Tears streamed down one side of Doran’s cheek as he carefully closed his brother’s eyes. Drelda fell to her knees at the base of the bed and wept into the blankets, the light of her youngest son finally extinguished. Doran squeezed Dakmund’s hand before placing it by his side. His fingers hesitated, insistent on maintaining a hold on him. But he was gone, and into better company at that.
“The open arms of Yamnomora await you now, brother. Save me a seat in the Hall.”
Doran picked up his mother and swaddled her in his arms. He held her close and let her weep into his shoulder while they shared in their grief. They remained that way for some time, until the queen mother needed to sit down. Doran offered to call someone and have her taken care of elsewhere, but she insisted on staying by Dakmund’s side for now. Who was he to tell a mother otherwise?
With heavy feet and his father’s crown held in one hand, the only living son of Dorain walked out of the tent to a waiting audience. It seemed every dwarf in the camp had gathered round after he had entered to find his brother. In the middle of them all, Thraal and Thaligg stood side by side with ashen faces. They all knew the truth of the matter.
Doran declared, “King Dakmund, son of Dorain, ruler of Grimwhal… my brother… has ascended to the Hall of Grarfath with all honour. Let it be known that he fell defending our city, our home, and our lives. His last act as king was a heroic one. He will be remembered in our history, his name never forgotten.” The dwarf sighed and dropped his head to his chest. “The king is dead,” he muttered despairingly.
Thaligg and Thraal stepped forward, the first to bend the knee and lower their gaze to the ground. Their response rippled across the gathering with dwarves following their lead by the dozen. Doran cast his eye from right to left, watching them all drop to one knee before him, until he came across a familiar young dwarf. It was Finrig, son of Fearn, the Hammerkeg who had volunteered to join his company. Finrig bowed his head once before taking the knee with the others. He wasn’t the only dwarf of another clan who showed their respect and allegiance, for Doran noted three Goldhorns, a pair of Brightbeards, and even a Battleborn drop down.
The son of Dorain tightened his grip around his father’s crown - his crown - and looked down at it. Everything was going to change now.
49
Palios
The days following the victory on The Moonlit Plains had been bitterly cold, the realm truly within winter’s hold, but those of The Rebellion had found warmth in their daily camps, the fires sustained by magic. Under the shadow of Athis, they had also journeyed across the land with their heads held high, for none dared to challenge them.
On the sixth day, having crossed The Unmar at Barden Bridge and broken away from the road to travel north across the land, Vighon looked upon the high walls of Palios, the city of knowledge. It was the second largest city in the region of Alborn, after Velia and, more significantly, home to the All-Tower.
After getting back onto The Selk Road to approach Palios, the All-Tower grew ever larger as it loomed over the heart of the sandy-coloured city. All four of its walls, which narrowed from bottom to top, were lined in text telling one thousand years of human history in Illian.
Unlike Velia, whose walls were lined with gargantuan statues of the region’s most famous kings, the road to Palios was lined with twenty-foot statues of ancient scholars, the first men to compile the records from across the realm and build a home for the most powerful thing in all of Verda: knowledge.
Like Velia, however, Palios was protected by a forbidding pair of enormous doors. And they were sealed shut. In all his time, not only as king but as a rogue, Vighon had never known the gates of Palios to be locked. A quick word to Sir Ruban had a couple of scouts ride on ahead to inform the city’s guards that they had soon to be open. The northman didn’t want to be seated in his saddle for a moment longer than he needed to.
He looked to his right to ask Inara her opinion on the matter, thankful that she had decided to ride beside him; if only for the day. Seeing her pensive expression though, the king asked her a different question.
“Are you still mad?” He was careful to use an even tone, lest he sound as if he was suggesting she had descended into sulking after six days.
“Perhaps,” she replied, her voice leaving no doubt that she was.
Vighon took a breath while composing a slightly different speech to the one he had heard Reyna give her. “Gideon is only doing what he thinks is right.”
“Gideon’s problem is always thinking he is right,” Inara countered. “I just can’t believe my mother agreed with him. It was a crucial time; The Rebellion was vulnerable. Even if Ilargo hadn’t been able to help, Gideon and Galanör are among the best swordsmen in the realm. And Aenwyn can rival my mother with a bow.”
Vighon glanced over his shoulder to make certain their words could not be overheard. “We still found victory without them,” he pointed out. “The tree was saved. Magic is no longer under threat. And besides, their mission has its own role to play. Alijah and Malliath won’t even have considered Crissalith; that makes it a powerful weapon.”
“You’re assuming they find any,” Inara responded. “They could be looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“If anyone can, it’s them,” Vighon replied optimistically.
“To what end?” Inara muttered.
Vighon frowned at the Guardian. He couldn’t hide his frustration; especially after six days. “To the end,” he told her. “You
