by Jean Rabe
His last stop was to the smallest shop, where an elderly man custom-made garments. The elf suspected the owner could have easily afforded more expensive space in a better district. He charged enough for his clothes, and for good reason. The man was an artist with scissors and thread, and the elf envied his talent. Gair pressed him why he stayed on Red Street when he could certainly increase his sales elsewhere. The man answered that he simply liked it here. It was quiet. He lived upstairs with his wife, worked when he wanted, made a reasonable living— better now with the influx of people coming here to see Goldmoon and the Silver Stair. He had no desire to run a shop in a busier part of town, where he himself would be therefore busier and would be forced to hire others to work for him to keep up with the demand. Too much bookwork, too few days off—and a bigger store meant there would be more snow to clear away from the front door and walk. Gair immediately liked him.
"I need a cloak," the elf began. "Better make that two cloaks."
"Colors?"
"I don't suppose it matters. They just need to be long… very, very long."
"You want it to drag on the ground behind you? A fashionable thing, though not very practical, especially in the winter."
"It's not for me," the elf sighed. "It's for… an acquaintance. He's nearly seven feet tall, broad shouldered. I'd say twice as thick as I, a trifle more. Make sure it's plenty big. A tunic, too, with very long sleeves. No, make that two of them. And trousers. Make them baggy, to be safe—and make them long."
"Your oversized friend can't come here for a fitting?"
The elf shook his head. "It wouldn't be… practical. How soon can you have them done?"
"A few days," the old man replied.
The elf reached into his pocket and extracted an oval-cut emerald. It gleamed enticingly in the light that spilled through the window. "Today?"
The old man's eyes widened, realizing the gem was worth more than all the garments and fabrics he had on display, probably worth as much as the entire building. "I could alter some garments already finished. Get my wife to help, but to be honest, I still couldn't promise them before sundown."
"Make sure the cloaks have hoods—large hoods. If you've any shirts that are very big, I'd like those, too."
"Certainly, sir."
Gair drifted away to the shelves, pulling down a few cloaks that were roughly his size and a coat to replace the one he'd wrapped around Amanda. He felt the fabric to select the warmest ones, then brought them to the counter. He tugged off the blanket that he'd tied around his neck, passed it to the shopkeeper, and put on one of the cloaks he selected.
"Deliver everything to Smithsin's stable. I've a cart there. And—"
"Yes?"
"Do you know where I might purchase some wax?"
The old man looked at him quizzically.
"My… acquaintance… has a terrible problem with snoring. Therefore I'm in terrible need for something to stuff in my ears, some strongly scented lamp oil, and some perfumed soap."
"Ah, Father," Gair mused as he left Red Street behind. "The wind that used to race through the Silvanesti Forest pales beside the winter wind that blows here. This wind brings with it only scents of the sea, not the sweet smells of the deep woods."
He followed the main road that ran down to the harbor and listened through the rhythmic rush of the sea against the docks and the cries of hungry gulls to hear the phantom voice of his father.
"Nothing to slow the wind here, you say?" Gair shook his head. "The buildings here are thicker than Silvanesti's oldest trees, Father, and still they don't do much to take the edge off the wind. But spring… ah, I suspect spring here will be beautiful. There will be flowers in the spring, everywhere, I'd guess. And I will pick bouquets for Camilla."
The elder Graymist glided at his side and encouraged Gair to look elsewhere for female companionship. Humans do not live long enough," his father said. "There is the elf, Iryl Songbrook, to consider. She is pretty, and a Silvanesti besides.
"How long is enough?" Gair asked. He ignored the stares of a few passersby who thought he was talking to himself. "Long enough to love? I don't know if I love Camilla, but I'm truly smitten with her, Father. I can't get her face out of my mind. I can still feel the softness of her cheek against my lips."
She will join me in the spirit realm before you've a hint of gray in your hair, my son. Humans count their lives in months and years, not decades and centuries. She gives all her wealth to the Solamnics. Foolishness. Look elsewhere.
Gair changed the subject and continued through the town's pristine streets, dashing around the snow swept into piles on corners, chattering endlessly to his father, and ignoring the stares of townsfolk who cast curious glances his way. Goldmoon is not mad, as I am not mad, he mused. My teacher and I simply enjoy conversing with the dead.
He stopped at a bathhouse, where he indulged himself for nearly an hour, discussing the world with his father, all the while thinking about Camilla, and ending his session with a haircut. After a sumptuous late lunch, he made a brief, unplanned stop in a weaponsmith's when he spied an ivory-pommeled broadsword in the window. It wasn't the elf's blade of choice—he favored the more elegant long sword on his hip—but the pommel was exquisite, covered with carvings of pegasi and other fantastical winged creatures, decorated with inlaid platinum and large opals. It was nothing he expected to find in this town, and he intended to hang it in his tent and admire it as one might admire a painting.
Gair's path took him to a silversmith whose shop had just opened this week, and eventually to a scroll merchant. After purchasing rolls of parchment and ink for Goldmoon, he tugged the leather-bound book out from beneath his shirt and opened it. The rubbings he'd made from the trees by the burial grounds were folded neatly inside, as was the sketch he'd made of the mosaics on the elaborate mound. He carefully removed them and spread them out, his fingers avoiding the charcoal so he would not mar the tracings.
"What do you make of these?" he prodded.
The pot-bellied merchant drew close and carefully studied the symbols. "There are translating costs, you realize," he said. His voice was soft, like a harsh whisper.
"Everything costs. How much?"
"One steel. You might think that too high, but…"
Gair placed three steel pieces on the counter. "I'd like to know what they mean by day's end."
The scribe laughed and waggled a thick finger at the elf. "You can push all the steel at me you want— I'd certainly like to accept your money. It takes time to do research on something like this, and no amount of coins will cut the hours I'll have to spend digging through my notes and books. I can tell you they're Que-Nal. That I'll give you for free."
"Que-Nal," Gair said softly. "So they are indeed the ones who attacked us. But why?"
"Pardon, sir?"
He placed the arrowhead on the counter. "Que-Nal, too?"
"I deal with words, not weapons, lad. But the Que-Nal use stone arrowheads and knives. They don't like steel."
"What can you tell me of the Que-Nal?"
The man exhaled slowly. "They've lived on the island a long time," he began. "Came here from Abanasinia. Most folks around here call 'em barbarians. There's nine main villages on the island, mostly along the east coast, a few small ones inland at the edges of the Barren Hills. A tribe used to live near Castle Vila and—"
"Where's that?"
"North of the Silver Stair. It's nothing but ruins now. Nobody lives there. Anyway, the Que-Nal are peaceful folks. Don't bother anyone."
Gair edged three more coins toward the man and placed a stone next to the parchment, the one he'd appropriated from one of the burial mounds. He added to it a piece of the carved mosaic from the elaborate mound. "Please translate these as well. How soon?"
"Hard to say. Two, maybe three weeks. I've dozens of orders… folks visiting Goldmoon's settlement wanting letters sent back home and such. So I'll have to juggle my time. A little information would help my work, though." The scribe sea
rched beneath his counter for a quill, brought up a piece of parchment, and took down Gair's name. "Where are the symbols from? Locations are important with Que-Nal writings. Were there other symbols with them?"
Gair didn't reply, pretending not to hear and to be engrossed in the framed, ornate letters on the man's walls.
The scribe scratched his head, leaving a trace of ink on his age-spotted skin. He raised his voice, thinking his customer hadn't heard him. "You see, young elf, a few of the tribes here on the island put precious little to paper. Written language just isn't important to them. Even their history is held in stories. Where are these tracings from?"
Gair shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. "I am from Goldmoon's settlement," he said finally. "I take my walks to the north, beyond the Lake of Swords and into the woods. I came upon a burial ground in the vicinity." He expected the man to lecture him about the folly of trespassing. The scribe's answer surprised him.
"Interesting places, cemeteries. I find myself studying the stones in the cemetery east of town— made a few rubbings from the small mausoleum there. My wife's buried in that cemetery. If you're into studying such things, there're some interesting gravestones in that cemetery, especially on the south side, where the oldest markers are from the first settlers from Abanasinia. Of course, they're all easy to read, except for the very oldest. The weather's beaten those stones something fierce. Only a handful are Que-Nal, though more'n enough of 'em died around here, but there's a marker for 'em down by the harbor. Sailors'll point you to it. Don't need to purchase my services for that information either." He continued to study Gair's symbols. "Fascinating. Two weeks, three at the most." He took three coins, pushed the other three back at the elf. "You pay me the rest if I'm successful. You coming back into town? I don't deliver."
"You may take three weeks," Gair said. "I will not be back until then."
The cart was the sturdiest to be had in the town, and it was practically filled to overflowing with clothes, blankets, food, a few expensive bottles of Porliost wine for himself, a keg of ale for Jasper and Redstone, and various supplies. A carefully wrapped bundle contained a woolen shawl he'd spotted in a window that he thought Goldmoon would like. A similar shawl rested about the shoulders of a woman who'd been admiring it in the shop at the same time, but who didn't have the coins for it. Gair told her to consider it a gift from Goldmoon's settlement. Her thanks made the elf feel surprisingly good. Another bundle tied with colorful ribbons was for one of the settlement's healers who was celebrating a birthday next week. Several small bundles held spices and sugar for the cooks among Goldmoon's followers, and there was the small package in his pocket.
The cart was pulled by a large draft horse with a shaggy coat. Gair intended to give the horse to the farmer's village in the spring to help with the plowing. The dwarves could have the cart, as the elf didn't intend to buy so much again for quite some time. If he did, there were other carts to be acquired, and there was the large wagon at the settlement.
He waited patiently at the horse's side, glancing to the west, where the sun was starting to set, and talking to his sisters. "Where are those clothes?" he mused aloud. He strolled a dozen yards away, toward the docks, glancing often over his shoulder to make sure the cart remained undisturbed. "I wanted to be on my way well before dark. Iryl won't be leaving for two more days. I suppose I could wait for her, but—"
But you want to return to the burial ground? His father intruded on his thoughts.
"Well, yes, and to the ruin of the castle the scribe mentioned."
Neither will be going anywhere, Son. Leaving tonight or tomorrow will make little difference. There is something in town you've yet to see.
Gair huffed, watching his breath rush away from his face in a misty cloud. "The Que-Nal marker" he said.
Yes. The marker. You should go pay your respects.
A few sailors directed him to it. One lingered beside the marker with him and wiped at some dirt and sand that had become wedged in the crevices of the carved letters and brushed the snow off the top. Even the sailors of Schallsea were fastidious.
"Horrible thing," the sailor began.
Ask him what is so horrible, Gair's sisters urged. The elf had inadvertently opened the door wider.
"The deaths of the Que-Nal?"
The sailor nodded and scratched his chin. "Horrible thing. Never cared much fer the barbar'ns. They come into town once in a while. Not often, though. I always steer clear of 'em. Odd ones, ya know, wearin' feathers an' beads, keepin' ta themselves. Not that I blames 'em really. What do we got ta offer 'em?"
"How did they die?"
"Die? They was all massacred."
For several long minutes, Gair pried the sailor with questions, and he listened intently to the answers. Many decades ago only the Que-Nal and a handful of elves lived on the ground that was to become the port town. According to the few barbarians who still came to town today to trade, it was in the process of becoming a thriving, cooperative village. All of that changed during the War of the Lance. The dragonarmies moved in and slayed all the Que-Nal they could catch, tying them to boulders and dropping them into the bottom of the deep bay. The dragonarmies then settled in, using the island—and the port in particular—as a staging area for their military campaigns to the east and west.
The sailor pointed to the Sentinel southeast of the last dock. "'Twas the Blue Dragonarmy what built the docks. Some of 'em are still used today. Built that stronghold, too, an' the tower hooked ta it. Never quite finished it, though, 'fore they moved out. There's talk the Solamnic Knights what moved in might hire some dwarven engineers ta finish it."
"The Que-Nal never returned after the war?"
The sailor shook his head. "Nah. The ones what survived the massacre all headed north and south and west and scattered into a buncha villages along the coast. Town here was taken over after the war by settlers from Abanasinia, New Coast, some from Southlund, I guess. A coupla folks are from Southern Ergoth. An' Goldmoon's people are from all over, I understand. The Que-Nal are a superstitious bunch, an' maybe rightly so. They wouldn't come back here ta live 'cause they say the bay's haunted with the spirits of the men, women, an' children who were drowned by the dragonarmies. They say the spirits are restless on account a how horribly they died. At least the spirits haven't bothered me none. Don't seem ta bother the fishin' neither."
The sailor moved on, and Gair stared at the stone marker. In Memory of the Que-Nal, 'Whose Lives Were Cut Short by Darkness. The voices of his sisters faded, leaving him alone with his thoughts for several minutes. He stretched out with his mind, even as his fingers reached out to touch the carved letters.
"Who were you?" he asked. "Are you truly restless?" His senses floated away from him, touching the stone and stretching to the ground beneath his feet, then flowed toward the bay. He crept toward the edge of the shore until the tips of his boots touched the water. He stared down at his reflection, distorted by the rippling water. "Are your spirits tied to the place where you died? Will you speak to me?" The elf's heartbeat slowed to accommodate the spell, and his , keen ears shifted their perception of the world around him. He continued to work the magic tentatively, unsure of what would happen and uncertain if he could contact spirits whom he had never met in life.
He persisted. Concentrated. Directed more energy into the enchantment. Nothing… There! Finally he heard something, so faint he thought it was the winter wind whistling around his ears. He focused on it. Screaming, soft at first, as if it were far away, then growing louder and more horrifying. Dozens upon dozens of screaming voices. He closed his eyes to help him concentrate and separate the sounds. Unnoticed, his reflection in the water became grossly distorted as the ripples increased. Gair focused on the distant sounds, picking out the cries of terrified children, the pleas of men to spare their families. He heard dozens upon dozens of last gulping breaths, heard mental prayers to the gods who were still in the world at that time but never answered the Que-Nal. He saw fa
ces sinking beneath the water—men, women, children so young they could barely walk. They could die. All of them could, and did, die.
He tried to contact them, any of them. It wasn't at all like talking with his father. Perhaps they couldn't see him or hear him. Maybe he needed to know their names to really establish contact. The elf intensified the spell by forcing all of his energy into it, determined to reach one of them, and steadying himself when his limbs grew weak. Then suddenly he felt a heaviness on his chest, the burning feel of tight ropes about his wrists and ankles. He sensed himself being pulled into the harbor with them, and he gasped for breath.
"Gair!" an unfamiliar voice called.
"You wish to talk to us?" the wind seemed to say. "Join us!"
"Stop! I can't breathe! Who are you? Don't do this! Who—"
"Gair!" the call repeated, intruding on his spell and rousing him. "Gair Graymist!"
The elf snarled as the spirits he'd been so close to rushed away and his senses returned to the present. He tried for an instant to regain contact, but the moment was lost.
"Sir! Oh, sorry to bother you, Mr. Graymist. I… uh… . " The stableboy looked uncertainly at the elf. "Your last order just arrived, sir. When I saw you walk down here a few minutes ago, I kept the stable open to watch for it."
Gair's expression softened. "Thank you for your attentiveness."
He followed the boy back to the stable. The sun was an orange sliver against the choppy bay by the time he and the youth were able to effect the considerable amount of pushing and rearranging required to make the large packages of garments fit inside the cart.
He felt wetness on his hand, a melting snowflake, and looked to the sky. It had begun to snow again, fat, wet flakes. The sky was darkening with the coming of night and the thickening clouds. The elf's expression darkened, too.