Dweorgaheim (Kaunovalta, Book II)

By D. Alexander Neill

Secure in the company of her new companions, Ally is drawn into the majesty and mysteries of the ancient realm of the dwarves. From the fires and forges of the foundry towns to the incomparable wonders of Ædeldelf, greatest of the cities of the Deeprealm, she follows her destiny, seeking ever to return the ancient treasure that she has been accused of stealing to its rightful owners. Aided by Frideswide, a priestess of Khallach the Stoneteacher; her husband Wynstan, one-time warrior and veteran of the Iron Guard; and Uchtred, an engineer and master metal-worker, Ally delves ever deeper into the ancient underground fastness of Dweorgaheim – and learns to her dismay that regardless of whether they are buried deep in the earth, or deep in her own past, some secrets are best left undisturbed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Alexander Neill
• Release date: Jul 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988142121

D. Alexander Neill

D. Alexander Neill is the nom-de-plume of Donald A. Neill. A retired Army officer and strategic analyst, Don is a graduate of the Royal Military College of Canada (D.E.C. 1986 and BA 1989), the Norman Paterson School of International Affairs (MA 1991), and the University of Kent at Canterbury (Ph.D. 2006). He began writing fiction as a creative outlet in Grade 6, managing to overcome devastating reviews of his first novel, which he wrote in 2H pencil in seven taped-together college-ruled notebooks. He initially chose the fantasy genre because he was sucked into it at the age of 11 by the irresistible double sucker-punch of The Hobbit and Star Wars, never managed to escape, and eventually gave up trying. He intends to branch out into other fictional fields of endeavour, but will always return to Anuru, where – Allfather willing – there will always be at least one more story waiting to be told. Don has been married for 20 years to a Valkyrie, and has two children, both of whom resemble her in temperament and, fortunately, looks.

Book preview

The Chronicles of Anuru

Kaunovalta, Book II

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DWEORGAHEIM

♦

by D. Alexander Neill

3rd Edition

© Copyright D. Alexander Neill, 2012

ISBN 978-0-9881421-2-1 (Smashwords Edition)

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

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Table of Contents

The Story Thus Far...

Map of Ally’s Journey

Chapter 6: Pleasure-of-Dwarves

Chapter 7: Elder Delvin

Chapter 8: The Deepdark

Chapter 9: Thrymsheen

Chapter 10: Maulmark

Chapter 11: The Barrow of Bowrnleoch

Appendix 1: Songs and Poems

Appendix 2: Dramatis Personae

Other books by D. Alexander Neill

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The story thus far...

Our tale begins with the beginnings of the world itself – how the Powers of Light and Darkness came into being and, from the chaos of the Void, created the Universe, forging the walls of Evertime to differentiate the Made from the Unmade. We learned of the Sacrifice of Miros, an event lost in the depths of time, when an elf-woman of the ancient world made a pact with a dragon, acquiring from him knowledge of the Art Magic, and setting into motion a chain of events that echo down through history, even to the present.

Our story takes place some six thousand years after Miros lived and died. Allymynorkarel Aiyellohax – ‘Ally’ to her friends, and ‘Hax’ to everyone else – is a high-born elf-maid of the Third House, the so called ‘High Elves’, the younger daughter of Duke Kaltas of Eldisle; a skilled swordswoman and unwilling sorceress who has difficulty controlling her inborn powers, and who we meet just as she is arriving in the elven capital of Starmeadow. Ally is a child of the Duodeci, the ‘divine Twelve’ – the noblest families of the elves, descended in lineage direct from the ancient High King, Tior. Tior, who flourished thousands of years in the past, was himself the grandson of Bræa, the Holy Mother, foremost among the Powers of Light – a goddess who came to earth and took a mortal mate. As it happens, some aspects of Ally’s ancestry are even older.

While delivering a message from her father to her uncle, the Crown Prince, Ally falls into an unfortunate argument with her aunt, the Prince’s lifemate, nearly killing the woman with a forbidden spell, one that she was not even aware she knew. Running from the confrontation, Ally stumbles into a fight in the palace grounds. Although she kills a number of the thieves, she is subsequently mistaken for one of them; and, unable to explain her actions and unwilling to face what is likely to be skewed justice, decides to flee the city, taking with her an object dropped by the interlopers – a simple chalice of silver and polished stone.

Escaping royal justice is not easy, even for a seasoned warrior; the Queen has all of the resources of the throne at her fingertips, including the College of Stars, whose diviners could find Ally in a matter of moments, and dispatch soldiers (or assassins) by magical means to recover what she has stolen. She keeps moving, by sea and by land, until she finds herself in the hinterlands of a far-distant kingdom of men. She loses her horse to roaming creatures of the night, and while tracking them down, comes upon a diverse party of mercenaries. She joins them for purposes of transportation and learns that they are members of a secret order that supposedly serves dragons. Three of their number are particularly interesting: Qaramyn Lux, a mage of the book of human descent, is friendly enough, but is entirely focussed on increasing his own power; Joraz Tyrellianus, a warrior who seeks peace and fights without weapons, is placid and an easy listener; and Breygon of Æryn, a woodsman of great skill but short temper, who has little time for her naive impressions of life beyond the borders of the elven homelands. His mixed parentage – his mother, she learns, was an exiled elf, and his father a human – makes him a mongrel in the eyes of her people. Despite that fact – or perhaps because if it – Ally finds him oddly compelling.

Fearing pursuit and unable to comprehend why she has not yet been apprehended, Ally leaves her new companions behind and carries on to the north. On Qaramyn’s advice, she makes for the Deeprealm – Dweorgaheim, the ancient kingdom of the dwarves – because for centuries that subterranean world of wonders has been warded against arcane travel. In the course of her journey she meets a trio of dwarves returning to their homeland – Frideswide, a priestess of Khallach the Stoneteacher; Wynstan, her husband, a retired warrior of the Iron Fury, the guardians of the dwarves’ holy places of the ; and Uchtred, an engineer, inventor, and business partner of the first two. When her new friends discover her destination, they invite Ally to join them, and she does so – a magnanimous gesture, as all three dwarves are old enough to remember the attack on the Deeprealm sixty years ago by the Spellweaver. The sorcerer-king of the dark elves, a master of the arts of undeath, killed thousands of dwarves and wrecked the royal city of Thrymsheen before being beaten in personal combat by a company of adventurers that included the legendary warrior Farulf Ironfist; an elven mage called Ven Porwenna; and Darhaxin Deephammer, now the Arch-Priest of the Deeprealm. Frideswide, Wynstan and Uchtred all recall those dark days, and the heroes that delivered Dweorgaheim from the grip of the invader.

When they enter the Deeprealm at the city of Eastgate, Ally begins to realize that all of her preconceptions about the dwarves and their kingdom have been grossly mistaken. The elves tend to dismiss their stubby cousins as little more than miners, blacksmiths and tinkers, but Ally’s new friends show her a vast world of wonder and magnificence beneath the mountains: long, die-straight highways, enormous underground cities, and civic works of staggering magnitude. Ally cannot help but begin to question some of the other things she thought she knew.

After this staggering introduction to the world beneath the mountains, Ally, accompanied by her new friends, travels from Eastgate to Stonewisdom. While en route, she realizes that the goblet she acquired by chance during the abortive burglary at the palace in Starmeadow is in fact one of the ‘Jewels’ of the royal treasury: the Stone Chalice, a holy artefact crafted by the dwarf-god Lagu, one of the Powers of Light, to celebrate his sister Bræa’s marriage more than five thousand years earlier. The ‘Digger’s Cup’ (as it is called, somewhat derisively, by the elves) has been a point of contention between elf and dwarf for all that time – and Ally has unwittingly brought it back to the Deeprealm. Unsure of what to do, but certain in her trust for her newfound friends, she reveals the Cup to Frida, and tells the priestess that she wants to give it back to her masters, the Dwarven clergy – not only to throw any potential pursuers off her trail, but also in gratitude for the kindness they have shown her. Frida, overcome by the generosity of Ally’s offer, suggests that they continue to Thrymsheen, the royal city of the Deeprealm, and consult with Elder Brightly, the King’s closest advisor. Brightly, Frida believes, should be able to gain an audience for Ally with Darhaxin Deephammer, the High Priest of Lagu and Arch-Priest of the Deeprealm, in the holy city of Underdarrow, just beyond Thrymsheen. This could be a challenge as, according to rumour, the great gate of Underdarrow has been shut (ostensibly by Deephammer himself) and no one, not the Spellweaver or even the god Lagu himself, has ever able to open the Underdarrow Gate uninvited.

At Stonewisdom, Ally and her friends stay with another business partner – Bedwulf, an artisan, and his wife Eanfled, formerly one of the ‘stonewives’, a sect of dwarf-maidens dedicated to the worship of Khallach. Ally spends a great deal of time coming to grips not only with the nature of life in the Deeprealm, but also with the sophistication of the dwarves and their hospitality and overt friendliness – all of which are a far cry from the politics, petty intrigue and easy virtue of the High Court of the elves. In examining her friends and the things that they believe, she is forced to examine her own beliefs and actions – and doesn’t always like what she finds.

Ally’s inner turmoil seems destined only to worsen as she and her companions head deeper into the ancient realm of the dwarves, heading for Dwéorgámen – the foundry city known to the rest of the world as Pleasure-of-Dwarves – and the even greater majesties and mysteries of Dweorgaheim that lie beyond.

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Chapter 6: Pleasure-of-Dwarves

According to the schedule posted over the dining table, the voyage from Carrlár to Dwéorgámen was supposed to take twenty-two hours. After her first ten minutes aboard the ‘Wanderer-on-the-Waves’ – Hax tried, over and over, to pronounce Ythwórigende correctly, but without success – she wished it had been a week.

The luxury suite occupied the entire coach, which, unlike its fellows, was outfitted not only with carpets, exquisite wall-hangings, gleaming chandeliers and furniture that verged on the artistic, but also boasted a variety of clever devices designed to damp sound and motion. She had noticed the characteristic jerking when the caravan got under way; but once it was up to speed, she was almost unable to tell that they were inside a moving vehicle. The rush of water was all but imperceptible, and the intermittent shuddering that she had noticed during the voyage from Midpoint to Stonewisdom had entirely disappeared.

She made the mistake of asking Uchtred to explain how the jolting, rocking movement of the coach was counteracted. After five minutes of perplexing technical and entirely one-sided discussion, her eyes had glazed over. The engineer had patted her sympathetically on the knee, informing her that he could recommend a good artisan who could teach her the underlying principles in a few years. Five at most.

Hax made a mental note to avoid discussing mechanical matters with Uchtred unless absolutely necessary.

In addition to the spacious and well-appointed dining and sitting room, the coach contained two double and two single bed chambers, each of which was at least three times the size of the cabin she had shared with Frida on the journey from Midpoint Station, and each with its own water closet. The ‘Wanderer’ also held an office, of sorts; a small library; and another water closet, complete with bathing tub featuring, she was not at all surprised to see, both cold and hot running water. She would have loved to ask Uchtred how hot water was furnished on a moving coach, but feared opening that door again.

There was also a small cabin containing two bunks and its own tiny facilities. This was the living space for Hilda and Egric, the two stewards whose task it was to see to the needs of the coach’s occupants. Their services included mending and laundering clothes, cooking and serving meals, providing hair and beard styling and massage, and sundry other tasks. The duo were pleasant enough, but entirely unobtrusive; their uniforms, though garish to Hax’s eyes, seemed almost intended to blend into the décor, to the point that she nearly walked past one of them, thinking he (or she – Hax wasn’t sure whether it had been Egric or Hilda) was a bookshelf or a lamp.

Despite the lack of space, the coach did not seem crowded. Hax was grateful for the extra room. She suspected that Frida’s decision to engage the luxurious and no doubt horribly costly means of travel had something to do with Hax’s reaction to the guest quarters at Bedwulf’s dwelling; but there was no way for her to inquire politely. Frida might not have told her the truth, anyway. So she simply enjoyed it. She and Uchtred each took one of the single rooms, leaving the doubles for the two married couples. Wynstan made no mention of the arrangements, but after dinner Frida had given Hax a knowing wink, and had warned the elf-girl not to expect to see her again before breakfast.

While Hax was happy to see her friend able to enjoy some private time with her mate, this left her with nothing to do. Neither Bedwulf nor Eanfled had any great facility with the travelling tongue, and none at all in Elvish; and Uchtred spent most of the evening with his toolkit open, filing the various nooks and crannies of his new pump body to his satisfaction.

As a result, Hax found herself with time on her hands. Checking her kit took only a few minutes; her bowstring was new, her sword unused since the fight at the abandoned farm, and her meagre possessions had been cleaned and repaired by attentive dwarven artisans many times over. She had slept well the night before, and did not feel tired. Having bathed that morning at Bedwulf’s home, she was not in any rush to make a trial of the Wanderer’s facilities. As a result, before long, she was bored.

After fidgeting restlessly in her room for several minutes, she sought out the library, and spent some time flipping idly through its impressive collection of books and scrolls.

Engrossed in her activity, Hax actually jumped when someone spoke behind her. Can I help you find something, miss?

She turned. It was Egric, the steward; he had slipped up noiselessly behind her, footsteps muffled by the carpet. He wore the air of someone who had waited politely for a few moments before intruding. I’m sorry to have startled you, he added.

No matter, she replied, forcing a smile, while pondering the incongruity of a dwarf sneaking up on an elf. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; just something to read.

If you don’t speak our tongue, I’m afraid there’s not much, the steward replied apologetically. He knelt and began rummaging through one corner of the shelf. "There are a few oddments down here. Here’s The Tale of the Rose, in the Ekhani dialect. No doubt you’ve read it."

I have, Hax replied, rolling her eyes. Years ago. The cloying sentimentality of Ekhan’s famous stories of chivalry had alternately bored and nauseated her.

Her tone did not go unnoticed; Egric chuckled deferentially. "Yes, it’s not one of my favourites either. How about A History of the Knightly Orders? Or Grebakken’s Conifers of Western Erutrei. He pursed his lips. That one sounds like a real page-turner," he sniffed.

Hax chuckled.

Or this, perhaps? He retrieved another volume, held it out to her. "A translation of The Evensongs of Hargóin? In your tongue, miss, of all remarkable things."

I’ve read that one too, Hax replied morosely. My father… she broke off. She had been about to say, My father knew him. But that would not have been wise. Hargóin, after all, was a legend in the Deeprealm; the Master Chanter of Dweorga, and the last living hero of the defeat of the Spellweaver. She did not wish to draw that much attention to herself.

Yes, miss?

She had to say something. My father…he, ah, had a copy made, when it first appeared.

Egric nodded, returning the volume to the shelf and continuing his search. "Here’s another one. Poison, Petrifaction and Paralysis: An Annotated Field Guide to the Flora and Fauna of the Deepdark. Gulvern of Lorkae. That’s the Ekhani chap, he added, pursing his lips in disapproval, who wed one of the Dtheostornor."

Sorry, she said. What’s that? Theo…

"Dtheostornor, the steward repeated. An elf of the shadows. Gulvern spent a long time underground, and ended up marrying one of them. He sniffed again. No accounting for taste."

No indeed, Hax murmured, shivering. Her folk had no love for the treacherous, white-haired scions of the Fourth House.

The dwarf extracted the thick tome and held it up to the light. At least it’s illustrated, he muttered.

Hax shrugged. That’ll do, she replied. Where I’m going, it’ll probably be more useful than a treatise on knightly orders. Or one on trees.

Indubitably, Egric agreed. He stood, and brushed the knees of his trousers lightly. Will there be anything else, miss?

Hax hefted the book. "A glass of jordwin, maybe?" she asked hopefully.

Right away, miss.

Once Egric had left, Hax settled into a comfortable chair. A glowing wall-stone threw more than enough light to read by, and she opened the book to the index.

By the time the steward returned with her glass, she was asleep.

♦

Hax snapped awake, disoriented, twisting her head around frantically. What – ?

The coach was shuddering, shaking. A thin, persistent whine came through the metal walls, echoing like a file scraping over stone in some vast, empty cavern.

Hax felt her heart leap into her throat. Lights! she shouted.

The crystal globes set into the walls flared softly, and her bedroom returned to its true, claustrophobic dimensions. She glanced around and saw that her initial impression had been correct; the walls, the floors were all quivering slightly. Gulvern’s treatise, which she had been reading before falling asleep, slid off of her night-table, and fell to the carpet with a dull thud.

Hax leapt out of bed and squirmed into her smallclothes, then tugged on a bathing gown, knotting the belt about her waist. The vibrations numbed her feet and made her knees shake.

She was about to storm out into the common compartment, but paused for an instant, one hand on the door, straining her ears. A gentle murmur came to her through the metal walls.

Water. Running water.

We’re breached, her mind shrieked. She tugged the door open and shot out of her chamber like a cork from a bottle…

…and thudded into Egric.

The dwarf, like all of his fellows, was as solid as he looked. Hax caromed off his broad chest and would have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t overcome his surprise in time to catch her. All right, miss? he asked, looking surprised.

Are we sinking? she asked frantically.

‘Sinking’? he repeated, a bemused look on his face. We weren’t sailing.

Hax suddenly realized how ridiculous her question was. Despite her racing heart, she forced herself to calm down. I’m sorry, she quavered after a moment. I’m just a little…it’s this…you see… she stammered.

I understand, miss, he said soothingly. There’s nothing to worry about. Can I get you a drink?

Hax stared at the fellow for a moment, then burst into laughter. That really is your people’s remedy for everything, isn’t it? she asked, half-seriously.

It works, most of the time, Egric agreed. Wine?

Hax thought about that, then shook her head. Not right now. I’d rather know what’s going on.

Coach ahead of us threw a wheelbelt, the steward said, shrugging. Had to stop. The engineer’s repairing it right now, so with any luck, we’ll be under way again in an hour or so. He tilted his head slightly, then added, "It’s hard to tell from in here, but the watergates have all been opened. To relieve the pressure while the repair team works.

If you hold a glass to the bulkhead, he suggested lightly, or the floor, you’ll be able to hear the water venting beneath us.

Hax could hear it perfectly well from where she was; it sounded like distant thunder. The vibration of the roaring flood tickled her feet.

You’re sure? she asked nervously.

I am, Egric answered. "I trained as an apprentice engineer before becoming a steward, and received my own letters of merit at the Isenlud, nigh on fifty years ago. He shrugged. I could probably tweak the wheelbelt myself, if I had to. It’s tedious, but it’s not a difficult task. The things are designed to be replaced while under way."

So we’re not in any danger? she asked, somewhat relieved.

Egric shook his head. Safe as houses, miss. As I said, we’ll be running again in no time. He raised an eyebrow. How about that drink?

She smiled wanly, waving him away. I’ll just go back to bed. Thanks for the explanation. And for catching me. You can’t have had too many elves run into you in the middle of the night.

You’re such a lightweight, I scarcely noticed, miss, he replied politely, bowing. Sleep you well.

Hax returned to her bed chamber and secured the door. Dwarves, she thought tiredly. Amazing folk. Hundred-mile tunnels, with colossal metal serpents running through them. Volcano cities and swinging air-coaches, fine wines and carpets, mile-high statues, masseurs and engineers, letters of credit, letters of merit…

…letters of…

Letters.

Hax froze, her hand still on the door latch. Her head came up; she blinked. How could I have forgotten? she asked herself, appalled.

Heart hammering, she dropped to her knees, tugging open the broad drawer beneath her cot, and retrieving her scrip – the oiled-leather pouch that she had carried all the way from Joyous Light.

Her fingers worked frantically at the knots, snapping one of the frayed thongs that held the flap down before she managed to get it undone. She removed a crumpled chemise and the neat chamois pouch in which she kept her needles and inks, then shoved aside the various items of bric-a-brac that she had accumulated over her travels until she located the secret pocket…and opened it.

The letter was still there. Her father’s letter; the one intended for uncle Landioryn, that she had never delivered.

There was small likelihood that the letter would ever reach its intended recipient now. I need to know what he wrote, Hax realized. But do I dare...

First things first, the Voice said. Check it.

Right, Hax agreed silently. Father might not be especially skilled at wielding the flux, but that did not mean that he couldn’t have asked one of the court mages to place an enchantment on the parchment. Or a curse.

His seal stared up at her, a mute reminder of all that she had left behind. The sight brought hot tears to the corners of her eyes. Laying the folded packet on her lap, Hax spread her fingers across it, and murmured the necessary words. The response was instantaneous; like ink leaking through paper (or like blood, she reflected ominously), tiny sparkles of light began to glimmer from betwixt the woven threads. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, these spread and joined, until the whole of the envelope was glimmering like a swarm of fireflies.

Still intoning the arcane syllables under her breath, Hax focussed all of her concentration on the letter, probing the nature and strength of the enchantment with her mind. A moment later, she released the spell, letting her breath out with an explosive burst. The eldritch light faded immediately…but she knew what it was. No curse; no alarm.

She breathed a sigh of relief…and then she frowned. It was an effacement; a theurgy designed to erase the contents of the letter unless the opener first dismissed the enchantment, by speaking a certain word.

Hax sighed. She knew the spell well enough to recognize it, but not well enough to cast it herself – and certainly not well enough to counter it. Especially if it’s been set by one of the court wizards, she thought gloomily. They were all far more skilled at this sort of complex working than she was.

That’s not all you know, the Voice intruded suddenly, mocking her. Think, fool.

Hax tried to think, but the shock of sudden waking had worn off, and fatigue was overpowering her again. She briefly considered returning the letter to her scrip and trying to ferret out its secrets later. Then, angry at herself, she recalled the importance of her errand, and the fact that she had, through her own naïve stupidity, failed to execute the task her father had set. She had to know.

It’s a code, she reasoned. It would have to be a word that sender and recipient had agreed on beforehand. That meant prior communication. Hax had no idea whether her father had communicated regularly with Landioryn, but she didn’t think he had done so; the bad blood between Kaltas and Annalyszian, especially since the disappearance of Hax’s mother, would have precluded frequent exchanges.

All right. Absent an existing, agreed code, it would have to be a word that Kaltas and Landioryn both knew; and, moreover, that Landioryn would have expected his old friend to use to secure the enchantment. Something that they both…

Of course.

Hax picked the letter up, grasping it firmly in both hands, and said firmly, Duncala.

The seal snapped in half with a tiny snick. The edges of the parchment folded obediently back. Heart racing, she began to read.

To His Excellency, the Grand Duke of Starmeadow

My esteemed brother, Landioryn – greetings!

I write to warn you of a waxing threat to the Throne.

First, brother, I beg you to guard your person, and that of your mate and children. You are, all of you, in grave danger.

Second, I beg you to keep the contents of this missive to yourself, and yourself alone; entrust them to no one. I do not know how far treason has spread.

Third, I beg you, as opportunity, judgement, and conscience allow, to warn Her Serene Majesty, your esteemed mother, so that she may take all necessary steps to defend her person and her realm against assault. Thus, through you, is my duty to my Queen discharged.

I have by interception received word that the Duchess of Eldarcanum intends to betray her royal aunt. You know, brother – none know it better! – how she charges her father’s lamented death to the Queen’s account. Still, I would not credit such news, were I not so deeply certain of the reliability of the source. This I cannot reveal; but you may take it that I trust it implicitly. Indeed, by setting these words to paper, I have wagered my life upon my trust.

Regrettably, I know few details: only that Æloeschyan has crafted some fell magic of dread potency; that she intends to use it to hold the realm to ransom; and that, in order to prepare it, she has need of one of the Jewels. Therefore, I implore you, guard them well. You know her power. If she has indeed set her hand against the Homeland, and is able to gain the means to make good her threats, then woe betide us all.

Should the Grim Duchess hold out her threat and demand your mother’s abdication, I beg you, do not believe her! You know as well as I that, by Dior’s law, Æloeschyan cannot keep the throne while a better claimant lives. The Queen’s life, and the lives of all her heirs – including yours, brother – are forfeit if the enemy wins her claim.

Finally, I beseech you to keep me informed of your plans. Use my daughter in this wise; she is young, but skilled, and has my utmost confidence. You – and your esteemed mother – may trust her as you trust me.

Fare you well; and may the Divine Protector keep you always under his eye.

- Kaltas of Eldisle, Dux et Imperator

Prætorius Ferrata Defensor

Hax felt an eldritch terror settle deep into her bones. Her father, when he had given her the letter, had been tense; she knew him well enough to sense that. But this…

She’d had no idea. None.

Jewels? What jewels was he talking about? Starmeadow was the greatest city in the realm, and one of the foremost cities in all Erutrei; it was awash in wealth. Jewels of all kinds, in any number, could be found within its borders. Why should Landioryn have to guard some more than others? Did her father mean the crown jewels?

Confused, Hax sat on the edge of her bunk, cradling the letter and struggling to organize her thoughts. She tried to recall what she knew about Æloeschyan. The Duchess of Eldarcanum was one of the most formidable of the Duodeci, a scion of the noblest of Elven blood; daughter to the Queen’s younger brother, Bræagond, who would have taken the throne upon their father’s death, had he not perished before his father.

Like all children born in the past five centuries, Hax knew the tale; how Ælyndarka, then a princess, and her brother had been out riding, and had been set upon by great creatures of stone. The brother, defending the sister, had leapt into the fray, and had been struck down and slain, his ancient sword shattered by the enemy’s blows. Ælyndarka had been gravely wounded, but she had been saved by spirits of the forest, who had come upon the scene and had driven her assailants away.

The princess had carried her brother’s broken body back to Starmeadow and, with Bræagond’s passing, had been proclaimed the heir. When, upon her father’s death some centuries later, she ascended the throne, she had ordered her brother’s tomb opened, and from it had taken the broken hilt-shard of his sword. She had named the blade Fletusilex – ‘Stoneweeping’ – and in its place had left the Butterfly Crown, the bejewelled circlet traditionally worn by the most senior distaff member of the royal family. She had sworn that, in memory and honour of her brother, she would wield no other rod, wear no other diadem, for as long as she lived.

She had kept that vow for more than three hundred years.

Æloeschyan, of course, had been a mere infant at the time of her father’s death. Her mother – Hax could not recall the princess’ name – had struggled to raise the girl, but the shock of losing her lifemate after so brief a joining slowly took her mind. Once a gifted mage, she had perished while attempting an arcane working beyond her skill. Kalestayne, who had sworn never to lie to Hax, had once suggested that the poor woman had sought her own death.

Her passing had left the daughter alone in the world – a princess of the Third House, with no parents, no future, and no hope of ever gaining the throne. Ælyndarka, of course, had had four children by this time, and all were still living when she was crowned (although two had since perished in the wars against the Hand). There were several grandchildren, now, and even a great-grand-daughter. The line of succession was as secure as it could be. Only a disaster could possibly erase enough of the Queen’s family to enable Æloeschyan to ascend the throne.

Seeking an alternative answer to her ambition, the orphaned princess had thrown herself into her work at the College of Stars. Once she had mastered what its magisters had to teach, she had left the capital for the north – for Eldarcanum, to complete her studies at the Priscossium, the dread College of Bone. For two centuries she had studied the craft of the pale masters, perfecting her mastery of the Ars Anecros. Now she was Magistatrix – a necromancer of vast power, and one of the most feared and respected of magi in all the wide reaches of the world.

Surely the Queen is safe! Hax thought. And if not her, then all her generations. Truly, it would take nothing short of a catastrophe to bring to naught all the glory and pride of the elven realm.

But a catastrophe is what the Grim Duchess intends, the Voice reminded her.

A chill crept down her spine.

That point brought Hax back to her first question. What ‘jewels’ had her father been talking about? The quandary ricocheted through her head. It sounded so familiar, for some reason. Jewels…the Queen…the palace…the realm…she found herself pacing back and forth in the narrow, confined space beside her bunk.

…the glory and pride of the Elven realm…

Hax froze. There it was. She had heard it recently. A human tune, the merest doggerel, penned and sung in the travelling tongue. Where?

How did it begin? She struggled to remember.

These are the jewels of Elvehelm…the glory and pride of the Elven realm.

That was it. Those were the ‘jewels’ her father had spoken of. Not some common bauble, nor even the crown jewels themselves. The relics of the Crown.

There were seven of them; that much, she knew.

She sat on the edge of her bed, racking her brain. Two, of course, were simple, known by all the world, central to the Queen’s own story: the Butterfly Crown, interred with Bræagond, the Queen’s fallen brother; and Stoneweeping, his broken sword, whose hilt the Queen had taken as her sceptre.

Good, she thought. That left five.

Then her brief sense of contentment vanished. Her father’s letter had instructed Landioryn to guard ‘the vaults’. The Butterfly Crown, though, was not in the vaults; it was in Bræagond’s tomb, in the Lucum Æternus, north of the city. And the broken hilt-shard of his sword was, presumably, in the Queen’s own chambers. It could not be either of those items that…

A sudden flash of memory galvanized her, blinding in its potency. She was sitting in a high, sunlit tower chamber, at a round table with five other well-born children. She could not have been more than two score years old. And Kalestayne, the old wizard, was reading to them. At first. Then, he was asking questions. He was telling the tale of the Hilt-Shard Sceptre. He was asking what the Queen