He was surprised to see the plaza empty, though there was evidence of a trade market. Disassembled stalls and some wagons scattered across the open areas, but no one was around to tend them. An eerie quiet had taken root.
They’d encountered a similarly oppressive silence on their way here. Buildings sat empty, their windows dark. Portions of the city must have been evacuated in anticipation of the drow threat, Ruen concluded. The city truly was preparing for war.
Joya escorted them across the plaza to King Mith Barak’s audience chamber. Another columned entrance greeted them, but this time the four pillars were statues of dwarves. Ruen guessed by their dress and the jewels embedded in their stone armor that these were the previous kings of the dwarven realm.
A guard dressed in crimson and rust-gold livery was leaving the chamber in a hurry as they entered, and in her haste nearly bowled over the group.
“Stand aside,” she said gruffly. Her eyes found Joya and softened. “Welcome back,” she said. “Your family is well?”
“Yes, they’re all well and returned to the city,” Joya said. “What’s the matter, Dorla? It’s all right,” she added, when the dwarf shot a suspicious glance at Ruen and Icelin. “I’ve brought them to see the king.”
Dorla’s expression didn’t brighten at this news. “The prisoner tried to escape-poisoned one of the guards.”
Joya’s mouth tightened, but beyond that, she showed no emotion. “Is there anything I can do for him?”
“He’s dead-nothing anyone can do,” Dorla said curtly. “I’ve told the king-he’s in a state. You might want to postpone your visit,” she said with a meaningful glance at Joya.
“I’m sorry,” Joya said. “I’m afraid my business can’t wait. Did he leave the hall while we were away, Dorla? Other than to go to the dungeons?”
Dorla grunted. “What do you think?”
“I see. Well, we won’t keep you,” Joya said. “I know you’re very busy.”
“Busy gathering up the dead-aye, it’s consuming all my hours these days,” Dorla said bitterly.
Ruen stepped aside to let the dwarf woman pass.
“How bad is it?” he asked when they were alone again.
“Dorla is the master armswoman, head of the king’s personal guard and aid to the Warmaster of Iltkazar,” Joya said. “When she looks like that, it’s bad. Our best estimate is that the drow outnumber us four to one.”
“Four to one?” Icelin cried. “How can that be? The city is so large. There’s room for thousands, tens of thousands, down here.”
“Yes, but have you noticed the way your footsteps and voices echo in these great caverns?” Joya said. She’d turned her back on them, so Ruen couldn’t read her expression, but he heard the ache in her voice. “They’ve been empty for a long time. Come,” she said, before Ruen could ask any more questions. “The king is waiting. It’s best we get the audience over quickly.”
Joya led them through the doors. From the outside, the king’s hall had looked immense, but inside, perhaps because of Joya’s words, the soaring, empty space struck Ruen anew. Lit by torchlight that barely reached the barrel-vaulted ceiling, the hall was a cold place, filled with shadows and lonely echoes.
At the far end of the room, a throne sat on a raised dais, flanked by a series of pillars engraved with Dwarvish runes. Ruen couldn’t be sure, but by the arrangement of the letters, he thought the writing contained names. Several symbols repeated down the columns, perhaps indicating members of the same clan. More silvery-blue lichen draped the tops of the pillars, casting them and the throne in a cool silver glow that contrasted with the warm torchlight in the rest of the hall.
On the throne sat the oldest dwarf Ruen had ever seen. Enhanced by the light of the lichen, his beard and hair were pure silver. His hands where they gripped the throne had a grayish tinge, and there were hollows carved out of his cheeks and dark shadows around his eyes. He stared straight ahead and did not react to the group’s presence until they’d reached the dais. Slowly, his gaze focused on them, sharpened, his eyes flooding with shrewdness and power.
There is life in him yet, Ruen thought. His body is a statue, but his mind is alert and dangerous.
“What have you brought me, Joya?” asked the king. Ruen heard the note of challenge, almost anger, in his voice, but if Joya noticed it, she didn’t react.
“King Mith Barak, I bring you these three named Icelin, Ruen, and Sull. We encountered them on the surface when my father was sealing one of the upper tunnels,” Joya explained. “One of them desecrated a burial ground near our temple, but later they aided my father and brother against the drow. They risked their lives for my family and are all skilled in battle.”
The king’s expression did not change, but he inclined his head in acknowledgement of Joya’s words. “Why bring them to me? Why didn’t you punish them for their crimes on the surface?”
Joya hesitated. “They claim they are looking for the Arcane Script Sphere.”
Hearing that, the king’s countenance transformed. His eyes narrowed-the silver-blue irises burned, though Ruen was sure it must be a trick of the light. He stood up, towering over them from his place on the dais. Color flooded his cheeks, filling the hollows and suffusing his face with a vibrancy that bordered on frenzy.
“Explain,” the king said. His voice was soft, calm, and completely at odds with his expression. “You,” he said, nodding at Icelin, “the one carrying the staff. You seek the sphere?”
Ruen glanced at Icelin, but he couldn’t draw her gaze. How would she answer? Echoes of the king’s exhaustion reflected in her face in lines and shadows. She needed to rest. It had been a mistake to allow the dwarves to bring them all the way down here. They should have fought while they had an advantage. Now they were at the king’s mercy in this city deep beneath the earth.
“King Mith Barak,” Icelin said, her voice ringing out clear and sweet. Despites his jests, Ruen had always thought Icelin had the loveliest voice. “I mean no harm or disrespect to the dwarves of Iltkazar. I seek the sphere because I have heard it is a stabilizing force, a powerful conduit for arcane magic. This is of great interest because wild magic-the result of a spellscar-is killing me.”
The king eyed her speculatively, but his gaze still burned with that same unsettling intensity. “Is this true, Joya?” he said, not taking his eyes off Icelin.
“I was not aware that she is dying,” Joya said, “but I see no reason to doubt her. In the tunnels, I witnessed one of her spells go wild. The magic shattered through a drow wizard’s spell shields as if they were nothing-a humbling sight.”
“Shattered them?” Mith Barak said, his tone sharp. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, my king.”
“Impressive. So you think the sphere will help you, girl?” Mith Barak asked. He stepped down from the dais and approached Icelin. Despite the fact that she was taller by several inches, Icelin looked small and fragile in the presence of the king.
Her tongue, however, had never been fragile, not since Ruen had known her. “I don’t know,” she said. “All I know for certain is that I’m spellscarred, and so is my companion in the hat, though his curse comes in a different form. We have been seeking the means to cure ourselves, and the Arcane Script Sphere is the first true hope we’ve had.”
The king glanced at Ruen and then back to Icelin. “What is his curse?”
“In my view, he’s an insufferable, overprotective nuisance, a thief, a brawler, and a brooding grump. More than that he must tell you at his own discretion,” Icelin said.
“That’s kind of you,” Ruen muttered.
“And the big man?” the king said. “What’s his tale?”
“Oh, him?” Icelin jabbed a finger at Sull. “He’s my butcher.”