by Jean Rabe
"What do the spirits think of Goldmoon and her Citadel of Light?" The elf scowled. His father's spirit would not answer. Neither had he answered Gair's most pressing and oft-repeated questions: Where do spirits dwell? Is your existence like life as dwellers of Krynn know it? Or is it better or worse? Do all spirits drift in the same realm?
Gair tried another tack as the campfire lights from the settlement grew smaller. "Do you know Riverwind? Goldmoon talks to him often." To this, his father finally answered no.
It had started to snow again. The flakes were large, and without the wind to drive them, they drifted down lazily, settling on the backs of Gair's hands and melting instantly. His breath feathered away from his face, which he turned up to glance at the clouds overhead. It was a beautiful night, and not as cold as the past few had been. He allowed himself to enjoy his surroundings as he moved farther away from the settlement.
"Do you miss the feel of the snow, Father? The feel of the breeze? Can you smell the earth? What is your misty realm like? Are all of the spirits who in life walked on Krynn in your same misty dimension, Father? Are the spirits of dragons there, too? The gods—do you sense any trace of them?"
As before, he received no answer to any of those questions, and so he continued toward the Que-Nal burial ground, chattering, unanswered, to his father about his current activities as a carpenter, his captivation with Camilla, and the advanced healing magic he was studying. As he drew near the circle, he stopped talking, not wanting to alert any living Que-Nal who might be nearby.
Again I am being too cautious, he told himself. This was his fourth late-night visit to the grounds, and he'd never encountered any living souls there. "Perhaps the barbarians believe the place haunted at night, foolishly thinking spirits roam only when the sun goes down."
Only some spirits are more powerful then, his father said.
The elf paused. "What do you mean?"
No answer.
Gair crouched at the edge of the clearing, watching the snow come down, a little harder now. "What do you mean, Father?"
Again nothing.
"So you only talk to me when it suits you? Just like when you were alive, dear father." Sighing, Gair unbuckled his sword belt and laid his weapon against a tree, removed his new heavy coat, and draped it over a branch. He wanted to move with less encumbrance, and it wasn't quite as cold tonight. Indeed, the snowflakes melting against his skin invigorated him. He slipped into the circle and crept from mound to mound, noting that there had been no new additions since his last visit. The Que-Nal were very unlike the Abanasinian barbarians from which they sprang, the elf had learned by questioning some of Goldmoon's older followers. The tribes on the mainland built walled burial chambers to house their dead. The Que-Nal kept the bodies of their people closer to the land they cherished. They saved the buildings for the living.
The elf knelt by the old stone-covered mound, brushing away the snow and tracing the mosaic patterns. "Who were you?" he whispered to the mound's occupant. "Why is your grave more impressive than any others here? Father, can you sense this spirit? Was he a king? A queen? A chieftain?"
The elder Graymist offered no reply.
"Well, perhaps now I can sense who rests beneath."
Gair placed his hands where he suspected the body's heart rested. It was an unnecessary gesture, he knew, but he did it nonetheless. "Who were you?" he repeated as his senses slipped from his mind down his arms and into his fingers, into the etched stones, and then into the cold, cold earth. Deeper they went, past the husks of insects and past the pebbles that covered a shrouded form. Only bones were beneath the cloth. His mind sensed brittle, yellowed bones that were cracked in several places. Was the individual a warrior who died in battle? Were the bones splintered in a fight? His mind probed further, examining the tattered cloth that clung to the bones, ornate for a barbarian, embroidered with symbols. Was the individual old? Had the cruel years broken his body?
"Who were you? What were you? What were your dreams, your hopes? Did you die after fulfilling your plans? Did you die too soon? Were you old? Sick?"
He sensed no presence, no energy as he had when he first contacted his father and his sisters. Nothing.
"I am coming to believe this 'dark mysticism,' as Goldmoon calls it, works only on those you knew in life," he whispered.
Frustrated, he decided to at least do a little exploring while he was here. He directed his senses to drift beyond the bones beneath him to nearby mounds, seeking to learn if these corpses were also ornately garbed. Through the cold, heavy earth his mind wandered, briefly touching bodies in various states of decay. All were wrapped in cloth, some of which was thick and brocaded, as if it belonged to a merchant or an entertainer from the port town, likely meaning it was something the person in life had traded for or purchased. None were so embroidered with symbols as the cloth around the form that lay beneath the elaborate mound.
"Who were you?"
His mind stretched to other mounds, and he touched bits of simple jewelry here and there and focused on them. Primitive, he decided, but some were beautiful despite their primitiveness—hammered silver bracelets etched with leaves and stick-figure animals. A deer. A flock of birds in flight. He was amazed at the details he could absorb through his spell. Of course, he'd continually made adjustments to the magic since Goldmoon had taught him how to contact spirits, as he was interested in their realm, not just in the spirits themselves. He had not counted on the magic revealing so much. It was as if he could see through walls, through years, through worlds. He just could not contact strangers.
Gair looked closer, spotting what amounted to a jeweler's mark. It was on the inside of a bracelet worn by what had been a tall young woman. All of the Que-Nal were on the tall side, lean and muscular, according to the descriptions of them he'd gotten from the folks in port. That would fit with their Que-Shu counterparts. However, this woman had been especially tall. Around her neck was what appeared to be a silver necklace so thick it looked like a collar. There were tiny holes along the bottom of the necklace, and from them dangled rotting strings of leather, and in turn from them dangled moldy feathers. He imagined what her face had looked like: high cheekbones, a proud expression. Somehow he knew she was a chieftain's daughter.
"Beautiful," he hushed. "Did any of your dreams come true when you walked this land? What had you hoped to accomplish in this world? Was yours a good life? Were you loved? Happy?"
No answer.
Again his mind drifted, this time to the most recent mound, the one that on his previous visit he determined held the form of a child. Perhaps this time he could tell what she died of. His senses floated over her body, over her skin, which he knew had once been tan and unblemished, over her face, down her neck. There! He detected a swollenness that had nothing to do with a corpse bloating or decomposing. A sign of illness, one that should have been curable, a childhood malady.
"Had they no healers? Or had the disease simply spread throughout the child's body before someone sensed its seriousness and tried to do something?" he mused aloud. There was a strange substance on the skin, the remnants of a poultice, he finally determined. "So someone had tried to treat the child, but he was unsuccessful. So young to die."
The features he pictured were truly amazing. He continued his mental explorations, never leaving the side of the mosaic-covered mound. Some in the clearing had died of old age, which somehow made death a little more palatable to the elf. Some died from harsh diseases, a few from what Gair assumed were falls; necks or backs were broken. One died from a sword thrust to his chest, the splintered ribs telling the tale. Another had two arrowheads resting amid the bones. The wooden shafts of the weapons that killed him had rotted away.
"Who killed you? Do their bones rest here, too?"
No answer. There never would be an answer, he sensed, because he hadn't known them.
There were three whom he could not begin to guess at what they succumbed to, though he suspected he could eventually determ
ine that he could if he spent enough time and mystical energy here. Neither could he tell what had killed the man in the ornate mound. Perhaps he would focus all of his initiative here.
"Who were you?"
Darkhunter, the spirit replied.
Gair's heart soared. He had contacted a spirit—the essence of someone he had not known in life, a complete stranger. The door was opening wider for him, he knew. Next he would talk to the elf of Red Creek, to Lenerd Smithsin's father, and to the Que-Nal who drowned at the hands of the Blue Dragonarmy in the Schallsea harbor, perhaps now able to shut out their screams and hold a reasonable conversation with them. He would ask them all about what, precisely, rested beyond this life, and about what their lives on Krynn were like. If his father would not give him the answers, perhaps strangers would.
I am Darkhunter, the spirit repeated, and you are Gair Graymist, puppet of the healer Goldmoon. The spirit pulled the names—and more—from the elf's mind. My people hate the Que-Shu. My people will drive your mentor from the land or drive her to her death, her spirit to be tormented forever. Do not get in their way or you will fall with her.
The questions instantly drained from Gair's mind, and he felt chilled, the sensation not at all a result of the cold. A shiver raced down his spine and his eyes snapped wide open. Calm yourself, he scolded. "The spirit cannot harm me, nor will it frighten me. The spirit is of another realm. Goldmoon is safe."
From the dead, she is safe, the spirit continued. But not from the living.
The elf concentrated on his breathing, then focused all his efforts on the mound beneath his fingertips, searching the form more closely, discovering bits of jewelry against the bones of the wrist, semiprecious stones on the numerous heavy bracelets. Jade and—he studied them more intently—jade and moonstone, garnet and onyx. More jewelry lay about the neck, silver and gold chains, not of Que-Nal make, elaborate, such as would be found in the large cities of Palanthas, Silvanost, and Solanthus. They were covered with gems—mostly garnets, but pieces of agate and peridot, too, stones not naturally available on this island or from Abanasinia. A bit more at ease now, the questions started returning.
"Your necklaces and bracelets were gifts? Gifts to an important man? Purchases?"
Conquests. I took them from those I vanquished. As Goldmoon will be vanquished. If you wish to save her, puppet, make her leave the island.
Gair shivered again and focused on the jewelry.
The jewelry was valuable and would have netted a tribe considerable food and goods in trade. But the tribe had buried them with the man—because he was so important. A warrior. A chief? A king?
They buried, them with me because they feared to take anything from me, even in death.
"Perhaps," the elf conceded. "All powerful men are feared and respected, but they honored you by wrapping your body in this embroidered cloth and covering your mound with these carved stones."
One of which you stole.
Gair's mouth fell open. So the spirit had been aware of his son's activities on his previous visit. Were all the spirits here so aware? he wondered. All the spirits everywhere? Were the eyes of a hundred dead men on him now? I should end this, Gair thought.
End this? But there is so much left of the night.
The air around him felt thick, and where the snow fell directly in front of him, it did not melt. The elf couldn't see the man, not as he could see images of his father and his sisters, and not as Goldmoon could see Riverwind, he was certain. Yet he sensed the spirit was right in front of him.
Do you fear me, young elf? Do you entertain thoughts of leaving because you are afraid?
For some reason, the elf did. Nevertheless, he said, "No."
You should be afraid.
"I have nothing to fear from the dead." He tarried over the mound. "Still, I should end this soon," he said, "and get back to the settlement, but not just yet. Just a little longer. Another question or two of this Darkhunter."
His mind drifted up to the skeleton's face, and he pictured what the man had looked like in life. If the spirit would not show himself, Gair would use his mystical senses to gain an image. Broad-faced, he had a long, straight nose and dark eyes.
Eyes that Gair felt were directed at him.
"Why do you hate Goldmoon, Darkhunter? You do not know her. You died before she came to this island."
Before she was born. She is a Que-Shu, that much I have pulled from your mind, and that is enough reason to hate her. There are living who hate her, too. Their blood boils at her presence.
Gair focused harder on the remains. Darkhunter had eyebrows that were thick and muddy brown, like the shaggy mane of hair that had once covered the man's head. Blood-soaked beads and feathers were braided down its length along the sides of his angular head, and from the ends of the braids hung polished shells. His lips were thin, set in death as if they were in a perpetual sneer.
Gair felt as if the corpse was sneering at him.
"Goldmoon means no one harm."
But my people mean to harm her. I sense their thoughts, as I sense yours. I sense their anger, and I know their plans. Shadowwalker leads them.
"Enough!" Gair felt the spirit move closer still, felt a chill so intense and unnatural that he gritted his teeth. "Enough! No more questions. I will have no more to do with you!" The elf spat the words as he pulled his hands off the mosaic stones and stepped away from the mound, slamming shut the door between this world and the realm of spirits. "Enough of my curiosity this night. Some doors are better left closed," he said, repeating Goldmoon's words. His breath was ragged, puffing away from his face and melting the snow before it could touch the ground, but on Darkhunter's mound, a thin coating of new snow remained, as if it were colder than the other mounds.
He hurried to the edge of the clearing, still feeling unnaturally chill. He sensed that a bit of Darkhunter's foulness had settled itself in the pit of his stomach. He felt dirty. "Footprints." He cursed himself and retraced his path, remembering to cover his tracks and grab his coat and long sword. "No more visits here," he admonished himself. "I'll keep my conversations to the spirits I know—at least for a while. Father?"
Even that spirit was distant now, the door firmly closed and locked. "All right," he said, needing to hear his own voice. He forced his heart to slow, his breathing to become regular. He used the enchantment Goldmoon had taught him to calm himself. "I'll talk to you later, Father. I'll open the door just a crack when I'm far from here and a few hours have passed."
He left the clearing by backing away, keeping his eyes on the mounds and checking one more time to make sure his tracks had been covered, and then he raced toward the settlement. He paid little heed to the ground he traveled over now, not caring if his boot heels crunched over crusty snow or on fallen nuts or twigs. It was, he'd guessed, five miles or so between the burial ground and the construction site. He'd be back in his tent well before dawn, and with luck, Orvago would be sleeping soundly.
I need time to think, he mused. I must tell Goldmoon about the Que-Nal—that it was they who attacked us weeks ago. Warn her that someone named Shadowwalker means to somehow do her harm. What should I say? How should I tell her I know all about this?
The questions whirled in his mind as he continued headlong toward the settlement, guided by the central campfire, which was especially large for such a late hour.
"They must be celebrating something," Gair said. "Perhaps I'll join them and take my mind off spirits." As the elf neared, his thoughts of merriment turned to horror. It wasn't the central campfire he'd spied. It was the construction site. The building that everyone had labored so diligently to complete was on fire.
9
Ashes
Gair raced forward, churning through the drifts until he came upon a path that seemed to head straight toward the blaze. As he ran, he took in the shouts and cries filling the air, the crackling of the flames. The entire settlement was awake, and panic ruled.
He could distinguish no one voice,
which was what he was trying to do in hope of locating Goldmoon. So many people were shouting, arguing, screaming. Children were wailing, and parents were too preoccupied to silence them. Only a few words managed to rise above the din, and these seemed to be shouted orders. The elf closed with the crowd and slowly began pushing his way through it closer to the center of the chaos. As he went, he felt the air become warmer from the heat of the fire. His boots sloshed in snow that was melting.
Three stories of flames illuminated the evening sky. Like an orange-red waterfall, the fire seemed to pour from the roof and down the walls, sparking and snapping angrily as if it were some great, wrathful beast.
Those with tents closest to the citadel were taking them down as quickly as possible, fingers madly fumbling in the canvas, arms locked around valuables and dragging them away.
"Everything!" one woman moaned as she sank to her knees. She was one of the first who had moved into the building, Gair recalled. "Everything I own has been lost!"
"Not everything," said a man trying to comfort her. "You still have your life."
Gair blinked furiously. The heat was pushing outward, stinging his sensitive eyes. He brushed at his face, finding it smudged with ashes that filled the air. Gray snow, it looked like. He cast his gaze about, searching for Goldmoon.
His eyes locked on the shining armor of the Solamnic knights. They were carrying people away from the burning building, their exposed faces black with ash. Some of the soldiers were keeping the panicked crowd back. Others were at the edge of the burning building, calling out to see if anyone was trapped inside.