see. Cale Greeneye was well-loved among his father’s people, but was strange to them, preferring other ways to dwarven ways.
That left Tera Sharn as one for the people to idolize, and idolize her they did. For his part, Willen had traveled the past hundred miles with a wide, silly grin parting his whiskers and sometimes acted as though his head were lost in the clouds.
It was time for a wedding, and the Hylar set it up in great style. In a clearing they erected a large, ornate forge with crested stone arches above it representing the strength of mountains, and four silver-inlaid bellows, representing the four seasons’ winds that sang across high peaks.
Throughout one morning, most of the tribe worked to make things ready, the women shouting orders, the men running here and there, doing as they were told. Foresters selected wood for the ceremonial forge — seven varieties of wood, representing the seven precious metals: hickory for steel, symbol of flexibility and wisdom; oak for iron, for strength; maple for tin, for unswerving devotion; cedar for copper, the metal of the heart; ash for nickel, for endurance and faith; multi-colored pine for bronze, symbolic of blendings, and yellow hedge for gold, representing the lasting comforts of home and family.
A ceremonial bronze hammer had been forged for the occasion, and a set of copper tongs with rosewood grips.
When the sun was high in the bright sky, the entire tribe assembled around the forge, in which bright coals glowed cherry-red. The Hylar guard — trimmed, shined, and brushed, each warrior mounted on his best tall horse — spread in formation to line a pathway, along which road came Colin Stonetooth and the Ten, followed by a dazed- looking Willen Ironmaul flanked by guardsmen. Sedately, they rode to the forge clearing and dismounted.
For a moment there was silence, the only sounds those of the breeze, songbirds, and an excited kender voice saying, “Wow! Would you look at that! It’s …” The voice stopped abruptly as strong dwarven hands were clapped over the kender’s mouth. Softly, then, a drum was tapped. Then another, and another, picking up the rhythm. All around the clearing, drummers tapped a soft riff on muffled vibrars as another pathway opened and a dozen dwarf girls came through, strewing handsful of steel coins and arrowheads. Behind them walked Tera Sharn, wearing her finest kilt and lace sandals, a bodice embroidered with sunbursts, and a long, quilted cloak of the finest web-silk fabric. Her hair was tied high on her head and adorned by a copper comb.
Several of Willen Ironmaul’s escorts stepped close to him, ready to support him in case his knees began to shake.
Colin Stonetooth strode to the forge and raised his hands. “People of the people,” he intoned. “People of the highest place, people of the Hylar! Gather now in the sight of Reorx, maker of all people, Reorx who must certainly watch over these, his most beloved people, who were created last and best — ”
“That isn’t right!” a high voice protested from aside. “Dwarves aren’t the …” Hard hands muffled the kender again, and a deep voice whispered, “Get that little nuisance out of here!”
“Who were created last and are therefore best,” Colin Stonetooth elaborated. “People of the Hylar, observe and witness. Two among us have chosen to bond as husband and wife. Willen Ironmaul, Captain of the General Guard, has chosen Tera Sharn, ah … my daughter. And she has chosen him as well. Does anyone here assembled wish … or dare … to challenge?”
On cue, Tera Sharn raised a flower-garlanded javelin — ornate but nonetheless deadly — and held it high, turning full circle, her eyes meeting those of each unmarried young woman in the crowd. One of the guards nudged Willen Ironmaul, who seemed to snap out of a trance and raised his sword, where every male in the crowd could see it.
There being no challengers, Colin Stonetooth nodded. The bride and groom put down their weapons, joined hands and stepped closer to the forge, feeling its pleasant heat on their faces. At its foot stood a gold-embossed eighty-pound anvil, wrapped in ribbons. Willen squatted, hoisted the anvil and set it on the forge’s rim, between the ceremonial hammer and the ceremonial tongs.
One of the guard escorts and one of Tera Sharn’s pretty attendants stepped to the couple’s sides and reached beyond them with long, iron tongs. From the coals they lifted small, slim ingots — one of silver and one of gold, heated and glowing. Carefully, they laid these atop the anvil, one across the other, and stepped back.
Tera Sharn picked up the rosewood-handled copper tongs and gripped the hot ingots at their center. She lifted them, looked up at Willen and recited, “May the halves of our joining be equal and strong.” She returned the heated ingots to the anvil.
Willen stared down at her, trying not to grin. He lifted the hammer. “And may they never be separated,” he said. With one swift blow, he smote the joined ingots, forever welding them into a single metal cross — the cross of the pillars of the world.
A rousing cheer went up from the crowd, and Colin Stonetooth raised his hands to silence it. Then he looked at Willen and Tera. “Will you exchange tokens?” he asked.
Tera Sharn reached into her bodice and pulled out a pendant and chain, beautifully crafted from nickel steel. Standing on tiptoe, she reached high and dropped the loop over Willen’s head, letting the pendant settle on his breast. It was a single star. “For my love,” she whispered.
Willen, red-cheeked above his swept-back beard, reached to the pouch at his belt and fumbled inside it. “And for mine — ” he started, then stopped, his eyes widening as he fumbled in his pouch. Suddenly he turned, pushed through the crowd, and strode to the side of the clearing, a thunderous frown on his brow. To the dwarves holding the stifled kender he said, “Give me that little thief!”
The instant his mouth was free, Castomel Springheel hissed, “Thief? Who are you calling thief, you overgrown — ”
Willen grasped the little creature, lifted him, turned him upside down, and shook him as one might shake out a cleaning cloth. The kender yelled, and things rained down from him, from the large pouch at his belt, from other, hidden pouches, from the neck of his green shirt, from everywhere. A pair of bright daggers clattered to the ground, followed by a spur, a dozen or so bright beads, various bits of stone, some rolls of foolscap, a chunk of hard bread, a bit of cheese, an egg, a ruby clasp, a pair of bracelets, a chained pendant. …
“There it is,” Willen rasped. Dropping Castomel Springheel unceremoniously, he picked up the pendant, turned a fierce scowl on the sprawled kender, then strode back to the forge carrying his token.
Behind him, voices were raised in surprise and anger. “That’s my clasp! I wondered where that was.” “Whose spur is this?” “Those are Mica’s bracelets, he’s been looking all over for those!” And a high-pitched kender voice, “Keep your hands off that cheese! That’s my lunch!”
At the forge, Willen resumed his place as though there had been no interruption. He slipped the pendant’s tooled chain over Tera Sharn’s head. “For my love,” he said.
As his pendant was a star, the one he gave to her was a finely engraved oval of rich, pink granite. They smiled at each other. By this exchange, she promised him heaven and he promised her the world.
Once more, Colin Stonetooth raised his hands. “These two people are husband and wife!” he proclaimed. Then, “Well, why is everybody still standing around? Go about your business!”
At the far side of the clearing, towering over the dwarves around him, Glendon Hawke removed his light helm and ran long fingers through his red hair. He was impressed. He had seen human weddings, and some had been quite elaborate, but he had never seen a ceremony more thoroughly symbolic or better performed than this. “Sometimes dwarves are almost human,” he muttered.
Beside him a burly Hylar swung around. “You watch your mouth!” the dwarf said.
Nearby, Cas Springheel reassembled his scattered belongings, muttering under his breath. “If that’s how they’re going to act, I can take a hint,” he said. “I’ve been kicked out of better places than this.” Smoothing down his clothing, he returned his pack sling to his shoulder, picked up the fork-ended walking stick he had been toying with lately — he had an idea that a fine weapon could be made from it — and executed an angry bow to no one in particular. “Please don’t be offended by my departure,” he piped. “I’m only leaving because dwarves are really dull. Especially when they get up on their high horses.”
The direction he chose in leaving took him through most of the milling crowd, and his pack was bulging nicely again when he stalked out of the Hylar camp.
*
It was four days later that Cale Greeneye rode in at a gallop. Past the drill fields he spurred, and ranks of armed Hylar stopped their weapons practice to watch him pass. At the center of the compound he brought Piquin to a sliding stop before Colin Stonetooth’s hut. The chieftain appeared at the doorway as his son vaulted from his
