Well, at least Ridmark had Third with him. Third’s head was on straight, and Mara had ordered her half-sister to protect Ridmark, and Third was not the sort to turn from her task.
She realized that Calazon was speaking, and rebuked herself for letting her mind wander. The stonescribe must have returned from his errand.
“Would this protection against the revenants’ freezing touch extend to our warriors, Keeper?” said Calazon.
“Not yet,” said Calliande, “but it will.” Calazon had been extremely helpful during the negotiations. Calliande knew the dwarves well, could even speak their tongue, but she was still an outsider. Calazon had smoothed over the gaps. He tended to ramble and pontificate, and he seemed oddly fascinated by Third, but he had been a useful ally. “I would have to recast the great spell I used on the day of the battle of Dun Calpurnia and prepare it for the dwarven kindred. It would take no more than a day of work at most.”
“I do not recall you employing such a spell during the previous war, Keeper,” said Axazamar.
“I wish that I had,” said Calliande. “Many lives would have been saved.” She gestured at Antenora, who inclined her head to the king, her black hood covering her face in shadow. “My apprentice possesses tremendous skill for wielding the magic of elemental flame. With her help, I could work the great spell, and protect the men of Andomhaim from the cold of the revenants. If not for the treachery of Tarrabus Carhaine, we might well have carried the day and driven the Frostborn back to their gate.”
“Treachery is among the vilest of all crimes,” said Axazamar, leaning hard on his cane of dwarven steel as he walked. “Tarrabus Carhaine has allied himself with the Frostborn, you say?”
“He thinks of himself as an ally of convenience,” said Calliande. “I have no doubt he plans to betray the Frostborn at the earliest opportunity. The Frostborn think of him as a useful vassal. In time, they will destroy him or hand him over to his foes when he has outlived his usefulness, or if he is bold enough to betray them openly.”
Axazamar shook his head. “We will not be drawn into a civil war within Andomhaim, Keeper.”
“No,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath. “If we are successful here, if you march to join Queen Mara and King Turcontar, then I will set out for Tarlion. I intend to see the civil war ended, and Arandar Pendragon put on his father’s throne.”
“Then you have chosen a side?” said Axazamar.
“There are not two sides,” said Calliande. “Arandar Pendragon is the lawful heir to the throne of Andomhaim. Tarrabus Carhaine is a usurper who has stolen a title that does not belong to him. He is a traitor who betrayed the loyalists at Dun Calpurnia. He is a murderer who sent his servants to kill High King Uthanaric Pendragon and his sons. He is an apostate who has abandoned the church of the Dominus Christus for the shadow of Incariel. There are not two claimants to the throne of Andomhaim, King Axazamar. There is the true High King, and a rebel and a murderer with pretensions of grandeur.”
“Eloquently spoken,” said the king.
“I intend to see Andomhaim reunified under Arandar,” said Calliande, “and for that reunified realm to march to the aid of the Anathgrimm and the manetaurs and the dwarves. Andomhaim will have been weakened by the Frostborn and the civil war, yes, but even now once the realm is restored it will be strong. Together I believe we can defeat the Frostborn and close their gate.”
“It is a compelling vision, Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Axazamar. “Perhaps when my brother returns from Thainkul Morzan, it shall come to pass.” He tapped his cane against the stone floor with a ringing noise. “If you will excuse me, I am weary and must rest before this evening’s dinner. I hope you and your apprentice shall join me.”
“We shall be honored, King Axazamar,” said Calliande.
“Good,” said Axazamar. “Stonescribe.” Calazon stepped forward. “Please see the Keeper and her apprentice back to her rooms.”
“Of course, my lord King,” said Calazon. He beckoned, and three other stonescribes joined him, sober and dutiful expressions on their bearded faces. “Please, Keeper. Follow me, if you would.”
“Certainly,” said Calliande. To her surprise, Calazon and his three other stonescribes turned towards the Stone Heart. “Isn’t the Nobles’ House and the Dormari Market in the other direction?”
“They are,” said Calazon, “but I hope to impose upon your time for a moment if you will allow it. We wish to ask you a question. The records of the stonescribes are incomplete concerning the end of the first war against the Frostborn, and your recollections would be invaluable.”
Calliande wanted to go back to the Nobles’ House and lie down for a few hours. She enjoyed the business of diplomacy, enjoyed the discussions and the rituals, but they were nonetheless tiring, and endless worry gnawed at her mind.
But Calazon had been a helpful ally. That sword, as Marius had liked to say, cut both ways.
“I shall be glad of it,” said Calliande. “Lead on.”
“Some light refreshment shall be served,” said Calazon, and his face took on that slightly strained expression of a somber dwarf attempting to make a joke. “I know you humans do not have the stamina of we khaldari.”
“We do not,” said Calliande in a grave voice. “It is kind of you to make that consideration for us.”
She could just imagine Morigna rolling her eyes.
“I am glad that you think so,” said Calazon. “Sometimes it is difficult for dwarves and humans to understand each other. We are simply too alien from one another. Our flesh is wrought in a different configuration, and consequently, our minds are formed differently. It is simply in our natures.”
They returned to the vast chamber of the Stone Heart, their footsteps echoing through the empty space. The levels of balconies rose above them, empty of everyone. Calliande wondered what the Stone Heart sounded like when filled with dwarves gathered to hear the edicts of their king.
She supposed they would be just as orderly as ever. Unless they were drinking their whiskey. God and the saints, but that stuff was strong.
“What about free will?” said Calliande.
“Free will?” said Calazon. “Ah. A human philosophical concept. The idea that you are capable of making moral choices, yes?”
“More or less,” said Calliande, “though it is a bit more complicated than that.”
“This way,” said Calazon, pointing at a set of stone steps rising to the first level of the balconies. “We have a chamber set aside to speak with you.”
“Thank you,” said Calliande, and she and Antenora followed the four stonescribes.
“I am curious about this idea of free will,” said Calazon. “Do you actually believe it?”
“Yes,” said Calliande. “A man or a woman can choose good or evil.”
“A tool cannot choose its purpose,” said Calazon. “It fulfills its purpose or it does not.”
“People are not tools,” said Calliande.
“A function, then,” said Calazon as they reached the base of the stairs. “A tool fulfills its function or it does not, and living creatures all have functions. A male human’s purpose is to defend his family and provide food and shelter. A female human’s purpose is to bear children and raise them. Living creatures must fulfill their function. The mind generates the illusion of choice, but the choice has already been made by the configuration of their flesh.”
Calliande considered that as they climbed the stairs to the first balcony. The balcony was empty, with rows of stone benches looking towards the throne and the massive soulstone in its pool of molten stone.
“What about the dwarves?” said Calliande.
“What of them, Keeper?” said Calazon, crossing towards a stone door in the curved wall.
“Does that philosophy of yours apply to the khaldari?” said Calliande. “The dwarves talk about the gods of stone and silence, of accepting the despair of death with stoicism. Is that because of the nature of their flesh? Or do they choose that
path? For that matter, some of the dwarves have turned to the faith of the Dominus Christus. Did they choose that, or is that in the nature of their flesh as well?”
Calazon said nothing as he crossed to the door, tapping some of the glyphs carved into the doorframe. They flared with blue-white light, and the stone locks released.
“I do not know,” said Calazon in a soft voice. “I have pondered the matter for a long, long time, and I do not know. I have tried to find the answer, but it often remains elusive. A pity I cannot study the matter further, but we are almost out of time, and more urgent matters are pressing.”
The door slid open, and they stepped inside. The room beyond looked like a smaller version of the Hall of Relics, with a long stone table stretching its length. Stacks of paper rested on the table, along with quills and pots of ink. The stonescribes might carve their histories into tablets of steel, but for notetaking, they preferred paper and ink.
“Yes,” said Calliande. “The Frostborn have returned, and if they conquer Khald Tormen, there will be no time to ponder anything further.”
“That is so,” said Calazon. The three other stonescribes waited by the door, while Calazon crossed to the table. A carafe of wine and a pair of cups waited there, and Calazon filled both and carried them to Calliande. “Forgive me, Lady Antenora. I would bring you a cup of wine, but I fear you would not enjoy it.”
“I would not,” said Antenora.
Calliande took the cup. “Thank you.”
“For the mind is shaped by the flesh,” said Calazon, “and I fear the dark magic upon you has changed the nature of your flesh.”
“No,” said Antenora. “My failures and my decisions shaped my flesh, not the other way around.”
“True,” said Calazon. He took a sip of his wine. “I wish I had more time to speak with you, Lady Antenora, you and Lady Third both. You are both utterly unique. I have been a stonescribe for a very long time, and it has been ages since I have seen something new.”
Calliande was not thirsty, but she took a drink of the wine to be polite. It tasted harsh and bitter on her tongue. She supposed the dwarves had purchased it from the traders of Durandis, and it had likely come from the vineyards of Cintarra or maybe Taliand. “I am pleased we have brought new knowledge to the stonescribes.” She looked towards the stacked paper. “Would you like to begin?”
“Yes,” said Calazon, squinting at her for a moment. “Yes, the time has come.”
Calliande opened her mouth to answer and found that she could not draw breath.
“It is indeed time,” said Calazon.
Calliande tried to speak again, and a spasm went through her. All the strength drained from her limbs, and both the staff of the Keeper and her cup of wine fell from her fingers. The cup hit the floor and bounced, wine spraying in all directions.
“Keeper!” said Antenora.
Calliande tried to summon power, tried to work a spell, but she could only manage to call a little magic. She directed the spell into herself, sending the power flowing through her flesh. Healing magic was far less effective when she used her own spells on herself, but at once she sensed the problem.
She had been poisoned.
“Poison,” she managed to croak.
Antenora whirled to face Calazon, her staff glowing just as Calazon’s hand came up. Blue fire and shadow blasted from Calazon’s fingers and hit Antenora. The spell flung her across the hall and into the pillars with bone-crushing force, and she collapsed motionless to the ground.
Calliande fell to her knees, her head spinning as she tried to summon more power, but she could not concentrate.
“Take her,” said Calazon, and she heard the rattle of a chain.
Everything went black.
###
Much later, Calliande felt her eyelids twitch open.
She was lying on her back, something cold and metallic against her neck and wrists. Chains, perhaps? She could not tell. A strange flickering blue glow filled the hall, throwing odd shadows across the ceiling. Nearby she heard someone moving around, accompanied by Calazon grumbling to himself in irritation.
Calliande closed her eyes again, preparing to summon magic. She would have to act quickly. She suspected that Calazon was trying to assassinate her, or at least kidnap her, and she wouldn’t know why until she questioned him. There had been three other stonescribes with him, and she would have to assume they were part of his plot. Calliande would start with a spell of earth magic, knocking them from their feet, and then she would overpower them.
She drew on her magic, and pain erupted through her.
The cold metal against her wrists and neck burned with agony, and it felt as if she had been dipped into hot lead. The pain was shattering, and Calliande screamed in sudden agony. The shock of it disrupted her grip on the power, and her magic spun away, the pain hammering through her head.
Calliande shuddered, the agony redoubling, and for a moment she was in too much pain to scream, too much pain even to breathe.
She passed out.
When she came to, Calazon stood over her.
“Ah,” said Calazon. “You have awakened, I see.”
Calliande sat up, chains clanking, and looked at herself.
Her boots were gone, and manacles of black metal bound her wrists and her ankles. A black chain joined the two sets of manacles, and another chain went up her chest to a collar of similar metal around her neck. She could sit up, and she could probably stand, but she could manage nothing more than a slow hobble.
A stab of fear went through her. She had seen a set of chains like this before. Sir Caradog Lordac had planned to put them on her during his ambush in the Northerland. The metal was dvargir steel, and to her Sight, the chains pulsed with dark magic.
Dark magic powerful enough to send agony through her if she tried a spell.
“You’re with the Enlightened,” said Calliande, her voice hoarse.
“What?” said Calazon. “Certainly not.” He walked back to the table. The paper and ink had been removed, and now a maze of symbols written in blue fire burned in the air above the table. He was casting a spell of tremendous complexity, weaving threads of dark magic in an intricate design. The shape of the spell seemed familiar, somehow, though still incomplete.
Another flash of blue light went through the hall, and Calliande turned her head.
Antenora stood against the wall, encased in a cylinder of blue light that crackled with fingers of black lightning. She stood as motionless as a statue, and to Calliande’s Sight, the cylinder shimmered with spells of binding and imprisonment.
“Antenora?” said Calliande.
“She cannot hear you,” said Calazon. The other three stonescribes stood by the table with the air of soldiers awaiting orders. “If I tried to kill her, I suspect the curse upon her would regenerate her in a short time. A fascinating spell, and I could study it further. Regrettable.”
His manner had changed. He seemed…irritated, distracted, as if he was thinking of something else and annoyed at the necessity of speech.
“Then you are with the dvargir,” said Calliande. “They gave you these chains.”
“The dvargir are as idiotic as the Enlightened,” said Calazon. “I had to steal those manacles from them. A great deal of necessary bother. It is regrettable you cannot be unconscious for the completion of the spell.”
“Then you have betrayed Khald Tormen to the Frostborn,” said Calliande.
“That is incorrect for several reasons,” said Calazon. “The Frostborn are going to prevail, and they will make all other kindreds into their slaves and vassals. I have no wish to live as either, so,” he waved a hand in her general direction, “all this is necessary.”
“Then why are you doing this?” said Calliande. “Personal vengeance? Have I wronged you in some way?”
Calazon stared at her for a moment, head tilted to the side.
“Interesting,” said Calazon. “My spells were more effective than I thought. It is damnably
hard to conceal anything from the Sight, even here in Khald Tormen. I spent a great deal of time considering how to conceal myself from you, and I am pleased the effort was successful. The knowledge may be useful in the future.”
“Then who are you really?” said Calliande, another stab of fear going through her. If Calazon was not working for the Enlightened or the Frostborn or the dvargir, then why was he doing this?
The beginnings of a realization flickered at the edge of her mind.
Unless, of course, he was not really Calazon at all.
“There is no harm in sharing that knowledge,” said Calazon, and he gestured at the other three stonescribes across the table.
All three of them blurred and rippled, the shape of their bodies changing. Two of the stonescribes became urshanes, sleek and deadly in their black scales, scorpion tails waving over their shoulders. The third stonescribe became an urdhracos in form-fitting black armor, her pale head shaved, a strange mask covering the left side of her face.
It was the Cutter.
Calliande looked at Calazon, and his form blurred and disappeared.
In his place stood a dark elven lord clad in armored plates of blue steel over black chain mail, a black cloak flung over his shoulders. The void of Incariel filled his eyes, and his alien face was proud and cold beneath his white hair. Despite the inhuman beauty of his features, his expression was annoyed.
“You’re the Sculptor,” said Calliande, understanding coming at last.
“So my kindred named me,” said the Sculptor. Anger flashed through his voice, but it wasn’t aimed at Calliande. “My skill created the war beasts that filled our armies, and they mocked me a sculptor of blood and bone and flesh. Of course, my creations were not good enough for the fools, and they opened the world gates to summon other kindreds to serve as our slaves and soldiers. Then the urdmordar ate the idiots.” Satisfaction went through his voice. “They should have listened to me. Well, I am alive, and they are all dead.”
“Then what do you want from me?” said Calliande.
The Sculptor frowned. “Raw material for an escape.”
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 23
