Bayne

“This is a secret project, Bayne, how can ye not know that ye can’t go gettin’ yer own assistants without permission? I told ye I’d get ye an assistant if ye needed one.” Orin shook his head in disgust.

Bayne glanced back at the Imperial girl, hiding in the shadows, her hood over her head. Her wide dark eyes reminded him of Dayne’s the day Ruthie had died, peering at him from the plump arms of the nurse. Can ye care for the bairn alone? the Conclave had asked. Bayne shook his head no, and the nurse had carried him away. That was the last time he’d seen his son.

Their question wasn’t a fair one, Bayne rationalized bitterly in the days and weeks and months that followed. He had just lost his love, and the infant was a helpless nursling. Plus, they all knew Bayne wasn’t one for answering questions properly.

They hadn’t asked him a second time—just once. And he hadn’t even answered! Just shook his head. But that was enough to wrench a son away from his father.

“Dayne—” the name tumbled out of his mouth without him realizing it. Rubies! Why had he spoken aloud?

The girl pulled the cloak more tightly around herself as Orin peered in her direction. “Dayne?” Orin repeated. “Is that Dayne?”

Bayne did not know what to say. Lying was wrong, but executing a child was wrong, too, even an Imperial one. Sparing a spy and putting his people’s fate in danger was wrong, but so was resurrecting war machines in a time of peace. Speaking up was wrong. Staying silent was, too. And Ruthie perishing from a rattlesnake bite while foraging, with a wailing infant clutched for hours in her dead arms—well, there was nothing more wrong than that.

There was so much wrong in the world, Bayne had no clue how to even begin sorting through it.

Orin’s boots scraped on the dirt-ridden stone floor as he crossed the cavern toward the Imperial girl. Relief flooded over Bayne. If this could not be stopped, then it could not be stopped. It wouldn’t be his fault.

Ye have a heart in there somewhere, Dwarf. Listen to it.

He’d allowed their son to be raised by strangers. He hadn’t even tried. Where was his heart? Did he even have one?

He watched, paralyzed, as Orin approached the girl. Halfway there, his boss glanced down at his boots, distracted by something. He dug through a patch of fallen earth and lifted up a purple, gleaming crystal.

“What’s this?”

Bayne’s muscles came to life. “Those crystals appeared with the quake. They have the ability to power the golem!”

Orin’s face was slack with wonder. “By the emeralds, is this true?”

“Aye! I’ll show ye.”

He led Orin away from the girl and to the machine. He demonstrated the crystal’s ability while his boss vibrated with joy.

“I’ll put teams together to gather these,” Orin gushed. “Meanwhile, the Wizards have called a Council, and I want ye to attend as Silverkeep Conclave’s engineering expert.”

“What?” His voice quavered as he clambered down from the golem. “Why me?”

“Because yer gonna make sure nothing is agreed to that conflicts with our military strategy. That nothing conflicts with this.” He peered up at the golem. “Make ready for the Council and meet the rest of your party at the north exit in an hour’s time.”

Bayne’s gaze flicked to the girl, still crouching in the corner.

“Ye can keep yer son as an assistant,” Orin said, following his gaze. He added sourly, “Ye could have just said something. He’s yer son, for gems’ sake, although he looks rather sickly. Are ye not feeding the boy?”

Something roiled in Bayne’s stomach, like baby eels in a fresh stewpot. But he said nothing as Orin let himself out.

The girl stood and pushed her hood back. They looked at one another.

“I can’t let ye go home,” Bayne said sadly.

Her dark eyes blinked, twin baubles of polished onyx in the dim light. “That’s okay, because I haven’t one.” When he didn’t say anything right away, she added. “I can be useful. I can collect the shards for you.” She began to scan the cave floor for them, as if to prove it.

“I must pack for the journey,” Bayne said, but even as he did, the gears were turning in his head. If he let her go, she could tell her people about the golem. But if he kept her with him, as his assistant, there was no danger of the Dwarves’ secret getting out. Eventually, he would have to turn her in, but the time didn’t feel right for that. Besides, with the quake and the Council, who needed the added complication of an execution? He was supposed to leave in an hour’s time. There wouldn’t even be time to do the paperwork.

He watched her scavenging for more purple crystals on the cave floor, like a fox pup searching for scraps.

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Ye have a heart in there somewhere, Dwarf.

There was a game he’d played as a child, heading to school with his mates. They’d choose a stone and kick it along the wide, sodium-lit tunnels. Each Dwarf had their own stone and they’d jostle and laugh as they got in each other’s way. There was only one rule—you didn’t pick up your stone until you’d reached the schoolroom.

The Imperial girl was his stone and he hadn’t yet reached his destination. He would simply kick her forward along the way, until he knew what to do with her.

“I found one!” she cried, clawing it out from a grassy clump.

He lumbered over to her and snatched it from her hand. “I’ll take that!” he said gruffly. She might be his assistant, but that didn’t mean he trusted her.

She popped to her feet, tiny fists clenched in front of her, eyes narrowed. He chuckled.

“Ye fight like that, they’ll know right away yer not a Dwarf.”

“How do Dwarves fight?” she asked, voice echoing in the corridors.

“How do Dwarves fight, sir,” he corrected her. “If yer to be my assistant, ye need to show respect.” Bayne tucked the crystal into his hip pouch and found his boots. “Come on now. We’ve got to pack. And disguise ye.”

He surveyed her as he pulled the metal door shut behind them and started down the corridors to his rooms. It was disconcerting having someone so young be as tall as him. Her shadow on the stone floor was angular and odd.

“How do dwarves fight, sir?” she asked.

“We go for the knees,” he replied. “Imperials have skinny legs. Easy to break with a good shoulder strike.”

“What if I have to fight a Dwarf?” she asked.

“Ye won’t beat a Dwarf in a fight.” They were approaching the busier halls, and he put a finger over his lips. Once inside his dwelling, he threw a pair of Ruthie’s old scavenging trousers at her. He’d never bothered to get rid of them, and now they would come in useful, hiding her skinny legs. Her feet were small and delicate, too. He dug around in the bottom of the closet for a pair of Ruthie’s old boots. They’d be too big but it was the best he could do. “These, too.”

When the Imperial girl was finished dressing, she could pass for a mostly grown lad, if she kept her hood up. Her coloring was like Ruthie’s so that was good. But that face! So thin and pointed. It wouldn’t do. Bayne reached into the fireplace and gathered up some wood ash.

“Come here,” he said gruffly. He smeared the black ash over her smooth, sunken cheeks and across her narrow chin. It was not much, but it was something. “Yer name is Dayne,” he said. “Yer my son.”

“I know.” Her eyes were as sharp as the tip of her Imperial nose.

“Ye keep yer hood up and ye stay in the background. Don’t talk to anyone, ye hear? As my assistant, ye answer only to me.”

Her head bobbed in a nod.

He opened his pack and pulled out his uneaten lunch, setting it on the table. The girl’s eyes latched onto it like magnets. “Are ye hungry?”

Another head bob.

“Well, what are ye waiting for?”

She gobbled up the food with very few manners. Bayne didn’t mind. He didn’t bother much with manners, living alone as he did. As she bent over her food, he noticed a shiny oval scar on the back of her neck. Had the child been mistreated? Oh well, that was none of his business. Maybe it had just been an accident. Accidents happened. He knew that better than anyone.

He packed up the food that would travel well, plus bedrolls for both of them. By the time he’d finished, only crumbs remained on the table. The girl was small, but her appetite didn’t appear to be. Bayne tucked a fishing net into his pack. He didn’t want them to go hungry.

“We’re going to the Council?” she asked.

“Aye,” he replied. “Ye know what that is?”

“It’s where everybody comes together to solve big problems.”

“Aye. I’d rather stay here and work on my machine, but here in the Dwarven Halls, we do as we’re told. Understood?”

She nodded. “Is there a big problem that needs solving?”

Bayne’s fingers went to the crystal in his pocket. “I think there is.”

“Is that why you built the machine?”

He slipped the pack over his shoulders. “The machine is for digging mines, nothing more. Come on, let’s go.”

***

They joined the small contingent at the north exit—just two other Dwarves, both members of the Conclave. Wynrift the Hunter’s beard was black and wild, unlike Bayne’s which, due to his work, needed to be kept trimmed for safety’s sake. Ruby-dust tattoos striped his sun-darkened cheeks. Moire was a communications expert and the youngest member of the Conclave. Her auburn tresses were braided and piled atop her head, wrists cuffed in green tattoos, an emerald loop glinting in her nose.

“Who’s that?” Wynrift grunted toward the girl.

“My son, Dayne. He’s my assistant.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Bayne’s teeth ground together. Keeping the girl with him had been a terrible idea. They were peering too closely at her. He shifted to block their view. “Do ye really need to stare at him so? He’s... shy.”

Rubies, what was wrong with him? That couldn’t possibly be the right thing to say. But it was enough. They asked no more questions, just turned west and began the trek.

The foursome wound their way down the rocky foothills and through wildflower-strewn fields releasing their feathery seeds into the last gilded rays of evening. Bayne kept vigilant for glints of purple in the terrain, but failed to find any. By nightfall, they’d reached the jagged treeline, black branches carving skeletal silhouettes into an indigo sky.

The girl seized the cloth at Bayne’s elbow and tugged.

“What is it?”

“Howler’s Wood. We shouldn’t go in there,” she said in her husky voice. “Not at night.”

“Why not?” Moire asked, turning back.

The girl tugged her hood farther down. “The Pooka.”

Wynrift scoffed. “Imperial nonsense.”

The girl straightened. “They’re real. If a Pooka is in a good mood, ‘twill give you a blessing. But if it’s in a bad one, ‘twill lay a curse upon you.”

“And what would a young Dwarven lad know about such things?” Moire stepped forward, brow creasing with suspicion.

Bayne whirled. “Nothing! The boy has not yet learned only to speak when spoken to.” He leaned in close to the child. “We’ll be safe,” he assured her, but as he spoke the words, he realized he didn’t believe them himself. Ruthie might’ve whispered the very same thing to a fussing Dayne on the scavenging run when death had found her. Nowhere was safe, and he knew it. Except maybe inside his golem. Inside the golem, he was powerful and protected. “Just stay close,” he added.

One by one, they crossed into darkness.