Mark Anthony - Kindred Spirits

Slowly, deftly, Flint lured Tanis past the entrancing displays in the Grand Market and back to the dwarf’s shop. They entered silently, Flint trying out various small speeches in his head, but ultimately, wordless, not knowing what to say, Flint stalked over to the table, where something long and slender lay concealed beneath a dark cloth.

“What is it?” Tanis asked, stepping nearer.

“Just something I finished last night,” Flint said, and then he whisked the cloth away.

The sword lay beneath, bright as a bolt of lightning frozen still and solid. Several dozen arrowheads, dull black and wickedly sharp, lay next to the sword.

Tanis’s eyes, of course, went straight to the sword. “Flint, it’s a wonder,” Tanis said softly, reaching out a hand to brush the cool metal.

“Do you like it?” Flint asked, raising his bushy eyebrows. “It’s a gift, you know.”

“For…” The half-elf trailed off, and his face went stony. For a shocked half-moment, the dwarf feared that Tanis didn’t like the sword; then he saw Tanis’s hands clench, and he realized his friend was fighting back some strong emotion. “Oh, I couldn’t take it,” the half-elf said softly at last, gazing at the weapon with covetous eyes.

“Sure you can,” Flint said testily. “You’d better, lad.”

Tanis hesitated a few heartbeats longer, then reached for the sword with a tentative hand. Finally, he grasped the hilt. It was cool and smooth, and somehow it felt right. A shiver ran up his spine. The sword was more than a weapon. It was a thing of cool beauty.

‘Thank you, Flint,” he said softly.

The dwarf waved away the half-elf’s words. “Just find a use for the thing, and I’ll be happy,” he said.

“Oh,” said Tanis fervently, “I will.”

Even after all his years amid the elves, Flint still felt awed every time he set foot within the Tower of the Sun, and he never failed to pause for a moment just outside the central chamber’s gilded doors and shut his eyes, paying silent respect to the dwarven craftsmen who had built it so long ago.

The great doors swung open before him this afternoon, their bas-relief cherubs grinning wickedly for a second as they angled away, looking at the dwarf out of the corners of their eyes. Flint shook the notion from his head and stepped inside, being careful not to look all the way up at the six-hundred-foot ceiling.

It’s not that it makes my stomach a bit flopsy to gaze all the way up there, mind you, Flint told himself. I just don’t want to spoil it all by going and looking at it every single time I walk into the room.

Most of the courtiers had arrived, Flint saw, but the Speaker himself was absent, as was Tanis. “Sure as a hammer is heavy, he’ll be late,” Flint grumbled, shaking his head so that his beard wagged back and forth. Figuring he was on his own for a while, he moved away from the gathered elves, leaned against one of the pillars that lined the chamber, and waited for court to begin.

Courtiers, opulently attired in long tunics of green, brown, and russet silk embroidered with silver and gold thread, stood in groups around the hall, their quiet voices echoing in the upper reaches of the Tower. Much of the conversation, Flint realized as he stood by the pillar, centered on the Tower guards’ inability to catch the tylor.

“How difficult can it be to locate one twenty- or thirty-foot monster?” one old elf complained. “In my day, the beast would have been slain days ago.”

The elf’s companion sought to mitigate the elder one’s ire. “The forest is large and magical. The Speaker should form a special troop, with a wizard and the best-trained men, to track, corner, and slay the beast.” The old elf nodded his agreement.

“Everyone’s an expert,” Flint muttered.

Porthios’s friends Ulthen and Selena, the woman’s slender arm entwined around the elven lord’s waist, glided by and took up a position on the other side of the pillar. Selena’s eyes, the dwarf saw, were constantly on, not her companion Ulthen, but Litanas, Lord Xenoth’s new assistant, who stood with the adviser at the foot of the rostrum. Flint moved over a foot or so, hoping they wouldn’t see him. He knew Selena, Litanas, and Ulthen were part of the group of elves that didn’t want outsiders in court, even though the blond Selena rarely failed to gush over Flint’s “wonderful dwarven artistry” when she saw him.

Selena’s cutting voice came clearly to his ears.

“Well, Litanas told me that Tyresian threatened Xenoth if the adviser didn’t stop throwing impediments in his way. But Litanas didn’t know exactly what the argument was about. I think Xenoth hides things from Litanas, which just isn’t fair because Lord Litanas is one of the most intelli-”

Ulthen tried to quiet her. “Selena, your voice…” he said.

“Oh, Ulthen, leave me be. Anyway, Litanas said…”

Ulthen grimaced, and Flint realized that the young lord probably heard “Litanas said” a lot.

“Well, I heard that the Speaker is going to cancel the Kentommen until the tylor is captured.”

Ulthen’s voice was growing impatient. “Oh, Selena, don’t be ridiculous.”

Her voice rocketed to a screech. “Ridiculous! How safe do you think it is, to have people coming in from all over, on the same trails that the tylor has made so dangerous?”

Ulthen-and Flint, on the other side of the pillar-had to admit that Selena had a point. Perhaps that’s what this announcement was all about. It would almost certainly be the first time a Kentommen was canceled; tradition dictated that the ceremony be held on the lord’s ninety-ninth birthday, and quite a crisis would be required to delay one.

Just then the gilded doors swung open, and the Speaker stepped through, followed by Laurana. The reflected sunlight that filled the Tower shimmered off his green-gold robes, and Solostaran walked with regal grace into the chamber. Flint made his way toward his friend.

The Speaker was greeting various courtiers, exchanging pleasantries, but Flint noticed immediately that there was something odd about the Speaker today. If the Speaker of the Sun had changed at all in the twenty years that Flint had known him, then the dwarf was unaware of the differences; the Speaker stood as straight as the Tower itself, his face still as timeless as the marble of the Tower’s inner walls. But today, though his eyes were normally as clear and warm as a midsummer’s day, there was a troubled look in them.

“Master Fireforge,” the Speaker said as he turned to see the dwarf standing patiently beside him, not wishing to interrupt the Speaker’s conversation with the courtiers. “I am glad you could be here.”

“I’ll always come, should you ask it,” Flint said. For the first time, he noticed a faint wrinkle in the Speaker’s smooth brow, beneath his gold circlet of state.

The Speaker smiled at the dwarf, but the expression seemed wan. “Thank you, Flint,” he said, and Flint was slightly surprised. It was the first time he could remember the Speaker calling him by his first name in a formal setting. “I fear I’m going to need a friend such as you today.”

“I don’t understand,” Flint said.

“The bonds of friendship are strong, Flint, but sometimes they can bind too tightly.” The Speaker’s gaze flicked over the crowd, came to rest on Lord Xenoth and Litanas, then moved away.

“Oh, I see,” Flint said gruffly. “I’ll just leave you alone, then.”

“No, Master Fireforge,” the Speaker said then, placing his hands on Flint’s shoulders before the dwarf could walk away. A hint of a smile played across his lips before drifting away again. “I am speaking of a different sort of friendship, that between two houses. While such ties have helped me- and my father before me-in the past, I regret the price I must pay for that friendship now.”