(“kin-councillor”) was no mean one. But his actual seniority, based on his age and kin-relationship to the Eldest, was much lower. As a matter of course, he knew of the lack of sympathy that prevailed between the Eldest and his oldest son, who would one day succeed him as ruler of the Seven Clans. But, like others, he did not care to think of it, and he took care to avoid witnessing scenes that were none of his business.
“Remember my words!” the Eldest was saying to his heir. “Remember them well—”
“Those words are not for me,” Deor broke in, in an agony of embarrassment. “Permit me to withdraw!”
The Eldest looked from his son to Deor in surprise, although the younger dwarf was here at his summons. He put out his hands and said words of welcome—even relief. If he had been speaking another language (he was fluent in several) he might have said merely, “Deor, I’m glad you’ve come.” Dwarvish being a language rich in metaphor, what he actually said was, “Resh tornet, Heimar ingranat lo.” (Literally, “If the sun had risen, [or] the King had just been crowned.”) Deor understood him well enough, although he preferred a plainer style himself, and stayed where he was.
Vetr was less welcoming and less formal. He curtly nodded at Deor and, not noticing his father in any way, walked off down the corridor.
“Never mind,” said the Eldest, leading Deor into his chambers. “He has cause for his feelings. He’s a good son; he’ll be a good Eldest.”
“An excellent son,” Deor said mechanically, glancing around the room. He saw the summoner Earno seated at a table near an inner door, staring fixedly at a candle that provided the room’s only light. “I beg your pardon, Summoner,” he said, speaking in Wardic. “I didn’t see you . . .” His voice trailed off. The summoner didn’t seem to notice his presence.
Deor looked at the Eldest. “Does the summoner understand us?” he asked in Dwarvish.
“No, not even if we spoke their Othertalk. But let’s stick to Dwarvish, eh? The words will come more readily.”
Deor nodded slowly. He turned back to the summoner, who was still staring at the candle.
“Look in his eyes,” Tyr commanded.
The Eldest was the Eldest—but all the same, “I would rather not,” said Deor. “He is under a dragonspell?”
“Yes.”
Deor was tempted to ask about the state of fascination that Earno was in and how the Eldest had established it. But the Elders have their secrets, and there were more urgent questions. “Since when?” he asked.
“I do not know. I suspect since the first night he was here.”
Deor tried to remember when that was, it seemed so long ago. Then he remembered: that was the first night the dragons had attacked Thrymhaiam.
“Well,” he said. “I do not like this, Eldest Tyr!”
“No more do I.”
“How long have you known, if you choose to tell me?”
“Since this afternoon, when Morlock left.”
“How did you know?”
“I guessed it when I read the letter. After that I took certain steps.”
“‘The letter’? Earno’s letter? Morlock showed it to you?”
“Not exactly. It’s on the table yonder.”
So it was. Deor went and picked it up. It was torn in half. He held the pieces together and read it.
He turned to his Eldest. “How did it come to you?” he demanded. The question was blunt, brutally blunt from one so junior to one so senior. But he had given it to Morlock himself. The thing touched his honor; he had a right to know.
The Eldest was not annoyed. “Morlock read it and tore it apart on Rokhfell of Southgate,” the old dwarf said. “I was watching him, although he did not seem to notice me.”
“What did he say when you spoke to him?”
“I didn’t. I was with the work parties, some distance away. By the time I reached Rokhfell he had ridden away.”
“West?”
“South. I expect he means to raise the alarm in other holds. We think none of our messengers survived, you know—but he might, as he did in Haukrull vale. And he has his obligations to the Graith.”
Deor nodded in agreement. “The very thing. Earno must be a madman. Morlock a traitor!”
“Earno is spellbound. That is a kind of madness, an induced one.”
“Let’s ex-duce it. If we cure him perhaps we can send a message—”
“Cure him? How do you propose to do that?”
Deor was surprised. “Why—as Earno himself cured me. As I cured Vendas.”
“Is Vendas cured?”
Deor was silent. He had looked in on Vendas that morning.
“I’ve thought on this, Deortheorn,” the Eldest