The Silver Stair

by Jean Rabe

  He felt sadness for… her. Somehow he knew the child had been female, but he felt a twinge of pleasure at the same time. A smile played along his lips. He had sensed no spirit, but he had sensed something, and that was a minor victory of sorts. Perhaps if he kept at it, he thought, if he came back here again, worked longer and harder. Perhaps then he might finally be rewarded.

  "Find the door," he whispered. "Find the door and open it." From that door he would reach the spirits he was seeking to talk to.

  "Jasper says I don't take enough chances." He stifled a laugh. "I will take a chance with this, and I will speak to Goldmoon again. I have to make her understand."

  He tried to smooth the snow back into place as he pulled his mind away from the child's grave. Perhaps he needed to concentrate on the recently dead. That could be the answer. Perhaps their spirits were closer to their bodies and to this world, and perhaps that would make them more receptive to his senses.

  "What lies in wait for us after life?" he whispered. He continued staring at the graves for the better part of an hour, lost in his thoughts and oblivious to the cold. "What is all of this for… life? You struggle to better yourself, to help others, to gain some measure of status. For what? In the end, someone will bury you and forget you. Is that all there is? With the gods gone, is there not even a promise of redemption? Certainly Riverwind's spirit exists. And if Riverwind's spirit exists, so must others. But what existence?" His eyes locked onto the child's grave. "Is whatever follows life better than life itself? Or is it some hellish shadow of life? When we die, what awaits us?"

  Carefully Gair retraced his steps. Several minutes later he was on the path that led back to the settlement. He walked slowly, still lost in thought. Only when he heard voices as he approached the settlement's campfires did he stop thinking about spirits, and then only to think about finding Goldmoon.

  He, Goldmoon, and Jasper arrived on Schallsea Island a little more than six months ago, carrying nothing with them except blankets and a few treasured possessions. Since that time, Goldmoon's followers in Abanasinia had made the trip here, bringing building supplies, tents, seeds for future gardens, and more. From three blankets on the ground around a single campfire, the area around the Silver Stair had grown into a thriving tent town that most certainly would grow even larger come spring.

  Nearly a hundred tents and lean-tos stretched east of the Silver Stair toward the cliffs that overlooked the Straits of Schallsea. Some were elaborate, with trinkets hanging on the outside that jangled pleasantly in the wind, or with names and home towns painted on the exterior canvas. In the light of the day, the multihued tents looked quite cheery. The elf imagined that from above, the camp looked rather like a big patchwork quilt. It would be getting bigger, he knew.

  The number of Goldmoon's followers continued to increase as word of the settlement spread throughout the southwest part of Ansalon. Many of those who came here were single individuals, wanting to make a difference in the world by learning Goldmoon's mystical healing powers or her philosophy. Others were families who had come to be near the famed Hero of the Lance and who hoped to find inspiration in a world absent of gods. Some were curiosity-seekers, intrigued by the Citadel of Light Goldmoon intended to build, or mystified by the Silver Stair. Finally there were the townsfolk who came out to visit, many of whom ended up staying to join the community. The latest addition was a miller named Roeland, who had sold his shop to join the ragtag community.

  Dozens upon dozens of pilgrims, as they were calling themselves, were living in the port town, where the accommodations were better. This had resulted in the building spurt and in the "no vacancy" signs in nearly every inn's window. Iryl Songbrook was doing her best to house as many newcomers as possible in her hostel, some of whom had spent every coin they owned for passage to Schallsea Island. They made monthly pilgrimages to the stair and to visit with Goldmoon. Iryl herself conducted most of the tours.

  And then there were the settlement builders. Heavy hide tents ringed by stacks of crates stood at the far edge of Gair's vision. These belonged to the dwarves, who came a few weeks ago and who, under Jasper's instructions, were beginning construction on the citadel. A few of the dwarves sat around a campfire. They appeared to be drinking.

  Gair stood and took it all in, listening to the musical notes of someone's wind chimes. There were a few small perimeter fires to help the sentries see and to warn away any wolves. Toward the center of the tent town, a large cookfire still burned. Someone was eating late—venison, the elf's nose told him. He slipped in past the first row of tents. To his far right, a Solamnic knight walked with one of the settlement's sentries. More knights were expected soon, and more soldiers as well.

  To the east, the Silver Stair rose above everything. He stared at the mystical creation. Someone was walking down it, though Gair was too far away to see who it was. Goldmoon? He wanted to talk to her. Gair edged closer, staying concealed by the shadows of the tents. No, it was not Goldmoon. It was the Solamnic lieutenant named Willum, his plate mail reflecting the shimmering of the steps. Jasper stood at the base of the stairs, waiting for Willum. The dwarf had climbed the Celestial Ladder a half-dozen times since their arrival.

  "Perhaps I shall try soon," Gair breathed.

  The elf moved deeper into the community, slipping from tent to tent. He wasn't entirely sure why he was staying hidden. Goldmoon's tent was near the cliff, as the healer enjoyed looking out at the Straits of Schallsea toward Abanasinia. His tent was several dozen yards away to the north.

  Gair thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and hurried toward her tent. A light was burning inside. She was still up.

  "Goldmoon?" He paused outside her tent, waited patiently for her to draw back the flap. No answer. He risked poking his head inside and discovered no one there. "Where are you?" Determined to find her, he started pacing away from her tent, nearly bumping into Camilla Weoledge when he turned the corner around a large lean-to.

  "Good evening, Mr. Graymist," the knight said.

  "Gair," he corrected her. "Only Jasper is so formal to use my last name."

  "Gair, then."

  "Weren't you able to sleep either?"

  She shook her head, her breath clouding around her face in the cold air. "I was just going to turn in, after one last stroll around your settlement."

  He extended his arm. "Then allow me accompany you, lady, and let me thank you again for comforting me when I was so grievously wounded on the trail by the"—he stopped himself, swallowing the words that might give away his trip to the burial ground— "by the bandits."

  As the elf escorted Camilla toward the cliff, it began to snow once more. The full moon, though partially hidden by wispy clouds, illuminated the start of a dock far below them. The pilings were in place, the planks on the shore covered by a snow-dusted tarp. Stakes wedged into the cliff face suggested the path a set of stairs would take.

  "Like stars falling to the earth," Camilla stated.

  "What?"

  She was watching the lacy snowflakes spinning slowing down, disappearing into the darkness of the water below. "That's what my father called snow."

  "The snow is lovely," Gair returned, "but not so lovely as you."

  She blushed and looked away, studying the distant dark water and removing her arm from his.

  "You truly are lovely, Camilla."

  The elf's keen eyes noticed her face redden. He knew she was not elegant and graceful like the elven women of the Silvanesti woods that he used to dream about. She was as tall as he and muscular, not the dainty woman on his arm he'd always pictured. She wasn't someone he had expected to be drawn to, but he was drawn to her nevertheless.

  "Don't turn away," he said softly.

  "I… I hardly know you."

  "Then you must get to know me better." He took Camilla's hand, and she did not protest. He led her around the perimeter of the settlement.

  "Where I come from, Gair, relationships aren't rushed."

  "Where I come
from," the elf countered, "people follow their hearts, and I think you've captured mine."

  They indulged themselves with idle conversation about the port town and the Solamnic order, and when the conversation turned to his Silvanesti homeland and his family, he deftly changed the subject—to her mysterious eyes, her curly hair, her milky complexion.

  "You remind me of Goldmoon," he said and failed to notice that she bristled at the remark. "Daring, strong, admirable…" He added to himself, and I believe that is why I am so taken with you.

  She turned her gaze from his. However, she did not shy away when he moved closer, released her hand, and draped his arm around her shoulders.

  "I am a Knight of the Sword," she told him. "My heart belongs to my order, and this—" she stared at the ground and brushed at the snow with her boot heel— "this is too fast. We've known each other only for a few days. This is—"

  "Don't say it's wrong," he interrupted. "Please, give me a chance."

  She looked toward a tent where Willum, wrapped in blankets, stood at the flap. Her pace increased as they walked past him and headed toward another tent, which the knight occupied.

  "Gair, I do not believe in this settlement. I think what Goldmoon is doing is wrong, and therefore I think you're wrong in following her."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "I am here only because of my orders. I am a knight, and my heart—"

  "Let just a little of your heart belong to me." He stepped back and stared at her eyes. Impulsively he darted forward and kissed her on the cheek. "Just a little," he repeated as she slipped out of his arms and ducked into her tent.

  Gair returned to Goldmoon's tent. This time he found the healer at home. She poked her head out between the flaps to talk to him when he called softly.

  "It's late," she said simply, but she was not dressed for bed. She was still wearing the deerskin tunic and breeches she'd put on after the incident that morning with the creature and the boars. And she had her cloak on, still wet from melting snow.

  "Goldmoon, I…" The elf closed his eyes and sighed. "You know how much I want to talk to spirits. I—"

  She shook her head firmly. "Gair, I will not teach you dark mysticism. I told you that this morning."

  "I've thought about it all day." The elf was clearly exasperated, but he tried not to show it. "Goldmoon, I know I push you sometimes, but I've never misused what you've taught me, and I wouldn't misuse this. You talk to Riverwind. That's where you were earlier, isn't it? Talking to Riverwind?"

  She didn't answer.

  "There's someone I want very much to speak to." He lowered his gaze to the ground, studied the tips of his boots for several moments. "If you don't teach me this, I'll have to stumble along on my own, trying to contact the dead. Maybe I can't learn it on my own, but I won't stop trying. I have to know that my family still… exists, that there is something beyond this life. Maybe once that knowledge is within my reach, I'll be satisfied and can move on, and then this won't consume me."

  She stared at him, his silver-white hair shimmering in the moonlight, lips set in a determined line. Suddenly her eyes showed that she had made a decision. "All right, Gair. Against my better judgment." She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head. "Maybe if I wasn't so tired and you weren't so persistent…"

  "When?" he pressed.

  "It had better be now," she answered softly, "before I change my mind."

  She beckoned him inside her tent. He felt his heart racing, his palms sweating. Her tent was sparsely furnished, with a bed raised above the ground atop some sturdy-looking crates. A small chest near the bed held the possessions that she'd brought with her from Abanasinia. An oil lamp rested atop the chest, bathing the interior of the tent in a soft glow. A large crate stood in the center of the small tent and served as a table. Two chairs abutted it, the only real furniture in Goldmoon's tent—given to her by a farmer as thanks for healing his sick wife and son. Goldmoon told the elf there would be time for furniture after the citadel was built.

  It was much warmer inside the healer's tent than Gair expected. She'd hung thick blankets up against each wall to help keep out the cold. Taking off his coat, he carefully laid it across the back of a chair and sat, steepling his fingers on the table.

  She sat opposite him, looking pale in the soft light. "The first thing you must do is clear your mind," she said slowly. "I hope this gives you some measure of peace, and that I am not doing the wrong thing." She studied the elf's face; his brow was knitted in concentration.

  "This process is not unlike reaching the minds of animals," she began, "but this is sensing a different type of… life. You must look elsewhere for it."

  For the next hour, she showed Gair what were mostly rather familiar mystical concepts, but with some peculiar twists. The elf realized he had been close in his attempts to communicate with the dead at the burial ground tonight, frighteningly close. There were just a few differences in approach.

  Under her direction, Gair closed his eyes and let his senses drift. In his mind, he could see the features of Goldmoon's tent and see her sitting across from him. The sensation was heady and a bit unnerving, as he was perceiving the world unconventionally. Rather, he was searching for things not of this world. In the back of his mind, he saw shadows all about him, fleeting images of insubstantial people, but no one he recognized.

  "Search a little longer. Picture a different land," she told him. "Picture different shadows, ones recognizable and familiar."

  "Father…"

  Goldmoon moved to stand behind the elf and placed her hand on his shoulder for reassurance. The healer had discovered this path of mysticism accidentally years ago when she was grieving for her husband. When her senses reached out and touched his spirit, she was at first startled, then overcome with joy. Since his death, she had felt so alone. To contact him again, she had to mentally retrace all the steps. There had been many failed attempts before she finally found him and the secret again. Ever since, contacting him had been relatively easy, and she often found herself talking to him without even realizing she'd opened the door.

  Until this evening, the healer had never taught anyone this mystical ability. Her doubts about doing so now vanished when she saw a calmness come over Gair, his brow smoothing and his breathing deepening. This student would be the exception.

  "Father, I wasn't there when the dragon came. I should have been with you, not sneaking off into town when you had ordered me to stay home. If I hadn't been so young and foolish, if I hadn't disobeyed you…"

  Goldmoon stepped back. She didn't want to eavesdrop on his conversation, and so she reached for her cloak and padded from the tent, leaving Gair to his visit.

  "I couldn't stay in the forest afterward," Gair continued. "There was nothing for me there. … You … my sisters … all gone. I sold the estate and took the emeralds. I made a few investments for the future. I'm sorry, Father… ."

  Goldmoon strolled toward the end of the community where the dwarves had their encampment. Jasper had joined two other dwarves, who were nursing mugs of ale and hovering close to a low-burning fire.

  "Can't sleep?" Jasper's voice was uncharacteristically thick, evidence he'd been drinking.

  Goldmoon nodded and sat on an overturned crate and warmed her hands by the fire.

  "Tomorrow we finish the foundation." Jasper glanced at the moon. "Well, later today, actually. Told you my friends work fast. We'll start buildin' in a day or two. Listen, don't be surprised if…" The dwarf's words trailed off, and his eyes narrowed. He had spotted Gair leaving Goldmoon's tent.

  "It's all right, Jasper."

  Then his gaze drifted from Gair to the construction site. "Always concerned about you, Goldmoon. Always… what in the name of Uncle Flint's beard is that?… A monster!" he hollered, reaching for the hammer that always hung at his waist. Jasper's short legs propelled him toward a large pile of building supplies, and Goldmoon followed. The other dwarves threw down their mugs and trundled awkwardly after
them.

  "Monster!" Jasper's cries alerted the sentries, who ran toward the construction site. Here and there lights were blinking on inside tents. "Monster!"

  Gair's long legs carried him quickly through the settlement toward the noise. He was at Goldmoon's side, long sword drawn, before the sentries had reached her.

  "There's the monster!" Jasper waggled his hammer, pointing at a dark shape hunkered down behind a pile of lumber. He stalked toward it, Gair towering behind him. One of the inebriated dwarves grabbed a rock and skirted around the other side.

  Jasper and the elf raised their weapons, intent on striking the trespasser, who hadn't moved. The elf's eyes narrowed, and his hand shot forward just as Jasper was drawing his hammer back to throw it. Gair grabbed the handle and yanked it from the dwarf's stubby fingers.

  "It's not a monster," the elf said. "Not exactly, anyway."

  "Orvago!" Goldmoon breathed from behind them both.

  The creature edged away from the pile, holding out a long hairy arm to keep the drunken dwarves from coming closer.

  More lanterns blinked on. People draped in sleeping clothes and blankets emerged from tents and lean-tos, some bearing torches. Camilla clanked forward, still in her plate mail. Willum, wrapped in blankets and hoisting a sword, was at her side. Footfalls sounded across the dry ground of the settlement. There were sounds of weapons being drawn.

  Goldmoon whirled to face the others. "He's a friend," she explained. Her stern expression stopped all but Camilla from coming closer. She made a gesture, and those who had weapons out sheathed them.

  More torches. The construction site's shadows were being chased away, revealing the green-gray form of the creature. His tunic was stiff with dried blood, and matted blood stuck here and there to his fur.