“You look absolutely stunning, Auntie!” Cara meant it. She would always tell her Aunt she looked stunning, or lovely, or gorgeous, even when she did not, but just now, in Cara’s eyes Idana was an absolute vision.

Queen Halfi and Princess Klar had spent hours weaving such delicate and subtle braids in her hair. “Only Balvor will see them,” Halfi told Idana, “and he’ll have to look for them.”

They were his favorite braids, Halfi said. Klar helped Cara with her hair as well.

“Ror won’t notice,” the dwarf maid had said, “but everyone else will.”

Cara blushed. She had been confused over her feelings toward the handsome dwarf prince, ever since learning he’d killed her own kin in battle. She’d thought back again to her brother’s cautioning words, and remembered the story her father had told of the human King who challenged the sons of Obrus, and how brutally the dwarves responded. It was Dennel, of all people, whom she confided her feelings in.

“You’ve seen my shield,” he said.

“Twenty-three red stars,” she replied.

“And each one a battle. I’ve laid over half a hundred souls to rest in my bloody life, Princess Cara, and all but a dozen were our own kin. And I dare say more than half of Noxi’s ear decorum involved our folk as well. He fought his way out of a dungeon in the Shadow Moors and all the way to the Green Teeth. I’ll wager he slew a hundred of us at least on that journey.”

“I understand,” Cara lied.

“War’s war, Your Highness. We kill our foes, whoever they be. As to Prince Ror being so at peace with himself over all his killing, well, my guess is that he’s accepted that living takes killing, the same as drowning takes breathing.”

Cara did not fully understand the creed Dennel was speaking of, the “Soldier’s Truth” as it had been called.

“You seem rather distracted, Cara,” Klar said as she wove Cara’s scarlet hair into a wide cascading braid. Keelie had made a point to walk passed them several times, clearly indignant that a foreigner was tending to her Princess’s hair.

“Oh,” Cara said, searching for a lie to avoid speaking of Ror to his half-sister, “one of our knights told me something that I’ve been musing on. That’s all.”

“Do share,” Klar said. “I know very little of western topside customs. Your system of knighthood intrigues me. In Thrond, as in Heth and Nirmo, men who fight are simply men who fight. I find the idea of a sacred order of warriors fascinating.”

“Well, knights are men who as a rule study more than just war. They learn to read and write, they learn to dance, and they study both the histories and the Book of Tides. And their skill at arms comes from the Shield Oath Code, the highest authority on martial learning in the realms of our kin. They swear sacred vows of honorable conduct, and are of noble birth. Only a king, or landed knight can welcome one into the order.”

“I see. And what of your Master at Arms, Ser Dennel? And Ser Gammon of Eruhal? Weren’t they baseborn, as you call it?”

“Yes, but a King can raise a lowborn man to the noble class, as my father and King Verrold raised Dennel and Ser Gammon.”

“And do most knights, in your esteem, hold to their vows of honorable conduct?”

“Well, most I know do. But I must admit that I only know the knights of High Alden. Most of them are kind and virtuous men. I’ve met a few that seemed rather vulgar. But it’s only to be expected, I suppose. Every casque has its dregs. I think that in not sworn to their oaths, those knights may be worse off, and so the order has saved them from their vulgar nature.”

“It’s good to give our warriors a standard to live up to. We keep the warriors of our standing army in a separate city. They travel amongst the other cities, of course, but they live day by day in their own.”

“Really? It must be a fierce place. Have you ever been?”

“Only with an escort. Mind you, these aren’t our guards, or green recruits. These are blooded soldiers, who live for combat. They hold guard posts and run patrols in and out of the mountain, but they eat food from their own stores, do commerce in their own markets, and sleep and train away from the rest of Thrond. They even have their own physicians. I can’t imagine them swearing any oaths of conduct, being driven so hard to be dangerous men by the very ones who would be asking them to swear to gentle behaviour.”

“It is a tall order. Are you familiar with the origins of knighthood?”

“I’ve read from the histories when I was tutored as a girl. Our records of other kins are very bland, though.”

“Funny how that happens. It’s the same for us. Our records of Narvi are no more than a collections of dates and facts, while our accounts of Alden Gace are full of legends and tales of wonder.”

“So who was the first knight? Was it Alden Gace? Or Istan Arcadia?”

“No. He was a northman, a March Lord from the Shield Lands named Morris the Merry. He travelled south when he grew weary of the violent ways of the marches, and was given land when he saved a Provosian lord’s son from highwaymen. He won his true acclaim when he was invited to the tourney where Istan Arcadia won the favor of Princess Melian, and the war between Provosa and Arcadia ended with a wedding instead of a battle. He won both the melee and the tilt and recruited the first knights into the order then, and began spreading the teaching that the power of a warrior was for nought if he had not restrained. King Istan himself backed him, and held a tourney where only fighting according to a very high code of honor would win the victory purse. King Istan then knighted all the victors and the order began in earnest. Ser Morris the Merry was so joyful that he was renamed Ser Morris the Merrier.”

“Far more interesting than our dates and facts. Now tell me, what is it you’ve been musing on?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s what our knights call the Soldier's Truth.”

“Your knights? Cara, the Soldier's Truth is as old Obrus, and known throughout all of Konistra. Even pirates from Miur know of it. We do call it by a different name, but we know it as well as any knights.”

“My apologies, Princess Klar. I didn’t mean to… that is, I meant no offense. I’ve scarcely travelled, and know little of the world. May I ask, what are your thoughts on it?”

“Well, we call it the Sword's Logic, which I suppose casts it in a different light. The difference being a way of thinking rather than a hard fast truth. But… To live is to kill, to drown is to breathe, to rise is to fall... I’d say the Soldier's Truth is a good enough name. And I’d say it’s the simplest truth there is. If one has not fallen, one cannot rise. One would simply be standing, going nowhere. And if one were able to refrain from breathing forever while underwater, then they would live forever with their cheeks puffed, hoarding their life’s breath for themselves. As for killing being a part of living, I recall a time when Halfur had convinced my sister’s little pet, Audun, that eating rocks would make him as strong as the other boys. Audun is a clever sort of strange, and he used a smithing hammer to pound small rocks into dust, and ate them that way. He grew faint after eating only dust for a week. We must consume life to live, and so killing is our nature, and our doom.”

“I can’t imagine what it would be like to kill someone. I know our soldiers do it, but…”

Klar was silent, and her hands slowed.

“I’m sorry,” Cara said, "have I offended you?”

“It’s fine, Cara. I just… thought of something, that’s all.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Have you… killed anyone?”

I’m so stupid, Cara thought. Why did I ask such a stupid question. She’s going to think I assume all dwarves are warriors, or something even more mindless.

“Not directly,” Klar answered quietly, and at length.

“I’m sorry…”

“You say ‘I’m sorry’ more than your father says ‘you have my word’. There, your braid’s done. And it looks lovely, if I may say so. You wear our fashions well.”

“Do I?! I mean, besides braids? I wish I could swing a sword, and carry a heavy pack on a journey, and climb into dark mines.”

Klar laughed heartily. “Have you grown so fond of mountain living already?"

“No, I... oh it’s no use. I am hopelessly besotted with Ror, and I crave his esteem. It may just be a fleeting fancy, though, so please don’t tell him.”

“I won’t. But it would make no difference if I did, mind you. Ror assumes everyone he meets is smitten with him. Do you plan to dance?”

“I adore dancing. He said he does as well.”

“He’s quite good. I’ve been forced to dance with him on occasion, and I have to confess he knows his steps. That’s the trouble with that boy, he’s good at everything he does and he knows it. You’ve caught his eye, but if you want his esteem then you’ll have to best him at something.”

“Oh, but, I mean, what could I do better than him?”

“You can mount a horse, for a start.”

Laughter sputtered from Cara’s lips before she could stop it, and Klar laughed with her.

As the wedding was to be a blend of dwarf and human custom, Balvor was not allowed to see Idana before the ceremony. They covered her in a veil and she was surrounded by her wedsister, nieces, and an army of handmaids. When they entered the Great Hall, a dwarven flute player filled the room with a somber and majestic air. All the guests turned in their benches to watch the bridal procession.

As they walked past the crowd, Car’s eyes were drawn to the circular dais in the far end of the Great Hall. Its outer edge was made of violet marble, and the inner ring was polished obsidian. Upon it sat Grar’s throne, set atop a six sided pyramid of red fire jade some twenty feet high, with a flight of stairs made of gleaming silver. The seat itself was made of blue crystal so clear that even from a distance Cara could see through it to the other side. Lances of white light pierced the throne’s gemstone armor from bright crystals set within the ceiling, then danced off each other and reflected outward, casting a star-like reflection of cyan light on the dais beneath.

Behind the throne a tent had been erected where Balvor and Idana would swear their oaths, as dwarven custom forbid any from seeing them, it being a union of the betrothed and them alone. To satisfy the needs of High Alden’s court, Grar and her father would be standing near the entrance to the tent to confirm that the oaths were spoken.

Cara scanned the line of people standing in front of the dais. Hale, her father, Dennel and Ser Walsh were in their finest attire, as were the royal dwarves. Ror wore a black doublet with silver breeches and a cape of deep indigo, and Halfur wore robes of deep crimson and grey. On Ror’s and Halfur’s heads both were iron crowns set with green gems, and Yemi and Klar each wore circlets made of jade, Yemi’s yellow and Klar’s white. Klar wore one of her mother’s dresses, a soft lilac gown with traces of silver thread woven down her sleeves and waist. Yemi wore a vivid green and gold brocade and as always, every strand of her hair was woven into one of a thousand braids. Cara thought with amusement that the braids on the sides of her head looked almost curled like horns.

Idana clutched at Cara and her mother’s hands when they brought her to the dais. She heard her mother offer her reassuring words, and then all but her aunt, Balvor, and the two kings were seated in the first row of benches. Cara was momentarily taken aback by the old men on the dais. She’d seen her father in royal finery many a time, and Grar never looked less than imposing and strong. Still, she was impressed by the sight of the two Kings standing together.

Her father was clad in white enameled platemail of outstanding fit and design. The autumn triske, High Alden’s crest, was embossed into his cuirass, rondels, faulds, and even his gauntlets. A silver filigree was painted onto each vambrace and greave in the likeness of the of each of the Tall Hill’s four towers, with the Pillar of Autumn on his sword arm. About his shoulders was a long cape of what seemed at first glance to be silver cloth. Cara peered closely and saw that the cape was in fact made of thin and finely woven metal rings. A gift from Grar? she mused.

Grar wore a lamellar vest of alternating red and gold plates. About his waist was a wide belt of crimson dyed leather, and from under the belt hung a skirt of patinated scales. A fur cape was draped over his massive shoulders, and his greaves and bracers were forged to look like bears grasping his limbs. His hulking upper arms were bare, save for scars won in countless battles.

Each king wore their crown. Her father’s was thin and light compared to the helm-like circle of red steel bear fangs Grar wore, but the beauty and dignity of its interwoven bands of white gold was not diminished. Grar's crown looked more of a collar to what Cara was used to. She thought on something her aunt told her when she was first betrothed to Balvor, that a dwarven crown symbolized the weight of responsibility their monarchs bore, and was shaped to remind them that they were bound to their realm.

Balvor too was clad in fine garb. He wore a green cape and green surcoat over a hauberk of saffron colored steel rings. His boots were of fine leather, and he wore a circlet of gold forged to look like small stag antlers. Her aunt wore a gown of pure white, as she was still a maiden, and as Balvor lifted her veil, her specially made necklace glittered like the morning star in the light gleaming down from the crystals.

Cara chanced a look up and almost gasped. The ceiling was far above her, so far that the crystals looked as small and distant as stars in a cloudy night sky. How do they make their halls so large? They’re going to run out of mountain before long.

The flute stopped, and a drum beat softly as Balvor and Idana rose the steps to the dais. Boom, rata doom doom boom, rata doom, boom, rata doom doom boom, rata doom. Her father bowed to Balvor and gave him a pearl bracelet banded with silver. Grar took Idana’s hand and kissed it, then put a bracelet of black opals on her wrist. The two swore fealty each to their new king, and then entered the tent.

Cara could not hear the oaths as the tent was too far away, but she said them to herself in her heart.

Till the last dawn breaks, and the tides run dry, I will be yours and you will be mine.

Should the garden cease to grow, and the world be loosed from the sun, we will still be two and yet one.

Let the stars give way to the night, don’t fight the dying of the light, and bid the summers to turn cold, and let all that was young grow old.

For past the turning of the wheel, there is a place for what we feel, a forest that is evergreen, a road with no end to be seen.

Into this wave dive you and I, without a care for where or why, it is enough for us to be, bound heart to heart eternally.

Should the fountain cease to spout, and the stars vanish from the dome, we will still be free to roam.

Till the last dawn breaks, and the tides run dry, I will be yours and you will be mine.

A few moments went by after Cara had finished the words. She could hear the little ones whispering to each other and snickering, and someone a ways off coughed. Balvor emerged from the tent grinning ear to ear, and her aunt came right after smiling more calmly, with tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. She bowed graciously to the crowd before her, and Balvor then lifted her up easily as a scribe lifts a quill. All stood and hands were put together in thunderous applause. Salimod and Grar then clasped arms and embraced each other.

Cara felt her heart pounding as Balvor carried her aunt down the steps of the dais. Her mind raced through the memories of the past several weeks. The Horned Black Gate and the smears of blood that no one else had seen, the hundred foot tall statues of owls made of silver and the black steel bears treading upon other creatures. She saw the plumes of burning air in the land of shadow and heavenly fire far below the skin of the world, and the impossibly large braziers glowing like eyes in the fathomless heights. She saw the soldiers in blood red armor with their faces hidden and their weapons drawn, and heard again the deafening roar of the World Dragon as Malgond parted before her. She saw the Grand Bazaar and the thousands of dwarves bustling about its countless stairs, stepping carefully as shadow-skinned drow boys darted among them. The dancing stars were there as well, circling each other in blissful ignorance of the dark circle spreading above them, and she felt once again the perfect safety of that calm place. It all came crashing together in her mind and heart as she stared into the glowing depths of Grar’s crystalline throne.

She saw Dennel holding his shield with its twenty-three splashes of blood, and Noxi with the bones of countless dead foes pierced into his ears. Both of them were bound by chains held by Lobuhl, whose face had grown dark with the moon shining from behind him. All the while Yemi, Istan and Gislain pointed at them and whispered and laughed. She saw the King of Graves and the Red Eyed Goat bearing down on Hale and Ser Gammon, their giant warbows notched with spears instead of arrows. Then the ground opened beneath the orcs and they were pulled under, and Ror and Halfur rose from the pit, Ror riding a ram made of black smoke with six white stone horns, and Halfur astride a wolf made of fire with glowing green eyes and teeth of ice. She saw Ichar resting upon her father’s arm. The falcon spread her wings and beat the air with mighty strokes, but the instant she leaped into the air to claim her windy throne, she was brought to the ground by the foot of a steel bear the size of a castle tower.

As below, so above. She couldn’t tell if she’d thought those words, or heard them being whispered in her mind. But they rang true. The vows her Aunt and Balvor had spoken to each other were also true for their two kingdoms. The winds that swept gentle sheets of rain over their green hills now crackled with purple lightning, and the Pillar of Autumn was shrunken and frail, cowering like a frightened child in the shadow of blood stained Malgond. As above, so below. The mist covered grass of Cavanal Hill was now wedded to the towering and stony hide of the beast called Obrus.

End Act 1