Mark Anthony - Kindred Spirits

If possible, Tyresian had become more sure of himself in the twenty years that Flint had known him. Even with his short hair, so unusual among the elves, the elf lord was handsome, with sharp, even features and keen eyes the color of the autumn sky. Tyresian gestured with grace as he spoke with the Speaker, and even standing in the doorway of the dwarf’s rude lodgings, clad in only a plain, dove-gray tunic, there was a commanding presence about him.

“People are saying that the appearance of a creature as rare and as dangerous as a tylor is evidence that your policies regarding outsiders”-and here the lord’s gaze flicked to Flint, then, preposterously, to the half-elf-”are misplaced.”

Solostaran halted and faced the elf lord, the Speaker’s face finally showing a shadow of emotion. The emotion, however, was amusement. “That’s an interesting leap, Lord Tyresian,” he said. “Tell me how you made it.”

“Understand, please, that I’m not stating my own views, Speaker, rather the views of others as I’ve heard them,” the blue-eyed elf lord said smoothly.

“Indeed,” Solostaran said drily.

“I simply know that you, as Speaker of the Sun, are interested in the views of your subjects,” Tyresian added.

“Please get to the point.” Solostaran’s voice showed annoyance for the first time since the pair had appeared in Flint’s doorway. As yet, however, neither newcomer had greeted the dwarf. Flint glanced at Tanis. The face of the dwarf’s friend had reverted to the mulish expression that the half-elf always showed when anyone other than Flint, Miral, or Laurana were around. Tanis’s expression would have done Fleetfoot proud, the dwarf thought.

Flint opened his mouth to interject, but Tyresian resumed, brushing one hand through his short blond hair.

Flint noticed that the elf’s arms, exposed by the short-sleeved spring shirt he wore under his tunic, were marked with scars-the results, no doubt, of years of swordplay with his companion Ulthen.

“They say that tylors tend to prefer hidden lairs near well-used trails, so that the creatures can prey on travelers. They say that even though you have continued to bar most travelers from Qualinost”-and the elf lord speared Flint with a glance-”trade has increased the numbers of elves heading out of the city, and out of the kingdom, with goods.”

“Lord Tyresian…” Solostaran’s patience had been strained, but the elf lord was too wound up now to give way to court decorum.

“They say, Speaker, that it was wrong, was ‘unelven,’ to install those… those gnomish bathtubs in the palace.”

Flint snorted-a fairly easy task with a cold; Tanis laughed. Tyresian flushed and looked daggers at the two.

Solostaran appeared to be caught between laughing and launching into a tirade. His gaze caught that of Flint, whose steel-gray eyes were twinkling. “Care for a cup of mulled elvenblossom wine, Speaker, Tyresian?” the dwarf said, and snuffled. “My friend here has offered to prepare some for a sick dwarf.”

Solostaran, turning his back to Lord Tyresian, winked broadly at the dwarf and Tanis. “I’ll pass up your kind offer, Master Fireforge, but thank you. And I believe Lord Tyresian was looking for Tanthalas.”

Tyresian’s anger was barely controlled. “Speaker, I must press for a commitment on that other matter.”

Solostaran whirled. “You ‘must press’?” he demanded.

“Your actions now could affect your children later, Speaker,” Tyresian said coldly.

Solostaran drew himself up to his full height. His eyes flashed green fire. Suddenly he appeared half a hand taller than the young elf-and a good deal too strong a presence to be contained in Flint’s bungalow. “You dare to press me on such a matter in a public setting?”

Tyresian paled. The elf lord hastened to apologize and withdrew hastily with the half-elf in tow. Even as the two disappeared out the door, Flint could hear Tyresian begin to transfer his ire to Tanis. “You had better hope you practiced that technique I showed you yesterday, half -elf.” The threat hung in the air as the pair’s footsteps faded.

The Speaker made a gesture as if to follow them; then his hand fell to his side and he turned back to Flint.

“I don’t envy Tanis his archery lesson today,” the dwarf said mildly, daubing his nose with his handkerchief. He gestured toward the forge. “The fare isn’t of royal quality – Tanis is only a passable cook – but it’s wholesome. If you care to join a dying dwarf, that is.” He coughed weakly.

Flint put on such a pathetic look, bundled and clutching his nearly empty mug, that Solostaran burst into laughter.

“Dying, Flint? I don’t think so. You’re the healthiest one among us – physically and otherwise.”

Confined alone with Flint, the Speaker let some of his formality fall away; he refilled Flint’s tea, ignored the dwarf’s wheezing request for “one last tankard of ale before I die,” and decided, after all, to enjoy a mug of mulled elvenblossom wine. Waving aside Flint’s movement as if to prepare the wine, Solostaran heated the beverage and dropped in a pinch of mulling spices he found in a tiny crock in Flint’s hutch. Sipping the drink, the Speaker sat comfortably on the carved chest that held Flint’s meager wardrobe. That’s the leader of all the Qualinesti elves who just served me tea, Flint thought, wondering at his fortune.

“I have a metalsmithing project for you, Master Fireforge, if you’re willing and healthy enough.”

“I’m healthy enough. And when have I not been willing?” Flint rejoined, knowing full well that he could get away with reduced court decorum when he was alone with his friend. Still, Solostaran’s recent display of authority reminded him not to strain the friendship too far. “Sir.”

Solostaran looked quickly at Flint, then let his scrutiny wander over the dwarf’s tidy cot, well-kept forge, and damp clothes – including the emerald-green tunic the Speaker had ordered made for the dwarf twenty years earlier – spread over two chairs. The boots, leather already growing crinkly as it dried, had been placed several feet from the forge, under Flint’s table. The room smelled of wet wool.

The Speaker’s voice, when he finally began to speak, was weary. He took a sip of wine. “You may wonder why I stand such insolence from someone in my court,” he said.

“Actually, I figured it was none of my-”

“As you know, Tyresian comes from one of the highest families in Qualinost-the Third Family. Tyresian’s father did me a great service years ago-so great, indeed, that had he not stood by me then, I might not be Speaker now.”

Flint wondered what kind of good deed had been involved, but he decided that if Solostaran wanted him to know, he would tell him. Instead, the dwarf slurped his tea, poked his feet nearer the fire, and waited.

“Tyresian is one of the best archers at court,” Solostaran mused, as if his thoughts were far away. Outside, the sun settled lower in the afternoon sky, casting a buttery glow over Qualinost that was matched by the orange light emanating from Flint’s forge. It’s more like autumn than spring, the dwarf thought, then forced his attention back to the Speaker as the lord of the elves continued. “He has been hard on Tanis, I am aware-Yes, I know more of what passes at court than I let on, my friend-but I cannot forget that Tyresian’s teachings have made Tanis nearly as good with the longbow as Tyresian himself is.

“I only wish Lord Tyresian were not so… so…” Solostaran groped for the word.

“… so traditionally elven?” Flint supplied.

“… so unbending.”

Flint gulped down the rest of his tea, not venturing to sneak a look at the Speaker until he’d drained the last drop. Still, he looked up to find Solostaran watching him intently, face pitched downward so that his pointed ears were visible through his golden hair.