Baker's first investigations had confirmed these were indeed the work of Chisel Loremaster, the cherished chronicler of dwarven history. The words were written in the ancient script of the scions. Fortunately, the Helm of Tongues had untangled the arcane language, magically laying it out for Baker in words as clear as modern Hylar. He had learned that the site of the Grotto did in fact lay somewhere within the Life-Tree. Particularly intriguing had been a new piece of information, a suggestion that the ancient dragon lair was not empty. He remembered the text vividly:
The Gray gem's power of Chaos is caught within the Platinum Egg and such power shall be unleashed when the egg is raised by the true ruler of the dwarves.
There was more, much more. Now he went to the wardrobe where he had recalled leaving the helm, then frowned as he saw with surprise that the closet was empty. Not only was the helm missing; he realized that Garimeth's cloaks and boots had been removed. Of course, he had not yet become used to her absence.
Returning to the study, Baker wondered if, in spite of his intentions, he had absently taken the helm down to the thane's quarters. But he was certain that it had been here, just a few days ago when he had been reading the scroll that was still flattened on his desk.
And then he understood.
"Garimeth!" He spat her name with the full awareness of this monstrous betrayal, a theft that struck at more than his person-it reached out to wound his family, to threaten his very legacy. She had taken the artifact out of spite, for she knew that her husband treasured it above all things. And doubtless she knew it could be useful to herself as well.
More significant to Baker than Garimeth's reasons for taking the artifact was the simple fact that the Helm of Tongues was gone. He collapsed wearily into his chair, completely unready to face the task of getting it back. Somehow he would possess it again, but for now he didn't see how. All the scrolls, the secrets of the ancients waiting only for his perusal, would have to wait.
He sat in silent misery for some time. His stomach ached badly enough to double him over in the chair.
"My lord?" Vale's deferential voice gently penetrated Baker's pensive gloom. "Young Master Tarn is here."
"Send him in, please." Baker sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to organize his thoughts.
"Hello, Father." Tarn stood in the doorway, his violet eyes regarding his father with an expression the elder dwarf could not read.
"Come in, Tarn, come in. Have a seat while Vale gets you something to drink."
"Thank you, but I'd rather stand."
Flushing, Baker stood and faced his son, biting back a sharp response with a considerable effort.
"Can I ask you something?" Tarn demanded.
"What is it?"
"I want to know what you're going to do."
"About what?" Baker replied, puzzled.
"About Mother, of course!"
"Do?" Baker glowered, his temper rising. "There's not much I can do, wouldn't you say? She left of her own will, after all."
"You drove her away!"
Baker gaped, stunned by the accusation. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he replied curtly. He pushed his glasses firmly onto his nose, glaring at his son.
"Yes I do. She was never welcomed here, never belonged to your Hylar society. I am one who can understand that, better than the rest of this stuck-up band of would-be nobles!"
"Any lack of welcome was her own doing. Garimeth didn't tolerate fools gladly, nor did she hesitate to call them fools to their faces. Such an attitude made it difficult to make friends with those same fools. Not that it ever seemed to bother her much."
"How do you know what bothered her?"
"Apparently I didn't," Baker said, slumping again in his chair. Ignoring his son, he rubbed his temples, then slammed his fist onto the table and stood up in sudden animation. "She took the Helm of Tongues-did you know that?"
"No, she wouldn't do that!" insisted the younger dwarf. His tone turned scornful. "You probably misplaced it again. Did you have your glasses on when you looked for it?"
Baker sighed, tired of the argument even though he felt certain he was right. "I do know that she did what she wanted when she wanted to do it. And the needs or wants of anyone else never figured into her decisions. Now, I've heard all I will tolerate from you on this topic. There are matters facing Thorbardin that make our quarrel seem less than petty. I would like to talk to you about them, if you will listen. Otherwise, you can take your leave."
Tarn glared wordlessly at his father, and Baker would not have been surprised to see the young dwarf turn and stalk from the chamber. But instead Tarn exhaled slowly, then nodded in mute acquiescence.
Baker told his son about the letter he had received from Thane Hornfel. "It sounds as though these forces of Chaos are a menace unlike anything Krynn has ever faced."
"Are you warning the other clans to be prepared?"
"Axel thinks we should keep the news secret from the dark dwarves, for now. He doesn't want to reveal our weakness to the rest of Thorbardin."
"He wouldn't. He's as purebred a Hylar as you can find."
Baker ignored the implied accusation. "And you-what would you do if the decision was yours?"
"I would tell them, of course. All of them. Daergar, Klar-even the Theiwar should know."
"And suppose they use the news as an excuse to mobilize, and then turn against us?"
"I don't think they will," Tarn asserted stubbornly.
Baker muttered a curse, profane even by dwarven standards. But he had decided, and though it rankled him to rely on Tarn, to ask him for help, he would proceed. "That's why I need you. I want you to go to Daerbardin, to carry my message of good will to the thane. You must warn him of the danger, try to convince him that this is truly a dire threat. And you must return to tell me if the Daergar begin to prepare to move against us."
Tarn's exotic eyes, the purple of a twilight in the evening sky, narrowed. Baker waited impassively, wondering what thoughts were going through the mind of this stranger who was his son.
"Father, I will go."
"Good. Make your preparations to leave at once. I'll appoint another emissary to speak to the Theiwar. The Klar, of course, will do whatever the Daergar say."
"Very well," Tarn agreed. "I can be ready to go in two shifts of the boat docks."
"All right. And Tarn…" Baker added as his son turned toward the door.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. And good luck."
Chapter Seven
Duel for a Throne
Surrounded by his phalanx of bodyguards, Darkend Bellowsmoke strode through the north gate of the arena as if the mantle of thane already rested upon his broad shoulders. He heard the acclamation of the throng and chose to take it as praise, though it was just as likely that the gathered Daergar were cheering the prospect of imminent bloodshed. Acutely conscious of the need to make an imperial appearance, Darkend kept a slow and measured progress down the long aisle. He looked neither right nor left, concentrating hard on concealing any outward sign that would give an indication of his wounded leg.
The dark dwarf climbed to the dais, still surrounded by his henchmen. He clutched the mighty mace in his fist, grateful that the pain in his shoulder was bearable. In addition to the tiny stone, Garimeth had brought him some ointments and unguents. This morning Thistle had smeared the oily stuff over all of his hurts. Now Darkend felt that he had nearly regained his full peak of his physical prowess. Most importantly, he was able to walk without a limp. The inflamed wound in his thigh had subsided to a barely tolerable throbbing.