“Don’t,” Icelin whispered. “Don’t run away from me. Please.”
“I’m trying.” Ruen closed his eyes tightly. He forced himself to focus only on her touch, the warmth of her fingers on his, the softness of her skin. The physical pain was all in his mind. He breathed deeply, pressing down the fear and hopelessness that always came with his gift. When he was calm, the pain went away. It was impossible to ignore the rest, but if only he could distract himself—
“I love you,” Icelin said.
Ruen opened his eyes.
ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK
27 UKTAR
ICELIN’S HAND TREMBLED. RUEN REACHED UP, TOOK HER hand, and brought it to his lips. “Why?” he asked. “Because I’m an insufferable, overprotective, taciturn rogue?”
“Because you’re the best man I’ve ever known.”
“You can’t have many men to compare me to in your experience.” He smiled briefly, and the expression sent warmth through every part of Icelin’s body. “I am everything you’ve ever accused me of,” Ruen said. “Every flaw, it’s true.”
“And I know that I’m the last woman in the world that should be asking you to love me,” Icelin said. “To look past what you feel when you touch me.”
“That’s doesn’t matter,” Ruen said.
Her brow furrowed. “You mean you can stand to touch me, even knowing what you’re going to feel?”
“I mean I love you,” Ruen said. “I have for some time.”
Icelin grew suddenly lightheaded, a similar feeling to what she experienced when the wild magic roiled inside her, but this time there was no pain, only confusion, fear, and the small beginning of what might have been joy welling up within her. “What do you … how long?” she stammered.
“For a couple of months,” Ruen said.
“Since we left Waterdeep?” Icelin was having trouble concentrating. “But you never said, you told me you didn’t feel that way about—”
“I know,” Ruen said. “I lied. I thought it was enough to give you back your life, save you.” He looked away. “I was afraid.” He made a fist at his side, but Icelin kept hold of his other hand. She wouldn’t let go.
“Kiss me,” Icelin said, stepping closer.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Ruen said. “I want you to be happy.”
“Oh, gods, man, do I have to ask you again?” Icelin rolled her eyes and glared at him with mock severity. “Of all my many conquests, you’re by far the most difficult.”
“Am I?” Ruen framed her face in his hands and kissed her. Icelin wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body against his. He held her tightly, touching her, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids. Now that he’d finally started, he seemed content to go on holding and kissing her forever.
“Ruen,” Icelin said haltingly, running her hands over his chest.
“Yes?” Ruen said. His lips traced her jaw.
“It occurs to me … that we have … too many clothes on,” Icelin murmured.
“A stunningly insightful observation,” Ruen replied. “We should remedy the situation immediately.”
“In Haela’s temple garden?” Icelin pulled back, smiling against his lips. Somehow, though, she thought the goddess would approve.
The sounds of music, shouts, and raucous laughter drifted faintly from the plaza. The wedding guests were gathering for the ceremony. Icelin felt cool, moist air touch her bare skin as Ruen lifted her shirt over her head.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much.” Icelin kissed him again, and they didn’t speak again for a long time.
Later, Icelin listened to the sound of falling water and marveled at the fact that she was lying on cold stone, with only a pile of clothing, her cloak, and Ruen’s body heat to keep her warm. She had no interest in moving, of course, so she put the cold out of her mind. Ruen seemed just as content, for he hadn’t moved or spoken since they’d made love, except to stroke his index finger gently over her hip and thigh beneath the cloak. The rhythmic motions lulled Icelin into a half sleep, but the sound of music and laughter drew her awake.
“Ingara’s wedding,” she murmured. “We shouldn’t miss it. Sull will be looking for us, too.”
“You’re right,” Ruen agreed. “But we’d best get dressed first.”
“Age and wisdom—that’s why I love you,” Icelin said. She fished her shirt out of the pile of discarded clothing and pulled it over her head. Thoughts of Ingara’s wedding led her to think about the Blackhorn family and the battle ahead. Since they’d come together, a peace such as Icelin had never known had settled over her, but their immediate future was still uncertain. “Where do we go from here?” she asked.
Ruen paused in the act of pulling on his boots. “We stay and fight or we leave the city after the wedding,” he said. “Garn told me there are still secret ways open to the surface. They’ve sent some children and elders from the city by those routes. We’d be relatively safe using them.”
“I don’t want to run,” Icelin said, “but there’s a good chance that if we stay to fight, we’ll die.”
“A very good chance,” Ruen said, never taking his eyes from her face.
Icelin smiled at him wistfully. “Isn’t this the kind of thing adventurers are supposed to do? Live on the edge of death and take on impossible causes for riches and glory?”
“There’s no treasure to be had, and we’ll likely die alone and unmarked,” Ruen pointed out with a gallows smile.
“I suppose I can live with that, too, as long as you’re there beside me,” Icelin said. “I’m not chasing death,” she added.
“I know.”
“But if I do die, it will have meant something,” she decided, nodding to herself. “Yes, I think my parents would have agreed.”
“A wedding first,” Ruen said.
“Yes.” Icelin went to him and kissed him. A part of her still marveled that he didn’t pull away.
They emerged from the garden together and crossed the walkway back to the central plaza. Icelin’s mouth dropped open when she saw the size of the crowd that had gathered. The plaza was completely full, the crowd spilling over onto the surrounding bridges over the river. They packed into any open space, waiting to get a glimpse of Ingara and Arngam.
And the king, Icelin realized. Mith Barak stood on the raised dais with the master armswoman, Joya, Garn, Obrin, and a group of dwarves that Icelin didn’t recognize. They must have been Arngam’s family.
“This is more than just a wedding,” Ruen said, echoing Icelin’s thoughts. “The city gathers to hear the king speak on the night before the battle.”
“What will he say?” Icelin wondered.
“Whatever it is, we won’t hear it,” Ruen said. “We won’t get near the center of the plaza.”
Icelin looked up at the surrounding buildings. One of the shops near the temple had a stone lip running around it about fifteen feet off the ground. She led him through the crowd until they stood beneath the lip. “I have an idea,” she said. She stepped closer to Ruen and put her arm around his waist. She gripped her staff in her other hand and murmured the words of the spell. “Hold on,” she said.
The magic took hold, and they levitated above the crowd. Ruen grunted in surprise and tightened his grip on Icelin. “This wasn’t what I had in mind,” he said.
“Why not? You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Icelin said teasingly. She raised an eyebrow when he didn’t respond. “Gods, you aren’t really, are you?”
“No,” Ruen said tersely as they halted before the stone lip. He hoisted himself onto the shelf and helped Icelin up beside him.
“You’re lying. I can tell by that look of irritation. Oh, this is too wonderful.” Laughter bubbled up inside Icelin. “Shall we go a little higher? We could sit on the roof, you know. It’d give us a wonderful view down into the plaza.”
“This shelf is very narrow,” Ruen said, taking hold of Icelin’s waist. “I’m not sure the crowd would react in time t
o catch you if you fell.”
Icelin squeaked and shot him a mock glare. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
She wrinkled her nose. “A truce, then. But I won’t forget this weakness of yours, Morleth.”
He sighed. “Of course you won’t.”
Icelin started to reply, but across the plaza, Ingara and Arngam had stepped up onto the dais. “Gods,” Icelin murmured. “She’s beautiful.”
Dressed in the suit of armor her beloved had made for her, Ingara looked every inch the warrior queen as she stood before her king and bowed. Her long mahogany locks had been meticulously plaited. On her head rested a mithral helmet. Three obsidian horns curled from the top and sides. In her hands, she carried Vallahir.
Mith Barak stepped forward and raised his hands as the couple came together. A roar erupted from the crowd, and Ingara raised the war axe above her head for all to see. Red light glowed from deep within the carved runes on the axe, a ruby flame like the heart of the forge.
“The heart of the dwarf people,” Icelin murmured.
“What did you say?” Sitting slightly behind her, Ruen leaned over Icelin’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“The war axe, the armor—there’s so much more here than a wedding,” Icelin said.
“They know what’s at stake,” Ruen said.
Arngam stepped forward, and Ingara held out the axe to the king. Mith Barak took it and held the blade upright. Ingara lifted her hand to the axe and pressed her finger against the naked blade. They were too far away to see the blood that welled up from the wound, and Ingara’s gaze never left Arngam’s as she raised her finger to her lips. Arngam stepped forward and opened his own wound on the blade, brought it to his lips, then stepped forward and took Ingara’s hand.
The king spoke then for the first time.
“I stand as witness to this union between Ingara Blackhorn and Arngam of the Gallowglar clan. His shield is hers, and her blade strengthens him. May weapon and shield never be sundered. May their family thrive, and may Moradin’s blessings be upon them.”
Blood from their wounds on their lips, Ingara and Arngam kissed. Before they parted, the axe passed from Ingara’s hands to her husband’s, and he raised it above their heads, shaking it in triumph. The crowd erupted in cheers and raucous shouts.
Ruen’s arms tightened around her, and Icelin leaned back against him. Tears blurred her vision as Ingara embraced her husband again and planted another kiss on the blonde dwarf’s lips. The cavernous, lonely city filled with the sounds of joy and new beginnings, and for that instant, Iltkazar was full of life and vigor. Time pealed back, and Icelin imagined the city as it was at the height of its glory.
Did the dwarves feel it too? Did it give them hope? Icelin’s gaze strayed across the plaza, seeking the king. In this moment, more than any other, he had the chance to rally his people for the battle ahead.
He was gone. Sometime between the king’s declaration and the kiss, Mith Barak must have slipped away. Neither the crowd, nor Ingara and Arngam seemed to notice his absence. Icelin sought Joya in the crowd and found her standing beside Garn. Even from this distance, Icelin saw their troubled expressions.
“The king’s gone,” Icelin said, unsure if Ruen heard her over the crowd noise.
“I saw him heading for the hall,” Ruen said into Icelin’s ear, disapproval in his voice.
“Or the library,” Icelin said, “back to Zollgarza.”
“There’s Sull,” Ruen said, pointing to a table at the base of the dais, where the butcher directed several dwarves carrying platters of food. The wedding feast was about to begin.
Once the drinking and merriment started, the dwarves weren’t likely to notice the king’s absence. It was clear they wanted to celebrate while they could.
“Try to get Sull’s attention,” Icelin said, sliding toward the edge of the ledge.
“Where are we going?” Ruen asked, holding out a hand to steady her.
“To see the king,” Icelin explained. She cast another spell and waited for the levitation to take hold of them. “I’ve seen the damage obsession can do—in that drow prisoner and in us. No race is immune to its grip. Mith Barak can’t afford to be distracted now. Many of his people are going to die. He has to be there for them now, more than ever.”
“It’s likely he won’t listen,” Ruen cautioned her. “If he’s not able to speak to his own people, he won’t let outsiders into his confidence.”
They drifted to the ground. Ruen signaled to Sull, but the butcher had already seen them and was weaving his way through the crowd.
“Wondered where the two of you had gotten to,” Sull said, his face flushed and his apron stained with food. “You’d better get some food quick before it’s all—”
His eyes widened. Icelin looked down at her hand clasped in Ruen’s, with no gloves or other barriers between them. Already it had become so natural, so much a part of her that she hadn’t realized the effect it would have on Sull. The butcher stood before them positively glowing.
“We’re on our way to see the king,” Icelin said. “Will you come with us?”
“Sure, sure,” Sull said, a wide grin stretching across his face. “My job’s mostly done anyway.” He fidgeted, scrubbing a hand through his hair, as if he were about to burst. “You two … I mean, have you … you have, haven’t you, you—?”
“I think our butcher might be delirious,” Icelin said serenely, raising herself on tiptoe to kiss Sull’s cheek.
“Must be the forge smoke,” Ruen agreed, slapping Sull on the arm. “Gets to all of us after a while.”
“Forge smoke! Idiots, the both of you—well, it’s about time!” Sull cried happily, sweeping them both into his arms in a crushing hug. “We’re family now. Nothin’s goin’ to change that.”
“Unless you suffocate us,” Icelin groaned. When Sull released her, she straightened her shirt. “Got that out of your system now?”
Sull was practically bouncing. “We’ve just had one weddin’, and here right off we’ll have another—”
“Hold on,” Icelin said. She raised both hands to rein in the butcher’s enthusiasm. “We haven’t talked about any of that yet, and in case you’ve forgotten, we’re far from home, we’ve a drow invasion looming over us, and a dwarf king who’s lost his head to deal with. You know, small details like that.”
“No, Sull’s right,” Ruen said unexpectedly. He stared out at the plaza and the revelers. Ingara and Arngam were on the dais, dancing while a trio of dwarf musicians played songhorns for them. “This is the time—the place doesn’t matter.” He drew his dagger. Icelin realized what he intended to do just a breath before he pricked his index finger with the point. Blood welled, and he touched it to his lips.
Icelin’s heart filled. She reached out to take the dagger. She pricked her finger on the blade and touched the blood to her lips.
“Will you stand as witness?” Ruen asked Sull.
Tears welled in the butcher’s eyes. “You know I will.”
“As will I,” said a familiar voice from the crowd, though Icelin was used to hearing it speak only Dwarvish.
She turned, only then realizing that several dwarves among the revelers had seen her and Ruen’s exchange and had gathered silently to watch. Obrin stepped from among them, with Joya and Garn trailing behind.
“I witness this union on behalf of the Blackhorn family,” Garn said. Obrin drew his axe, holding it in his hands so that the obsidian horns shone in the torchlight.
“I bless this union in the name of Mystra, Haela Brightaxe, and Moradin,” Joya said in her sweet voice.
“I speak with the voice of Icelin’s mother and father, and her great-uncle, to approve this union,” Sull said formally. He used his thumb to wipe a tear from Icelin’s cheek. Then he turned a stern gaze on Ruen and added, “And I’ll speak with my fists and my mallet if you hurt her.”
Approving chuckles passed among the dwarves. Ruen did not laugh, but bow
ed respectfully to the butcher. Joya stepped forward and took Icelin and Ruen’s hands. She pressed them together. “By stone and flesh are you bound before these witnesses. Be now bound by blood and heart, for as long as you live.”
Heart pounding, Icelin wrapped her arms around Ruen’s neck. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, their blood mingling in the dwarf tradition.
What a tale all this would make, Icelin thought fleetingly. Then Ruen deepened the kiss, and she thought of nothing at all for the next several breaths.
When they broke apart, Ruen still held her close, and Icelin saw his muddy red eyes gleaming with unshed tears. She started to make a jest about this being a truly momentous occasion, but she stopped. Instead, she stood on her toes and kissed the corners of his eyes, smiling at him.
“My thanks,” Icelin said, turning to Garn and the others. “But there are things we must do. We must see the king.”
Garn exchanged a look with Joya and Obrin. “He’s declared he won’t see anyone,” Garn said. “You’ll be wasting your time.”
Icelin shook her head vehemently. “He will see us.”
At the doors to the king’s hall, Icelin gave her name to the guards and told them to relay it to King Mith Barak. After only a few moments, they returned and ushered her, Ruen, Sull, and the three members of the Blackhorn family inside.
Mith Barak was not seated on his throne, but rather paced the floor in front of it. When he saw the group, he scowled.
“All come at once to badger me, have you?” he said testily.
“The king’s absence at the wedding feast is conspicuous,” Joya said, ignoring Mith Barak’s deepening scowl.
“The king’s absence from his city is conspicuous,” Icelin said. The dwarves tensed, but she had no more patience for dallying around the subject. She barreled on. “Your city and your people need you, yet you hide in this room—”
Mith Barak stopped pacing. He turned a black glare on Icelin. “Have a care how you speak to me, little one. I am not your butcher or your man, that you can tame me with a tongue lashing.”
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