The Song of the Stone: Daughter of Duri, #2

By Rachel Tonks Hill

Bazrad might be an ex-dwarven cleric living in exile, but she's content with her life in the Woodland Realms. She has the perfect partner, a somewhat annoying best friend, and a project to keep her hands busy.

 

When tragedy befalls her homeland, she risks everything in order to help the survivors. But there's more to this "accident" than first appears, and being back home means confronting the past Bazrad has fought to hide from her lover.

 

Will Elarnaud stay once they know the truth? And can Bazrad figure out what's happening to her home before it's too late?

 

Follow Bazrad ka-Duri in her second adventure "The Song of the Stone" as she breaks exile to save her people, faces her past mistakes, and learns that even she deserves a second chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachel Tonks Hill
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393671640

Rachel Tonks Hill

Rachel Tonks Hill always wanted to be either a doctor or writer when she grew up. Her first novel, On the Rise, was released in 2016, having been written alongside her doctoral thesis. While having a novel out fulfills the “writer” part of her dream, she hopes this doesn’t mean she has to grow up. Rachel lives in Nottingham with her partner and insufficient dogs.

Book preview

A Gift From Tonks

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Chapter One

The Woodland Realms were peaceful in the afternoons. The sun filtered down through the trees bathing everything in a golden, dappled light. The only sounds were birdsong and the gentle tap of hammers in the forge. Everything smelled green.

That was until I set my beard on fire.

I leaned in to check on the progress of the smelt and got too close to a pot of boiling metal. Which might have been fine were it not for my abundant facial hair.

Sometimes being a dwarf was a real pain in the ass.

My beard didn’t go up in flames, as such, but there was an uncomfortable flash of heat near my face and the awful stench of burning hair.

I jerked my head back as soon as I noticed, hoping to avoid the worst of the damage. I might have succeeded too, if not for my Ancestors damned hand which lost all fine motor control at the worst possible moment.

My fingers lost their strength and I half dropped, half flung the smelting pot, sending burnt hair and droplets of molten silver everywhere. Panic set in, and I couldn’t do much more than yell incoherently to attract attention.

Fortunately, one of the other apprentice smiths was there to help me out—and put me out—by throwing a bucketful of quenching water at my face.

I looked up at my saviour, my beard dripping and far less bushy than it had been only moments before. Thank you, I said sincerely, bowing my head at the group of elves that had gathered around me with concern etched onto their annoyingly fair features.

At least none of them were laughing out loud.

You are welcome, Lady Bazrad, said the nearest elf—what was their name? Fuly? Flain? Faelyn!—the one who’d thrown the water. Are you certain you are unharmed?

Nothing injured but my pride, I said honestly. I looked down at the smelting pot I’d been using. The metal had cooled significantly and there were dark bits of what had once been beard hair floating on top. Looks like my project is a bust though, I said, sadly. At least for now.

The sad remains of my project lay dark and dull in the smelting pot. I had been attempting to craft a small silver ring, but it was more a twisted lump of metal now.

I sighed at this latest setback. I had been working on the design of the ring for months, ever since it had first appeared in my dreams. Once finished, I planned on giving the ring to Elarnaud, Heir to the Throne of said Woodland Realms and... someone very important to me. Based on current evidence, however, I wouldn’t be able to give it to them anytime soon.

Leave it for now, Lady Bazrad, said Faelyn, interrupting my thoughts.. The other apprentices and I will clear this up and you can start fresh tomorrow. For now, you may wish to retire to... tidy yourself up.

I hated to admit it but Faelyn was right. The entire smithy was filled with the acrid stench of burning and it was strongest right under my nose. I needed to get the smell out of my mind and my clothes and find out if there was anything left to salvage of my once luxurious beard.

Thank you, Faelyn, I’ll do that. I bowed in farewell and beat a hasty retreat to my quarters, taking the quickest and most discreet route I could. The last thing I wanted was to run into Elarnaud, or Ancestors forbid, Arcaena, before I’d assessed the damage and sorted myself out.

When I found the courage to look in the mirror, I saw that contact with molten metal hadn’t destroyed all of my beard. But just barely.

A full third of the flowing braids I’d been cultivating since I was a teenager with only one minor hiccup had been completely singed off, and the rest of it wasn’t looking too good either.

One of my braids was so badly burnt it was barely noticeable and it now looked like I had an odd number of braids. Like a male dwarf. The remaining braids were dotted through with small beads of solidified silver.

Fortunately, there were no visible burns to my face, though how I’d managed it the only the Ancestors knew. The quick reflexes of the elves had made it so that the only thing I needed to worry about was salvaging what was left of my beard. And my dignity.

I huffed in disapproval at my reflection and picked up the scissors. Might as well get this over with.

By the time I was done snipping away the damaged hair, my beard was much shorter than it had been in years.

Stone damn it, I muttered to myself as I tried to craft some sort of style out of what was left of my facial hair. Wish I’d never dreamed of that cursed ring in the first place.

But I had, and the dreams would only get more frequent until I’d finished the damn thing and given it to Elarnaud; they’d done the same thing before I started on the design. First thing in the morning I would go back to the forge and start again. There was nothing else I could do.

My usual beard braiding pattern wouldn’t work with the shorter style, so I had to use a pattern my Ma had taught me when my beard was first coming in. My heart lurched in my chest at the thought of my mother, but I shoved it down. I’d had a lot of practice at that over the years.

At that moment there was a knock on the door to my chambers. Elarnaud, no doubt. A welcome distraction despite the fact I wasn’t looking my best.

Come in, I called, still trying to even up the braids.

Elarnaud entered my room gracefully as any elf, all long limbs and serene features. I could see in the mirror that Elarnaud had a worried frown marring their beautiful face, the crease between their brows a deep line in their dark brown skin.

That was an awful lot of expression for an elf and a testament to the depth of their feelings for me. I needed to head off their concern before they looked too closely into what I’d been doing with the silversmiths.

My lady Bazrad, they said, their light, musical voice full of concern as they entered the room. I came as soon as I heard the news.

Gossip sure moves fast among the elves, I grumbled, concentrating on my beard. Elarnaud was important to me, but sometimes being in the same room as them, with the elf looking at me like I was something special made me a little uncomfortable.

It didn’t help that I’d never really been sure how best to describe Elarnaud, even to myself. We were fond of each other, and we were definitely fucking but none of the words I could find properly conveyed how I felt about the elf.

Actions were better than words anyway, which was why I planned to give them the ring in the first place.

It’s nothing, I said. Just had a small accident at the smithy today, I said, being vague on purpose.

I didn’t want to reveal exactly what I’d been up to when the accident had happened. The ring was supposed to be a surprise, Stone dammit.

Elarnaud clucked in concern, bending down to run their fingers along the now-shortened ends of my poor beard. The shorter style is different, I will admit, but I think it suits you. And at least you can still display the correct number of braids.

It warmed my heart to know that Elarnaud had made the effort to learn about dwarf beard-braiding customs and the significance behind them. But then Elarnaud was pretty much the perfect partner in every other respect so why not this one?

To be honest, there wasn’t much point in braiding my beard when I was surrounded by elves in an elven city. It had been a long time since I’d spent any significant amount of time around dwarves, but braiding my beard to signify my gender was such an intrinsic part of who I am that I’d carried on doing it every day since I’d got here.

And the sudden loss of so many years’ worth of growth in one day hurt. Especially since it hadn’t been voluntary. It was a massive change to how I presented myself and would take some getting used to.

I look like a teenager again, I grumbled, not willing to be reasonable about it just yet.

I shouldn’t take my frustration out on Elarnaud, but I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted to do something nice for Elarnaud to let them know how I felt about them and it wasn’t going the way I’d planned. I’d been working on the design for weeks now and was no closer to actually giving them the ring.

You look just as beautiful as you always have, at least to me, Elarnaud insisted and pressed a kiss to my forehead. As long as your beard is the only thing harmed. When I heard what happened I feared the worst.

We spent a few blissful moments together before Elarnaud reluctantly returned to their duties.

I couldn’t honestly say I believed them, deep in my belly, but Elarnaud wasn’t one for untruths. If they said it looked good and that they still found me beautiful then that was how they felt. And at least they hadn’t laughed.

Arcaena, on the other hand, showed no such restraint.

Their musical laughter filled all corners of my quarters when they came by for our weekly game of chess. I had a sneaky suspicion that they mostly just wanted to see the damage for themself.

Which would explain why they’d turned up early for our appointment.

I swear, if Elarnaud wasn’t so fond of you... I said when their laughter finally pissed me off enough to react. I even used the most threatening voice I could muster.

Arcaena didn’t look very impressed with my efforts. It’s not the way it looks, they said, still smiling far too widely for my liking. It’s just that it’s rather obvious that something happened.

I glared at them as hard as I could but they barely seemed to notice.

What were you doing in the smithy anyway? they continued, asking the question that Elarnaud had somehow avoided. Worse, they completely ignored my escalating attempts to set them on fire with my mind. I thought your apprenticeship was with the carpenters.

It is, I said, hoping that would be the end of it. I should have known better. Arcaena just looked at me with a placid expression until it irritated me enough to speak again. Don’t you have some trees to talk to or something? I asked pointedly, aiming directly for a weak point in their armour as an intentional distraction.

The Whisper of the Leaves is a gift and should not be spoken of lightly, Arcaena said, puffing themself up to their full height in sheer indignation, just like they did every time I was irreverent about their gift.

Which was why I kept doing it, of course.

You kept telling me that when your so-called gift was inside my head and I didn’t believe you then, I pointed out, grateful for the chance to be angry about something other than my face for a while.

Bloody elves and their bloody trees, I swear to the Ancestors.

As much as Arcaena got on my nerves, we were irrevocably bonded together by our experiences with the Whisper of the Leaves. Or, as I liked to call it, having to hear all the shite the trees were saying.

Arcaena shook their head, muttering something about dwarves not appreciating the gifts they’d been given. Look, if I’d grown up on the surface, in an elven city like you did, maybe I’d feel the same way about trees talking to me as you do, I said. But I didn’t, I grew up underground like all respectable dwarves.

Which means you are ignorant of the magnitude of the gift you were given. Arcaena tried to get a dig in but I wasn’t going to let it get to me.

You’re damn right I was ignorant of what a gift the Whisper of the Leaves was because back home in Varfaldur there aren’t any fucking trees. You know why? Because it’s deep underground, like all good dwarven things.

There were mushrooms in Varfaldur, yes. Loads of those. But no trees.

"And then you came to the surface to grace us with your presence and somehow you still didn’t appreciate your ability to receive the wisdom of the most ancient beings that exist." Arcaena whipped themself up into a proper frenzy.

You mean I had to endure the constant chattering of every leafy green thing within earshot, I muttered angrily.

And it had been a thing to endure.

The sounds of leaves rustling in the wind? I heard that as a thousand different voices, all overlapping until it was impossible to isolate a single voice, let alone understand a word of what they were saying.

I thought I was mad. For years.

And then Elarnaud and Arcaena had rudely interrupted my perfectly sound life choice of drinking myself to death and dragged me off to help save the Woodland Realms.

But that’s a story for another time.

The upshot of it was that at the end of all that world-saving we did, I’d shoved my weird ability off on Arcaena who, as a tree-worshipping elf, appreciated it far more than I ever could. Unfortunately, being an elf that could talk to trees also made them even more insufferable than they already were.

You still haven’t told me what you were doing with the silversmiths, Arcaena said after several minutes of me trying to set them on fire with my brain.

And I’m not going to. Especially not if they were going to continue winding me up like that.

Fine, Arcaena said, apparently not wanting to get into that particular argument again. Keep your secrets if you wish.

"I do wish, I said. Now are you going to take your turn or not?" I gestured at the chess game that had been abandoned in favour of