The Silver Stair

8

The winter wind prowled angrily through the tower chamber, howling at every corner and bringing a biting cold on its tail. There were no motes of dust for it to chase. The room was spotless, and there was little furniture for it to slip under and whistle around-only a desk, stark in design, a straight-backed chair that offered no hint of comfort, and a narrow bed with a quilt so tightly in place it could toy with only a few frayed threads.

There were no rugs on the stone floor, no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks or sentimental remembrances of youth-nothing that could be disturbed by the wind, and nothing that could distract the room's occupant.

Camilla stood alone at the window, seemingly mindless of the frigid breeze that played across her face and teased her freshly washed hair. Her slender fingers were wrapped around the edge of the sill, and her gray eyes, which mirrored the shade of the early morning sky, were narrowed in contemplation.

She inhaled sharply at the rap on her door, turned, and nodded as a primly dressed woman entered, balancing a silver tray on one hand.

"Mornin', Lady Weoledge," the woman chirped. She hurried to the desk, set the tray down, and arranged the silverware precisely upon a linen napkin. She hummed as she moved to the window and pulled the shutters closed, leaving the blinds on one side open just enough for some light to spill in. "That wind! Don't want your breakfast to get cold, do you, lady? Sausage and shirred eggs, fixed just the way you like them, with a bit of sharp cheese. Sugared grapes, too. Do eat. Please, Camilla." This last she added softly. "At least somethin'. Usually you only pick at your plate-except for these past two nights when your young gentlemen dined with us. He should sup with us every night. So polite. And handsome."

"Judeth…" Camilla warned.

"Well," the woman huffed, throwing back her shoulders and sticking out her ample chest. "I worry about you, lady. Someone has to."

Camilla offered her a warm smile. "I don't need to be the object of anyone's concern, Judeth. People should be concerned, instead, about Goldmoon."

"Isn't your young man from Goldmoon's settlement?"

Camilla frowned. "He's not my young man, Judeth. He's one of Goldmoon's students. I was simply extending him the courtesy of a warm place to sleep."

Judeth slyly winked. "Courtesy," she tittered. "And you hold hands with everyone you let sleep in front of our fireplace? In all the years I've known you, Camilla, I've never seen you so taken with someone."

The knight blushed.

"I think he fancies you, too," the woman continued.

The knight's fingers fluttered up to her neck, where a thin silver chain and a heart-shaped charm dangled. "A heart, as you've stolen mine," she recalled Gair telling her last night as he fastened it around her neck.

"Indeed, he fancies you quite a bit," Judeth needled. "It's about time there was something in your life other than your order." She poured a cup of tea. The steam rose in a twisting spiral in the chilly room, releasing the scent of orange peel. She stepped back, smoothing her apron with her hands. "Fancies you quite a bit, he does. Pity he said he'll be leaving soon. Within the hour, he told me. Will you be going with him to the settlement?"

She shook her head. "I'm sending a dozen soldiers with him for reinforcements."

"I would think you'd want to make sure they get settled." Judeth winked at her.

"I've other concerns."

The servant drew herself up to her full height, still a head shorter than Camilla. "Well, then, I do hope he comes back. Can I get you anything else, Lady Weoledge?"

"Thank you, no, Judeth."

Camilla sat at the desk, speared a piece of sausage, and watched the woman bustle out of the room, closing the door behind her. Camilla studied the meat as Judeth's footsteps receded down the stairwell beyond, actually considered eating it, then decided against it.

"Goldmoon." She uttered the word as a curse. To mollify Judith, Camilla stirred her eggs to make it look as if she'd at least nibbled at something, dropped the fork, and pushed away from the desk. She returned to the window and opened the shutters to stare down again at the town. Her fingers tightened on the sill until her knuckles grew white, the muscles of her neck knotted tightly with tension.

At the docks, she spotted a carrack raising its sails. It had arrived yesterday from the city of New Ports, far across the bay to the west, bringing in its belly more than a dozen people who'd sold their worldly goods and intended to build a new life here on Schallsea Island. The ship was returning to New Ports or some other mainland coastal city, and Camilla knew it would come back again-with more people and with all manner of supplies for Goldmoon. Iryl had spoken with the captain a long time this morning, and there would be other ships. Schallsea's harbor was too deep to freeze over even in the coldest of winters.

"Blasphemy," Camilla muttered. "What Goldmoon's doing is blasphemy. Her magic of the heart will only push people away from the true gods, though they are absent. Someday the gods will return."

She whirled and paced the length of the room, her boot heels clicking rhythmically over the stone. Passing by her desk, she paused to snatch up the cup of tea, which was growing tepid. She held it briefly, stared at her reflection in the pale brown surface. She let out a long breath, watched the ripples in the tea disturb her image, then downed all of it in one long gulp. It soothed her throat but did nothing to ease her ire. "Blasphemy." She resumed her pacing.

"People coming here, using their last steel pieces to do so. People camping in the snow, freezing to death in blizzards. Misguided, foolish people. Healing without the gods. Blasphemy." Camilla's fingers fluttered to her hip, closed about the pommel of a sword that hung there. "I cannot let Goldmoon build this citadel. I cannot let her ruin so many people's lives."

She returned to her desk, pushing aside the breakfast tray. Tugging open a narrow drawer, she retrieved a bottle of ink, a quill, a length of black ribbon, and a sheet of fine parchment watermarked with a rose wrapped around the blade of a sword. Camilla carefully considered each sentence she put to the paper. Her handwriting was painstakingly meticulous, the letters like soldiers marching clearly and evenly across the page. Finished, she cleaned the quill and replaced it and the ink in the drawer, blew on the parchment- even though the chill wind had already dried the ink- then carefully rolled it and tied it with the ribbon.

She rose and pushed the chair in close to the desk. "Goldmoon will not build her Citadel of Light on this island," she said. "It's blasphemy."

Goldmoon stood next to Gair at the construction site, watching the dwarves hard at work erecting support posts on the outside of the building. The posts would help strengthen the structure so additional floors could be placed on top of it. The harness of Gair's draft horse had been attached to a rope and pulley system, and the animal was aiding in raising beams to the second floor by walking forward on command.

Most of Goldmoon's followers were helping, as Gair had been, too, until he allowed himself this brief break. They were trimming boards and stacking lumber that would make up the walls and ceiling of the second floor, and they were earnestly doing their best to follow the dwarves' instructions.

Within a day, two at the most, the basement and first floor of the building would be finished enough to move many families into it. A thin woman who used to sell bait in the port town was applying a thick resin between the outer boards. The mixture, Redstone's devising, would keep out the wind and seal the structure and at the same time help protect the wood from warping because of moisture. On the roof, what would become the floor of the second level, twin brothers who used to rim a butcher's shop in Solace were spreading more of the resin. Their faces, red from the cold, were identical except for a scar on the left cheek of the man who claimed to be a minute older. They hollered down a good morning practically in unison to Goldmoon and continued their work.

The building looked boxy, but was large and impressive, bigger than the new stable in town, and according to Jasper and Redstone, built much better, despite much of it going up during freezing temperatures. With the spring, it would be trimmed and finished properly, the female dwarf explained, adding proudly that the final touches would be truly impressive.

Already people were inside working on rooms. A family of six, all blond, hinting that they came from the island of Christyne, busied themselves applying a plasterlike mixture to the walls. They sang as they worked, the youngest off-key and loud. Also inside a trio of dwarven brewers from Thorbardin sanded the floor and softly grumbled about the child's singing, though they did so with a hint of amusement in their gruff voices.

"What about a winder?" A stocky man in a threadbare coat wandered inside. He had a thick piece of charcoal in his hand, and he paced about nervously. "Can't plaster ever'thing iffen yer gonna have a winder in here. I can draw it in fer you." The man claimed to be an artist from Solace who had fallen on hard times and had decided to throw in his lot with Goldmoon's followers. Sketches of the people he'd drawn hung in several tents. "I'll make a round one, nice'n pretty."

"No 'winders' in this building," one of the Thorbardin dwarves told him. "At least not on this level."

The man shrugged and thrust the charcoal in his coat pocket. "Can't spread resin," he said as he stood over the dwarves and watched them work. "Stuff makes my hands itch. Can I help you here? I wanna do something."

One of the dwarves tugged on the man's coat, indicating he should kneel. He passed the fellow a sanding stone and whispered, "You can help us as long as you'd like. Just no singing… okay?"

The sound of hammers drifted up from the basement. Fishermen from the Schallsea port town were boxing off more rooms down there. They had volunteered to help because they said the weather was too cold to take their boats out onto the bay. They were a cheerful lot, though not the most talented with hammers and nails, and they were closely supervised by one of Jasper's friends.

Two young girls threaded their way into the building, passing biscuits to the dwarves and the artist, setting a plateful in front of the family from Christyne. They carried more to the people downstairs. On their way out, they dawdled as they watched a burly woman working on stairs that would lead to the upper floors.

Outside, a dozen men were hard at work making the walls that would be hoisted up to the second story and nailed in place. They were a varied lot: men young enough that some would call them children, old men that age had bent and who favored clothes that looked as worn as themselves. Everyone worked at his own pace, resting when he needed to and never complaining. Even a patrician with rings on every finger worked hard, outfitted in fur-trimmed boots and a sealskin coat. He was at the shoulder of Roeland, the miller who had given up his shop to join the assembly. Roeland never took a day off and worked until he was too tired to lift a hammer, and though his clothes were not the warmest, he never complained about the cold.

The largest worker wore a blood-red woolen cloak that hung to his ankles and shadowed his face. The boots on his feet were new, a rich brown leather, the tips of which had been cut off and replaced with the ends of heavy wool socks, or else his hairy gray-green feet would never have fit inside. His tunic was a dark purple shade, gathered at his waist with a thick tan belt. The sleeves were of a purple a few shades lighter, and except when they were pushed up to his elbows, as they were now, they covered all but the ends of his claws. His trousers, which fit surprisingly well, were forest green, with deep pockets roomy enough to hold hammers and nails.

Orvago presented an all-too-colorful picture for Gair's tastes. The tailor had provided quite a bundle of oversized garments, many of which were reasonably color-coordinated, given the short notice. However, the gnoll favored things that clashed, reveling in putting together outfits that were visually disturbing.

Orvago had growled about the clothes for the first two days. However, after a stern but gentle lecture from Gair, the gnoll seemed more accepting of the outfits. The people in the settlement didn't stare quite so long when he was dressed in the human garb, and the occasional visitors from town, which prompted him to roll down his sleeves and retreat into his hood, simply thought he was a very big man.

Goldmoon's followers were gradually getting used to the gnoll, and even those who initially opposed his presence had to admit he was useful to have around. His exceptional hearing and sense of smell made him a natural sentry. He could carry as much as three men, which made him a boon at the construction site. Unfortunately, he was also sometimes as clumsy as any three men, and hence everyone gave him a wide berth when he was toting logs. He was not such a bad sort after all, they decided.

"Watch out!" Jasper hollered.

Orvago had plucked up a stack of finished boards. As he carried them to where Jasper pointed, he inadvertently clunked three dwarves in the head along the way. The builders rubbed their noggins and glared at the oblivious gnoll. Jasper made apologies for Orvago as the gnoll retrieved a second stack of boards and accidentally knocked over Redstone, who was trying to assist him.

Jasper mouthed "I'm sorry" to her as she struggled to her feet, then motioned where the gnoll should put this load. Orvago was quick to comply, dropping the wood with a clatter. He cocked his hairy head, looking for new instructions. His upper lip curled back and he snarled softly. A ridge of hair stood up on the top of his head, and his nose quivered. He padded toward the edge of the construction site, eyes locked onto the pines in the distance. Jasper followed him, his hand on his hammer.

The situation was not lost on Goldmoon and Gair. They watched the gnoll move closer to the trees, with Jasper following, the snow practically thigh-high on the dwarf.

Suddenly a hawk cried and rose from the pines, scattering other nearby birds. They flew over the settlement and dropped down over the cliff toward the sea. The gnoll cocked his head again and sniffed the wind, growled louder, and he eventually returned to the construction site, accidentally knocking over a kender who was carrying a sack of nails.

"I wonder what that was all about?" Gair mused.

Goldmoon's face showed concern. "I don't know," she answered, "but I'm going to double the sentries tonight, just in case."

The elf returned to planing boards, something he wasn't especially good at. He quickly covered his smile when he spotted the gnoll dropping a log on the foot of an unsuspecting dwarf. "Orvago," the elf whispered. "When the gods created gnolls, they must have-" Gair scowled as an internal voice interrupted his train of thought. "I like the creature well enough, Father."

Like a boy enjoys the company of a pet dog. The elder Graymist had opened the door and intruded on his son's ruminations. He is an animal, and you share your tent with him.

"I'm curious about him, that's all," Gair replied. The elf didn't see Jasper looking quizzically at him, so he continued. "I want to know where he came from and how he came to be on this island. And I want to know about that flag one of his fellows was wearing… ."

And you think you will gain that information by sharing your tent?

Gair shrugged. "Possibly. Besides, I doubt that anyone else would take him in."

You are too kind.

"Another shipment." Camilla stood on the docks, watching workers unload crates and bins, all destined for Goldmoon's settlement.

"Any word, Commander?" the young knight at her side was attentively watching the activities on the dock. "It's been nearly four weeks since you sent that letter to the Solamnic Council."

She shook her head.

"It shouldn't be much longer, Commander," he offered cheerfully, "and then Goldmoon will be gone, and you will rest easier. You won't have to come to the dock every day and watch for ships, and we can concentrate solely on protecting the people in this port."

She folded her arms across her chest, covering up part of the sword etching on her breastplate and continuing to stare out across the water, watching a white speck on the horizon. It grew to be a tiny flag, signaling the arrival of yet another ship that she feared carried more fanatics who wanted to see Goldmoon and the Silver Stair. There was little room left for newcomers in town, though the carpenters were much closer now to finishing the new row of houses, working feverishly in spite of the weather.

"Shall I return to the Sentinel, Commander?"

She didn't answer. She was watching the ship that was closing on the harbor. It carried a Solamnic flag.

It had been four weeks since Gair had taken his etchings to the scribe in the port, and the elf was upset that he had not been presented with the opportunity to return to the town. Everyone had been consumed by the building project. Still, he intended to head back tomorrow and see if the man was finished-and visit Camilla. He had hoped she would have returned to the settlement by now.

Tonight he had another destination. The elf stole away from the construction site, where work was progressing on the third story. He headed straight northeast, not following any trail this time. He had planned to visit the burial ground before now, but Goldmoon had been instructing her students in the various nuances of mysticism in the evenings-after work ceased on the citadel. By the time her classes ended, he was tired, his muscles sore from sanding and cutting, and turned in, but there were no classes this night. The aged healer was spending the evening chatting with the dwarves, and though his muscles were still sore, his curiosity was at fever pitch.

"What do the spirits think of Goldmoon and her Citadel of Light?" The elf scowled. His father's spirit would not answer. Neither had he answered Gair's most pressing and oft-repeated questions: Where do spirits dwell? Is your existence like life as dwellers of Krynn know it? Or is it better or worse? Do all spirits drift in the same realm?

Gair tried another tack as the campfire lights from the settlement grew smaller. "Do you know Riverwind? Goldmoon talks to him often." To this, his father finally answered no.

It had started to snow again. The flakes were large, and without the wind to drive them, they drifted down lazily, settling on the backs of Gair's hands and melting instantly. His breath feathered away from his face, which he turned up to glance at the clouds overhead. It was a beautiful night, and not as cold as the past few had been. He allowed himself to enjoy his surroundings as he moved farther away from the settlement.

"Do you miss the feel of the snow, Father? The feel of the breeze? Can you smell the earth? What is your misty realm like? Are all of the spirits who in life walked on Krynn in your same misty dimension, Father? Are the spirits of dragons there, too? The gods-do you sense any trace of them?"

As before, he received no answer to any of those questions, and so he continued toward the Que-Nal burial ground, chattering, unanswered, to his father about his current activities as a carpenter, his captivation with Camilla, and the advanced healing magic he was studying. As he drew near the circle, he stopped talking, not wanting to alert any living Que-Nal who might be nearby.

Again I am being too cautious, he told himself. This was his fourth late-night visit to the grounds, and he'd never encountered any living souls there. "Perhaps the barbarians believe the place haunted at night, foolishly thinking spirits roam only when the sun goes down."

Only some spirits are more powerful then, his father said.

The elf paused. "What do you mean?"

No answer.

Gair crouched at the edge of the clearing, watching the snow come down, a little harder now. "What do you mean, Father?"

Again nothing.

"So you only talk to me when it suits you? Just like when you were alive, dear father." Sighing, Gair unbuckled his sword belt and laid his weapon against a tree, removed his new heavy coat, and draped it over a branch. He wanted to move with less encumbrance, and it wasn't quite as cold tonight. Indeed, the snowflakes melting against his skin invigorated him. He slipped into the circle and crept from mound to mound, noting that there had been no new additions since his last visit. The Que-Nal were very unlike the Abanasinian barbarians from which they sprang, the elf had learned by questioning some of Goldmoon's older followers. The tribes on the mainland built walled burial chambers to house their dead. The Que-Nal kept the bodies of their people closer to the land they cherished. They saved the buildings for the living.

The elf knelt by the old stone-covered mound, brushing away the snow and tracing the mosaic patterns. "Who were you?" he whispered to the mound's occupant. "Why is your grave more impressive than any others here? Father, can you sense this spirit? Was he a king? A queen? A chieftain?"

The elder Graymist offered no reply.

"Well, perhaps now I can sense who rests beneath."

Gair placed his hands where he suspected the body's heart rested. It was an unnecessary gesture, he knew, but he did it nonetheless. "Who were you?" he repeated as his senses slipped from his mind down his arms and into his fingers, into the etched stones, and then into the cold, cold earth. Deeper they went, past the husks of insects and past the pebbles that covered a shrouded form. Only bones were beneath the cloth. His mind sensed brittle, yellowed bones that were cracked in several places. Was the individual a warrior who died in battle? Were the bones splintered in a fight? His mind probed further, examining the tattered cloth that clung to the bones, ornate for a barbarian, embroidered with symbols. Was the individual old? Had the cruel years broken his body?

"Who were you? What were you? What were your dreams, your hopes? Did you die after fulfilling your plans? Did you die too soon? Were you old? Sick?"

He sensed no presence, no energy as he had when he first contacted his father and his sisters. Nothing.

"I am coming to believe this 'dark mysticism,' as Goldmoon calls it, works only on those you knew in life," he whispered.

Frustrated, he decided to at least do a little exploring while he was here. He directed his senses to drift beyond the bones beneath him to nearby mounds, seeking to learn if these corpses were also ornately garbed. Through the cold, heavy earth his mind wandered, briefly touching bodies in various states of decay. All were wrapped in cloth, some of which was thick and brocaded, as if it belonged to a merchant or an entertainer from the port town, likely meaning it was something the person in life had traded for or purchased. None were so embroidered with symbols as the cloth around the form that lay beneath the elaborate mound.

"Who were you?"

His mind stretched to other mounds, and he touched bits of simple jewelry here and there and focused on them. Primitive, he decided, but some were beautiful despite their primitiveness-hammered silver bracelets etched with leaves and stick-figure animals. A deer. A flock of birds in flight. He was amazed at the details he could absorb through his spell. Of course, he'd continually made adjustments to the magic since Goldmoon had taught him how to contact spirits, as he was interested in their realm, not just in the spirits themselves. He had not counted on the magic revealing so much. It was as if he could see through walls, through years, through worlds. He just could not contact strangers.

Gair looked closer, spotting what amounted to a jeweler's mark. It was on the inside of a bracelet worn by what had been a tall young woman. All of the Que-Nal were on the tall side, lean and muscular, according to the descriptions of them he'd gotten from the folks in port. That would fit with their Que-Shu counterparts. However, this woman had been especially tall. Around her neck was what appeared to be a silver necklace so thick it looked like a collar. There were tiny holes along the bottom of the necklace, and from them dangled rotting strings of leather, and in turn from them dangled moldy feathers. He imagined what her face had looked like: high cheekbones, a proud expression. Somehow he knew she was a chieftain's daughter.

"Beautiful," he hushed. "Did any of your dreams come true when you walked this land? What had you hoped to accomplish in this world? Was yours a good life? Were you loved? Happy?"

No answer.

Again his mind drifted, this time to the most recent mound, the one that on his previous visit he determined held the form of a child. Perhaps this time he could tell what she died of. His senses floated over her body, over her skin, which he knew had once been tan and unblemished, over her face, down her neck. There! He detected a swollenness that had nothing to do with a corpse bloating or decomposing. A sign of illness, one that should have been curable, a childhood malady.

"Had they no healers? Or had the disease simply spread throughout the child's body before someone sensed its seriousness and tried to do something?" he mused aloud. There was a strange substance on the skin, the remnants of a poultice, he finally determined. "So someone had tried to treat the child, but he was unsuccessful. So young to die."

The features he pictured were truly amazing. He continued his mental explorations, never leaving the side of the mosaic-covered mound. Some in the clearing had died of old age, which somehow made death a little more palatable to the elf. Some died from harsh diseases, a few from what Gair assumed were falls; necks or backs were broken. One died from a sword thrust to his chest, the splintered ribs telling the tale. Another had two arrowheads resting amid the bones. The wooden shafts of the weapons that killed him had rotted away.

"Who killed you? Do their bones rest here, too?"

No answer. There never would be an answer, he sensed, because he hadn't known them.

There were three whom he could not begin to guess at what they succumbed to, though he suspected he could eventually determine that he could if he spent enough time and mystical energy here. Neither could he tell what had killed the man in the ornate mound. Perhaps he would focus all of his initiative here.

"Who were you?"

Darkhunter, the spirit replied.

Gair's heart soared. He had contacted a spirit-the essence of someone he had not known in life, a complete stranger. The door was opening wider for him, he knew. Next he would talk to the elf of Red Creek, to Lenerd Smithsin's father, and to the Que-Nal who drowned at the hands of the Blue Dragonarmy in the Schallsea harbor, perhaps now able to shut out their screams and hold a reasonable conversation with them. He would ask them all about what, precisely, rested beyond this life, and about what their lives on Krynn were like. If his father would not give him the answers, perhaps strangers would.

I am Darkhunter, the spirit repeated, and you are Gair Graymist, puppet of the healer Goldmoon. The spirit pulled the names-and more-from the elf's mind. My people hate the Que-Shu. My people will drive your mentor from the land or drive her to her death, her spirit to be tormented forever. Do not get in their way or you will fall with her.

The questions instantly drained from Gair's mind, and he felt chilled, the sensation not at all a result of the cold. A shiver raced down his spine and his eyes snapped wide open. Calm yourself, he scolded. "The spirit cannot harm me, nor will it frighten me. The spirit is of another realm. Goldmoon is safe."

From the dead, she is safe, the spirit continued. But not from the living.

The elf concentrated on his breathing, then focused all his efforts on the mound beneath his fingertips, searching the form more closely, discovering bits of jewelry against the bones of the wrist, semiprecious stones on the numerous heavy bracelets. Jade and-he studied them more intently-jade and moonstone, garnet and onyx. More jewelry lay about the neck, silver and gold chains, not of Que-Nal make, elaborate, such as would be found in the large cities of Palanthas, Silvanost, and Solanthus. They were covered with gems-mostly garnets, but pieces of agate and peridot, too, stones not naturally available on this island or from Abanasinia. A bit more at ease now, the questions started returning.

"Your necklaces and bracelets were gifts? Gifts to an important man? Purchases?"

Conquests. I took them from those I vanquished. As Goldmoon will be vanquished. If you wish to save her, puppet, make her leave the island.

Gair shivered again and focused on the jewelry.

The jewelry was valuable and would have netted a tribe considerable food and goods in trade. But the tribe had buried them with the man-because he was so important. A warrior. A chief? A king?

They buried, them with me because they feared to take anything from me, even in death.

"Perhaps," the elf conceded. "All powerful men are feared and respected, but they honored you by wrapping your body in this embroidered cloth and covering your mound with these carved stones."

One of which you stole.

Gair's mouth fell open. So the spirit had been aware of his son's activities on his previous visit. Were all the spirits here so aware? he wondered. All the spirits everywhere? Were the eyes of a hundred dead men on him now? I should end this, Gair thought.

End this? But there is so much left of the night.

The air around him felt thick, and where the snow fell directly in front of him, it did not melt. The elf couldn't see the man, not as he could see images of his father and his sisters, and not as Goldmoon could see Riverwind, he was certain. Yet he sensed the spirit was right in front of him.

Do you fear me, young elf? Do you entertain thoughts of leaving because you are afraid?

For some reason, the elf did. Nevertheless, he said, "No."

You should be afraid.

"I have nothing to fear from the dead." He tarried over the mound. "Still, I should end this soon," he said, "and get back to the settlement, but not just yet. Just a little longer. Another question or two of this Darkhunter."

His mind drifted up to the skeleton's face, and he pictured what the man had looked like in life. If the spirit would not show himself, Gair would use his mystical senses to gain an image. Broad-faced, he had a long, straight nose and dark eyes.

Eyes that Gair felt were directed at him.

"Why do you hate Goldmoon, Darkhunter? You do not know her. You died before she came to this island."

Before she was born. She is a Que-Shu, that much I have pulled from your mind, and that is enough reason to hate her. There are living who hate her, too. Their blood boils at her presence.

Gair focused harder on the remains. Darkhunter had eyebrows that were thick and muddy brown, like the shaggy mane of hair that had once covered the man's head. Blood-soaked beads and feathers were braided down its length along the sides of his angular head, and from the ends of the braids hung polished shells. His lips were thin, set in death as if they were in a perpetual sneer.

Gair felt as if the corpse was sneering at him.

"Goldmoon means no one harm."

But my people mean to harm her. I sense their thoughts, as I sense yours. I sense their anger, and I know their plans. Shadowwalker leads them.

"Enough!" Gair felt the spirit move closer still, felt a chill so intense and unnatural that he gritted his teeth. "Enough! No more questions. I will have no more to do with you!" The elf spat the words as he pulled his hands off the mosaic stones and stepped away from the mound, slamming shut the door between this world and the realm of spirits. "Enough of my curiosity this night. Some doors are better left closed," he said, repeating Goldmoon's words. His breath was ragged, puffing away from his face and melting the snow before it could touch the ground, but on Darkhunter's mound, a thin coating of new snow remained, as if it were colder than the other mounds.

He hurried to the edge of the clearing, still feeling unnaturally chill. He sensed that a bit of Darkhunter's foulness had settled itself in the pit of his stomach. He felt dirty. "Footprints." He cursed himself and retraced his path, remembering to cover his tracks and grab his coat and long sword. "No more visits here," he admonished himself. "I'll keep my conversations to the spirits I know-at least for a while. Father?"

Even that spirit was distant now, the door firmly closed and locked. "All right," he said, needing to hear his own voice. He forced his heart to slow, his breathing to become regular. He used the enchantment Goldmoon had taught him to calm himself. "I'll talk to you later, Father. I'll open the door just a crack when I'm far from here and a few hours have passed."

He left the clearing by backing away, keeping his eyes on the mounds and checking one more time to make sure his tracks had been covered, and then he raced toward the settlement. He paid little heed to the ground he traveled over now, not caring if his boot heels crunched over crusty snow or on fallen nuts or twigs. It was, he'd guessed, five miles or so between the burial ground and the construction site. He'd be back in his tent well before dawn, and with luck, Orvago would be sleeping soundly.

I need time to think, he mused. I must tell Goldmoon about the Que-Nal-that it was they who attacked us weeks ago. Warn her that someone named Shadowwalker means to somehow do her harm. What should I say? How should I tell her I know all about this?

The questions whirled in his mind as he continued headlong toward the settlement, guided by the central campfire, which was especially large for such a late hour.

"They must be celebrating something," Gair said. "Perhaps I'll join them and take my mind off spirits." As the elf neared, his thoughts of merriment turned to horror. It wasn't the central campfire he'd spied. It was the construction site. The building that everyone had labored so diligently to complete was on fire.