The Ruin by Richard Lee Byers

way from that. Ahead lay dread and shame. But he’d salvage something, no matter what the risk.
    “Go on out,” he said. “I’m not going to punish you. But you are not to talk to your uncle or the strangers about the queen or anything to do with her. Tell me you understand.”
    She stared up at him. Her eyes were troubled, but she said, “Yes, Papa, I understand.”
    Once she was gone, Wurik proceeded to the rearmost chamber of the house, untied and opened a leather trunk, rooted around in it, and from the bottom retrieved a small, intricately carved ivory box. Inside glittered a piece of ice faceted like some priceless diamond, and when he took it out, he winced.
    Ordinarily, arctic dwarves were impervious to cold. They felt it to the extent of knowing if the temperature rose or fell,
    but it wasn’t harmful or unpleasant. Whenever Wurik grasped the crystal, though, he experienced the same burning, numbing chill that would have afflicted a human.
    He touched the ice to the center of his forehead.
     
    When the village celebrated, it needed to do it in the open. None of the simple snow-block houses was anywhere near large enough to hold all the natives, let alone visitors twice as tall. Still, it wasn’t so bad. Raryn’s folk, aware that humans and their ilk required warmth, had given the outlanders the places closest to the leaping, crackling central bonfire. Though he could have done without the smell—the dwarves fueled the blaze with dried animal droppings and oily fish skins—Dorn was fairly comfortable.
    The food was good, also. He sampled caribou, walrus, seal, fish, and the windblown, tumbling plant called snowflower prepared in four different ways. The entertainment was likewise as lavish as the village could provide. He applauded songs, stories, dances performed to the intricate thumping of three diversely shaped drums, and even a juggler.
    And yet…
    Dorn turned to Kara. “Maybe it’s just me,” he whispered. “I’ve always had trouble enjoying occasions like this. But it feels like they’re trying too hard, without any real joy underneath.”
    “l agree,” she said. “They’re showing us hospitality, and I’m sure they don’t begrudge it. But they’ve endured too much hardship for it to lift their own spirits.” She glanced over at Raryn, seated with Wurik on one side, Joylin on the other, and a platter balanced on his lap. “Poor Raryn. I’m sure he hoped for a happier homecoming.”
    Dorn grunted. “Maybe you can do something to brighten things up.”
    She smiled. “Perhaps I can.” When the juggler stopped flipping and catching his glistening icicles, and had
    acknowledged his applause, she rose, raised her hands for silence, and began to sing.
    The song told of a young warrior wooing a haughty maiden who thought herself too good for him. She set him impossible tasks to perform, and by dint of boldness and cunning, he managed each in turn. As always, Kara made the story as compelling as the melody was sweet, her voice infused with the personality of each character as she spoke for him in turn.
    Truly, it was a flawless performance. Until she went stiff, and a note caught in her throat.
    She flashed a smile as if wryly amused by her slip, drew a deep breath, and took up the thread of the song. She managed three more lines, then stumbled once more.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, pain in her voice. “My stomach.. I… must have eaten too much of this fine food… ” Her knees buckled, dumping her onto the icy ground.
    Dorn scrambled to her side. She tried to raise a trembling hand, but lacked the strength. Her complexion was always fair, but now it had turned ashen, and her lips, blue.
    “Pavel!” he bellowed. “Something’s wrong with her!” He looked around for the healer, and what he saw filled him with horror.
    By the looks of it, all his friends had fallen ill, were all nearly paralyzed with cramps and weakness, while the villagers, for the most part, looked on stony-faced.