“Walk away,” growled a voice into Branden’s ear.

Nerves cold as the metal on his skin, Branden neither moved nor turned around. “Sure. I’ll take Green Hat there with me.” Not daring to raise his arms, Branden looked at the child Dwarf. “Come on girl, you don’t want to—” A trickle of blood ran down his throat as the knife pressed harder.

“One more word, Orcdung,” said the voice.

Breath quickening, Branden stared at the child, expression imploring.

Eyes wide, the child turned to Lilac Cloak. “What’s going on? We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No, not at all lass,” said Lilac Cloak, patting the child’s back, “he just doesn’t want you to enjoy your bliss.” The adult Dwarf shot Branden a glare, but kept their voice soothing. “It’s not even his fault, lass. He’s a human, no doubt newly come from some kingdom or other where they’re used to cringing before any fool with a crown,” said Lilac Cloak, shaking their head. “We let his kind order us about, before long we’ll be needing to ask permission to strike our slaves or use the privy. Are you going to let his lordship, rags and all, tell you what to do?”

Green Hat shook her head, short black beard waving. “No! But the other human shouldn’t hurt him.”

“That’s a free Narngundian lass. Of course I won’t let the humans hurt each other,” said Lilac Cloak with a smile. “Take your bliss and run along. Be sure to tell your friends to stop by Nomir’s shop when they want to try. First time’s free.”

Smiling, Green Hat waved. “I will. Thanks. Bye,” she said as she skipped past Branden. An iron grip on Branden’s shoulder warned him to keep quiet.

Nomir’s smile and tone dropped. “Bring him in the shop, Leo. Stay quiet, meddler, unless you want the fun to begin early.”

Shouts ringing across the alley, a drunken band of Halflings staggered into view. “Hey now, friends,” cried one, “will you toast a lov—hic—a lovely Feast Day with—hic—us?”

“Yes! Come join us, friends,” shouted Branden.

A tide of merriment, the Halfings lurched over. “We’re going to—hic—I don’t know where.”

Branden’s face struck the wall as he felt a shove from behind. Looking back, he caught the gleam of a golden tombstone on Leo’s shoulder. Darting ahead of Nomir, Leo disappeared before Branden could see his face. A door slammed.

“Changed my mind, thanks,” said Branden as he brushed by the laughing party, rubbing the shallow cut on his throat. His head ached.

He retraced his steps to the courtyard, finding no sign of Green Hat or any golden tombstone. Sitting at the edge of the fountain, he stared into the purple water.

Branden’s breathing slowed and deepened. It isn’t my business. Green Hat’s wide eyes stared back from the pool. They didn’t force her. Visions of children crying purple tears assailed him. What can I do about it anyway? Eyes stained lilac, mere shadows of men and Dwarves writhed and grovelled, while a dead-eyed monster, lit by hellish flames, beat iron collars with his hammer.

Bounding from the fountain with a snarl, Branden walked, then jogged, then ran. He ground to a halt, panting as spots swam before his eyes. Running solved nothing: his problems, the wretched city, and his past all cast their shadows on Branden still.

Failing to bludgeon his heart into stillness, Branden turned to logic. Surely he had witnessed an aberration. He decided that reputable bliss dealers would feel as disgusted as he by such a heinous act. Besides, how could he know how pernicious bliss actually was? It mastered Kelvin, but certainly the fault lay with Kelvin himself: a failure of character rather than a tragic fall from grace. No real man, no rational being, would voluntarily submit to slavery; therefore those who did deserved it.

Head clearing but chest strangely tight, Branden strode firmly. Ascending to the fourth level, higher than he had ventured before, he sought the slave market.

Only a faint echo of the music, color, and revelry of Feast Day touched this corner of Narngund. Armor gleaming dully in the torchlight, Dwarves bearing spears and shields tramped up and down every street, arrayed in gold and black. Few shoppers lined the market and none lacked an escort; the guards seemed more concerned with free people than the creatures chained in captivity. Row upon row of metal cages spread in every direction past the edge of sight. Branden shivered.

“Can I help you, sir?” asked a Dwarf dressed in rich crimson silk, eyeing Branden’s rags.

Branden nodded. “I’ve come to buy a slave.”

The Dwarf cocked his head. “On Feast Day, sir? Bear in mind we don’t sell on credit.”

Forearms twitching, Branden replied with a stare. The Dwarf began to look about, no doubt to find a guard. Branden took out his coin purse, nearly full of silver plus the gold coin Garlund had given, and held it under the Dwarf’s nose.

“Ah, pray forgive my rudeness, sir,” said the Dwarf, bowing low. “Ingan Brightbeam at your service. What exactly are you looking for?”

“First time buying. I want to browse before making a decision.”

Ingan nodded. “As you please, sir. Bonyun,” he said, whistling, “escort our guest and see he has no trouble with the merchandise.” With a sidelong glance at Branden, Ingan walked towards another patron.

Ignoring the guard trudging behind him, Branden walked slowly, gazing in the cages. Few eyes met his; the property either averted their gaze or, lost in another world, stared at nothing. He saw neither the telltale purple of bliss euphoria nor the clear white eyes of sobriety. The human chattel wandered on the edge of a lilac nightmare; neither clearheaded enough to connect with the world nor drugged enough to soar to the sky.

Dwarves, humans, Goblins, Halfings: all reduced to shadows. Comatose or shaking, horror-stricken or dreamy, resentful or guilt-ridden, Branden passed all by. His fists clenched while breaths came fast and hard. Hatred for slave and slaver welled in his heart, choking him. Branden dragged himself and the heavy collar he bore forward, not knowing what he sought.

He jerked to a stop. From a cage far ahead and to the right floated… song. Faint and cracking, nevertheless it rose above the moans, weeping, and muttered curses that oozed from the cages.

Far over black mountains crowned in snow

lie enchanted halls delved deep below

The voice seemed familiar yet out of place. Straining his ears, Branden came closer.

the dull brown hill that stands alone

where mighty rise great works of stone

Poor and low as one may be

a land exists where all are free

Soft and sad despite its coarseness, the tune contrasted strangely with the lyrics. The voice—surely one heard before—impelled Branden forward.

In the Dwarven realm they call Narngund

none who come in peace are shunned

There willing hands fear no poverty

and not one soul need bend the knee

The faint voice rang in Branden’s head louder than any hammer. He knew it, he knew it! Back, back—but the voice commanded him to come.

At Dwarven will the water flows

while day and night the city glows

A golden tide of wealth there runs

where shining jewels lie heaped in tons

Staggering, Branden rounded the last corner. Sadness and understanding smote his heart like lightning. Scarcely audible, the voice accused him, burning hotter than iron.

Though countless miles it lies away

to walk its streets one day I pray

Despite the dark in which I grope

while Narngund stands I still have hope

Rail-thin, almost a living corpse, a man huddled in the filth of his cage. Familiar misery haunted Kelvin’s lilac eyes.