Kindred Spirits

by Mark Anthony

  “The old language,” Tanis explained, “from the time of Kith-Kanan, though some of the songs themselves are more recent. They celebrate elven victories since the Kinslayer Wars, and praise the different ages of life, from babyhood to old age. They also celebrate folk who have achieved great things in life.” He stopped and listened, a faraway look on his face. Suddenly, an elf dressed in a dark pink robe paused before the shop and opened his mouth in a new song. “Why, Flint!” Tanis exclaimed, not meeting the dwarf’s eye. “It’s about you! Written in old elven, too.”

  “You don’t say,” Flint said. He struggled out of bed and gingerly slipped his arms into the sleeves of a pale green shirt, the latest product of Eld Ailea’s needle. He straightened the shirt’s front over his bandage. “Well, lad, what’s he saying?”

  “He says”—Tanis concentrated—“he says you are a prince of a dwarf.” The half-elf concentrated more, keeping his face carefully averted.

  “Go on, lad,” Flint urged. “Tell me.” He mistakenly put both feet in one leg of his breeches in his haste to get dressed, and had to wiggle to straighten things out.

  Tanis squinted. “He says you are an inspired worker—no, a ‘true artist’—of metal.”

  Flint looked impressed, and peered out the window. “And I don’t believe I even know the gentleman …” He pushed one foot into a boot without looking at it, hopping about the floor on his other foot. Outside, the elf continued to sing, head thrown back, hands clenched before his robe. Other elves gathered to listen.

  “He also says,” Tanis recounted, “that you are a valorous fighter and a loyal comrade of the first order.”

  “Well, that’s certainly true,” Flint said, the other boot dangling from one hand. “What a lovely song!”

  Tanis fought to hide his smile. “And he says you should finish dressing and follow Tanthalas Half-Elven to the Kaltatha procession before the two of you are late.”

  “He …” Flint paused. “What?” He stood motionless, an eyebrow cocked, his foot poised above his boot, until Tanis could no longer hide his mirth. “You … you doorknob!” The dwarf flung the boot at the snickering half-elf, who ducked just in time.

  Ten minutes later, the two emerged from the shop into a maelstrom of colors, scents, and sounds. After some sulking, the dwarf had decided to speak to Tanis again. “Where do we go, lad?” he demanded, looking remarkably healthy for a dwarf who’d been knifed only a few days before.

  Tanis pointed between two dwellings, rose quartz like the rest, glowing pink in the early morning light. “The procession will pass down that street over there. But first I think we should buy breakfast from one of these street vendors.”

  The idea sounded good to the dwarf, so the two descended on a young elf seated before a stand, selling frybread dusted with crushed sugar. Munching, they skirted a table manned by an elf selling fanciful masks of some of Krynn’s creatures: minotaurs, woodland creatures, and gully dwarves, though those last didn’t seem to be selling well; the Qualinesti weren’t much interested in dressing like short, smelly creatures and carrying a simulated version of the dead rat that spelled the ultimate in gully dwarf accessories. Another vendor sold Flint and Tanis tiny venison sausages on hot, crusty buns, and, finally, they purchased mugs of hot spiced tea—which the dwarf pronounced nearly as good as ale. Tanis’s purse was lighter when they emerged on the processional street, but his and the dwarf’s bellies were much fuller.

  “Now, that’s a breakfast to restore a dwarf’s health,” Flint said, wiping his greasy fingers carefully on his dark brown breeches. “Will they still be around for lunch, do you think?” he added hopefully.

  “Most likely,” Tanis said, and was opening his mouth to say more when a new commotion off to the north caught his attention. The crowd appeared to thicken, to converge, around the disturbance, and Tanis spied the black and silver plumes of the ceremonial uniforms of the palace guard. He pointed.

  “Here come Porthios and the Speaker,” he shouted through the increasing din to Flint, who nodded.

  The attendants around Porthios and Solostaran marched at the four corners of a huge square, with the Speaker and his elder son keeping regal pace in the center of the entourage. The crowd parted as the troupe stepped wordlessly through, looking neither right nor left.

  Flint was jumping up and down, clutching his right shoulder with his left hand. “I can’t see!” he complained. The crowd thickened around him and Tanis even as he groused, and the jostling soon forced the two apart.

  “Flint!” Tanis called. “I’ll meet you back at the shop when it’s over!”

  But the dwarf had been swept away in the crowd.

  Despite the noise as the entourage approached, the crowd grew silent as Porthios and his attendants marched by. “That’s something to remember all your life!” Tanis heard one elven father tell a young daughter, who appeared more interested in the chunk of sugared frybread she was devouring than in the history taking place before her.

  Tanis caught his breath at the poise and presence that the Speaker possessed, his face commanding, his shoulders erect in the golden robe that flashed like the gold circlet on his forehead. Next to him, Porthios, dressed in a plain dark green robe, walked nearly as proudly, matching Solostaran step for step.

  The half-elf stood stock still as the Speaker and Porthios strode by; pride for them and envy of them battled within him. He wondered who would stand as his parents when the time came for his own Kentommen, or whether his human blood would deny him that right.

  The crowd surged off after the Speaker, but Tanis stayed where he was. Then he walked off in the opposite direction.

  Shouting oaths, holding his shoulder, and wishing that that doorknob of a half-elf would find him, Flint bumped against several elves. But he was nearly half their height, and he was carried along with them like a leaf in a swollen stream.

  Finally, through the moving bodies, he spotted a figure he knew, standing in a doorway about thirty feet away. Flint braced his feet and shouted, “Miral!” The mage swung toward him, a look of surprise on his face, and gestured the dwarf over, but Flint only shrugged helplessly. If he could have fought his way through a crowd like this, he would have been able to remain back with Tanis.

  The tall mage had better luck than he in parting the sea of elves, and Miral’s hooded figure soon reached the dwarf and pulled him into another doorway. “It’s easier to attach yourself to something permanent and let the crowd flow around you,” the mage commented with a wry smile. They watched in silence as the elves swirled by in a singing tide of reds, greens, yellows, and blues.

  “What happens now?” Flint demanded.

  The mage looked startled. “To whom?” he asked.

  “Porthios.” Flint pointed at the departing procession, only the plumes of the guards visible above the throng. “After he completes his vigil in the Grove.”

  “Have you visited Qualinesti for two decades and not learned the ways of the Kentommen?” Miral asked in surprise.

  The dwarf grew huffy. “I’ve seen small celebrations, but nothing to pay particular attention to.”

  “Ah.” The mage nodded sagely and moved out of the doorway, pacing toward Flint’s shop. “Well, after the Kaltatha—that’s the three-day vigil that starts today—Porthios will be led from the Grove by three nobles, their identities concealed by black robes, gloves, and masks. The Speaker will not be present. He will have gone into seclusion for meditation and prayer the day before.

  “Porthios will be in a gray robe, as will Gilthanas, who will be returning from his one-night vigil in the Kentommenai-kath, overlooking the River of Hope.” Miral broke off his recitation. “Have you been there?”

  Flint nodded.

  “The townspeople will pay no attention to either brother,” Miral said. “It’s part of the strictures of the Kentommen.

  “I know that,” Flint said. “Ailea told me. Where does Porthios go?”

  The mage resumed, stepping around a child waving a teal
and silver banner. “The three nobles will lead him to a stone chamber hewn deep beneath the palace. It’s a shadowed room, and he will be made to sit in a small circle of light in the center.” Miral and Flint skirted a glittering quartz home shaped like an oak; they turned a corner.

  “The masked nobles will stand in a triangle around the youth,” Miral said. “They are the Ulathi, the Gazers, and each is called by a ceremonial name: Tolethra, Ambition; Sestari, Envy; and Kethyar, Pride. Each questions the youth relentlessly, accusing him of self-serving ambition, of coveting the greatness of others, and of foolish pridefulness. With their wrath, goading, mockery, and criticisms, they test the strength of will and the purity of soul that the youth gained in the Grove.”

  Flint imagined the scene and shivered. He still preferred his Fullbeard Day party. “What’s the point of the questioning … What’s it called?”

  “That portion of the Kentommen is called the Melethka-nara, or ‘The Heart’s Shadow.’ ” Miral said. “The point, as the name implies, is to see if any shadow remains on the youth’s heart. If so, he will become frightened, angered, or despairing at their words. To shout, cry, or even flinch means failure in this test. However, if at the end of the trial the youth is still calm and at peace with himself, the Ulathi will simply nod and then depart from the room, leaving the doorway open.”

  The dwarf had a sudden sense of where the Speaker had developed the impenetrable mask that fell over his features in times of turmoil. He wondered how Porthios—and, for that matter, Tyresian—would be changed by their own Kentommens.

  They had arrived at Flint’s shop; there was no sign of Tanis. Flint, grateful—though he’d never admit it—to be able to rest for a few moments on his favorite stone bench, invited Miral in for a visit. Miral agreed, and soon the two were sharing a bag of toasted, salted quith-pa that the dwarf had purchased on the way back from the procession. The dwarf held a tankard of ale in one hand; the mage drank water.

  “And how have you been feeling, my friend?” Miral asked. “Have you learned anything about the ones who set this foul trap?”

  Flint shook his head in response to the second question but answered the first by proclaiming himself fit as a dwarf half his age. “Tanis and Eld Ailea took fine care of me. They fed me nothing but healthy food and drink. It was terrible,” he added glumly.

  “And did the potion I left have any effect?” Miral queried. “I wondered how you would be faring, downing a cup of the tea every hour.”

  “Potion?” The dwarf looked bewildered. “No. Ailea forced enough cold water and milk down me to leave me practically floating—she claimed it would prevent a fever from the wound— but I drank no potions. Unless, of course, she slipped it into the water. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “No, this tea would have been taken warm,” the mage said. “Ah, well. Perhaps I forgot to leave the herbs. I’ve been so busy lately that I’m never quite sure whether I’ve actually done something, or only thought about doing something.”

  Suddenly, Flint heard light footsteps on his front walk. “This must be Tanis,” he said.

  But it was a young elf just Flint’s height, with hair the color of wheat and eyes like the sea. She said nothing, merely blurted, “This is from Eld Ailea. For Flint Fireforge or Tanthalas Half-Elven,” and thrust a folded parchment at Flint.

  The child continued to stand before Flint, shifting from foot to foot, as the dwarf unfolded the paper and squinted at the note. “ ‘Flint, Tanthalas,’ ” the dwarf read aloud. “ ‘Come immediately. I understand about Xenoth. Ailea.”

  He looked up. “What on Krynn …?” Flint stared, unseeing, at the elf child for a long moment, then suddenly seemed to focus on the youngster. “What do you want, girl?” he growled.

  “Eld Ailea said you would give me a toy for delivering the message if I ran all the way.” The child was still breathing hard. “It was hard work. The parade’s coming back. It’s crowded out there!” She sounded petulant.

  Flint gestured at the hutch. “In there. Take your pick. How did Ailea appear when you left her, lass?”

  The child already had the cupboard open and was rummaging through its contents with a greedy hand. Her reply floated back to the dwarf. “Excited. She kept saying, ‘Now it all makes sense. The scar. The “T.” The air. Now I understand.’ And she practically pushed me out her door.” The childlike tones were injured.

  Flint looked bewildered as he gazed from Miral to the back of the child’s head as she poked through the toys.

  “The scar. The ‘T.’ ” Flint mused. “The air?”

  “I know of no elves with a T-shaped scar,” the mage said, pushing aside the bag of salted quith-pa. “Except perhaps Tyresian.”

  Flint sat up excitedly. “That’s it! Tyresian’s arms are scarred from years of weaponry practice, Ailea must have found a way to link him with Lord Xenoth’s slaying.” He pushed himself off the bench and made for the door. “Come on, we have to hurry,” he shouted to Miral, adding to the little girl, “Take what you want!”

  The mage was behind him as he dashed to the street, pushing through the celebrants as they once more jammed the streets, having left Porthios at the Grove.

  The child stayed happily behind in Flint’s shop, up to her elbows in toys.

  Ailea paced her house impatiently, occasionally pausing to pound one small fist into the palm of her other hand—a masculine movement somewhat unusual in an elven woman, but she was rocking with excitement.

  “That’s got to be it!” she whispered to herself. “Of course!” She wheeled at the fireplace and turned back toward the front door. Once more, she crossed to the door and peered out into the street. “Where are they?” she grumbled. “Has Fionia found them yet? I hope that child didn’t get lost …”

  She heard a click at the back of the dwelling and closed the front door. “Flint? Tanthalas?” she called, her face almost feline in expression. She hurried back through the entry room, past the fireplace, and paused in the doorway to the kitchen. “Who …?”

  The figure turned, and Eld Ailea froze. In all her centuries, she had never known more terror. Her hands sweaty, her breath short, she stepped back blindly, knocking over a square table. Three baby portraits and one of Flint’s rocking-bird toys crashed to the floor.

  The figure followed her into the entry room, and she opened her mouth to scream.

  But the sound never emerged. She crumpled to the floor in silence.

  And then the figure was gone.

  When Tanis walked away from the procession, he picked the most deserted lanes he could find—which wasn’t difficult because most of Qualinost’s residents were following Porthios and the Speaker to the Grove. He stalked for half an hour, until the call of a vendor reminded him that he’d promised to meet Flint back at the shop.

  He arrived at the dwelling shortly, and found only one occupant—a blond elf child, playing happily with several dozen wooden toys on the floor of the shop. She introduced herself as Fionia, pointed out Eld Ailea’s message, which had fallen to the bench, and announced that the dwarf had given her all these toys.

  Tanis read the note and was out the door, running, before the girl had finished speaking.

  Later, he would remember little of the dash from Flint’s shop to Eld Ailea’s house; it was a blur of singing, dancing, and chattering Qualinesti. Once he spotted Flint Fireforge standing alone on a street corner, looking around as if he’d lost someone, but when the next opening in the throng occurred, the dwarf had vanished. The half-elf pressed on.

  The front door of the midwife’s rose and gray dwelling was unlocked, but that was not unusual. Few Qualinesti locked their doors; there was too little crime in Qualinost for an elf to become fearful. Tanis knocked, tentatively at first, then harder as he failed to hear the midwife’s usual reply of “Coming, coming, coming.” He called up to the second-level window, but there was no answer.

  A neighbor poked her head out of her front door and gave the half-elf an odd look as h
e pounded at the door. “Ailea must be home,” the elven woman called. “I saw her at the window not five minutes ago.”

  Finally Tanis pulled the door open and stepped inside. Even before his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he knew something was wrong. He’d expected an excited midwife bustling out of a back room to tell him she’d solved Xenoth’s slaying.

  Instead, he smelled death. The door banged shut behind him.

  The elderly midwife lay on her back before the fireplace, in a pool of her own blood. Her round eyes—those human eyes she had never been ashamed of—stared sightlessly at the beamed ceiling. Dozens of miniature paintings lay scattered around the room. Tanis could see that she had been able to move after the fatal blow was struck; a wide stain of blood stretched from the front door to the rug before the fireplace. One sleeve was pushed up past her elbow, and her lilac-colored skirt had been lifted slightly, revealing a slender calf and knee. Ailea’s other hand held a portrait of two elven children.

  Tanis didn’t even have the breath to cry out. He found himself on his knees beside the elf’s tiny body, mindless of the crimson liquid that soaked his leggings, his moccasins. Ailea’s purple skirt was streaked with blood. He found himself fruitlessly trying to wipe it off, succeeding only in smearing it even more. He touched her face, hoping to feel her breath on his hand. But the elf’s flesh, while still warm, had taken on the heaviness of death.

  His fingers were covered with red. He rocked back to his heels, heart contracting in sorrow and rage.

  Suddenly, he realized that someone had been pounding on the front door for some time. And at that moment, the door crashed open behind him. Tanis swiveled to face the newcomer.

  “Great Reorx!” Flint cried out, then, “Ailea!”

  Halfway to Ailea’s house, Flint had stepped into the sea of elves and lost sight of Miral. But figuring that a mage who was eye-level with other elves had a better chance of penetrating the throng than a four-foot hill dwarf did, Flint had plunged on without looking for him.