They sat in a small parlor lit dimly by oil lamps. Bookcases lined the walls, but instead of being filled with genealogy tomes and family histories as Sabira had expected, the shelves were crammed with books and reports on the Fist of Onatar, volcanoes in general, the melting point of dragonshards, prayers to the Sovereign of Fire and Forge, spelunking, and mining, and those were just the spines she could read from where she sat. There even seemed to be an entire section dedicated to poetry inspired by those subjects.
“You have a lovely home,” Sabira said when the blind woman didn’t seem inclined to speak once they were all seated. “With such an … eclectic library.”
“You’re wondering why all the books here are my son’s?” Tysane asked, cocking her head to the side as if listening. The old woman grinned, showing gaps in her teeth. She rapped her temple sharply with a bony knuckle. “Because I don’t need books when I’ve got this. Everything I need to know is in here. What good would books be to me, anyway? I can’t say as I’m much of a reader.”
Sabira could only hope Tysane’s son didn’t take after her in that regard; if his logbook didn’t have the information she needed—whatever that might turn out to be—because he kept the bulk of it in his head, then Aggar was doomed. Though, if the obsession evinced by his book collection was any indication, her problem might actually lie in the opposite direction: too much information, and too technical for her to readily understand it.
Once she and Mountainheart had filled Goldglove’s mother in on the likelihood of Nightshard’s having had an accomplice who was actually behind not only the murder of her son but also of all the other recent victims, Tysane had been more than willing to turn the journal over to them. In the space of those few words, Aggar went in her estimation from pampered killer to persecuted victim, and her maternal instinct came raging to the fore. Anywhere else, the swift change of heart would have been unusual, even suspicious. But not here in Frostmantle, where wayward children were still warned against mischief with threats of Nightshard’s resurrection.
“Here’s Haddrin’s work journal. I’ve marked the last entry with a ribbon.” Sensing Sabira’s surprise, Tysane offered another toothy smile. “It’s not magic, dear. Quills leave indentations in paper. I may not be able to see the entries or tell you what they say, but I can certainly tell you where they end.”
“Thank you,” Sabira said, taking the logbook from Tysane and opening it to the marked place. There, she read the final entry she’d seen copied in Blackiron’s notes, then she skimmed the earlier entries until she found the one that referenced Goldglove’s meeting with Aggar, at the top of the previous page.
Met with Tordannon. Laughed me out of his office, and said I’d regret it if I went to the rest of the Four with my findings.
Need more proof.
No wonder Aggar had come under suspicion. A written record of him threatening someone who wound up dead a few days later would be enough for most courts to find him guilty without ever going to trial. If he hadn’t had the power of the Tordannon clan behind him, this case would likely never have seen the inside of a courtroom, let alone the Iron Council’s chambers. And at least half of the murder victims would probably still be alive. Sabira didn’t particularly appreciate the irony.
Blackiron’s records hadn’t referenced any earlier entries, so she began reading them in reverse order. If Goldglove said he needed more proof, this meant he already had some before he went to see Aggar. She needed to know what it was.
As she read, she began to understand the magnitude of the threat Goldglove had been trying to warn Aggar about. Coupled with what she remembered of Darkore’s map, a disturbing image was emerging.
Over the past five years, a magmatic fissure had formed on the northern side of the Fist of Onatar and had extended rapidly in an unnaturally straight line toward Frostmantle. Goldglove had become aware of the fissure on one of his many expeditions to the Fist, and he’d been tracking it ever since. He hadn’t been sure if the fissure would change direction at some point, perhaps heading for either Korran’s Maw or Noldrunthrone, or maybe even Goradra Gap. But when he’d begun seeing hot springs form beneath the city, as well as tree-kill in the mountains directly to the south, he’d realized that the fissure’s point of termination had to be Frostmantle.
Someone was trying to channel magma from the Fist of Onatar to the caverns below the capital city of Tordannonhold. But who, and why? Somehow Sabira doubted it was some enterprising innkeeper hoping to capitalize on the supposed healing properties of the accompanying hot springs.
Then she found it. An offhand entry, made almost four months earlier.
Goldglove had been mapping the fissure south of Frostmantle, on the Noldrun side of where it crossed from that hold into Tordannonhold. He’d been down in the newly formed caverns when he’d been attacked by a hooded dwarf who’d chased him away from the fissure, raving madly.
… as if I had any interest in the fool’s stash of Khyber shards! Yelling at me like that: “Mine! First! Last! Always! Only!” Obviously completely unhinged. Lucky to have escaped unharmed. Must start carrying a weapon of some sort …
Of course.
It was circumstantial, Sabira knew, and would never stand up to the Council’s questioning without more proof, but she was certain she had the answer now. Rockfist would be pleased to know he’d been right all along. So would Kiruk.
“What?” Mountainheart asked, leaning over to read the entry himself and not understanding what about it was making Sabira smile like a feral cat.
“I know who did it, and I think I know why. Now all we have to do is prove it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Hrun Noldrun? Who is he?”
Sabira quickly explained about the latest pretender to Noldrunhold.
“He arrived in Krona Peak not long after the encounter Haddrin wrote about. Rockfist said he’d been badly burned at some point—maybe it happened in the cave-in. Maybe he was there, maybe he survived … what Ned and Nightshard didn’t.”
The words came in a raw whisper as she saw it all happen again, playing out before her like a show at the Livewood. In her haste to save Aggar, she’d triggered a deadfall, and the portion of the cavern roof that Ned’s chain was connected to had collapsed. Her devastated scream was drowned out by the thunder of falling rock as she watched Leoned’s body disappear into the magma moments before both the pool itself and Nightshard were buried beneath a small mountain of earth and stone. She and Aggar dug in vain, but all they uncovered was a hand gray with dust. On it, a Khyber shard ring gleamed, even through its coating of dirt. Of Ned, they found nothing. He was gone.
Nightshard had claimed his last victim.
Sabira blinked fiercely, struggling to keep sudden tears at bay. She cleared her throat and continued, hoping Mountainheart hadn’t noticed.
“Maybe it took him this long to find his way back.”
“To Krona Peak?” Mountainheart asked disbelievingly.
“To sanity. Or some semblance of it, anyway.” Host knew it had taken her that long … if she was even there yet. “We never really understood what he was doing back then, or why, but I think I do now. Haddrin gave me the clue. It was in one of the books he was looking at in … the library,” she said, glancing at Tysane. “One on mining claims in and around Noldrunhold. The names of most of the families had been grayed out—either their mines had been played out or the family lines themselves had. Several of those names seemed familiar to me at the time, but I was more interested in the material on magmatic fissures, so I didn’t stop to think about what that meant. But now that I understand that Noldrunhold’s been the key to this all along, it makes perfect sense.”