Boïndil took his hand and squeezed it gratefully. “We’re lucky to have a scholarly friend like you.” He loosened his grip and stroked his brother’s cheek. Then he fetched a stool and settled down to wait.
“You should get some rest,” said Tungdil, following Balyndis out of the room.
“So should you,” she said firmly. She asked the physician to fetch some provisions for Boïndil and make sure he had somewhere to sleep. “Come on,” she said to Tungdil. “Let’s get some food and go to bed.”
“Not until we’ve spoken to Xamtys.”
Balyndis’s plaits whirled around in circles as she shook her head vigorously. “The queen will send for us when she needs us. Her advisors will be briefing her on the damage to the stronghold and it won’t be long before she retires to bed. The rest can wait till the morning.” She pulled him through the corridors to her chamber.
It was the first time that he had seen her quarters in the firstling kingdom. Someone had obviously taken care of the cleaning in her absence because the chamber was neat and tidy. Balyndis took a couple of blankets from the closet and laid them over the bed.
Then they kneeled in front of the shrine that Balyndis had erected in Vraccas’s honor in the corner of her room. After praying to the Smith on Boëndal’s behalf, they took off their heavy mail shirts, undressed to their undergarments, and lay down in bed.
Balyndis looked at Tungdil, her eyes filled with love. He gazed back at her tenderly, returning her unspoken affection with a kiss on the lips.
“They’re talking about us, you know,” she said with a tired smile.
“No wonder—we’re famous.”
She burst out laughing. “Not because of that. They’re talking about us because we don’t hide our love.” She realized from his expression that he didn’t understand. “I think the twins may have forgotten a couple of things when they were teaching you to be a dwarf. Our union hasn’t been sanctioned, Tungdil. We’re not supposed to show affection for one another until we’ve been melded. Any word or gesture that oversteps the bounds of friendship is a violation of our mores. Strictly, you shouldn’t be here at all.”
He grinned at her. “It’s all right, Balyndis, the rules are different for heroes. Besides, it won’t be long until we’re joined by the iron band.”
Balyndis wasn’t the least reassured. “Even heroes are bound by our mores. It’s a serious matter, and that’s why my kinsfolk are talking. Besides, no one shows affection in public—it isn’t the dwarven way.”
“I don’t remember the twins saying anything about that,” said Tungdil, nestling closer. “Let them gossip, if they want to; we’ll soon be melded.”
They snuggled up to each other and fell asleep.
It was exactly as Balyndis had predicted.
Queen Xamtys II allowed them to sleep off their tiredness and sent word that she expected them in the throne room in the course of the following orbit.
In the meantime, they took the opportunity to have a long bath—in separate bathtubs because they hadn’t been melded. Tungdil didn’t care if his kinsfolk gossiped about them, but he tried not to cause a scandal for Balyndis’s sake.
Later, she cooked for him and, in the course of conversation, it came out that she had almost been melded to someone else. Her clan had picked a partner for her, but the poor dwarf had fallen in battle before they could forge the iron band. It was lucky for Tungdil because a dwarven union was permanent unless both parties agreed to break the band, which, as far as Balyndis could remember, had never happened in the history of the dwarves.
“And then you turned up and stole my heart,” she said, turning her attention to the stove. After orbits of dried food, she couldn’t wait to have a proper dwarven meal. Soon their plates were piled high with steaming potatoes in mushroom ragout. Fried fudi-fungi slices and cranberry compote were served on the side. After a while Balyndis noticed that Tungdil had hardly touched his food. “Isn’t it spicy enough?”
“It tastes delicious,” he said quickly, “but I’m not accustomed to dwarven food.” He glanced round the kitchen. “I was thinking of adding a pinch of that cheese.”
She glared at him in disbelief. “You mean the stinking cheese that the twins always eat? It tastes as bad as it smells!”
“I like it,” he said, offended that she was sneering at the one dwarven victual that he actually liked. He headed off an argument by changing the subject. “So your clansfolk don’t know that we’re…”
“No. How was I supposed to tell them? I’ll talk to them when I see them.”
He scratched his beard. “You don’t think they’ll mind?” Tungdil, who had been living quite happily in ignorance of dwarven sensitivities, saw himself up against all kinds of awkward rules.
“That’s another matter,” she conceded, helping herself to a potato. “Maidens aren’t supposed to choose their partners. Widows are allowed to, but I’m only half a widow at best.”
Tungdil took another serving of mushroom ragout to show that he appreciated Balyndis’s food. A horrible thought had occurred to him, and he simply had to ask. “What if your clansfolk refuse?”
Balyndis put down her spoon and reached for his hand. “Listen to me, Tungdiclass="underline" I’m coming with you to the Gray Range, whatever they say.” She looked at him gravely. “But we can’t be melded if my clansfolk won’t allow it. I can’t disgrace the good name of my clan.”
“But if we can’t be melded…?”
“I’d still be your friend.”
Tungdil stopped chewing and gasped, nearly choking on his mushroom. Why didn’t anyone warn me that dwarven mores are so complicated?
He imagined what it would be like to see Balyndis every orbit and never come close to her again. Their kinsfolk would frown at them for holding hands like they were doing now.
A brisk handshake, a formal embrace—that was the most he could hope for. She would never again press her lips against his. His heart wept at the thought that another dwarf could take his place and enjoy the rights that went with the iron band. It would be agony.
He was so distressed that he stopped worrying about Boëndal, all thought of the Gray Range and the orcs at the Stone Gateway forgotten. He finished the ragout in silence.
“What’s the matter?” asked Balyndis, squeezing his hands. “Have I spoiled things? I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He raised his eyes from his plate. The sight of Balyndis was so comforting that his mood brightened like the morning sun. “It’s all right,” he told her. “We’ll be a wonderful couple. Just think, we’ll have lots of lovely children and they’ll all be splendid smiths.” He kissed the back of her hand and she ruffled his hair. The bad dream was over.
Some time later, a steward knocked at the door and escorted them to the throne room. They passed through the imposing doorway and entered the octagonal hall, the walls of which shimmered warmly with beaten gold.
The quake had shown little respect for the time-honored room, and great cracks had opened in the ceiling, proving that solid rock was no defense against the force of a speeding comet.
Tungdil didn’t take long to spot the new columns, added for purely structural reasons. The firstling masons had done their best to match them to the rest of the room, adorning them with intricate carvings inlaid with gold, silver, vraccasium, and other precious metals, but for all their efforts, it was obvious that the pillars were a late addition. Glancing up, Tungdil noticed that the majestic mosaics had been damaged and several tiles had fallen to the floor.