Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (12 page)

Olen’s slitted gaze followed the king as he left the throne room with Gurney Borjornin and Gurney’s kin. “Somethin’ be up with those two. D’ya think that Gurney...” Olen didn’t need to finish his words. The same questions that danced behind his squinty eyes plagued the minds of all the dwarves still crowded about Hannual in the wake of the king’s departure.

Thorn had chosen a successor? Who? Gurney was the most likely person, but if Tagen was any judge, the lord of the second house looked almost as shocked as the bishop at the king’s proclamation.

“Aye, but it’ll do ’im no good,” Ronil replied. “Jessip be on our side o’ things, and Merrell just be needin’ a little push ta join us as well.” His voice was unwavering in its surety.

Tagen considered his coconspirators’ words but did not join their speculation. He already knew the way the houses were allied. Jessip Hornsburg had been delving as Tagen directed for nearly two decades now. Merrell Hasselgrod only needed a large purse dangled in front of him to sway his indecisive mind. After Merrell had been bought once and for all, Tagen would have four of the great houses, which gave him great advantage. Still, though, he would require one more to
guarantee
his ascension to the throne, regardless of the supposed decision that Thorn had made.
Pocket of gas,
Tagen thought, dismissing the king’s proclamation,
and just as ephemeral.

Everything hinged on Beordin Silvervein of the third house. Thorn had Gurney and Norhan, but Beordin remained a seam of gold yet to be mined by either side.

Beordin was a dwarf close to Thorn’s own age, and the two had fought alongside each other in battles long past, but they had never truly been considered friends. Many rumors drifted through the halls of Mozil purporting to be the actual reason the two had never become closer despite the bloody trials they had faced together, but most of them missed the mark by more than a surveyor’s piton. Tagen, however, knew the truth: the queen. Kyleeal Brunahlen had been a fetching woman in her youth and had drawn the attention of many suitors, including the coppery eyes of Beordin Silvervein. Despite Beordin’s reputation in battle and the power of his house, he could not compete with Thorn, who not only shared those qualities with his competitor but also had the added advantage of being the crown prince. The Silvervein courtship attempts fell on stony ground. Kyleeal’s father had betrothed her to the Brunahlen boy at the first inclination of the prince’s interest. Any hope for a close friendship between the two men had died that day. Even after her death, more than a century past, the two remained at odds.

Arranged marriages were not unheard of in Mozil, but they were not discussed in polite company to preserve the illusion of fidelity based on love. Tagen snorted softly enough not to draw the attention of his still-bickering attendants. Tagen would have remained ignorant of the facts himself if not for his own father. Blagett Axeheed had been essential in the brokerage of the deal that sealed Kyleeal’s family to the Brunahlen line, and he had shared the information with Tagen shortly before Blagett himself passed through Dagda’s door.

“Information, ma son,” Blagett had said, “be more effective than any axe, knife, or amount o’ gold or gems.”

The lord of the first house and his two cohorts followed the line of softly speaking nobles from the throne room out into the great hall. The high lords and their families broke into small bands and headed through the towering hallways toward their holdings.

Tagen guided Olen and Ronil into a small alcove as they reached the crossroads that would take each to his own home. Gesturing for his guard to step back, he leveled his emerald eyes at each of his coconspirators. “I don’t see Thorn gettin’ much support from the people, regardless of whatever ‘choice’ he claims ta have made—he’s been absent in heart and fact fer too long.” He paused to ensure that he had their full attention.

Both lords watched him keenly.

“Regardless, it be time to bring Merrell into the fold. Ronil...offer the two southern farmlands and the Platka Peak mine. Make it clear that the price be fer his life-long support.”

Olen sucked in a sharp breath at the mention of the mine. He’d always been too sentimental about the quarries.
Fool. Over time,
Tagen thought as he looked at the agitated lord,
everything comes back ta the source.
“Yer too attached ta the physical, Olen. This be our time ta act. There can be no hesitation—no turnin’ back.” Tagen eyed Olen, measuring the other dwarf’s resolve. If Olen wasn’t truly committed, this was the time to find out for certain.

Olen frowned. “I don’t have ta like it,” he grumbled but nodded in assent.

“No, ya don’t,” Tagen replied, a satisfied grin stretched across his face. “Yer a good man, Olen. We’ll do well, ma friend, not ta worry.” Irritating though it was, this need to pamper the weaker-willed man, Tagen found himself oddly comforted by the necessity of it. If either Olen or Ronil had the depth of character and strength that they would require to act on their own, then Tagen would likely have found himself needing to eliminate them as competitors rather than making them into allies. Well, tools, actually, but if they thought of themselves as allies, then that was likely all to the good.

The trio broke and went their separate ways. Tagen’s boots clanked on the polished stone floor with each step, the sound echoing off the mighty pillars along the great halls. His family and guards fell in behind, and together they marched toward his estate.

Even though Tagen had been dismissive of the king’s announcement, he found his thoughts nagged at him regarding the potential for Gurney to ascend the throne. The lord of the second house was much younger than the king, perhaps as much as a century, but more importantly, Gurney was everything to Thorn that Beordin was not. They had been companions and soldiers in many of the same conflicts, and they hadn’t had the wedge of a woman to push them down separate tunnels. They were close friends, and this was known by all. Beyond this, Gurney was wealthy, powerful, and—Tagen admitted sourly—popular. As the preeminent engineer in the dwarven kingdom, Gurney’s name was well known and often repeated as the people carried out their lives in the halls that the dwarf had designed.

A low growl rumbled deep in Tagen’s throat. Sometimes when the bolt would not slide home, a hammer had to be applied.
I will need contingencies in case Beordin fails to see the light.
King Thorn did have enemies, both within the halls of Mozil and without. It was time to make common cause with them.

No turnin’ back.

Sargon picked at a loose thread in his ceremonial
tarak
as he waited impatiently for the king and his high council to finish their discussion. The vestment had been embroidered with gold in runic script that described his rank within the order of Dagda’s Sounders.

He and the other priests of his order stood in a white-robed line, flanking one side of a hallway that connected the council chamber to Hannual. Dagda’s Mystery Seekers stood facing the Sounders from across the hall, resplendent in their royal-blue robes. Each line began with the high priest’s first cardinal and then proceeded through to the last and most junior priest. Sargon stood fourth in line from the head of his own sect.

The Sounders were the healers and record keepers of the faith, and it was rare that leadership of the church rose from their ranks. The Seekers held the prophets, and it was from the pool of those that heard the voice of Dagda that leadership was generally chosen.

Despite his relatively lowly status, he wasn’t irked by the fact that he wasn’t higher amongst his peers. He had always felt Dagda’s hand guiding his steps, and that should be enough for any priest. It was enough for him. The political machinations that were required to rise further than his current station had never been appealing.

Beyond the rows of priests, the throne room was packed with much of the higher nobility in Mozil. Each lord or lady had brought a gaggle of attendants, family members, and hangers-on so that in all, hundreds upon hundreds of voices filled the throne room with a low but pervasive murmur.

The entire crowd had the restless, shuffling energy of impatience. The council had been shut away for the better part of two hours while the nation gathered in the Chaumbre. In reality, the gathering had been happening for days. Stragglers who had ignored the calls from weeks earlier when reports of the first goblin raiding parties were finally making their way into the ancient and already burgeoning halls of Mozil. There was not an empty inn, house, or floor in the entire kingdom, if Sargon was any judge.

Sargon had not realized how populous the dwarven nation had become. It had been all he could do to make his way through the corridors without being beset by a farmer looking for a blessing or a lord seeking an advantage over his fellows by asking a well-known friend of the king what he knew of Thorn’s upcoming address. Finally and most disturbingly had come questions about where he had been and why. All in all, it was a relief to descend to the hidden sanctuary of the Dagdarhem and pour himself into the work of helping the prince understand his gift.

The tolling of a great bell resonated through the walls of the mountain, shivering the very floor below Sargon’s feet and silencing the voices in the throne room. The nation was assembled and waiting for its king.

The lines of priests on either side of the council chamber door snapped back to formality as the door opened and the king and his council stepped forth.

As Sargon looked at his long-time friend and king, his heart filled with pride.

Thorn’s stature alone spoke of a man comfortable with power. His easy stride set the pace for the others who followed. The ceremonial outfit the king wore magnified his rekindled spirit. A deep-blue jacket framed the still-powerful shoulders of the king, opening at the belt to accentuate his broad chest, which was clothed in deeply textured green. The jacket had been cut long enough to barely pass the knee and just touched the tops of highly polished black boots that themselves had been ornamented in intricate lines of silver. The crown upon Thorn’s head shone brightly with rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. Wings of platinum arched upward, reflecting the glory of Dagda’s angels. Almost surprisingly, Mordekki rode upon the king’s back in its platinum harness. Thorn had so infrequently touched the ancestral weapon since the death of Duhann that Sargon had become accustomed to seeing his friend without it. The artifact’s solid presence spoke loudly of Thorn’s healing of spirit and, more, a willingness to act that had been absent for years.

The royal procession came to a halt at the edge of the throne room. “It be time,” the lord bishop announced to all present. “Let these proceedin’s commence.” He clapped his hands loudly.

At the bishop’s signal, an ominous, deep rumble began to vibrate the floor. The wall opposite the throne began to move, and a vertical sliver of golden light appeared as the two halves of the wall began to slide away from each other. A great buzzing roar flooded through the widening gap as the assembled nation on the other side noticed the walls of the throne room opening.

Thorn squared his shoulders and began marching to the widening opening, the leaders of the ten great houses and the lord bishop following close behind. The assembled noble lords and ladies in the throne room bowed and parted as smoothly as if it were rehearsed.

The vast Chaumbre sat at the heart of the mountain kingdom. Sargon’s mind quavered at the thought of Dagda’s mighty work in creating a cavern of such natural beauty. The dwarves had adapted the existing wonder to their own purpose by chiseling rooms and balconies from the niches already present. Thorn and his council stepped out onto the largest of the balconies high on the Chaumbre wall. Sargon and the other priests followed the council, while the rest of the assembled nobility flowed out to their prearranged places behind the ruling class. The Chaumbre’s entire basin had been worked flat so that large numbers could gather and stand comfortably. The polished stone floor was the largest open area in all the kingdom, and not an inch of it could be seen through the multitudes of people assembled below.

A cheer went up as Thorn began to climb the steps of a granite dais, and Mordekki caught the light, flaring like a thing alive. The assembled throng had seen neither their king nor his legendary weapon for decades, but stories abounded in even the most closed-mouthed of civilizations. The people had to have had suspicions about their king and what had befallen him.