Tas’s phaethon soared past quite a number of spires until he reached one that was larger than most. It was set in a noticeable kink in a cliff of the surrounding mountains. Slowing the beating of his wings, the phaethon hovered, carefully negotiating an arched doorway with his awkward cargo. Finally angling his wings, the phaethon lowered Tas until his feet touched ground inside the doorway. The phaethon followed.
“Wow! What a ride! This is incredible! Do you live up here? Are those really clouds, or just fog? How far is it to the ground?” Without waiting for answers, Tas immediately began inspecting his surroundings.
He stood in a small antechamber in the shape of a half-circle. The walls were entirely covered with simple text carvings and bas-relief images of what Tas interpreted as wingless phaethons working at various tasks: planting, tilling, toting water, harvesting crops, and a complete range of village crafts.
Two doorways pierced the flat side of the antechamber; both doors were propped open. One led to a large, open room with a fireplace set into the rounded outside wall; a low fire burned on the hearth and stone crocks and wooden chairs and stools were set before it. To the left was a bank of short cupboards that followed the curve of the wall. The second doorway led to a smaller chamber where several fluffy, feather pallets were laid out symmetrically on the floor.
Tasslehoff stepped into the room with the fireplace. The walls of that room were also covered with carvings, but these were violent scenes of phaethons borne on their flaming wings and battling hideous creatures, the likes of which Tas had never seen or heard described.
“Wait here,” said the phaethon. He stepped through the outer doorway and into emptiness, disappearing from Tas’s view. The kender leaped to one of the small windows and watched, amazed again, as flames in the form of wings burst from the plummeting phaethon’s back and it soared away in a heart-stopping dive. Tas watched until the winged man disappeared in the clouds among the spires.
Wait here. Where can I go? the kender thought ironically. Outside was nothing but air and clouds. The only way to reach the ground was to jump, and that would be messy. Elbows propped on the sill, he gazed across the green valley—or what he could see of it through the drifting vapor—hundreds, maybe even thousands, of feet below.
Behind him, Tas suddenly heard the hiss of flames licking at air, followed by soft footsteps. Wheeling about, he saw that four unfamiliar phaethons had joined him. One was a female in loose pantaloons and tunic, a colorful sash wound round her waist. Apparently she was the mother of the young girl with long, curly red hair who stood behind her. The girl peeked around her mother’s leg shyly at Tas. The third phaethon, obviously the father, was an adult male, standing in front of the others in a protective stance. He was dressed like the one who had carried Tas here, but he looked older; his skin was ruddier and more wind-burned and weathered. He held a stout staff in both hands and wore a heavy knife at his belt.
The fourth phaethon, if in fact that is what it was, looked to be the oldest of them all by far. He paid little heed to the others or to Tasslehoff, but instead seated himself serenely before the low-burning hearth. Like the other phaethons Tas had seen, this one’s hair was short and wavy, but it was pure white, not red. His heavily lined face was the color of copper and his eyes were jet black with no discernible pupils.
“What are you?” the father asked bluntly.
“I’m a kender, of course.” Tas stepped forward eagerly and extended his hand. “Tasslehoff Burrfoot, at your service. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind. For instance, I’ve never heard of phaethons before.” He peered at them all closely. “You look quite a bit like short half-elves. Is that how you think of yourselves, or do you prefer to think of half-elves as tall phaethons?” Suddenly Tas remembered something.
“Speaking of half-elves, where are my friends? Aren’t they coming?” He ran to the window again and peered out. “Gosh, I got so caught up in flying over the mountains that I forgot all about them. Some of your people grabbed them from the stream in the nick of time, too—thank you, by the way.” He giggled. “It took two of them to carry Flint.”
“Your friends are safe,” said the middle-aged male. “We, too, have some questions.” At that, the mother stepped up to the hearth and swung out a small pot that had been heating over the fire. She filled a clay mug with steaming liquid from the pot and handed it to her mate, who in turn offered it to Tasslehoff.
“Drink this.”
Tas sniffed the concoction, wrinkled up his nose, and bobbed his head. “I am a bit thirsty, thank you, but I’d prefer something cold if you have it.”
The father thrust the mug into Tas’s hand and pushed it to the kender’s lips. “Drink it.” The white-haired phaethon turned his head to peer at Tasslehoff with his black eyes.
“If you insist,” Tas replied hastily. “Something warm might be good. What is it? Poison?” As usual, the kender was more fascinated than frightened by the thought of some warm venom working its way through his veins. Would his tongue turn purple and his eyes bulge out? Would he drop dead right away, or linger, begging for one last—
“It is tea,” the phaethon cut into his machinations. “It will help you to answer our questions truthfully.”
“Good heavens,” said Tas, relieved despite himself. “You needn’t drug me to get me to speak the truth. I’m happy to tell you whatever you’d like to know.”
The phaethon frowned. “Just the same, we’d prefer you drink the tea. It will not harm you—” He clenched his quarterstaff—“nor will anyone here, unless you have something to hide.”
“Hide? Not me,” said Tas. “Why, once—I’m drinking,” he said quickly, as the tip of the quarterstaff brushed his throat. Tasslehoff took the warm clay mug in his hands and drew a long pull of the steaming, pale green liquid into his mouth. Tas’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. The truth tea was not nearly as hot as the steam suggested, and it tasted the way he imagined grass would if left to simmer for hours at a time—strong, bitter, yet refreshing.
“Who are you, and where are you from?”
Out of curiosity, Tas decided to test the tea by telling a lie. “My real name is Lipsmacker Droolbucket—that other one is an alias.” The phaethons stared, stone-faced. “I’m the crown prince of Solamnia.” Still no reaction, either from the phaethons or the tea.
He shook his head. “I’ve gotta tell you, I don’t think this ‘truth tea’ stuff works very well,” Tas confided. “I just told some real whoppers and nothing came of it—I didn’t gag, and my nose didn’t even grow long, like in the story.” He decided to come clean, to avoid confusion.
“I’m not Lipsmacker Droolbucket,” he confessed. “I really am Tasslehoff Burrfoot. And I’m no relation to the royal family of Solamnia, if there is one.” Having told the truth, the kender felt strangely better, though he wasn’t sure why.
His expression still blank, the male phaethon pointed to one of the chairs before the hearth and indicated Tas should sit in it, which he did gratefully. It seemed to the kender that these phaethons had a tendency to stare a bit too much, and it made him feel on the spot, which was usually something he enjoyed. This time, however, he was squirming uncomfortably.
The male phaethon pulled a chair up before Tas and looked squarely into the kender’s eyes before speaking. “I would like to know why you are here.”
“Actually, I’d like to know that myself,” Tas responded. “You guys brought me here—how about filling me in?” He looked expectantly from face to face, but no one seemed disposed to offer any explanations. The little girl phaethon giggled, and the mother silenced her with a stern glance.
“I will ask that question again,” said the man. “Why did you come to the mountains?”
Tasslehoff flashed a smile of understanding. “Oh, you don’t mean ‘here’ here, you mean ‘heeeere’ here. It’s sort of complicated, and I really should be getting back to my friends fairly soon, so I’ll try to make this as short as possible.
> “My friends and I—that’s Tanis and Flint and Selana, only Selana isn’t with us, ’cause she’s up here somewhere looking for a bald wizard with a bracelet—but back to this bracelet Flint made. We need it for Selana’s brother, only the wizard took it, as I said, and he’s going to feed Rostrevor’s soul to Hiddukel—I can’t imagine what that would taste like. Anyway, the wizard got the bracelet from this zombie, only he wasn’t a zombie at that point, just a guy named Delbridge who wasn’t very honest—‘thief’ would describe him pretty well—and he’d gotten it from Gaesil, who seemed like a decent enough type, only I wouldn’t want to be stranded way up here in one of these needle houses with his wife. She sounds like quite a shrew. And he’d gotten it from me, because I’d ended up with it after we left the Inn of the Last Home. Flint needs it back to give to Selana so she can give it to Semunel, who needs it because he can’t see the future.” Tasslehoff drew a breath. “There, I think that about covers it.” He smacked his lips and looked around. “Do you have any more of that tea?”
“No!” the male phaethon said quickly. Both of the adult phaethons bent close to the white-haired one and conversed in low tones. Tas heard very little, and what he did pick up was in a language he could not understand.
“You’re funny,” the little girl said to Tas, tugging at her tunic and smiling demurely.
“Why, thank you,” Tas said, a bit puzzled. He did not recall telling any jokes. But then, who knew what made phaethons laugh?
He nodded his head toward the three adults. “What are they talking about?”
The young girl shrugged. “They’re deciding if you’ll be allowed to live or not.” Leaning in closer, she whispered, “Intruders usually aren’t, but I think you have a better-than-average chance.”
Tasslehoff swallowed slowly, watching their heated exchange. The white-haired phaethon seemed disturbed and shook his head after every comment made by the other two. They appeared to be trying to persuade him of something. Finally, the younger male slapped his fist into his palm, his expression firm. The elder shook his head one last time and looked out a window, as if absolving himself. The younger man turned away and stepped up to Tas, his expression as stoic as ever.
He placed a hand on his chest. “I am Nanda Lokir, potentate of our settlement. This—” He indicated the white-haired one—“is Hoto Lokir-Ulth, my great-grandfather, in your language. My mate and adviser, Cele Lokir, and our daughter, Zeo.”
Tas took the introductions as a good sign.
“You are a very fortunate kender. It is our custom, after interrogation, to eliminate deceitful intruders to our valley. We are a peaceful race, but we value honesty and privacy above all else. You seem to have little regard for the absoluteness of truth and this weighs heavily against you in Hoto’s eyes, but we all believe that you and your friends may perform an important service for us. I have sent for them to join us.”
Nanda walked to the hearth. “Perhaps you are hungry?”
Tas nodded vigorously. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten. Before reaching Tantallon? Running through the market with Selana? Nanda’s mate, Cele, opened a small pantry to the left of the hearth. From it she withdrew a wooden cutting board, on it a round loaf of golden-crusted bread. She handed Nanda a large bowl of stew of some sort. He placed it among the coals for warming. From another cupboard she took a crock of freshly churned, creamy-white butter. Slicing the bread, dotted with whole chunks of chewy grain, she lathered on the spread and handed a piece to the wide-eyed kender.
“This is wonderful!” he mumbled between rich mouthfuls. “But living way up here, where do you get the churned butter, or even the cow for the milk?”
“We sleep and cook in our steeplehomes,” Cele explained, “but we work the valley below. We do not wish to mingle with other cultures, so we are completely self-sufficient and produce no items for trade. We raise grains, fruits, and vegetables, herd sheep and goats, and keep rabbits and chickens, though Zeo continually tries to turn them into pets.” Cele smiled fondly at the little girl, stroking her long, curly hair.
Nanda pulled the bowl of heated stew from the hearth and dished up a plateful, rich with orange carrots, green baby peas, whole pearl onions, and petite chunks of tender meat in a rich brown gravy.
Tasslehoff was in heaven. He considered himself a true connoisseur of food, being quite a good cook himself. The kender closed his eyes after each delicious spoonful, savoring the blending of flavors with just the right amount of fresh herbs.
“I might have known we’d find him eating,” growled a familiar, deep voice. Tas opened his eyes and saw Flint and Tanis standing in the doorway, three more phaethons nearby. The dwarf’s harsh words were contradicted by the obvious look of relief in his eyes. He was tugging his clothing back into place after his recent air trip.
“I’m glad to see you’re OK, Tas,” said Tanis, looking hesitantly from Tasslehoff to the phaethons standing near him. Nanda nodded to the flyers and they called forth their wings and flew from the doorway.
“You’re free to move about. Come, join your friend at table,” said Nanda, waving Tanis and Flint into the hearth room from the small antechamber. Smiling, Tanis squeezed the kender’s shoulder, and Flint, frowning, gave his upper arm a soft punch.
“I am Nanda Lokir,” said the leader of the phaethons, holding out his right arm to Tanis. The half-elf thrust out his hand, but the potentate slid his own hand past it to grasp the half-elf’s forearm in an unusual variation on a handshake. Tanis quickly caught on and clasped the phaethon’s arm in return.
“Tanis Half-Elven,” he said, nodding his head toward the dwarf. “Flint Fireforge.” Flint extended his hand, and Nanda introduced his family. The elder hung back, ignoring their offered hands and barely acknowledging their presence. Tas intercepted an uneasy glance between Flint and Tanis.
“They usually kill trespassers,” the kender explained in a low voice behind his hand, “but they’re making an exception in our case. Nanda wants us to help him somehow, and I get the impression the old fellow isn’t pleased with the setup.”
The half-elf addressed Nanda. “We’re most grateful to you for rescuing us from the river,” he began, “but could you please tell us why we’re being held?”
“And without our weapons?” added Flint. Tas noticed for the first time that his hoopak and dagger had been spirited away; Tanis’s bow and Flint’s axe were missing as well.
Arms crossed, Nanda nodded. “All will be revealed in good time. First, eat. You are weak with hunger.”
Though uneasy, the famished half-elf and dwarf couldn’t deny the truth of that. They grabbed the plates Cele held out and ate while the phaethons watched. They washed the rich food down with a dark, full-bodied ale, as smooth as milk.
“Excellent ale, surpassed only by dwarf spirits,” said Flint, pushing himself back from his empty plate with a belch that ruffled his mustache and sent crumbs flying. Thanking Cele, the trio from Solace looked at Nanda expectantly.
“We are a privacy-loving race,” began the head of the family and the settlement. “It is phaethon law to kidnap and administer a truth draft to one of a group of trespassers and glean from him the group’s origin, destination, and mission. If we do not approve of the answers, or if we detect any untruths, we are inclined to eliminate the intruders.
“However, under truth tea, the kender revealed a story so dizzyingly tangled that we knew it could not be a fabrication. Further, he made no mention of our valley, but instead said you were looking for a young woman and a wizard.” Nanda paused for effect. “We know where both of them are and believe the young woman to be in great danger.”
“You’ve seen them?” asked Tanis, leaning forward anxiously.
“Hoto has,” said Nanda, looking at his copper-skinned grandfather, who remained aloof from the group. “First, I must explain something to you.
“Great-grandfather Hoto is verda, an elder. For reasons even we do not understand, some phaethons do not die of old age. In
stead, around their ninetieth year—our life expectancy—some are overcome by a desire to fly toward the sun. They climb and climb ever higher, until either exhaustion or lack of oxygen or both causes them to lose consciousness. As they plummet back toward Krynn, a marvelous transformation takes place. Regaining their senses, still thousands of feet above ground, they discover that they have metamorphosed into verda. They have grown taller, their hair is snow white, their flaming wingspan, agility, and endurance are greatly increased while their need for food, water, and sleep are diminished. Barring accidents, they often live to be three hundred years old.
“Solitary by nature and living apart from the settlement, verda serve as sentries. The reason I tell you this is that, once a month for a number of years, Great-grandfather Hoto has seen the bald-pated wizard fly into the mountains. His destination is just beyond the boundary of our valley. Hoto has long been certain his purpose here involves evil doings.
“Yesterday, knowing that the time was approaching for the wizard’s arrival, Hoto watched and waited. As dusk descended, he was startled to see a very large, unusual fish swimming upstream in the same river from which you were rescued. As Hoto watched, the fish must have cut itself seriously, as it began to trail great whorls of blood. Even more startling, before his eyes the fish transformed into a ghostly pale, fair-haired young woman and climbed from the stream onto land!”
“That’s Selana!” cried Tas.
“This Selana had a severe gash in her side,” continued Nanda, “and she wore little but rags, which were wet and freezing in the cold air. Hoto quickly set out to rescue her, but she was very far away. Before he could reach her, something even more mysterious happened. Out of nowhere a creature appeared. Hoto claims this beast looked like a minotaur, but it was not truly a beast. It was a monstrous creation made of living white stone. This thing scooped up the woman and carried her away into the face of the mountain, at the place where the wizard comes each month.”
Wanderlust Page 24
