Spider and Stone

CHAPTER FIVE

THE UNDERDARK

21 UKTAR

The endless series of tunnels, dark spaces penetrated by flickering torchlight, and silence broken only by the hollow echoes of their footsteps were starting to give Icelin a terrible headache. How much farther before they wandered out the other side of Faerun?

Eventually, though, the tunnel before them emptied out into a barrel-shaped cavern, and Icelin heard the sound of rushing water. An underground river gushed over stones, and a forest of stalactites hung low over the water.

“We’re not far from the city’s outer checkpoints,” Garn said.

Icelin stared at the river, grateful for anything to look at besides dark tunnel walls. The water foamed around the stalagmites as if from the mouth of a crooked-toothed beast. Blue-green fungus grew among the rocks on the shoreline, and there were a few stepping stones out in the river itself, but these looked dangerously slick and barely large enough to hold one person.

How many humans had actually crossed this river in all the centuries since its creation? Icelin had never dreamed, when they set out, that the dwarves would lead them this far into the Underdark. She’d never thought of herself as being afraid of tight spaces, but the idea of being so far from sunlight unnerved her. Yet another part of her thrilled to the idea that she walked in a cavern unknown to most of the people in Faerun above. They had stepped into another world. If only Sull had been there to share the sights with her, Icelin would have been content.

Well, content might not have been the best word, not while Ruen continued to irritate her. What had gotten into the man anyway? When they’d stood near the bridge, for a second he’d looked at her as if she were a stranger. She wondered what was in his mind. Would he tell her if she asked?

A sharp hiss and twang cut the air, vibrating down the length of her staff. Icelin flinched. A black, spiny rod had embedded itself in her staff, just below the cage of light. Icelin brought the staff closer so she could see the object clearly.

Her breath caught. Embedded in the wood was a crossbow quarrel, the kind fired from a single-handed weapon.

Icelin opened her mouth to warn the others, when suddenly a second black quarrel buried itself in her arm. Staring at the missile in shock, Icelin at first didn’t feel any pain. Blood welled and flowed in a warm trickle down her arm. Icelin found her voice. “We’re under attack!” she cried.

More hisses echoed in the cavern. “Get down!” Garn shouted.

Ruen spun, flung his torch in the river and dragged Icelin to the ground behind some rocks. Obrin crouched beside them. Grunting, he drew his axe and gestured to the middle of the river.

Icelin clutched her wounded arm and looked through a crack between two rocks. In the middle of the river, three figures levitated near one of the larger stalactites. One wore wizard’s robes, and the other two wore armor that fit their slender bodies like a second skin. These two reloaded hand crossbows. Even in the dim red light of her staff, Icelin could appreciate their graceful forms, elegantly pointed ears, and obsidian skin.

Icelin shouldn’t have been surprised to see the drow in the Underdark, but knowing such beings existed in the world, and seeing them firsthand, was quite a different experience.

Red eyes-a wave of fascination and revulsion swept over Icelin. The tales don’t prepare you for seeing such burning eyes.

Throbbing pain in her arm reminded Icelin that they were not safe even crouched behind these rocks. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped blood-soaked fingers around the quarrel’s shaft and pulled it out. Flesh tore as streaks of fiery pain shot up her arm. When she could stand it, Icelin examined the barbed weapon. A mixture of blood and a black, ichor-like substance coated the point.

“Are you all right?” Ruen asked, his gaze traveling from her wound to the drow and back again, as if he couldn’t decide which danger to address first.

“The quarrels are poisoned,” Icelin said. Her fingers shook when she touched her wound. A numbing fatigue traveled up her arms, weighing them down. “I think it’s a sleep poison. At least I hope it is and not something worse.”

The fatigue quickly spread to her chest, her legs-Icelin rolled onto her side, putting her back against the wet rocks by the river. The frigid water revived her a little. She had to stay alert, but all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep.

“Hold on,” Ruen said. He yanked up Icelin’s sleeve and covered the wound, then folded her fingers around her staff. “Keep the light down,” he said. “Don’t make yourself a target.”

“Come ashore and fight us, you bloody cowards!” shouted Garn, drawing Icelin’s attention momentarily away from her wound. He made a sharp gesture. A ribbon of water coiled up from the river and encircled his hand, forming the shape of another rune. The water snapped out, its foam crests like barbs that lashed at the drow crossbowmen and caused them to waver in midair.

The drow wizard raised his hands, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the blows. Water slapped the skin of his cheeks with audible cracks. His red eyes burned, and he shouted in incoherent fury.

“Like that, did you?” Garn’s deep, taunting laughter echoed in the cavern. “I’ll have you down from there. See if I don’t!”

The drow wizard shouted something in an unfamiliar tongue, snarling the words as his hands clawed the air in a complex gesture. A curtain of flame rose at the wizard’s feet and rippled across the river.

“Get down!” Icelin cried, and Ruen, who had been moving among the stones, making his way to the river, went down on his belly. Flames roared over their heads, leaving a trail of steam over the river that temporarily obscured the drow.

“Got them angry now!” Garn touched the rocks along the shoreline, tracing symbols furiously as he crawled to where Icelin and Ruen crouched. “Watch your heads, you two,” he told them and splayed his hand against the nearest stone.

A burst of gold light shot up from the rocks, pushing the flames back to the edge of the river and creating a pocket of protection around them. Steam still rose in thick clouds. They couldn’t see the drow, but at least the drow couldn’t see them either.

Ruen again began crawling to the river. “What are you doing?” Icelin demanded. “The river’s still covered in fire.”

“You’re right.” Ruen took off his hat and tossed it to her. “Don’t let this get burned.”

Icelin caught the hat and suppressed the urge to hurl it into the fire. “You idiot! If the flames don’t get you, the river’s current will! You won’t be able to get to them.” Icelin reached out to grab his arm and missed.

Ruen leaped to his feet and ran toward the river. He jumped through the flames beyond Garn’s protective barrier and disappeared. A breath passed, and Icelin heard a splash. She looked over the rocks, but Ruen was underwater.

When she glanced back, she saw that Obrin paced the riverbank behind Garn’s barrier, prowling like a caged beast. He twirled his axe in his hands, hairy knuckles gripping the handle.

Seeing his distress, Icelin brought her staff up close to her face. The dwarf needed to be able to get at the drow through the fire and steam, and Icelin wanted to make sure Ruen was all right. That meant getting rid of the fire. Her body was still sluggish from the poison, but manipulating water was not a difficult spell, not with the cave breezes to aid her, and the staff guided and focused her energy.

Whispering the words of the spell, Icelin held up the staff. She pointed it across the river, and a burst of air shot out, stirring up waves. The roiling water from her spell pierced the curtain of fire and quelled it. Cool air flowed through the cavern in the wake of the blaze. When the steam dissipated, Icelin saw the drow wizard was still standing on air in the middle of the river. One of the drow warriors had levitated high above and hovered near the cavern ceiling, his hand crossbow held at the ready. The third drow was nowhere in sight.

The missing warrior didn’t seem to trouble Obrin. He shouted a laugh and hurled his axe at the drow hovering near the ceiling. The weapon spun end over end, black horns flashing. The drow tried to dodge, but it was too late. Obrin’s axe impaled the warrior in the chest with a sickening thud. The force of impact bent the drow’s lithe body backward and knocked him out of the grip of the levitation spell. He fell into the river, and both he and the axe disappeared beneath the water.

“You’re outmatched, little drow!” Garn shouted at the wizard. “Your spells won’t protect you forever.”

The wizard laughed scornfully. “You hardly have the advantage, dwarf,” he answered in Common. “One of your comrades is weak from our poison, and the other is missing a weapon. How much longer will your own magic protect you? Why don’t you retreat to your city? We’ll root you out there eventually, but why not claim some peace while you can?”

Icelin watched Garn’s face. She expected him to react with anger, to strike out at the drow with his axe as Obrin had done, but Garn’s expression remained a mask of impassivity. He went to stand next to Obrin, and the two of them exchanged a glance. Garn murmured, “We’re not lost yet, wizard,” and touched the axe on his belt. The runes along the blade flashed.

Obrin held out his hands, palms up, and his own axe materialized in the air. Obrin took the weapon, smiled faintly, and nodded to his father.

The drow’s gloating expression vanished. Furiously, he began casting again-conjuring shields, Icelin guessed, so he wouldn’t find himself with Obrin’s axe blade protruding from his stomach.

Ruen burst from the river, coughing and scrubbing water out of his eyes. The second drow crossbowman surfaced in front of him. A dagger glinted in his grip, reflecting the light from Icelin’s staff.

“Ruen!” Icelin screamed.

Ruen grabbed the drow’s wrist before he could stab him with the weapon. They grappled with each other and the current for a breath, but Ruen was the stronger. He turned the dagger aside and forced the drow’s arm down, driving the weapon into the warrior’s own stomach. Ruen pushed the drow’s body aside, letting the river carry it away.

Icelin picked up Ruen’s hat and went to the shoreline. Ruen swam across, fighting the current, and pulled himself, dripping, from the water. He accepted his hat gravely and put it on his head.

“Are you all right?” Icelin asked.

He nodded. “And you?”

“Well enough.” Icelin leaned on her staff for support. Her sleeve had stopped the bleeding. Weakness dragged at her limbs, but she gritted her teeth against it. She’d been in the Underdark less than a day, and already she was sick of it. “Your comrades are gone, and I’m strong enough to hurl more spells at you,” she shouted at the drow wizard. “Surrender!”

Shields in place, the wizard turned to look at Icelin. His eyes changed, the red light deepening with hatred and a resolve that frightened her. Cornered as he was, he’d kill himself and all of them before he let himself be taken. The drow raised his hands and so did Icelin, spitting out the words to one of her most potent spells. She did it without thinking.

Or considering the consequences.

Her staff clattered to the ground as an all too familiar wave of sickness washed over her, a clawing sensation in her stomach that spread outward to her limbs. She tried to concentrate on the spell, but it was too big, a wild thing growing inside her. On a broken cry, Icelin thrust her arms out from her body.

Lightning erupted from her hands, but what should have been a contained burst instead manifested as huge, jagged bolts that sizzled from her flesh and raised the hair all over Icelin’s body. Stalactites rained down from the cavern ceiling as the lightning tore through them. Loud cracks and pops filled the air, and amid the chaos came the wizard’s scream. Lightning had burned through his spell shields all at once.

“Icelin!”

Ruen’s voice came to her distantly, through the blue blur of the electrical storm. “Stay away! All of you get away from me!” She screamed and bent double, clutching her stomach to try to rein in the spell, but the lightning came from everywhere: her hands, arms, and chest. Smoke rose around her, and even the blood from her wound took on an eldritch blue radiance.

Gods, I’m bleeding magic now, Icelin thought. The smell of charred flesh filled her nostrils, making her gag. She prayed that only the drow wizard had been killed by her lightning. But what if it wasn’t his burning flesh she smelled? What if Ruen had gotten too close?

It was too much. Icelin’s legs gave out, and she fell, curling into a ball on the cavern floor. She stopped fighting the sleep poison, let it cloud her mind and numb her limbs. Sparks burst in the air, bright pops in front of Icelin’s eyes, but the storm appeared to be dying down. The poison might even be helping to calm the lightning storm of magic. Icelin never thought she’d be grateful to the drow for that favor.

Her eyes drifted closed, and when she opened them, Ruen and Garn were leaning over her. Obrin stood behind them, keeping watch. They were alive, their flesh not charred and stripped away by lightning. Icelin almost couldn’t think beyond her relief, but then she saw Ruen’s face. It was a tight, pale mask, his eyes wide.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Slowly, Icelin sat up, aware of Ruen’s arm at her back, supporting her. “I think so,” she said. It was mostly a lie, but she didn’t want to worry him more. A hollow sensation had taken over her body, a lightness, as if she’d been emptied of all her energy at once. Right now, she was a shell. The sensation would pass but not quickly. Her arm ached, and the poison still coursed through her, but Icelin thought she could walk if she had to.

“Damn impressive sight,” Garn said, chuckling. “You burned that wizard to a crisp, girl.”

Well, at least I made someone happy, Icelin thought. A lump rose in her throat, but she couldn’t even cry. Maybe the magic had burned the tears out of her too.

Obrin lifted his axe and gave a sudden cry. Icelin tensed, but then she realized there was no alarm in the dwarf’s voice. His cry had been one of greeting.

“Is everyone all right?” called a voice from across the river.

Icelin turned. On the opposite bank, torchlight shone through a narrow tunnel, the place where Garn had been leading them before the attack. A cluster of dwarves stood at the tunnel mouth.

“You said to wait, and I waited, now let me through, damn you all!”

The familiar, grumbling voice made Icelin tremble with relief. Sull broke through the group of dwarves, but finding no bridge across the river, he paced back and forth along the shoreline.

“Are you all right, Icelin?” he called to her. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“Hurt her?” Garn said. “Did you see that lightning storm?”

Ruen’s hand clenched into a fist. Icelin wished Garn would stop sounding so damned pleased. “We’re fine, Sull,” she said, offering the butcher a weary smile. “We came to rescue you.”

“We heard the fightin’ and got here just in time to see the light show, but these two wouldn’t let me go to you,” Sull complained, pointing to a pair of female dwarves. The taller of the two was fair-haired, and the other had mahogany braids similar to Obrin’s. They both had axes identical to Obrin’s and Garn’s hanging from their belts, down to the three black horns. Echoes of Garn’s features showed up in the women’s faces, though only faintly in the fair-haired one.

“Are those your sisters?” Icelin asked Obrin. The dwarf only grunted, but it sounded to Icelin like an affirmative.

“We came back when we heard the fighting. We were worried those two were giving you trouble,” said the dark-haired dwarf woman in Common. “I see it was the drow instead.”

Obrin said something sharp, gesturing with his axe toward the tunnel mouth.

“He’s right,” Garn said. “This isn’t the place to talk. Wait until we’re home.”

“Agreed,” said the fair-haired dwarf, also speaking in the common tongue for Icelin, Ruen, and Sull’s benefit. Apparently, Obrin was the only one of the Blackhorn family with an objection to using Common. “We’re all tired from the journey down.” Her eyes met Icelin’s as she spoke.

Icelin didn’t argue. Sull was safe, and for the moment, at least, it seemed the dwarves meant them no harm. If there were more drow lurking about, she wanted to get somewhere safe as quickly as possible. Then they would determine the dwarves’ intent.

The fair-haired dwarf moved to the edge of the river and picked up a stone. Bringing it to her lips, she spoke a phrase in Dwarvish then cast the stone into the river.

A faint rumbling sounded from deep beneath the water, echoing in the cavern. One by one, stones rose from the river, stained dark by water and algae. They hovered above the river, fastening together to form a rough footbridge.

“Watch your step,” Garn advised, leading the way across the bridge.

Obrin followed him, and Icelin and Ruen came last. Ruen was still soaking wet from his dip in the river, but he never missed his footing on the slick stones. Not for the first time as she scrambled over the rocks was Icelin grateful that she’d abandoned her linen dresses in exchange for breeches and sturdy boots.

When they were safely on the other side, Obrin took up a position at the rear of the group and Icelin, Ruen, and Sull fell into the middle of the group of dwarves.

Icelin threw her uninjured arm around Sull for a hug. When Sull’s familiar warmth enveloped her, Icelin felt some of the emptiness inside her filling up. She tried to push the fractured images of the lightning storm and the smell of burning flesh from her mind.

“What did you do to get yourself captured like this?” Icelin demanded of Sull in mock sternness. “You should have been able to escape those two.” She pointed to the dwarf women.

“Not just the two,” Sull protested. “All four of them came on me at once, said I’d desecrated their burial grounds while I was diggin’ through a mint patch. I told them we weren’t lookin’ to disturb the dead; we were after that Arcane Script Sphere.”

“I see,” Icelin said, patting his arm. “What was their response?”

Sull’s face screwed up in dismay. “They all drew their matchin’ axes and said I was comin’ with them. Once they had me underground, they were goin’ to send a group back to capture you two, assumin’ you didn’t come after us.”

“Since you did come, it saved us the trouble,” Garn said.

“What Sull told you is true. We didn’t come here intending to desecrate your burial grounds,” Icelin said. She hesitated, remembering what Garn had said earlier. He knew what they sought. “This isn’t about that, is it? It’s about the Arcane Script Sphere.”

The dwarves exchanged glances. A flutter of emotions passed between the siblings and their father. The moment passed quickly, and the fair-haired dwarf turned to Icelin.

“We can’t speak of the sphere, but we do believe you intended no harm to our burial grounds,” she said. “I’m Joya. My sister is Ingara. Sull told me your names-Icelin and Ruen.”

“Our thanks to you both for aiding my father and brother against the drow,” Ingara spoke up. She had a rougher voice than Joya, and her gaze was direct. “You might have taken that opportunity to gain the advantage over them, but you didn’t.” Obrin shot his sister an annoyed glare, but Ingara merely laughed. “We can’t afford to spit in the face of aid against the drow, Brother.”

“Your friend Sull offered us similar aid when a pair of spiders attacked us,” Joya interrupted when it looked as if Obrin might wring his sister’s neck. She grinned at the butcher. “He stood in front of us armed with a meat cleaver and a tenderizing mallet. It was so … gallant.”

“Overprotective as a mother bear, but Sull’s meat stew and vegetables will make you weep with pleasure,” Icelin said, grinning at Sull. The butcher blushed.

“Why did you aid us?” Garn said. The runepriest was not nearly as congenial as his daughters were. As they stood talking, he stared into the darkness of the adjoining tunnels with a distant, inevitable expression, as if waiting for more enemies to descend upon them.

Ruen, who’d been quiet for most of the conversation, and who watched the darkness with the same attentiveness as Garn, spoke up. “You had Sull,” he said. “If you’d died, we would never have found him.”

“That’s the only reason?” Garn said, shooting an assessing glance at Ruen. Icelin wondered if he found it as hard to read Ruen’s expressions as she sometimes did.

When Ruen didn’t immediately reply, Icelin said, “We would have helped you, no matter what, had you needed it, but you and your son hardly required our aid. The runes you cast were stunning,” she told Garn, remembering the sense of peace that washed over her when he’d cast the healing magic on Obrin. “I’ve never seen such stable Art.”

“And that’s why you’re hunting the Arcane Script Sphere,” Ingara said, turning her direct gaze on Icelin. “Sull told us why you were exploring the ruins, but he didn’t mention your wild magic.”

“It’s the work of her spellscar,” Ruen said. “We had information that suggested the Arcane Script Sphere could stabilize wild magic.”

“What made you think such information was worth a rothe’s tongue?” Garn said. “Coming from the surface, from the humans? And what made you think you could just take the sphere if you found it?”

“We don’t want to take it,” Icelin said, “just to examine it. We don’t even know if it will help me-”

“But if it does,” Ruen interjected, “that’s another matter.”

This time Obrin reacted to his words. He turned and made a sharp gesture, pointing at Icelin and Ruen and speaking rapidly in Dwarvish. His eyes flashed angrily.

Icelin stepped forward, holding up her hands. “Calm down,” she told Obrin and shot a glare at Ruen. “We’re not thieves. I swear it.”

“It’s not just that,” Ingara said. “You don’t know …” But before she could go on, Joya touched her sister’s shoulder and said something quietly in their native language. Ingara fell silent, but she looked unhappy.

“There are mysteries here,” Icelin said, addressing Ruen. “Did I mention I was sick to death of mysteries, too?”

“Gods’ patience, are we going to stand here arguin’ forever?” Sull said, his rough voice cutting into the tense silence. “At least let’s have a meal and some drink. Aw, why couldn’t you have kidnapped me after I’d gotten the rest of my spices?”

The butcher’s mournful expression made Icelin chuckle. She couldn’t help it. Glancing at Joya and Ingara, she saw them biting their lips to keep from grinning. Some of the tension eased out of the group, and they moved off down the tunnels with Garn in front and Obrin bringing up the rear.

“We’re not far from the city,” Garn said as they walked. “Our king, Mith Barak, will be able to tell you more than we can about what you seek and to decide if you should be punished for your crimes. But my daughters are right, we owe you thanks for your aid.”

The conversation subsided. Despite Garn’s promise, they marched for what felt like hours, and as the time passed, Icelin leaned more and more heavily on her staff. She didn’t want to be a burden, but the remnants of the drow poison lingered in her blood, and the wild magic had taken an even greater toll. She almost called out to Garn to ask for a rest when she saw the tunnel ahead widening. A string of adjoining passages met up with the main one, and voices drifted from the smaller tunnels.

Icelin gasped as the reek of sweat and blood hit her nostrils. On the heels of these grim heralds, a score and more dwarves spilled out into the passage ahead of them. They carried swords, shields, and maces-and litters. At least a dozen dead or injured were among the group. Some of them had no visible wounds, but they shivered and convulsed as if in the throes of some horrible fever. Their bearers stumbled and struggled to keep them on the litters.

“Darlan!” Garn called to one of the dwarves.

Some of the party slowed and turned to greet Garn, and the next moment, Icelin’s group fell in amongst them. Icelin kept close to Sull and Ruen, but the dwarves on the litters drew her gaze.

“There are more dead than wounded,” she whispered to Sull, but the butcher had his eyes on the litters too and didn’t seem to hear her.

“What’s he saying?” Ruen asked Joya, nodding at Garn. “Was it more drow who attacked them?”

Instead of replying, Joya translated for them.

“What news from the Vehrenar Pass?” Garn addressed a red-bearded dwarf with a battered shield hanging from his bandaged arm. Blood soaked through the bandage and dripped onto the ground, but the dwarf didn’t seem to notice.

“We held it until the spiders attacked,” Darlan said, “swarms of them. They just kept coming, so we had to fall back.”

Standing in front of Icelin, Ingara shivered and clutched her axe. Obrin turned to his sister and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze.

“This can’t be all that’s left of your men,” Garn said, incredulous.

“Aye, it is,” Darlan said bitterly. “At the last, we had to collapse the tunnel. We’d have been decimated otherwise.”

A pair of dwarves shouldered past Icelin carrying another litter, but up ahead the tunnel narrowed, slowing the pace of the group and crowding everyone together.

A cold, clammy hand latched onto Icelin’s arm.

Gasping, she tried to jerk away, but the hand held her fast. It was the dwarf on the litter. He stared up at Icelin with a distant, fevered light in his brown eyes.

“Marella,” he said in a hoarse whisper. It sounded like a name. “Marella.” Then he uttered a stream of words in Dwarvish that Icelin didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” Icelin said. She looked to the litter bearers, hoping one of them spoke Common. “What did he say?”

“He asked you for water,” said one of the dwarves. “He’s out of his head, thinks you’re his wife.” The litter bearers glanced at each other helplessly then looked back at Icelin. There was something empty and remote in their eyes, as if it took all their strength just to carry their burden. They had nothing left in them with which to attend or comfort their companion.

Icelin fumbled the stopper from her waterskin with her free hand and held it to the dwarf’s lips. The dwarf released her-leaving five angry red marks on her skin-and slurped greedily from the bladder. Rivulets of water darkened his beard, mingling with the tears that dripped from his eyes.

“Marella,” he said again, pushing the waterskin back at her. He coughed once, violently, spraying water and blood all over himself and Icelin.

“It’s … all right,” Icelin said. She put away the waterskin and wiped the blood flecks from her face. “Try to rest. You’re almost home.”

The crowd started to move. Icelin walked alongside the litter until the tunnel widened again and the dwarves were able to hurry forward. Her last sight of the injured dwarf was his hand lifted in the air, vaguely reaching for her.

“Marella …” His voice echoed, lost and childlike.

Icelin took a wavering step as if to follow him, but she found she couldn’t move. She covered her mouth with her hand, suddenly afraid she might be sick.

“It’s all right,” Sull said from behind her. “You did what you could for him.” He draped an arm across her shoulders. Until she felt his warmth, Icelin hadn’t realized she was shivering. She didn’t need Ruen’s gift to tell her the dwarf was near death. She leaned into Sull’s body gratefully and let him support her as they walked on.

Finally, the two groups passed out of the long tunnel, and suddenly there were guards all around them, a dozen warriors heavily armored and grim looking. Icelin might have been afraid of the presence of so much steel and so many dour-faced dwarves, but the passage ahead temporarily distracted her, for it contained the largest door she’d ever seen.

Ten feet tall and made of solid iron, the gate to Iltkazar wedged perfectly into the stone, an immovable titan that Icelin couldn’t imagine an enemy ever being able to break down. That was assuming the enemy made it so far, past the armored dwarves and clerics who stood on either side of the door.

The clerics immediately went to work tending the wounded dwarves, but Icelin noticed a few of them watching her and her companions with steely glares as they approached the iron door. Was it her imagination, or did their displeasure deepen when they caught sight of her? It must be her staff-they recognized her for a wizard-or else they sensed the wild Art inside her.

Icelin shook those irrational thoughts away. Likely they were simply suspicious of outsiders. There was no point in dwelling on her fears. She had no control over how the dwarves felt about her or her companions, but they’d obviously brought them here for a reason, one that Icelin suspected had little to do with their desecrating a burial ground.

As soon as they started discussing the Arcane Script Sphere, the dwarves had become agitated. Icelin sensed their anger wasn’t directed at her specifically, but she’d known enough of secrets in her life to know when someone was hiding something from her.

Perhaps this King Mith Barak would be able to enlighten them.

A shattering groan lifted Icelin from her thoughts. The massive iron door creaked open under the direction of the guards, and Icelin had another cause for wonderment. The door itself was at least three feet thick, lumbering open by inches, guided by the grim-faced warriors.

Joya came up beside her. “Few outsiders are allowed to witness the Gate Guardians opening the outer door,” she commented.

“The outer door?” Icelin echoed, incredulous. “Are there more doors like this one between us and the city?”

Joya’s soft, melodic laughter made Icelin think of elves and forests rather than iron and rock. “Nine doors lie between this spot and my city. The outer doors are a pair of iron giants. The inner six are iron, too, but cloaked in hizagkuur, one of our magical metals. The innermost is the mithral door, last protector of the Mithral City, our home.” The dwarf woman cleared a catch in her throat as she spoke these words. “Welcome to Iltkazar, Icelin.”