Jean Rabe - Dragons of a New Age

“Heard of the Silver Stair?” Dhamon asked as he paid the coins.

The dark man nodded. “The Citadel of Light. Pilgrims have been visiting the site for years.” He passed the coins to Shaon, then pointed to a pair of benches near the center of the deck.

“That’s where I need to go. The Silver Stair.”

“It’s farther up the coast. It’ll cost you more.”

“How much more?” Raph piped up.

“Twenty.”

“Ten,” Blister countered. The kender put her hands on her hips and scowled.

“Done.” The dark man laughed and strode toward the bow.

“You would’ve really paid him twenty—and the hundred he asked for before that?” Blister asked.

Dhamon drew his lips into a straight line. “It’s all the coin I have. But, yes, I would have.”

“You’ve got to learn to bargain, Mr. Grimwulf,” Blister lectured. “If you don’t, you’ll end up without a coin in your pocket. And then you’ll starve.”

Dhamon and the kender hadn’t quite settled themselves on an old bench when two sailors laden with fresh water and fruit climbed aboard. They seemed surprised at the ship’s imminent departure, and started to object, explaining their plans for the evening. But a cross look from Rig and a couple of barked orders cut them off and sent them scurrying to work on the sail. Moments later they were untying the ropes that held the Wind Chaser to the dock and the boat was moving slowly away.

“Stop! Wait for me!” called a voice accompanied by the hurried stomping of bootsteps. Dhamon looked over the rail at the hopeful passenger. “Rig Mer-Krel, you told me you weren’t leaving until tomorrow at the earliest! What do you think you’re doing?”

The captain motioned to Shaon, who rushed to the side and stretched to reach a slender arm over the railing. Dhamon noticed Raph’s filigreed sword hung from Shaon’s hip. Within a heartbeat she had helped aboard a russet-haired, panting dwarf.

“Sorry, Jasper,” Shaon said, as she ruffled her fingers through the curls on his head. “We must’ve got our days mixed up.”

“It was a good thing I saw your sail open,” the dwarf huffed. He grumbled and fished around in his pocket, eventually producing seven steel coins. “The usual place, the Citadel. Just drop me up the coast as close as you can get.”

Blister and Raph opened their mouths, a protest at the dwarf’s small fee playing on their lips. But a glare from Dhamon silenced them. Dhamon inwardly fumed that he’d paid so much more than the dwarf, but he had the sense to keep quiet. At least he had a ride to his rendezvous with the ghost.

The dwarf shuffled toward the bench opposite them and settled onto it, directly across from Blister. Dhamon caught Raph staring at the newcomer. The dwarf did indeed look a little unusual and worth a second glance. The hair on his head was short, no more than a few inches long, and it grazed the tops of his ears. His beard was neatly trimmed, too, and was short—undwarf-like. Dhamon guessed him to be about a hundred years old, in his prime, and fit for his stunted race, wearing a leather tunic over a bright blue shirt and trousers. He lacked the paunch of many of his kind, but not the dour expression. The dwarf grimaced at them.

“Who’re you?” Raph asked.

The dwarf glowered at the kender. “Jasper Fireforge. Shaon says you’re going to Schallsea, too.”

“The Silver Stair,” Raph announced. “Mr. Grimwulf thinks he has to go there, and Blister and me are going too.”

It was Dhamon’s turn to grimace.

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head. A shrug of his stout shoulders parted the neck of his leather tunic, showing a heavy gold chain and a piece of jasper.

“You’re going there,” the young kender persisted. “I overheard you tell the lady—just as you paid her only seven steel.”

“Where I go is my business,” the dwarf returned.

Raph opened his mouth to ask another question.

“And when I go somewhere,” the dwarf interrupted, “I prefer to go there quietly.” He crossed his stubby arms, closed his eyes, and continued to glower.

The rest of the trip passed in an uneasy silence, with the two kender often at the bow, where they could chatter without bothering the dwarf.

The sight of the Citadel of Light left even the noisy kender speechless. The sunlight bouncing off of the Citadel’s many huge crystalline domes made it hard to look directly at the structure, but its beauty drew them closer. Arcs of water from two grand fountains followed the curves of the sparkling buildings and drew attention to the central dome of the citadel. A figure stood in its entryway, waiting.

“She greets all who come here to learn the powers of the heart,” said the dwarf, his mood brightening considerably. He eagerly moved forward and the kender followed him.

Dhamon looked back toward the sea. Rig had agreed to wait just offshore until late afternoon tomorrow—for the promise of another ten pieces of steel. He said he’d bring the rowboat back for them when they signaled. If they took longer than that, the dark man said they’d have to catch him on his return trip next week. Dhamon grudgingly accepted the terms. He didn’t want the Wind Chaser out of sight. He had no desire to be stranded, even though he had no particular place to go.

When Dhamon turned back to face the citadel, he found his companions had left him behind. The figure standing in the entry of the central crystalline dome beckoned to him. He was unsure of what waited for him. He rushed to catch up with his cohorts and found himself breaking into a run, suddenly swept up by an exhilarating wave of emotion that carried him forward.

Dhamon heard the hurried footsteps of the dwarf and the kender behind him and briefly wondered if he should have slowed his pace to accommodate them. He wasn’t sure of what had come over him. He had sped right by. It wasn’t like him to be pointedly rude. He turned to retrace his steps and apologize to them.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

The voice was familiar. He turned to see a small woman with pale, wrinkled skin. Her white robe fluttered in the sea breeze and outlined her slight frame.

“I have been calling out to many warriors who visited the tomb, but you were the first to answer my summons.”

It was the phantom woman, but her voice sounded softer than when he’d heard her near Solace and she looked much older than the young woman he saw at The Last Heroes Tomb. Her blond hair was wispy, and contained thick streaks of white. Her blue eyes were dull and rheumy. The strong sunlight revealed the lines on her face, and Dhamon could see that the flesh on her arms and along her jaw sagged slightly.

She was an old woman, seventy or eighty, he guessed, though she exuded a matronly air and carried herself with a quiet grace and dignity. Her gait was slow, but he could tell she was not infirm. There was a presence about her, a sensation of power.

“Please, come closer.” Her voice was soft, not much above a whisper.

Dhamon’s eyes locked onto hers, but he held his place. “I can see you well enough from here,” he said.

“Tell me what brought you to the tomb.”

Dhamon gave a slight shrug. “I came to the tomb to pay my respects to the knights. That’s why most people go there, isn’t it? But the tomb has nothing to do with why I’m here.” He paused and pursed his lips. “And just why am I here?”

“I go to the tomb to honor my friends,” she replied, ignoring his questions.

“Who are you?”

“I am Goldmoon of the Qué-Shu.”

He stared at her as he searched his memory. Was this the Goldmoon, a Hero of the Lance? Was she the woman who fought in the War of the Lance and helped to restore healing magic to Krynn? The age would be about right, he mused.