And I suppose she’s right. It’s better to do this than to sit and do nothing except wait for death. But I have my doubts that any of our people will ever see this. I think it will more likely be some stranger.
It’s odd for me to think a stranger may be reading this after I am dead. Odder still to find myself sharing my fears and doubts with a stranger, when I can’t share them with those I love. Perhaps that person will be from another seamoon. If there are other seamoons, which I doubt. Still, Alake says it’s sinful to think that the One might have made us and no one else. But we dwarves are great doubters, suspicious of anything that hasn’t been around at least as long as we have.
I doubt that our deaths will accomplish anything.
I doubt that the Masters of the Sea will keep their word. Our sacrifice will be for nothing. Our people are doomed.
There. I’ve put it down at last. I feel better for it, though I will have to make certain now that Alake never sees this journal.
My name is Grundle.
It came much easier that time. My father is Yngvar Heavy-beard, Vater of the Gargan. My mother is Hilda. In her youth, she was said to be the most beautiful woman in all the seamoon. Songs have been made of my beauty, but I’ve seen a portrait done on her wedding day; I’m plain, compared to her. Her side whiskers came almost to her waist and were the honey color, which is extremely rare and prized among dwarves.
My father tells the story that when my mother stepped out onto the field of contest, the other contenders took one look at her and walked off, leaving her the unchallenged winner. My mother, I am told, was extremely put out at this, for she had practiced long at the ax-throw and could hit the target five times out of six. If I had stayed on Gargan, they would have been holding the marriage contests for me, since I’m near the end of the Time of Seeking.
That blot is a tear. Now I’m certain I can’t let Alake see this!
Father or king. The queen is known as Muter—mother.
I wasn’t crying for myself, mind you. I was crying for Hartmut. He loves me very much. And I love him. But I can’t let myself think about him or the tears will wash out the ink on the page.
The person who finds this will probably be astonished to discover a dwarf writing this account. Our people have little use for such matters as reading and writing and ciphering. Writing makes the mind lazy, according to my people, who each keep the entire history of Gargan in their heads, plus the history of their individual families. Dwarves, in fact, have no written language of their own, which is why I am writing this in human.
We keep excellent accounts in our heads, as well—a marvel to human and elven purveyors. I have yet to see the dwarf who couldn’t tell to the grain how much money he or she has made in a lifetime. Some old graybeards will go on for cycles!
I myself would never have learned to read and write, except that I am—or was—destined to be ruler of my people. And since I would be dealing so closely with our human and elven allies, my father and mother decided that I should be brought up among them and educated in their ways. And (I think they considered this more important!) they wanted me to educate the humans and elves in our ways.
At an early age, I was sent to Elmas—the elven seamoon — along with Alake, the daughter of the chieftain of Phondra. Alake is near my age mentally, if not in terms of actual cycles. (Humans lead such pitifully short lives, they are forced to grow up rapidly.) With us was Sabia, the elven princess, who joined us in our studies.
Beautiful, gentle Sabia. I will never see her again. But the One be thanked that she escaped this cruel fate.
We three girls spent many years together, driving our teachers to distraction and learning to love each other like sisters. Indeed, we became closer than most sisters I’ve known, for there was never any rivalry or jealousy between us.