AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The throne room was long, high, and austere, formed into a tunnel that narrowed at the top into a triangular arch like a shovel-tip. Squared-off pillars running up the sides created a series of alcoves. In each alcove stood a member of the king’s bodyguard.
A long, slightly raised walkway ran from the door wardens to the steps leading to King Fangbreaker’s iron throne, forged from the melted weapons of those he vanquished in single combat, or so Djaybee told her. To either side of the walkway were wooden benches of dwarf-size, positioned so the bodygard could look out over all.
Long files of dwarves filled the twin bench areas, snaking back and forth in long lines, many carrying sealed scrolls, or gifts. (Baskets of food seemed to be the most popular—Wistala smelled one surreptitiously; it was filled with sausages and cheeses and tiny bits of hard-baked salty bread.) The older or expectant mothers sat, others stood, some talked to their fellow petitioners across the raised walkway and made jokes about having joined the slower-moving line, according to Djaybee.
Upon reaching the front of one of the two lines, the petitioner would speak to a purple-garbed dwarf seated at a little half-desk. The one to the left was male, the one to the right female, her face hidden under elaborate draping. Sometimes the officials would write, sometimes they would lay a waxen seal upon the petition, and sometimes they passed gifts up to the king through his guards.
King Fangbreaker sat on his throne with his artifical leg off. He toyed with the skull-and-crystal, his heel resting on the horsehoof which had been detached somehow, and used it as a baton to point, or offer a sort of salute of acknowledgment to those who brought gifts, or to wave the very few of the petitioners up who would be granted a personal audience.
Behind King Fangbreaker sat a line of the dwarf nobles, some dozing against their fellows. She recognized a few of them from the balconies, but thanks to the masks, it was hard to tell one dwarf from another.
“I shall wait in line for you, Oracle,” Djaybee said, moving for the back of the left line, which stood three-quarters of the way toward the entrance.
But King Fangbreaker turned and called to one of his nobles, who rose and hurried down the raised central walkway. He bobbed and gestured for Wistala to come directly up the center aisle.
As she approached, she noticed that one of the sets of stairs was in fact an overhang. There appeared to be a room under the dais. She saw helmets in the shadows within and some sort of war machine with a good view of those waiting in line, and especially the central walkway.
“Tala, step up! Tala, it is a pleasure to see you,” King Fangbreaker said. “Are your accommodations lofty and airy enough for your comfort?”
“They are admirable, my king, and I could fill your afternoon with a thousand thanks, but I’ve had visions that I thought I should bring to your attention.”
“Shall we speak privately?” King Fangbreaker said, his eyes narrowing.
“Oh, no, this is good news for you and all your people. But I fear I must ask that all who participate in the discussion speak Parl that I may weigh their words, for I have no knowledge of Dwarvish.”
“Easily done. Do all hear?” King Fangbreaker said.
The nobles behind stirred, and the two attendants to either side set down their pens and seal-wax. All listened.
Wistala spoke loudly enough for all—at least all who could understand Parl—but she kept her snout fixed on the king: “I’ve had troubling dreams the last week, but I thought they only applied to me. It was of tasty dishes, gold, all things a dragon’s stomach desires. But they came in one door and out the other all while I slept unaware.”
“Opportunity passing you by,” King Fangbreaker said. “The lowliest soothsayer could tell as much.”
“Ah, but then last night came a very specific dream. I saw a great triumphant parade, celebrating dwarves, fireworks, marching up a street paved with gold toward you, Good King. I believe an opportunity is coming your way.”
“Can you add anything more helpful?” King Fangbreaker asked, twirling his leg.
“The one who led the parade was a human boy, a boy of fair hair and wide set eyes, bronze skin. But he was in manacles, my king. You embraced him, struck off his manacles, and took him to your breast, and the broken pieces of manacle turned into an ancient crown, and the boy put it on your head, but as he hesitated, the crown began to fade, and I woke up.
“I fear this opportunity may be brief, Great King.”
“This is not helpful at all. There must be a million boys—”
“He was aged eleven years or so. Garbed like a barbarian, somewhat dirty about the face and hands. Perhaps he is a slave.”
King Fangbreaker set his chin on his hand and thought. “Still a search for a nugget in a riverbed.”
Wistala cocked her head, the way Auron used to when he had trouble understanding one of her ideas. “What do you mean—you must know the name! Is no one talking of it? Did you not hear the eagle?”
She saw the whites of King Fangbreaker’s eyes. “Eagle? What eagle?”
“A most remarkable eagle flying at sunrise circled over Thul’s Hardhold, my king. Purple it was—”
“Purple?” Fangbreaker thundered.
Wistala continued: “And as it circled it called the name Rayg in so mighty a voice, I can’t imagine anyone didn’t hear it. But now I fear it was part of the dream, as well.”
“Did anyone see this eagle?” King Fangbreaker said, hopping off his iron throne and standing on one leg, using the throne-arm to balance.
