Well of Darkness

by Margaret Weis

  As for Dagnarus, Dunner could see the good potential in the boy rotting away, like apples in a barrel stored in a dark and forgotten corner. Well, no matter what happened to the prince in the future, Dunner would at least see to it that this was one human who could ride a horse.

  After a wrong turning that nearly brought him into the Queen’s chambers, from which Dunner retreated with painful speed, he was later still. He continually lost his bearings in the castle, could never learn his way around any building, where every wall that walled him in looked like every other wall.

  He finally arrived at the council chambers to discover that, to no one’s surprise, the dwarven ambassador had not yet put in an appearance. Dunner checked to see if Tamaros had at least sent someone to fetch the dwarf and his retinue. On being assured that he had, Dunner found a short-legged chair and relapsed thankfully into it.

  King Tamaros was not in the room. In order to offend no one by being seen to be chatting privately with anyone, the King would stay away until all parties were assembled. His elder son, Helmos, was in attendance, acting as host prior to his father’s appearance. Helmos was now endeavoring to appease Lord Mabreton, who had taken umbrage at the fact that the dwarves were late.

  At the sight of Dunner, Helmos excused himself politely and advanced on Dunner with a warm smile. Dunner started to stand up in respect, but Helmos shook his head.

  “No, my friend. Keep your seat. No formality between us. It is good to see you. I am glad you could come.”

  “I am honored to have been asked, Your Highness,” said Dunner.

  He was fond of Helmos, more fond of the young human than he had been fond of anyone in his lifetime, with the possible exception of the scribe. The two shook hands warmly, ignoring Lord Mabreton, who stated loudly in elven that since a dwarf, any dwarf was present, they should carry on with the meeting.

  “I wish you joy of your betrothal, my lord,” added Dunner, gazing intently at Helmos and saddened by what he saw.

  The prince looked worn-out. He must have slept but little these past few days, if at all. He also looked dazed and bewildered. He and his father had been struck from behind, the blow completely unexpected. One minute they had been on the verge of making peace with the elves, the next minute they were on the verge of war with everyone.

  Lord of Sorrows. What a dreadful appellation to bestow on any young man—human or not. Dunner could have kicked those magi who had cast a cloud over the prince’s bright hopes around the castle courtyard. In vain had the tutor Evaristo, another of Dunner’s friends, argued that it was the gods themselves who had thus named Helmos. Dunner didn’t believe a bit of it. Dunner had ceased believing in gods in his childhood, when he had prayed and prayed to them to heal his leg and let him ride again and they had not listened.

  At least the mention of his engagement brought a smile to the young man’s wan face, gray with exhaustion and worry, and light to his eyes.

  “Thank you, Dunner. It is what I have longed for ever since we were children. I asked Anna when she was ten years old if she would marry me.”

  “And what was her answer?” Dunner asked, encouraging the prince to talk of pleasant subjects.

  “She said that she hated all boys,” Helmos replied, smiling at the memory. “And then she hit me with a stick.”

  “I’ll wager she did not hit you this time around,” said the dwarf.

  “No, she did not.” Helmos laughed, which caused Lord Mabreton to glower, thinking that the dwarf was gaining some sort of political advantage.

  “When is the wedding?”

  “Within the month,” said Helmos, growing more somber. He glanced sidelong at the elf lord, who was walking up and down the room, making a great show of his indignation. “The gods willing.”

  Meaning that the wedding would be held if Vinnengael was not at war.

  “Thank goodness the marriage ceremony is sacred and private,” Helmos added wryly. “I’ve had enough of public spectacle.”

  At that moment, the orken ambassador—the chieftain of the orken living in Vinnengael—arrived. Dunner had smelled him long before he saw him; he must have just come from off his fishing vessel. The dwarven ambassador entered on the ork’s heels, glaring and angry at being summoned. The smell of horse mingled with the smell of fish. The aromatic oils burning in the lamps made an attempt to override both, but were not having much success.

  Helmos welcomed the ork and the dwarf in their own languages. He knew the Captain, as the orken call their chieftain, from previous visits and asked politely about the fishing, which was far from good, the ork said. But they always said that, for a shortage of fish meant they could drive up the price of the catch they took to market.

  Dunner made his obeisance to the dwarven ambassador, herded him toward a chair when the ambassador would have squatted on the floor, as if he were home in his tent, and hinted that it was inappropriate—not to mention insulting to the human king—to have brought along twelve bodyguards.

  Dunner was negotiating the bodyguards from twelve down to four, these to sit on the floor in the back of the council chamber, when a distraught retainer entered the room, went straight to Helmos, and said something in a low voice. Helmos looked alarmed, then grave. He gave orders to the retainer, then, excusing himself to his guests and asking them to take some refreshment in his absence, he left the room in haste.

  All assembled announced loudly that they found this suspicious and were inclined to be insulted. The elf lord refused to eat or drink in the house of his enemy, for, he announced, that would make him lose face. The ork Captain and the dwarves had no such scruples, however. The twelve bodyguards made short work of the fruit, bread, cheese, and wine that had been placed on the table. What they could not eat, they stuffed down their trousers to munch on later.

  The retainer returned, announced, “King Olgaf of Dunkarga,” and retired.

  A short man, wizened, with a pinch-penny face, a whining voice, and a mouth that was twisted as if it were always tasting something bad, entered the council chamber.

  “Ah, so that’s it,” Dunner growled to himself. “More mischief.”

  He mentally apologized to the elf Silwyth for suspecting him. Dunner knew now who had sent the anonymous communiqué, or at least, if he had not sent it, he had been in on the sending. The capital city of Dunkarga was a journey of several weeks away. The council meeting had been called the day before yesterday, and even if Olgaf had been invited, he could never have arrived in time. He must have known that such an assembly would be held and how better to know it than by instigating it.

  Dunner did not like Olgaf, did not trust him. Just then, for example, Olgaf was walking toward the dwarven ambassador with an ingratiating smile, when Dunner knew for a fact that Olgaf had ordered his soldiers to get rid of any dwarf who dared wag his beard in Dunkarga. All dwarves were to be escorted to the border and given a beating to remind them not to return.

  Dunner advised his ambassador of this, speaking in dwarven. He was sorry to have to do it, for doing so would add more fuel to the fire and strengthen the ambassador’s dislike and distrust of all humans, including King Tamaros. But Dunner could not stand by and watch Olgaf make a fool of the dwarves.

  The result was that the ambassador pulled his beard at Olgaf—a dreadful insult, had the human only known, and announced that the twelve bodyguards would be staying. Olgaf didn’t understand the insult, but he knew by the dwarf’s irate tone that friendly overtures were unwelcome.

  Olgaf gave Dunner a look that was like a blow and turned his false flattery to Lord Mabreton, who was charmed to discover that, at last, here was a human who appreciated him.

  Helmos returned. He made a reverence to King Olgaf as was due a relative, even though it was only by marriage. Helmos’s bow definitely suffered from frostbite.

  “Helmos!” Olgaf was in excellent spirits. He reeked of those excellent spirits, in fact. “Joy on your engagement, nephew! I’ve seen the wench. A fine furrow to plow, as no doub
t you already know!” He gave a lecherous wink.

  Helmos paled with anger. The remark would have been considered unseemly in a barracks. The elf lord, who spoke adequate human when he wanted, puzzled out the idiom, understood it, and was appalled. He, at least, had some sense of decorum. Lord Mabreton stepped away from Olgaf, as he would have stepped back from treading on a viper. The ork Captain appeared bored; he spoke good human but took it all quite literally, as orken will. He thought they were discussing farming, a subject in which he was not the least interested. Dunner translated for his ambassador, who, having never heard of a plow or a furrow, couldn’t make sense of it and put it down to one more example of human stupidity. Dunner didn’t bother to correct him.

  Helmos was a gentle man, slow to anger, but this gross insult to his beloved touched him deeply, as Olgaf well knew. The crown prince was trembling with rage and the need to control himself. Olgaf opened his mouth again, intending to further provoke the young man, hoping for a quarrel or even a blow, which would have left the council meeting in shambles. Before Olgaf could spout his next poisonous gibe, King Tamaros entered.

  He came without ceremony, sweeping into the room with a dignity and majesty that made Olgaf seem, by contrast, a malignant and evil imp. Tamaros rested his hand lightly, briefly, compassionately, and warningly on his son’s shoulder as he passed him, reminding Helmos that to quarrel with such a being would gain nothing, only demean himself. Helmos drew in a deep breath and went to stand behind one of the high-backed chairs placed in a circle, so that the council members could face each other and none took precedence. They did not sit at a table, for that would have meant that the dwarves’ chins would be resting on the board, while the legs of the orken would be constantly bumping and jouncing it.

  Accompanying the King were those other Dominion Lords who had traveled to the lands of the other races and could add their own counsel, aid the King’s decision. Reinholt, the Most Revered High Magus, was not present, a politic move, since the elves and the dwarves, though admitting the necessity of magic, viewed magic-users of any race with the deepest suspicion.

  King Tamaros said words of welcome to all present, speaking to the foreigners in their own tongue and making inquiries that indicated that he knew well what was transpiring in their lands. He even welcomed Olgaf, saying that Emillia was always pleased when her father came to visit. A lie, since father and daughter, being very much alike, couldn’t stand each other.

  The formalities attended to, King Tamaros took his place in his chair at the north part of the circle. The Dominion Lords flanked the King. Helmos sat opposite His Majesty. If this were a human time piece, he would have been sitting at six o’clock. Olgaf was placed at three, the ambassadors opposite him. The twelve dwarven bodyguards squatted at the far end of the chamber, where they were joined—discreetly—by several of the castle guard.

  “We thank you all for coming,” said King Tamaros. The old man looked worn and tired, but there was a calm about him, a confidence, which spread over the hurt feelings and wounded egos like a soothing balm. “We could say that this was all a misunderstanding. Or we could say that it was not a misunderstanding at all. We could say that you were duped, fed false information.”

  Olgaf’s face grew more pinched, as if someone had his nose in a vice. His mouth curled into a sneer.

  “We could tell you that this was an attempt to trick you into declaring war,” Tamaros continued, “a war that would cost countless lives, leave our children orphans, the peace of Loerem in ruin and shambles. We could tell you this and we would be telling you no more than the truth. But we will not.”

  Tamaros paused, gazed at each of the ambassadors intently, holding their eyes, staring into each soul, searching, probing, sifting. The elf lord, the ork Captain, the dwarven ambassador met his gaze and returned it steadily. Olgaf shifted his eyes sideways and muttered something to the effect that his wineglass was empty.

  “We will not,” the King repeated. “Instead, we will say that we have read over the lists of grievances you have presented to us…”

  The dwarven ambassador appeared quite astonished at this. He had sent no list. He could not write. Dunner leaned over to whisper that he had taken it upon himself to submit a list of dwarven concerns. This was fine with the ambassador. He didn’t even ask to see the list, which he could not have read anyway, and he trusted Dunner. Such was the respect in which the Unhorsed were held.

  Tamaros waited patiently until the dwarves had ceased their whispered consultation, then went on.

  “We have read over your grievances and we say that you are right.”

  This was met with astonished silence.

  “The Portals are a gift from the gods and belong rightfully to us all. We should all share in the control of the Portals, in the responsibility of maintaining them, and therefore we should all share in the wealth. How is that to be accomplished?” Tamaros shook his head. “We do not know. We do not have the answer.”

  The ambassadors looked grim; they thought he was stalling.

  “And that is why,” Tamaros continued, his voice a little louder, overriding their doubts, “we are taking this matter directly to the gods. This night, I will enter the Temple. I ask that you give me two-and-seventy hours, during which time you will take no action. Nor will we. I will fast and pray and ask the gods for guidance. I know that each of you will be wanting to do the same. Therefore, any of you who would like to come with me to the Temple, to the Portal of the Gods, are welcome.”

  Well done, old man, said Dunner to himself, barely able to keep from laughing as he translated Tamaros’s words. The look on King Olgaf’s face alone was worth the price of admission. He had come there hoping to foment discord, come there to start a war, from which he intended to profit. Instead he was left with the prospect of a seventy-two-hour fast and prayer session.

  “Does he mean it?” the dwarven ambassador demanded, regarding Tamaros doubtfully.

  “He means it,” Dunner replied. He might not believe in the gods, but he had come to believe in King Tamaros.

  The others were considering, turning over the proposal as a jewel in their minds. They were unable to find a single flaw, though it was obvious from the expression on Olgaf’s face that he was hammering at it with all his might. At length, after more discussion, all agreed to it, some more grudgingly than others. They would each speak to the gods on their own behalf—the orken Captain would have his shaman read the omens—and then they would return.

  All except the dwarven ambassador, who—once he was made to understand how many sunrises seventy-two hours encompassed—looked horrified and said he could not possibly stay in this prison for that length of time. He agreed to let Dunner the Unhorsed represent the dwarves.

  King Olgaf said nothing, made no promise to consult the gods or even to return in seventy-two hours. He cast King Tamaros a look of inveterate hatred, a look so malevolent that Dunner was sorry to have intercepted it and rubbed a turquoise stone, a Pecwae gem, worn on a fine silver chain, in order to protect himself from any spillover of evil.

  The meeting was adjourned. Dunner, one of the last to leave, limped out of the council chamber and into the corridor, where he was almost run down by the young prince Dagnarus. The prince appeared out of nowhere, accompanied by his friend, the whipping boy. Dunner wondered what in the name of the Wolf-god could have brought the two boys to this part of the castle.

  “Move along, will you? You’re in my way. Oh, sorry, Dunner. I didn’t see it was you,” Dagnarus muttered. He was clearly in a bad mood, appeared put out, as if his dearest wish had just been denied. Gareth, on the other hand, looked vastly relieved.

  “Will you be training your horse for battle tomorrow, Your Highness?” Dunner asked.

  “Why should I? What’s the use?” the boy replied dispiritedly. He wandered off disconsolately down the hall, the whipping boy tailing dutifully behind.

  The next person Dunner encountered was Silwyth. He, too, had no business being in
this portion of the castle at this time of day.

  “If you’re searching for His Highness, Chamberlain,” said Dunner, “he went off in that direction.”

  Silwyth walked past without replying. He didn’t even seem to hear. Though elves pride themselves on revealing nothing of their emotions on their faces, this elf apparently wasn’t bothering. He looked extremely glum.

  The Portal of the Gods

  The Portal of the Gods had been created by the magi along with the other three Portals at the insistence of King Tamaros. Some of his advisors had been much opposed to it, believing that the less direct communication people had with the gods the better.

  Tamaros’s idea had been to open the Portal up to anyone who wanted to communicate with the gods. His advisors had nearly leapt down his throat at this suggestion; did he actually want the meanest beggar in Vinnengael to be able to come in and demand the gods knew what? How were people to respect the King’s laws if they had the idea that they could go over his head if they were dissatisfied?

  Tamaros insisted and the Portal was built in the Temple of the Magi for any to use. Few did. Life was good. The people were content. Let the gods stay in heaven. They weren’t needed on earth. Thus, the Portal was little visited.

  Those who saw the Portal of the Gods—and there were few, for it was located in an isolated and out-of-the-way portion of the Temple—were disappointed. Expecting a magnificent room with a high-domed ceiling filled with sunlight, they saw only a small cell, reminiscent of a novice’s cell. They looked around askance, feeling privately that they’d been cheated.

  It was Tamaros himself who had determined how the Portal should appear. He came before the gods in humility, one of their children, not a king, and thus he came to them in a room not much larger than a closet. The Portal was situated in the quietest part of the building, a part that seemed to use silence for mortar to hold the stones together.