by Mark Anthony
Flint thought, his voice far away, musing. “There’s that. It’s a precious metal, but everything comes across cold and heartless in steel. Take your mother’s pendant.” Tanis touched the hilt of the sword he still insisted on carrying everywhere with him. “It’s beautiful, but it’s … distant somehow. Beautiful—and full of meaning for you, her son—but it’s not warm.”
As the half-elf watched, the dwarf rested his forehead on his hands. “I don’t have that much time left,” he complained. “The Kentommen is coming up in two weeks, and I’ve yet to take my sketches to the Speaker for approval.”
When Tanis didn’t say anything, the dwarf rubbed his eyes one last time, rose, and crossed the dwelling to an oak sideboard that held a huge trencher of raspberries. There he used a wooden scoop to fill two pottery bowls with berries.
“Another gift from Eld Ailea?” Tanis asked ingenuously. “Like that shirt you’re decked out in today?”
Flint glanced suspiciously at Tanis. “Exactly what is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” Tanis held up his hands in mock-surrender.
The dwarf pointed the scoop at the half-elf. “Ailea has become a good friend. And I might add that you yourself have spent a fair amount of time with her in the past few weeks, lad.”
Tanis plucked a berry from one bowl and ate it. “Do you want me to get some cream to pour over these?” Flint cooled his provisions, including milk and cream, by sealing them in ceramic jugs and lowering the containers into a spring in his back yard.
The dwarf spooned a generous portion of raspberries into his mouth, closed his eyes, and chewed slowly, murmuring, “Wonderful, just the way they are.” Then his blue-gray eyes flew open, and he glared at the half-elf. “And anyway, I pay Ailea with toys. These are not gifts.” He lifted the bowl and took it back to the table to examine his drawings.
Tanis decided it was time for a change of subject. “If you can’t decide between wood and steel, why not mix them?” His voice was muffled with berries.
Flint nodded, not paying much attention. Then he turned to Tanis. “What was that you said?” he demanded.
“Why not mix …”
But Flint had already pulled out another sheet of parchment and was sketching away furiously. He mumbled to himself, but Tanis couldn’t catch the words. The half-elf sighed. It was just as well; with the day’s stultifying heat, Tanis was ready for a nap anyway. Five minutes later, the half-elf was curled up on Flint’s cot, sound asleep.
The dwarf worked on.
It was early afternoon when Flint finally raised his head from the page. “Look at these, lad. I need your opinion.” He looked over at Tanis, but the half-elf barely stirred. “Well!” Flint gazed again at his design, then rolled the sheet into a cylinder, leaving the others on the table, and departed, closing the door quietly.
Thirty minutes later, Flint had unrolled the paper on the Speaker’s marble-topped table in the Tower. Solostaran leaned over to examine the dwarf’s suggestion.
“I’ve decided to mix gold, silver, steel, antler, red coral, and malachite,” the dwarf said excitedly. “And aspen wood.”
The sketch showed a medallion about the size of a child’s fist. The medal depicted a woodland scene, with an aspen in the foreground and a path leading back through spruce trees to a hill. Above the hill were two moons. “I’ll make the medal by sandwiching a back plate of steel with a fore plate of gold. Into the gold fore plate I’ll cut out the figures—the trees, the moons, the path.”
Solostaran nodded. It was a clever plan. “What of the coral and malachite?” he asked. “Where do they fit in?”
“I’ll inlay the piece,” Flint explained. “Once I’ve sandwiched the two plates together, I’ll fill in the outline of the trees—green malachite for the leaves and branches and brown antler for the trunk. The path will be of antler and steel. One moon, Lunitari, will be of red coral. The other, Solinari, will be formed of silver.”
But the Speaker looked dubious. “It’s beautiful, but it’s so elaborate. Are you sure you can fashion this in two weeks?”
Flint winked, and dipped a handful of dried figs and glazed almonds from the silver bowl on the desk. The bowl always seemed to be full whenever the dwarf arrived, but Flint never paused to consider the significance of that; he merely congratulated himself on his good fortune in having a friend whose taste in snacks mirrored his own. “The hard part is the thinking,” the dwarf said. “The rest comes easily.
“Is the design all right?” Flint waited confidently, knowing the Speaker would be pleased but wanting to hear him say it.
“It’s perfect,” Solostaran said.
A smile split the dwarf’s face. “Good. Then I’ll get working right away.” He reached for his drawing.
Solostaran’s voice stopped him. “Master Fireforge. Flint.”
The dwarf looked at his friend.
“What are people saying in the aftermath of Lord Xenoth’s death?” the Speaker asked quietly.
Flint’s hand remained suspended above the parchment. Then he slowly rolled up the sketch. “Well, you know I don’t have much business with many of the courtiers now.” Especially since he’d taken Tanis’s side after the tylor hunt, he might have added.
“What are the common folk saying, then?”
Flint tied a string around the rolled paper and exhaled slowly. “Lord Xenoth wasn’t much liked by many people, especially those he considered … lower-class,” he said carefully. “But many elves also approved of his views about keeping Qualinesti apart from the rest of Krynn.” He decided to plunge on ahead. “Those same elves don’t approve of my being here, and they’re not overly fond of allowing half-elves to live in the city, either.”
“There are fanatics on every issue,” Solostaran murmured. “The question is, how prevalent are they?”
“That I don’t know, sir.”
Solostaran smiled wanly. “Call me ‘Speaker,’ ” he said. “Remember when I told you that, the day you arrived in Qualinost?”
“Remember?” The dwarf hooted. “How could I forget? How many folks get lessons in court decorum from the Speaker of the Sun himself?”
Solostaran didn’t speak, and eventually his smile and Flint’s grin faded. “Many of the courtiers are not pleased, Flint. They say … they say I am protecting Tanthalas because he is my ward. They say I should banish him.”
Banish Tanis? “That’s absurd,” Flint said. “He didn’t kill Xenoth. Didn’t Miral explain how the burst of magic might have diverted the second arrow?”
“Flint,” Solostaran said, “I have talked to a number of magic-users in the past weeks, and they all agree. Circumstances such as those Miral painted are extremely unlikely. His explanation would call for the tylor’s powerful magic to ‘ricochet’ off a weak mage like Miral and somehow force one small arrow off course to land in an elf’s chest. They say it’s not impossible, but not probable, either. For one thing, such an occurrence most likely would have killed any but a powerful mage.
“For the past weeks, I’ve been going from expert to expert, hoping to find one who will say, ‘Yes, that’s probably what happened.’ ”
Solostaran pushed his leather chair away from the massive table and turned to face the huge windows. “It can’t be done, Flint. No one who understands magic will say that.” Despite the blazing heat outside, the marble and quartz building stayed cool inside. Flint shivered.
“What will you do, Speaker?”
“What can I do?” Solostaran demanded, his angry movements rustling his robe of state. “I am left with a situation in which the closest eyewitness—and someone I trust absolutely—says that the most obvious explanation—that Tanis aimed badly—simply is not true. The other explanations that would exonerate my ward are deemed virtually impossible by elves who should know.
“That leaves me with one conclusion. What happened to Xenoth could not have happened. Yet it obviously did.” The Speaker paced before the window wall. “My courtiers feel I
should ‘do something,’ but the result they want appears morally indefensible to me. I cannot banish Tanthalas solely because some hidebound members of court resent his presence and have found a way to get rid of him. And yet …” He returned to his chair, where he slumped backward. “Somehow I always get back to ‘and yet …’ ”
Flint cast about for a reply, but none was forthcoming. All he could promise to do was to think on the subject, and to keep his ears open to gauge elven opinion on the matter.
When Flint emerged from the Tower of the Sun moments later, prepared to walk slowly down the blue and white tiled streets to his shop, a familiar figure was waiting on the steps of the Tower. A small crowd of admiring children had gathered around Fleetfoot, who lifted her graying muzzle and brayed enthusiastically as Flint drew near. A ragged length of rope hung from the collar that Flint had fashioned for her—his latest attempt to clip her wings.
“You doorknob of a mule!” the dwarf huffed. “Only a kender could be a bigger pest.” He grabbed the chewed length of rope and hauled the infatuated animal along the street.
Chapter 20
A Summer’s Dream
The scorching weather, so unusual for Qualinost, forced even calm sleepers into nightmares. And Miral was no exception.
He was back in the cavern. Stalactites, glowing with some inner light—the only illumination in the cave—dripped from the ceiling. Stalagmites had grown up from the damp floor. He could barely keep his balance on the slippery surface.
He looked down then and saw that he was wearing the type of thin leather sandals that elven children wore. His playsuit was torn and filthy from all the falls he’d taken.
Miral didn’t know how long he’d been in the cavern. It seemed like days, but time was fluid for young children. He was not hungry. As he’d clambered about the caverns, moving through tunnel after tunnel, always seeking the Presence that called him, he’d fortuitously found food whenever hunger pangs gripped him. Like a child, he did not question these finds; he merely ate his fill and moved on.
He was not really frightened. When he’d longed for a nap, he had found a warm pallet by one of the walls, with a down pillow and a flannel comforter turned back as if to beckon to him. And when he’d awakened, a plate of toasted quith-pa with cinnamon and sugar had been waiting.
Little Miral had accepted these gifts, and never questioned where they came from. If he’d been asked, he’d have said that his mama probably sent them, though he hadn’t seen her in what seemed like ages—ever since she’d called to him to “Come back here immediately, young elf,” so long ago at the mouth of the cave.
He had no idea where the cave mouth was anymore. He had no idea where Qualinost was, or Mama.
The Presence called from deep in the cavern. With the calling, however, came a buzzing, a roaring that confused young Miral. He was alternately frightened and consoled by the sound.
The Presence wanted him. It would comfort him.
Suddenly, the calling became more urgent, as though the Presence were fearful and angry at once. Come this way, little elf. Come this way. I will protect you. I will provide everything you want, if you only set me free. Come this way.
At that moment, Miral knew where to go. The Presence told him. He set his pudgy toddler’s legs moving and began to run down one stone corridor after another. He spurted around one last corner, knowing that the Presence was nearby, and …
Sudden light flared through the new chamber that Miral found himself in. For minutes afterward, he could not see. The sense of great good was gone from the Presence. In its place was overweening evil.
He grew hoarse from screaming, shrieking for his mama, running in circles from the buzzing that reverberated through the cavern, which suddenly lacked entrances and exits. In the middle of the cavern—the source of the noise, the light, the terror, he understood even in his young innocence—stood a pulsating gem larger than his head. Its faceted sides sent beams of gray and red darting into every depression in the rock. His eyes ached, yet closing them did not keep the rays out. He renewed his sobbing.
The gray gem wanted him. Its words pounded inside his tiny head. Release me. Let me go and I will give you everything you want. Pictures of toys, Mama, Eld Ailea, delectable foods, appeared in succession before his eyes. Miral felt feverish. His voice was raspy; he wanted a drink.
Suddenly, a cup of sweetened water appeared before him, suspended in midair. When he lunged for it, it vanished. The combination of the familiar and the impossible set the little boy wailing. He spotted a crevice along one wall and ran to squeeze himself into it. He pressed back, far back, while every monster he feared as a child threatened him from the cavern.
Then came the part he knew was coming—the strong hand yanking him farther back into the crevice.
Miral awakened, bathed in perspiration.
Chapter 21
Attempted Murder
A.C. 308, Midsummer
More than a week later, Flint was working on Porthios’s Kentommen medallion when Lord Tyresian walked through the doorway of the dwarf’s stone dwelling—without knocking, of course, Flint noticed. Only Tanis was welcome entering the shop without giving a warning. Even Fleetfoot knocked, in a way, her hooves’ noise usually giving the dwarf enough warning to leap for the door.
The weather had cooled since the blazing heat of a week earlier. It was the kind of day that made most folks want to pack quith-pa, cheese, and pickled vegetables in a picnic basket and head for one of the ravine overlooks. But the dwarf had no thought for relaxation. He was running apace with a deadline; the Kentommen was only a week away.
With the holiday impending, of course, numerous Qualinost nobles had discovered metalwork that they simply had to have completed before Porthios’s coming-of-age ceremony. Flint took their work but gave them all the same answer: He was working on an assignment for the Speaker of the Sun and, alas, might very well get to the supplicants’ projects after the Kentommen. They weren’t happy, of course, but the elves of Qualinost had long ago learned that Flint Fireforge, while he was undeniably the most gifted metal-artisan around, also could be as unyielding as a minotaur.
The two disks that would go into the medal lay before him; he was painstakingly cutting into the gold fore plate with a thin-bladed chisel and a small hammer. He surveyed the effect critically; the chisel gave the openings a rough-edged look that he rather liked. It worked especially well in fashioning the trees. “That’s a good thing, too, seeing as I’ve got no time to do it over,” he muttered.
That was when the door swung open, the chime sounded, and the arrogant elf lord with the short blond hair appeared in the portal.
“Dwarf, I require your services,” Tyresian announced.
Taking his time, Flint covered the components of the medallion with his sketch, looked up from his chair next to the table, and flashed the elf lord a smile that looked more like a dog baring its teeth. “Come in, Lord Tyresian.” He pointed his chisel at his stone bench. “Have a seat.”
Under elven protocol, Flint should have risen to his feet when the elven noble entered the room, though he and Solostaran had long since dispensed with that formality on occasions when the Speaker visited the dwarf alone. Tyresian, however, flushed with annoyance. The fact that the elf lord did not complain of the slight was proof to the dwarf that Tyresian wanted the dwarf’s services badly. That brought another smile to Flint’s face.
“What service is it that you ‘require’?” Flint asked expressionlessly, leaning back in his chair. He again pointed to the bench with the chisel. “Have a seat.”
Tyresian appeared uncertain whether to sit where the dwarf told him—and thus appear to be following an underling’s orders—or to remain standing, which might imply that he, not Flint, was the underling. He compromised by moving restlessly through the room, never stopping long enough to sit anywhere. After wandering insolently around the room, surveying the hutch, Flint’s cot, his carved chest, and the forge, Tyresian drew his short sword
and presented it, hilt forward, to the dwarf.
Wordlessly, Flint accepted the weapon and examined it. It was a ceremonial weapon, carried on formal occasions, encrusted with emeralds and moonstones and inlaid with steel. The weapon, if sold, could feed a Qualinesti family for eight months.
“Not very practical in battle,” Flint commented.
“It’s for state occasions,” Tyresian said loftily.
“Such as the Kentommen of Porthios Kanan,” the dwarf finished. The elf lord nodded.
Flint resumed his examination of the weapon. The wood of the hilt had split badly; some of the steel inlay had dropped out, and one gem—an emerald, he judged, from looking at the pattern—had fallen out. It was not a simple repair job; a skilled craftsman would have to rebuild the implement, abandoning all other work during that time.
“It would take a week,” Flint finally said. “I don’t have time.”
The elf lord’s temper flared and his eyes snapped blue fire, but he kept his voice as bland as the dwarf’s. “The Kentommen is still a week away, Master Fireforge.”
“I have other work.”
Tyresian straightened. “Then put it aside. Do this assignment.”
Flint handed the short sword back to the elf lord. “Perhaps you can find another metalsmith to fix this.”
“But …”
The arrival of Eld Ailea and Tanis interrupted Lord Tyresian’s remark. The old midwife was dressed in exuberant colors, as usual—striped yellow and blue overblouse, red gathered skirt, and red slippers, all embroidered with pale yellow daisies. Next to her, Tanis looked practically colorless in tan shirt and leggings. Between them—a situation made lopsided by the great height disparity between the midwife and the half-elf—they lugged a huge woven basket filled to the top with ears of corn. In his spare hand Tanis carried a small plate with an overturned bowl on top. They paused on the doorstep and, squinting in the bright midday light, peered into the gloom of the dwarf’s shop.