were enough to block the entrance, and the escort was brought up short. The leader and the shaman cantered their gaezels forward to speak to the guards. As they did so, Colin scanned the group, frowning at what he saw.
“What is it?” Eraeth asked immediately.
“There’s more than one clan represented in the Riders guarding the entrance. I see Thousand Springs warriors, but also Silver Grass and Shadow Moon Clans here as well.”
“What does it mean?”
“If it were merely one other clan, I’d say nothing, but two.…” Colin shook his head. He took a closer look at their armor. “They aren’t dressed for a formal visit either. They’re dressed for war.”
The shaman and their leader broke into heated argument, the Riders they spoke to eyeing Colin skeptically. Whatever the shaman said, though, the guard finally relented.
“Stay close,” Colin said. “Tensions are bound to be high with three clans present.”
Three additional Riders joined their escort, one from each of the three clans, and then the shaman led the group down into the black entrance to the dwarren tunnels. The three horses balked at passing underground, but relented after some coaxing.
The main entrance opened up into a large room, then narrowed to a doorway, giant doors pulled back to the side beneath a massive mantle of carved stonework. For the first long leg, the grade of the slope was smooth, the corridor shored up and lined with cut stone of various colors from across the plains, massive support columns at regular intervals. Each support column had a central keystone in place at its height, which Colin knew could be knocked out, allowing the arch and a good portion of the tunnel roof to collapse. If the main doors couldn’t be held, then the dwarren were prepared to seal the entrance completely. Each section between keystones was lit with metal sconces of oil to either side.
Once they passed beyond this initial defense, the corridor narrowed and branched, the cut stone giving way to a type of granite that was too smooth to be natural, with no obvious seams to indicate how it had been constructed. It appeared to be made of solid rock, yet with carved murals at various points along its length. The number of sconces dropped, so that they passed from one pool of light to the next, the space between growing dark, but close enough to the next sconce that it wasn’t completely black. More and more dwarren appeared, carrying baskets or satchels, some pulling carts or pushing wagons loaded with stone or grain or unidentified barrels. Interspersed among them all were dwarren Riders, usually in groups of two or three, an occasional messenger trotting alone, a carved wooden cylinder clutched in one hand like a baton.
Then the corridor changed, sloping downward sharply enough that the escort Riders were forced to slow. The number of dwarren increased as well, the corridor now thronged with them-women and children appearing with greater frequency, nearly all of them carrying baskets or satchels of food. More joined them from side corridors in steady streams. At Siobhaen’s questioning look, Colin said, “They’re returning from the surface. They must be harvesting early spring crops.”
The corridor ended suddenly, opening up into a massive cavern filled with the roar of thousands of dwarren and the thunderous crash of water. As they descended a ramp to the wide flat plaza that made up the center of the cavern, Colin heard Siobhaen gasp. Even Eraeth drew back in shock.
Water streamed down the entire far wall of the cavern, its source coming from at least three major tunnels and two smaller ones, the streams crashing together in midair before plummeting in a single column to a massive pool below. The air was filled with mist, lit by hundreds of sconces scattered around the plaza and shining from the openings that covered the remaining walls of the rest of the chamber. This was the dwarren’s true city, rooms carved out of the walls all the way to the ceiling that towered overhead. Stairs and ledges zigzagged from door to door in a maze that nevertheless appeared to follow an intricate pattern, one that Colin thought he would be able to make out if he could spare the time. It was a hive of activity, bustling with dwarren as they moved from one level to another. Near the base of the walls, larger doorways led to storerooms, and nearer to the waterfall lay the chambers set aside for the clan chief, the head shaman, and the keeva-the room reserved for ritual contemplation and the heavy decisions made by both.
The escort surrounded them and led them toward the keeva after a word with a group of dwarren standing guard near the entrance to the cavern. As they approached, Colin picked out the heavy scent of yetope smoke beneath the thick layer of dampness and the heavy musk of earth and dwarren living in enclosed quarters for centuries on end. The doors to the keeva were shut, but he could see light shining in the cracks between it and the frame. A faint wisp of smoke curled from the edge near the top.
When the dwarren escort halted outside the chamber, Colin dismounted. Without waiting for the group to speak to the shaman guards who stood outside the door, he strode forward, leaving Eraeth and Siobhaen in mid- dismount.
The two shamans tensed instantly, reaching to block his path with the two scepters they carried, the snakes’ rattles and strings of beads clicking together with a sharp crack.
Colin seized time, stepped between them and beneath the supposed barrier, coming up before the keeva’s door. He reached for the door handle, releasing time a moment before he touched it and shoved the door open, ducking down through the low lintel designed more for the dwarren than humans. He straightened as much as he could inside, hand still on the door, heard gasps and shouts of consternation behind him, but he ignored it all, knowing that Eraeth and Siobhaen could defend themselves if necessary. He focused his attention on the six dwarren who sat in a rough circle around the central hollow of the fire pit, obscured by the thick haze of yetope smoke.
“If you’re discussing the Turning,” he said, “then I have information for you.”
The shouts from behind had changed to anger. He slid to one side, the six dwarren clan chiefs and shamans glaring at his hunched form, one of them sucking on the end of a pipe even though the yetope was thrown in the central fire for such meetings. One of the shaman guards burst into the room, anger twisting his face into a tight knot. He gave Colin a vicious look, then turned to the clan chiefs and head shamans in the room.
Brandishing his scepter, he bowed his head and said roughly, “Apologies, Old Ones. This
The eyebrows of the shaman sucking on the pipe rose. He took two more draws, then removed the pipe and blew smoke into the miasma already beginning to thin from the draft coming from the open door.
“The elloktu cannot survive here,” he said in a cold, deep voice cracked with age. “Or have you forgotten the gift of the Summer Tree?” He turned his wizened eyes on Colin again. “Shadowed One. We have not met, but I know of you. Your legend has been passed down to our generation, even though it is not yet an old legend.”
Colin nodded. “I am thankful to hear that.”
A silence followed, the shaman who’d spoken not taking his eyes off Colin. The rest of those gathered shared glances, until one of the clan chiefs stirred.
“Leave,” he said, motioning the guard out. “You are disturbing the smoke.”
The guard straightened, cast a questioning look at the head shamans in the group, but got no support from them. With a last scathing look at Colin, he departed, shutting the door behind him.
The tableau held for a moment, then one of the clan chiefs motioned toward a space before the fire, a natural shelf of rock that acted as a bench. Colin settled himself, his position still awkward, then leaned back against the rock wall. The entire chamber had been hollowed out by water ages past so that the contours were smooth, not carved or chipped. With the door closed, the heat in the room doubled, sweat breaking out on Colin’s back, chest, and armpits. He breathed in deeply, taking in the sweet, cloying yetope smoke, even as one of the clan chiefs tossed more of the dried plant onto the coals in the pit. Flames flared as it was consumed, smoke drifting up, until it was so thick Colin could barely make out the other dwarren in the reddish light.
When he exhaled, slowly, so as not to break into a fit of coughing, the shaman with the pipe spoke. “Welcome to our council, Shadowed One. I am called Quotl, head shaman of Thousand Springs, and this is Oaxatta of Shadow Moon, and Attanna of Silver Grass.”
“And I am Tarramic, clan chief of Thousand Springs.” The dwarren who’d ordered the shaman guard to leave motioned toward the other two clan chiefs. “Iktamman of Silver Grass, and Ummaka of Shadow Moon.”
“May Ilacqua bless this meeting and bring us wisdom in our decisions,” Quotl intoned, motioning with his pipe as if it were a scepter. The words were reverent, but a smile turned one corner of his mouth a moment before he drew again on the pipe. In the dimness, Colin thought his eyes flared with amusement.
Tarramic shifted where he sat. “What do you know of the Turning, Shadowed One?” His tone suggested he
