Azakhun blinked. “Of course.”
“Truly,” said Camorak, holding out his goblet, “the dwarven kindred are a noble and civilized kindred.”
Gavin did not request a refill. His head was already buzzing from just the one goblet. He had been a little embarrassed by how hard the brandy had hit him at Castra Durius, and he had no wish to repeat the experience. Nevertheless, he remembered all the things that Caius and Prince Narzaxar had said during their argument about despair and fatalism. Stoicism was well and good, Gavin thought, but he suspected the dwarves had found another way to deal with embracing oblivion.
Specifically, they drank like fish.
Gavin had thought Camorak a heavy drinker, but the dwarves of Khald Tormen made him look like an amateur. By the time that Camorak had gotten through his second goblet, the dwarves were already on their fifth. They made their libations in the dwarven tongue, but Gavin thought they were honoring comrades long-dead or fallen in battle.
“If you wanted to conquer the Mhorites,” said Kharlacht to Azakhun, “you could sell this whiskey to them.” Gavin suspected that Kharlacht was slightly drunk, since he seemed a little less grim than usual, and almost smiled from time to time. “Soon they would be too drunk to do anything useful but sing. Or throw up.”
“We would not sell this to other kindreds,” said Azakhun. “This is a drink only for the dwarves and our honored guests, such as the Keeper and her companions.” Calliande, Gavin noted, was only sipping at her first goblet, but even she had a bit of a flush to her cheeks.
Or maybe it was because she was sitting next to Ridmark.
Gavin rebuked himself. That was an inappropriate thought.
He looked at Ridmark, and as he did, he saw Third swaying in her seat.
“Third,” said Gavin. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she said, and then she gripped the edge of the table. “Yes. No.”
Ridmark frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“I am dizzy,” said Third, her words slurring together, her black eyes blinking, “and I feel uncomfortably warm, and am experiencing an unusual compulsion to talk.” She looked at Calliande. “I may be under a spell. Or poisoned.”
“I’m afraid not, Third,” said Calliande. “How much of that whiskey did you drink?”
“Half of one goblet,” said Third.
Ridmark frowned. “When was the last time you drank something fermented? You didn’t drink anything at Castra Durius.”
Third thought about it. “I don’t recall. This…may be the first time.” She giggled, and then looked astonished that such a sound had come out of her mouth. “I apologize greatly, lord magister. I fear I am drunk.”
“If you need to lie down,” said one of the serving women, “there are rooms provided nearby. I fear this is a frequent occurrence at banquets.”
“Thank you, noble dwarf woman,” said Third, starting to rise. “I have always admired the determination of your kindred.” She wobbled and grabbed her chair to keep from falling over, and both Gavin and Ridmark shot to their feet, taking her arms.
“I think you should lie down,” said Ridmark.
“Yes,” said Third. “Yes, that is wise. That is kind. Thank you. You are a good friend to me, lord magister.” She patted him on the arm. “You and Queen Mara and the Keeper and the others. You are good friends. The only friends I have ever had.”
A pang of sympathy went through Gavin as he imaged the long centuries Third had endured as an urdhracos, bound to the will of her mad father.
“Thank you, Third,” said Calliande. “You have been a good friend to us, too.”
Third smiled, pointed at Ridmark, and then at Calliande. “You should have children.”
This time Calliande did turn red. “I’m sorry?”
“You should have children,” said Third. She tapped Ridmark on the chest. “You should impregnate the Keeper immediately.” Camorak all but gagged on his whiskey, blinking as he tried not to laugh. “Your children would be strong and wise with aesthetically pleasing cheekbones, and…”
She slumped, and only Ridmark’s and Gavin’s grasp on Third’s arms kept her from falling.
“Will she be all right?” said Ridmark to Calliande.
Gavin glanced at the King and Prince Narzaxar. Third was vital to the success of their plan, and if the dwarven nobles took offense at her accidental inebriation, it might imperil their chances of success. But both the King and the Prince looked drunker than the Third, and at the moment Gavin suspected the dwarves might not notice an explosion going off in the hall.
“I think so,” said Calliande, rising and putting her hand on Third’s forehead, white light glimmering around her fingers as she cast a spell. “She’ll be fine. The drink just caught her off guard. She’s more resilient than a normal human, so she’ll wake up in a few hours, and she probably won’t even have a hangover.”
“Lucky her,” grunted Camorak, taking another drink.
“We’ll take her,” said Ridmark, lifting her under the arms. “Gavin, get her ankles, please.”
Gavin took her ankles and lifted, a wave of embarrassment on Third’s behalf going through him. Yet no one among the dwarves noticed. Evidently, guests passing out drunk was a common occurrence at these banquets. Gavin thought of Caius’s words about despair, and his embarrassment turned to pity.
“This way, sirs,” said the dwarven woman, pointing to a side door. Ridmark and Gavin carried the unconscious Third between them, Antenora trailing after. Antenora opened the door, and they carried Third into a small room with a stone cot. Fortunately, the cot had thick blankets, and they laid Third down atop it.
“Hopefully she will feel better when she wakes up,” said Ridmark.
He turned and walked back to the banquet. Gavin started to follow him but then stopped. Antenora stared down at Third, a peculiar expression on her face. The two women had become friends of a sort during the journey from Nightmane Forest to Bastoth. Perhaps it was because they were both ancient and seen so much.
“I’m sure she’ll be all right,” said Gavin. “She just had a little too much to drink, and it caught her off guard. No one will hurt her here, and she’ll be fine when she wakes up.”
“I know, Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora.
She didn’t move.
“Is…everything all right?” said Gavin, stepping closer.
“I envy her,” said Antenora.
“Third?” said Gavin, surprised. He couldn’t think of anyone he envied less than Third. She had spent centuries enslaved as an urdhracos, and while she had broken free, the experience had left its scars upon her. “Can I ask why?”
“She can feel,” said Antenora. “I could drink every drop of that dwarven liquor and not feel a thing. All I feel is regret and sorrow. Perhaps that is as it should be. My crimes caused Arthur Pendragon’s realm to fall.”
Gavin wasn’t sure what to say. There was a look of such regret upon Antenora’s face, and he wanted to make it better. He didn’t know how, though.
“You must feel something other than regret, though,” said Gavin.
“Oh?” she said, looking at him.
“You’re worried about Third,” said Gavin. “That’s not just regret. And you keep protecting Calliande. You wouldn’t do that just out of regret. And we’re friends, right?”
“We are friends?” said Antenora. “Truly?”
It was a strange sight. She was fifteen centuries old, a sorceress of power, but beneath the yellow eyes and the gray skin, suddenly she looked like a scared and lonely girl. She was old, Gavin realized, but she was frozen in a peculiar sort of way. The curse of dark magic had made her immortal, but it had also locked her mind and heart as those of the grief-stricken woman who regretted her folly, and she had spent centuries suffering for her crimes long after anyone she had harmed was dead.
“Yes,” said Gavin.
She stared at him, her yellow eyes unblinking.
“Thank you,” said Antenora
. “You are important to me, Gavin Swordbearer.” She reached down and gripped his right hand. Her fingers felt cold and dry. “I wish I could feel more than I do. I wish I could have met you long ago, before I made my mistakes. Perhaps I would be wiser.”
His mouth went dry, and for a moment he could think of nothing to say at all.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last.
“None of my ills are your fault, Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora. “Let us return to the banquet. I do not wish to leave the Keeper unguarded.”
“No,” said Gavin as she released his hand, grateful that she had turned to a different topic. Thinking about Antenora sometimes brought a huge knot of complicated emotion to his mind. Sometimes he thought about kissing her and wondered what it would be like, but he knew she could not feel it. “But she ought to be safe here in Khald Tormen. This place is a fortress.”
Antenora was silent as they walked back to the Hall of Relics, her fingers tapping against her staff.
“Perhaps,” she said at last.
###
The Weaver walked alone through the corridors near the Hall of Relics. The servants used these hallways to come and go unseen, carrying trays of food and drink, but for the moment they were deserted. Even if the servants saw him, they would think nothing of it.
He smiled to himself.
Things were going well.
He had not expected matters to proceed as they had, but the dwarves’ confrontation with the Sculptor offered opportunities. Ridmark Arban would go to Thainkul Morzan, while Calliande would remain behind in Khald Tormen. That presented an excellent chance to kill them both. Ridmark would likely be the easier kill. In the Deeps, it would be easy to separate him from his companions and cut him down. The Keeper would take more work. The dwarves were powerful, especially in the heart of their greatest city.
The Weaver felt the weight of the black soulstone he carried, its surface cold with the gathered power of Incariel.
The dwarves were strong, but they could not withstand this power.
Now he would return to the banquet. Too much time and his absence would be noted. The Weaver had command of the situation, and he need only wait for the moment to strike.
And then the final obstacle to eternal freedom from matter and time would be removed.
The Weaver turned the corner and froze.
For the first time in nearly two centuries of life, complete and utter shock took him.
A dark elven noble sat on a stone bench against the wall, waiting for him.
The dark elf would be over seven feet tall when standing, and he wore armor of blue dark elven steel over black chain mail, a black cloak thrown back from his shoulders. His face was white as snow, and his eyes were as black as the void, filled with the shadow of Incariel. The dark elven lord had white hair, the points of his ears rising through the pale strands. Despite the alien grandeur of his appearance, the dark elf somehow looked…annoyed, like a tutor attempting to explain a simple concept to a slow pupil. Next to the bench stood an urdhracos in black armor, her head shaved, a strange steel mask on the left side of her face. The Weaver had last seen her during the attack on Castra Durius. This urdhracos was the Cutter, which meant that the dark elven lord upon the bench was…
“Greetings,” said the dark elf. His voice was a musical tenor of inhuman beauty, marred only by the tone of faint annoyance in his words. “I calculated that it was prudent for us to speak. I hope you are intelligent enough to realize who I am.”
The Weaver considered his options. A dark elven noble would be a powerful foe, skilled with both blade and spell, and the Weaver wasn’t at all sure he could win this fight. No, best to remain polite for now.
“I assume,” said the Weaver, “that I have the singular honor of addressing the Sculptor?”
“Ah, good,” said the Sculptor. He rose to his feet in a single fluid movement. “You do have a rudimentary grasp of logic, which is rare in humans. Of course, you are not entirely human any longer, are you?”
He took a step forward, peering at the Weaver, examining him like a specimen upon a table.
“Remarkable,” said the Sculptor. “Complete physical shapeshifting with total muscular and skeletal reconfiguration while retaining your lucidity. I could never get that quite right in my creations. Do you know how many generates of urshanes I bred before…was it five hundred?”
“Six hundred and thirty-four, master,” said the Cutter.
“Yes, that was it,” said the Sculptor. “Six hundred and thirty-four generations before I managed to get their shapeshifting ability right. Even then, they are only mimics. They must take a humanoid form and are incapable of altering their mass and relative strength. You even have a complete physical rejuvenation every time you change form, correct?”
The Weaver had heard that dark elven nobles were invariably insane, and he thought it best not to provoke the Sculptor.
“That is correct,” said the Weaver. He took a careful step back, considering the soulstone he carried.
“What?” said the Sculptor. “You’re thinking of using that shadow-damaged soulstone against me? A category error. I would not be harmed by it, making it useless as a tool of defense.”
“Do I need to defend myself against you?” said the Weaver.
“Not presently,” said the Sculptor. “The only reason to kill you would be to dissect you and study the alterations the shadow of Incariel has made to your flesh, and since I am not going to do that, you have no reason to fear. Unless you cross me, of course. Then you should be terrified.”
“How reassuring,” said the Weaver.
“A pity I didn’t have human blood to work with during the ancient epochs,” said the Sculptor, stepping back. “Of all the kindreds, orcs are the most vulnerable to magical mutation through successive generations, but human blood can achieve remarkable effects when fused with dark magic. Such as my koballats.” He waved a hand. “Still, your abilities come from the shadow of Incariel, which can temporarily suspend certain physical laws. Since Incariel desires to destroy those same physical laws, the conclusion is not surprising.” The bloodless mouth twisted in a grimace. “Therefore the effect cannot be reproduced with any reliability. The shadow of Incariel is ever treacherous.”
The Weaver smiled. The dark elves had joined with the shadow of Incariel for power. They were fools. The Weaver grasped the truth, as did Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer. The purpose of the shadow of Incariel was not to rule the world.
The purpose of the shadow of Incariel was to destroy the world and free mankind from the prison of matter and time. The dark elves hadn’t seen that. The dvargir hadn’t seen that. Tarrabus and the other fools in the Enlightened hadn’t seen that.
Only Imaria and the Weaver knew the ultimate truth.
“As you say, Lord Sculptor,” said the Weaver.
The Sculptor made an irritated sound. “Do not patronize me, boy. Your Enlightened are simply another group of fools who think to use the shadow of Incariel to become gods, failing to realize that Incariel desires the destruction of the world as a means of destroying its prison.”
The Weaver said nothing, adjusting his plans. The Sculptor might be mad, yes, but that did not mean the Sculptor was a fool.
“And you desire to stop this?” said the Weaver.
The Sculptor scoffed. “I told you not to patronize me. It cannot be stopped. As well try to stop this world in its orbit around the sun. No. This world is doomed, one way or another, and I have no further interest in its fate.” He swept back to the bench and sat down. “Why are you here?”
“To ensure the victory of the shadow of Incariel,” said the Weaver.
“Mmm.” The Sculptor stared off into space for a moment. “Then you are here to kill the Gray Knight and the Keeper.”
“Yes,” said the Weaver.
“That could be a problem,” said the Sculptor.
“Might I ask why?” said the Weaver. “I have no wish to work at cross-purposes with you.�
�� If it came to battle, he would not try to fight the Sculptor himself. Rather, he would find a way to alert the dwarves that their ancient enemy had hidden within their city. The resultant battle would kill thousands, which was of no importance, but it would likely eliminate any danger the Sculptor posed to the Weaver’s plans.
“I need her alive,” said the Sculptor. “Admittedly not for very long, but I do need her alive for those few moments.”
“Then you wish to claim the power of the Keeper for yourself, as the Warden and the Traveler did?” said the Weaver.
“What?” said the Sculptor, his annoyance growing, and the Cutter laughed. “Don’t be stupid. Why is everyone so stupid? No. What would I do with the Keeper’s power? Conquer the world? This world is doomed. Most likely it will become part of the empire of the Frostborn, and if by some miracle you Enlightened are more competent than you appear, then the shadow of Incariel will devour this world and all who dwell within it. I don’t want to hold the Keeper’s power. I just need to use it for a few moments, long enough to accomplish what I require.”
“And what is that?” said the Weaver.
The Sculptor sneered. “If you are not intelligent enough to figure it out on your own, then you don’t deserve to know.”
The kingdoms of the dark elves, the Weaver knew, had fallen because of the chronic inability of the dark elves to work with each other. After speaking with the Sculptor, the Weaver suddenly understood why the dark elves all detested each other.
“I suspect,” said the Weaver, “that you are here to make sure I do not kill the Keeper before you are finished with her.”
“Yes,” said the Sculptor, tapping his fingertips together. “I don’t care what you do with her once I have finished. It is entirely possible my spell will strip her of all power, or leave her a drooling vegetable. Or it might leave her unharmed. The Keeper’s mantle provides a resiliency that human flesh typically does not possess. Regardless, the process might leave her weakened, and I suggest that you kill the Keeper after I have finished with her.”
“When do you…require her?” said the Weaver.
“In a few days’ time,” said the Sculptor. “The moons shall be in the proper configuration then, and they invariably affect a spell of this magnitude. Once I have finished, if she is still alive, you are welcome to do as you wish with her.”
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 16
