“It was the spirits,” Utsintas repeated, urging his firebull forward. “Let us make haste. He will not receive us after sundown.”
They rode to the foot of the mountain. A mighty staircase led upwards. This was also constructed of gray marble; to the right and left there flowed streams of crimson, going down in steps, with fountains every thirty paces spurting red water.
The firebulls and ponies took the steps one at a time until they had covered a third of the way. From there the party dismounted and went on foot.
Ireheart found the stair-climbing quite strenuous, as the height of each step was designed for an alf’s stride and not for dwarf-legs. He could not help admiring the masonry work. It seemed to have been perfectly executed, as far as he could judge. Perfect, as always, for alfar.
To add sparkle to the stairs every third step had been highly polished and decorated with jewels. Some of the steps were made of transparent crystal, allowing a view of the red water that flowed beneath.
“They’ve taken a lot of trouble,” said Tungdil. “Though I miss the ivory tower.”
“The Dson Aklan did not wish to invite comparison with the Unslayables. Only the Emperor Aiphaton would be en titled to do that. He lives elsewhere.” Utsintas took the last stair and reached the plateau in front of the palace.
Tungdil followed him, then came Ireheart and the rest. They were now forty paces from the mighty marble facade. Boindil doubted that a crossbow bolt could reach the height of the roof where the dark dome shimmered and shone.
“And what kind of palace has the emperor built for himself?” Tungdil wanted to know.
“As far as I know he does not have one. I have never had the chance of visiting him.” Utsintas led them to the door at the end of a row of giant columns supporting the entrance canopy.
Ireheart grinned again. You won’t be allowed to because the black-eyes from the south won’t let you in, he thought. He suddenly realized that the alfar patrols in Dson Bhara were not for quelling Gauragar resistance but for keeping their own unwelcome relatives off their backs. I’ll take any bets no southern alf has ever been in this crater.
The alfar had not lost their love of working with all types of bone. The dwarves saw bones of all shapes and sizes fixed to the walls as adornment, arranged to make fascinating patterns, leading the beholder’s gaze along to the entrance itself. The portal, which was seven paces high and four wide, was decorated with slices of bone arranged with studious accuracy; skulls filled the gaps. The head shapes of all the races in Girdlegard were represented here. Except for the alfar.
Four sentries guarded the entrance and opened the door for the visitors. Beyond the portal was a high dark corridor, its walls covered in carmine red fabric. No gruesome pictures, no bonework, nothing to upset or horrify you.
Hmm, not as I thought at all. Ireheart was slightly puzzled as he followed Tungdil and Utsintas along winding passageways. The company halted in front of a black door.
“I will tell the Dson Aklan you are here and what you want.” Their leader knocked on the door and an alf wearing a long robe let him in.
Outside, Ireheart could not contain himself. He pushed up his visor. “I can’t believe it!” he said quietly, wiping the sweat off his face. The climb had made him quite hot. “I’m right in the middle of the black-eyes’ realm!”
Tungdil quickly snapped his friend’s visor shut. “Don’t say a word. They may be watching us.”
Ireheart pushed it up again. “But my tongue is on fire. I need…”
“Will you be quiet?” snarled Balyndar, giving him a shove. The visor clanged shut once more. “He’ll be the death of us if he can’t stop talking.”
“Push me around again, fifthling, and…”
Utsintas reappeared and led them through a second, dark-red door. Here they were received by seven alfar in long black robes. They did not seem concerned that they would be significantly outnumbered should it come to a fight. They ushered Tungdil and his escort into the presence of the ruler of Dson.
The dwarves entered the black-painted hall. Blue flames flickered in shallow braziers. Dark red lengths of fabric hung from the ceiling and there was a smell of smoldering spices.
They walked toward an elevated throne covered in a white velvet throw, which contrasted effectively with the dark-haired alf in full armor who sat there. He held a white fan in one hand to shield his face from their inquiring eyes.
I could try numbering them so I don’t mix them up, thought Ireheart, smiling to himself behind his visor.
Tungdil halted and sketched a bow. “I am…” “I know who you are,” the alf interrupted. “Even if you do use a different name.”
Ireheart was taken aback. A feeling of unease made the hairs on his arms stand up. He checked the exit and gripped his crow’s beak.
The alf rose, elegance itself, and strode down the four steps. “I did not think I should ever see you again.”
Tungdil’s eyes narrowed. Boindil saw that he was struggling with his memory.
“How long has it been? Two hundred cycles?” The alf lowered his fan and gave the one-eyed dwarf a friendly smile of welcome. On his neck there was a narrow wound caused by a crossbow bolt and his cheek also bore a scar.
“Tirigon!” Tungdil beamed and opened his arms wide.
Then something happened that was, from Ireheart’s point of view, quite appalling: The alf bent down and hugged the Scholar as if greeting a very close friend. Both of them were laughing. “Can I call you Balodil or shall we leave it at Tungdil?”
The dwarf behind Ireheart gave a sob of exasperation and turned away in distress. Presumably one of the Zhadar, thought Boindil, given a theatrical and emotional performance like that. “Keep quiet, can’t you?” he whispered, lifting his visor to be heard. “The Scholar knows what he’s doing.” But while the words were leaving his mouth he was himself beset with uncertainty. The familiarity with which the alf and Tungdil had greeted each other, the way those two dark figures fitted in to the world of evil, all this served to stir the doubts Boindil had so recently succeeded in putting aside.
The Zhadar swallowed another sob and fell silent, nodding. Ireheart turned to the front and watched as Tungdil and the alf clasped hands again, now deep in discussion. They must know each other from their time in the Black Abyss.
He was trying to work out how the black-eyes had been able to cross the barrier before Tungdil. Suddenly he felt sick. He remembered exactly when it was he had last heard the name Tirigon: They were standing in the presence of the perverted and legendary alf who had wiped out the last of the elves of Girdlegard. What will he do if one of our company drops his disguise?
XV
Girdlegard,
Dson Bhara (Formerly the Elf Realm of Lesinteil),
Dson,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
“Who would have thought we would meet here in Dson Bhara, of all places?” Tirigon gazed at Tungdil in delighted surprise.
Ireheart saw that the two had enjoyed more than mere acquaintance; it did nothing to reassure him. His Scholar together with one of the worst alfar of the past two hundred cycles, the one who had eliminated the last of the elves of Girdlegard. This feels like trouble. He was itching to join in their conversation but knew he must not try. Now less than ever.
Tungdil laughed darkly. “You know that dwarves hate water as much you hate elves. I would never have been able to swim through the Moon Pond. The curse of Elria would have seen me drowned.”
“You had to wait so long to return.” The alf looked at the escort and Ireheart found the blue-eyed gaze very unpleasant when it rested on him. “But I see you have taken over our Desirers.”