“Is that all, son?” he heard himself call. Is that all? What more could there possibly be?
“I was right about the zinc,” his son’s voice said.
“Knulla zinc,” he spat, unable to take his eyes from the treasure in his hands.
His son’s face appeared in the rock wall’s aperture, holding the lantern aloft. “What is it, father?”
Harclimar had an inkling, but did not want to get his son’s hopes up. By looks alone, what he held was a special find, so rare he dared not speak of. He could feel its infrangible solidity, yet he feared that to express his suspicions would cause the rock to disintegrate before him. Could it be? he asked himself. And how? he added. This stone should be hidden. It should not have been so easily found. Or, he wondered, was there a reason behind it? Was there a reason it had come to him?
He would need to consult with a summoner, perhaps more than one. But whom could he trust?
“Father?”
“This,” Harclimar voiced at last, “is a stone that can change the world.” His world, certainly. If Harclimar was right, a find such as this one could make him a very rich dwarf indeed.
“Who would want that?” Harcligan asked.
“Many, my son,” Harclimar replied, thinking only of the stone. “There are many—dwarf, elf, and man—who would desire this.”
The summoner Elsorin Fairhaven lit a candle and sat down on his bed with a groan. For all his skill with magic, he was still growing old. He had done rituals to evade the creaking of bones, to soften the burning in his back, but to no avail. The common folk believed the summoners were omnipotent. “If only that were true,” he whispered aloud to his empty room.
The summoners lived austere lives, yet, as head of the Order of Arrunwolfe, his room in the keep was larger than most. Summoners were not generally cloistered, but lived among the people, often peripatetic, travelling here and there as they were needed, relying on the hospitality of strangers. Some had familiars, some did not. And because the summoners were often effective at their arts, the people were generous. Elsorin did not live sumptuously, but he was comfortable.
Except for when he wasn’t. The pain in his back was growing worse, and nothing he did seemed to help. He had resisted asking for help from the physic, seeing it as a sign of weakness. But he knew what the old lady would say—not coming to her was a sign of pride. She would not be wrong, but that did not make it easier.
Elsorin was just lifting his feet from the floor when he heard an urgent rapping on his door. “Horn of blood,” he spat, and groaned as he stood. He reached for his cane and headed for the door. He was only halfway to the door when it swung open, which meant two things—it was his personal assistant, Riza, as no one else would dare enter unbidden; and that the matter was important.
Riza bowed, averting her eyes from his nightshirt. Her familiar, a mouse named Kibit, skittered under the hem of her robe. “I’m sorry, master.”
“Yes, yes, yes. What’s so important?”
“The oracle! …The oracle has awakened.”
“Oh.” That was news indeed. The blind summoner Objor sat enthroned in the temple of the Keep, but he was usually motionless and silent. It was magic that kept him alive, and it was through magic that he beheld his visions. And the last time Elsorin could remember the oracle speaking, the order master still had hair on his head.
“Quickly, help me into my robe,” Elsorin commanded, and Riza darted to the clothes horse near the foot of the master’s bed. She was shorter than he—much shorter—but held the robe up as high as she could. Every now and then Kibit would skitter over his naked toe. It no longer bothered him. He had to stoop to put his arm through the sleeve, which made his back spasm, but he managed it. Tightening his cincture, he set his cane on the floor and pointed to the door with his chin. “Let’s go.”
Riza fluttered around him as he walked, rushing ahead to open doors, waiting until he passed, shutting doors behind him, then rushing ahead again, her mouse racing around her feet. The Keep was cold at night and Elsorin cursed the fact that he had not put on his slippers. Too late now, he thought.
The newfangled gas lamps stretched out at eye level along the corridors. They emitted a steadier glow than the torches used to, and with far less smoke. They had been a good decision. He had made a lot of good decisions, he realized. It was not for nothing that the Order of Arrunwolfe had elected him their master. He was worthy, and he knew it. He didn’t lord it over anyone—at least he didn’t think he did—but he had a keen sense of his authority and power. He had used it judiciously, and he was proud of what they had done.
The worlds of the bright races were thriving, in no small part due to the ministry of the summoners. Certainly there were those who disapproved of magic, but they were in the minority. Most people loved the summoners and were appreciative of how much easier their lives were because of them. They loved them because the order members were disciplined and principled. And it was he who made sure of that.
Elsorin felt a little winded by the time they made it to the temple. Riza rushed ahead to open the doors and strained against them. During the day they were always open. What purpose it served to close them at night, Elsorin did not know. It was simply what had always been done. That was a rule that could be changed. He made a mental note.
Grunting, Riza succeeded and Elsorin pushed past her, hearing the great doors shut behind them as Riza and her mouse flitted once more to his side, ready for whatever he might need.
He lifted his eyes to the dais where the oracle sat. He froze.
Objor the Seer sat bolt upright, his thin, atrophied muscles taught as a bow-string. His sightless eyes were wide, and the rheumy film that covered them seemed to glow. His mouth was open, and on his face was a look of abject horror. His familiar, a moth named Tepi, fluttered nervously about his head.
“What is it?” Elsorin asked. “What has he said?”
Two scribes sat at the base of the dais. It was their job to record anything the oracle uttered. One of them slunk down, his shoulders sagging, refusing to meet Elsorin’s gaze.
“What’s with you?” Elsorin snapped. “Let me guess—it has been twenty years since the oracle has spoken, and so you have no ink in your pot?”
The young man withered before him, squirmed in his seat, looked like he wished he could disappear. Elsorin turned his attention to the other scribe. “I trust you are better prepared?”
“I am, master,” the young woman tried not to look superior. She failed. Her familiar, a ferret with enormous eyes, beheld the oracle with rapt attention. Every now and then it shuddered.
“Good. What has he said?”
The young woman looked down at her paper in order to report the words precisely. “The key has been found.”
“Key? What key?” Elsorin scowled. “Is that all he said?”
The scribe met his eyes. She nodded.
The oracle stirred. Elsorin whirled about to face him, his muscles tense, his pains forgotten.
The oracle gazed off into some far part of space that only he could see. His jaw worked as if he were trying to get his mouth around an unpronounceable word. Finally, the words came.
“The unbreakable barrier…will be broken. There is a pinprick of light…it illumines the void. The prisoner writhes in the darkness…now he has hope. Oh…oh…woeful hope! Oh…oh…baneful hope!“