All the Owners present in Glint had gathered together, not for a council, but with their families for feasting. Warmcoat’s hold was there, as were Shineboot’s and Hobblefoot’s, Greal’s and Khlif’s, and Chargrim and Onyx’s hold, of course. This year, only Sledgefist’s family was missing.
Chargrim had directed a new stope-hall dug at the end of the Owner’s Drift to accommodate gatherings and feasts for the owners, whose extended families now included forty-twogilna and gilke, although a few had passed rhundal and were no longer gilke. The youngest were yet swaddled. More crawled and waddled around in their one-piece wool gowns, watched over by their siblings who steered them away from the hot braziers and samovars that always drew the attention of the littles.
Other notable stoneholds were present by invitation as well—Thrushbeard, rinlen of the Ridge Wardens, Farhear the translator, along with their wifs and gilke. Second Cyprine was there as well, though a widow with only grown children. Peridot’s father always invited Crookleg, but the goatherds kept their own Day of Deliverance with their extended stoneholds. Of all the inhabitants of Glint, the goatherds had migrated as whole families.
Warmcoat’s and Shineboot’s wifs did not scruple to hire out labor; food and drink was brought in and replaced by dwarves servers. Peridot knew it irritated her mother. Onyx felt that the Day of Deliverance should be a ti when stoneholds feasted as families, and even those hired should be celebrating and not laboring. At least this year, there were no hired musicians; a few of Warmcoat’s gilke had taken to playing flutes and onrajke, and the singing and playing stopped only for more eating and drinking. Multiple Ingots stones were also in play. Hill-smoke swirled, and samovars held glowing coals.
With the cooking and preparation well done and the feast arrived, Peridot could sit and watch and listen all she wanted. She had spread her vibrant yellow skirts on a cushion along the wall where she could watch the entire hall. Her father and mother sat upon cushions in a circle with the other heads of stoneholdsand their wifs, a great platter of smoked lamb between them. Two new babes were passed from hand to hand among the wifs and maids. Peridot loved days such as these when they gathered together. It only happened a few tis a year. Smaller groups often ate together, but not so many at once.
She had heard many stories of the founding of Glint. To think that just a few dwarves and her mother had built this place. But amidst all the labors and workings and all the uncountable yothe of gold, this hall full of souls, this great kinship represented in all the music and talk and laughter and feasting—she knew this was their greatest achievent.
The nearby conversation of a cluster of older gilke, all just a few years from rhundal, caught her ear.
“She is the finest.”
“You just like that she has the hair of jade on her.”
“What does that even an? It makes no sense. Jade is not red.”
“It is just a saying.”
“But the saying must co from sowhere.”
“It is because jade is so rare and valuable,” one of the gilke said with an air of authority. “As is red hair. That is why it is called ‘the hair of jade.’”
Shineboot’s gilna, Beryl, passed by them, carrying a platter.
“You foolish gilke,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you know it’s because a redhead should wear green? It shows her to advantage.”
The gilke fell silent as Beryl left them behind, the color rising on their cheeks. Peridot grinned, thankful that her father had made her read the old tales in the Book of Tourmaline. Even if Beryl was wrong, the discomfiture of the gilke amused her.
Beryl sat down on the cushion next to Peridot, resting the platter of cave-bread and sliced goat on her lap.
“Look at her,” she said under her breath. “Can she be more brazen?”
Peridot didn’t need to ask who she was talking about. Garnet, Warmcoat’s eldest gilna, was perched on a stool next to Rightauger. She talked away, leaning forward so that her braid hung down near his shoulder. Tinsnips, Thrushbeard’s son, and Rightauger’s closest friend, sat next to Rightauger, acting far too interested in his cup of ad. Many other gilke and young dwarves sat near Rightauger. He was never alone in such gatherings.
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“Ignore it,” Peridot said. She glanced at Beryl, who still stared with narrowed eyes. A new thought occurred to her; Beryl didn’t fancy Rightauger as well, did she? Peridot hoped not. What did her brother have to offer, except poor discipline? It wasn’t like any of the gilna of the owners needed a bride price. Beryl was Shineboot’s gilna, two years older than Peridot and re months from rhundal. She was Rightauger’s second cousin once removed, which wasn’t too close for a match.
Peridot was thankful that Beryl was so close in age to herself. She was the closest thing Peridot had to a friend. Garnet wasn’t much older yet, a year past rhundal, but Peridot had never been close to her. Gilna were rare. Among the owner families present, there were only eleven were gilna, and most of those were many years younger. All the rest were gilke. Sledgefist had two gilna, but they lived at Sledge Rock, Peridot had never t them.Sledgefist had been promising Chargrim to bring his whole family for a visit for years.
“Have you tried the goat?” Beryl asked.
“Ay, yes,” Peridot answered. Her stomach was happily full, though she planned to eat plenty more as the day wore on. It was a feast, not a al. She sipped on her Honeysteam and watched as Shineboot’s father-in-law challenged Warmcoat to a ga of Ingots. She would have liked to watch more closely, but she did not think the dwarves would care for her presence at the Ingots stone. Certainly, the older dwarves would not likely play her in a match.
“I an, really, look at her,” Beryl said.
“Beryl,” Peridot answered. “It doesn’t concern us.” Peridot truly hoped it didn’t concern Beryl. They were friends, but she could not imagine Beryl and Rightauger. . .
Across the hall, Levelarm started to sing, accompanied by his brothers’ flute and onrajke. The talking hushed. It was a familiar tune, one of the songs that would be sung again and again during the Day of Deliverance celebrations through all the stoneholds of their folk from Deep Cut to Glint: The Ballad of Tourmaline.
“Do you know she has received offers all the way from Deep Cut?” Beryl whispered.
“So?”
“But she hasn’t even taken a trade.”
“I know.”
“So what is she after?”
Peridot didn’t answer. It looked fairly clear what she was after. Beryl went on anyway:
“I asked, and my father says that Warmcoat didn’t send an announcent to Deep Cut. They offers were waiting.”
Peridot frowned.
“How?”
“They know who we are. They know whose we are. It will be the sa for , and for you, and Iolite, too, I have no doubt.”
“Hmm,” Peridot answered, making noise to be polite, but she wanted to listen to the ballad.
The serpent crushed, the stone was rent.
The lake was drained down smoking vent.
The granite quaked, the roots were crushed,
Steam with power and screams uprushed.
But by the bells of Ice-Cloak’s height
Crawled free the five into the light.
And held to bos’m and beating heart
The living steel, the ancient art.
Then back through wilds and dimning vales
to seek their folk with wilding tales,
Auntie Tourm by power of word
and Living Steel the folk bestirred.
From Ice-Cloak’s deep, the Crippled King,
She gave us back forgotten things.
And welded us again in soul,
Each to each as one folk, whole.
“I will marry,” Beryl said. “But I don’t know if I want to leave Glint. My father says that Deep Cut is worked-out, except for the coal and salt, but there is East Spire.”
Beryl had told all this to Peridot before; the gilna loved hashing out her future, moreso as her rhundal approached.
“I do not wish to leave Glint,” Peridot said.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing Deep Cut,” Beryl said. “But I don’t think I’d like to live there. I asked father if we could go with a packstring, but he would not agree.”
“Hmm,” Peridot said again, still trying to listen to the song. There were scores of stanzas. Different singers often chose so stanzas as opposed to others. She wondered if that was because of what her father had said—different singers from different holds telling the sa story in their own way.
With rapine hearts and murd’rous gaze
they hunted us by hounded ways
long into wastes where tongues cleaved
in dryness that no shade reprieved.
The wearied folk, the suffering dhar,
In fear and thirst now harried far.
Before their blighted gaze appeared
the cleft of rock, the silent re.
Beneath the sands from brazen sky
into the deep stone welcod nigh.
Rock their fortress, stone their might
in hidden depths, in cavern-night.
“Peridot!”
She turned from the singers. Her father motioned with his hand for her to co. She rose from the cushion and approached the dwarves gathered at Ingots.
“Now,” Chargrim said. “Fillstope has beaten Warmcoat and has challenged . Fill us so more Honeysteam, daughter.”
Fillstope neither smiled nor acknowledged Peridot, his hand resting on his grey beard as he stared down at the stone. Chargrim settled onto a cushion, his bad legged stretched out—he could not easily bend it to sit cross-legged—while Peridot took their mugs to the samovar. She returned with the steaming vessels and handed one to her father and the other to Fillstope.
Fillstope had already made the first move, advancing an ingot on the right edge of the stone. It was an unusual move. At least it was not one she had seen her father make.
“Sit,” Chargrim said, inching sideways on his cushion. She sat, arranging her layers of skirts. Leaning toward her, he spoke under his breath: “Now watch how an old Deep Cut Great Stair Ingots hand plays the ga. He is treacherous. Never underestimate a grey-beard.”
Chargrim made a lateral stack, and the first ga progressed in earnest.
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