Jenny gave her hearty approval. In some places in which they’d stayed, she’d been forced to eat damp, moldy hay or worse. Once she’d actually been offered potato peelings.
The two had nearly reached their journey’s end. Within the month, Antimodes would arrive at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. Or, rather, the tower would arrive at Antimodes. One never found the magical Tower of Wayreth. It found you, or not, as its master chose.
This night Antimodes would spend in the town of Solace. He might have pushed on, for the season was late spring, and it was only noon, with plenty of daylight left for travel. But he was fond of Solace, fond of its famous inn, the Inn of the Last Home, fond of Otik Sandath, the inn’s owner, and especially fond of the inn’s ale. Antimodes had been tasting that chilled dark ale with its creamy head in his imagination ever since he had swallowed his first mouthful of road dust.
His arrival in Solace went unnoticed, unlike his arrival in other towns in Ansalon, where every stranger was taken to be a thief or plague-carrier, a murderer or kidnapper of children. Solace was a different town than most on Ansalon. It was a town of refugees, who had fled for their lives during the Cataclysm and had only stopped running when they came to this location. Having once been strangers on the road themselves, the founders of Solace took a kindly view toward other strangers, and this attitude had been passed down to their descendants. Solace had become known as a haven for outcasts, loners, the restless, the adventuresome.
The inhabitants were friendly and tolerant—up to a point. Lawlessness was known to be bad for business, and Solace was a town with a sharp eye for business.
Being located on a bustling road that was the major route from northern Ansalon to all points south, Solace was accustomed to entertaining travelers, but that was not the reason few noticed the arrival of Antimodes. The main reason was that most of the people of Solace never saw him, due to the fact that they were high above him. The major portion of the town of Solace was built in the vast, spreading, gigantic branches of the immense and wondrous vallenwood trees.
The early inhabitants of Solace had literally taken to the trees to escape their enemies. Having found living among the treetops to be safe and secure, they had built their homes among the leaves, and their descendants and those who came after them had continued the tradition.
Craning his neck, Antimodes looked up from the donkey’s back to the wooden plank bridges that extended from tree to tree, watching the bridges swing and sway as the villagers hastened across on various errands. Antimodes was a dapper man, with an eye for the ladies, and though the women of Solace kept their flowing skirts firmly in hand when crossing the bridges, there was always the possibility of catching a glimpse of a shapely ankle or a well-turned leg.
Antimodes’s attention to this pleasant occupation was interrupted when he heard sounds of shrill yelling. He lowered his gaze to find that he and Jenny had been overtaken by a brigade of bare-legged, sunburned boys armed with wooden swords and tree-branch spears and giving battle to an army of imaginary foes.
The boys had not meant to run down Antimodes. The swirl of battle had carried them in his direction; the invisible goblins or ogres or whatever enemy the boys chased were in full retreat toward Crystalmir Lake. Caught up in the shouting, yelling, sword-thwacking melee, Antimodes’s donkey, Jenny, shied and danced, wild-eyed with fright.
A mage’s mount is not a war-horse. A mage’s mount is not trained to gallop into the noise and blood and confusion of battle or to face spears without flinching. At most, a mage’s mount must accustom herself to a few foul-smelling spell components and an occasional lightning show. Jenny was a placid donkey, strong and hale, with an uncanny knack for avoiding ruts and loose stones, providing her rider with a smooth and comfortable journey. Jenny considered that she’d put up with a great deal on this trip: bad food, leaky accommodations, dubious stablemates. An army of stick-wielding boys was simply too much to bear.
By the twitch of her long ears and the baring of her yellow teeth, Jenny was obviously prepared to strike back by bucking and kicking at the boys, which would have probably not damaged the boys much but would certainly dislodge her rider. Antimodes endeavored to control the donkey, but he was not having any luck. The younger boys, maddened with battle lust, did not see the man’s distress. They swirled about him, lashing out with their swords, shrieking and crowing in shrill triumph. Antimodes might well have entered Solace on his posterior, when, out of the dust and noise, an older boy—perhaps about eight or nine—appeared, caught hold of Jenny’s reins, and, with a gentle touch and forceful presence, calmed the terrified donkey.
“Go around!” the youth ordered, waving his sword, which he had shifted to his left hand. “Clear out, fellows! You’re frightening the donkey.”
The younger boys, ranging in age from six upward, good-naturedly obeyed the youth and continued on their rowdy way. Their shouts and laughter echoed among the enormous trunks of the vallenwood trees.
The older boy paused and, with an accent that was definitely not of this part of Ansalon, spoke his apology as he soothingly stroked the donkey’s soft nose. “Forgive us, good sir. We were caught up in our play and did not notice your arrival. I trust you have taken no harm.”
The young man had straight, thick blond hair, which he wore bowl-cropped around his ears in a style that was popular in Solamnia, but nowhere else on Krynn. His eyes were gray-blue, and he had a stem and serious demeanor that belied his years, a noble bearing of which he was extremely conscious. His speech was polished and educated. This was no country bumpkin, no laborer’s son.
“Thank you, young sir,” Antimodes replied. He carefully took stock of his spell components, checking to make certain that the buffeting he had taken had not loosened any of his pouches he wore on his belt. He was about to ask the young man’s name, for he found himself interested in this youth, but, on looking up, he found the young man’s blue eyes fixed upon the pouches. The expression on the youthful face was one of disdain, disapproval.
“If you are certain you are well, Sir Mage, and have taken no harm from our play, I will take my leave.” The youth made a stiff and rigid bow and, letting loose the donkey’s halter, turned to run after the other boys. “Coming, Kit?” he called brusquely to another older boy, who had halted to study the stranger with interest.
“In a minute, Sturm,” said the other youth, and it was only when she spoke that Antimodes realized this curly-haired boy, wearing pants and a leather vest, was actually a girl.
She was an attractive girl—now that he studied her closely—or perhaps he should say “young lady,” for though only in her early teens, her figure was well defined, her movements were graceful, and her gaze was bold and unwavering. She studied Antimodes in her turn, regarding him with an intense, thoughtful interest that he found difficult to understand. He was accustomed to meeting with disdain and dislike, but the young woman’s interest was not idle curiosity. Her gaze held no antipathy. It seemed as if she were making up her mind about something.
Antimodes was old-fashioned in his attitude toward women. He liked them soft and perfumed, loving and gentle, with blushing cheeks and properly downcast eyes. He realized that in this day of powerful female wizards and strong female warriors his attitude was backward, but he was comfortable with it. He frowned slightly to indicate his own disapproval of this young hoyden and clucked at Jenny, urging her in the direction of the public stables, located near the blacksmith’s shop. The stables, the blacksmith’s, and the baker’s shop, with its immense ovens, were three of the few buildings in Solace situated on the ground.
Even as Antimodes passed by the young woman, he could feel her brown-eyed gaze focused on him, wondering, considering.
2
ANTIMODES SAW TO IT THAT JENNY WAS COMFORTABLY established, with an extra measure of feed and a promise from the stableboy to provide the donkey with extra attention, all paid for, of course, in good Krynn steel, which he laid out with a lavish hand.
&n
bsp; This done, the archmage took the nearest staircase leading up to the bridge walks. The stairs were many, and he was hot and out of breath by the time he finished the climb. The shadows of the vallenwoods’ thick foliage cooled him, however, providing a shady canopy under which to walk. After a moment’s pause to catch his breath, Antimodes followed the suspended walkway that led toward the Inn of the Last Home.
On his way, he passed numerous small houses perched high in the tree branches. House designs varied in Solace, for each had to conform to the tree in which it stood. By law, no part of the living vallenwood could be cut or burned or in any other way molested. Every house used the broad trunk for at least one wall, while the branches formed the ceiling beams. The floors were not level, and there was a noticeable rocking motion to the houses during windstorms. Such irregularities were considered charming by the inhabitants of Solace. They would have driven Antimodes crazy.
The Inn of the Last Home was the largest structure in Solace. Standing some forty feet above ground level, it was built around the bole of a massive vallenwood, which formed part of the Inn’s interior. A veritable thicket of timbers supported the inn from beneath. The common room and the kitchen were on the lowest level. Sleeping rooms were perched above and could be reached by a separate entrance; those requiring privacy were not forced to traipse through the common room.
The inn’s windows were made of multicolored stained glass, which, according to local legend, had been shipped all the way from Palanthas. The stained glass was an excellent advertisement for the business; the colors glinting in the shadows of the leaves caused the eye to turn in that direction, when otherwise the inn might have been hidden among the foliage.
Antimodes had eaten a light breakfast, and he was therefore hungry enough to do full justice to the proprietor’s renowned cooking. The climb up the stairs had further sharpened Antimodes’s appetite, as did the smells wafting from the kitchen. Upon entering, the archmage was greeted by Otik himself, a rotund, cheerful middle-aged man, who immediately remembered Antimodes, though the mage had not been a guest in perhaps two years or more.
“Welcome, friend, welcome,” Otik said, bowing and bobbing his head as he did to all customers, gentry or peasant. His apron was snow-white, not grease-stained as with some innkeepers. The inn itself was as clean as Otik’s apron. When the barmaids weren’t serving customers, they were sweeping or scouring or polishing the lovely wooden bar, which was actually part of the living vallenwood.
Antimodes expressed his pleasure in returning to the inn. Otik proved he remembered his guest by taking Antimodes to his favorite table near one of the windows, a table that provided an excellent view, through green-colored glass, of Crystalmir Lake. Without being asked, Otik brought a mug of chilled dark ale and placed it before Antimodes.
“I recall how you said you enjoyed my dark ale last time you were here, sir,” Otik remarked.
“Indeed, Innkeep, I have never tasted its like,” Antimodes replied. He also noted the way Otik carefully kept from making any reference to the fact that Antimodes was a user of magic, a delicacy Antimodes appreciated, though he himself scorned to hide who or what he was from anyone.
“I will take a room for the night, with luncheon and dinner,” said Antimodes, bringing out his purse, which was well stocked but not indecently full.
Otik replied that rooms were available, Antimodes should have his pick, they would be honored by his presence. Luncheon today was a casserole of thirteen different types of beans simmered with herbs and ham. Dinner was pounded beef and the spiced potatoes for which the inn was famous.
Otik waited anxiously to hear his guest say that the bill of fare was perfectly satisfactory. Then, beaming, the barkeep bustled fussily off to deal with the myriad chores involved in running the inn.
Antimodes relaxed and glanced about at the other customers. It being rather past the usual luncheon hour, the inn was relatively empty. Travelers were upstairs in their rooms, sleeping off the good meal. Laborers had returned to their jobs, business owners were drowsing over their account books, mothers were putting children down for afternoon naps. A dwarf—a hill dwarf, by the looks of him—was the inn’s only other customer.
A hill dwarf who was no longer living in the hills, a hill dwarf living among humans in Solace. Doing quite well, to judge by his clothes, which consisted of a fine homespun shirt, good leather breeches, and the leather apron of his trade. He was not more than middle-aged; there were only a few streaks of gray in his nut-brown beard. The lines on his face were uncommonly deep and dark for a dwarf of his years. His life had been a hard one and had left its mark. His brown eyes were warmer than the eyes of those of his brethren who did not live among humans and who seemed to constantly be peering out from behind high barricades.
Catching the dwarf’s bright eye, Antimodes raised his ale mug. “I note by your tools that you are a metal worker. May Reorx guide your hammer, sir,” he said, speaking in dwarven.
The dwarf gave a nod of gratification and, raising his own mug, said, speaking in Common, “A straight road and a dry one, traveler,” in gruff return.
Antimodes did not offer to share his table with the dwarf, nor did the dwarf seem inclined to have company. Antimodes looked out the window, admiring the view and enjoying the pleasant warmth seeping through his body, a refreshing contrast to the cool ale that was soothing his dust-parched throat. Antimodes’s assigned duty was to eavesdrop on any and all conversation, and so he listened idly to the conversations of the dwarf and the barmaid, though it did not appear to him that they were discussing anything sinister or out of the ordinary.
“Here you go, Flint,” said the barmaid, plunking down a steaming bowl of beans. “Extra portion, and the bread’s included. We have to get you fattened up. I take it you’ll be leaving us soon?”
“Aye, lass. The roads are opening up. I’m behind time as it is, but I am waiting for Tanis to return from visiting his kin in Qualinesti. He was supposed to be back a fortnight ago, but still no sign of his ugly face.”
“I hope he’s all right,” the barmaid said fondly. “I don’t trust them elves, and that’s a fact. I hear he doesn’t get on with his kin.”
“He’s like a man with a bad tooth,” the dwarf grumbled, though Antimodes could detect a note of anxiety in the dwarf’s gruff tone. “He has to keep wiggling it to make sure it still hurts. Tanis goes home knowing that his fine elf relatives can’t stand the sight of him, but he keeps hoping maybe this time matters will be different. But no. The blasted tooth’s just as rotten as it was the first time he touched it, and it’s not going to get better till he yanks it out and has done with it.”
The dwarf had worked himself up into red-faced indignation by this time, topping off his harangue with the somewhat incongruous statement of, “And us with customers waiting.” He took a swig of ale.
“You’ve no call to call him ugly,” said the barmaid with a simper. “Tanis looks like a human. You can’t hardly see any elf in him at all. I’ll be glad to see him again. Let him know I asked about him, will you, Flint?”
“Yes, yes. You and every other female in town,” the dwarf returned, but he muttered the words into his beard, and the barmaid, who was heading back to the kitchen, did not hear him.
A dwarf and a half-elf who were business partners, Antimodes noted, making deductions about what he’d heard. A half-elf who had been banished from Qualinesti. No, that wasn’t right. A banished half-elf could not go back home. This one had done so. He’d left his elven homeland voluntarily, then. Not surprising. The Qualinesti were more liberal-minded about racial purity than their cousins, the Silvanesti, but a half-elf was half-human in their eyes and, as such, tainted goods.
So the half-elf had left his home, come to Solace, and joined up with a hill dwarf, who had himself probably either left his thane and his clan or had been cast out. Antimodes wondered how the two had met, guessed it must be an interesting story.
It was a story he was not likely to hear. The
dwarf had settled down to shoveling beans into his mouth. Antimodes’s own plate arrived, and he gave the meal his full attention, which it well deserved.
He had just finished and was sopping up the last bit of gravy with his last bite of bread when the door to the inn opened. Otik was there to greet the new guest. The innkeeper appeared nonplussed to find a young woman, the same curly-haired young woman Antimodes had met earlier on the road. “Kitiara!” Otik exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing here, child? Running an errand for your mother?”
The young woman cast him a glance from her dark eyes that might have sizzled his flesh. “Your potatoes have more brains than you do, Otik. I run errands for no one.”
She shoved past him. Her glance swept the common room and fixed on Antimodes, much to his astonishment and annoyance.
“I’ve come to speak to one of your guests,” the young woman announced.
She ignored Otik’s fluttering, “Now, now, Kitiara. I’m not sure you should be bothering the gentleman.” Kit strode up to Antimodes, stood beside his table, gazed down on him.
“You’re a wizard, aren’t you?” she asked.
Antimodes indicated his displeasure by not rising to greet her as he would have done to any other female. Expecting either to be made sport of or perhaps propositioned by this ill-mannered hoyden, he set his face in stern lines of disapproval.
“What I am is my own affair, young lady,” he said with sardonic emphasis on the last word. He shifted his gaze deliberately out the window, indicating that the conversation was ended.
“Kitiara …” Otik hovered anxiously. “This gentleman is my guest. And this is really not the time or the place to …”
The Soulforge Page 2