by James Enge
Deor shrugged. “You’ll get no argument from me. Vetr is a good enough fellow, but no one can pretend we ever saw eye to eye.”
The dwarves on guard looked at each other nervously after this comment. “Deor!” said Vyrlaeth warningly.
Deor’s impatience boiled over again. “Come along; let’s get out of here and breathe some air.”
In the corridor outside he resumed, “Nevertheless, Tyr had his reasons for going. I don’t think you’re . . . considering everything.”
“Have I ever?”
“Quit that moaning. Think like one of us. You’ve brought more honor to Thrymhaiam in three days than I will in my whole life. That’s not worthless.”
“It is, though. Honor is no use to dead dwarves.”
“Those-who-watch are ‘dead dwarves.’ You never understood about honor. A dwarf would never say that.”
“Then.”
“A very stupid dwarf might. You see, I correct myself. You do the same. Why else did Tyr go under the mountains? He went for honor.”
Deor held his breath as he waited for Morlock to speak. He had privately resolved to tell Morlock the whole truth if he even seemed to ask about it. This situation was intolerable.
But Morlock said only, “I understand.”
As they walked down the corridor Deor felt a kind of disappointment. He didn’t know what Morlock knew, or thought he knew. But it could be nothing like the truth that Deor knew. Perhaps he should go on and speak out anyway. But the moment had passed.
As he walked next to Morlock he thought of how the crime he had committed along with Tyr was destroying them. Those-who-watch were already exacting their punishment.
Suddenly he thought of a way to say something. He said, “About Vendas . . .”
“Yes?”
“What I meant—Ven was no one out of the ordinary. All of us have felt what he must feel: arrogance that ends in the abasement of greed, anger that clouds even self-interest. We are taught from birth to overcome these things. That is what the customs are for; that is what hospitality means. The fact that we need them proves that the other things are there. They are always there. Ven’s shame is Tyr’s, and mine.”
Morlock nodded, and then he said an odd thing, in an odd tone of voice, “Regin and Fafnir were brothers.” It wasn’t clear that he even intended for Deor to hear him, and when he met his kin’s astonished eye he added, “And what’s yours is mine. We are kin, harven coruthen.”
“Hmph. I’ll try to keep it in mind.”
Morlock smiled, and they walked together in silence. But it was an easier silence. Morlock no longer seemed so troubled; he seemed to have made a decision of some kind. Not until later did Deor realize what it was.
The names Regin and Fafnir stuck in Deor’s mind; he wondered what Morlock’s murmured comment meant, but somehow was reluctant to track him down and ask him. Deor himself talked a good deal more than he was aware of, and he was sometimes embarrassed when someone asked him what he was talking about.
Late that night, he was leaving his workroom and ran into Vyrlaeth, outside the Chambers of Healing.
“Listen, Vyrlaeth,” he said, on impulse, “have you ever heard of Regin and Fafnir?”
Vyrlaeth’s long gray lips twisted in humorous chagrin. “Not before this afternoon, when I heard Morlock mention them to you.”
“Oh, then—Hey! Were you spying on us?”
“Naturally, naturally,” said the beardless shameless dwarf. “Morlock is an interesting study; I have often found him so. More interesting than Vendas, in some specific ways.”
“Eh,” said Deor—at a loss, and not for the first time, by the healer’s frosty interest in his fellow beings.
“I consulted a few onomastica this evening, after my late rounds,” Vyrlaeth continued, noting Deor’s dismay with cold amused eyes. “Would you like to know what I learned?”
“Naturally, naturally.”
Vyrlaeth nodded to acknowledge Deor’s mimicry and said, “The names come from an ancient Coranian legend of dragonkilling. The story has attached to several heroes in Laent and elsewhere. But the tale tells of two monsters: a gifted maker named Regin and a great seer named Fafnir. They were brothers, and their father was rich, but the treasure was cursed. The father died because of the curse, and Fafnir stole the treasure. He turned into a dragon, the better to defend his stolen hoard. Regin recruits a hero to slay the dragon, offering to split the treasure. But he secretly plans to betray the hero and murder him, once the dragon is slain. The hero is warned in the nick of time, you’ll be glad to hear, and kills both brothers, so getting the treasure for himself. I suppose it’s a happy ending, of a sort.”
“Urr.” This was giving Deor a lot to think about. “What happens to the hero?”
“Nothing good. Heroes don’t live happily ever after in these sorts of stories. Do you know what this means, Deor?”
“I’m pretty sure Morlock has figured out that dragons and dwarves are akin, at least. I was trying to tell him that myself, by showing him what Vendas had become.”
“Too late, I think. I warned Old Father Tyr not to hide this knowledge from Morlock—if it came to him too late, it might destroy the trust that should obtain between harven kin. But I think Old Father Tyr was ashamed, and saw little reason to mention something so shameful and so unlikely to be relevant. Or so it would have seemed before this year.”
Deor wished that Vyrlaeth would shut up. He had some thinking to do, and the snakelike healer’s babbling wasn’t helping him do it.
“It will be interesting to see what Morlock’s behavior will be once he begins to assimilate this new knowledge,” the healer remarked.
“I suppose so.” Deor realized he had not seen Morlock for hours. He wondered idly where his harven kin was. Then he did not wonder; he knew.
He turned away from Vyrlaeth and ran all the way to the Helgrind Gate. By the time he had reached there a group of kin-councillors (Vetr’s counsellors, that is, among whom Deor was conspicuously not included) were milling around the guards. At their center was Vetr himself, speaking to the senior dwarf in the watch.
Deor shouldered his way into the center of the group. Vetrtheorn looked up at his approach. Their eyes met and Vetr nodded. “Morlock has been gone for many hours,” the new Eldest said.
A senseless rage, born perhaps of frustration, kindled in Deor. “You!” he shouted. “You let him go! Old Father Tyr is dead and you let Morlock go under the mountains!”
Vetr fixed his eye on Deor and did not glance aside. But when he said, “Stand away,” everyone but Deor did so at once.
“Deor,” said Vetr, when they stood alone, “calm yourself. My command was that no one should leave Thrymhaiam, except by my word. But Morlock is not my subject; he is sworn to the Graith of Guardians. The watch had no power to stop him.” Then Vetr smiled wryly. “Nor, I guess, would they have done so if they could. Is he not rokhlan? Is he not the victor of Tunglskin? This hour I have received the fragments of the sword Gryregaest from that bloodless creature who arbits the peace for Ranga’s colony. Morlock’s prestige alone would have overridden my express command.”
“So you would have let him go anyway—to secure your own power.”
Now Vetr himself grew angry. “I would have been tempted to do so. It is because of him that my father went to his death with Earno.”
Deor stared sullenly at Vetr without answering. He did not know what Tyr had said to Vetr before he left with the spellbound summoner; it had not been, Deor felt, his place to ask. But he had the impression that Tyr had told his successor almost nothing.
“Hear me,” Vetr said, apparently mistaking Deor’s silence for disbelief. “Morlock dishonored his ruthen father; he served his ruthen father’s worst enemy, Earno. Can there be a greater disgrace for a harven father? Tyr did not think so!”
“Bah,” said Deor. Vetr had apparently been making deductions from separate things Tyr had said about Morlock, Merlin, and Earno. “You are madder than
Morlock, Eldest Vetr, and that is saying something.”
“Tyr was grateful to Earno. Do you understand? The Old Father believed that Earno had given Morlock cause to hate him. If Morlock could hate his ruthen father’s enemy, he might be a step closer to showing that father lawful respect. Remember: he took the Ambrosian shield to Tunglskin.”
“Hate against hate. This is gibberish. Old Father Tyr went under the mountains because he had a high heart, not because he was afraid of . . . of. . .”
“Of a ruthen father’s curse?” said Vetr. “But he did fear it. Almost the last words he said to me were a warning that my rule as Elder might be burdened with a curse. ‘Do the best you can,’ he said, ‘and do not blame yourself. The fault is mine.’”
Deor could think of nothing to say. He was aghast at the chasm between what Tyr had meant and what Vetr had understood. Could this stubborn, dull, determined rock-pounder truly be the son of Old Father Tyr, that wise old head? Yet he saw the kinship, too—in that harsh decency that would spare no one and nothing for what he believed was right. . . .
“And I believe that we are cursed,” Vetr was continuing quietly. “Not just because of Morlock—for many things. We stand alone against the oldest enemy, yet our defeat will bring down the new realm we have joined. I don’t claim to understand. I don’t see why we were chosen to suffer this defeat.” He paused, and Deor saw Tyr’s eldest son was tired and confused. “Do not be my enemy, Deor. I know I will never be Tyr’s equal. That is why I am angry with Morlock, I guess. I still believe Tyr died for his sake. Yet, if Morlock were standing with us, I would keep him from going the same way, if I could.”
“Because it would be just?” Deor could not help mocking him. How did he dare not to be Tyr? It was Tyr they needed, not this grieving shadow, this leftover.
“No,” Vetr replied. “In spite of justice, in spite of anger. But perhaps Morlock himself prefers justice to mercy. . . .”
“Justice!” shouted Deor. “Morlock is guilty of nothing, except being as mad as a new moon. You defame him. You slander him.” He was shouting in Vetr’s face, more than loud enough for those standing by to hear.
Vetr put his hand on Deor’s shoulder. “Deor, I see and share your double grief. I bear you no ill will. But you have said a word too many. Tomorrow, on the twentieth day of Borderer, I will hold my first judgement as Eldest. In the presence of these witnesses, I command you to present yourself before me then. And I will pass judgement on you for these words you have spoken. For, by the hands of my father who stands now with those-who-watch, I call you liar. Now leave me.”
Deor walked alone down a long corridor.
Wild thoughts, like a whirlpool, spun in his mind—narrowing, like a whirlpool, to a single strand of thought: he would not flee Vetr’s judgement. Neither would he defend himself.
If Thrymhaiam were really under a curse, it was Deor’s fault, and Tyr’s. Vetr was as innocent as Morlock. Yet Vetr, and all the Seven Clans he now ruled, might have to suffer for Deor’s mistake.
He regretted now his harsh words to Vetr. Vetr was wrong about Morlock, about Tyr, about everything, it seemed. But he was the Eldest; Thrymhaiam needed him in this hour, with the Longest War returned in all its horror. And the Clans needed to believe in Old Father Tyr, standing with those-who-watch to protect Thrymhaiam’s people from their enemies. Deor could defend himself only by accusing Tyr and Vetr at once. That might be the end of his people. Fear could turn to despair, and despair to panic, all too easily. A single stone could start that avalanche. Deor swore he would not be that stone.
In an odd way, it restored his own faith in those-who-watch. They had taken care of things very neatly. Tyr and Deor had violated hospitality to protect Morlock. Now Morlock, as a direct result of this, had gone to his death and, shortly, Deor would go to his. Let it end there, he thought. With himself gone, perhaps those-who-watch would finally act on behalf of their people. Clenching and unclenching his fists, Deor walked back under the mountains where he had spent his whole life.
But at the appointed hour Deor came to the Underhall of Judgement to find the Eldest occupied in welcoming a new group of refugees. At least, that was what Deor took them for; they were Other Ilk, and ragged enough to be survivors from Ranga or Haukr. But they said they were from Westhold, and they wore the red and gray of Guardians.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Guile
The chasm was radiant with gray light when Morlock stepped out of the Helgrind Gate. It was hardly past noon, and the sun had just been eclipsed by the towering edge of the eastern wall. The narrow sky above him was a dark brilliant blue. A veil of snow and ice lay over the floor of the chasm, broken only by the sheer dark walls and the shallow stream that wound through the center of Helgrind from its source in the Coriam Lakes.
After crossing the stream, Morlock walked directly to the Runhaiar Gate. Before its yawning unbarred entrance he halted and looked back a last time at the peaks of Thrymhaiam, blazing with fierce white light. His eyes full of bright echoes, he lowered his gaze to the shadows of Helgrind, then turned to the utter darkness of the Runhaiar.
His astonished eyes painted the dark, like a canvas, with dimly glowing mountain peaks. He moved toward them. Something in them, some part of the light, moved forward to him. Startled, Morlock drew back. The sharp light still advanced and did not fade as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness. There was something there; it was coming out of the tunnel.
Morlock stepped back into the gray light of Helgrind. The shape followed him and Morlock relaxed in surprise and recognition as he saw it standing on the threshold of the Runhaiar. It was the black unicorn, its horn shedding light in the shadow. The horn was pointed at Morlock’s chest.
Morlock frowned, remembering again the shattered corpse he had once seen in the Grartan Range. But he did not back away any farther, nor did he try to protect himself with the Ambrosian shield hung on his arm; there was no sense in that. Nor, upon a moment’s thought, did he suppose the unicorn meant him harm. Its aim seemed simply to prevent him from entering the Runhaiar. Certainly it might have skewered him as he stood amazed in the darkness.
He wondered why it had come here. Surely it could not have known (or could it?) that he would follow Earno and Tyr into the Runhaiar. Its mysterious threatening benevolence intrigued him. He felt the unreasoned sense of communion, as strongly as he had the first time they met. But now, as then, he understood nothing of what he felt; their communion was not communication.
“Old . . .” said Morlock, and paused. He did not know the unicorn’s name, or even if it had one. Even to speak aloud at it seemed strangely inappropriate. But need spurred him on. “Swift One, I must pass. My harven father has gone under these mountains.”
The unicorn looked at him through its red irises. Its right ear bent back as he spoke, until it lay almost flat against the equine skull. Morlock watched in fascination, wondering what the reaction meant. After a moment of tense motionlessness, the unicorn bent its neck and pointed with its horn. It moved slowly and deliberately, like someone gesturing for the benefit of a sleepy child. The horn pointed north. Morlock looked north, but saw nothing other than the stream winding upward to the high notched horizon.
He looked back at the unicorn. It was watching him now, waiting for him to understand. He shook his head slowly and said, “I don’t understand.”
The unicorn stood there, waiting. Morlock wondered dimly what the gesture had meant. He thought of the dragon that had died in the Coriam Lakes, the Northtower, Trua and her people . . . Trua. That might be it. The old woman would have led her people into the maijarra forest by now. It would be safer than the tower, but there still must be great danger and hardship. Morlock thought of Trua in the storm that had just passed. She was brave, but too frail to live long unsheltered in winter.
But that was folly—who in the north would now live long? No one, was Morlock’s guess. It only remained to choose the death that suited them.
The unicorn wai
ted.
Morlock flushed. If there were anything he could do, it would be different. But it made no sense to simply go and die with them. Even as this thought formed it threw a shadow, a counterthought that said, You are simply going to die anyway. Who could say what would happen if he went to the Haukrull refugees? He felt the tug of the idea. They were no more unlike him than anyone else. While living there he had had a few troubled one-sided romances, as searing and brief as thunderbolts. He had lived among them. Why not die among them?
It was not enough to sway him, finally. It was simply a death with a halo of questions about it. Before him, certain, fire-etched in the darkness, was a death freighted with meaning. Tyr had gone under the mountains with Earno because of Morlock; that was clear. The reason was less so, but the fact spoke for itself: Tyr had gone in his place, as Earno’s second. And at the very moment of Tyr’s death, perhaps, Morlock had been cursing him as a liar. No one but Morlock knew that, but that made the guilt more inescapable, somehow. . . .
And, in fact, he still felt that Tyr had deceived him. He should have been trusted; he should have been told. He could not help but forgive his harven father; all he wanted was his father’s forgiveness in turn. Since that was impossible, he would go under the mountains to seek vengeance or death, like a dwarf, or a dragon.
He said, “I am going under the mountains.”
The unicorn simply turned its head and walked out of the tunnel. It headed north, swiftly but apparently without hurrying. Morlock was conscious of some disappointment. Had he been expecting the unicorn to try to talk him out of it? Morlock smiled ruefully, looking after the unicorn for a moment.
But his path lay clear before him. He shrugged and walked forward into the darkness. The mountains of light had long since disappeared. He walked forward anyway.
The air was strange in the Runhaiar. Morlock noted it immediately, but found it hard to put his finger on the change. The air was neither warmer nor moister than usual; it was not tainted with venom or smoke. But when he had walked for some hundreds of paces he realized that there was still a freshness to it; the air moved more freely than it had in the past. Morlock guessed this meant that the Runhaiar had been broken open, probably at more than one point.