Authors: Alexey Pehov
When he entered the amazingly large hall with the emerald stalactites, he froze in admiration. From a small window somewhere up in the ceiling a ray of sunlight that had somehow made its way down to this depth sliced through the deliberately created twilight to fall on the green stalactites. Its gentle caress set the green stones glittering as if they were sprinkled with fine diamond
dust. And in the center of this display there was an image of a dwarf and a gnome.
“They are the great Grahel and Chigzan—the first dwarf and the first gnome. Brothers,” said a voice behind Elodssa’s back.
The elf looked round and saw the elfess who had spoken to him standing beside one of the green columns.
“They say that the gnomes were the first to discover this image, when someone decided to provide light for the stalactites. So you can tell your people that you have seen one of the great relics of the underground kingdom.”
“Midla,” said Elodssa, bowing ceremonially and trying to conceal his amazement.
“Tresh Elodssa,” she said, bowing no less ceremonially, holding the bow without moving for several seconds, as etiquette required when an elf met a member of the royal family of a house.
“I am most surprised to see you here,” said Elodssa.
“Pleasantly so, I trust?” the elfess asked with a smile.
Her hair was not cut in the manner of the dark elves, who normally preferred tall hairstyles or thick braids. It fell onto her forehead in an ash-gray fringe, and was cropped short on the back of her head and the temples. She was dressed in the dark green costume of a scout, and hanging at her back, instead of a s’kash, she had two short, curved swords with jade handles like the one on Elodssa’s sword. He himself had given her the pair of swords at a time when life had seemed simpler. How young they had been then!
“That depends on what you are doing here,” Elodssa replied as distantly as possible.
“What could a scout from the House of the Black Flame possibly be doing here but protecting the crown prince?” she asked with a crooked smile. The crown prince. Those cursed words had come between them two years earlier, shattering their happiness forever. “The head of the house has ordered me to be your shadow.”
“That cannot be! My father would never have sent you.”
“Have I ever lied to you? Unlike you, I have no right to do so.” She, too, could not forget what had happened.
“I did not deceive you,” Elodssa blurted out. “What happened between us was not a lie!”
“Of course not.” Another bitter smile. “It was all the fault of your father and stupid prejudice.”
“I cannot contravene the law, and you know it! It is not my fault that we cannot be together. The son of the head of a house cannot commit his life to . . .”
“Carry on, Elodssa,” she said in a gentle voice when the prince broke off. “To whom? To one who brandishes swords? To one who wanders round Zagraba in search of units of orcs who have invaded the territory of our house? To one who teaches young elves to hold the s’kash or fire a bow? Or simply to one who has no noble blood flowing in her veins?”
“This conversation will come to nothing, like all those that have preceded it.”
“You are right,” Midla agreed sadly.
“You may go back to my father and tell him that all is well with me.”
“Do I look like a messenger?” There was a glint of poorly concealed fury in the yellow, almond-shaped eyes.
He knew that expression well. When they were still seeing each other, he had seen similar rage in her eyes a few times. But now, for the first time, it was directed at him.
“I have enough guards,” Elodssa snapped.
“Your guards are up there,” said Midla, jabbing one finger toward the ceiling. “A league above us. Long before they could get down here, the heir of the House of the Black Flame would be lying dead and still.”
“Who is going to attack me here? The dwarves and the gnomes?”
“I am carrying out the orders of the head of the house,” she said with an indifferent shrug.
“And I order you to go back to Zagraba!” Elodssa declared furiously.
“You do not yet have your father’s authority,” she said with a triumphant smile.
The elf gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, then turned and walked away, cursing Midla’s obstinacy.
The young elfess watched Elodssa go, trying to hold back her tears. Her eyes were clouded with pain.
That week dragged on forever.
Elodssa changed his mind about going higher up. Midla would only follow him, and the elf did not want anyone talking about him behind his back. Everyone still remembered how close they had been and how Elodssa’s father had forbidden the marriage. And so the heir of the House of the Black Flame
spent most of the time sitting in the accommodation allocated to him by the dwarves, only occasionally strolling through the nearby halls, admiring the beauty and magnificence of these subterranean places. At such moments he was accompanied by the silent Midla. Somehow or other she always knew that he had left his room, and immediately appeared beside him.
They both behaved with emphatically cool politeness. And they both felt awkward. Every stroll concluded with Elodssa losing his temper, mostly with himself, and returning to his quarters alone. And so the elf was relieved when the deadline he had set for the dwarf craftsman finally arrived.
This time he was lucky and managed to get away without disturbing Midla, although her room was opposite his own. But that was most probably because the elf had deliberately not warned his dwarf guide that he was planning to visit Frahel: Elodssa suspected that Midla knew about his strolls from this little informer.
He found his way to the lift with no difficulty, and there he came across several gnomes in armor, holding battle-mattocks. The bearded little folk were arguing heatedly about something.
“Good day, respected sirs,” Elodssa greeted them.
“What’s so good about it,” grumbled one of the gnomes. “You’ve heard what’s going on, I suppose?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“All the sentries at the hundred and fifteenth gate near Zagorie have been killed. Eight dwarves and the same number of gnomes have lost their lives.”
“Do you know who has done this?”
“No.” The gnomes’ faces were all darker than a storm cloud. “But there is a chance that the killers could have made their way into the kingdom.”
“Maybe that’s so, of course, but what in the name of a soused turnip are we hanging about here for?” a mattock-man in heavy armor asked angrily. “That’s a hundred and fifteen leagues away from here. No mortal being who doesn’t happen to be a gnome or a dwarf will ever get that far on his own! He’ll lose his way in the galleries!”
“Never mind, we’ve been posted here, so this is where we’ll stand,” the first gnome said calmly. “Where do you want to go?”
The question was addressed to Elodssa.
“To see Master Frahel.”
“The fifty-second gallery, isn’t it? Right, get onto the lift. Do you know the way?”
“Not very well.”
“Turn left at every second crossing and do that five times. Then straight on for six crossings and take the third corridor to the left. Will you find it?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Hey!” the gnome shouted upward. “Take the honorable gentleman to the fifty-second!”
“Right!” a voice called back down.
The lift shuddered and started downward.
Frahel heaved a sigh of relief and sat back in his chair. He had managed to do the impossible. This work was the finest thing he had ever created in all his long life.
The effort had completely absorbed the master craftsman, the challenge to his skill had required his absolute commitment—and now there was the key made out of the dragon’s tear, lying on the black velvet. The slim, elegant object already contained immense power, and after the dark elves endowed it with their magic, it would become a truly mighty artifact.
Frahel grinned. The orcs were in for a big surprise when the doors stopped opening for them. The elves were cunning and sly; they had decided to deprive the orcs of the memory of their ancestors by slamming the door in their face!
Now for the final, quickest, and most complicated stage—endowing his creation with life and memory. The master craftsman stood up, opened an old book, and raised his hand above the slumbering key.
And at that moment someone knocked on the door of his workshop. The dwarf swore furiously. That elf must be here already. Too early! Well, prince or not, he would have to wait until Frahel had done everything that was needed.
“Wait, honored sir!” Frahel shouted. “I haven’t finished yet!”
Another knock.
“Ah, damn you! It’s open!” Frahel called, preparing a couple of choice endearments for his client.
A man came into the workshop. “Master Frahel?” the man asked, looking carefully round the room.
“And who’s asking?” the craftsman replied rather impolitely.
“Oh! Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Suovik.”
“Suovik?” The dwarf was quite certain that this Suovik had a title. If only because there was a gold nightingale embroidered on his tunic. He thought that someone in Valiostr wore that crest.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Master Frahel. Simply Suovik will do.”
“Simply Suovik” was about fifty years old. He was tall and as thin as a rake, with gray temples and streaks of gray in his tidy little beard. His brown eyes regarded the dwarf with friendly mockery.
“What can I do for you?” Frahel asked, attempting to conceal his irritation.
“Oh! I would like to buy a certain item. Or rather, not I, but the person who sent me. My Master . . .”
“But, by your leave,” said Frahel, interrupting his visitor with a shrug, “I am no shopkeeper. I do not have anything for sale. I carry out private and very well paid commissions. If you wish to buy something, talk to Master Smerhel, two levels higher, gallery three hundred and twenty-two.”
Frahel turned his back to Suovik to indicate that the conversation was at an end.
“Oh! You have misunderstood me, respected master.” The man showed no signs of wishing to leave the workshop.
He walked up rather presumptuously to the table and sat down, crossing his legs.
“My Master wishes to acquire an item created by your own hands.”
“And what exactly does he intend to buy from me?” the dwarf asked with unconcealed mockery, setting his hands on his hips.
Politeness was all well and good, but he would take great pleasure in throwing this man out of his workshop.
“That amusing little trinket,” said Suovik, half rising off his chair and pointing one finger at the sparkling key.
For a moment the master craftsman was struck dumb.
“Have you lost your mind, dear sir? The elfin key? I have a client for it! And what do you want it for?”
“Mmmm . . . My Master is a man”—for some reason Suovik hesitated slightly over the word “man”—“a man of very special tastes. Let us leave it at that. He is a collector, and this remarkable key would suit his collection very well.”
“No!” the dwarf snapped. “You wouldn’t have enough money to buy the work, and I will not break my word.”
“Oh! You need not be concerned about money, Master Frahel!”
Suovik got up off his chair, went across to the table on which the artifact was waiting for the final touch from its maker, and began taking stones out of his bag and setting them on the table. Frahel’s teeth began chattering and his eyes turned as big and round as saucers. The man put a dragon’s tear on the table—a stone in no way inferior to the one that the elf had brought. Then another one. And another. And another.
“My Master is very generous, you will have no cause for regret,” Suovik said with a smile.
The dwarf said nothing: he gazed wide-eyed at the stones, expecting them to disappear at any moment. This simply could not be! The dragon’s tears lying there were equal to the amount found by the dwarves and the gnomes in the last thousand years! Without waiting for an answer, Suovik placed another two specimens of the mineral on the table. The last one was simply enormous.
“You must agree, dear Master Frahel, that this price is enough to make you think. Let your client wait for one more week, and you can make him another key; you have more than enough material here.”
“But the key is not ready yet, it has not been endowed with life,” said the dwarf, trying to convince himself.