Chapter 5

On another night, the rumors flying across the common room of the Fenfire Den would have captured Niom’s interest. Rumors bred in such places like mosquitoes over stagnant pools, often proving just as irritating and useless. But this was one strand of gossip even Niom was interested in. It wasn’t every day, after all, that dragons flew over Elendol.

Yet his brooding friend next to him made conversation all but impossible.

“Dragons,” Niom said, unable to tolerate the sullen silence any longer. “Never thought I’d hear tell of them in Elendol, much less that there’s something to the rumors.”

Leras didn’t even look over, just swallowed another mouthful of ale and continued to stare into the corner of the room. Though prone to bouts of melancholy, rare was the time Niom had seen him so despondent. Tall, fair of feature, and willow-strong from his “dancing,” the prince caught the eyes of women from every bloodline, and a few men as well. Niom, as squat and stolid as any dwarf—and with a fiery beard and hair to boot—was all but invisible to those gazes. Yet he knew it wasn’t only Leras’s looks that drew their admiration. The prince walked with the confidence of one born to authority. As much as he complained of his lot, there was no denying it suited him like mud to a boot.

Had his friend been any less generous and self-effacing, it might have been enough for Niom to hate him. As it was, Niom had cared for him as a brother.

Though the Barrow Kings know I’ve enough siblings.

Niom took a swig of his own ale and stared idly around the room. The Fenfire Den was their usual haunt, an establishment that would have been too rich for Niom’s blood without Leras financing their debauchery, as it was one of the finest in the Mire. The mint-sweet smoke of iceleaf wafted in a haze throughout the common room, awakened with each patron passing through it. The gentle curves of the low ceiling told of its location under a kintree, the walls raised and sealed against the mighty roots. In the hearth, the “fenfire” for which the tavern was named illuminated the room in merry emerald hues. If the tales were to be believed, it was born of an eternal flame, one fueled by gases arising naturally from the swamp—though the replenishing of wood and the occasional muttered charm by its proprietor cast doubt on that story.

“Heard something at the warehouse?”

Niom looked back to Leras. His friend didn’t sound interested in his own question, but a halfhearted conversation was better than none.

“Remember Immath? He and some other Imperials live out just beyond the Sun Gate. They claim they saw it—called it ‘a blue spark in the sky.’” Niom forced a laugh. “Just a bird paired with thick-headed imagination, to my thinking.”

“You’d know about thick heads.”

Smiling, Niom tilted back his mug only to find it empty. Pretending to take a sip, he set it back down.

It didn’t escape Leras’s notice. Extracting the mug from Niom’s hand, he held it up. A server stopped to pour a fresh flagon.

“Thanks,” Niom muttered into his beard as he sipped his refreshed ale.

Leras waved his thanks away. His friend had covered his drinks ever since it became apparent Niom couldn’t afford to visit the Fenfire nearly as often as the prince preferred. But even after several years of this ritual, Niom never grew used to it.

“Still,” Niom said, eager not to lapse back into silence, “Immath isn’t prone to lying like some. Must’ve seen something ‘less he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”

Leras stared into his tankard of ale, the amber turned a sickly green in the firelight. “I think I felt it pass.”

Niom eyed his friend. “Felt it?”

“Like a shadow in sunlight.” The prince rubbed his jaw, a habit of his. Niom had been friends with him long enough to know what was behind it: the unconscious desire for a smooth chin like other elves. That night, he’d be disappointed. Here at the arse-end of the day, dark stubble peppered his skin, his human blood stubbornly showing no matter how closely Leras shaved.

Ought to just grow it out, the stoneskulled fool.

“Why appear now?” Leras continued, seeming to speak to himself more than Niom. “Few have seen dragons since they returned to the World, and none over a city.”

“Why do dragons do anything? You’d know better than a Mireling like me.” Niom took a long draft. Already, he’d halfway drained the pewter. Judging by the way the night was going, he’d thank his stones he had a dwarf’s constitution.

“If only you’d remember it.” Leras’s lips curved upward, if briefly. Even in the worst of times, the prince could conjure a smile. “But my tutors know little of dragons.”

Niom furrowed his brow. “Wasn’t talking about tutors. You’ve better sources than that, haven’t you?”

Leras shrugged. There was no mistaking what Niom meant. Leras’s family and their old comrades were some of the few to have fought with—and against—dragons decades earlier, according to Leras himself.

“They’re intelligent,” the prince said slowly, as if trolling a river and waiting for fish to bite. “As much as we are, if not more. They’ve a good deal more brains than you, at least.”

“Only ‘cause they’re bigger.” Niom grinned, warming to the facade that all was well. Far better than tears, anyway. Save your salt for curing, his father might have said had the rotlung not taken him.

“They don’t act on instinct like ordinary animals or mundane nightkin,” Leras continued, “nor pure malevolence like voidspawn.”

“Malevolence.” Niom snorted into his drink. “There the prince goes again, talking pretty.”

Leras gestured to Niom’s upper lip with another small smile. Niom realized he had blown foam over his mustache and hurried to scrub it away, grinning sheepishly at Leras’s laugh.

“Let me finish,” his friend said. “They also possess sorcery—more than even my father did.”

Niom groaned. “And now we’re talking about Tal Harrenfel again.”

Leras rolled his eyes and finished his drink. “My father,” he carried on as if uninterrupted, “claims Yvärras, self-proclaimed Protectress of the World, was twice as mighty as he.”

Niom had heard many stories of how powerful Brannen Cairn had been in his past life, and not only from Leras. Going by Tal Harrenfel in those days, he had, with a retinue of companions, brought about the Godfall, ending the reign of the immortal sorcerer Yuldor Soldarin and the secret gods using him as their puppet. 

“She’s likely augmented her faculties in the decades since,” Leras continued. “And dragons wield magic as easily as we breathe. It’s partly how they fly, you know.”

“According to your father, maybe. But the old songs have it that Tal Harrenfel also slew Heyl single-handedly when he was nineteen. Pass the iceleaf, would you?”

Leras did as requested, though not before lighting the rolled-up leaves and taking a puff. As Niom took his turn, he basked in the feeling. Frigid smoke crawled down his throat and into his lungs before he sighed it out. A pleasant buzzing spread through his face, tingling even the ends of his beard. Few things could relax like iceleaf.

“Falcon Sunstring exaggerated his tales,” the prince admitted. “And the bard didn’t tell everything to protect his friend. But their other companions say Father himself doesn’t lie about his accomplishments.”

“If you say so.” Niom closed his eyes and sucked down the smoke again. He took too deep a breath and became gripped by a fit of coughing.

Leras pounded him on the back, gaze growing distant. “None of that explains what a dragon would be doing here. If they were content to snatch the odd cow from farms on the Fringes, why come near a city? To the center of Gladelyl, no less?”

“By the Deep, how should I know, chum?” Niom worked out, his voice still choked. “Think we dwarves are augurs like those toadstool-eating, cult-loving nightelves out east?”

Leras shrugged. Niom felt his good humor dissipate like coins did each time his mother purchased food for his many siblings. Hunching his shoulders, he swallowed from his pewter.

“I thought she’d understand,” Leras spoke into his cup. “Her, of all people.”

His friend spoke the thought as if from nowhere, but Niom knew. It had been knocking around his skull the entire time they’d nattered about dragons.

“Your queenly mother?” Niom prompted softly.

Leras smiled, though his eyes told a different story. “She was a warder, Niom. My uncle was Prime while he was alive. Dead gods, she took Rolan out east to kill gods when he was half my age!” His friend laughed, the sound rotten with bitterness. “Why would she do this to me?”

Niom turned his cup, staring at the liquid sloshing inside and thinking of his own mother. How she looked at him each time he walked out the door to break his back on their family’s behalf. “She wants to protect you, chum. As much as she can.”

Taking back the roll of iceleaf, Leras leaned back his head and took a long pull. “I know,” he sighed out, expelling smoke with his words. “I just wish…” Wincing, Leras took another drag.

Niom gestured for it back. He didn’t need Leras to put his feelings into words to understand. As different as their lives were, as far apart as their homes existed, they were both defined by their circumstances and longing to break free. To see who they could become if they only had the chance.

Inhaling, Niom let the smoke’s chill settle through him, then exhaled. “Give her time. Might be she’ll come around. Maybe when dragons aren’t circling over Elendol.”

Leras looked liable to disagree, the silver tendrils in his eyes speeding their revolutions. But before his friend could speak, their attention was pulled by a raucous voice behind.

“Told you once already, weed—this is our table.”

Niom twisted around, quickly locating the source of the offending words. Three elves stood over a round table tucked against the far side of the kintree root. All were dressed as befit Highkin or the sons of rich merchants, their clothes brightly dyed without a patch or loose thread to be seen. The speaker was far taller than Niom and even taller than Leras. Loose blond hair spilled down his back.

Beyond them, Niom glimpsed the woman they tormented to spot a rarer sight than Highkin: a sylvan. The Easterner didn’t look up at the smug scoundrel. Her bright hazel eyes seemed to peer beyond them, as if these elves were too lowly to be worthy of her concern. Her moss-green skin, saturated with the color of the fenfire hearth, remained smoothed of concern.

Though he sympathized with the woman, Niom wouldn’t have ordinarily intervened. Dwarves received enough grief from the taller bloodlines without seeking out more. As he recognized the sylvan, he felt even less inclination.

Through no fault of her own, Faerna was a frequent visitor to the Fenfire Den.

But his friend was already moving closer. For all Leras pretended to resent his Ilthasi protector, he wouldn’t stand by while she was threatened. Stifling a groan, Niom followed.

So much for keeping our noses clean.

The gold-maned elf leaned over the table, speaking close to the sylvan’s face. “Don’t make me say it again, weed. Wouldn’t want to have you thrown out.”

“I wouldn’t antagonize her were I you.”

Niom glanced up at his friend. Leras had transformed. Gone was the moroseness and defeat, replaced by a serene confidence and dangerous grace. The prince smiled, a sign that preluded too many of their spats for Niom to miss its portent.

The other elf twisted his head back to peer through the strands of silken hair fallen across his face. Pale eyes laced with cerulean threads flicked over Leras’s features before settling on his ears. A familiar sneer claimed his features.

“What’s it to you, kolfash?”

Leras’s smile stiffened. Niom looked away from him and stepped forward, a bonfire roaring in his chest. For all the abuse he would tolerate toward himself, none insulted his closest friend and got away with it.

“Careful, chum,” he growled. “Wouldn’t want to give me an excuse to cave in those pretty teeth, would you?”

The gold-haired elf came fully upright to tower over Niom. “Not like you could reach them, dwarf.”

Niom sized him up. The tall bastard seemed eager for a scrap. His companions appeared less willing, yet they didn’t back away. Uneven odds, by all appearances. Especially when neither he nor Leras had access to sorcery, while these elves did.

He never had to find out.

Next he knew, the smug elf was lying on the ground, groaning and holding a hand to his back where a well-placed punch could bruise a kidney. His other hand grasped his knee, which now bent at an awkward angle.

The sylvan stood over him, eyes just as flat as before.

“You gods-damned bitch!” the bastard moaned. “You skeevy little weed!”

His companions, far from looking to avenge their friend, backed away from the sylvan. She ignored them, her gaze rising to Leras.

“You are not safe here, Your Highness,” she said, her voice nearly as devoid of emotion as her eyes. “If you’ll allow me to escort you back to the Royal House.”

The blond elf fell silent at the open address, eyes gone wide as he stared at Leras. The young man’s comrades had all but vanished, seeming to abandon their friend to his fate.

Leras ignored them, twisting his lips as he gazed at Faerna. Niom swallowed a sigh of relief. Though it signaled the close to their night, it would make for an easier morning when he had to rise for work.

“Very well,” the prince relented. “Suppose I’ve drowned enough of my sorrows.”

Turning to Niom, Leras extended an arm. Niom took it and squeezed, his grip powerful enough for his friend to wince, though he smiled still.

“Tomorrow night?” Leras asked.

Niom hesitated, then shook his head. “Mother needs me to watch the little ones. But the night after.”

The silver threads slowed in his friend’s eyes, but Leras only nodded. “See you then.”

The prince fished out a few large coins and carelessly cast them onto the table. Niom tried not to follow their glitter. A week at the warehouse barely earned him so much.

With a nod, Leras followed his petite protector out of the Fenfire Den. Niom departed after the pair and turned in the opposite direction. The burdens on him, forgotten for those moments of drink and smoke, came piling back on his shoulders. But long ago, his father had taught him to stand straight.

Don’t let them grind you down, me boy, his father had said after chastising Niom for slouching. We’re short enough as is!

“Ah, there you are, my little marionette.”

Niom raised his fists, thinking the trio of elves had tailed him, looking for revenge against one they could safely take on. Only as he recognized the voice did he lower his hands.

“Lelweth,” he all but spat.

She emerged from the shadowed alley like a devil from the Deep. A gnome from the Severed Realms to the east, she was even shorter than himself and lean, though stockier than elven children her height. The violet cloth she wore hugged her figure and highlighted her curves. Her curly hair was dyed nearly as dark, though when the light hit the tresses at the right angle, they shone with an aubergine glow. Her ruby eyes, too, seemed to possess a light of their own, and her gray-blue skin didn’t lay dun, but was as smooth and lovely as flawless granite.

Most wouldn’t see her as a threat. Niom knew better. 

Lelweth, she’d said to call her years ago when she first approached him, not long after he and Leras had first met and become fast friends. It was the only name he had for her, but he doubted it was her true one. Subterfuge was a language all Yarns were fluent in, even when it didn’t come naturally.

As in himself.

“What do you want?” he growled.

The gnome smiled, putting her squared teeth on display. “What do I ever want? But that attitude won’t do, Niomadrum. Let’s not forget our obligations, hm? Our debts?”

He swallowed another snarling retort. Much as he resented it, she had him by the beard, and they both knew it.

“What is it this time?” he amended with marginally less hostility.

“Oh, little enough.” Lelweth glided around him with a grace Niom had once thought only existed among the elven bloodlines. “I only wish to chat.”

“That right? Picked a damned inconvenient time to catch up.” Niom moved past her, futilely hoping she might remain silent and allow him to leave.

“How is our noble prince faring? It must be tragic to be denied his dream.”

Such news shouldn’t have left the royal kintree by now, yet the Yarn’s knowledge of both the upper and lower city always extended further than seemed possible. Niom knew they were not the only two Yarns in Elendol. How many agents were seeded throughout Gladelyl and the Westreach beyond its borders? It wouldn’t surprise him if the Spinner had infected every land across Aolas.

Slowly, he turned back to her. Her scarlet eyes almost shone in the gloom.

“Aye,” Niom grunted. “He’s hurt. Thought his mother would understand.”

“But she did not.” Lelweth’s smile spread wide. “Ashelia Starkissed cannot bear the thought of any harm coming to her cubs, just like any mother.”

A disparate thought passed through his head, wondering if Lelweth was a mother herself. He pitied the poor child that was spun into her webs from birth.

The gnome sidled closer. “And what of the rumors?”

Niom blinked. “Rumors?”

“My, you do live with your head in the mud! Tell me you have heard them.” She narrowed her eyes. “Else I may wonder if this arrangement is quite so profitable.”

He didn’t have to grasp far to understand what she drove at. “You mean dragons.”

“What else?” Lelweth propped a hand on her hip and tilted her head. “Well? What does our royal family say of them?”

Niom suppressed a smile. It felt a minor victory each time he could deny the Yarn. Even if it further entangled him in their master’s plots.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve nothing you’ve not already heard. ‘Twas a sapphire that flew over Elendol, then went north. Warders went after it. That woman warder, Rynari, reported back to the queen that they ran into the Watch after finding some of the beast’s scat.”

“The Dragonwatch? My, my, that is intriguing.” Lelweth tapped a finger to her plum lips. “Perhaps you aren’t as useless as you make yourself out to be. And?”

Niom shrugged, trying to hide his irritation. “Warders escorted them to the border. ‘Tis the end of the matter, I’d wager.”

“And I would wager the exact opposite. How much would you like to bet?” The gnome grinned.

Surly at the mention of money, Niom refused to let her goad him. This time.

“No fun as usual.” Lelweth flowed forward to run a hand across Niom’s shoulders. He fought down a shudder. Though there was a strange allure to the gnome, he only felt revulsion at her touch.

Moving behind him, the Yarn leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Never forget your debts, Niomadrum. Who keeps your family clothed and fed? Not you, surely, with your warehouse wage.”

Niom grimaced. “That’s all I have. Spinner can’t punish me for that.”

“Oh, he can, my squat, squalid friend—indeed, he can. The Spinner may do as he wishes. Do not fail him. Or me.”

She nipped his ear hard enough to hurt, then her breath left his neck. Niom turned, looking to see where she’d gone, but Lelweth had already vanished among the shadows.

If only my debts could disappear.

With another shudder, Niom pulled his coat tighter around him and hurried home.