“Twelve boats await us at the old wharf,” Jungor said. “The Hylar have begun to gather on the Isle of the Dead.”
“Let us go then,” Tarn said, rising from his throne. With Crystal resting her hand lightly on his proffered elbow, he descended the stairs. Mog walked behind them, his beard jutting out defiantly. But when they reached the floor, Jungor remained where he stood, blocking the king’s path.
“Do you intend to bring her?” the Hylar thane asked, pointing at Crystal. Tarn stepped back in surprise. Crystal had joined him on the Isle of the Dead for the Festival of Lights every year since their marriage. No one had ever questioned her presence before, so why was Jungor making an issue of it now?
“Of course she is coming,” Tarn said, clearly flabbergasted.
“She is a hill dwarf,” Jungor said, stating the obvious.
“She is the mother of my son,” Tarn countered, his temper growing dangerously short.
“Only Hylar may walk upon the rocky shore of our island,” Hextor Ironhaft said.
“Impertinent swine! How dare you insult the king in the king’s own house?” Mog snatched a halberd from one of the nearby guards and stepped toward the Hylar delegation. “Allow me to teach these dwarves some manners, my lord,” he snarled.
Jungor took a step back, raising his staff defensively. “Call off your dog, Tarn Bellowgranite,” he demanded.
“Mog!” Tarn shouted.
“The king can handle this,” Crystal angrily admonished the Klar captain.
But Mog remained menacingly near. “And they say the Klar are barbarians,” he growled, knuckles cracking around the haft of his halberd. Some of the delegation began to back away, and the guards along the walls grew nervous. Though valiant and loyal, Mog had a reputation for cracking heads first, begging forgiveness afterward.
Satisfied that Mog was properly restrained, Jungor resigned his position before Tarn. “The Isle of the Dead is sacred to the Hylar,” he said. “It would be unseemly for your wife to come. Though nobleborn, she is Neidar.”
“Dwarves of every clan died there that day,” Tarn countered.
“Yes, attacking us. But it was our home that broke apart and fell into the waters of the Urkhan Sea. You, as much as anyone here, should understand how we feel. The body of Belicia Slateshoulders lies unburied in the ruins there, too,” Jungor said.
These words stung Tarn to silence. He had long ago come to terms with the loss of his first true love, when a section of Hybardin that she was attempting to restore broke off and fell to the island below, carrying her and several hundred workers to their deaths. But Jungor’s audacity to speak of her here, before his wife, robbed his voice of words to express his outrage.
Jungor turned to Crystal and said, “I pray you will understand this, Mistress,” he said, bowing slightly from the hips. “But you cannot go. It is not I that must forbid it. The other members of my clan have spoken.”
“Perhaps it would be better if I stayed behind,” Crystal offered softly.
Incredulous, Tarn stared at her for a moment as though unable to believe his own ears. “You will not!” he shrieked, then turned back to the Hylar delegation, his face flushed a brilliant crimson that rose all the way up to the roots of his blond hair. “She is the mother of the future King of Thorbardin!” he raged, spittle flying from his lips.
Jungor calmly replied, “Primogeniture is our tradition, but it is not our law.”
Again, for a few heartbeats, Tarn was speechless. Could this queer, misshapen, histrionic idiot of a Hylar thane really be so bold as to challenge him in this way, through his infant son? When he found his voice again, Tarn growled, “What is that supposed to mean?”
Emboldened by the king’s frustration and Jungor’s defiance, Hextor Ironhaft answered rudely, “The people of Thorbardin will never accept a half-breed as their king.”
“They accepted me!” Tarn snapped.
“Indeed, but you are of Hylar and Daergar blood,” Jungor said smoothly. “You became king when Thane Hornfel and your father, Thane Baker Whitegranite, died during the Chaos War. Your son, on the other hand, is a hill dwarf.”
“Part hill dwarf,” Tarn protested.
“The people of the mountain will never respect a king with any amount of hill dwarf blood,” Jungor said. “They have borne many changes under your rule, Tarn Bellowgranite, but they will not bear that rupture of tradition. It is too great a thing to ask. Your son is a hill dwarf. He cannot be king. We only speak aloud what others whisper.”
Before Tarn could answer with all the venom of his heart, Crystal stepped forward and placed a cool, restraining hand on his arm. “I’ll stay here,” she said, but not to Tarn. Her icy gray eyes were upon the Hylar thane. “You go and honor your dead. I will remain behind with the living.”
A terrified expression came over Jungor’s twisted, misshapen face. Gripping the wizard staff in both hands, he hammered its butt end three times on the floor in rapid succession, chanting unintelligible words.
Tarn brushed his wife’s hand from his arm, then gripped the hilt of his kingsword. Mog edged closer, his halberd held at the ready. “What are you doing? What evil are you trying to avert?” he demanded of Jungor. “What do you think, that my wife is trying to cast a spell on you?”
“She spoke words of ill omen!” Jungor cried defensively.
Tarn’s sword nearly sprang out of its sheath. ” How dare you accuse the queen of witchcraft!”
Jungor gripped his staff tighter and faced the furious king. What he said next surprised even the other Hylar. “She may be your consort, but she is not my queen.”
“What! Get out of my house, you traitorous dog!” Tarn shrieked. “Get out! If you ever cross the threshold of this house again, I’ll have your head.”
Jungor made an obscene gesture with his hand as he turned and stalked from the reception chamber. Mog surged toward him, ready to split his head open with his halberd, but Crystal leaped between the two, stopping the Klar before he could revenge his king. The other Hylar quickly followed Jungor, angrily grumbling at the way Tarn had insulted their thane. Meanwhile, Tarn climbed the steps and flung himself down on his throne sullenly.
“You would only have made things worse,” Crystal said to Mog when they had gone. She patted him on the cheek as she released him. He flung his halberd clattering to the floor and stormed out, the door banging against the wall as he left.
Crystal then addressed the guards. “Leave us. I would have private words with the king.” Slowly the guards filed out, but not without many a backward, uncertain glance. Several of them were Hylar, and they felt torn in their loyalties.
When they were alone at last, Crystal stood at the base of the steps and glared up at Tarn. She said nothing, merely stood with one hand thrust against her hip, one foot impatiently tapping the polished marble floor. For a while, Tarn avoided her gaze. Finally, he looked up and shouted, “To the Abyss with them. To the Abyss with them all!”
“Tarn Bellowgranite, you know that you cannot afford to make an enemy of the Hylar thane,” Crystal admonished.
“I did not make an enemy of him. It is he who has made an enemy of me,” the king said, his fist slamming down on the arm of the chair. “How dare he insult you in our house, in my presence?”
“Jungor Stonesinger is the Hylar thane, and he has his own opinion about the way you rule Thorbardin,” Crystal said as she slowly climbed the steps to Tarn’s side. “He has the loyalty of most of the Hylar, whose support you need. And he is swiftly gaining followers among the other clans as well. You know as well as I do that he covets your throne. What will happen to us if you are driven from power? What will happen to our son?”