Storm Grower was continuing. “Firstly in the Bright Demesne, to a Wizard called Himaggery and one called Barish. I have ended their works before, but they have had the luck of man and may yet bring something from it. They are contentious. Ambitious. So far, all they do is meet and plan and devise processes while time spins away, and it is likely they will not need my crystals to spoil their future. They may do it for themselves. Still, why should we risk, eh? Give one also to a Shifter there called Mavin. And in Schooltown to Mavin’s brother, King Mertyn. Those first. Those most importantly. They are engaged in a project we do not wish to see fulfilled. They would raise the hundred thousand frozen Gamesmen, the great Gamesmen, those who lie in the ice caverns near the place we were born. We do not wish those great Gamesmen raised. Let them lie, let them lie, until time spins out and the world cools. Let no man come near that place.
“Thus, when you have given crystals as well to all in Schooltown and the Bright Demesne and to those in Xammer, and Dragon’s Fire, and the other Demesnes in that land, and particularly among the Immutables—they are governed by a man called Riddle. Him first, then all others, being sure to include a man named Quench—I say when this is done, then go to the caverns I have spoken of, destroy those who sleep there, and guard the place until we tell you a guard is needed no more.”
“We are your willing servants,” said the Duke.
“You are what you are, Betand. And what you are is not quite good enough. Do not fear. You will enjoy being our servant. Enjoyment is built in.” Dream Miner laughed, a hugely hideous laugh that shook the rock walls, causing me to tremble to the floor and lie there curled against the wall, hoping it would not fall. “This, however, is a negotiable point. If you can do us a small service we have previously mentioned, you will earn your freedom of the crystals.”
“Any service is too small to convey our gratitude,” Huldra, bowing, smirking. “The Oracle has told us what is needed. We will be glad to comply.”
“We won’t discuss it here,” snapped Storm Grower.
“What we may discuss is the yellow crystals.” I got up from the floor, pricked my ears, and listened. Yes, yes, the yellow crystals.
“They must be stopped!”
“Stopped! I thought they were yours?” The Duke, much surprised. “I thought you had dug them.” The cavern rumbled as the giants shifted upon the Backless Throne. Discomfort there, so I thought, some vast distress. What was it?
Dream Miner, rumbling like a forest fire. “We have dug no crystals for fifty years. Until then there were many we could use, many we could change to suit ourselves. Our moles dug them in the deep mines and brought them here.” He gestured to the low arch at his left. “And here we changed them, corrupted them. We would look into the crystals to see what message they carried, and then we would corrupt that message. It is easy. Easy when one knows how. As we knew how.” Storm Grower, flicking tiny bolts of lightning around the cavern, playing, fitful gusts of wind teasing at the garments of those on the gallery. “As we knew how. Some we used to corrupt Pfarb Durim, ancient city of your kin, Oracle. And Hell’s Maw, which lay at its feet. And those who dwelt there. Some we used to move Huld—this should interest you, Huldra—into bringing forth the great army of bones upon the Wastes. He would not have done it had we not moved him. That was a favourite project of ours.”
“He failed,” Huldra said, her voice dead. “He died there.”
“He failed because someone opposed us. Some deep dweller brought forth by a girl, a creature called Jinian. A girl we were warned about in advance by our Seers. The girl you were supposed to have disposed of for us, Basilisk.”
Dedrina Dreadeye looked coldly into the giant’s eyes. “We attempted to do so. I sent my own daughter to take care of it.”
“It was not taken care of. You, Bloster, hiding there behind your sister. You had her in your hands.”
“That was before,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know you wanted her dead, not then.”
“Perhaps not. And let us speak of you, Ogress. We had another favorite project here in the northlands. We were using your son, Valdon—”
“Do not speak of my son,” she shrieked. “My beautiful son. Valdon the glorious, the perfect boy. Do not speak of him.”
“Do not tell us not to speak.” The lightning played at Valearn’s feet, making her dance. “We speak of whom we will. Valdon, for example, stupid Valdon, proud Valdon, sucked dry by the Faces his own servant had set in the Lake. Oh, we have seen it all, our Seers have seen it all. We know. We know. So Valdon failed us and we have you, Valearn. And Bloster and Dedrina-Lucir failed us, but we have both Bloster and Dedrina Dreadeye. And Huld failed us, but we have his sister, Huldra, as well. So. We will not fail again, will we? Though our strategy in these northlands has failed somewhat heretofore, it will not fail again. Not here. Not anywhere.” Silence. The threat was palpable. Even where I crouched, far across the cavern, I could see the sheen of sweat on Betand’s face, the sick slackness of Valearn’s jaw.
“Never mind,” said Storm Grower. “Past is past. But tomorrow is ours, and
