Chapter 76: The Betrayal
That evening, Yorvig sat at his table, staring down into a small bowl of mashed beans, when a knock came at the door. He sighed and rose. The meeting had been tiring. When he opened the stone, he was surprised to see Rightauger there.
“Do you knock now, son?” Yorvig asked. “This is still your home.”
“Father, I would speak with you.”
Yorvig knew by the tone and demeanor that Rightauger meant privately.
“Come,” he said. He led the way down the back passage to his reception chamber and motioned Rightauger to sit at the other side of the parchment-strewn table.
He missed the years when Rightauger was a young gilke who used to play or nap beneath the table when Yorvig worked. Those had been days of peace beneath the stone. Together they had gone to the mines, and he had taught his firstborn gilke to wield pick and shovel, to identify the minerals running through the rock. He had watched as Rightauger first plied hammer to hot steel under Onyx’s tutelage, and he had taken him panning along the creek when Rightauger had asked how the dell was found. In those days, Rightauger had been his shadow.
“What is it, son?”
“I wish to go with you on the expedition.”
“You won’t be going with the sally,” Yorvig said. Probably Rightauger thought Yorvig would have let him sally, since he had yet to forbid it. “But not because you are not able. I have another purpose in mind, but I will tell you closer to the time.” That was partially a lie. Yorvig had prepared a letter in case he did not return. It had instructions to Rightauger about helping his mother and siblings escape. Perhaps it was foolish, but Yorvig thought such a formal command from a dead father might bear more weight than a spoken word from a live one.
“I’m not speaking of the sally,” Rightauger said. “I am speaking of the expedition to strike at One-Eye with this alchemy you are making. Unless that is the other purpose you have in mind?” For a moment, the young dwarf looked hopeful.
Yorvig sighed. They had yet to call for volunteers or even announce the existence of this plan. They had just finished debating it less than an hour ago. Yet here was his son come to ask for permission to join. Ay, news of their strange preparations was all over the colony, but Yorvig wasn’t sure whether to feel despair at how poorly secrets were kept in Glint or impressed that Rightauger had managed to suss it out so soon.
“That is not possible,” Yorvig said. “You are needed elsewhere, as I have said.”
“Did I not prove myself in the assault?” Rightauger asked.
Yorvig stiffened. He was beyond relieved that his son had survived, but he did not relish the memory of Rightauger picking him up and carrying him through the fighting. They had hardly spoken since—barely even seen each other. There was plenty to occupy Yorvig, anyway.
“Many proved themselves in the assault,” Yorvig said. “I am glad you were one of them.”
“This is my home. I have a right to defend it.”
“Rights? You have as much right as One-Ear has to kill us all. You never saw these wilds as they were. Rights are taken by force. Claims are ruled by force, or the threat of it. I am Rhûl. Do not kick stone, son. The expedition is not for you. I promise, I have a far more important duty in mind for you.”
“What is it?”
Yorvig shook his head.
“I will not say until I know for sure it is needed. Tomorrow we will call for volunteers. You are not to be among them. My word as Rhûl is done." He cut the air with his hand. "Now, I beseech you as a father. Please, Kurumed, heed me.” Kurumed was his true name, rarely ever spoken. It meant Arm of the Future.
Rightauger sat back in his chair, sliding his teeth back and forth. He had the exact same color of beard and hair as Sledgefist, but everyone said he had Yorvig’s nose and shoulders. Yorvig thought he resembled Onyx and her brothers far more than his own side. It was probably good that he reminded Yorvig of his mother. It cooled Yorvig’s temper, somewhat.
How could Rightauger know that his safety was more important to Yorvig than his son’s glory, wealth, or even his courage? No one had ever said such a thing to Yorvig, and his throat seemed to close even at the thought of speaking it aloud. Of course he wanted his son to be great. More than that, he didn’t want him to have to be great. But that was not the choice of a father. Nor was it normal for a father to send his son on a mission likely to get him killed. What was right?
“Is that all, then?” Rightauger asked.
The question took Yorvig off guard. He was normally the one to ask that.
“That is all.”
Rightauger nodded, rose, and left the chamber.
Sometimes it had been too much, Rightauger’s constant attentions when he was a young gilke, and in haste and frustration Yorvig had given him harsh words. Then, to assuage the guilt, Yorvig would bring him a treat, like a sugared date from Deep Cut or a new tool. But the past years had been dark ones, as the ürsi raids grew fiercer and the traders came less. Rightauger, too, had changed as he neared rhundal. He wanted less his father’s presence and more the joys of his own companions. Yorvig had been the same—though his father had never doted on him. He had been raised much harder.
Rightauger inspired a kind of fervent admiration in his companions, an ability that Yorvig felt he himself lacked. He knew folk respected him as Rhûl. He certainly made them uncomfortable or fearful, judging by the expressions he often saw. Even the other owners acted that way, and their respect had come grudgingly all those years ago. Rightauger was different. But then Yorvig had not had the luxury of winsome ways, nor did Rightauger have to make hard decisions that would please no one. He had led one life so his son could lead another, but it seemed to put a gulf between them.
Yorvig had sat in silence for some time when there was a knock.
"Enter."
One of the Ridge Warden guards stuck his head in through the door.
"Pardon, Rhûl. You weren't in your hold so I came here. The Jackal wishes to speak with you."
"It is well. Send him."
The Warden stepped away and Rothe Stonefoot entered the chamber. Yorvig was tired and didn't motion for him to sit.
"I need to send aid to the refugees at the claim," the Jackal said, not waiting for greeting or command. "They have little food."
"The best thing for them is for us to kill One-Ear. If we cannot do that, they are safer where they are."
"But I believe the ürsi know where they are."
"And soon the ürsi will have better prey."
It was clear that Rothe was not satisfied, but he did not seem to know what to say. He had finally taken off that abhorrent mask, but it was tucked into his belt. He had also taken all the cloth and leather from his armor—burned, Yorvig hoped—and had thoroughly cleaned his kit. They had made a gift of new clothes to him. The Jackal's face was forgettable, if anything, with flushed skin and tawny brown hair and beard that hung straight.
"I am responsible for their lives," Rothe said at last.
"I know the feeling." Yorvig chuckled, but it was joyless. "I do not wish any to die. There will come a time where we all must do as we think right." He was so tired. Tired in a way that physical labor could never make a dwarf. "Have you eaten?"
"Eaten? No."
"I was eating. . . something. There may be some left. Let us see."
Yorvig rose and led the way.