Diri and Nara

Had someone asked her before how she imagined the mountain halls of the dwarves, Jarin would have been hard pressed. Vaguely she would have thought they were very grand, though also gloomy, cold and damp. She might have thought of torches and candles, but not of light shafts, and yet the main room in Diri and Nara’s home was as filled with daylight as any Kûzar house. The bedchambers were dark, set back into the mountain, and Jarin had never before slept in such utter blackness and silence. These chambers were also austere, containing nothing but the beds, and chests for clothing. By contrast, the long main room that served as parlour, kitchen and workshop, was comfortably fitted with carved furniture, rugs, cushions, knick-knacks and even potted plants. Here Nara had her workbench where she crafted sleek silver jewellery; here was Diri’s enormous desk on which were spread large sheets of paper with his designs for what he called “devices” – an improved pulley to be used in the mines, a system of sluices that could be operated from a central place, and other such contraptions which Jarin barely understood.

On the day after her arrival, a dwarf doctor had visited, had pronounced her symptoms of nausea, headache and at times blurry vision to be a Commotion of the Brain and told her to rest and not worry about a thing. He – or possibly she – then had a long, hushed conversation with Diri and Nara in the dwarf language, and then the door was closed and Jarin was left lying in the dark.

She did reasonably well with the resting part of the prescription, but how could she possibly not worry? Her dragon was gone and her flute broken. She had trouble recalling the details of what had happened in Krandi and how she had ended up in the mountains. How was she going to get home? When would the vomiting stop? Was this Commotion of the Brain a passing injury or a permanent impairment? And these were merely her personal woes, never mind the rise of the Dark Lord in the West and the brewing of war on her country’s doorstep.

Then there was the food. When after a few days of bedrest she was well enough to sit at the table with the two dwarfs, she had casually asked, “What’s in this stew?”

“Mushroom, onions, venison…” Nara had said.

Jarin had put the bowl down. “Forgive me. Please do not be offended, but I cannot eat this. I am not allowed to. It would be against the New Way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most Kûzeen are committed to a life without violence. Eating the flesh of our brothers and sisters, the animals, is something we do not do.”

“I have heard of the New Way,” Nara had replied, “but I did not know that it made such demands of you.”

“Besides,” Diri had added, “you ate the same stew yesterday.”

And then Jarin had to vomit again.

After that, the dwarves made sure to feed Jarin with inoffensive fare, which was, however, not necessarily palatable. There was a crumbly, bitter kind of curd made from gorse which Nara praised as very nourishing but which made Jarin gag, and a paste of crushed lichen that left a rancid aftertaste on her tongue. The rowanberry jam was tolerable, but there was no bread to go with it, and the supply of root vegetables from Krâ was shrinking with no new deliveries in sight.

“But the fish are not your brothers and sisters?” asked Diri when Jarin accepted a piece of smoked trout.

“Hm.” Jarin inspected the ends of her braid. “The Archseraph would like us to stop eating fish, but I think the country is not quite ready for that.”

“And when you are ready, they will suddenly become your brothers and sisters? No, you don’t need to answer.” Diri’s deep-brown eyes regarded her with warmth. “I do not mean to mock.  I can see that you, your whole people I mean, aspire to goodness, and that is admirable, however incomplete your efforts may be.”

After a week, Jarin felt well enough to be up all day, and since she made it to the evening without vomiting or getting a crippling headache, Diri announced that the following day she would have to see the king.

“Why is that?”

“Because the king wishes to see you.” There was a hint of exasperation in Diri’s voice, as if Jarin’s question was foolish beyond belief.

“It is the custom, Jarin,” added Nara. “You are a guest in the Halls of Kamenogi, so you ought to be presented to the king for his approval. And to welcome you, of course. Would it not be the same if we came to Levare?”

“No, not unless you were someone of importance to the seraphs.”

Diri’s mouth twitched. “Being a guest here is what makes you someone of importance.”

“I guess Levare sees more visitors. If the Archseraph wanted to see them all, there would be long queues in the streets.” Jarin laughed awkwardly, then she glanced down at herself. “Do I need to wear anything special? I don’t have any other clothes…”

“Worry not,” said Nara. “The king is attired in great splendour, but would expect no such things of you. I will lend you a hood, if you wish.”

“Thank you. Do I have to go alone?”

“Nara has to go to market tomorrow,” said Diri. “But I can accompany you.”

“You do not need to go out of your way on my behalf…”

Diri rose and bowed. “I would be honoured, Jarin Dragonrider, to escort you to the king’s hall.”

If a moment ago Jarin had been vexed by Diri’s seemingly dismissive manner, she now felt nearly mortified by his sudden display of chivalry. Was he mocking her? But it mattered not, it was better to face the King of Kamenogi with Diri by her side than alone, whether he was satirical or not.

They set off mid-morning, shortly after Nara had left for the market in one of the upper halls. The king’s chambers, by contrast, lay on the deepest level of Kamenogi as became his majesty. To Jarin’s surprise, bordering on terror, they descended to this level not via flights of stairs but in a kind of metal cabinet that floated down on a set of vertical rails attached to a sheer wall.

“Is this magic?”

Diri shrugged. “Water pressure,” he said and waved his hand vaguely. Jarin couldn’t understand how water would come into this, but she didn’t ask, lest Diri were to take that tone with her again as if she were a dumb child. The floating cabin came to a halt and two guards stepped forward to receive them. They were in an anteroom lit by coloured lanterns – Kûzar lanterns, as Jarin realised, thought they seemed to give an uncommonly intense light. Ahead she saw a set of tall bronze doors embossed with braided patterns and inlaid with precious stones off which the lantern light reflected. One of the guards pulled a lever and the doors swung outwards in a smooth, silent swoop. Jarin glanced at the guards, but they had taken up position on either side of the door, facing outwards. Was she just to walk in? Then she felt Diri’s hand grasp hers.

“Come,” he said.

The king’s hall was bathed in jewelled light from lanterns that hung on chains of varying length suspended from the vaulted ceiling, their colours mingling with the glow from two fireplaces to the left and right, and bouncing off the polished pink marble floor and the walls covered in tiles of purple, deep red and gold. Guards stood at the foot of each of the pink marble columns that led like an avenue to the front of the hall, where under a baldachin of Kûzar silk the golden throne lay…quite empty.

Jarin barely had time to wonder, because a voice, in Kûzar, spoke from the left.

“I am here. You will forgive the informal reception.”

Half hidden behind one of the columns stood a desk, heavily carved out of a dark wood and scattered with books, scrolls and maps. Here, on a seat designed more for comfort than for splendour, sat an elderly dwarf, royally attired indeed, and with a white beard that nearly reached the floor. He beckoned with his left while with his right he finished scribbling on a parchment. A second dwarf, who had been standing in the shadows, received the missive and swiftly walked away.

“Come, come, let me see you closer.”

Diri let go of Jarin’s hand and bowed before the king. Jarin, unsure of the protocol, made the Kûzar gesture of greeting.

“I present to you, my king,” said Diri, “Jarin Dragonrider, daughter of Margig, from the land of Kûz.”

“At your service,” said Jarin.

The king smiled. “Baglar, son of Wargan, Lord of Kamenogi, King of the Jewelled Throne, Defender of the Deep and so on and so forth. At your service, if I can at all manage, because you have already done enough for us. Do not look so puzzled, Jarin Dragonrider. It is thanks to your warning that the dwarves of Longhaven were ready to defend themselves against the raiders from Krâ.”

“But Nara said your sentinels would spot them…”

“Our sentinels, to our distress, were murdered at their posts. How the Krâ knew where to find them is a question we are trying to answer, but that does not concern you. You came to warn us, without regard for your own safety, and for this we thank you. I wish to assist you as best I can in return. Diri tells me that you have lost your dragon.”

“In a way. The dragon has returned to his realm, but that is not so much the problem; he always does that at the end of a journey. But I need my silver flute to summon him back, and the flute was broken when I fell. I hope to return to Levare by land and sea as soon as may be.”

“As soon as may be, well, therein lies the challenge.” The King tapped one of the maps on the desk. “Our road to Longhaven is currently cut off by a landslide in the main pass, caused by the very storm that brought you here. It could take weeks to clear. We have other routes high in the mountains, but there are few even among our people who could attempt them, and you will not be offended if I tell you that you, used to travelling in the air, cannot hope to succeed on those paths. You will have to wait until the main road is accessible again, unless you can find another way to summon your dragon.”

“I don’t think there is another way. All lungi summon their dragons with their flutes.”

“Can I see this flute?”

“I did not bring it with me.”

“Never mind. You are the guest of Nara, daughter of Naluk, an accomplished silversmith. Diri, did it not occur to you that your sister might mend Jarin’s flute?”

“The thought has crossed my mind, Sire.”

“But not so much as to actually mention this to Jarin?”

Diri shrugged. “I had other matters to think of,” he said vaguely.

“It’s not so straightforward,” said Jarin. “The flute, once broken, cannot just be remade. It’s spirit is broken too, so to speak. But perhaps, if Nara were willing, she could help me make a new flute. You see, a lungi has to create their own flute, and there are traditional rules to follow, and you have to –”

“Well, so it is complicated,” interrupted the king. “We are dwarves. I should think we can cope, especially with things that are traditional.  Diri here is a very clever fellow, as is his sister. I give you this advice, to start on making a new flute, and then we shall see which way opens up to you first, by land or by air. Is there anything else I can give you apart from advice? Gems, gold?”

“Um, I did not…”

“Sire,” said Diri, “Jarin will humbly accept any gift you wish to bestow on her.”

“Is that so?” A smile flitted over the king’s face. “In that case, Jarin will be content to wait until I have chosen a suitable gift. I shall send it in due time. ”

Diri bowed. “Jarin is most grateful, Sire.”

“Very well. And now it will please Jarin to leave me to the mercy of my advisors. Good day to you both.”

Thus relieved of any need to speak or indeed think and feel for herself, Jarin followed Diri out of the king’s hall back to the anteroom with the floating chamber.

“Water pressure can lift it up, too?” she said as they stepped in.

“Yes, obviously.”

They stood in silence as the chamber moved upwards. When it came to a halt, for a brief moment Jarin felt weightless, like when she rode a dragon who took a sudden dive. The thought made her sigh. Diri was marching along without a word, and she had to make an effort to keep up with him.

“Those lamps in the king’s place,” she said eventually, “they looked Kûzar to me, but they shone so bright...”

“It’s done with mirrors,” said Diri.

“Now that I don’t believe,” Jarin replied. “I was taught that a mirror cannot augment a light source.”

“But an array of mirrors can focus a light source and direct it in the most efficient way. They need to be good mirrors, of course, and that means Kûzar glass mirrors. Your people are shrewd to keep their secret to themselves, because we pay dearly for them.”

Jarin frowned. “That’s hardly my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Why are you like this today? So…prickly. Have I done anything to displease you?”

Diri looked away from her, as if the bare walls of the tunnel held some fascinating message. “You have done nothing to displease me,” he said at last. “But I have much on my mind; I have perplexing puzzles to solve. Perhaps I will tell you more one day.”

“I might not be here for long enough to find out.”

“And then again you might.”

Jarin felt that she would be glad for Nara to come back from market sooner rather than later.

-oOoOo-

“Oh, for goodness sake, Ninod,” cried Miriel, “will you let up with your quince jelly! We have more important things to think about just now.”

“It’s the Seraphine’s favourite,” said Ninod. “I thought it would cheer her up.”

“She’s not interested in sweets while her husband’s life hangs in the balance! How can you not get that into you head! Oh, great, now she woke up. And I was so glad she’d finally got some sleep.”

“I wasn’t the one who shouted,” grumbled Ninod, clinging to her crystal bowl of quince jelly as if it were her firstborn child.

Majani, who had indeed dozed off in her chair by the Archseraph’s bed, opened her eyes and squirmed in her seat.

“What is the matter?” She rolled her shoulders and rubbed her face. “How is Hamûjil?”

“Much as he was, Seraphine,” replied Miriel. “He was able to swallow a little water earlier, but he did not really come to. I am afraid he looks paler than yesterday, but at least he is breathing steadily now.”

Majani sighed. “We can but wait and hope. Oh, is that quince jelly? Thank you, Ninod.” Absentmindedly, she spooned the jelly into her mouth, while her eyes rested on Hamûjil’s face. Was his breathing steadier? It was certainly true that he looked very pale. Like a Krâ, almost. His skin was clammy to the touch. She considered again whether it would not be better to have him taken to the infirmary, but again she decided against it. The most skilled healers of Levare were at the Archseraph’s bed thrice a day and one of them watched him through the night. There was nothing more that they could do for him at the infirmary, and she preferred to have him close by.

An attendant entered.

“Seraphine, the Wanderer has arrived and desires to speak with you. Shall I bring him here?”

“No, take him to the Council Chamber, and I will join him there.” Majani stood up and stretched. “I shall be glad of even just this short walk. Miriel, if it pleases you, you will watch the Archseraph while I am away. Ninod, you may come with me.

In the Council Chamber, Pallando stood with Sâlian by his side and reached out his arms to the Seraphine as she entered.

“My dear, how are you? And how is the Archseraph?”

“Unchanged from yesterday.”

“Ah, so the news is neither good nor bad, and I am lost for what to say.  It grieves me that I cannot be of help. You really need Alatar. At least we know he is on his way.”

“Yes, that is a comfort Have the lungi been able to pick him up? Are you here to tell me he is arriving soon?”

“Unfortunately, he has not yet been spotted. And the reason for my coming is a different one. Majani, I know you are consumed with worry about the Archseraph, but even so, while he is ill, the affairs of state are laid on your shoulders. I want to urge you to set what guard you can on the West Road.”

“Is there bad news? Have the scouts spotted an army?”

“No, those who have returned have had nothing much to report. But we are concerned with the one who has not returned. Jarin was sent to Krandi and should be back by now, but she isn’t. While she is thus delayed, we have no news of what is happening on the far shore.”

“So…” Majani’s face showed that she felt unprepared to take on the Archseraph’s mantle. “Do you want to send another lungi out that way? How long could we expect them to take? And what if they are also delayed?”

“It will do no harm to send someone else, and I think it should be done today. Nevertheless, it is causing me some concern that Jarin has been delayed and –”

At this point Sâlian, who had been restlessly pulling at her sleeves during this conversation, burst out, “How can you talk like that!? Jarin is not delayed! How could she be delayed for nearly two weeks? No, no, she’s been taken prisoner, or worse.”

“Wan would protect her,” said Pallando and laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. But Sâlian shrugged it off.

“Wan isn’t with her all the time!”

“Sâlian, my dear. I understand that you are worried. I am worried, too. But there can be any number of reasons why Jarin is not back yet, and many of them are not at all disastrous. We need to trust in her skill as a very experienced lungi. And no matter where she is, we know that Wan can bail her out at any time.”

“It’s a shame we cannot summon Wan and ask him,” said Majani.

“No, we can’t. But –” Pallando suddenly chuckled. “But we can do something else.”

And he pulled out his flute and played his tune. Majani frowned. It was unheard of to summon a dragon inside any building, let alone the Seraphs’ Palace. But before she could object, the dragon already stood squat and purple on the mosaic floor. Mûn the Magnificent would have been called the king of the dragons, if dragons had any such thing as kings, and it was only apt that he and none other was the dragon who answered to Pallando’s call.  He glanced around at the unexpected surroundings and drew his conclusion with the speed that matched his sharp mind.

“Yes,” he said before anyone even asked him anything. “I can tell you what happened.”

“With Jarin and Wan?”

“Who else would you want to ask me about? We have been waiting for days for one of you having the sense to summon one of us and hear Wan’s news. It pleases me that you, Pallando, are the one who had the wits to do so, though I’d have thought you would use them earlier.”

“I am flattered, I’m sure,” said Pallando with a grin. “You do not know what has kept us occupied here. However, that can wait. Tell us of Wan’s news.”

“Wan left Krandi with Jarin ten days ago. They were making for Longhaven, because Jarin wished to tell the dwarves of a Krâ host that had set off in that direction. On the way, they got into a storm and were blown off course into the mountains. There, perhaps due to the disturbance of the air, the lungi bond failed and Wan was transported back to our realm. He has been awaiting a summons from Jarin ever since, but none has come.”

“The bond failed while they were in the air?”

“Unfortunately yes.”

“So she must be dead!” wailed Sâlian.

“She may just be unconscious,” offered Majani, but without much conviction.

“There could be other reason why she cannot summon Wan. Don’t despair just yet,” said Pallando and wrapped his arm round Sâlian. “And I know what you’re thinking, but no, it’s not a good idea for you to set out and look for her. One woman in a whole mountain range? You could be looking forever. It is good news, though, that the Krâ host is marching to Longhaven and not to Kûz.”

“Good for us, yes,” said Majani. “For the dwarves, not so much. How awful that Jarin wasn’t able to warn them.”

“The dwarves are much better equipped to deal with the Krâ than the Kûzeen are,” replied Pallando. “And I am confident that they will know this host is coming, whether Jarin told them or not. At least we know now that Kûz is not under any immediate threat.”

“Wan had more to tell,” said Mûn. “Jarin seems to have shown herself a nifty little spy in Krandi. She found out that the Krâ are training an army to go west, but there is a fair deal of discontent among them about it.  They are also trying to build a fleet, with limited success.”

“So they are planning to attack us?”

“Us, the dwarves, the elves, who knows? There is no safety you can be sure of at this time. Why isn’t the Archseraph here to hear all this?”

“Ah, let me fill you in on that,” said Pallando, and he did.

Later, when Majani returned to Hamûjil’s sickbed, he had taken a turn for the worse. Sweat was trickling from his forehead and at his neck his pulse could be seen racing. Miriel couldn’t say what had brought about the change. With a cry of dismay, Majani sank down on her chair.

“What if he dies?” she whispered. “What if he dies?”