by Mark Anthony
“You must not be seriously hurt,” the half-elf whispered. “You’re still complaining.”
Moving gingerly to avoid starting the wound bleeding again, Tanis lifted Flint and placed the dwarf as gently as he could on Flint’s cot. He checked the wound, decided against removing the dagger until he had assistance, and ran for help.
Outside the shop, he debated whom to fetch—Miral or Eld Ailea. Miral was overwhelmed with the Kentommen preparations, but the Tower was closer than the midwife’s west-side home. That decided the half-elf.
Ten minutes later, Tanis returned, still at a dead run, with the mage panting behind him. Soon Tanis and Miral had propped the dwarf against some pillows and removed the knife. The dwarf’s breathing eased.
“No physicians,” he murmured. “Too late.” His voice took on a dreamy tone. “I can already see Reorx’s forge …”
“That’s your forge, Flint,” Tanis said.
“You are a pest,” the dwarf griped.
“Here,” Miral said from behind Tanis, and handed the half-elf a mug with steam rising from it. Chopped leaves floated on the water. “Make him drink this.”
Tanis held the mug beneath Flint’s bulbous nose, and the dwarf sniffed the drink. It smelled of bitter almonds. “That’s not ale,” he said accusingly.
“True,” Miral said. “But it’s better for you.”
“Impossible,” the dwarf groused. He took a deep breath and drained the mug nonetheless.
Eld Ailea—summoned by one of the Kentommen acrobats, whom Tanis had bribed with one steel coin—arrived just as Miral was binding and cleaning the wound. The slash from the dagger proved relatively easy to cleanse and bandage, though Flint made it more difficult by fussing and grouching through the entire process. Surprisingly, the treatment seemed to pain him less than it annoyed him. Miral rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, scrubbed his forearms with soap, and closed the wound with seven stitches-accompanied by seven dwarven oaths, and seven dwarven apologies to Eld Ailea. Then Miral daubed on a bubble of salve the size of a walnut and bound the dwarf’s hairy chest with a bandage made of soft linen.
“I’m all right!” Flint finally shouted. “Leave me be!”
At that, Miral pronounced the dwarf fairly fit and prepared to head back to the Tower. The mage rolled his sleeves down again; his right hand was nearly healed, but the fingers that had lost their nails still looked ugly.
“I have to oversee a troupe of actors who want to entertain the crowd by declaiming the dying speech of Kith-Kanan,” he said, and grimaced.
“Why is that bad?” Tanis asked.
“I’m not sure he made one,” the mage said, and grimaced. Miral handed Tanis a folded paper filled with herbs, and told him to make a cup of tea from them every hour and administer it to the dwarf, “even if you have to tie him down to do it.”
“If he’s too difficult, mix it with ale,” Miral told Tanis quietly at the door.
“I promise I’ll be difficult!” Flint shouted from his cot, where Eld Ailea was unsuccessfully trying to lull him into sleeping. At that, the mage took his leave.
Eld Ailea attempted to soothe Flint with a lullaby that, she said, usually worked wonders with toddlers. He didn’t seem sure how to take that, but he listened to her warm alto as she intoned the ancient melody. “Lullay, lullay, little elf,” she sang, “sleep in the stars ’til the morrow, little elf. Search all the forests, ride ’mong the trees, then home with a smile on the morn, little one.
“That’s an old, old song. My mother sang that to me,” she said, then looked over at Tanis, who was examining the trap that had thrown the daggers. “And I sang that to you and Elansa when you were just minutes old, Tanthalas.”
Tanis smiled. “I’ll bet I liked it then just as much as I do now,” he said.
“Flatterer,” Ailea said. “You’ll find yourself an elven woman to marry with no problem, with that silver tongue.”
A blushing Tanis suddenly redoubled his efforts with the trap. He disarmed it carefully and began to dismantle it for inspection. “Whoever set this trap knew what he was doing, Flint. It’s a sophisticated design, and the aim was perfect. What luck that the mechanism jammed on the second dagger; that’s why it tossed only one of them at you at first. Then the tension released the second mechanism after a few moments.”
Tanis had avoided looking at the old midwife as he spoke. “And what if I find a human woman, Eld Ailea?” he added at last, his voice carefully matter-of-fact.
A shadow passed over Ailea’s catlike face as she drew the covers around Flint’s bearded chin one more time. “It will bring you little but pain, in the end, Tanthalas,” she said. “Humans are frail, and even if you find one to love, it’s terrible watching them grow old while you remain young. It takes a strong love to survive that.” She sounded weary.
He looked up from the trap. Round hazel eyes met almond-shaped hazel eyes, and a spark passed between the two part-elves.
“Try to remember that, Tanthalas,” Ailea said sadly.
Tanis swallowed. “I’ll try.”
“Hey!” Flint crabbed from the cot. “Isn’t it time for my ale?”
Eld Ailea threw off her gloom and laughed then, and patted the dwarf on his hale shoulder. “You’re good for me, Master Fireforge.” With renewed energy, she moved briskly to the table, where Tanis had deposited the paper of herbs.
“There’s a bucket of ale in the spring,” Flint suggested helpfully.
After some thought, Eld Ailea announced that ale might help the dwarf sleep—and, especially, keep him quiet. So she retrieved the near-empty container from the spring and poured the last splash into a mug. When she opened the packet of herbs, a look of consternation crossed her sharp features, then disappeared under her usual pleasant expression. “Flint, did Miral make you a drink of these leaves?” she asked casually.
“Yes,” Flint said. “With water. It tasted awful. I’m sure the potion will be much better with ale.” He grinned engagingly over his white bandage. “Lots of ale.”
Eld Ailea stood for a moment, perusing the packet, then refolded it and slipped it into a pocket of the gray cloak she’d thrown over the bench when she arrived. From another pocket, unnoticed by Flint and Tanis, she drew out a small cloth bag, gathered with a leather thong, and measured a teaspoonful of the powder within. Then, while Tanis searched the rest of the shop for more traps, Ailea added the powder to the ale and gave the beverage to the dwarf. He drained it in a gulp.
Whatever it was, it didn’t agree with him. Flint fell into a deep sleep, but awoke a short time later to vomit into the empty ale bucket, which Ailea had left by the bed. Then the dwarf’s head fell back, and he slept again, his black and gray beard rising and falling with his deep breaths.
Tanis joined Ailea at Flint’s bedside. The tiny elf was looking down at the dwarf with a half-smile that did little to mask her exhaustion.
“Is he going to be all right?” Tanis whispered.
“He’ll be fine,” she said. “My herbs will put him right again. At least, they work for nursing mothers …” She caught Tanis’s startled look and patted his arm. “I’m just jesting, Tanthalas. Flint will be fine.”
“Do you want me to walk you home?” Tanis asked. “I’ll spend the night with him. I can give him Miral’s tea, if you leave it here.”
Eld Ailea’s head came up then, and her eyes probed Tanis’s. “It’s best not to leave him alone at all right now,” she said. “I’ll stay here. We can take turns watching him.”
Chapter 23
The Rescue
He was back in the dream. The rough hands clenched Miral and, just as the tylor’s armored jaws jabbed into the crevice, powerful arms hauled him through the back of the crack in the stone.
“Truly thou hast gotten thyself in a royal fix, little elf,” a deep voice said above the toddler’s head.
Miral, eyes wet with tears, lifted his head and peered up through the gloom of the cave; this portion seemed to be lit less well tha
n the tunnels he’d come through. He gulped back a sob and tried to focus on his rescuer.
It was a man, the youngster saw, but what a man! Bands of muscle rippled across a corded, barrel-shaped chest. The man’s shoulders were huge, brushed with white hair that curled from his head and chin. When the man looked down at him, Miral looked deep into violet eyes that shone with kindness.
“Methinks thou art too young to be wandering about without thy dam, youngling,” the man said.
At that moment, Miral became aware of hoofbeats clopping against the damp stone of the tunnels. The man came to a fork in the tunnel and turned to the right without stopping. But how had he signaled his intention to his horse? the little boy wondered. Miral looked down.
The man was a horse! Or the horse was a man; Miral couldn’t decide. He looked up again, a delighted smile lighting his face.
“You’re a centaur!” Miral cried.
“Of course,” the creature replied, cradling the youngster in strong arms.
The centaur must have been seven feet tall from hooves to the top of his aristocratic head. He moved gracefully on the wet rocks, long tail flowing behind. Around the shoulders of the horse portion of the centaur, the creature wore a leather purse. Miral slipped little hands down to investigate the purse, but the creature held him higher, out of reach.
“Thou art a curious one,” the centaur murmured in a bass voice. “No doubt ’tis why thou art so deep in the caverns.”
“Someone called me,” Miral explained, wanting this creature, above all, to like him. “From the tunnel.”
The centaur’s pale purple eyes widened and his gait slowed somewhat, then speeded again. “Thou heard the Voice? Truly thou hast magic in thy soul, young elf. ’Tis not all who hear the Graygem call.” He took another turn, and another. Soon the toddler had no idea where he’d been or where he was now.
The creature continued to speak soothingly to the child. “Thou art warm, child. Thy dam should give thee a posset for thy fever. I will take thee home directly.”
Miral, rocked by the steady pace of the gentle centaur, was growing sleepy. “Why are you here?” he asked drowsily.
“Ah, the Graygem hath great treasure indeed,” the centaur said. “And, in truth, the beastly rock hath done me grave ill in the past and I’m sworn to vengeance. And that, little elf, be all thou need know.”
The centaur picked up his gait, and soon the toddler dozed in the creature’s arms. He awakened periodically, once when fresh air fanned through his hair and he realized he was moving through the moonless night, somewhere outside the caverns, and once while the centaur moved nearly silently through the tiled Qualinost streets.
Finally, they arrived at the palace. Miral roused enough to note their passage around the back of the structure, through the gates into the garden—Why didn’t the guards look up? he wondered—and from there into the courtyard. Large hands laid him down on soft moss and covered him with a cloth.
“Go to sleep, little elf,” the centaur murmured. “Thou wilt not remember this experience in the morn.”
With a last pat on the toddler’s shoulder, the centaur wheeled in the courtyard and, silently, was gone.
Chapter 24
Another Death
The next few days, Tanis and Eld Ailea took turns staying with the dwarf in the shop. Flint told them a score of times not to bother with him.
“You’ve got too much to be worrying about to be concerning yourself with a lame dwarf!” Flint would grumble, but the effect of the words seemed lost upon his caretakers. Solostaran visited once and seemed reassured by Flint’s cantankerousness. Miral stopped by twice to check on the dwarf.
By noon of the second day, it was apparent that Flint was regaining his strength, and, judging from the reduction in the number of oaths when he moved about, the pain was lessening. Still, Eld Ailea was adamant that the dwarf not be left alone, and she remained with Flint while Tanis went back to the palace to pick up some clean clothes.
She did, however, allow Flint to work on Porthios’s Kentommen medallion from his nest on the cot.
“After all, the ceremony starts tomorrow,” she said nonchalantly, spreading a bandage on the table and folding it so it would best fit the stocky dwarf.
“Tomorrow?” boomed Flint, rocketing out of bed, then grasping his shoulder with a groan. “I thought I had three more days!”
Ailea intercepted the dwarf on his way to the door—though what he hoped to accomplish running shirtless through the streets of Qualinost was unclear—and shooed him back to bed, her greenish brown eyes merry. “Relax,” she said. “You do have three days.”
She explained the intricacies of the ceremony while she removed the old bandage from the dwarf’s chest.
“The word ‘Kentommen,’ or ‘coming of age,’ actually refers to the final portion of the four-part ceremony,” she said as she eased the linen away from the wound. “That’s the showiest part of the ceremony, the part most folks would like to witness. Most elves use ‘Kentommen’ to refer to the whole three-day extravaganza, however.
“The first part is the Kaltatha, or ‘The Graying,’ ” the midwife explained, fingers gentle as she cleansed the healing wound. “That part starts tomorrow morning. In the Kaltatha, the youth—who can be male or female, as long as he or she is a member of the nobility—is led by his or her parents to the Grove,” referring to the ancient forested area in the center of the elven capital.
Ailea rinsed the cleansing cotton in a basin of clear water. “When the youth undergoing the Kaltatha is of as high a rank as Porthios, most of the common elves use the occasion as an excuse to parade through the streets, wearing their most colorful finery or even costumes. They dance and sing songs as ancient as the ceremony itself,” she said. “That’s why the palace is overseeing the making of brightly colored banners—to mark the route from the palace to the Grove.”
“I’d like to see that,” Flint said.
Eld Ailea scrutinized the spot where the dagger entered Flint’s shoulder. “You should be well enough to walk to the procession route tomorrow morning, I’d think.”
She rinsed the wound one more time, then emptied the basin out the shop’s back door.
“What will happen to Porthios in the Grove?” the dwarf asked.
“The Speaker will take Porthios to the center of the Grove, then ceremonially turn his back on him,” the midwife said. “Porthios will remain in the Grove for three days, alone, eating nothing and drinking only from the spring in the Grove’s center. No one can enter the Grove to disturb him, nor is he to attempt to leave.”
“Sounds like they should post guards,” the dwarf commented gruffly, trying not to appear as though he were enjoying the midwife’s ministering touch.
“Oh, they do,” Eld Ailea assured him. “Elven nobles take turns standing guard, carrying their ceremonial swords—like the one Tyresian brought here for repairs.”
“Are those guards really necessary?” Flint asked.
“Probably not,” the slender elf admitted. “To fail in the Kaltatha—or in any portion of the Kentommen— means that the elf will forever be regarded as a child, no matter how old he grows to be.”
Flint looked impressed.
Ailea continued. “In the Grove, Porthios will purify himself, cast off all the layers of childhood life. On the last morning, he will bathe in the spring, emerging cleansed in body and soul.
“That third morning, a gray robe—symbolizing his unformed potential—will be brought to him, and he will be led from the Grove,” she concluded. “This time, there will be no merrymaking in the streets. In fact, the common elves are always careful not to look at the Kentommen youth at all as he is led through the streets in his gray robe.”
“Why not?” demanded the dwarf.
“Because the youth is neither child nor adult. Technically, he does not exist. The elves would be ridiculed for looking at someone who is not there.”
Flint snorted, but it was not a contemptuous soun
d. “It’s not at all like my Fullbeard Day celebration. That consisted mostly of giving me lots of gifts and large tankards of ale.” He looked thoughtful. “Come to think of it, I’d prefer that to spending three days without food or ale.”
With a light laugh, Ailea fastened the clean bandage in place. Then she brought him his supplies for completing the medallion.
Tanis returned from the palace early that evening, prepared to spend the night. He fixed a simple supper for himself, the midwife, and the dwarf: a loaf of brown bread, half a cheese, the last of the sweet apples that had been stored away last fall, and a pitcher of ale. Finally, the sun dipped behind the tops of the aspen trees, the last rays of light glimmered through the translucent green of the feathery leaves, and the shadows crept from the darkened groves to steal along the streets of the elven city. The half-elf persuaded Eld Ailea that it was safe for her to leave Flint for a while, and she conceded that she had plenty of tasks of her own to complete.
“But don’t let anyone in but me or the Speaker,” she warned Tanis.
“Why?”
Eld Ailea seemed to be on the verge of confiding something, but at the last minute she caught herself. “It’s best to keep Flint quiet for a while. You know how visitors excite him.” Then, telling Tanis she’d be back in the morning, she stepped quickly down the path, slipped between two treelike houses across the way, and disappeared.
“Flint? Excited by visitors?” the half-elf asked himself softly, then shook his head.
Flint opened his eyes the next morning to a cacophony. “Reorx at the forge! What’s that racket?” he demanded. The sun was barely over the horizon, from the soft look of the shadows in the shop.
Tanis stirred from the pallet he’d fashioned on a thick rug next to Flint’s table, and rose to unfasten the shutters. Flint raised himself on one elbow and looked out into a blur of colore. Dozens of elves streamed past his shop, their voices raised in a boisterous song in a different tongue; he recognized only a few elven words, and even those were pronounced oddly.
