The highest dignitaries of the Hylar clan bowed in greeting at the foot of the steps. Thane Jungor Stonesinger was foremost among them. Because the acid damage to his face had caused part of his facial hair to eventually fall out, Jungor had taken to braiding his remaining beard into three short plaits. Even today, when he and all the other dwarves of Thorbardin were dressing in their finest and combing out their beards to achieve the greatest fullness and luxuriance possible, Jungor chose to keep his severe style. With his ascetic's beard, long gray robes, wizard staff, and golden orb winking from the hollow of his right eye, he looked almost like a sorcerer.
Beside Jungor stood the wealthy merchant Hextor Ironhaft, gold fairly dripping from his fat fingers. Several dozen generals, former priests, nobles, and artisans made up the remainder of the delegation-the cream of Hylar society, both male and female. Most were dressed either in the most expensive silks imported from the north or the richest armor forged by dwarf or man. Several years ago, Tarn's engineers had opened several new ore veins in the stone near the North Gate. These mines had provided much of the reason for the dwarves' rising prosperity. Because of Tarn's policy of openness, dwarf traders from Thorbardin had begun to carry their goods all over the world. Wealth flowed through the North Gate, improving everyone's lives.
Flowed, that is, it until Jungor convinced the Council of Thanes to seal the mountain after the disaster at Qualinost. Now, the wealth of Thorbardin was being consolidated in higher and higher levels of its society, just as it was in the old days. Gold and iron still flowed from the mines and steel continued to be forged in its foundries, but these riches no longer flowed out with traders traveling to distant lands, bringing home the mundane goods and strange curiosities that once filled the markets of Norbardin. Now, money was hoarded rather than invested. The poor grew poorer, the rich richer. Some dwarves ate off plates of gold while other had nothing to eat at all. And as long as the mountain remained sealed and the economy of Norbardin forced to feed off itself, this situation would never change.
Tarn was well aware that Jungor wanted to keep it that way. The Hylar thane had made no secret of his ambitions in the last year, while Tarn had withdrawn ever deeper into family matters. As he had said, he'd rather spend time with his son. Instead, he was forced to participate in these endless ceremonies.
Crystal nudged him, bringing him out of his dark reverie. He coughed and cleared his throat. "Clansmen and clanswomen of the Hylar, I welcome you into the home of the son of Baker Whitegranite, son of Brom Whitegranite. In remembrance of those now gone to join the Kingdom of the Dead, I wish you a joyous Festival of Lights."
The Hylar nodded appreciatively. Although many of them had little enough love for their half-breed king, none disputed that Tarn had a remarkable talent for speaking on public occasions, especially rituals and formal ceremonies. There were many who said Tarn would have .made a good priest, an observation that only made Tarn laugh when he heard it.
"Twelve boats await us at the old wharf," Jungor said. "The Hylar have begun to gather on the Isle of the Dead."
"Let us go then," Tarn said, rising from his throne. With Crystal resting her hand lightly on his proffered elbow, he descended the stairs. Mog walked behind them, his beard jutting out defiantly. But when they reached the floor, Jungor remained where he stood, blocking the king's path.
"Do you intend to bring
"Of course she is coming," Tarn said, clearly flabbergasted.
"She is a hill dwarf," Jungor said, stating the obvious.
"She is the mother of my son," Tarn countered, his temper growing dangerously short.
"Only Hylar may walk upon the rocky shore of our island," Hextor Ironhaft said.
"Impertinent swine! How dare you insult the king in the king's own house?" Mog snatched a halberd from one of the nearby guards and stepped toward the Hylar delegation. "Allow me to teach these dwarves some manners, my lord," he snarled.
Jungor took a step back, raising his staff defensively. "Call off your dog, Tarn Bellowgranite," he demanded.
"Mog!" Tarn shouted.
"The king can handle this," Crystal angrily admonished the Klar captain.
But Mog remained menacingly near. "And they say the Klar are barbarians," he growled, knuckles cracking around the haft of his halberd. Some of the delegation began to back away, and the guards along the walls grew nervous. Though valiant and loyal, Mog had a reputation for cracking heads first, begging forgiveness afterward.
