The elf didn’t see how that was possible, since the trophy, so far as anyone knew, was kept in the ogre fortress of Winterheim, but he didn’t dash his friend’s hopes. “Well, we have the ogre’s sacred axe,” he suggested with good humor, “so maybe we got the best of the trade.”
“Perhaps,” Mouse mused, but he was looking southward. The elf knew he was remembering the talisman of his people.
Kerrick broke into the man’s reverie. “Say, when the boatmen come down for work, could you ask some of the lads to get the chest out of Cutter’s hold? There’s a lot of gold in there, payment from the Thane of Bearhearth, and most of it goes into Moreen’s treasure room.”
“Sure will,” Mouse agreed.
The elf felt strangely restless as he left the harbor, walking steadily but slowly up the long road that cut its way back and forth across the steep slope above the little anchorage. Yes, it had been a long time since he had thought of Coraltop Netfisher. Mouse’s remark had startled him into old memories, which he had decided were best left in the past where they belonged.
Such memories made him feel all the more out of place, sometimes jarringly so. An elf among humans! They were appealing companions, of course, but could they ever truly be his people? Once again he found himself thinking of what Coraltop had said in the dream. His father, Dimorian Fallabrine, had sailed off from Silvanesti, never to return. Now he seemed destined never to return. It didn’t seem right that the son should share the father’s fate.
Finally he crested the ridge, and Brackenrock loomed before him. The twin towers of the gatehouse stood tall and proud, smooth-seamed with fresh mortar. The gate itself was open, deployed downward as a ramp across the shallow ditch before the curtain wall. As Kerrick made his way up the road toward the gates, the terraces came into view on the oceanside of Brackenrock, opposite the shore of the White Bear Sea. The soon-to-be-verdant fields descended the long slope below the great citadel. They curved along an incline. The broad hillside faced north and so caught every precious ray of the sun that would soon shine for a nightless season lasting for three uninterrupted months.
He encountered Bruni near the gate as she ambled outward carrying a large, iron pry bar. The big woman’s moonlike face beamed in greeting.
“You have that look in your eye-you must have taken your boat out for a whirl,” she said with a hearty chuckle.
› “It shows in my eyes?” Kerrick asked, surprised and amused.
“Well, actually you got a little windburned, and that looks like salt on your tunic, so no, I guess it’s not really your eyes. Still, it’s nice to see you happy.”
The elf grinned sheepishly. “I guess I was kind of a gruff bear toward the last month of winter there. I hope I didn’t bite you too hard.”
“I’m a big girl, in case you haven’t noticed. No, nothing where I couldn’t just bite right back if I’d wanted to.” Bruni’s gaze shifted back toward the castle. “At least you cheer up when the sun comes out again. I wish she would get out of the citadel for a little while, let herself go for a ride on your boat, a bear hunt… anything! Which reminds me: She’s looking for you.” There was no need to specify who “she” was.
Kerrick nodded. “About the harbor boom, right?”
Bruni nodded.
“We’ll need about fifty strong men-excuse me, strong people,” Kerrick explained, with a nod toward this woman who could lift him clear of the ground with one hand. “As soon as we have a work party, we can finish the job in one day, but I assumed she’d want to wait until the fields were planted.”
“You don’t have to explain it all to me,” the big woman said. “I’m off to see about the lumberyard. The feeder track into the sawmill is out of alignment again.”
“Good luck,” the elf offered, knowing that, if anyone could align the heavy rails leading up to the iron blade, Bruni would be able to do the job. Everything he taught her she had learned to do, often improving on his own methods.
Passing through the gates, Kerrick started toward the great hall, where Moreen had her planning table and where the chiefwoman would most likely be found. An impulse moved him, and instead of going directly to the keep he turned to a side door. Following a long passage illuminated only sporadically by the light spilling from slits in the wall, he came to a stairwell. Here he took the time to strike a spark and ignite the torch that was kept here for just this purpose.
Descending the steep steps into chill darkness, he ducked low and made his way along a narrow corridor until he came to a locked door in the wall. The corridor continued on into the dark distance, but past this place the floor was lined with a thick layer of undisturbed dust.
Kerrick was one of four people who had a key to this door. He turned it, released the latch, and went inside.
The treasure room of Brackenrock was a very large chamber, especially considering that now it contained only a dozen barrels of whale oil, a few pallets of golden ingots, and a stack of small casks filled with potent, intoxicating warqat. In one corner, set apart from those possessions, were three small chests.
The elf held the torch up high as he lifted the lid, in turn, of each unlocked strongbox. He beheld the piles of gold coins, each a mass of many hundreds of coins, and he reflected on what that treasure could buy for him in the city of the elven king. Most importantly, far more significant than the wealth, the gold represented the restoration of his family’s reputation, the successful conclusion to an exile issued by his king.
Kerrick knew that King Nethas had issued the challenge to find gold more as mockery than as an attainable, true goal. He chuckled dryly. Here in the Icereach he had found more gold than the king could dream of.
A few minutes later he entered the great hall. This was the largest chamber in the entire citadel, a vaulting cavern of space that dwarfed the small knot of people huddled around a table at the far end. The great shutters aligning the north and east walls had been opened, and rays of bright sunlight angled, still more horizontal than vertical, through clouds of dust mites dancing in the room.
Several large fireplaces gaped in the walls around the room, none of them as large as the mighty hearth spreading beyond the work table. Atop that hearth, bright in the illumination of reflected sunlight, the Axe of Gonnas hung in its place of honor. The golden blade was cold now, but the immaculate metal seemed deep and sinister, suggestive of the magical fire lurking there. Kerrick felt the familiar flush of pride as he saw the axe. The artifact had been an ogre treasure, and now it was the trophy of Brackenrock. It had been the elven Messenger who had wrested that prize from the hands of the ogre queen herself.
Inevitably, as he crossed the room, the sense of space diminished, and he found his attention focusing on the slight, black-haired woman looking down at plans and drawings on the table. Moreen was poring over the sketches for the third terrace, detailing which fields would be planted with barley, which with wheat. As Kerrick drew near she looked at him and blinked for a moment, as if she couldn’t remember why she had asked to see him. He stared into her face, that image of pure beauty coupled with a remote, imperious sense of command.
“You’re back from Bearhearth,” she observed dryly.
“Yes, I have the gold.” He thought of telling Moreen the tale of that place’s naming but quickly decided she wouldn’t be interested. More accurately, she wouldn’t want to take the time to listen to him talk about something so irrelevant to all the hard work that needed to be done.
“The harbor boom,” he offered. “We can finish it tomorrow, but I need fifty workers to haul the chain across the water. Do you want to spare the Highlanders from work on the terrace or wait till after you’ve planted?”