Clovanos and the Loyalists were discreet enough not to be seen leading the activities, but within the hall of the Thalas-Enthia, they trumpeted the popular sentiment and demanded the return of Prince Ulvian. Lengthy petitions, inscribed on parchment scrolls three feet long, arrived at the Speaker’s house daily. The signatures on the petitions grew more numerous each time, with many of the New Landers joining the Loyalists in seeking Ulvian’s confirmation as Kith-Kanan’s heir. Disgusted with the senate’s shortsightedness, Kith-Kanan repaired to the Hall of the Sky to ponder his choices. He half hoped that the gods would choose for him, that some meaningful sign would show him what to do. However, nothing so mystical happened. He remained in the great plaza, watching his city through the waving treetops, until at last Tamanier Ambrodel came from the Speaker’s house.
The Speaker got up from his knees and crossed the vast mosaic map to greet his faithful castellan. In spite of the worries that clouded his mind, his step was springy; no one viewing the beauty of the sunset and the great elven city from this vantage point could fail to be moved, and some small measure of his strength had been renewed by his meditation.
“Good health to you, Majesty,” Tamanier said, bowing and presenting Kith-Kanan with an embossed dispatch case.
By the seal pressed in the wax of the lid, Kith knew the dispatch case was from Feldrin Feldspar. He broke the seal with his knife tip, and while Tamanier held the box, the Speaker raised the lid and drew out the papers inside.
“Hmm…Master Feldrin’s report on the progress at Pax Tharkas…the usual requests for food, clothing, and other supplies…and what’s this?” From between the sheets of official correspondence, the Speaker pulled a small folded letter on fine vellum, sealed carefully with a ribbon and a drop of blue wax.
He returned the other documents to the box and opened the sealed letter. “It’s from Merithynos,” he said, surprised.
“Good news, sire?”
“I’m not sure.” Frowning, Kith-Kanan read the brief letter, then handed the vellum to his castellan. Tamanier read Merith’s account of Ulvian’s near death, his salvation at the hands of the sorcerer Drulethen, and the friendship that Merith had observed growing between the prince and Dru.
“Drulethen—isn’t he the monster who ruled the high pass to Thorbardin during the Kinslayer War?” asked Tamanier.
“Your memory is still sharp. I’d forgotten the sorcerer was at Pax Tharkas. He shouldn’t be allowed to cultivate my son’s friendship; he’s far too dangerous.” The memory of another voice suddenly flashed into Kith-Kanan’s mind. What was it the god Hiddukel had said when he’d manifested himself in the Tower of the Sun? You may call me Dru. It couldn’t be coincidence that the god had chosen the name of the evil sorcerer. Where the gods were concerned, little was left to chance.
Tamanier continued to stand holding the dispatch box. After a long moment of silence, Kith-Kanan’s eyes focused once more on the old castellan. “Return to the house, Tam,” he said briskly. “Prepare for a trip. Small entourage, with a light, mounted escort. I want to move quickly.”
The castellan’s brows lifted. “Where are you going, Great Speaker?”
“To Pax Tharkas, my friend. I’ll leave as soon as Lord Anakardain can get back to Qualinost. I want him to keep order here while I’m gone.”
Tamanier bowed and withdrew, head buzzing with the speed of events. Kith-Kanan remained in the Hall of the Sky a while longer. Standing at the edge of the artificial plateau, he looked out over his city. One by one, lamps were being lit in towers and on street comers, until it seemed the star-salted sky was mirrored on the ground. As the Speaker watched, lights illuminated the sweeping arch of the northern bridge directly ahead of him, behind the Tower of the Sun. Kith-Kanan turned slowly to each point of the compass to see the other three bridges similarly lighted. They surrounded Qualinost in a sparkling embrace.
Despite this glorious vista, something gnawed at Kith-Kanan. The great forces he’d sensed behind the marvels of the past days now seemed overshadowed by evil. He’d believed the wonders to be portents of some great event; perhaps they were indeed portents, but of a darker nature.
The bells clanged, signaling the end of another day of toil at Pax Tharkas. Ropes were tied off or dropped, tools piled on carts to be taken back to storage sheds, and cook fires blazed in the twilight. From the parapet of the west tower, Feldrin Feldspar surveyed the site as Merith stood close by.
“It will stand ten times a thousand years,” declared the dwarf, clasping his stout arms behind his back. “An eternal bridge between Thorbardin and Qualinesti.”
In the ruby glow of sunset, the stones of the citadel shone a soft pink. It was a magnificent yet lonely sight, the great gateway wedged between the slopes of the wide pass. Merith, who didn’t care for heights, kept back from the unwalled edge of the tower top. Feldrin stood with his toes hanging over the edge, completely unconcerned about the long drop before him.
“How long until it’s finished?” asked Merith.
“Barring strange quirks of weather and landslides, the east tower can be completed in six months. The fortress will be habitable then, though the inside details may take another year to dress out.” Feldrin sighed, and it was like the grunt of an old bear.
He raised a hand to shade his eyes from the sun, setting behind the mountains to their left. Below, the pass was a narrow valley stretching away to the north. A small stream wended its way through the pass, shadowed now that the sun was nearly down. Staring up into the dark hollows of the high pass, the dwarf said, “Dust. Hmm…could be riders coming.”
Merith moved as close as he dared to the edge of the parapet and looked up the valley. “From the north?” he queried. That meant Qualinost.
“Probably some dandified courtier or senator from the city who expects a guided tour of the fortress,” growled Feldrin. “I guess this means I have to wash my hands and beard and put on a clean vest.” He sniffed.
“It could be a courier from the Speaker,” Merith suggested, “in which case you’ll only have to wash your hands.”
Feldrin caught the small smile on the fair-haired warrior’s lips. “Very well! A compromise, lieutenant. I’ll wash my hands and beard, but I won’t change my vest!”
Chuckling, the two entered the stairwell sunk into the roof of the tower and descended the long set of steps. By the time they reached ground level and made their way outside, the rising plume of dust in the pass had been dispersed by the ever-present wind. There was no further sign of riders.
“Maybe they changed their minds and went home,” joked Feldrin. He shrugged and added, “The dust must have come from a rockslide. All the better. Let’s see what rubbish the cook has inflicted on us tonight.”
In fact, Feldrin’s cook was excellent. He did amazing things with the simple fare provided for the master builder’s table. Dwarven food was usually too heavy for elves, but Feldrin’s cook managed to prepare lighter dishes that Merith found quite delicious.
The lieutenant trailed after the fast-moving dwarf. Once more he looked up into the pass, where they had spotted the dust cloud.
“I wonder,” he said softly. “Were they riders, or—”
“Come, Merith! Why are you lagging?”
There were no sentinels in Pax Tharkas. No night watch patrolled the sleeping complex of tent, huts, and sheds. None had ever been needed. Not even the grunt gang barracks were guarded once its single door was locked for the night. Thus it was that Ulvian slipped unseen out a window of the barracks and worked his way around the camp, collecting the items Dru had requested. From the plasterers’ mixing shed, he got more than a pound of dry white clay, as fine and pure as cake flour. The prince dumped it in a wide-mouthed pottery jar and hurried on. He made for the long row of blacksmiths’ sheds. Coal by the peck was available there, hard black coal from Thorbardin, which the dwarf smiths used to forge some of the hardest iron in the world. Ulvian crept up to the closest furnace. It still glowed dull orange from the day’s fire. Squatting on the dirt floor, he picked through the rubbish that lay scattered around the hearth doors. He dropped several pieces of coal into the jar containing the clay.