by Jean Rabe
He centered his efforts on the closest form, a man in scant clothing who wore beads in his hair. "Breathe," the elf urged as more energy flowed through him and into the misty dimension. "Live." He continued to keep one hand on the stair, using the last of his physical strength to grip it. He couldn't risk falling now, not when he was so close. "Live!"
Another form moved closer, this one somehow familiar, a human with dark skin and long black hair. Shells were woven into the man's hair. Jewelry hung about his neck and wrists, the gold glittering like stars as the arcane energy continued to pour from the stairway.
"Stars fallen to earth," Gair repeated.
The man with the gold jewelry moved closer still, his form thickening, his eyes glowing so bright the otherworldly light was uncomfortable to Gair. The spirit's lips edged upward into a smile, and his glaring eyes, through the doorway to the misty dimension, locked onto Gair's.
The elf felt the crack in the step beneath his hand widen. A piece the size of his thumb fell away. Taking energy from the ruin weakened it, the elf noted. He would be careful and not use this same step the next time. "Darkhunter."
Yes, the spirit answered.
Gair shivered, though not from the intense winter cold, and directed his thoughts away from that spirit. The Que-Nal still inexplicably bothered him, though they were far from the burial circle where his bones rested. The elf would offer his father life again rather than use this powerful magic on a man he had never known.
"I will not use this magic on you," he whispered.
Gair Graymist, the spirit of Darkhunter pronounced. The words seemed more intense inside the elf's head than the words of other spirits. Gair Graymist of Silvanesti. The words swirled in the fog around the elf on the Silver Stair.
"No," the elf decided. "It is indeed time to end this."
He would try again tomorrow night, contacting only his father, perhaps his mother, perhaps Riverwind. Imagine how happy Goldmoon would be to have a tangible, breathing Riverwind walking at her side! Yes, tomorrow he would contact Riverwind and direct this spell at his spirit, not at the spirit of a Que-Nal who made his skin crawl.
Gair dropped his hand from his temple, brought his other hand to his lap, and steepled his fingers. He inhaled deeply and focused on the chill night air, thrusting aside his thoughts of the Silver Stair and of the spirits on the other side of the door. "Camilla," he whispered. He thought of her, pictured her smooth face and hesitant smile. "Camilla," he repeated more strongly.
He felt the pulsing arcane energy slowly leave his body, seeping back into the stair. The warmth left him, too, and he found himself shivering now from the bitter cold. There was an icy coldness inside of him, as if the winter had settled in the pit of his stomach. It was like the iniquitous feeling he had at the burial ground, a darkness growing inside himself, as if he'd planted a seed that was taking root.
"No more!" Gair firmly closed the door to the spirit's dimension, and with that felt a bit of his physical strength returning, though the chill he sensed in his stomach remained. The fog still swirled around him, and through gaps in it, he could barely make out the torches of the sentries far below.
"Like stars."
Such a romantic.
The elf shot to his feet, nearly losing his balance. He steadied himself and looked all around, instantly fearful that an acolyte had somehow followed him up the stairs.
He could see no one.
A mystic such as yourself should not waste his time on women, especially human ones. Your father is right. He should concentrate only on his considerable magical talents.
"Who… who are you?"
Darkhunter, the voice replied. Your magical talents are indeed impressive.
Gair's feet took the stairs two at a time. Falling wasn't his worry now. The elf wanted to get away from the spirit who, he realized, had slipped through the door before he closed it.
Why run from me? the spirit persisted. You wanted me free! You removed a link in the fence that bound me to my grave. You removed a stone. It is still in your pocket. Now finish the task! Make me whole!
The elf felt about in the pocket of his coat as he continued to run. His fingers found the carved mosaic stone from the burial ground. I must tell Goldmoon, he thought as he raced toward her tent.
Tell her what? the spirit interrupted his thoughts.
Gair couldn't see the Que-Nal, but somehow he knew the spirit was at his shoulder.
Finish the task!
"No!" I must tell Goldmoon.
Tell her that you dabbled in something she had oft refused to teach you? Tell her that you abused the skills she shared with you? Tell her you've breathed life into a ghost? What would your teacher think of you?
The elf's feet pounded over the snow-slick ground and he rounded a corner. He blinked his eyes furiously against the snow that had started to fall again. Goldmoon's tent was only yards away now. He'd tell her about the spirit and the stone, take the stone back to the burial circle in the morning. Maybe she could cleanse him.
Tell her that your magic is greater than hers? That you were able to pull someone through what you term a doorway? That you can raise the dead?
Gair stopped.
Tell her nothing, Master.
"Master?" Out of breath, Gair nodded to a passing sentry rather than return his greeting. He walked by Goldmoon's tent and allowed his hammering heart to slow. Within moments he was inside his own tent, then beneath the covers. Fortunately the gnoll was asleep, he thought, and fortunately for once he wasn't snoring.
Orvago slivered his eyes and saw that his tent mate hadn't even bothered taking off his boots. The gnoll yawned, opened one eye, noted the oddity, then drifted off back to sleep.
Neither saw the pair of softly glowing white eyes move inside the tent and hover near the elf's bed.
11
Discoveries
"The fire changed everything," Gair explained. "The new citadel will be more complex. Some of the dwarves have gone north and are mining crystal to use, and—"
"You believe in all of this, don't you?" Camilla interrupted.
He took the knight's hand and led her down one of the several paths that had been cleared through the thigh-high snow. The paths led from tent to tent to the main cookfire to the old building site, which was completely free of snow because of the heat of the recent fire. Only a light dusting from the new snow tried to conceal the rubble.
The eldest of the builders was already at work clearing away more of the debris. He was none too pleased about the weather and was cursing the snow that was still falling. "It doesn't snow inside Thorbardin," he muttered loudly enough for Gair and Camilla to hear.
"This section will be—" the elf paused, drawing his lower lip under his teeth as he searched his memory for the new plans he'd only bothered to glance at—"part of what will be called the Healing Lyceum. We're standing in what will be its very center." He led her toward the edge of the old site, where bits of charred wood still remained, and he pointed down into a deep, snowdusted basement. He tugged her back when he discovered how slippery the ground was. "Careful," he warned, pointing at a patch of ice that looked dull-gray in the pale dawn light. "According to Redstone's and Jasper's plans, the lyceum will have five floors, and part of it will cover this."
The Solamnic commander shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe Goldmoon isn't giving up."
Gair smiled wistfully. "I don't think she knows how."
"I wish I knew who was working against you. The ambush on the trail. The fire: it's not bandits—they wouldn't destroy, they'd steal. Maybe Knights of Takhisis, sent here to vex Goldmoon, though I thought they had some measure of honor and would have attacked openly. I just don't know." She ran her fingers through her tight curls. "I might not agree with what's going on here, Gair—Goldmoon's mysticism and everything— but these attacks against you must stop. I've sent word to the council that I need skilled scouts. They should be here in a few more weeks, and with them we'll get to the bot
tom of this."
"Are you warm enough for this?"
She nodded. The red wool cloak the knight wore this morning, coupled with the thick padding under her armor, kept the cold at bay. "I just wish I knew who the dastards are. An enemy you know is easier to fight."
Gair decided to change the subject as he steered her past Jasper and Redstone at the dwarven tent community. Both had their hair trimmed oddly short, and their skin was still terribly blistered from the fire. The smell of roast pork and the crackling of eggs cooking was rousing all the builders. They were chattering in their gravelly voices, seemingly oblivious to the human and elf.
"Jasper's going to build a tower for the knights you intend to station here. Maybe you should talk with him to make sure it will be big enough."
Her eyes flashed with a hint of anger. "Is all of this really necessary?" She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, then opened them again and took in the camp. Though the tents and lean-tos were much closer together now than before the blizzard and the fire, it still looked the same: a ragtag community of dreamers who had bundled up their hopes and worldly possessions and who had hitched themselves to the aging Hero of the Lance. "Why would someone of Goldmoon's age undertake something like this? She used to be a priestess of Mishakal. This"—she waved her hand to indicate the settlement—"this goes against the gods, and it goes against all my principles to protect her."
"But that's what you're doing—protecting her."
No answer. Her eyes were fixed on two bundled-up boys doing their best to add extra tent stakes to their canvas home. They were fighting with the frozen ground, and neither showed any indication of giving up.
Gair shrugged. "Camilla, I believe in Goldmoon. But maybe I don't always agree with her. I would have given up after the blizzard."
"This image you're painting of multiple buildings is most disturbing. Imagine how long it could take to construct them. Imagine the cost! The steel could be better spent helping the poor, rebuilding towns devastated by dragon attacks, paying soldiers in an army, funding…" She spun until her face was inches from Gair's. "Don't you realize this is all a frivolous waste of resources? If Goldmoon isn't senile, she must surely know that people, not this new order of mysticism, could make far better use of the money and effort."
Camilla scrutinized the elf. He looked like a twolegged bear in his hooded coat. She sighed and started to draw away, but he pulled her closer. "Gair, Goldmoon could have at least waited until spring when the weather was better. All the money and effort will be doubled if there are more fires and—"
"And perhaps the citadel will never be more than a dream," he said, "especially if this sabotage keeps up." He moved his face closer still until he could smell a hint of rose, something she washed her hair with. "If things get too bad, Camilla, maybe Goldmoon will take her project somewhere else. Then you'll have nothing to worry about."
"Will you go with her?"
The elf brought his slender fingers to her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips.
"Mornin', Commander, Mister Graymist," Willum interrupted as he hurried past toward a growing rank of soldiers. He drilled them each morning, though there were fewer today because several had accompanied the dwarves. "Cold one this mornin', isn't it? Cold enough to make your eyes freeze open."
The moment lost, Camilla stiffened and turned to watch the men.
"Good morning, Commander!" a tardy soldier chirped as he crisply saluted Camilla and rushed to find his place in line. The knight's eyes narrowed. She would reprimand the young man for his lateness when she returned this evening.
Gair tugged her away, noticing that she relaxed a little when they passed a high drift and the men were lost from view. He reached his hand to her face again as they slipped around another drift and were nearly knocked over by Orvago.
The gnoll grinned as he trundled by, growling a greeting to her and the elf. He was shuffling through the deep snow, making his own path and angling toward the building site, his bandaged arms wrapped around a bundle of wood dowels. Two shaggy mongrels followed him, light enough to scamper on top of the drifts. They barked and playfully nipped at each other's tails.
Camilla had seen the dogs before, hanging around the docks in town, though their ribs showed more prominently there. Even the four-legged strays had found their way to Goldmoon's settlement, she mused.
The gnoll barked at the dogs, and they barked back. One darted in front of Orvago, and he stumbled. Dowels went flying everywhere, landing in the snow, most of them sinking as if they were arrows shot from a bow. The gnoll howled, the dogs joined his chorus, and tardy risers poked their heads out of their tents to see what the ruckus was about.
"Hard to be alone here," he said too softly for her to hear.
"Wherever did this notion to build the citadel arise? Did you and Goldmoon spend months planning it?"
The elf gave a clipped laugh. "This Citadel of Light started as a vision," Gair began as he took her arm and steered her toward the main cook tent, where he was given a large basket of dried fish. "Goldmoon came up with the idea after she climbed the Silver Stair. She said she had a dream of dormitories for her students of mysticism, chapels, halls, lodging for visitors, stables, shrines, a great garden in the center, and in the very center of that the Silver Stair. Perhaps a moat around the entire complex, and…"
"And… ?"
"I guess the whole thing is pretty overwhelming."
"Sounds like a nightmare, not a dream."
The pair struck out toward the east now, plodding through the snow and making their own path as the gnoll had tried to do. It would take them perhaps a few hours to reach Heartspring walking through these heavy drifts. Without the snow, the trip of a few miles took little time.
"It's my turn to visit the village," Gair had told her. Someone from the settlement went to the farmers' village once a week or so to check on the families and to see if anyone needed healing. The blizzard and the fire had interfered with that routine. "I'm glad you agreed to come with me. I wanted to talk to you, to spend some time with you alone, and—"
"Gair!"
The elf turned to spot Iryl Songbrook plodding through the snow toward them, two Solamnic knights behind her. She was wrapped in a coat practically the color of the snow, her dark hair whipping out of the folds of her hood providing a sharp contrast. She was almost out of breath by the time she caught up to them.
"I was worried I'd missed you."
Gair gave her an impatient look.
"I'm going to Heartspring, too." She jangled her coin purse. "I need too see if the farmers have any more wool blankets to spare. Many of ours were lost in the fire. The ones you brought back with you from town helped, but—"
"I can do that for you," the elf volunteered.
"Nonsense!" she objected. "You'll be too preoccupied tending to the sick."
"You've brought these men to carry the blankets?"
She smiled at the elf. "Willum sent them. He said no one goes anywhere without protection. There's safety in numbers. He would've sent more, but he thought the commander would be satisfied with two."
Iryl brushed by the pair, taking the lead and forging the path through the snow. The lithe elf struggled in places, but he didn't sink as deep as the others and made a little better time. The knights fell in behind Gair and Camilla.
"So much for some time alone," Gair muttered under his breath.
The land between Goldmoon's settlement and the village of Heartspring was relatively flat, with a broad open stretch between two stands of pines and oaks. The snow that had blown to obscure the gently winding path gave character to the area, the drifts rising and falling like white waves captured on canvas with an artist's brushstrokes.
Gair mused that it seemed a shame to mar the landscape with their boot tracks, yet that is what they continued to do by plodding onward. They'd traveled several minutes when the sun broke through the gray sky and painted the snow a delicate pink. As the sky brightened further, the snow turned a gli
stening white, cut through at the edges of their vision by the blue shadows of the tall pines. A breeze was blowing from the south, dusting flakes across their path.
By midmorning, Heartspring came into view. The village was quaint, though not as tidy as the port of Schallsea. There were fewer than two dozen homes, all of them a mix of large fieldstone, mortar, and logs, none of them looking quite the same. The roofs were thatch, patched here and there with sod, and all had chimneys puffing merrily away. Outside each home was a collection of tools: plows, axes, bins, and others in various states of repair. These gave the village an old, cluttered look. Added to that were barns, some with roofs sagging under the weight of the snow, most with peeling paint, some with doors standing permanently ajar because the wood had warped. The fields extended to the east and south of the village, blanketed with white, though it was obvious Heartspring was spared from the worst of the blizzard that had struck Goldmoon's settlement many days ago. In the distance, a shed leaned into the wind, its door banging back and forth with each gust of wind. Behind it, an ice-covered lake reflected the sun's rays like a mirror.
The people who came out to meet the elves and knights seemed to match the buildings. Homesteaders who chose the fertile lands inland from the coast, they were all human. Many were in rumpled, mismatched clothes decorated with patches. The adults had weathered skin from the hours they spent under the sun in better climes. Some had hammers and other small tools sticking out of their pockets. The children wore clothes that looked either too small because they were outgrowing them or too large because they hadn't yet grown into the hand-me-downs. Only a few children had clothes that seemed to fit right. Nearly all of them wore smiles, and they were obviously happy to see Gair.
The children ogled the knights, rubbing grubby fingers over the silver armor and oohing and aahing at their wide-eyed reflections in the leg plates. The knights obliged the youths by answering questions about weapons, fighting, and life beyond Schallsea Island.