“This cannot stand. I won’t be defeated so easily.” Sulrad turned toward the temple and the spell once more. Perhaps if he took a run at it, he could pierce the spell and locate whatever was powering it. The pain was only in his head, after all. He could stand a little pain.
“Don’t.” Veran tightened his grip. “I know what you’re thinking. The pain is only in your head, but that’s not all the spell does. Of that you can be certain. Whatever you come up with to defeat it, they have already thought of it and designed it to counter your efforts. We need a plan. Something that you would never have come up with on your own. Something that the wizards and dragons could never anticipate. Without that, there is no hope.”
“There is always hope,” Sulrad said. “Come with me. I know someone who could come upon with a plan neither of us would ever have imagined.”
“And who is that?” Veran asked.
Sulrad smiled. “I’ll let that be a surprise.”
19
Sulrad left the temple and returned to the study he had taken up in Ignal’s residence. It was nothing like his own. His own study was sparsely decorated. This room bore an abundance of wealth that made him uncomfortable, but since it was Ignal’s and not his, he could tolerate it, even though she said she had gifted all her possessions to the temple. He debated with himself how to approach the problem with the temple. He knew that the wizards in Amedon would have already thought of most of the things he would attempt, and had surely planned for them. He was frustrated. An unconventional approach was needed, and for that, there was only one person.
Ignal.
He called for her.
Within moments, she entered and settled into the chair across from him. She must have been near, and unoccupied, to come so quickly, or had he interrupted her at some task? He felt guilt at that, but he needed her honest opinion. He feared she might answer with the words she thought he wished to hear. That would never do. He needed to shake her up.
What better way than to let her think he himself had given up?
He glared at her. “This spell. It’s impenetrable. No matter what I try, I fail. What am I to do, then? Give up?”
“No. Ran is on your side. He is testing you,” she said. “He is testing me.”
What did she mean testing her?
“Testing you?” he asked. “How is he testing you? Do you suddenly have magic I didn’t know about? Have you become a sorceress without my knowledge? One who could break such a spell?” He spat his displeasure at her without a care for how he made her feel. He wanted to hurt her. Wanted her to make her angry. At least then he wouldn’t feel powerless.
“My family,” Ignal said. “They can help … if I can persuade them. I am still under banishment, but this is too important. It’s worth the risk. I must seek their help.”
“How? Are they wizards?”
“Not wizards, miners. They can dig beneath the spell and up into the temple. That’s what they’re good at. You’ve been trying to reach the stones in the altar, no? If you can, you believe you can defeat the spell from the inside, is that not so? Only you can’t get inside the temple to do this, but what you seem to have forgotten is that the stones absorb magic. The stones would have prevented the spell from working, at least in part, created a hole in the spell as if they had cast a shadow on the wall when the sun struck them. Since you say there is no place you can feel a gap in the spell, that gap must be below ground. I’m certain it’s there. We simply need to find it.”
“That spell is half a league in width,” Sulrad argued. “It must surely extend that far beneath the ground.”
Ignal shrugged. “Half a league is nothing. The true test of my faith and devotion is for me to convince my family to aid us. My kind are a stubborn lot, and I’ve already gotten more assistance from them than I could have hoped for. They parted with stones. Precious stones. Each of those stones represents several moons of labor on the part of its miner. They are rare and valuable, the most valuable things the miners find beneath the great mountains. The stones are their major stock in trade. Asking them to abandon their mining tasks and come here to labor on our behalf is asking them to forgo their livelihood for the likes of me, and I’m not sure I can manage that.”
Sulrad stared at her, trying to take it in. He had never really grasped the full extent of her past. She had been born and raised in a society that was very secretive and had departed under less than honorable circumstances. That he knew. In his head, he had accepted the idea that she was a half-height, as she referred to it, but never really understood what that meant. Every child heard tales of the elder races, but no one ever saw them. Most folk considered them fairy tales, stories meant to enthrall children and hold their attention while their bodies drifted off into a peaceful slumber. If elves and dwarves existed, where were they?
“I’m making you an offer here,” Ignal said. “I hate to beg my own family for help, but this is too important. We can’t let the wizards win. We have to show that not even the assembled might of Amedon can stand against Ran. Perhaps this was all part of his plan from the start, the persecution of my kind that drove them deep underground. Perhaps he was preserving them for such a time as this.”
“What do you mean, persecution?”
Ignal patted the back of his hand. “Your innocence is one of the things that draws me to you the most.”
“Innocence?” he asked.
Ignal jumped up and headed for the door. “Someday, I’ll sit you down and educate you, but in the meantime, have you ever wondered why the elder races vanished? Were you told that the elves crossed the great sea to a better land, and the dwarves isolated themselves beneath the mountains so that they could protect their hoards of gold and precious stones? Is that what you learned?”
“I learned nothing of the sort. I never believed they even existed.”
Ignal gyrated her hips and cocked her head at him. “I exist. You believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Where was she going with this?
“Well, think about this, then. Why did the dwarves seclude themselves beneath the mountains, and where did the elves go?”
With that, she jumped up, grasped the door handle, and yanked it open. The last thing Sulrad saw was the squat woman swinging her hips as she waddled down the hall, then the door closed and he was alone.
Ignal had been gone for a hand of days. Sulrad was beginning to think she was never returning. Had she abandoned him? Had she been killed as she feared? He wished he knew what was happening. When the acolyte brought him his morning meal, he shouted at her about the temperature of the gruel, the strength of the tea, and the coarseness of the bread. He knew he should not have, and reminded himself to apologize when his temper cooled down, but for now, it was better that the acolyte was somewhere else. “Send Veran to see me,” he demanded.
While he waited, Sulrad wrestled with what to do about Ignal. What if she never returned? Perhaps it was time to move on.
The young priest arrived out of breath and a touch disheveled. Good. That gave Sulrad a reason to berate him. He wanted to take his frustration out on someone, and at the moment, that someone was Veran.
“Veran, I need a new assistant. Mine has abandoned me.”
“Father?”
“A new assistant. The one I had abandoned me.” He gestured in the air as if dismissing someone.
“She has not abandoned you, Father. She’s gone for help.”
“So you say. I want her things burned and her name struck from the temple records.”
“Father. No. Please look.” Veran opened his hands. In his palms rested a shard of glimmering green crystal no larger than a common sewing needle. He breathed on the crystal and it began to glow, emitting a wavering emerald light that twisted and turned in the air as it wove itself into the form of a hand mirror. The light became solid and a reflective surface appeared in the mirror, fogged over at first, becoming clear as the image behind it formed.
Sulrad leaned forward.
/> The image in the mirror was blurry, indistinct. It almost appeared as if someone were walking alone in a great tunnel, but it was hard to make out. “I don’t see anything,” he said.
“A moment, Father.” Veran closed his eyes, the strain apparent on his face. For a moment, Sulrad feared he was going to expire from the effort, but after a hand of heartbeats, the image in the mirror cleared. Veran was showing him where Ignal was at this very moment.
“She’s gone to get help,” Veran said.
Sulrad returned his attention to the mirror. Now it was clear. Ignal walked alone, her feet treading the floor of some great tunnel. In her hand, she held a torch that burned with a sputter, throwing flickering light ahead of her. It was ineffective, lighting the path only a few steps ahead. In her other hand, she held a staff, the sort of staff a wizard used. It was gnarled and twisted and had a gem in its head that gave off an eerie green light that added nothing to the torchlight.
As he watched, she came to a junction in the tunnels. The rock had been chiseled away to create three forward paths. The one on the left was broad and high, the walls polished smooth as tile. The center path was rugged and low, the sort of tunnel miners created when striking out for the first time while following a new vein. The one on the right appeared to be almost an afterthought. It was small, low, and jagged, almost too small for Ignal to fit through. It was this one that she entered, dropping to her knees to give herself room to maneuver.
“Father,” Veran said. “She has gone to summon help. She said she will return with help or return in shame. She is taking a great risk doing this for you. She is banned. Shunned. She is under sentence of death for returning to her people. When they accepted her son, it was under the agreement that the boy would be embraced, but the mother who begot him would bear his shame. Should she return, she is to be executed on sight. No mercy, no discussion. The dwarves prize their secrecy above even the gems they mine. Allowing her to travel to their land creates a risk that others might follow. She is forbidden to return, for any reason, but she has decided that securing help for you is worth the risk.”
Veran indicated the mirror. “Watch. She is almost there.”
Sulrad leaned in closer to the mirror. It was clear that Ignal had made progress while he was occupied. She had exited the low tunnel and now stood as tall as she ever had in front of what appeared to be two soldiers. They were both squat and wide, wider than she was and decked out in full armor. He wondered for a moment why the dwarves would have armed guards when they were secluded from the outside world, but his thoughts were quickly interrupted when one of the guards lowered his staff and jabbed Ignal with it.
The diminutive woman doubled over and Sulrad winced in sympathy with the pain she must have been experiencing. She had voluntarily taken on this risk on his behalf. What did that say about him, when only moments before, he had ordered Veran to burn her belongings? Was he that broken that he could not even trust someone who had never done anything to betray him?
Sulrad looked away from the sight in the mirror while Veran’s gaze remained fixed on it.
“How can you watch that?” Sulrad asked.
“I find it rather entertaining.” Veran shook the mirror. “Look. See what our priestess had done.”
Sulrad returned his gaze to the mirror. Rather than the image of Ignal lying on the floor in pain, it now contained the image of her standing with her foot on the chest of one of the guards, his spear in her hand aimed at the heart of the second guard.
He watched in fascination as she directed the guard forward and followed him to a set of doors that stretched high above her head. Engraved in the doors were images of trees and birds. Strange images for dwarves. He would have thought they preferred stones and masonry, or perhaps this reminded them of the world they had abandoned.
The vision followed Ignal as she strode through the grand hall and up to a pair of thrones set upon a dais. Carved from rock, each throne was unique in its representation. One conveyed the impression of a mighty oak with acorns and leaves intertwined with forest creatures. Upon that throne sat a dwarf with a closely cropped beard and deep, dark eyes. His gaze fixed on Ignal for a hand of heartbeats then shifted to the throne on his right. That throne conveyed the impression of a birch tree. Great strands of bark shifted before Sulrad’s eyes as if it were alive. Seated on that throne was a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Ignal. She seemed frozen in place.
Sulrad held his breath.
Was this the moment Ignal would die?
The woman stared at Ignal for the longest time, then slid to the front of the throne and jumped down. The man followed suit and walked a step behind the woman until the two of them halted in front of Ignal. It was only then that Sulrad realized that while Ignal appeared short to him, she towered over the folk who populated this great hall. She was easily a head taller than either the man or the woman.
“This is it,” Veran remarked. “The woman is Ignal’s mother.”
“Surely not,” Sulrad said. “How have I never learned that she comes from royalty?”
“She knows of your disdain for royalty. She feared you would hold it against her if you knew she was the daughter of the king and queen of the dwarves, and it’s not like it really mattered until now. This is the first time she has been in their presence since she left home as a young woman.”
Sulrad peered into the image. This was the critical moment — the telling moment.
As the woman approached Ignal, the image wavered. It was as if it were a mirage sprung from the hot sand on a sunny day.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Something is interfering with the spell.”
“Make it stop.” As Sulrad uttered those words, the spell collapsed, and along with it, the image. What horrid luck. This could be the moment when Ignal’s life came to an end and he was stuck far from her, helpless to influence anything. It pained him deeply. More deeply than he had expected. He’d come to depend on her in more ways than just as his administrative aide. He realized that she was as close to a bondmate as he would ever have. “Do something,” he shouted.
“Sorry. There is nothing. Someone is suppressing the magic.”
“Amedon?”
“No wizard is that strong. The interference came from the dwarves themselves. I would not have expected that.”
Sulrad spun to face Veran. “What do you think will happen?”
Veran shrugged. “You know Ignal. She’s very persuasive. I believe we are going to get some help.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” Sulrad said.
“I will pray that Ran gives you the assurance he has given to us.” Veran bowed his head and backed for the door.
20
Sulrad worried for the next handful of days about what was happening to Ignal. He was stuck in her house, since the temple was blocked. All he could do was watch as his work degenerated, each flake of stone that fell adding to his ire. The wizards of Amedon had certainly done him wrong, even after he’d given up and allowed the wizard and sorceress to go. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Was there a chance to get them back? He’d have to give that some thought. Surely they were behind this, or at least in league with the ones who were. If only Ignal were here. She would know what to do.
She always did.
But Ignal was no longer visible in the mirror that Veran created to reveal her presence. The last thing Sulrad had seen of her was when she took a step toward her mother. As the dwarves neared each other, it was as if some magic had risen up and obscured them both. After that, the mirror was blank and no amount of effort or magic on his part or Veran’s was able to raise so much as a whisper of an image.
Had Ignal been killed as she feared?
If so, he might have a score to settle with the dwarves. Yes, they had crystals and gems that stored magic, more magic than he had ever had access to, but they were not magic wielders. None but men and dragons had ever accessed the magic in the manner that he did. He would be all-
powerful in their demesne if he chose to unleash his vengeance upon them.
“Father?” Veran interrupted his revere.
“What is it?” Sulrad immediately stopped himself, biting his tongue before he said anything he might regret. He had promised himself not to let his ire get the better of him and not to take it out on those who had done nothing but prove their loyalty.
“There is a disturbance in the city,” Veran explained. “A cloud of dust rose on the horizon and the whole town is in an uproar. They fear King Omrik has sent his soldiers to attack. You have been summoned.”
“Summoned? Remind me that I need to do something about that baron one day. He’s becoming a distraction I would be better served without.”
“Yes, Father.” Veran cast his gaze at his own feet. “He said it was a command.”
Sulrad drew a breath to unleash his anger on Veran but caught himself. Was it truly Veran who deserved his ire or the baron? “Tell him I am on my way,” he said.
“Yes, Father.” Veran bowed and backed from the room, leaving Sulrad alone.
Did he really need to make an appearance? What if he just made his way to the city gates and decided what to do from there? Let the baron wonder if he was doing as commanded or taking the initiative on his own. That should unsettle the pompous old windbag. Maybe the old man would grow so angry at being slighted, he’d die from it. That might have more than one benefit. If the baron died, Rotiaqua would inherit. Surely she’d return to Frostan then.
Let the baron stew.
Sulrad dressed in his black robes and made his way to the city walls. The crowds in the square had moved to the gates and pressed against them tightly. It was as if they were trying to barricade the gates with their bodies. Not that it would do much good. If the baron’s troops were truly coming, a few townsfolk would have little chance against them.
“You there,” Sulrad shouted to a guard.
Dragon Lord: An Epic Fantasy Saga (Origins Book 2) Page 13
