The result, of course, is that I must ask you to hold the reins of my office-not merely for the summer, as we had originally planned, but for however much time is required until the completion of my mission. I know, Cousin White-granite, you would much prefer to continue your studies and your meditations unimpeded. I, too, share your fascination with the mystery of the Grotto, and I look forward to the day when you can devote yourself to the puzzle that has eluded our greatest minds for more than two thousand years. Was the first lair of the good dragons in the place we now call Thorbqrdin? You have convinced me it is possible. If anyone in the kingdom can unravel the mystery hidden in those lost scrolls of Chisel Loremaster, that scholarly dwarf is you.

But, sadly, the days of research and your ultimate triumph must lie in the future. Duty has a way of calling us all, in one way or another. My work will be done by my strong right arm and my army. Yours has always been through your pen, your mind, and your words.

Just as I know your reluctance, I also perceive your capabilities, perhaps better than you do yourself. You are a wise dwarf, Baker Whitegranite, but do not forget to let yourself be advised. Too, you must not be afraid to lead.

Finally, I am certain that the news in this missive has caused you no little fear. (Reorx knows these events are enough to turn my own beard white!) I must ask that you share the knowledge of what has happened with the rest of the Hylar. It is up to you whether or not to inform the other clans. But if you do so, try to master their understandable fear. We are a proud and capable people, but our nation is prone to fractiousness. It will be up to you to limit that divisiveness, to hold up an example of promise and cooperation.

We must assume, Cousin, that the threat looming over the world of Krynn will not spare our dwarven realm merely because the clans are sheltered beneath the peaks of the High Kharolis. The danger will come to Thorbardin soon enough, and you must insure that we dwarves are ready.

I leave you in trust and confidence to hold my throne and my clan. Baker Whitegranite, Thane of the Hylar. It has a solid echo to it.

Farewell, Cousin, and may the gods allow us to touch our beards together again in this world.

– Glade Hornfel Kytil, Absent Thane of Hybardin And King of the Mountain Dwarves

Baker read the letter again, and once more, seeking some germ of encouragement, a piece of advice that would help him to face the trials ahead. He felt a rising surge of resentment against Hornfel-irrational, to be sure, for even an uneasy throne in Thorbardin was preferable to a journey across an unknown and treacherous sea.

Indeed Glade's very movement of an army by sea was a stark measure of the urgency that impelled him, that even now drew the Hylar into the little known ocean to the north. For a moment Baker yielded to a wave of awe, stunned his cousin would even attempt such a voyage. He remembered the fallen prince, and shook with grief. How could Glade even carry on in the wake of such a personal tragedy?

Yet Hornfel Kytil was a true thane, made from the stuff of heroes; if anyone could prevail, it would be him. Meanwhile, Baker would have to see that Thorbardin stayed in one piece and remained ready to meet any threats, either internal or external.

But could he do all that?

In truth, he wasn't the least bit sure. Baker had been good at one thing all his life: the craft of scholarship, of diligent and reliable research, and the writing of words with a fluidity pleasing to the listener's ear. None of that had prepared him to rule a kingdom of agitated clans, and yet now he would have to try.

In agitation he got up and paced across the throne room into the adjoining office, where he stopped before his desk. He looked at the stack of parchments and tablets, a mess that covered half of the marble work surface, and felt a rising dismay. Most of them were petitions and claims of one sort or another. For the past mooncycle he had only bothered to read a handful of them. He had acted upon none since he had believed Hornfel would soon be returning.

How could he, Baker Whitegranite, be expected to adjudicate between two disputatious Hylar? He had seen Hornfel's court, of course, and was well aware that angry dwarves tended to be, well, angry. He had no stomach to face them, knowing that his decision must inevitably make at least one of the disputants even angrier.

He wandered the great stone room in a daze, mystified and depressed. His hands idly touched the halberds and axes, the great swords and solid shields that lined the walls. It was a grand legacy of war, two thousand years and more of courage, promise, and steadfast reliability. Each of these martial tools had its place in that history, a blade blessed by Reorx, made of steel sanctified by the best dwarven craftsmen. A long time passed before his thoughts were able to focus, and to return to the missive from Hornfel.

For a moment he thought of his own apartments and was tempted to slink back to Level Twenty-eight before still more emergencies were laid upon this vast desk. But even that gave him no prospect of peace. Indeed, he quickly realized he felt safer here than at home. Garimeth had been so unpleasant recently that it seemed pragmatic to avoid her as much as possible. He sighed, recognizing how pathetic it was that this was one thing he could be grateful for: His new responsibilities would give him ample excuse to remove himself from his wife's presence.

But at the same time new duties of necessity would take him farther from his beloved studies. He longed for the familiar weight of his helmet, the bronze Helm of Tongues that was a treasured artifact of the Whitegranite family-as well as a magical device that allowed him to decipher writings even in the most arcane of languages. It was in the cedar wardrobe, he suddenly remembered. Anger at Garimeth surged anew as he realized how she had distracted him from his search.

Still pacing, Baker stopped before the wide golden doors that opened onto the vast balcony of the thane's hall. He knew the vista that awaited him, the plunging cliff of Hybardin falling to the docks a thousand feet-ten city levels-below. He had a lifetime's familiarity with the vast dark sweep of the Urkhan Sea stretching into the distance of the dwarven kingdom. Sometimes he found solace in that view, but now his hand hesitated on the knob and he decided to let the doors remain shut.

He found his thoughts, without conscious command, returning to his wife. As always, there was the familiar tangle of emotions, memories, and regrets, the whole mix stirred together with a growing measure of distaste.

Garimeth Bellowsmoke had been an unusual bride for a Hylar nobleman. An esteemed daughter of clan Daergar, she had a dark dwarf's ill temper and selfishness. Still, many years ago she had been beautiful. The daughter of a Daergar ambassador to Hybardin, she had known the right words to say to a foolish young Hylar noble. And, though it shamed him to remember this, he had allowed himself to be blinded to the multitude of her faults because she was utterly fabulously rich.

He tried to recall the beauty that he had once beheld in her shock of pure black hair, in the eyes of a violet so powerful and intense that he had once compared them to the finest opals. Now that hair was streaked with gray and pulled back into a severe bun. Her eyes were constantly clouded by displeasure. Her once-smooth face was scored by lines of age, and a permanent scowl seemed to have settled into the grooves of her chin and forehead.

Baker had memories of her coquettish laugh, of kisses and caresses that had thrilled him, of her daring as a lover. She had excited him in ways that no self-respecting Hylar maid would ever have considered. But those days had been all too brief, lasting only until her pregnancy. Garimeth had blamed him for her discomfort, and following the birth of their son she had withdrawn her affections. He shook his head, casting the thoughts away. He was too old for lust or for love. And even if he wasn't, he doubted the sharp and brittle creature who was his wife, at least in name, could arouse him to even the beginning stages of passion.