He looked down then and saw that he was wearing the type of thin leather sandals that elven children wore. His playsuit was torn and filthy from all the falls he'd taken.
Miral didn't know how long he'd been in the cavern. It seemed like days, but time was fluid for young children. He was not hungry. As he'd clambered about the caverns, moving through tunnel after tunnel, always seeking the Presence that called him, he'd fortuitously found food whenever hunger pangs gripped him. Like a child, he did not question these finds; he merely ate his fill and moved on.
He was not really frightened. When he'd longed for a nap, he had found a warm pallet by one of the walls, with a down pillow and a flannel comforter turned back as if to beckon to him. And when he'd awakened, a plate of toasted quith-pa with cinnamon and sugar had been waiting.
Little Miral had accepted these gifts, and never questioned where they came from. If he'd been asked, he'd have said that his mama probably sent them, though he hadn't seen her in what seemed like ages-ever since she'd called to him to "Come back here immediately, young elf," so long ago at the mouth of the cave.
He had no idea where the cave mouth was anymore. He had no idea where Qualinost was, or Mama.
The Presence called from deep in the cavern. With the calling, however, came a buzzing, a roaring that confused young Miral. He was alternately frightened and consoled by the sound.
The Presence wanted him. It would comfort him.
Suddenly, the calling became more urgent, as though the Presence were fearful and angry at once. Come this way, little elf. Come this way. I will protect you. I will provide everything you want, if you only set me free. Come this way.
At that moment, Miral knew where to go. The Presence told him. He set his pudgy toddler's legs moving and began to run down one stone corridor after another. He spurted around one last corner, knowing that the Presence was nearby, and…
Sudden light flared through the new chamber that Miral found himself in. For minutes afterward, he could not see. The sense of great good was gone from the Presence. In its place was overweening evil.
He grew hoarse from screaming, shrieking for his mama, running in circles from the buzzing that reverberated through the cavern, which suddenly lacked entrances and exits. In the middle of the cavern-the source of the noise, the light, the terror, he understood even in his young innocence-stood a pulsating gem larger than his head. Its faceted sides sent beams of gray and red darting into every depression in the rock. His eyes ached, yet closing them did not keep the rays out. He renewed his sobbing.
The gray gem wanted him. Its words pounded inside his tiny head. Release me. Let me go and I will give you everything you want. Pictures of toys, Mama, Eld Ailea, delectable foods, appeared in succession before his eyes. Miral felt feverish. His voice was raspy; he wanted a drink.
Suddenly, a cup of sweetened water appeared before him, suspended in midair. When he lunged for it, it vanished. The combination of the familiar and the impossible set the little boy wailing. He spotted a crevice along one wall and ran to squeeze himself into it. He pressed back, far back, while every monster he feared as a child threatened him from the cavern.
Then came the part he knew was coming-the strong hand yanking him farther back into the crevice.
Miral awakened, bathed in perspiration.
Chapter 21
A.C. 308, Midsummer
More than a week later, Flint was working on Porthios's Kentommen medallion when Lord Tyresian walked through the doorway of the dwarf's stone dwelling-without knocking, of course, Flint noticed. Only, Tanis was welcome entering the shop without giving a warning. Even Fleetfoot knocked, in a way, her hooves' noise usually giving the dwarf enough warning to leap for the door.
The weather had cooled since the blazing heat of a week earlier. It was the kind of day that made most folks want to pack quith-pa, cheese, and pickled vegetables in a picnic basket and head for one of the ravine overlooks. But the dwarf had no thought for relaxation. He was running apace with a deadline; the Kentommen was only a week away.
With the holiday impending, of course, numerous Qualinost nobles had discovered metalwork that they simply had to have completed before Porthios's coming-of-age ceremony. Flint took their work but gave them all the same answer: He was working on an assignment for the Speaker of the Sun and, alas, might very well get to the supplicants' projects after the Kentommen. They weren't happy, of course, but the elves of Qualinost had long ago learned that Flint Fireforge, while he was undeniably the most gifted metal-artisan around, also could be as unyielding as a minotaur.
The two disks that would go into the medal lay before him; he was painstakingly cutting into the gold fore plate with a thin-bladed chisel and a small hammer. He surveyed the effect critically; the chisel gave the openings a rough-edged look that he rather liked. It worked especially well in fashioning the trees. "That's a good thing, too, seeing as I've got no time to do it over," he muttered.
That was when the door swung open, the chime sounded, and the arrogant elf lord with the short blond hair appeared in the portal.
"Dwarf, I require your services," Tyresian announced. Taking his time, Flint covered the components of the medallion with his sketch, looked up from his chair next to the table, and flashed the elf lord a smile that looked more like a dog baring its teeth. "Come in, Lord Tyresian." He pointed his chisel at his stone bench. "Have a seat."
Under elven protocol, Flint should have risen to his feet when the elven noble entered the room, though he and Solostaran had long since dispensed with that formality on occasions when the Speaker visited the dwarf alone. Tyresian, however, flushed with annoyance. The fact that the elf lord did not complain of the slight was proof to the dwarf that Tyresian wanted the dwarf's services badly. That brought another smile to Flint's face.
"What service is it that you 'require'?" Flint asked expressionlessly, leaning back in his chair. He again pointed to the bench with the chisel. "Have a seat."
Tyresian appeared uncertain whether to sit where the dwarf told him-and thus appear to be following an underling's orders-or to remain standing, which might imply that he, not Flint, was the underling. He compromised by moving restlessly through the room, never stopping long enough to sit anywhere. After wandering insolently around the room, surveying the hutch, Flint's cot, his carved chest, and the forge, Tyresian drew his short sword and presented it, hilt forward, to the dwarf.
Wordlessly, Flint accepted the weapon and examined it. It was a ceremonial weapon, carried on formal occasions, encrusted with emeralds and moonstones and inlaid with steel. The weapon, if sold, could feed a Qualinesti family for eight months.
"Not very practical in battle," Flint commented.
"It's for state occasions," Tyresian said loftily.
"Such as the Kentommen of Porthios Kanan," the dwarf finished. The elf lord nodded.
Flint resumed his examination of the weapon. The wood of the hilt had split badly; some of the steel inlay had dropped out, and one gem-an emerald, he judged, from looking at the pattern- had fallen out. It was not a simple repair job; a skilled craftsman would have to rebuild the implement, abandoning all other work during that time.
"It would take a week," Flint finally said. "I don't have time."
The elf lord's temper flared and his eyes snapped blue fire, but he kept his voice as bland as the dwarf's. "The Kentommen is still a week away, Master Fireforge."