by Mark Anthony
But as the half-elf gained the doorway of the dwarf’s shop, he came face to face with two visitors—the Speaker of the Sun and Lord Tyresian.
Tyresian ignored the dwarf and snapped, “Are you always late for your lessons?” to the half-elf, then resumed a heated discussion with the Speaker. It seemed to be a one-sided discussion; Solostaran appeared unflappable today, nodding gravely in response to the elf lord’s vigorous comments but making no statements that could be interpreted as affirming them.
If possible, Tyresian had become more sure of himself in the twenty years that Flint had known him. Even with his short hair, so unusual among the elves, the elf lord was handsome, with sharp, even features and keen eyes the color of the autumn sky. Tyresian gestured with grace as he spoke with the Speaker, and even standing in the doorway of the dwarf’s rude lodgings, clad in only a plain, dove-gray tunic, there was a commanding presence about him.
“People are saying that the appearance of a creature as rare and as dangerous as a tylor is evidence that your policies regarding outsiders”—and here the lord’s gaze flicked to Flint, then, preposterously, to the half-elf—“are misplaced.”
Solostaran halted and faced the elf lord, the Speaker’s face finally showing a shadow of emotion. The emotion, however, was amusement. “That’s an interesting leap, Lord Tyresian,” he said. “Tell me how you made it.”
“Understand, please, that I’m not stating my own views, Speaker, rather the views of others as I’ve heard them,” the blue-eyed elf lord said smoothly.
“Indeed,” Solostaran said drily.
“I simply know that you, as Speaker of the Sun, are interested in the views of your subjects,” Tyresian added.
“Please get to the point.” Solostaran’s voice showed annoyance for the first time since the pair had appeared in Flint’s doorway. As yet, however, neither newcomer had greeted the dwarf. Flint glanced at Tanis. The face of the dwarf’s friend had reverted to the mulish expression that the half-elf always showed when anyone other than Flint, Miral, or Laurana were around. Tanis’s expression would have done Fleetfoot proud, the dwarf thought.
Flint opened his mouth to interject, but Tyresian resumed, brushing one hand through his short blond hair. Flint noticed that the elf’s arms, exposed by the short-sleeved spring shirt he wore under his tunic, were marked with scars—the results, no doubt, of years of swordplay with his companion Ulthen.
“They say that tylors tend to prefer hidden lairs near well-used trails, so that the creatures can prey on travelers. They say that even though you have continued to bar most travelers from Qualinost”—and the elf lord speared Flint with a glance—“trade has increased the numbers of elves heading out of the city, and out of the kingdom, with goods.”
“Lord Tyresian …” Solostaran’s patience had been strained, but the elf lord was too wound up now to give way to court decorum.
“They say, Speaker, that it was wrong, was ‘unelven,’ to install those … those gnomish bathtubs in the palace.”
Flint snorted—a fairly easy task with a cold; Tanis laughed. Tyresian flushed and looked daggers at the two.
Solostaran appeared to be caught between laughing and launching into a tirade. His gaze caught that of Flint, whose steel-gray eyes were twinkling. “Care for a cup of mulled elvenblossom wine, Speaker, Tyresian?” the dwarf said, and snuffled. “My friend here has offered to prepare some for a sick dwarf.”
Solostaran, turning his back to Lord Tyresian, winked broadly at the dwarf and Tanis. “I’ll pass up your kind offer, Master Fireforge, but thank you. And I believe Lord Tyresian was looking for Tanthalas.”
Tyresian’s anger was barely controlled. “Speaker, I must press for a commitment on that other matter.”
Solostaran whirled. “You ‘must press’?” he demanded.
“Your actions now could affect your children later, Speaker,” Tyresian said coldly.
Solostaran drew himself up to his full height. His eyes flashed green fire. Suddenly he appeared half a hand taller than the young elf—and a good deal too strong a presence to be contained in Flint’s bungalow. “You dare to press me on such a matter in a public setting?”
Tyresian paled. The elf lord hastened to apologize and withdrew hastily with the half-elf in tow. Even as the two disappeared out the door, Flint could hear Tyresian begin to transfer his ire to Tanis. “You had better hope you practiced that technique I showed you yesterday, half-elf.” The threat hung in the air as the pair’s footsteps faded.
The Speaker made a gesture as if to follow them; then his hand fell to his side and he turned back to Flint.
“I don’t envy Tanis his archery lesson today,” the dwarf said mildly, daubing his nose with his handkerchief. He gestured toward the forge. “The fare isn’t of royal quality—Tanis is only a passable cook—but it’s wholesome. If you care to join a dying dwarf, that is.” He coughed weakly.
Flint put on such a pathetic look, bundled and clutching his nearly empty mug, that Solostaran burst into laughter.
“Dying, Flint? I don’t think so. You’re the healthiest one among us—physically and otherwise.”
Confined alone with Flint, the Speaker let some of his formality fall away; he refilled Flint’s tea, ignored the dwarf’s wheezing request for “one last tankard of ale before I die,” and decided, after all, to enjoy a mug of mulled elvenblossom wine. Waving aside Flint’s movement as if to prepare the wine, Solostaran heated the beverage and dropped in a pinch of mulling spices he found in a tiny crock in Flint’s hutch. Sipping the drink, the Speaker sat comfortably on the carved chest that held Flint’s meager wardrobe. That’s the leader of all the Qualinesti elves who just served me tea, Flint thought, wondering at his fortune.
“I have a metalsmithing project for you, Master Fireforge, if you’re willing and healthy enough.”
“I’m healthy enough. And when have I not been willing?” Flint rejoined, knowing full well that he could get away with reduced court decorum when he was alone with his friend. Still, Solostaran’s recent display of authority reminded him not to strain the friendship too far. “Sir.”
Solostaran looked quickly at Flint, then let his scrutiny wander over the dwarf’s tidy cot, well-kept forge, and damp clothes—including the emerald-green tunic the Speaker had ordered made for the dwarf twenty years earlier—spread over two chairs. The boots, leather already growing crinkly as it dried, had been placed several feet from the forge, under Flint’s table. The room smelled of wet wool.
The Speaker’s voice, when he finally began to speak, was weary. He took a sip of wine. “You may wonder why I stand such insolence from someone in my court,” he said.
“Actually, I figured it was none of my—”
“As you know, Tyresian comes from one of the highest families in Qualinost—the Third Family. Tyresian’s father did me a great service years ago—so great, indeed, that had he not stood by me then, I might not be Speaker now.”
Flint wondered what kind of good deed had been involved, but he decided that if Solostaran wanted him to know, he would tell him. Instead, the dwarf slurped his tea, poked his feet nearer the fire, and waited.
“Tyresian is one of the best archers at court,” Solostaran mused, as if his thoughts were far away. Outside, the sun settled lower in the afternoon sky, casting a buttery glow over Qualinost that was matched by the orange light emanating from Flint’s forge. It’s more like autumn than spring, the dwarf thought, then forced his attention back to the Speaker as the lord of the elves continued. “He has been hard on Tanis, I am aware—Yes, I know more of what passes at court than I let on, my friend—but I cannot forget that Tyresian’s teachings have made Tanis nearly as good with the longbow as Tyresian himself is.
“I only wish Lord Tyresian were not so … so …” Solostaran groped for the word.
“… so traditionally elven?” Flint supplied.
“… so unbending.”
Flint gulped down the rest of his tea, not venturing to snea
k a look at the Speaker until he’d drained the last drop. Still, he looked up to find Solostaran watching him intently, face pitched downward so that his pointed ears were visible through his golden hair.
“If we elves seem unbending to you, Master Fireforge,” Solostaran said gently but evenly, “try to remember that our ‘unbending’ elven commitment to tradition and constancy has protected us when other, more changeable, races have foundered in turmoil. That is why I proceed with such caution in allowing increased trade with outside nations—although any relaxation of tradition is anathema to some of the courtiers—and why I take reservations such as Tyresian’s and Xenoth’s very seriously.”
The dwarf nodded, and the Speaker added briskly, “But I am here for a reason—in addition to investigating rumors that my dear friend was about to breathe his last. I am glad to see that the rumors appear unfounded.”
Don’t count on it, the dwarf started to say, but held his tongue. He merely contemplated the Speaker, who asked, “You have heard of the ceremony called the Kentommen?”
Flint nodded, and the golden-robed lord went on, “We have spent much of this past winter planning for Porthios’s Kentommen, which will be held in the Tower of the Sun less than two months hence.”
The two looked at each other across the bungalow’s bare stone floor, then Solostaran cast a glance toward the forge.
“I would like you to fashion a special medal honoring the occasion. I would present such a cherished medal to Porthios during the Kentommen.”
The Speaker of the Sun drew in a deep breath. “I would like this ceremony to draw the elven nobles back together, Master Fireforge. I fear that recent … changes … have fostered some division, and I want this ceremony to draw their attention to my commitment to certain—” He smiled—“unchanging elven traditions.
“I don’t need to say, my friend, that the success of this ceremony could go a long way toward cementing Porthios’s claim to the Speakership. And your medal, which I would give him, would be part of that.”
“Do you have a design in mind?” Flint asked.
Solostaran rose and placed his empty mug on the table. “I have ideas, of course, but I would prefer to see what you devise. Of all those around me, Master Fireforge, you may well know me the best. And this knowledge could stand you in good stead now.”
He fell silent, as though thinking of something far off the subject, and Flint quietly said, “I would be honored to fashion such a medal for the ceremony.”
Solostaran looked up and smiled; rare warmth sprang into his eyes. “Thank you, Flint.” The dwarf suddenly saw how tired the Speaker appeared, as though he had spent long nights in restless—or no—sleep. The Speaker seemed to note the sympathy in Flint’s perusal. “The way to the Speakership is full of hurdles, Flint. Look at my own family.”
Flint, deciding that he wasn’t going to die after all, shrugged back the blanket, reached over to his wooden chest, and pulled out a fresh shirt, white linen embroidered with aspen leaves along the collar, compliments of the Speaker’s tailor. He pulled the garment over his head. “You mean the death of Tanis’s fath—of your brother?”
“The deaths of Kethrenan and Elansa, certainly,” Solostaran agreed, “but also the death of Arelas, my youngest brother. My parents had three children, but only one survives. Qualinost may well find the Speakership going, not to Porthios, but to Gilthanas or even Laurana, if the occasion warrants.”
“Arelas?” Flint said, prompting the Speaker.
“Arelas was born only a few years after Kethrenan, and he died shortly after my middle brother did.”
“What a painful time for you,” the dwarf said softly.
Solostaran looked up. “For all of us, yes. Kethrenan died, and Elansa was like a living ghost, waiting for her child to be born. There was a pall over the court that we could not shake.” He watched as the dwarf struggled into green breeches and socks of dark brown wool. “Then we got word through a visitor to Caergoth that Arelas had left that city and was coming back here.”
He smiled. “You should have seen the difference in the court, my friend. My younger brother had left Qualinost as a young child, decades before, and had not returned. Then in the middle of all this … this pain, he was returning.
“I felt as though I had lost one brother and gained another, and although the pain was still great over Kethrenan’s death, there was some solace in realizing that I would finally get to know this young brother. I hardly knew Arelas, you see. He left court at a very young age.”
Flint pondered. Why would a noble family of Qualinost send its youngest child away? Although he said nothing, the question must have shown in his eyes.
“Arelas was quite ill as a child. Several times he almost died, and elven healers seemed powerless to help him. Finally, my father, the Speaker, ordered him sent to a group of clerics near Caergoth, across the Straits of Schallsea, where there was an elven cleric whom my father knew, who had had great success with illness that seemed beyond hope.
“Arelas thrived there, and the cleric sent him back here after a year. But he quickly sickened again. It almost seemed as though something in Qualinost itself was draining him, drawing off his strength. My father, fearing to lose his youngest son, sent him back to Caergoth for good. There were no visits. You know how it is here. The highest families leave Qualinost only rarely, sometimes never. But we received regular reports that Arelas was doing well.”
Flint drew closer to the Speaker. The only light in Flint’s shop, the fire in the forge, threw strange shadows on Solostaran’s face. “Something happened when Arelas returned?”
Solostaran frowned. “He never arrived. Weeks went by, until I thought my mother would weaken and die from the suspense.” He shrugged. “Then we received word in the form of Miral, who bore a letter from my brother and a sad tale of his death at the hands of brigands. The letter expressed Arelas’s love, his indebtedness to Miral, and a request that I offer Miral a position at court.” He smiled sadly. “It was obvious that Miral was a very low-level mage. He could do little magic, easing stomach-aches and headaches, casting minor illusion spells. But little else.”
Flint remembered how the mage had been able to ease his choking fit after his first bout with elvenblossom wine. “Such skills are nothing to sneeze at,” he said.
Solostaran moved into the doorway and laid a gentle hand on the climbing rose blooming around the portal. “Miral is an intelligent, kind elf, and if he is of little use as a mage, he was a gifted tutor for Tanis, Gilthanas, and Laurana. I’ve never regretted my decision to let him live here.”
The Speaker glanced at the late afternoon bustle of elves winding up their day’s business. “I am late,” he said simply, and left the discussion at that.
Chapter 10
The Grand Market
After practice with Tyresian, Tanis found himself wandering the streets of the city. The clouds that had drenched him and Flint only hours before had dissipated. The heavy gold of afternoon slipped toward the deepening purple of twilight, and the air was sweet with the scent of spring blossoms.
To the north, the Tower of the Sun glittered. In the city’s center, the Hall of the Sky opened its arms to the heavens.
On the west side of the city, however, was what might have been, at least to some, Qualinost’s greatest wonder, and it was there that Tanis found his footsteps leading him.
Built into a natural hollow in the earth was a vast amphitheater. The only seats were the gentle, grassy slopes themselves, encircling a great platform in the amphitheater’s center. The circular area was laid with the type of tiled mosaic that Qualinost was famous for; this mosaic depicted in sparkling hues the coming of Kith-Kanan and his people to the forest of Qualinesti. The mosaic spanned the surface of the circle, and Tanis had always believed it must contain as many glimmering tiles as there were stars in the night sky.
Here, after sundown, in the flickering light of a thousand torches, the ancient dramas would unfold, works written by
the poets of Qualinesti long ago for Kith-Kanan’s own eyes. Philosophers, too, would walk upon the circle’s surface to speak their oratories, and here musicians would ply their art as the folk of Qualinost looked on.
By day, the amphitheater served in another incarnation—the Grand Market. There the finest craftsmen in Qualinost came to display their wares on cloths spread upon the ground while brightly colored silk banners snapped in the breeze. On market days, the mosaic of Kith-Kanan was obscured by a sprawl of green silken tents, wooden stalls, and woolen carpets spread out on its surface, laden with all manner of wares imaginable: pungent spices, lacquered boxes, bright daggers with jeweled hilts, and fresh-baked pastries still steaming faintly in the damp air. Common artisans also brought their goods to sell here. There were basket-makers, potters, weavers, and bakers, for not every elf in Qualinost was lucky—or wealthy—enough to take a place in the court of the Speaker. While no mouth ever went hungry and no back ever went unclad in Qualinost, as in any city those who possessed both wealth and power were few, and the simple folk far more numerous. However, most of these elves looked on the glittering court with only vaguely curious eyes, content to let the nobles work their petty intrigues and courtly amusements, as long as it didn’t interfere too much with their own day-to-day lives.
Most of the elves at the market were the common folk of Qualinost. The nobles tended to avoid the Grand Market, except on the most important festival days, and instead sent their servants or squires to purchase anything they required. However, this tended to suit these same servants and squires quite well, for it gave them a chance to escape their noble masters or mistresses, at least for a time.
Although all of these folk were as fair of feature and spoken word as any courtier in the Tower—though their manner of dress tended more toward soft buckskins and bright woolen weaves than toward doublets and gowns and golden robes—a warmth seemed to radiate from them that always made Tanis feel more at ease in the market than he did in the expanses of the Tower or the corridors of the palace. And while Tanis received stares for his exotic looks here, just as he did at court, the gazes tended to be curious rather than disapproving. At any rate, in the market a stare was far less common than a cheerful smile or nod.
