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columns, inscribed with verses and citations from the creation story
     of the dwarves.
    Ahead of them towered an enormous stone statue of Beroïn, father of the secondlings. The ancient monarch sat on a throne of
     white marble, his right hand raised in greeting and his left hand clasped about his ax. His foot alone was as long as five
     ponies and loomed to the height of a fully grown dwarf.
    But that was just the start of it.
    The walls, once coarse naked rock, had been polished to a sheen and the glinting surfaces engraved with runes and patterns.
     The stonework was so delicate, so precise, that Gandogar slowed to examine it.
    There were underground galleries and chambers aplenty in his own kingdom, but nothing compared to the secondlings’ skill.
    He reached out and ran his hand reverently over the dark gray marble. It was hard to believe such splendor was possible.
    “By Vraccas,” he exclaimed admiringly, “I have never seen such artistry. The secondlings boast the best masons of any dwarven
     folk.”
    Gundrabur’s counselor gave a little bow. “Thank you. They will value your praise.”
    The company walked between the statue’s feet and through another door. There the passageway narrowed and the air felt suddenly
     cool. They had reached the entrance to the hall.
    Balendilín turned to Gandogar and smiled. “Are you ready to stake your claim before the assembly?”
    “Of course he is,” snapped Bislipur before the king could speak.
    Balendilín frowned but said nothing, stepping forward to throw open the doors and announce the arrival of the long-awaited
     guests.
    The great hall surpassed everything that had gone before it. Cylindrical columns towered to vertiginous heights and great
     battle scenes graced the walls, the sculpted marble surfaces commemorating past victories and heroic deeds. Lanterns and braziers
     of burning coal bathed the chamber in a warm reddish glow, but the air was cool, much to the delight of the travelers who
     had endured the heat of Sangpûr’s deserts.
    While Balendilín was introducing the new arrivals, Gandogar fixed his adviser with a stare. “You would have beaten Sverd for
     such insolence.”
    Bislipur clenched his jaw. “I’ll apologize to the counselor later.”
    They turned toward the assembly. Five chairs, one for each of the dwarven folks, were arranged in a semicircle around a table.
     Elegantly carved pews were lined up in five blocks behind them so that the chieftains and elders could follow the proceedings
     and have their say.
    One of the chairs, together with its corresponding benches, would remain forever empty, a painful reminder of the fifthlings’
     fate. There was no sign of the firstling monarch or chieftains, but the seventeen clans of the secondlings had taken their
     seats.
    The table was covered in maps and charts of Girdlegard. Before the fourthlings’ arrival, the delegates had been discussing
     the happenings in the north, but now their attention turned to Gandogar.
    The king felt a rush of excitement. For the first time in over four hundred cycles the most influential and powerful dwarves
     of all the folks would be assembled in one room. Never before had he been in the presence of his fellow monarchs and distant
     kin and at last the names that he had heard so often attached themselves to beings of flesh and blood. It was a momentous
     occasion.
    The other dwarves rose to greet the company with hearty handshakes. Gandogar noticed how the palms differed; some were callused
     or scarred, others tough and muscular, while a few seemed almost delicate. He was touched by the warmth of the welcome, despite
     the distrust and suspicion evident in some eyes.
    Then it was time for him to greet Gundrabur Whitecrown, king of the secondlings and ruler of every dwarf, clan, and folk.
    He stepped forward and struggled to hide his shock.
    After five hundred cycles of life, the once stately high king was so weak that the mildest breeze was liable to