A faint smile creased the king’s face-brief it was and gone immediately-but it was enough to make Joya blink in surprise. Ruen shook his head in grudging amusement. Icelin would charm them all, given enough time.
The king raised his hand and made a beckoning gesture. Instantly, a pair of guards advanced from the shadowy corners of the hall. Ruen hadn’t even known they were there.
“Bring a table and food enough for these guests,” Mith Barak commanded. “I’ll speak with them further, once they’ve rested.” He looked Icelin up and down. “You do seem as if you’re about to fall over,” he said gruffly, but not without pity in his silver eyes. They were silver, Ruen thought. It wasn’t just a trick of the light.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK
21 UKTAR
Servants entered the hall carrying platters of food and drink, and two of the guards brought in a plain wooden table and chairs for four people, Joya having excused herself to go find the master armswoman.
It was hardly the grand banquet of a dwarf king in a story, but as Icelin sank gratefully into a chair, she reflected that the whole city was not what she’d expected.
Where were the masses of servants, the guards, courtiers, and advisers who flocked to meet a king’s commands? Why were there no echoing shouts of people in the city streets, and what had happened to still the bustle and dirt of commerce and labor-the pulse of daily living? Had the drow really taken all that from these proud, strong folk? Icelin couldn’t believe it. This king with the bright silver eyes surely wouldn’t let such a thing happen.
The king in question sat at the head of the table, and when the servants placed the food, he swept a hand out. “Eat,” he said. He made no move to take food himself.
“Sit back and be easy, lass,” Sull said, staying her hand when Icelin reached for a bowl and spoon. “I’ll take care of this.”
Icelin smiled at the butcher and leaned back in her chair. Surrounded by food, Sull was where he truly belonged. He hummed the tune to one of the songs Icelin had taught him on their journey as he ladled up bowls of stew, tearing hunks of steaming bread to soak up the juices the spoon couldn’t catch. She nodded her thanks when Sull handed her the food, but Icelin wondered what Sull would do when it came time to serve the king. Would he wait for the servants to attend him? Would the king refuse the butcher’s overtures?
Sull never faltered. He ladled soup into a third bowl, added bread, and presented it to the king as if they were in a Waterdhavian tavern and not in the hall where Mith Barak was master. The king reached for the bowl, eyeing Sull all the while with a curious expression.
“Not that I’m claimin’ to be an expert on your local recipes,” the butcher said, pausing in the act of relinquishing the bowl, so that king and butcher held the stew between them. Steam from the meat wafted up in their faces. “But if you were to add a bit of this-” he reached into his pocket and produced, with a flourish, a small, unmarked packet of herbs that, judging by his excitement, he’d been saving for a special occasion “-it’ll bring out cooked onion flavors in the gravy and cling to that meat like a lover to her mate’s … ahem … lips.”
The king eyed the packet with suspicion. Icelin sank lower in her seat, expecting any minute for the guards to converge on the table and haul Sull away for attempting to poison their sovereign. Tension chilled the air, and for a breath, nobody moved or spoke.
Oblivious, Sull sprinkled a liberal amount of the seasoning on his own stew. “In gods’ truth, it’ll also make you thirsty as a beached sailor, but we have more than enough wine to cure that, I say!”
The king blinked at the butcher. He glanced down at his bowl and uttered a quick, unwilling laugh. “Give those herbs here, then,” he said, gesturing imperiously at Sull. “You two eat,” he commanded. “Don’t just sit there with your tongues lolling out.”
As quickly as it had come, the tension dissipated. Grateful, Icelin picked up her spoon and ate. For a time, nobody spoke, and there was only the clink of tableware and cups plunked against the wood, the sounds of chewing and swallowing, all conspicuously loud in the silent hall. Once, Icelin caught Ruen’s eye over the rim of her wine cup. She grinned at him, and his face softened in something that was so close to a smile that it renewed a bit of Icelin’s energy.
“What are you grinning about, girl?” the king said suddenly.
Startled, Icelin put down her wine cup and wiped her mouth. “Nothing of importance, I assure you, King,” she said.
“Hmmm … I’ll be the judge of that,” Mith Barak said. “Go on, out with it.”
Icelin felt a blush coloring her cheeks. “In all honesty, I was just thinking that when I look back on this day at some future time, I’ll remember it as the night I dined with a dwarf king, not knowing for certain whether I was his guest or his prisoner.”
“That troubles you, does it?”
Icelin paused with a spoonful of stew halfway to her lips. “Not at the moment. Whatever the outcome, I’ll still get to say I dined with a king.”
Mith Barak grunted. “You’ve an active mouth on you, like most humans. You went so far as to admit your companion-” he nodded to Ruen-“is a thief. Other than your butcher’s impressive spices, I see nothing special about any of you. Why shouldn’t I treat you as thieves, then, and lock you up?”
“We told you why we were searching the ruins,” Icelin said patiently. “When it came out that we are searching for the sphere, it triggered some great suspicion. Joya told us your city is about to be attacked by the drow, so you obviously have larger concerns. Why bother feeding us and speaking to us personally if there isn’t something you want from us? Don’t you think it’s time to stop this word fencing and tell us what that is?”
The king wiped his mouth and pushed his chair a little away from the table. “I see you have some sense in your head too.” He stood up, moving restlessly around the table. “It’s true Iltkazar is under attack. Drow scouting patrols and small advance forces of slaves and monsters target our outposts, each assault more aggressive than the last. They spread out the attacks in order to take advantage of our inferior numbers. We’re losing even small skirmishes, forced to seal off tunnels to prevent access to the city, letting them drive us back behind our stone doors. We’re as rats herded to one big hole. They’re just waiting for the right time to bring their wrath down on us.” The king slammed his fist on the tabletop, rattling the cups and bowls, spilling his own wine cup.
“Why attack you now?” Ruen asked. “The city has stood for centuries. What do the drow gain by mounting this offensive?”
“We captured one of their advance scouts,” Mith Barak said. “What little information we’ve been able to get from him tells us they’re after an artifact, a powerful sentient relic that channels arcane power. Sound familiar?”
“The Arcane Script Sphere,” Icelin said, understanding at last. “Small wonder you were so suspicious when we told you we sought the item as well. In truth, we know little about it.”
“That much is clear,” the king said. He righted his wine cup but left the red stain untouched on the table. “The Arcane Script Sphere contains a piece of the dead goddess Mystra. A small piece, mind you-a sliver of memory and personality, but even a fragment of a goddess holds terrible power, for it also contains a bit of her Silver Fire, which it imparts to wielders the goddess deems worthy. With power such as that, it’s likely you could shatter the greatest spells and tame the wildest magic.”
Icelin swallowed, her throat gone dry as dust, but it was not the king’s promise that the sphere could calm her wild magic that rocked her so. At the mention of the lost goddess of magic, Icelin felt a stirring in her gut, a sharp excitement. Strangely, it was the same feeling she got whenever she thought of her parents, who’d died when she was a young child. She’d never known them, just as she’d never known the goddess who had died before she was born. Had any of them lived, Icelin had no doubt they would have been strong, loving forces in her life.