Only then did she notice that there were many Delvers in the room-small figures cloaked in dark steel, reaching for her with groping hands. Darann was somewhere behind her, and Belynda had a sense of things gone terribly wrong as she saw the warriors close in from all sides.
Three seconds later Darann had disappeared, but Belynda squirmed futilely in the grip of the Unmirrored Dwarves.
“W hy aren’t they attacking?” Natac wondered aloud. Karkald and Tamarwind, flanking him on the hilltop overlooking the Mercury Terrace, had no answer.
“If they don’t attack, can I?” Gallupper asked.
Natac shook his head. He had seen the batteries, the short, wheeled carriages that Gallupper and his small company had readied for battle, but he was determined to wait until the proper time to release what might prove to be a devastatingly effective weapon.
“No… for now, we’ll wait, and see what happens.”
And as the night moved into its final hours, the Nayvian warriors, the place that was the Center of Everything, and all of the Seven Circles waited, countless fates and futures in the balance.
S ir Christopher stalked into the chamber. His eyes narrowed as he recognized Belynda. “You-witch!” he hissed.
The elfwoman stared back at him, the full memory of his villainy flooding through her mind. She bit back her first instinct, which was to spit her hatred. Instead, she drew a breath, and forced her thoughts into order. A Delver held each of her arms, and their grip tightened as if the eyeless dwarves sensed her agitation. Zystyl was a few steps away-he had just taken her dagger, and was starting to question her as to her purpose and intentions.
Darryn Forgemaster came behind the knight, and his eyes widened in surprise as he spotted the elfwoman. He halted, flustered, looking at her, at the Delvers, at the knight who had become his master. For her part Belynda ignored the smith, forced herself against her revulsion to lean close to Sir Christopher.
“Be careful, my lover,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “We do not want this blind oaf to learn too much about us.”
Zystyl’s head whipped around, the gaping red nostrils flaring in suspicion. “What does she say, warrior?” he demanded. “Do you seek to betray me?”
“Of course not,” snapped the knight, irked.
“Caution!” whispered Belynda.
“I suspected you all along, traitor!” hissed the Delver arcane. “And now here is the proof!”
“Don’t be a fool!” The knight shook his head in irritation, and Belynda saw that he did not yet perceive the extent of his danger.
The sage-ambassador looked at Darryn Forgemaster, saw the anguish, the guilt and suffering written across the man’s face. He was looking into her eyes, searching for something-forgiveness, perhaps. Again she looked at the knight, but then her thoughts returned to the smith. Why did he feel such anguish? Was he not the rank traitor that everyone assumed-was there a different reason for his years of treachery, his steady labors in the name of Circle at Center’s enemies? He had been a loyal druid, a favorite friend of Miradel’s for centuries, and his work was known throughout Nayve.
With a flash she understood, and knew how to turn that knowledge to her own use.
“You had her killed, didn’t you?” she said conspiratorially to Christopher.
“Had who killed, witch? Who?” demanded the knight.
“Miradel. You knew she was murdered in her villa a few nights ago, didn’t you?” She saw instantly that one part of her guess was correct. Darryn staggered, face blanching, hate-filled eyes turned upon the knight. She was surprised, however, to see that the Knight Templar was equally shocked.
“No!” gasped Christopher. “She… she lives! She must!”
It was the Delver arcane who laughed. “The druid is dead… I would have made her my prisoner, but she fought too well. And so she died.”
The knight was obviously stunned, trying to understand the implications of new developments. He stood before the sage-ambassador, glaring at her, then shifted his accusing stare to the arcane. Belynda gently twisted an arm, and the dwarf holding her on that side released his grip, apparently content to let his comrade restrain the prisoner. Still pinioned by the other limb, she reached out a hand and stroked her fingertips along Christopher’s arm with just the tiniest rasp of sound.
“Proof!” repeated Zystyl, his voice rising hysterically. “You touch in my presence.”
“It was the witch!” cried Christopher. He backed away, reaching under his shirt to pull out the white stone on its golden chain. He clutched it in his hand, eyes wild as he regarded his ally with growing fear.
“Do not think you can flee!” declared Zystyl. He uttered no other words or sounds that Belynda could tell, but several other Delvers advanced, apparently summoned by some unseen, unheard command.
“Halt!” cried Sir Christopher. “All of you dwarves-stay where you are!”
Surprisingly, the Blind Ones ceased their advance, several twisting in place as if their feet had been glued to the floor.
“You will stay here,” Christopher shouted, clutching the stone with a white-knuckled grip. “Leave me in peace-”
A sudden, violent blow interrupted the knight as Darryn Forgemaster struck him from behind. Christopher twisted and fell, trying to strike back at the enraged blacksmith. The smith clawed at the knight, reaching for his throat, grunting inarticulately. The white stone, held by its chain, slipped from Christopher’s fingers as he drew a dagger and drove the blade again and again into the chest of the smith.
A second later Darryn collapsed onto the floor, swaying weakly on his hands and knees as crimson lifeblood spurted from a wound in his breast. Sir Christopher, still wielding the bloody dagger, scrambled to his feet, stood over the man who had served him so well, raising the blade for a killing strike. The stone on its golden chain swung loosely against him, tangled in the strands of his beard, apparently forgotten.
But now the Delvers were moving, a half dozen of the blind dwarves rushing in, grabbing the knight by his legs and arms, dragging him down. In seconds the man’s limbs were bound, and his fear-maddened attention had returned to the hideous dwarf who had once been his ally.
“I tell you-the witch is lying!” shrieked Sir Christopher, struggling vainly against Zystyl’s bonds.
Darryn Forgemaster lay dead, his blood already congealing on the slick paving stones. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly, and the sage-ambassador wished she could close them, could bring the man, at long last, some peace. But she was still held by another Delver.
Belynda turned to look at Christopher, watching coldly. This was her moment, her triumph-and though it would be the last thing she saw in her life, she would bear witness to the death of this monstrous creature who had so unspeakably violated her.
Yet why, then, could she take no pleasure in the victory?
20
Seers in the Sun
What care has the ant if his temple takes a hundred generations to build?
And what matter to the tree if her roots make home in the rotted pulp of her forebears?
But to the mortal person in midst of frantic life, the desperate present forms the purpose of eternity.
From the Tapestry of the Worldweaver
Lore of the Underworld
The sky over the Mercury Terrace was an angry red, fiery and full of smoke, unlike any sky Natac had ever seen on Nayve. He watched from the balcony of the old Iron Gallery, the building that had served as his headquarters. Tamarwind and Karkald were here with him, not talking for now, just watching the growing daylight illuminate the scene. Rawknuckle Barefist and Fionn had just departed, and Natac could see them making their way forward along the crowded street, moving among the waiting troops, encouraging and steadying by their very presence.