Jaleigh Johnson - Spider and Stone

“There’s no treasure to be had, and we’ll likely die alone and unmarked,” Ruen pointed out with a gallows smile.

“I suppose I can live with that, too, as long as you’re there beside me,” Icelin said. “I’m not chasing death,” she added.

“I know.”

“But if I do die, it will have meant something,” she decided, nodding to herself. “Yes, I think my parents would have agreed.”

“A wedding first,” Ruen said.

“Yes.” Icelin went to him and kissed him. A part of her still marveled that he didn’t pull away.

They emerged from the garden together and crossed the walkway back to the central plaza. Icelin’s mouth dropped open when she saw the size of the crowd that had gathered. The plaza was completely full, the crowd spilling over onto the surrounding bridges over the river. They packed into any open space, waiting to get a glimpse of Ingara and Arngam.

And the king, Icelin realized. Mith Barak stood on the raised dais with the master armswoman, Joya, Garn, Obrin, and a group of dwarves that Icelin didn’t recognize. They must have been Arngam’s family.

“This is more than just a wedding,” Ruen said, echoing Icelin’s thoughts. “The city gathers to hear the king speak on the night before the battle.”

“What will he say?” Icelin wondered.

“Whatever it is, we won’t hear it,” Ruen said. “We won’t get near the center of the plaza.”

Icelin looked up at the surrounding buildings. One of the shops near the temple had a stone lip running around it about fifteen feet off the ground. She led him through the crowd until they stood beneath the lip. “I have an idea,” she said. She stepped closer to Ruen and put her arm around his waist. She gripped her staff in her other hand and murmured the words of the spell. “Hold on,” she said.

The magic took hold, and they levitated above the crowd. Ruen grunted in surprise and tightened his grip on Icelin. “This wasn’t what I had in mind,” he said.

“Why not? You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Icelin said teasingly. She raised an eyebrow when he didn’t respond. “Gods, you aren’t really, are you?”

“No,” Ruen said tersely as they halted before the stone lip. He hoisted himself onto the shelf and helped Icelin up beside him.

“You’re lying. I can tell by that look of irritation. Oh, this is too wonderful.” Laughter bubbled up inside Icelin. “Shall we go a little higher? We could sit on the roof, you know. It’d give us a wonderful view down into the plaza.”

“This shelf is very narrow,” Ruen said, taking hold of Icelin’s waist. “I’m not sure the crowd would react in time to catch you if you fell.”

Icelin squeaked and shot him a mock glare. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

She wrinkled her nose. “A truce, then. But I won’t forget this weakness of yours, Morleth.”

He sighed. “Of course you won’t.”

Icelin started to reply, but across the plaza, Ingara and Arngam had stepped up onto the dais. “Gods,” Icelin murmured. “She’s beautiful.”

Dressed in the suit of armor her beloved had made for her, Ingara looked every inch the warrior queen as she stood before her king and bowed. Her long mahogany locks had been meticulously plaited. On her head rested a mithral helmet. Three obsidian horns curled from the top and sides. In her hands, she carried Vallahir.

Mith Barak stepped forward and raised his hands as the couple came together. A roar erupted from the crowd, and Ingara raised the war axe above her head for all to see. Red light glowed from deep within the carved runes on the axe, a ruby flame like the heart of the forge.

“The heart of the dwarf people,” Icelin murmured.

“What did you say?” Sitting slightly behind her, Ruen leaned over Icelin’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“The war axe, the armor-there’s so much more here than a wedding,” Icelin said.

“They know what’s at stake,” Ruen said.

Arngam stepped forward, and Ingara held out the axe to the king. Mith Barak took it and held the blade upright. Ingara lifted her hand to the axe and pressed her finger against the naked blade. They were too far away to see the blood that welled up from the wound, and Ingara’s gaze never left Arngam’s as she raised her finger to her lips. Arngam stepped forward and opened his own wound on the blade, brought it to his lips, then stepped forward and took Ingara’s hand.

The king spoke then for the first time.

“I stand as witness to this union between Ingara Blackhorn and Arngam of the Gallowglar clan. His shield is hers, and her blade strengthens him. May weapon and shield never be sundered. May their family thrive, and may Moradin’s blessings be upon them.”

Blood from their wounds on their lips, Ingara and Arngam kissed. Before they parted, the axe passed from Ingara’s hands to her husband’s, and he raised it above their heads, shaking it in triumph. The crowd erupted in cheers and raucous shouts.

Ruen’s arms tightened around her, and Icelin leaned back against him. Tears blurred her vision as Ingara embraced her husband again and planted another kiss on the blonde dwarf’s lips. The cavernous, lonely city filled with the sounds of joy and new beginnings, and for that instant, Iltkazar was full of life and vigor. Time pealed back, and Icelin imagined the city as it was at the height of its glory.

Did the dwarves feel it too? Did it give them hope? Icelin’s gaze strayed across the plaza, seeking the king. In this moment, more than any other, he had the chance to rally his people for the battle ahead.

He was gone. Sometime between the king’s declaration and the kiss, Mith Barak must have slipped away. Neither the crowd, nor Ingara and Arngam seemed to notice his absence. Icelin sought Joya in the crowd and found her standing beside Garn. Even from this distance, Icelin saw their troubled expressions.

“The king’s gone,” Icelin said, unsure if Ruen heard her over the crowd noise.

“I saw him heading for the hall,” Ruen said into Icelin’s ear, disapproval in his voice.

“Or the library,” Icelin said, “back to Zollgarza.”

“There’s Sull,” Ruen said, pointing to a table at the base of the dais, where the butcher directed several dwarves carrying platters of food. The wedding feast was about to begin.

Once the drinking and merriment started, the dwarves weren’t likely to notice the king’s absence. It was clear they wanted to celebrate while they could.

“Try to get Sull’s attention,” Icelin said, sliding toward the edge of the ledge.

“Where are we going?” Ruen asked, holding out a hand to steady her.

“To see the king,” Icelin explained. She cast another spell and waited for the levitation to take hold of them. “I’ve seen the damage obsession can do-in that drow prisoner and in us. No race is immune to its grip. Mith Barak can’t afford to be distracted now. Many of his people are going to die. He has to be there for them now, more than ever.”

“It’s likely he won’t listen,” Ruen cautioned her. “If he’s not able to speak to his own people, he won’t let outsiders into his confidence.”

They drifted to the ground. Ruen signaled to Sull, but the butcher had already seen them and was weaving his way through the crowd.

“Wondered where the two of you had gotten to,” Sull said, his face flushed and his apron stained with food. “You’d better get some food quick before it’s all-”

His eyes widened. Icelin looked down at her hand clasped in Ruen’s, with no gloves or other barriers between them. Already it had become so natural, so much a part of her that she hadn’t realized the effect it would have on Sull. The butcher stood before them positively glowing.