for doors,' Durin said, 'is 'LLOST: Listen, LOok, Search for Traps.' You looked, but did not listen.'
'For what?' Frivaldi twisted the prong but the pin didn't shift. Seven thousand years of rust had frozen the lock's workings. 'This door's a palm's width thick, at least. There could be a dragon on the other side and I wouldn't hear it.'
'Nor did you search for traps,' Durin continued.
