He made his way up the stairs, the rails cold under his hands. As he reached the second level, he saw another fire and softer lights, similar to the ones in the temples, splashing a soft glow upon piles of parchment.
Surrounding him and spanning all three walls were large bookcases, and ascending three more steps into the middle of the room, were even more books. The center of the room had a circular skylight, the stars were clearly seen through a gentle dusting of snowflakes that were building up on the glass.
In the corner, nestled with the bottle of wine and a book that was so big that Sviska could just see who held it, Sviska found Slats.
Being so engrossed in the book, he took no notice that Sviska was now sitting right next to him.
"So you enjoy reading," Sviska asked.
Slats jumped and looked up. Startled, his breathing was rapid. "My sir! You scared me!"
Sviska laughed. "I don't believe I've seen anyone so into a book."
"This is not just a book. It is the histories of my people! Being that you are from where you’re from, did you know we carried massive axes into great battles, hewing the heads off dragons with a single swing? Of course, dwarves do tend to exaggerate. I am good with an axe, but a single swing?"
Sviska laughed. "You would need two or three at least. I know not of dragons, but I have fought in battles myself."
"A winemaker fights?"
"When you have the enemy attacking you in your own home, you have no choice. It is all you can do to survive some days. The world outside these walls can be a horrible place."
Slats looked down at his book and then sighed. "I guess I should not be happy of our place here. It is sad that of my kin, there are not any dwarves aside from me, or so I understand. My people will never be great again."
"Are there not dwarves in the city? I saw men of your stature just after I first arrived."
"They are not of dwarves and do not care of dwarves unless they can get a benefit from others by acting like us. That is a whole other atrocity. Elinathrond was a refuge for all of magic, though I find it better to toss them down the mountain."
He paused for a while. Sviska could tell whatever feelings had been aroused in him were not good ones. He took a drink of his wine.
"I, too, have fought as my ancestors did, but in truth, I was too young at the time of the wars before. I was entrusted to get my people here, but few of us made it. Most died fighting the Order, and of their deeds, there is little I know. Berie knows more than me. She took time to pen down the events just after our arrival in Elinathrond." He rubbed his head and glanced down, shutting the book.
"Fewer in the rest of the world know of such things. Do not let your people's memory falter."
Slats looked up, curious as to what Sviska said.
"The next time you are cutting wood, imagine you are slicing the head of a dragon. At the very least, you will be able to cut more! Tell any here who will listen of your people and their deeds."
Slats smiled. "Thank you for caring for that of the dwarves." He took a large sip of wine and then jumped up, taking his book back to its resting place on a shelf. He picked up another book that was sitting on a table on his way back to sit down.
"This one I found for you. It is about winemaking!" He handed Sviska the book and then sat back down, pouring wine for himself.
Sviska scanned the cover. More like a handbook for potion-making, the ingredients needed in the different "wines" included many ingredients he had never heard of.
Raba Root.
Gold Glow Flower.
Trissis Bark.
These were no winemaking materials that he was aware of.
"This book seems more attuned to potion-making than wine. Not one ingredient has anything to do with wine.”
"Aye! It does not, but potion-making comes from grounded-down herbs, cooked hot and then poured into a bottle. The contents cool, and then the powers are lessened. When it is made as wine, the enhancements of the herbs are not only stronger but last longer, especially good when you need it as we need wine."
Sviska was surprised. He was not making wine as in the traditional sense, but a potion.
"What kind of winemaker are you not to know this?" asked Slats.
"The kind who uses grapes and barrels. I know nothing of herbs and magic." He continued flipping through the book.
"Well, I do. I may be a servant and I may be a dwarf, but even before you were here, Brethor had me restudying the winemaking books. It's why I was made your assistant, I guess."
The images of the winemaking equipment looked similar as in traditional wine and as what was in the winery. It seemed the only difference was the finished product. The Order had sent him here to complete a "task," but specifically sent him as a "winemaker," as the city needed, and it was also the only part of his childhood he had known.
The second shipment would arrive soon, he felt. His task would become clear then, but would it be a task he wanted to do? His doubts continued. Why would the Order have him complete a task that was the exact need of the city and of Brethor?
For a time, he continued to read, baffled by the types of ingredients and cures that each was good for. One for stinky feet, another for hair growth reduction, but right next to that, an invisibility potion, and one in which to cure poisons from some type of gargantuan spider.
Slats stood. Having finished his wine, he stretched and yawned but had to work to steady his gait.
"Dinner needs making," he said. "Berie found us some nice meat. Time to cook it up."
Sviska followed him and came into the dining room to find Berie near the fire. Her weapons not on her as before, her silver hood draped over her face, she was softly singing.
"Winds of night and silver snow,
Lights are passing, emerald glow.
Give this time, a sacred song,
Let this last, as nights are long.
The sun has gone and sank away,
Many days, the night shall stay.
Wish one time for greener trees,
Waiting here, seeking leaves.
Elven paths are forever gone,
The people's soul but now a song."
Sviska felt as if in a trance. An echo of times long lost whispered to his heart. Berie turned to him. She removed her tunic, and he noticed her brown hair, long and lovely in his eyes, brought behind her pointed ears. Across her brow were dim markings, visible even in the darkness of the room.
"You are an elf," he said to her.
She appeared sad and turned away.
"Turmin!" he heard Brethor shout.
He turned to see the hurried Brethor entering into the dining room. "I heard of what happened. I am glad to see you well. Do you need healing?" he asked, motioning to where his wound was.
"No, it is only a small slice."
"Good, good.” He seemed to slow his breathing from the pace it was at before.
Sviska nodded toward Berie. "She seems upset," he whispered.
Berie was wandering down the corridor toward the winery now.
"It is the final sunset for many days," Brethor said. "The land changes this time of year, and we have the unending nights for many weeks. There is much beauty to be had, though, and of that, I will show you later."
"She is sad because it is going to be dark?" he asked, his question of why she was upset still unanswered.
Brethor continued and sat at his spot at the end of the table. He took a sip of water.
“The elven people hailed from a warm place. Trees, flowers, and sunlight were the essence of their lives. This place is cold, and she is unhappy. It is why she is the only person permitted to leave the city. The dark woods south of here are a dangerous place for some, but her, she is good on her own. In turn for her leaving the city, she hunts animals for our food and watches for ill happenings in the lesser guarded woods. More important even now as the city is losing power. She carries weapons, too, and one of the only ones to do so."
"So she is the last o
f the elves?"
He nodded.
A somber feeling came upon Sviska. The smell of fresh venison and roasted vegetables filled his nose, and he looked toward the kitchen.
Slats and Cusis came, bringing in the dishes and setting them on the table. The plates were served, and Berie joined them, sitting across from Sviska. The servants, now having assured everyone had food, sat also, and they began to eat, as was how Brethor wished for it to be.
"That was a beautiful song," Sviska said to Berie in hopes of starting a conversation.
"A song of people, a lament, as it is." She stirred her food and took a sip of warm tea just poured for her by Cusis. "Part of a longer verse."
Slats chomped away at his food, belching as he did and smacking.
"Dwarves truly are a disgrace," said Cusis. “I am glad the winemaker now has to deal with your rants."
Sviska laughed. "He has been good. The winery is in good order. That is, if I can keep him out of my wine!"
Brethor held aloft his glass. "To Turmin, our grace in this dark hour!"
The others, including Berie, raised their glasses. Sviska nodded. "Thank you all. I just hope the wine is of good quality and does what it needs."
There were respective nods, and each went back to eating. One by one, finishing their food, each went off to their perspective places. Slats and Cusis began cleaning, and where Berie went, Sviska could only guess. Brethor was headed outside. He reminded Sviska of their plan to meet later, and then left. Sviska went to his quarters.
Seeing his bed, he embraced it facedown. A subtle turmoil filled the past few days, both physically and mentally. He felt the area where the attacker had injured him tinge with pain. He sat up, using the herbal mixture again over the area. The wound seemed to be healing well.
The woman at the Priory was on his mind. He saw her distressing loss of her husband and the evil that had taken her daughter. To see the master of the Priory distraught was worrying to him given everything he had learned so far. Perhaps hope in the wine was misplaced. Maybe it was already too late.
After drifting to sleep for a few hours, he awoke to find Brethor above him, his shadow cast by the fire, menacing in light of recent happenings.
"I figured you had fallen asleep! Too much venison for you?" He smiled and began to walk out. "Come on!"
Sviska quickly followed, but not before grabbing the mask the attacker from before had been wearing. It was not likely a good idea to leave such an item lying around.
They went the way of the library but continued on, not ascending the stairs. There was a wall of beast heads arranged in rolls going up and down the wall. They were of stone metal, and the mechanics of the dwarves worked behind the wall.
Brethor firmly took one and pushed it down. It glowed, and from the wall, a stone door slid down, revealing a stone stairwell going up. The way was narrow and dark, lit by a single torch in the center of the forty steps.
"We are now going into part of the mountain," explained Brethor.
They came to a white door, and Brethor pushed a series of symbols that flashed white before the door slowly opened. As Sviska came to the top of the stairs, he entered the room and was flushed with warmness.
“My study, a place of my own away from others, a place where I relax," Brethor told him.
There were no windows. A large opening in the wall led to a smaller room where another door was. On the far side from that was a bed, made up and radiant; the red and gold sheets were perfectly set. Sviska noticed they appeared untouched for many days, considering the layer of dust that had formed on top of them.
Just before the archway was a sitting area. A warm fire burned, and a pot with a fresh, scented herbal tea filled the air.
"I figured some warm tea will be nice when we get back," said Brethor, tossing Sviska another coat. "You might need this, considering I doubt you could've guessed where we are going and you left your own."
Sviska put on the coat, still waking up from his short sleep and agreeing with Brethor’s comment. He had no idea where they were going, but given the coat, it being a cold place was obvious. He followed Brethor to the other door.
As Brethor opened the door, Sviska saw that the night sky shone down upon the white balcony and a walkway that led to another sheer rocky wall.
Above them, a smoky green hue looked to be drifting and dancing about within the sky beyond the sparse clouds. Sviska had very little time to admire it, as his curiosity almost found him shut out from wherever it was Brethor was taking them.
The white door that he had already opened ahead was now shutting. Brethor motioned for him to hurry, and he made it in, turning to see the balcony and pathway melt out of sight behind him, as if not even actually there.
Chapter 12 The Grove and Meredaas
Sviska looked around. The place they were at now was old. The cave, as it first appeared, was similar to a foyer of sorts. However, the architecture was unlike any that Sviska has seen in the Estate or the city. The stones here were brazen with straight lines, carved smooth, and appeared almost shiny. There also was a distinct metal smell hanging in the air.
They went down a long passage that opened up to a large blackened room. Sviska noticed symbols on his hand. He brushed his hand with his other, but there was no change in the tattoos of light. The etchings began to fade as they walked. Surprised even more, he wondered if he was imagining it. The image was gone.
"These places have been seen by few, and of those few, even less remain. We call it the Foundry," said Brethor. "It is here the Founders of the city laid down the decrees that I have upheld to this very day."
He pointed to a large gateway carved into the skin of the mountain. A single stone window poured a lonely orange glow. "This here is the furnace of the Dwarven Hand, the source of the magical protection of our walls and our life force for many years. Without it, we would have surely faded many moons ago."
Sviska looked up from his hand, noticing the ever-dimming glow that trickled and flickered like a dying fire. There was an almost rhythmic shining from the light. He looked to Brethor, who smiled as his eyes gave an uncertain look.
"Unfortunate as it is," he continued, "the furnace dies. For years it has long burned brightly, but I fear with all that is, it will darken and then trouble will find us. The heart of the mountain will cease its rhythmic burning."
Dumbfounded still by his own hand, Sviska asked of it. "Why did my hand glow as I passed the doorway? I saw strange symbols.”
"Do not worry! Those are signs that you are an enchanted winemaker. It is necessary for producing the elixir that this city needs."
Sviska nodded, still confused, but he did not know what else to say of it. He then remembered the mask from before.
"Before I forget, I was told by Captain Runa to show this to you."
Sviska reached in his coat and pulled out the mask from the man who attacked him earlier. Brethor's eyes immediately caught sight of the mask, and he ripped it from Sviska's hands.
"Where did you find this?"
"When I was attacked, it covered the face of my attacker. Captain Runa directed me to take this to you. Do you know of it?"
He rubbed his chin. "This mask is one of many. There were whispers of some still in existence, but to my knowledge, their locations were lost. Someone went to great toil to find this."
Brethor stared at him. "Well, the question is something I will guess at. Who found this mask? Only someone capable of leaving the city could've obtained this carrier of dark magic. However, how long it has been in these walls is another question entirely and makes accusations difficult. It could've come in many years ago and just surfaced upon the streets now."
The mask, like a caricature staring blankly at them, was looked over by Brethor. With a flick of the wrist, he tossed it into the furnace. It became a white flame and then was no more.
"Whoever was behind this mask did not think the person would be caught. It seems I am not the only one who made mistakes in these p
ast weeks. Let us just hope this is the last of the cursed objects."
He began away from the furnace and to an area lining the northern wall of the room.
As they walked near the altars, Sviska noticed finely crafted weapons. Brethor led him by each, stopping at them and staring prior to moving to the next.
"These are the altars of the Founders," he explained.
On the first, a golden axe adorned with jewels in the hilt. The next was empty, but the lord took little mind to it. A silver knife next to a gleaming, sapphire-studded sheath lay upon the next, and then a pair of simple leather gauntlets. The final altar had another pair of gauntlets. These were different, having long blades that would extend down the wearer's arm. Sviska could not think of the items' significance.
Brethor picked up the dagger from the third altar.
"These weapons you see here were the commitment of each main race to forget their pasts and live in peace for the survival of all. Besides, magic was powerful enough without such things. That is why there are no weapons of stone, iron, or metal any place to be found. Those trusted to be of the Brotherhood of Wura have but a taste of magic blessed on their staves, and they remain the protectors of the people. The Priory of Kel protect sacred places and the city overall. But these items"—he paused, now picking up the sheath and sliding the dagger into it—"are of darker times, and I feel much is changing. The days ahead may indeed prove darker." The dagger clicked against the sheath as he slid it in.
He held the dagger up toward Sviska. "My friend, this is Sishan, dagger of Meredaas, the sea god. Its blade has spilled blood well before both of our times. It is only the second weapon to leave this vault, and I give it to you because you are our hope. I cannot risk you being destroyed, and seeing as you have no magic, I must give you this. More attacks on you may come, and protection may not always be available."
Sviska took the dagger. He had been without a weapon since crossing the river before Tar Aval. The feeling of it helped him to be more secure but also furthered the guilt plaguing his heart.
"I do not feel deserving. This item is not mine to take," he told him.
Saints of Wura: Winemaker of the North, Arcane Awakening, Reckoning in the Void (Saints of Wura Books 1-3 with bonus content) Page 11