Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (7 page)

Thorn shuddered and looked away.

Maybe to the people of Mozil, Mordekki was more than a simple axe but to Thorn it was an implement of death, and he had used it as such. The last time he had done so, it had been to set right a mistake that had cost him his future. Or so he had thought.

Unable to wait any longer, Thorn rose abruptly, cutting short Balstrock’s painfully precise explanations of the laws regarding supply and demand. Thorn lifted his hands with his voice. “Ma lords!” When the babble died away, he continued in his normal tone. “It be late, ma distinguished guests. I be headin’ ta ma chambers. Until the morrow.”

Thorn did not wait for a response or permission. He
was
king, after all. Swiftly, he made his way down the steps of Hannaul and, followed by his private guard, swept out through the throne room doors.

The king moderated his pace so that he would not actually run through the maze of hallways that led to his chambers. He knew that the ten houses of power had to be aware of Sargon’s absence as well as those the priest had taken with him, though Thorn was reasonably certain that they did not know why the group had been sent. His hesitancy in naming a successor had earned him the ire of several houses, notably Axeheed and those that allied with him. As punishment, they had made it a point to ensure that the king was never alone. Thorn was certain that at least two of the guards who trailed him now were reporting his actions, meetings, and conversations to the families. His need for caution was paramount.

Despite his attempt to be careful, Thorn found himself flushed and slightly short of breath as he passed the two armored guards that flanked the entrance to his private quarters. The heavy wooden door was decorated with runes of inlaid gold and iron. The entrance opened to a hall that contained six alcoves, three on either side, each harboring the statue of a king from the distant past. The ceiling of this grand entry forum was supported by dark-cherry beams resting upon coffered stone walls. Each support was decorated with runes similar to those found on the door, worked in gold.

As Thorn hurried through the passage, deep-set yet keen stone eyes seemed to follow him as he approached another portal at the end of the hall. The runes on the coffered stone repeated across the wall to surround the door that offered entrance to his private chambers. The door itself matched the surrounding scriptic decor, but with inlaid platinum that glowed softly in the lamplight against the dark patina of the ancient wood.

Thorn took little notice of the art, history, and power around him. He entered his living quarters in a rush, leaving his escorts without.

When the dark wooden door had thumped to a close, he snatched a midnight-blue cloak from its hook and abandoned his controlled pace to rush across the room. The plush tapestries and art of his well-appointed home were ignored as he stepped quickly to a polished bookshelf. The stiles and rails of the piece were carved with representations of a multilayered mine. At numerous places, stairs, ladders, and pulley chairs provided access for the miniature workers and their labors to move from one level to another. Thorn’s slightly trembling finger found a section of a spiral stair that stretched the entire height of the bookshelf then pushed it.

Several muffled clicking sounds rattled within the bookcase, and then the entire section of the wall began to slide to one side. Light from his room spilled around him into the space beyond, revealing a small passage.

Thorn stepped into the dimly lit tunnel before the case had slid fully out of the way. He snatched a lantern from a niche in the wall and lit it before moving to the end of the dark passage, where a shaft bore a spiral stair. The stair was made of brass and iron and, just as the carving on the bookshelf had indicated, corkscrewed up to the mountain’s top as well as to the depths below.

He placed a hand on the railing and looked down at the worn steps. Thorn had made trips on this stair many times in his past, as had the kings before him. None of his clandestine trips had been filled with the hope that bubbled within him now.

His heavy boots clanged on the banded iron as he tromped down the steps toward the Great Library, toward a family he had thought lost and toward a future that he hardly dared hope for.

Sargon stood in one of the many alcoves of the Great Library. The old priest brought a hand up to his weathered hood to make sure it was far enough forward to cover his face in shadow. Feeling secure in his anonymity, Sargon peered around at the wondrous riches surrounding him.

The Great Library was a generational work in progress. As the dwarven nation had grown and changed, so this edifice had delved further into the mountain. The original miners had taken advantage of a massive fissure within the stone to create the principal chamber in which to hold the written treasures of the people. Each generation had produced more works, which required more space. Over time, the library had become a labyrinthine network of interconnected galleries and pockets like the one in which he now stood.

Even at this hour, some of the dedicated scholars and scribes could often be found in secluded nooks, scribbling notes and cross-checking ancient texts. None were in evidence now. Sargon was thankful that the kings and engineers of old had thought to create one or two ways in and out of the library beyond the front door. He had come in through a passage that was only used by the priesthood. No one was in sight at the moment, but it would be unfortunate if a chance encounter were to announce Sargon’s return before the king was ready to explain the priest’s absence. To ensure the secrecy of this visit, Sargon had sent the rest of the party up to the Dales’ peaks. He alone had entered the mountain.

A soft rumble and click on the second level caught Sargon’s attention.

A cloaked figure stepped from a darkened gallery and moved quickly to the staircase. As Sargon watched, the figure made its way down twisting stone steps to the main floor and to the end of the great hall, coming to a stop below a large tapestry.

How appropriate,
thought Sargon. The woven artwork above the mysterious figure depicted a legendary Dakayga in the midst of an epic battle.
Legend
. Sargon paused for a moment to consider the word and the Dakayga. Of the eleven dwarves who had gone in search of the king’s scion, Sargon should have been the first to assume that Dagda would be inclined to grant his blessing once again. It had been Jocelyn, however, who had first put name to what was happening there in that dark hole below Waterfall Citadel. Oh, Sargon had come to the realization first, it was true, but it had been Jocelyn who had brought the word forth and made it real to their companions. It was so easy to live in a manner that implied that Dagda slumbered beyond the care and worry of day-to-day life. Easy to expect that miracles like Sargon’s ability to heal were not the gifts that they were but part of a quotidian world. Simple enough until Duhann, and until now...

The figure below the tapestry was Thorn, of course. Sargon recognized both the dark-blue cloak and the manner in which the king had strode past the stacks of books. Only the Thorn of old walked with such purpose. Sargon had almost lost hope that his good friend would ever heal from the loss of his son. When Thorn had called him to the hall of Hannual to tell him of the Dark Advisor’s visit, evidence of the king’s old fire had surfaced, and Sargon’s hope had been rekindled. Since then, he had prayed fervently that his king would maintain a firm hold on the authority and purpose that had been so long absent.

Once the old priest felt sure the king would no longer move, he gave the hall one last look. All seemed clear.

Sargon stepped from the shadows and quickly made his way across the room. Even with the close and quiet confines of the Great Library, Sargon felt exposed. He felt as if a giant jeweler’s lens had been brought to bear to inspect his every move.

Glinting eyes hidden within the shadows of the blue hood tracked Sargon as he hurried passed the finely crafted tables and chairs.

Sargon stopped in front of the king. The old priest pulled back his hood so that his face shone in the yellowed lamp light. He said nothing, waiting for Thorn to speak.

Rough hands reached from the depths of the blue robe to seize the edges of the cowl. When Thorn’s face was revealed, Sargon’s breath caught. The king had aged, it seemed, and weariness dragged at the corners of his friend’s eyes. The purposeful movement from moments before had been a veneer on a man that bore the worries of a nation and the weight of years in equal measure.

Searching Thorn’s eyes, Sargon could truly see the struggle within the man’s soul and knew that his king had no words for him. It was Sargon who held all the power. His next words would determine which part of King Thorn would leave this room and which would fade away into darkness. He cleared his throat and spoke softly, “He’s given us a second chance.” Deep sentiment caused his voice to crack. “I don’t be knowin’ why, but Dagda’s given us a second chance.”

Tears welled immediately in Thorn’s eyes as the tension of worry and strained hope faded. He reached out and took hold of Sargon’s shoulders. A broad smile erased much of the worry and removed years as it made its way across his lined face. “Thank Dagda for you, old friend,” Thorn said, his voice rough. He pulled Sargon into a bone-crushing embrace.

Sargon wept with his friend, sharing the blooming hope and fading sorrow. The loss of Duhann would always be with them, but now the pain had lessened with the potential of a new beginning.

When they broke apart, Thorn wiped the moisture from his eyes. “Ya lost two on yer journey?”

“Aye. Tarel and Quinn,” Sargon replied, running a hand across his own nose. “They died well.”

The king nodded. “At least there’s that. I’ll be makin’ sure they get proper respects.”

Sargon grunted in acknowledgment. A tingle went down his spine when he remembered that they could be discovered at any moment. He pulled Thorn toward the alcove in which he had waited. “So how do we be handlin’ this?” Sargon asked as he swiveled his head, watching for observers.

The king also searched the books and nooks that crowded around them. When he answered, his rough timbre had softened. “I’ll be wantin’ ta keep this from the council fer now. All o’ ya keep outta sight where ya can until I can find someplace fer ya ta hide proper. But first things first: where be ma grandson?”

Sargon gave his king a warm grin. “I sent all of ’em up top. They’ll be waitin’ fer us.”

“Then lead the way, ma friend,” Thorn said and gestured to the priest’s door.

Thorn followed his friend up the maze of stairs to the mountain’s top. The high peaks of the Dales were never without glacial caps. Eons of the constant ice had permeated the stones of these upper galleries, and Thorn could feel the temperature begin to drop as he and Sargon continued their interminable climb. Cool air flowed down the stairs, creating a mild breeze that drew away the heat of their exertion. In the last hour of their climb, glistening crystals of frost had begun to create intricate natural patterns upon the walls.

Even in the upper reaches of the mountain, guards patrolled the empty halls. Just before they reached the portal to the upper reaches, they ran across one such party of soldiers. Thorn had been forced to reveal himself when he and Sargon had been challenged. He had ordered the guards to keep their encounter to themselves. Thorn had been able to protect Sargon’s identity, but it was only a matter of time before the late-night expedition would be discovered.