Mark Anthony - Kindred Spirits

“If we elves seem unbending to you, Master Fireforge,” Solostaran said gently but evenly, “try to remember that our ‘unbending’ elven commitment to tradition and constancy has protected us when other, more changeable, races have foundered in turmoil. That is why I proceed with such caution in allowing increased trade with outside nations-although any relaxation of tradition is anathema to some of the courtiers-and why I take reservations such as Tyresian’s and Xenoth’s very seriously.”

The dwarf nodded, and the Speaker added briskly, “But I am here for a reason-in addition to investigating rumors that my dear friend was about to breathe his last. I am glad to see that the rumors appear unfounded.”

Don’t count on it, the dwarf started to say, but held his tongue. He merely contemplated the Speaker, who asked, “You have heard of the ceremony called the Kentommen?”

Flint nodded, and the golden-robed lord went on, “We have spent much of this past winter planning for Porthios’s Kentommen, which will be held in the Tower of the Sun less than two months hence.”

The two looked at each other across the bungalow’s bare stone floor, then Solostaran cast a glance toward the forge.

“I would like you to fashion a special medal honoring the occasion. I would present such a cherished medal to Porthios during the Kentommen”

The Speaker of the Sun drew in a deep breath. “I would like this ceremony to draw the elven nobles back together, Master Fireforge. I fear that recent… changes… have fostered some division, and I want this ceremony to draw their attention to my commitment to certain-” He smiled- “unchanging elven traditions.

“I don’t need to say, my friend, that the success of this ceremony could go a long way toward cementing Porthios’s claim to the Speakership. And your medal, which I would give him, would be part of that.”

“Do you have a design in mind?” Flint asked.

Solostaran rose and placed his empty mug on the table. “I have ideas, of course, but I would prefer to see what you devise. Of all those around me, Master Fireforge, you may well know me the best. And this knowledge could stand you in good stead now.”

He fell silent, as though thinking of something far off the subject, and Flint quietly said, “I would be honored to fashion such a medal for the ceremony.”

Solostaran looked up and smiled; rare warmth sprang into his eyes. “Thank you, Flint.” The dwarf suddenly saw how tired the Speaker appeared, as though he had spent long nights in restless-or no-sleep. The Speaker seemed to note the sympathy in Flint’s perusal. “The way to the Speakership is full of hurdles, Flint. Look at my own family.”

Flint, deciding that he wasn’t going to die after all, shrugged back the blanket, reached over to his wooden chest, and pulled out a fresh shirt, white linen embroidered with aspen leaves along the collar, compliments of the Speaker’s tailor. He pulled the garment over his head. “You mean the death of Tanis’s fath-of your brother?”

“The deaths of Kethrenan and Elansa, certainly,” Solostaran agreed, “but also the death of Arelas, my youngest brother. My parents had three children, but only one survives. Qualinost may well find the Speakership going, not to Porthios, but to Gilthanas or even Laurana, if the occasion warrants.”

“Arelas?” Flint said, prompting the Speaker.

“Arelas was born only a few years after Kethrenan, and he died shortly after my middle brother did.”

“What a painful time for you,” the dwarf said softly.

Solostaran looked up. “For all of us, yes. Kethrenan died, and Elansa was like a living ghost, waiting for her child to be born. There was a pall over the court that we could not shake.” He watched as the dwarf struggled into green breeches and socks of dark brown wool. “Then we got word through a visitor to Caergoth that Arelas had left that city and was coming back here.”

He smiled. “You should have seen the difference in the court, my friend. My younger brother had left Qualinost as a young child, decades before, and had not returned. Then in the middle of all this… this pain, he was returning.

“I felt as though I had lost one brother and gained another, and although the pain was still great over Kethrenan’s death, there was some solace in realizing that I would finally get to know this young brother. I hardly knew Arelas, you see. He left court at a very young age.”

Flint pondered. Why would a noble family of Qualinost send its youngest child away? Although he said nothing, the question must have shown in his eyes.

“Arelas was quite ill as a child. Several times he almost died, and elven healers seemed powerless to help him. Finally, my father, the Speaker, ordered him sent to a group of clerics near Caergoth, across the Straits of Schallsea, where there was an elven cleric whom my father knew, who had had great success with illness that seemed beyond hope.

“Arelas thrived there, and the cleric sent him back here after a year. But he quickly sickened again. It almost seemed as though something in Qualinost itself was draining him, drawing off his strength. My father, fearing to lose his youngest son, sent him back to Caergoth for good. There were no visits. You know how it is here. The highest families leave Qualinost only rarely, sometimes never. But we received regular reports that Arelas was doing well.”

Flint drew closer to the Speaker. The only light in Flint’s shop, the fire in the forge, threw strange shadows on Solos-taran’s face. “Something happened when Arelas returned?”

Solostaran frowned. “He never arrived. Weeks went by, until I thought my mother would weaken and die from the suspense.” He shrugged. “Then we received word in the form of Miral, who bore a letter from my brother and a sad tale of his death at the hands of brigands. The letter expressed Arelas’s love, his indebtedness to Miral, and a request that I offer Miral a position at court.” He smiled sadly. “It was obvious that Miral was a very low-level mage. He could do little magic, easing stomach-aches and headaches, casting minor illusion spells. But little else.”

Flint remembered how the mage had been able to ease his choking fit after his first bout with elvenblossom wine. “Such skills are nothing to sneeze at,” he said.

Solostaran moved into the doorway and laid a gentle hand on the climbing rose blooming around the portal. “Miral is an intelligent, kind elf, and if he is of little use as a mage, he was a gifted tutor for Tanis, Gilthanas, and Laurana. I’ve never regretted my decision to let him live here.”

The Speaker glanced at the late afternoon bustle of elves winding up their day’s business. “I am late,” he said simply, and left the discussion at that.

After practice with Tyresian, Tanis found himself wandering the streets of the city. The clouds that had drenched him and Flint only hours before had dissipated. The heavy gold of afternoon slipped toward the deepening purple of twilight, and the air was sweet with the scent of spring blossoms.

To the north, the Tower of the Sun glittered. In the city’s center, the Hall of the Sky opened its arms to the heavens.

On the west side of the city, however, was what might have been, at least to some, Qualinost’s greatest wonder, and it was there that Tanis found his footsteps leading him.

Built into a natural hollow in the earth was a vast amphitheater. The only seats were the gentle, grassy slopes themselves, encircling a great platform in the amphitheater’s center. The circular area was laid with the type of tiled mosaic that Qualinost was famous for; this mosaic depicted in sparkling hues the coming of Kith-Kanan and his people to the forest of Qualinesti. The mosaic spanned the surface of the circle, and Tanis had always believed it must contain as many glimmering tiles as there were stars in the night sky.