by Mark Anthony
The Speaker smiled, and some of the nervousness fled Flint's stomach. Solostaran's smile was genuine, and it touched his wise eyes-eyes as green as the deepest forest. Flint sighed, feeling more at ease. The chilled glances of the elven courtiers seemed less important. "I trust your journey was uneventful," the Speaker said.
"Uneventful! Reorx!" the dwarf expostulated.
He'd been summoned peremptorily from his favorite chair at the Inn of the Last Home by a pair of elven guards and asked to accompany them to the mysterious elven capital, the city that so few nonelves had seen over the last centuries. They had traveled up staircases hidden behind waterfalls, along precipices, and in damp tunnels.
To say the city was well protected was putting it mildly. The peaks to the south of Qualinost loomed so daunting in their height and ruggedness as to give the most determined foe pause. Two converging streams in deep, five-hundred-foot-wide ravines sheltered Qualinost to the west, north, and east. Two narrow bridges-easily cut down in case enemies managed to find their way through the woodlands and forests to the city proper-formed the only passages across the ravines.
The Speaker was waiting for an answer, the dwarf realized. "Oh. I-uh-fine, thank you. Sir. Sire," he stammered, trying to recall what Solostaran had asked him. His face blazed even as those of the courtiers gathered around him tightened. His escort bowed and padded away. Flint felt suddenly bereft.
"Have you found our beloved city to your liking?" the Speaker asked politely.
Flint, more comfortable at his forge than in what his mother would have called "polite company," found himself once again at a loss for a reply. How to describe his first view of what might well be the most beautiful city on Krynn? The Qualinesti elves celebrated their forest home with buildings that called to mind the aspens, the oaks, of the surrounding forest. Eschewing the ninety-degree angle as a vestige of the too-analytical human mind, the elves created dwellings as varied as nature. Conical, tree-shaped homes and small shops dotted the blue-tiled streets. But the dwellings themselves were built, not of wood, but of rose quartz. In the light of midafternoon, the city had glittered, light refracting from the faceted quartz. Pear, peach, and apple trees bloomed in profusion. Even in the Tower of the Sun, the thick scent of blossoms penetrated.
"The city is beautiful, Sire," Flint finally said.
His heart sank as several courtiers gasped. What had he done wrong? The Speaker descended from the rostrum and bent toward the dwarf; Flint stood firm but quailed within.
"Call me Speaker," Solostaran said softly, his voice too quiet to catch the ears of the nearby elves. Flint nodded, and Solostaran straightened again. But one pair of sharp ears had caught the Speaker's words. A giggle, quickly stifled, made the dwarf look behind the Speaker and raised a tremor of annoyance on the Speaker's face. Three young elves-no, one, a resentful-looking lad with auburn-brown hair, was a half-elf, Flint realized- clustered at the back of the rostrum. The Speaker gestured toward the two full elves. "My children. Gilthanas. And Lauralanthalasa, who needs a lesson in court decorum." The girl giggled again.
The boy was clearly a young version of his elegant, slender father. And the girl…! Flint had never seen the likes of the elf girl. To say she was lovely would be like calling the sun a candle, Flint reckoned, although he was no poet. She was willow-thin, with eyes the color of new leaves and hair as gold as the morning sunlight. The Speaker narrowed his eyes at her, and the radiant girl pouted. The only creature in the room shorter than Flint, she had the ways of a human child of five or six years of age, but he would bet she was at least ten.
"And this?" Flint asked, nodding to the half-elf, who reddened and looked away. The dwarf felt suddenly as though he'd embarrassed the lad terribly by calling attention to him. He was older than the other two, and Flint didn't think he was related to them. There was a certain huskiness to his frame where the others were thin as switches, a bit less of a slant to his eyes, and less smoothness to his features. All of it put Flint in more of a mind of some of the human folk back in the village of Solace.
The Speaker spoke smoothly. "This is my ward, Tanthalas, or Tanis."
Once again, Flint found himself without words. The boy was obviously uneasy with the attention. At that moment, the adviser that Flint's escort had identified as Lord Xenoth emerged from an anteroom behind the rostrum and slipped in front of the young half-elf. Tanis edged aside. Resentment radiated from the boy like heat from a campfire, but at whom the emotion was aimed, Flint couldn't tell.
The Speaker gestured toward another elf, standing off to the right under one of the carved marble balconies. The elf lord had dark blond hair and square, regular features and might, Flint thought, be considered handsome save for the set of his eyes; they were close together and deep beneath his brow. His face probably glowered even when he was happy, the dwarf conjectured. The elf lord stood with three other equally proud elves, two men and a woman.
"My elder son, Porthios," Solostaran said proudly. The elf lord inclined his head slightly. Oh ho! Flint thought, that's a prideful one; and probably not too happy having anyone other than a full elf-one with bloodlines pure all the way back to the Kinslayer Wars-in his precious Tower, either.
The Speaker, once again, seemed to be waiting for something. Flint decided that honesty was the best idea.
"I'm afraid I know little enough of noble houses, and of elves even less, though I hope that last will be changing soon," he said, allowing his shoulders to relax somewhat.
"Why did you accept my summons?" Solostaran asked. His green eyes were so deep that Flint felt momentarily as though no one else were in the rotunda with him. Briefly, the dwarf spied the authority that must have been every Speaker's since Kith-Kanan. I would not want to cross him, he thought.
"I've had time to ponder that, on these last few weeks' journey," Flint said. "I must say my chief reason is curiosity." Lord Xenoth curled a puckered lip and turned aside again, silver robe swishing against the rostrum. "Curiosity killed the kender," the elderly adviser said in a stage whisper to the boy and girl the Speaker had called Gilthanas and Lauralanthalasa. Gilthanas snickered. The girl looked askance at the old elf, glanced pointedly away, and sidestepped toward the half-elf, Tanis. Tanis stood unmoving, seemingly unaware of the nearness of the exquisite young girl.
Solostaran gave Xenoth a look that caused the old elf to blanch, drawing a tight smile from the half-elf. When the Speaker turned back to Flint, however, his eyes were kind. "Curiosity," he prompted.
"Like most, I had not seen Qualinesti," Flint explained. "It's common knowledge that the forests of Qualinesti are nearly impossible for common folk to penetrate. To have escorts offered to me-by the Speaker of the Sun, no less-is a rare honor indeed." Not a bad speech, the dwarf thought, and the Speaker's slow nod gave him the nerve to push on. "The craftsmanship of the Qualinesti elves is known throughout Ansalon. Your crafts are prized in Haven, Thorbardin, Solace, and other cities of the region. Truth, I hoped to pick up a few pointers for my own metal work."
And besides, the dwarf added to himself, the Speaker's envoys had bought so many rounds of ale for Flint's friends at the Inn of the Last Home that the dwarf's head had swum. He had awakened the next morning, his traveling gear packed and slung across the back of a mule. And he had been slung, head and feet drooping, right along with the baggage.
"Do you mean what you've said, Master Fireforge?" the Speaker asked him evenly, and Flint blinked.
"I–I'm not sure what you mean," he managed to stutter.
"You said you knew little of elves, and that you wished to change that. Is that truly so?"
Flint looked around himself, at the airy Tower, at the golden-haired elves, and at the regal figure of the Speaker, resplendent in his robes of green stitched with gold. The odor of spring blossoms was growing a bit thick, but even that carried a note of the unique. Strange as it all was, especially for a hill dwarf more accustomed to battlefields and taverns than gilded towers, Flint found he could only nod "yes
."
"I must confess that, of late, our knowledge of dwarvenkind has become poor as well," the Speaker said. "Our people were friends once. Together they built the great fortress of Pax Tharkas-and this city. I do not propose such a dramatic undertaking for ourselves, Master Fireforge. I would be content if, together, you and I could simply build a friendship."
Some of the elven courtiers murmured their approval. Several, including Lord Xenoth and the conclave surrounding Porthios, remained silent. Flint found he could only grin sheepishly as he stuck his hands in his pockets. "Reorx!" he swore suddenly, and then his eyes went wide. "Er, begging your pardon, uh… Speaker."
Solostaran no longer made any attempt to temper his smile. "I imagine you are wondering why I summoned you, my dwarven friend," he said. He raised a gold-ringed hand, and a silver and moss-agate bracelet slid from his wrist to his forearm; Flint gasped, recognizing his own metalwork. Then a servant stepped forward with a silver tray decorated with the likeness of a silver dragon. Atop the tray were two goblets made of silver hammered thin and polished to a brilliance. Three aspen leaves "grew" out of the stem of the goblet, cradling the bowl that held the wine.
"That's…" Flint blurted, and stopped. The servant waited until the Speaker and the dwarf each had selected a glass from the tray, then Solostaran lifted one goblet.
"I drink to the artisan who fashioned this bracelet and these goblets, and I hope he will do us the honor of staying at court here awhile to fashion some items especially for us." He took one sip, watching Flint from almond-shaped green eyes.
"But that's…" Flint started again.
"You," the Speaker finished. "I have commissions for you if you accept our hospitality. But we can speak more of that tomorrow. For now, please drink."
Mind reeling with the idea that the lord of all the elves of Qualinesti, a people noted for their own craftsmanship in silver and gold, would laud the efforts of a dwarf, Flint bolted the entire contents of the goblet he'd fashioned a year earlier. On the bottom of the drinking container, he knew, was his mark, the word "Solace," and the year. He wondered at…
He lost the thought as the taste of the elven wine slammed into his brain; his eyes misted and his throat went into paroxysms. "Reorx's hammer!" Flint squawked.
He'd heard of elvenblossom wine. It was known for its stultifying bouquet of fruit blossoms and the battle-axe power of its alcohol content. Only those of elven blood could stomach the sweet stuff, he'd heard, and it was the alcoholic equivalent of being kicked in the head by a centaur. The odor of apple and peach blossoms seemed to permeate his body, inside and out; Flint felt as though he'd been embalmed alive in perfume. Two or three Speakers wavered in front of him; the cadre of three elves around Porthios turned into a convention of fifteen or sixteen. Lauralanthalasa's giggle rose above the chorus of Abanasinian nightingales that soared suddenly in his brain. Flint gasped and tried to sit on the Speaker's rostrum-protocol be damned-but the rostrum seemed to have grown wheels; he; couldn't quite catch up with it.
Suddenly another elf was at his side. Flint found himself looking through tears into eyes so pale that they were nearly: clear. The new face was framed by equally colorless hair and the hood of a dark crimson robe. "Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth," the figure said hoarsely.
"Ark," Flint croaked. "Uff!"
"In through your nose…" the elf repeated, and demonstrated. The dwarf, deciding he would die anyway, attempted what the elf commanded. "Wufff!" he wheezed.
"… Out through your mouth."
"Hoooofff!" the dwarf responded. The elf scattered some herbs and uttered words that were either an old elven tongue or magic-or both. Flint immediately felt better. He lay sprawled on the rostrum steps, the empty goblet in his hand. The hall had been emptied of all but the Speaker, Lauralanthalasa, the young half-elf, and the magic-user who'd saved the dwarf.
"With all respect, Speaker, I would posit that our guest will not desire a refill," the elf rasped, helping Flint to his feet. "Elvenblossom wine is an acquired taste." The dwarf swayed, and the half-elf leaped forward to support him. Flint nodded his thanks.
"Perhaps Master Fireforge would prefer to conclude this interview at another time, Speaker," the robed one said smoothly.
Solostaran raised his brows and looked at the dwarf. "Perhaps you are right, Miral," the Speaker replied.
"Ark," Flint hacked. "I'm fine." He coughed and felt his face grow pale. The magic-user snapped his fingers, and thinly sliced quith-pa appeared in his outstretched hand. Flint chewed a slice of the bread while the Speaker, more casual now that court was over, waved his daughter forward.
The elf girl, pointed ear tips barely showing through her spun-gold hair, drew a slender chain from her neck. At one end dangled a single, perfect aspen leaf, glimmering green and silver in the golden light. Although it looked natural, as if it had just been plucked from a living tree, this leaf was fashioned of silver and emerald, so skillfully wrought it could not be discerned from a real leaf save for the sparkles of light it sent dancing across the little girl's rapt face.
The dwarf gasped in surprise; the movement brought up a peachy belch, prompting another chuckle from Lauralanthalasa. "I made that leaf six months ago," Flint exclaimed, swallowing the last morsel of quith-pa. "Sold it to an elf passing through Solace."
"My envoy," the Speaker said. Flint started to speak, but the Speaker held up one hand. "The leaf is perfect in every way. No tree is closer to the heart of an elf than the aspen. I determined to find the artist who could translate such feeling into his work. And I discovered that this artisan is no elf, but a dwarf."
The Speaker turned away for a heartbeat, then paused. "You must be weary from your long journey," he said. "Miral will show you to your chambers."
Solostaran watched as the dwarf and the magic-user walked from the chamber. It had been a long time since a sight such as that had been seen in Qualinost. Too long. Times had been dark of late. It still seemed only a moment-instead of thirty years-since his brother Kethrenan had been slain, and such raids had not yet ended.
"Friendship…," Solostaran echoed his earlier words. The world could do with a bit more friendship.
The streets of the elven city spread out beneath Flint's feet. Before being shown to his chambers, Flint had asked Miral to take him someplace where he might see more of the city. The elf had led him along the tiled avenues, past buildings fashioned of marble and rose quartz, the crystals splintering the light only to spin it again in dazzling new colors.
Aspen, oak, and spruce surrounded the buildings so that the houses of Qualinost seemed living things themselves, their roots sunk deep into the earth. Fountains bubbled in courtyards where elven folk, the women in dresses of cobweb silver, the men in jerkins of moss green, spoke softly or listened to the music of dulcimer and flute. The air was warm and clear, its touch as gentle as midsummer, although Flint knew that winter had barely loosened its grip on the land.
As he watched, the sun drew low in the west, the crimson sunset combining with the rosy hues of the living stone to bathe the town in pink light. The azure and white tiles of the streets deepened to purple. The scent of baking quith-pa and roasting venison filled the air, and few elves were too busy to come to the portals of their homes and businesses to enjoy the closing of the day.
The odor of blossoms still discomfited the dwarf, but he resolved to ignore it.
Miral led him to a lane that wound in arcs up a rise in the center of the city. The lane ended in a great square, the Hall of the Sky, walled only by the pale trunks of aspens and roofed only by the blue dome of the heavens. "This is a hall?" Flint asked after the magic-user identified its name. "There's no roof."
Miral grinned. "The sky is its ceiling, we say, although some believe that at one time there was a hall here, guarding something beyond value. Myth has it that Kith-Kanan caused the structure to rise into the sky to protect that which was within." He looked wistful and drew in a great breath of pear-blossom-sce
nted air. "It's said that whoever finds the structure will enjoy great success."
"That's nothing to sneeze at," Flint agreed.
Miral darted a look at him and, after a pause, laughed shortly. The two looked over Qualinost, details beginning to vanish in the deepening twilight. Pinpoints of lamplight appeared in the uncommon glass windows of elven dwellings.
From the Hall of the Sky, in the center of Qualinost, Flint could gaze upon much of the ancient city. Four towers rose above the treetops at each point of the compass, and between each stretched a single delicate span of metal, a bridge connecting each of the towers in a single archway high above the ground. The four arches seemed like gossamer, shimmering even in the absence of the sun, but Flint knew that each was strong enough to bear the weight of an army, and an ache touched his heart as he marveled at the skill of the ancient dwarves who had built them. He wondered if Krynn would ever know such greatness again. Directly north, on a hill higher than the knoll he stood on now, rose the Tower of the Sun, so tall Flint could not help but imagine that if one stood upon it, he had only to reach up to brush the surface of the sky. So high was the Tower that its gold surface continued to reflect the westering sun even after that orb had left lower buildings wreathed in shadow.
"Do you see the two rivers?" Miral asked him, gesturing to the deep ravines to the east and west of the city. Flint grunted. Did he see them? Reorx above, he had had to cross one of them on a swaying bridge that seemed hardly strong enough to hold a rock dove, let alone a stocky dwarf. The thought of that deep, rocky ravine yawning beneath him still made his skin shiver.
"The one to the east is called Ithal-enatha, the River of Tears," Miral continued in a soft voice. "And the other is Ithal-inen, the River of Hope. They join at the confluence beyond the Tower to flow northward, to the White-Rage River and then to the sea beyond."