Malgond was made of something other than stone. Cara could not tell what, but its texture was somewhere between glass and steel, with rivulets of faint color flowing beneath its surface and catching the light of the sun despite the shadows cast by the walls. It reminded her of the Titan's Arm, only shaped and sculpted, and tended to by living hands. She couldn’t tell where the red smears she saw at a distance had come from. Up close she saw greens, blues, violet and lilac, yellow, and many shades of grey. The material was smooth, but the dwarves had carved endless characters from the ground to the top. Some of the characters were of animals, some of people, and some were of trees, cliffs, and hills. There were flowers with long, needle-like petals, mountains with curved peaks that linked together, and through them all there was a snaking river, carved so that it always travelled through veins of blue color.
One collection of images caught her attention over all the others. A crescent moon was carved into a pale yellow portion of the wall. A cliff rose to the left of the moon, the river was at its base and a broad shelf of what looked like snow was at its top, just above the moon. A lone figure sat atop the shelf of snow with legs dangling over the edge. Cara could not tell if it was a man or woman. The figure’s hair and nails were disturbingly long, and its body was only partly covered by bits of clothing. Cara noted with surprise that it was not a dwarf, at least not clearly. She couldn’t tell which of the six kins it was, in fact. It seemed as if it could be any of them.
“Ah,” her father said, peering over her shoulder, “the Black Garden.”
“The Black Garden?” Cara was confused. The Black Garden meant death, or suffering, or being served with justice for a hidden crime. Its meaning depended on the moment, or the place the person saying it came from, but everyone knew the Black Garden was not a real place. “Why do they depict it so? What has a cliff, a river and the moon to do with the Black Garden?”
“Some scholars of Esper say it’s part of the lost Tides, and that it’s described in them as a state of expanded thought. Son, did you learn anything of the lost Tides during your fosterage?”
Hale leaned close and looked at the figure on the cliff. “No. Well, not much. King Verrold was obsessed with the older Tides; mostly Forever Man, and the Dreams of Alon. He’d pore over them day and night until he died. It bothered me to see him in such a state, so I paid little heed. That’s strange…” He leaned closer and looked at the river, then traced it with his fingers as far as he could reach. “His last words to his sons were ‘The river is its own beast, and it travels through many lands.’ See here, it weaves through every scene the dwarves have carved onto their gate.”
“Sad that his mind was so gone,” their father said. “His final words were of cryptic fables, rather than giving parting wisdom to his sons.”
“He said something to each of them just before,” Hale said.
“And what were his words, son?”
“They made no sense, Father. He told Marcas to tread softly, and he told Derrion that he would look for him in the garden. His mind was gone. His hair and nails had grown as long as this poor fellow’s here on the gate, and he looked thrice a hundred years old.”
“Perhaps he spoke in code,” Cara said. “Tread Softly, those are the words of the Shadow Moors. The Moorsmen played a major part in the old wars Eruhal fought with Ronehelm. He must have been warning Marcas to watch their borders after he became King.”
Hale rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t code, Cara. Marcas was a waifish fop, and Derrion is a renowned warrior. Why would Verrold warn Marcas of an attack from Ronehelm, and tell Derrion to meet him in the garden?”
“Be gentle, son,” her father said, “Cara misses you. Don’t begrudge her trying to speak of Princely matters. It is an intriguing thought, my dear. But King Verrold was a husk of his former self, and likely had no idea what he was saying, or to whom. Whatever ailment took him was severe. I would hate to die in such a drawn out fashion. Give me a sudden and violent end over a long and agonizing fade.”
When her father and Hale had moved to other parts of the gate, Cara traced the river with her fingers as Hale had done. For some reason, she felt an urge to hold the black mannarim stone Hale had found for her. She went back to her courser and rummaged through her saddle bags. When she found the stone she held it in both her hands. The stone itself was cold to the touch, yet somehow her hands felt warmed by it.
Just then she heard Gislain shouting. “A lady knight!”
She and Istan were huddled together looking at the carvings on Malgond. Istan was arguing that there were no lady knights in any kingdom. Gislain was pointing furiously at the gate, insisting that there were lady knights in Thrond.
“There aren’t any knights in Thrond!” Istan was saying as Cara came to inspect Gislain’s claim. “Dwarves don’t have knights, stupid. And they don’t have Ladies either.”
“Then how do they have babies,” Gislain argued.
“You know what I mean. They have women, but no Ladies.”
Cara leaned down and looked at the scene they were arguing over. It did look like a Lady was being knighted. A dwarfmaid, beautiful, strong and curvaceous, was on her knees in front of an old man. Well, Cara assumed he was old from his long hair and beard, but that was no sign of age among dwarves. Not only did they live twice as long as her kin, she had heard their baby boys were born bearded. At any rate, the man was handing a sword to the woman as she bowed. She was clad in plate as well, and held a visored helm in her hands.
“You know what that is,” she heard her mother say. Queen Yselde had come near and stood behind the two younger children. Cara thought hard, and remembered a time when she picnicked with her aunt and Balvor outside the castle walls. They were on a flat space on the eastern slope of Cavanal Hill, and Balvor was telling her and Idana of Thrond’s customs. For some reason, her aunt had asked Balvor how Thrond punished traitors.
“All crimes are one,” Balvor had said in his constantly mirthful voice, “whether a petty thief, or an instigator of treason, all law breakers suffer the same punishment.”
“That sounds harsh,” Cara had said, forgetting her courtesies.
Balvor wasn’t offended, though. Nothing ever seemed to anger him, which was fortunate, as he was terrifyingly strong. An oxcart laden with sacks of grain had lost a wheel during that visit. Balvor was nearby and hoisted the cart off the ground as easily as if he were opening the lid of a chest. He laughed and japed with the wood wrights fixing the wheel, and was not the least bit winded when he set the cart back down.
He had explained the Undergaurd to Cara and her aunt then. How in Heth and Nirmo, only severe criminals were punished, and all were sent through the hidden door, the dwarven term for death, but in Thrond aberrant citizens were given a chance at eternal redemption. “They are armed and clad in the finest plate,” he had jovially explained, “and sent to the dark undercroft of the world, living an entire lifetime of atonement as they protect Thrond from the monsters of the deep lands.”
It seemed a heroic thing as he explained it then, and even depicted on Malgond there was a certain romance to the arrangement. “She is a law breaker,” Cara explained to her brother and sister, “and is being given her sentence. In other dwarven realms, law breakers are executed, but the dwarves of Thrond are merciful, and honor their criminals with the chance to defend their kingdom and redeem themselves.”
Istan wrinkled his nose. “They honor law breakers?”
“Why not just put them in the stocks?” Gislain seemed confused as well. “And why are they all punished the same?”
“We’re entering a different world my dears,” said her mother. “Thrond is nothing like any place above the ground. It’s been many a year since your father and I have been here, but I remember it like it was yesterday. The dwarves will seem strange to you, but they are noble people. And this kingdom is a place of fearsome beauty.”
“The soldiers on the wall frightened me,” said Gislain.
“They are meant to be frightening, sweetling. But they are men, like your father and Dennel.”
“Dennel has twenty-three red stars on his shield!” Istan boasted.
“Yes he does,” said Yselde, “and he’ll tell you the same thing as those dwarves on the walls, that he’d rather have none.”
“Don’t be feedin’ them falsehoods, Your Grace,” said Noxi.
Yselde jumped. “Noxi! My, you are a quiet creature. How do you mean? What falsehoods do I speak?”
“Dwarves like fightin’, and so does Dennel. Begging your pardons, ma’am.”
Yselde seemed about to contest Noxi’s statement, when a thought struck Cara suddenly. “Where’s the red?” she blurted.
“Eh?” Noxi said with a grunt. “On Dennel’s shield. Yer brother just said… “
“No, on the gate. I saw red on the gate as we approached it. Remember when you were warning me about the drow boy? I saw it then.”
“What drow boy?” asked her mother.
“He’s one of the players. Noxi’s suspicious of all drow. I saw smears of red on the wall from afar, but now I see none.”
“Well, I adore all drow, and I saw some red mixed in there, I’m sure. There’s all sorts of colors.”
“It was smeared all over, like blood. And I saw it when we were a long ways away still.”
Her mother seemed at a loss. “I’m sorry, Cara, but I didn’t see what you saw. But I was distracted, admittedly. The gate seems taller and wider than when last I was here. Dennel, did you see any red markings on the gate when we were afar?”
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Dennel had been conversing with Malaad, a plump merchant from Casimir her father had taken a liking to. He had been in the back of the entourage for most of the trek, but her father had insisted he enter Malgond with the Royal Household. Dennel and Malaad looked up at the wall, then back to Yselde and shook their heads.
“I saw large red marks when we first saw it,” Cara said.
“Perhaps a trick of the light,” said Dennel.
“Cara,” said her mother, “are you all right?”
“Begging your pardons, Your Grace,” said Noxi, “but Obrus is a strange place. It plays with one’s mind the first visit. You said the gate seems larger to you, after all.”
“It’s true. The doors do seem larger somehow. But I haven’t been here since before Cara was born. I could simply be mistaken.”
A low pitched hum began to ring through the foggy air, gaining volume and resonance. The ground was still, but the loose stones that had been kicked and dragged onto the bronze walkway shook and rattled. The hum grew until it was almost uncomfortable on Cara’s ears and a handful of small stones lifted slowly into the air. Cara’s eyes lit with wonder. Her mother laughed.
“Oh sweet daughter, the look on your face. I wanted to tell you but then you’d miss the surprise.”
Gislain was clinging to Hale’s leg and Istan was leaping into the air, hoping to hover like the rocks no doubt. A deep rumble erupted from the ground and the humming stopped, bringing the rocks back to the ground. The rumbling continued and grew louder as the humming had, and then there was a tremendous crack as if a thunderbolt had come down from the heavens and split the mountain in two. A line of shadow formed in the center of the black wall, streaking from the ground all the way to the top of the gate, three hundred feet above. When the line had reached the top, the doors parted and slowly withdrew from each other. The sound they made was deafening; a primal roar of stone that shook Cara's ribs. The World Dragon had awoken.
Her father had Ser Walsh signal everyone to gather for final instructions. The room beyond the gate was a tremendous chasm with a narrow bridge just wide enough for two grown men to cross abreast. Her father would enter first with her mother, then Dennel would escort her aunt, then she would walk with Hale followed by the two little ones. After them would be Ser Walsh and the household guard. Noxi would be leading the rest of the entourage, including their horses, to a luxurious camp to the north of the gate the dwarves had built for the duration of their tarriance. Once across the entry bridge they would be welcomed in a large foyer within by the King and his family. Salimod urged his children to be at their best behaviour, and not to speak out of turn.
“Grar is an honorable man,” he said, “but he is the King of Konistra’s mightiest realm, so show him and his family the greatest respect, and do not speak out of turn. Am I clear?”
The gates of Malgond stopped with no more than two oxcart’s width between them. Cara peered in, hoping to catch a glimpse of the chamber within while daylight peeked through, but it seemed neither the light of the sun nor the lingering fog could pass the Horned Black Gate. Her parents entered without hesitation, exchanging excited glances as they shared memories of their past visits. Her aunt seemed torn between eagerness and fear. Doubtless she longed to see her betrothed, but she was likely unsure how she would fair in her new home. Cara smiled at how patient Dennel was with her. She clutched at his wiry arm for dear life, walking slowly and being overly careful not to fall off the bridge. Dennel simply smiled and kept pace with her, offering reassuring words with every step. When it was time for her and Hale to enter, she felt a sudden apprehension and looked about her. The pale granite horns rose broad and tall, curving into their spiked ends as if they meant to stab holes in the sky. For some reason, her thoughts went to the black mannarim stone in her hand. She gave it to her brother and asked him to stow it in one of his belt pouches, which he did.
When at last they stepped through into the mountain, Cara’s red curls and long blue dress were lifted by a rush of wind from the chasm below. She blushed as she fought to keep her dress down, while the little ones giggled behind her. “Got enough stockings?” Istan jibed. Hale, on the other hand, was being as kind to her as Dennel was to her aunt. Cara was walking slowly, partly out of nervousness and partly out of wonder, and Hale slowed his long stride so as not to rush her.
The chasm was mostly dark, but high above, three or four hundred feet perhaps, great braziers were bolted into the walls of the mountain, with roaring blazes bright enough to illuminate the bridge and the space around them. Through the thick shadows, Cara could discern carvings on the walls much like those on Malgond, only they seemed much larger and looked alive in the dancing light of the flames.
“How big do you think those braziers are?” Hale asked.
“I daren’t look up,” Cara replied. She had almost swooned at the dizzying height above, and had determined to just look down. The light from the braziers shone little of the vast space beneath her, but she could feel the unfathomable depth of the place. The air rising from below was damp and cold, and here and there she would see a plume of blue or yellow light burst from a distant hole in the black rocky walls.
“There is fire in the deep air,” said Hale. “There were often dwarves in Castle Gwynd, merchants and such. They said that in most parts of a mountain, the air would burn the lungs of other kins, and could even ignite. I thought they were just short folk telling tall tales, but it seems they spoke true.”
“Noxi told me the hottest fire that ever burned is in Obrus’ belly, but this air is cold and damp.”
“Noxi says a lot of things, Cara. Though he may have the right of it in this. Ser Gammon spoke of the mass forges in the lowest parts of Thrond. I imagine there is a dreadfully hot blaze somewhere down there, but we’re not like to see it.”
“That’s well enough for me. I’m content to stay in our quarters where it’s safe. I prefer to breath air that is not on fire.”
Hale went strangely quiet then. Cara assumed he was taking in the sights of the mountain, but she noticed after a moment he was looking straight ahead, and a wave of melancholy had splashed over him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it must have been difficult for you, the coup I mean. We were all terrified for your safety. I waited on the wall day and night to watch for riders or birds. Mother and Auntie did as well, and the little ones from time to time.”
“And Father?”
Cara pondered over her next words. “He worked tirelessly to secure communications, and sent letters to our allies requesting aid should he need to mount a rescue.”
Hale nodded. “I was never in danger. When Derrion and the Vanguard stormed the keep he made it clear to his men that I was not to be harmed. Ser Gammon escorted me to a cell himself, for my protection, and released me once the fighting was done.”
“What kind of man is Ser Gammon? You speak of him often, and fondly.”
“The Hay Knight? He is everything a knight should be. He is loyal to a fault, bold and masterful to those under his command, and gentle to those under his protection.”
“And is he truly the greatest warrior of our age?”
“No.”
Hale’s reply surprised her. “Then who is?”
“I’ll tell you another time. Cara, don’t ask me how, not now, but Ser Gammon knew of the coup in advance, and tried to warn me. He took part, willingly.”
Cara felt a wave of shock, then took her brother’s arm and hugged it reassuringly. “Do you think less of him now?”
“My heart tells me I should, but my mind is undecided. He was knighted by Verrold, and swore his service to the realm, but Marcas was an absolute ninnyhammer, Cara. Every time an orcan retribution raid was reported, he would scream for the tribes to be slaughtered. Let’s be rid of these beasts already, he would say. Derrion would calmly state that the raids would stop when their peasants stopped accosting their hunting parties. He said the solution was to bring the tribes within the walls so their peoples could learn each other's ways. But Marcas rejected Derrion’s wisdom outright, and kept crying for the orcs to be exterminated like vermin. As if that was even possible! They’re huge, Cara, some of them monstrously so.”
Hale was silent for a moment, then he sighed deeply and spoke some more. “Cara, do not repeat my next words to anyone. Anyone.”
“I won’t, I swear.”
“Derrion saved Eruhal when he murdered Marcas. He did what had to be done, and he prevented a war that would have swallowed the whole world. I can’t decide what to think, or how to feel. Could you imagine if Istan murdered me for the same reason? If I lost my wits after Father was gone, and Istan had to put me to the sword to save High Alden, how would you feel?”
“I forget about the Princess. No one ever mentions poor Joanivere.”
“And she stands by Derrion. It’s tearing me apart, Cara. The rightful King was murdered by his own blood, and a good man became a traitor. Yet the whole kingdom bent the knee and life there goes on, while a rebel kinslayer sits the throne.”
“And their people have peace as a result. It’s a hard life we’re born into. I don’t envy you your station, brother, but know you will have my full support as long as we both live, no matter what may come our way."
“And what if Father marries you off to some cruel lord or king who later turns against us? What then, Cara? You see this place. It’s unassailable. We’re at their mercy here. Aunt Idana may as well be their hostage. And those soldiers on the walls outside, they weren’t there to protect us, they stand watch to protect themselves. They aren’t even human.”
“They are men and women, Hale, as are we. The six kins are one of heart, as different as we may appear. I’ve met Balvor and he is a sweet and gentle soul. If nothing else, he will keep our Auntie safe. He does love her so.”
“He may love her more than is good.”
“And what could you possibly mean by that?”
“Nothing, I spoke out of turn. Forget what I said.”
“It’s alright. You’re burdened by heavy thoughts and are understandably distressed. Let’s just enjoy the day, shall we? We’re in Thrond, Hale! The mightiest kingdom known, and our Auntie is marrying their Prince! For once Father’s schemes may have paid off.”
Hale smirked, then laughed.
That’s better, Cara thought. But what did he mean about Balvor loving Auntie more than is good? He knows something he’s not telling me. Cara felt a growing sense of unease as they approached the end of the bridge. She wished she could forget what Hale had said.
The bridge went all the way to the inner gate without any landing for the group to gather on. Cara and Hale stood silently behind their aunt and Dennel while they waited to be let in. Try as she did, Cara could not keep her thoughts free of worry. It was true that all castles were fortresses first, and homes second. The Tall Hill was no exception. It had a mote filled with carnivorous fish, a gatehouse with murder holes, and their walls bristled with artillery and hinged pots for dipping scalding hot oil on attackers. Nothing could prepare her for the scale of this place, though. She really did feel that she had stepped into the mouth of a dragon. Instead of Balvor’s childish laughter or constant smiles, she thought of the terrible strength with which he idly lifted the oxcart. They are men and women like us, she thought, and surely they aren’t all oafish and kind as Balvor. Cara was afraid to think there might be dwarves as strong as Balvor with cruel hearts.
To put herself at ease, she thought of the people in her own realm who kept her safe. Ser Walsh, while sycophantic, was a strong man and a competent soldier. And there was Dennel with his twenty-three red stars on his shield, each one representing a battle won. Cara knew enough of combat to know each of those stars meant the death of many foes by Dennel’s hand. And there was Noxi, who had first been blooded at the age of eight. Cara wondered how he could keep his ears up with all the studs and chains they had been pierced with since.
She heard another rumble, like the one Malgond made but much quieter. The doors before them opened, and two by two they stepped through.
Through the dragon’s mouth, Cara thought, and into its belly.