The Silver Stair

10

Gair insisted on going to the port town for Goldmoon to arrange for more building supplies to replace everything that had been destroyed in the fire. He didn't tell the healer that he had planned the trip anyway, intending to stop at the scribe's. Willum accompanied the elf, determined to inform Camilla of the sabotage against the settlement and to ask for a larger garrison. They rode horses to cut the time of the journey considerably.

Gair thought that he might tell the knight commander about the Que-Nal and Shadowwalker, since he had not yet mentioned either to Goldmoon-or to Iryl, who claimed friendship with the Que-Nal. Camilla might not think to press him for information about how much he knew. The elf worked at being pleasant and plied Willum with questions about Camilla to keep his mind off the fire and his dilemma.

"Why don't you ask her yourself tonight?" the lieutenant said as they neared the town's gates. "Over dinner. You'll be my guest."

Gair accepted, of course, and was exceptionally amicable company, silent only when Willum discussed the tragedy of the citadel. Camilla politely expressed remorse for the fire, then astonishment that Goldmoon would consider proceeding.

As the evening wore on and the subject finally changed, she found herself eating everything placed on her plate, and at the elf's encouragement, having a second helping of plum pudding. The Solamnic commander's eyes drifted often to the elf, then quickly stared at her plate each time others noticed her. As soon as dinner was finished, she excused herself. "Letters to write," she told Gair and her men.

In her tower room, she paced in front of the desk, glancing at a letter that had arrived for her on the Solamnic ship still anchored in the harbor. It was in reply to one she'd written a little more than four weeks ago, asking the Solamnic Council to give her the authority to oust Goldmoon from Schallsea Island. She read the reply again and again then paced some more.

She let an hour drift by. As the stars winked into view, she strode to the window and looked out over the city. She peered toward the harbor. The full moon reflected off the waves, illuminating the docks and the Solamnic ship moored there, and illuminating Gair Graymist. What was the elf doing up so late? Couldn't he sleep either?

Gair sat on the dock, wrapped tightly in his heavy wool coat and staring at the water. The waves danced with color, the black of night, the bright yellow splashes of light reflected from the residents' windows, the iridescent white of the mirroring moon. His fingers were stretched over the frosty rough planks, and his senses extended deep into the harbor, where he'd detected slivers of human bones, broken skulls, pieces of rusty chains, and the boulders that were used to drown the Que-Nal.

The spirits weren't screaming at him this time. He was picking through them, as his keen eyes picked through the shadows, and he was listening to the musings of those who had lived the longest and had the most memories to share. Sadness, vengeance, fear, hope-the emotions were so strong they nearly overwhelmed him. He fought to remain in control and continued to sort through the words and feelings, attempting to put faces to them, trying to reach them and communicate. He almost talked himself out of coming here, since his experience with Darkhunter had so unnerved him. Darkhunter's was a tainted soul, and these spirits could not possibly be so malevolent.

The elf focused his efforts on only a few of the voices, urging at least one of them to talk to him. "Nothing! Why can't I contact them? When I was here weeks before, I almost…" He slapped his forehead with his hand in frustration. "I sensed someone reaching out to me then! Are there too many, Father? Is this beyond my reach?"

Not beyond, his father answered supportively. Just more difficult. Don't give up, Son.

Gair filled his lungs with the frigid salt-tinged air, searched harder, and opened his mind wider to the harborful of thoughts, allowed himself to drown in them. In a vision in his mind's eye, his surroundings melted around him, his father disappearing, the dock beneath him disappearing. He was swimming in the water with the spirits, who appeared as ghostly waves. Now he was diving to the bottom, the surface of the harbor far above his head. The spirits didn't carry the images of their living selves, but at least he could see them now-diaphanous clouds in the water. He strained his senses to their limits and began to talk to the ghosts.

And they began to answer.

No longer were they randomly talking to each other; they were talking to him! The elf was at once both fascinated and horrified, and all trace of fatigue disappeared as he continued to speak with the dead. He learned that not all of those who drowned here left spirits behind. The essence of some of them had moved on to a place he couldn't reach. Also, he discovered the spirit of a Blue Dragonarmy general who had lost his life in a battle fought in this bay. This spirit rose toward the surface, and the elf's senses followed it.

Gair felt himself floating on the surface of the harbor now, the spirits of all the others sinking away from him. Only the general remained close by. He'd been a powerful man, like Gair's father, the elf could tell, and he was angry still, despite the decades that had passed, that his men had been bested here. The spirit's rage was excitingly palpable, and Gair focused on it and the man until a hazy black image formed in front of him. Like a black silk curtain, it hovered two-dimensionally over the water, begging the elf to give it more form.

"Could I?" the elf mused aloud. "Could I give the general form?"

Please, the spirit replied.

Should I even dare try? Gair wondered. The elf was still leery after his scare at the Que-Nal burial circle, but he hadn't been harmed then, only spooked. Spirits couldn't harm the living, could they?

No, his father answered. We have left this world long behind. Only our shadows remain, but you could give those shadows substance. You have the ability.

"What harm, then," Gair said.

It would be another test of his mystical energies to give the dead some semblance of life. Only good could come of improving his magical skills, he told himself. He could apply it to other areas, perhaps helping those very close to dying.

He paused. "Who am I kidding?" he whispered.

"There is no good to this. There is only feeding my own morbid curiosity."

Then feed your curiosity, his father encouraged. You do not take enough chances.

"I've heard that somewhere before," the elf mused. "And I suppose you are right, but how to go about it?

He looked to his heart, to the strength Goldmoon taught him was there, felt the power surge through his chest and down his arms, through the cold wood his body was still sitting on and over the water to touch the black silken image hovering there. Gair concentrated as if the general were a patient he was tending to and directed his efforts to healing that patient.

He stared at the image, which seemed for a moment to become blacker than the water, a touch thicker. "Much thicker," he implored. The silk wavered, began to fold in on itself, and the general's wispy form disappeared.

"No!" Gair croaked.

The general's thoughts remained strong, however, and they urged Gair to try again.

"I can't," he said finally. "I don't know how. Even if I did, I haven't the power to give you substance."

You have the ability, his fattier repeated, but you do not have the power-here.

"I know better than to ask Goldmoon for help. I suspect she wouldn't approve of how I'm using her mysticism. It's why I haven't told her about the Que-Nal and Shadowwalker."

Do not give up, my son. You could get the power, his father encouraged, oh so easily.

The elf pushed himself to his feet and thrust his cold hands into his pockets. "No, Father, I will not ask Goldmoon."

You do not need Goldmoon. You need something that bristles with energy. You could steal a hit of it. Gair, your sisters and substance as you almost did the general… What a gift!

Gair's eyes widened. "The Silver Stair surges with power," he breathed.

Yes, his father answered. The Silver Stair. You are a bright son.

The elf's heart beat faster. "It could just work! Goldmoon sometimes relies on the magical medallion she wears, pulling energy from it to heal the gravest of injuries. There is a tremendous amount of energy in the stair. I felt it when I first touched the steps!"

You could use that energy.

"Of course! I will leave first thing in the morning and… damn! The scribe. The shop doesn't open until midmorning. Well, that simply won't do." Gair hurried from the dock.

The city was exceptionally quiet this night. Outside of the lights spilling from the windows of homes, only the light from one tavern still burned. The cold and the hour were keeping the townsfolk inside. No light burned in the scribe's shop. Gair pounded on the door, loudly rattling the pane of glass in it. He pounded again and again until the door threatened to break.

"See here!" The voice came from the second floor.

Gair looked up into the irate face of the scribe.

"You! Come back tomorrow, elf. Be on your way now, or I'll call for the watch."

Gair scowled and dug into his pocket, pulling out an emerald. "Will this open your shop?"

The scribe squinted and shook his head. He couldn't see what the elf was holding. "Come back tomorrow."

"It's an emerald, a valuable one," Gair said, "and neither it nor I will be here when you open tomorrow."

The scribe pulled back into the room, closing the window. A moment later a lantern blinked on downstairs. Dressed in a long woolen nightshirt, with thick socks on his feet, the scribe opened the door and yawned.

Gair thrust the emerald at him. "The Que-Nal rubbings… what do they mean?"

He waved the elf inside and to the counter, lit a second lantern, and pulled out the parchments Gair had given him. He stifled another yawn.

"Well?" The impatience was thick in Gair's voice. "What do they say?"

"These are tribal symbols only," the scribe began, "They tell you-that is, if you're a Que-Nal-which tribe lays claim to the land. Sort of like a no trespassing sign, I guess, unless you're considered friendly to the tribe, and then you wouldn't be trespassing."

"The stone and the mosaic chip?"

The scribe let out a low whistle. "Now, those are interesting pieces."

"Well? Be quick about it, will you? I'm in a hurry." The elf's tone was harsh, and he instantly apologized.

"The etching on this stone is only a part of something larger, like a couple of words out of a phrase. As far as I can tell, this mark here means 'shield' or 'safe' or perhaps 'protected' or 'blessed'-something like that. The mark on this chip is similar, but it seems to mean the opposite-'treachery' 'violence' 'danger' 'evil' 'corruption' something dark."

"Darkhunter."

The man yawned and cocked his head.

"And… ?"

"That's it. These are only a couple of pieces, like out of a puzzle. Bring me more of the puzzle and I can give you more information." He looked at the emerald in his palm. "Bring me more and there's no charge. You've paid me more than enough."

Gair took the Que-Nal stone and the mosaic chip and left. He found his way back to the Sentinel and was able to catch a few hours of sleep before being roused for breakfast. He nearly declined the meal, wanting to be on his way back to the settlement and the Silver Stair, but there was the company of Camilla Weoledge to consider. The elf genuinely liked her.

"So you will be coming with me to the settlement?" Gair's voice sounded hopeful. His eyes sparkled and locked onto hers.

Camilla broke free of the stare and fixed her gaze on a spot over his shoulder. "Yes. I am leading a garrison of soldiers to your settlement for added protection."

Gair looked incredulous. "An entire garrison? Then who will remain here to man the Sentinel and look after the town?"

"More soldiers and knights will be arriving within the week." Her voice carried a hint of disappointment as she thought of the letter on her desk. "The Solamnic Council has decreed that Goldmoon's citadel project be protected at all costs. No more sabotage to her Citadel of Light, no more raids on the trail. The Solamnic Council wants her guarded for as long as she desires to remain on the island." She swallowed hard. "Guarded so that she can spread her mysticism."

She stirred her eggs. "If we're fortunate, the settlement's problems will stop with the presence of my men. I would just like to know who is responsible… who the enemy is."

Gair felt for the stone in his pocket.

Gair stood at the base of the Silver Stair. Dawn was only a few hours away, the sky already lightening. His legs were numb from the cold; he'd been standing here that long, trying to gain the courage. Once more snow was falling, deepening the cover already on the ground and soaking his hair.

"Stars falling to earth," he mused aloud. "That's what Camilla calls snow."

You think too often of her, my son.

"When I am not thinking of spirits, I am thinking of her. I can't get her out of my mind, Father. She makes the air seem sweeter, the winter bearable. I hated leaving her side tonight, but I dare not press myself on her. She is hesitant, does not want to be here. I think she fights her feelings for me, as I do with Goldmoon."

Then forget her.

"If only it were that easy. I think I am obsessed with her."

You use her now as an excuse for staying on the ground. Pining for the human woman when you have important things to do.

"I'm not afraid of the Silver Stair," he said softly. He'd said that more than an hour ago when he first came here, after he'd made sure everyone was sleeping except the sentries and a handful of Camilla's soldiers. Both were on the far side of the settlement at the moment.

What is keeping you? his father prodded. Your friends climb this regularly, you've told me. Why not you? The power is here.

"I love magic," the elf said, "but this… this is overwhelming."

Too much to take a chance on?

"I've been taking more chances, Father. A great many more." The elf sucked in a deep breath and stood on the lowest step. He quickly climbed up the first dozen and peered toward the camp of the Solamnic soldiers. Nearby stretched what was left of the citadel, a gaping black hole in the ground, with bits of charred timbers sticking up in all directions. The workers had started clearing everything away, but it would be days before they were ready to start building again.

It does not matter if anyone sees you, Son. They will merely see one of Goldmoon's faithful climbing the Silver Stair.

He continued up, the air growing colder as he went. The elf bundled his cloak so tightly about him he entertained the notion that he might smother himself. He slowed his gait as the campfires grew smaller. The steps were narrow and terribly steep, and there were no handholds.

It is heights you are afraid of, my son, isn't it? Not the power of the Silver Stair.

"How does Goldmoon do this? And Jasper with his short legs?" Gair's words were muffled by the folds of his coat. "What do they see at the top?"

Several dozen steps later, he asked, "Where is the top? There's no end in sight."

The snow had stopped and a gentle fog had settled in, its tendrils wrapping about the elf as he continued his journey. He was grateful for the fog, as it helped to mask him. He had no intention of making it to the top step and receiving a vision this night, though he didn't want any passing sentries or knights to know that. Not that either would question his not climbing to the top, he suspected, as they likely knew little about the magical site anyway. They would simply believe he had changed his mind, or like others among Goldmoon's students he got too tired and stopped.

When he was high enough, certain that the light fog and his distance from the ground concealed him reasonably well, he sat upon a narrow step and curled his fingers over the translucent edge. It was far colder here than on the ground, and his teeth chattered, so the elf directed his healing energies to warm himself a little. He concentrated, feeling the arcane energy that coursed through the Silver Stair, and he urged it to course through him.

Gair closed his eyes and forced all thoughts of Camilla from his mind. The air was not so sweet now, and his breath was shallower. He seemed for some reason to breathe deeper when he was near Camilla, perhaps wanting to capture the scent of her inside of him. He focused on the chill air, then he pictured the silver stairway twisting up and out of sight, imagined that the energy that ran the entire length of the stairway was rushing toward him. The elf directed all of his thoughts to this latter notion, slowed his breathing and felt his strength drain from him, felt himself slip toward unconsciousness, felt his fingers loosen their grip on the step. He felt himself slump forward, and for a heartbeat he worried that he would fall from his perch and plummet to his death. His legs felt numb and he couldn't feel his toes. He felt terribly weak all over.

"Faith," he croaked. "I must have…"

Just as he felt the blackness of unconsciousness rush up to meet him, he also felt a rush of warmth, greater than that he had nurtured with his simple healing spell. The tingling heat roused him, rising from where the tips of his fingers touched the step, reaching up through his arms and into his chest, then down into his legs. It felt like the Raging Fire-the hottest summer month in Abanasinia. It felt incredibly powerful and wonderful. His physical strength was not returning, but his magical strength, what Goldmoon called the power of the heart, was increasing dramatically.

Gair slowly opened his eyes and brought a finger to his temple. "Nura… Arale." They were the names of his young sisters. He repeated their names over and over, opened the door to their misty realm and sensed them waiting. Like the ghost in the Schallsea harbor, they hovered before him, looking two-dimensional, like floating shadows.

"I will give you form. We can be together again, after all those years we missed."

No, the girls said, their forms retreating.

Surprised, Gair's mind stretched out to them. "Nura, Arale, you died too young, missed too many years. I can give those years back to you. I am certain of it. I have the power of the Silver Stair. Who will be first?"

Neither of us. It is wrong, they replied, retreating farther still.

He could see them now only as wispy images the size of his fist. They were growing smaller with each heartbeat.

"It is wrong you died so young," he entreated. "Don't go! I've gone to so much trouble!"

Let them go.

"Father?" Gair peered into the darkness of the spirit realm. With the power of the Silver Stair boosting his enchantment, Gair was able to delve deeper into the misty dimension, could see his father much more clearly now, as clearly as when he was alive in the Silvanesti woods.

Let them go, Gair. I wanted them to live again, as you did. I thought you might be able to persuade them. But they have accepted their deaths and want to stay here. So young… such a pity.

"And you, Father, do you accept your death?" Gair still felt the power of the Silver Stair pulsing through him, felt the step beneath his fingers crack as he drew more arcane energy from the ruin. "I want so to use this power. Such power within my grasp, Father. You can't imagine the energy. I wanted to give my sisters back some semblance of life. Since they refused, would you allow me to give you substance, Father?"

The elder Graymist's spirit floated closer.

"Father?"

Gair frowned when the elder Graymist shook his head, too. "All this power within my grasp-"

No, my son. There are others more worthy of life than I. Look around. Can you see them?

"No. I…" The words caught in the elf's throat as he saw other shapes coalescing around his father, some elven, and some of those recognizable from his time in Silvanesti, people his father knew and whom he vaguely knew. He was so young then. Had they died in the dragon attack also? The others were a mix of humans of various nationalities. There were barbarians among them, Que-Nal perhaps. A dozen shapes, then two dozen, nearly three. Their insubstantial arms, which were growing more tangible with each passing heartbeat, reached out to Gair. Their eyes, once hollow, now glowed softly white like stars… .

"Stars fallen to earth," the elf whispered.

They glowed brighter now with energy, with the arcane power he was pulling from the Silver Stair and passing to the spirits. He kept one hand on the step, raising the other to rub his temple, helping him to concentrate. "All… this… power." He began to work the healing spell Goldmoon had taught him, the one he tried on the general in the harbor. Could he heal a spirit enough to return it to some semblance of life? Would his spell give it a corporeal body as fleshy as his own? If he could accomplish it on one of the images here, perhaps he could do so to Riverwind. Goldmoon would be so happy.

He centered his efforts on the closest form, a man in scant clothing who wore beads in his hair. "Breathe," the elf urged as more energy flowed through him and into the misty dimension. "Live." He continued to keep one hand on the stair, using the last of his physical strength to grip it. He couldn't risk falling now, not when he was so close. "Live!"

Another form moved closer, this one somehow familiar, a human with dark skin and long black hair. Shells were woven into the man's hair. Jewelry hung about his neck and wrists, the gold glittering like stars as the arcane energy continued to pour from the stairway.

"Stars fallen to earth," Gair repeated.

The man with the gold jewelry moved closer still, his form thickening, his eyes glowing so bright the otherworldly light was uncomfortable to Gair. The spirit's lips edged upward into a smile, and his glaring eyes, through the doorway to the misty dimension, locked onto Gair's.

The elf felt the crack in the step beneath his hand widen. A piece the size of his thumb fell away. Taking energy from the ruin weakened it, the elf noted. He would be careful and not use this same step the next time. "Darkhunter."

Yes, the spirit answered.

Gair shivered, though not from the intense winter cold, and directed his thoughts away from that spirit. The Que-Nal still inexplicably bothered him, though they were far from the burial circle where his bones rested. The elf would offer his father life again rather than use this powerful magic on a man he had never known.

"I will not use this magic on you," he whispered.

Gair Graymist, the spirit of Darkhunter pronounced. The words seemed more intense inside the elf's head than the words of other spirits. Gair Graymist of Silvanesti. The words swirled in the fog around the elf on the Silver Stair.

"No," the elf decided. "It is indeed time to end this."

He would try again tomorrow night, contacting only his father, perhaps his mother, perhaps Riverwind. Imagine how happy Goldmoon would be to have a tangible, breathing Riverwind walking at her side! Yes, tomorrow he would contact Riverwind and direct this spell at his spirit, not at the spirit of a Que-Nal who made his skin crawl.

Gair dropped his hand from his temple, brought his other hand to his lap, and steepled his fingers. He inhaled deeply and focused on the chill night air, thrusting aside his thoughts of the Silver Stair and of the spirits on the other side of the door. "Camilla," he whispered. He thought of her, pictured her smooth face and hesitant smile. "Camilla," he repeated more strongly.

He felt the pulsing arcane energy slowly leave his body, seeping back into the stair. The warmth left him, too, and he found himself shivering now from the bitter cold. There was an icy coldness inside of him, as if the winter had settled in the pit of his stomach. It was like the iniquitous feeling he had at the burial ground, a darkness growing inside himself, as if he'd planted a seed that was taking root.

"No more!" Gair firmly closed the door to the spirit's dimension, and with that felt a bit of his physical strength returning, though the chill he sensed in his stomach remained. The fog still swirled around him, and through gaps in it, he could barely make out the torches of the sentries far below.

"Like stars."

Such a romantic.

The elf shot to his feet, nearly losing his balance. He steadied himself and looked all around, instantly fearful that an acolyte had somehow followed him up the stairs.

He could see no one.

A mystic such as yourself should not waste his time on women, especially human ones. Your father is right. He should concentrate only on his considerable magical talents.

"Who… who are you?"

Darkhunter, the voice replied. Your magical talents are indeed impressive.

Gair's feet took the stairs two at a time. Falling wasn't his worry now. The elf wanted to get away from the spirit who, he realized, had slipped through the door before he closed it.

Why run from me? the spirit persisted. You wanted me free! You removed a link in the fence that bound me to my grave. You removed a stone. It is still in your pocket. Now finish the task! Make me whole!

The elf felt about in the pocket of his coat as he continued to run. His fingers found the carved mosaic stone from the burial ground. I must tell Goldmoon, he thought as he raced toward her tent.

Tell her what? the spirit interrupted his thoughts.

Gair couldn't see the Que-Nal, but somehow he knew the spirit was at his shoulder.

Finish the task!

"No!" I must tell Goldmoon.

Tell her that you dabbled in something she had oft refused to teach you? Tell her that you abused the skills she shared with you? Tell her you've breathed life into a ghost? What would your teacher think of you?

The elf's feet pounded over the snow-slick ground and he rounded a corner. He blinked his eyes furiously against the snow that had started to fall again. Goldmoon's tent was only yards away now. He'd tell her about the spirit and the stone, take the stone back to the burial circle in the morning. Maybe she could cleanse him.

Tell her that your magic is greater than hers? That you were able to pull someone through what you term a doorway? That you can raise the dead?

Gair stopped.

Tell her nothing, Master.

"Master?" Out of breath, Gair nodded to a passing sentry rather than return his greeting. He walked by Goldmoon's tent and allowed his hammering heart to slow. Within moments he was inside his own tent, then beneath the covers. Fortunately the gnoll was asleep, he thought, and fortunately for once he wasn't snoring.

Orvago slivered his eyes and saw that his tent mate hadn't even bothered taking off his boots. The gnoll yawned, opened one eye, noted the oddity, then drifted off back to sleep.

Neither saw the pair of softly glowing white eyes move inside the tent and hover near the elf's bed.