“Who was she?” his wife asked.
“I… I don’t know,” Tarn answered, choking.
There were other such scenes before they reached the gates to their home. Though weary to the marrow of his bones, Tarn diligently stopped and paid his respects to everyone who approached, hearing their stories of grief, or answering their questions about how their husbands, sons, and daughters had died.
Mog Bonecutter and Tarn’s other guards, ever near, watched the supplicants warily, but there were no incidents, no angry accusations. As they neared the castle, Crystal pressed close to Tarn and whispered, “Thee people seem genuinely happy to see you.” Tarn nodded, his jaw muscles tightening, and she knew that he was exerting all his will just to hold himself together for public view. But he would not allow her to hurry him, nor to keep his people away, and the crowds at their gate were larger than any they had seen since leaving the Council Hall. It took nearly an hour for them to work their way through the throng of well-wishers and grieving families.
Finally inside the castle, they then had to run the gauntlet of the castle’s guard. The soldiers, many of them too young or too old to have accompanied Tarn on his mission to Qualinost, had turned out in all their finery to welcome him home. With weapons polished and armor gleaming, they awaited his inspection in the courtyard. The king dutifully walked their lines, stopping occasionally to speak to an old friend, with Crystal remaining at his side, gently and inconspicuously supporting him by one arm. She was most pleased to find her apprentice, Haruk Mastersword, standing at the head of his squadron of young trainees, his beard brushed and gleaming like spun gold, his brilliant green eyes watching her intently through the slits in his helm. He looked the epitome of fierce dwarf warrior pride. Tarn clapped the young dwarf on the shoulder and asked him how his lessons were going.
“My master grants no quarter, nor expects any,” the young Hylar warrior answered crisply.
“Good! Very good!” Tarn laughed before moving on. Haruk had missed being old enough to join the king’s expedition by only a year, a mere puff of time for the long-lived dwarves but an eon for those who felt left behind. Tarn was now heartily glad for this quirk of fate. Crystal winked at her favorite student as she passed him, but Haruk maintained his formal warrior’s countenance. It would not have been seemly to smile in the king’s presence.
Next, they had to make their way past the welcoming servants. Here, too, Tarn saw signs of mourning in the form of black armbands and black ribbons tied in beards, for some of his servants had boasted sons and nephews in Tarn’s army. Each symbol of grief that he saw plucked Tarn’s own heartstrings all the more. But he was the king, and the king couldn’t allow himself the luxury of showing weakness or vulnerability; he must appear strong for his people. So he greeted them heartily as they led him through the stately halls of his home to his family chapel.
Here, a family priest awaited them. As was his custom, Tarn lit candles to his father and mother, as he did whenever he returned from a journey away from Thorbardin. He also lit a candle to the spirit of Belicia Slateshoulders, his first love, the woman he had planned to marry before her untimely death more than thirty years ago. Crystal lit a candle to her grandfather, Connor Heathstone, while the priest chanted a hymn to the dead. It was one of the Hylar dwarves’ oldest and most beloved songs, recalling those who had died in the long march from Thoradin to Thorbardin back during the Age of Light. Its refrains mourned anyone so unlucky to have died before setting eyes on their beloved mountain.
When the priest had done singing, Tarn and Crystal rose and left the chapel by way of their private entrance. A long candlelit hall led them to their living quarters. Though a warm fire and a delicious repast awaited them in the private dining room, Tarn entered their bedchamber. Crystal closed the door. When she turned, she found her husband had sunk to the floor, his head slumped against a bedpost, his back heaving with silent sobs. She knelt by his side and gathered him into her arms. He moaned garbled words, but she did not need to decipher them to know what was in his broken heart. She responded by rocking slowly, crooning a wordless tune and stroking his long golden hair.
They huddled together in this manner for what seemed hours. When Tarn’s grief had poured itself out, they then spoke together in low voices for quite some time longer. He told her in detail what had happened and how he blamed himself for the deaths of so many noble young dwarves. She did her best to comfort him, but his heartache was still too fresh to be salved by mere words.
When, finally, Crystal saw that nothing she could say or do could make his pain any less, she rose and sat on the edge of the bed. Holding out her arms, she drew him to herself. He wrapped his arms around her and rested there, listening to the sound of her breathing. That is when he felt her grow suddenly tense, and the hand stroking his hair became awkward and heavy. He wondered what was bothering his wife, but he had little energy to inquire. She needed her own time to say what she was about to say.
Finally, Crystal sighed and said, “Even in times of great sorrow, great joy is born.”
Tarn was silent for a moment, then asked, “What do you mean?”
She laughed nervously. He sat back and looked up into her cool gray eyes. They were moist, but not with tears. Her lips trembled with a smile. “What is wrong?” he asked. “What did you mean?”
“Just this,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. She touched her fingers to her lips to calm herself, then continued, “By this time next year, you shall hold your son in your arms.”
16
Thane Jungor Stonesinger sat in his private study, his eyes roaming among the battle trophies he’d won over the years. Behind him, a broad window stood with its shutters thrown wide, while outside the window, twin gouts of water shot from the nostrils of a marble dragon’s head, filling a deep granite bowl before spilling over into a stream. The stream flowed though the private gardens of Jungor’s second level residence near the old temple of Reorx. A skylight cut through the living rock of the mountain let light in from the outside, filling his garden with sunlight and allowing his exotic collection of plants and trees to grow.
But at the moment, night ruled outside the mountain and moonlight was too wan to illuminate his garden. Instead, torches burned in golden sconces strapped to the trunks of the trees, flickering gaily in the pools formed by the stream and throwing their light in an ever-changing pattern against the white marble walls of his home.
Jungor sat facing the window, slowly removing the bandage from his empty eye socket, blind to the beauty of what lay before him. Behind him, his loyal guard captain, Astar Trueshield, and the Daewar thane, Rughar Delvestone, shared a couch near the fireplace. Thane Delvestone was sampling Jungor’s brandy, while Astar contemplated the flames dancing in the grate, a dour look on his face.
Jungor tossed the used bandage onto his desk and turned to face his guests. They looked up at the movement, then recoiled in horror at what they saw. Jungor laughed. “Don’t you like it?” he asked, pointing to the polished round agate resting in the bruised empty socket of his right eye. The gleaming black stone gave his already hellish visage an even more diabolical look.
“As you wish, my lord thane,” Rughar said with obvious uncertainty. He sipped at his brandy nervously. But Astar had no such compunctions.
“Reorx’s bones! Take it out, thane, before someone sees you,” Captain Trueshield exclaimed.