Delver Magic II: Throne of Vengeance, Jeff Inlo [graded readers .TXT] 📗

orders were to be obeyed without hesitation. Now, however, Bol waited meekly as the scribe read the declaration.

The scribe’s hands shook visibly as he read the words on the parchment. His own voice cracked as he spoke of Bol’s self-proclaimed banishment, the last order of Bol Folarok before he would relinquish his own throne.

The words stung at Jon like a thousand angry bees. He wanted to shout out for the scribe to stop, but he did not. He wanted to flee from the room, but he remained. He even wished to strike out at his father, but his hands remained at his sides.

The witnesses failed to notice the pain of the prince. They watched instead the expression of their king. They looked for signs of opposition to the shocking declaration, but there was none. They saw only acceptance in his eyes, and his hands, when he eagerly signed the document.

The king, now a king no more, inhaled deeply. He turned his back one last time on his son, and he moved quietly out the door.

Near shock, those gathered in the room turned their attention from the exiting king to Jon.

Jon rubbed his face in despair. In this one moment, he appeared to age many cycles in an instant. As he dropped his hands away from his face, wrinkles etched new lines around his cheeks and forehead. His eyes sank further back into their sockets. His skin, normally pale from the lack of light in the tunnels, now hung from his bones with the shadows of even more pasty whiteness.

He looked to those before him with pleading eyes, and with despair on his lips. “What do I do?”

At first, no one spoke. Finally, Hern Grottman, the minister of construction and a close friend of Jon’s, spoke the only true options. “You must announce the proclamation. You must inform the queen of the edict, and then you must post it for every dwarf to see. You must take the throne.”

Jon groaned. The wail filled the chamber. He looked toward Hern with pleading eyes as the thought of becoming king crushed his very soul. “Is there nothing else I can do?”

Hern paused as he grimaced. He considered what he believed to be the only other option, an alternative which held dire consequences. “You can relinquish your right to the throne,” the minister said guardedly, as if he really did not wish to speak of such a proposal. He saw a gleam of hope rise in Jon’s eyes, but he quenched it almost immediately. “This holds no real hope for you, Jon. You do not have an heir. There is no one else to take your place. If you had an uncle or even a cousin, it might do, but that is not the case. If you do not take the throne, you invite anarchy. We might be able to find someone not far removed from the Folarok bloodline, but I seriously doubt our people will accept such an appointment. The separatists have grown strong in these passing days. They will see such action as an opportunity. I am certain they will rise and appoint their own leader. Do you really wish to risk this? If they take the throne, they will certainly execute every loyal member currently in your service.”

Jon was unwilling to give up his hope in avoiding the throne. “What about my mother? What about the queen? She can maintain the throne and rule as queen? It has been done before. I would not have to become king and there would be no question as to her authority.”

“But there would,” Hern replied swiftly. “The queen is not of Folarok blood. By marrying Bol she became queen, not from her own heritage.”

“Does that really matter?”

“It has in the past,” Hern noted. “If you had a sister, you could easily relinquish to her, but sadly, such is not the case.”

“This is madness!” Jon argued. “You are basically telling me I have no choice. There has to be another alternative. What if I died in Sanctum along with…, what if I were dead? What then?”

“But you are not dead. And hopefully, you are not thinking of anything so foolish.” Hern bore into Jon’s face with concerned eyes. “Suicide is not the answer.”

“I’m not talking about suicide. I’m just asking what would have happened if Bol left and I was not here to take the throne. What would you do?”

Hern rubbed his thick beard with his own powerful hand. His short stout fingers broke spaces through the flowing hair before he tightened his hand into a fist.

“I suppose we would be forced to choose a new ruling family.”

“Then do that now,” Jon implored.

“We can not, for you are not dead.”

“I could leave.”

Hern clenched his teeth. He wished not to speak in such a manner to his friend, but he was given no alternative. He inhaled and let the full width of his body face Jon with unrelenting resolution. “Is that what you wish? Has the image of your father walking out of this room, turning his back on you, has this so quickly vanished from you mind? Would you now do the same to the people that depend on you?”

The dwarf guards and the other ministers held their breath in surprise at such words. They stared with fixed astonishment upon Hern’s icy features.

Hern ignored the gasps of those around him. He continued with his gaze locked upon the prince who now had to be king.

“Yes, the dwarves of Dunop will survive without you. We will find a solution if that’s what you force us to do, but that is not how it should be. I’ve known you for some time, Jon Folarok, and you are a Folarok. I know you don’t wish to be king. You’ve never wanted the throne, but it is yours now. I truly feel for you, my friend. I see that you are aging before your time. I know this will only exact an even greater toll, but unfortunately, this is not the time for you to simply withdraw. I will say this with no regard for my own well-being; your father has done you and all of Dunop a disservice. He chose to run rather than face his true responsibility. I will hope that you do not do the same.”

Hern exhaled heavily before continuing. “I can offer you but one point of solace. If you truly wish to relinquish the throne, wait until the time is proper. First you must quell the fears of our people, you must bring calm back to Dunop. Then, and only then, will it be advisable for us to search for a successor outside the Folarok name. But for now, I see but two choices for you - accept your fate, or leave Dunop as your father has left, with his back turned upon his people.”

Hern finished his piece. He withdrew himself a pace from Jon and looked to the ground. He closed his eyes as he waited for Jon’s response.

The space which Hern allowed now isolated the prince. Jon felt as if a moat now surrounded him. His shoulders went limp. He spoke, not with resolve, but with grudging acceptance. “It shall be as you say. I will take the throne.”

Hern, though grateful for these words, spoke now with a soft and unchallenging voice, a proper tone for a subordinate addressing a king. “Dunop thanks you, and I thank you.”

“I need your help, not your thanks,” Jon responded sorrowfully.

“I will do all that I can. I will stand by you, I will advise you, if you allow.”

“I need advice. I don’t know what to do.”

Again Hern stroked his beard. “There is much to do. The work shall be in deciding how to do it. The people of Dunop will be advised of the change. I am sure word will spread quickly. As to any formal announcements, let me suggest that as you take the throne you do it as unceremoniously as possible. Without insult to you, I do not believe this is a time for celebration.”

Feeling as if being led to slaughter, Jon could only agree. “No, absolutely no celebration. This is no time of joy, not for anyone.”

#

Yave said not a word to her son when he entered her chambers. Her stare bore holes through him. To those that accompanied the new king, she looked at him not as a son, but as more of a shadow. When he announced Bol’s proclamation, her anger rose.

“So, the bastard has left,” the queen sneered. “And now you think you can walk in here and cast me aside as if I don’t count.”

“I am not casting you aside.”

Yave’s face, now crimson with fury, swelled with distorted proportions. “You are as much responsible for Tun’s death as was your father, as were those filthy algors! And now you profit from his death.”

Like a spear thrown through the air, this barb drilled Jon to the core. Though not taking a step back, he slouched after flinching from the pain. “I didn’t want Tun dead. I wish it were me instead.”

“Will that bring him back?” Yave pressed.

“No,” Jon replied meekly. “Nothing will bring him back.”

Yave sneered. She folded stocky arms across her wide chest. She gathered in her anger, and in long silent moments, she sized up the situation before her. Bol was gone, Bol who refused to do what she asked. But would Jon refuse? Her eyes narrowed under her fairly thick eyebrows.

“So what do you intend to do now?”

Jon straightened as best he could. He spoke in low tones, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “I will have the proclamation posted, but there will be no ceremony. Word will spread of the change. Hopefully, it will quell the angry calls that seem to have been growing.”

“And how will you approach the other matters?” Yave questioned expectantly.

“What other matters?” Jon replied almost defensively.

“If you are to be king, you now dictate policy. What will you do about our dealings with the elves?!” Yave punctuated this with hostility. “Will you continue to have relations with them, even though it was the elves that made the request that brought your brother to Sanctum?”

“We need the elves,” Jon stated with apprehension to his mother’s response. He babbled on, hoping to quell the rising objections which were apparent in his mother’s expression. “The elves provide us with wood for our fires and with food.”

“We can get both ourselves,” Yave declared defiantly.

“You would have me send dwarves to the surface?”

“It has been done before.”

“Not for such constant needs. We are not prepared for such a monumental change, perhaps over time…”

Yave bit down on her lip. She wanted to press the issue, but instead, she pursued another topic which obviously consumed her with greater ferocity. “Will you at least demand their assistance when we deal with the algors?”

Jon blinked. He was not sure what the queen meant, not sure he wanted to know.

His dumbfounded demeanor irritated Yave. Her angry stare narrowed on a point between his eyes. Her voice was as cold as mountain snow. “You do intend to deal with the algors, don’t you? You were at Sanctum. You saw your brother die at the hands of their creation. You can’t just let this deed go unpunished.”

“It was not the fault of the algors,” Jon protested. “It was the sphere …”

Yave would not let him continue. “It was the algors! They created the sand giants. They failed to control them! Did an algor die in the tier of the dwarves? No! But a dwarf, Tun, died in their tier. They are responsible for the death of a dwarf prince! You can not allow