Yorvig woke with that heavy and uncomfortable feeling that he had slept too long. Striper lay on his chest, curled into his beard. Considering it was near complete darkness, it was only his body telling him he’d overslept. He rose to his feet and headed toward the adit stream. There was a bad taste in his mouth. The only light snuck in through the brook grates at the bottom of the stone door of the Low Adit. That, at least, showed it was daytime outside. He drank from the cold water of the brook and realized that he should not have left the newcomers without seeing that they were settled to sleep. It was inhospitable. Warmcoat had his own alcove. It felt wrong to so quickly give over Savvyarm's. What of Onyx?

No doubt, Sledgefist and Hobblefoot would have fought for the honor of making sure she had whatever meagre comforts might be afforded her. The thought was irritating. At least, as of today, it was no longer his responsibility to keep the claim running.

Climbing up to the High Adit, he heard voices and saw Hobblefoot, Sledgefist, and Khlif standing at one of the ore seams talking and pointing. When Yorvig approached, they hushed and avoided his gaze.

“Good waking,” he said.

They murmured in answer, but he didn’t stop for further conversation. He glanced in the doorway of the smithy and saw Greal and Onyx speaking in whispers at the forge. She'd laid her tools out on the slab of sandstone that served as their workbench, but the fire was cold. They glanced up as Yorvig walked by but he didn’t stop. The drawbridge was down and light flooded inside. Shineboot and Warmcoat stood on the tower platform, their arms folded over their beards as they looked out across the dell toward the southeast. They turned when they heard Yorvig’s footfalls on the plank bridge.

“Good waking,” Warmcoat said.

“Good waking.”

Yorvig squinted and took a deep breath of air. The morning was well-progressed, and the spring chill was rapidly dissipating from the air, leaving a heavy scent of plants and damp earth. Birds sang and frog-music chorused loudly from the tailings pond further down the dell. They should jig for frogs, Yorvig thought, feeling hungry again. Some dwarves in Deep Cut raised the creatures in cavern pools, feeding them worms and maggots from the middens and compost heaps.

“What for today?” Shineboot asked.

Yorvig shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

Shineboot and Warmcoat shared a glance, and Warmcoat stretched, yawning.

“Well, I’d like a better look at that ore.” He turned and walked across the bridge and into the adit. Warmcoat looked as if he had eaten especially well during his winter home. That was good. He would need that fat.

Yorvig and Shineboot stood in silence for a time as the wind ruffled their beards.

Then, Shineboot tossed a rock up into the air and caught it.

And again.

And again.

Yorvig couldn’t help but catch the glint of the rock in the daylight. He gave in and looked. Shineboot held it up for him to see. It was a bit of quartz with sandstone matrix at the edge. The quartz was flecked with specks of hard-rock gold.

“I found this in the rockpile beneath the High Adit.” He held it out for Yorvig to take, and so he took it, mostly not to appear rude. There was a heap of such dumped below the High Adit at the base of the cliff for later crushing and sluicing once the richer ore was mined. He turned it in his fingers, letting the quartz and small flecks of gold catch the light.

“It’ll be worth the effort,” he said. “And many more like it below.”

“Oh, ay, yes,” Shineboot said, then paused, looking at Yorvig with the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“What?” Yorvig asked.

“I took it the day you told us about the strike.”

The implications of that statement hit Yorvig in waves and reverberations. Shineboot watched him, apparently enjoying the moment. Yorvig felt the flush coming to his face. Shineboot grinned and continued:

“In truth, I found it while you were cutting the tree. I’ve held on to it.” He plucked the rock out of Yorvig’s hand and tossed it again. “It would take an incompetent miner to dump this not knowing he was onto something big. And if anything, this winter has proven to me that you’re not incompetent. Somewhat surly, ay. Harsh on occasion. Actually, sometimes you’re downright irritable—”

“Alright,” Yorvig said.

“—But not incompetent. I could have pissed in your ale when I found it, but I thought about it for a while. You knew about the gold before you became rinlen. Before you even got hurt. Am I wrong?”

One lie was heavy enough. Yorvig wasn’t going to double down, not now.

“You are not wrong.”

“Like I said, I was angry. . . but . . . then I wondered what would have happened if you’d told us?”

Yorvig pursed his lips.

“It would have been a mess, I think," Shineboot said.

“So I feared,” Yorvig replied, nodding.

“I would never have done that. I wouldn’t have kept it secret. I would have told you all straight away, because we were partners. I would have come running. Slag, I never would have mined up here to begin with, not with the others mining down there."

“I wish. . .” Yorvig trailed away. What did he wish? That he’d have done differently?

“No,” Shineboot said. “No wishes. I think it was a bad choice. But—” and here Shineboot turned to face Yorvig, locking eyes. “It was the best choice too, maybe. I couldn’t have made it. I wouldn’t have thought about it. That’s why you’re going to stay rinlen.”

“I’m not going to be rinlen.” Maybe if he hadn't been rinlen, they would have fled the claim from starvation, made it back to Deep Cut, and somehow kept Savvyarm from death. How could he know his decisions wouldn't mean the deaths of the rest of them as well?

“I talked to Warmcoat and the Hardfells. I told them everything that happened.”

Yorvig was silent.

“I don’t know how the Hardfells will go,” Shineboot continued. “But then, it might not matter. Warmcoat is with us. He knows what it was like before. You’ll vote for yourself, and that will make three.”

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“That would make it a tie, if Greal and Khlif are of one mind. And I don’t want to vote for myself. I’m not even sure we should stay here. It’s already cost us Savvyarm.”

“Savvyarm would tell you to stay. It’s not every dwarf who gets a chance like this. We all knew the risks when we came. We knew there could be ürsi this far east.”

“Hobblefoot is your brother. Won’t he know if you don’t vote for him?”

Shineboot squinted up at the mountainside.

“If this were Deep Cut, I’d vote for him. But you didn’t support your brother before. I think things are different here in the wilds. I’m not entirely sure how yet. But I think so.”

Yorvig didn’t respond. Shineboot put his hand on his shoulder.

“We’re having the vote at noon at the forge,” he said. “It’s already been discussed.”

With that, he left Yorvig alone on the tower platform.

The hours felt interminable, but at noon, they gathered into the workshop. Onyx had cleared her tools away and now atop the slab of sandstone sat one of the wooden ewers they had used to catch sap in the spring.

“Three names have been put forward for rinlen,” Shineboot said, standing beside the table. It seemed he had set himself up as arbiter. “Sledgefist, Hobblefoot, and Chargrim. We swore oaths to abide by this plan before. But do we all now swear to abide by this vote, that whoever is chosen will be rinlen by right not choice, never to be gainsaid and given the proper oaths?”

“We do,” the rest chorused.

“We do,” Shineboot said back. “Good. Now. Each of you come here and take a chip of quartz, amethyst, and iron. Iron for Sledgefist, amethyst for Hobblefoot, and quartz for Chargrim. You’ll put the stone of your choice in the ewer. Understood?”

“Ay, yes,” they chimed.

“Alright, here are the stones.”

They each approached Shineboot and took three stone chips. Yorvig was mildly surprised when he saw Onyx take hers, but he couldn’t think of any reason why she shouldn’t and Shineboot had obviously prepared the correct number of chips. A glüsht-na-fen even sat on the Deep Cut council. It meant "wif-of-craft," a dwarvish phrase for a dwarf-maid who "married" a trade rather than a dwarf. Many believed that forgoing a family was necessary for a maid to become a true master; it was nearly impossible to rise to the highest levels of skill when many decades of one's life was spent in the care of babes. Out of love for it, a wif might return to her craft in earnest after her bearing years, but she could hardly hope to attain the skill of those who had apprenticed and practiced long. Most such wifs turned their hand to the care of grandbabes and the working of their craft merely to supply their own family's needs.

It could take years after marriage before a dwarf wif became pregnant, or before the "quickening of the womb," as they called it. But once she began to bear, she could go on for sixty, seventy, and sometimes even eighty years, bearing multiple children over the decades. These wifs were called blessed, for they carried the hope of dwarven future. As such, dwarven families were often large, where accident or wasting illness did not strike. Networks of cousins, uncles, and aunts could become the business of extensive genealogy. The mother of such a troupe need never fear want. Yorvig's mother had been a wif of craft, a weaver, until she lost the dexterity of her fingers. It was the beginnings of the wasting that would eventually take her life, but to be supported to the end she married a willing older dwarf and bore two children. She died at barely 130 years.

Yorvig tried to figure out how Onyx's vote might affect things.

“Alright,” Shineboot said, seeming unsure for the first time since this had begun. “Go ahead.”

For a few moments, no one moved. A few of them glanced down at their hands to arrange their chips. Onyx stepped forward first, putting her fist over the mouth of the ewer and letting a chip drop within. They all followed to the ewer, dodging around each other to let fall their chips. Yorvig went also and returned to his spot.

“Alright,” Shineboot said, tipping the ewer and carefully shaking the chips onto the sandstone tabletop. Sledgefist and Hobblefoot stepped closer to watch his hands, which Yorvig thought was disrespectful, but then, the fact that they were in this situation was already ridiculous.The whole thing felt profane, like some kind of stewhall gambling. Shineboot was quick with his count, separating the chips into like stone.

“That’s three votes for Hobblefoot, and three for Chargrim, and one for Sledgefist,” Shineboot said, sounding perplexed. Yorvig knew that meant the Hardfell brothers had chosen Hobblefoot.

Yorvig had to work not to look over at Sledgefist. Instead, he focused his eyes on the table, as if the chips were fascinating.

“That’s a tie.” Greal sounded surprised.

“Someone didn’t vote,” Onyx said. They looked at her. She stood aside, near the forge, her arms folded. She still wore the vibrant orange-and-blue high-slit dress over a pair of grey trousers.

“Right,” Shineboot said, looking down at the chips. “Who didn’t vote?”

They all glanced around, except Yorvig.

“I didn’t,” he said after a moment. He’d hoped in the moment it wouldn’t be noticed. It was the tie that brought extra attention. He didn’t think Hobblefoot or Sledgefist capable of the job, but voting for himself felt wrong, regardless of whether Hobblefoot and Sledgefist had done the same.

“You swore to vote," Shineboot said.

“No, I swore to abide by the vote.”

“Chargrim!” Shineboot shook his head in frustration, lifting up a palm.

“It’s a tie,” Greal said. “Chargrim can break the tie. If he doesn’t want to be rinlen then let him cast his vote for Hobblefoot.”

“I could cast it for Sledgefist,” Yorvig said, feeling annoyed.

“That would make no difference!” Greal sounded irritated as well. Yorvig realized that his companions' arms were all held stiff at their sides, a bad sign.

“Let Sledgefist break the tie,” Onyx said. “He was one of the choices, but he has not the votes. If he voted for himself, let him recast it.”

They all looked from Onyx to Sledgefist, whose face was red and hands clenched.

“But he has voted!” Hobblefoot shouted. “Chargrim must vote!”

“Then I vote for Sledgefist,” he said.

Hobblefoot threw up his hands and turned away.

“This is why we should not vote for a rinlen!” Greal said. “Let it be decided by who is elder!”

“I vote for Chargrim!” Sledgefist exclaimed.

Yorvig raised his eyebrows. In his anger, Yorvig had merely wanted to lash out at something, and the vote was that something. Sledgefist's vote took the fire out of his forge.

“No!” Hobblefoot said. “You’ve already voted. The vote is a tie and void!”

“I yield to Chargrim,” Sledgefist said.

“You can’t!”

“We can vote again.”

“No! It's void!”

“Wait!” Shineboot shouted, but Hobblefoot and Sledgefist had squared up to each other. Shineboot cast Yorvig a withering look, and in truth Yorvig regretted what he’d done.

“I’m sorry,” he said, raising his palms. Hobblefoot and Sledgefist stared, as if waiting for the other to make the first move. The Hardfell brothers looked on aghast. Had Savvyarm and Warmcoat not explained? Warmcoat stared at the floor.

“Quiet!”

Silence fell. The voice had cut the chamber like a well-honed axe. It was Onyx. She waited a moment, holding all their gazes. “I will choose,” she said. “If you dwarves cannot.”

They looked at each other, unsure and silent.

“But you voted already,” Greal said, “and I already know your vote.”

“I rue the day I agreed to follow you here,” she said. “What did you bring me to? A hole without a rinlen and a few half-starved wilder-dwarves. How dare you not tell me there was no rinlen! That there was conflict."

Yorvig raised his eyebrows.

"Such disorder," she said. Her eyes were narrow above her veil. "Better alone in Deep Cut.” She looked from her eldest brother to the rest of them. “You have deceived me, and as such have dishonored yourselves.”

“We said nothing that was false," Greal said.

“You withheld the truth!”

“We were looking for what was best for you.”

“Spare me,” she snapped. “You all came into this by your own foolishness. I alone was deceived. The decision is mine.” What little of her face they could see was flushed. “Hobblefoot and Sledgefist. Will you show yourselves of quality in this?” she asked.

“I will let you decide,” Sledgefist said. "I did not know they deceived you." Onyx’s gaze shifted to Hobblefoot.

“I am sorry. I had no idea they would bring you. I will let you decide,” Hobblefoot said.

“And the rest?” Onyx asked.

They murmured assent.

“Chargrim has seen you through the winter at least, though you be bone and sinew. Were it not for his own fool attempts to throw the vote and cause chaos—” at this she gave Yorvig a chilling glance through narrowed eyes “—he would have carried the vote and avoided this scene. Perhaps that makes him unfit. None of you have told me truthfully what has brought this stupid argument to pass, as if I were a gilna. . .” She sighed. “Maybe I should be rinlen.”

Just for a moment, there was a glimmer of enjoyment in the slope of her eyes and the wrinkle of her brow. She let the moment hang as Yorvig realized in shock just how she had put them at her mercy. But the moment passed.

“Let Chargrim continue as rinlen. At least while we’re still alive. And be done with it.”

“If Chargrim remembers his oath.” Hobblefoot said. He caught Yorvig’s eye. Yorvig needed no reminder. The oath had come to his memory more than once since yestereve. But this foolishness needed to end. He made sure not to look toward Onyx.

“I regret my part in this madness,” Yorvig said. “I am sorry. I will keep my oath.”

“Very well,” Hobblefoot said. “Then I consent.”

And so it was. The traditional oaths were sworn.

“Well,” Yorvig said after an awkward pause. “There is time left for work today.”