Mark Anthony - Kindred Spirits

But the Speaker looked dubious. “It’s beautiful, but it’s so elaborate. Are you sure you can fashion this in two weeks?”

Flint winked, and dipped a handful of dried figs and glazed almonds from the silver bowl on the desk. The bowl always seemed to be full whenever the dwarf arrived, but Flint never paused to consider the significance of that; he merely congratulated himself on his good fortune in having a friend whose taste in snacks mirrored his own. ‘The hard part is the thinking,” the dwarf said. “The rest comes easily.

“Is the design all right?” Hint waited confidently, knowing the Speaker would be pleased but wanting to hear him say it.

“It’s perfect.” Solostaran said.

A smile split the dwarf’s face. “Good. Then I’ll get working right away.” He reached for his drawing.

Solostaran’s voice stopped him. “Master Fireforge. Flint.”

The dwarf looked at his friend.

“What are people saying in the aftermath of Lord Xenoth’s death?” the Speaker asked quietly.

Flint’s hand remained suspended above the parchment. Then he slowly rolled up the sketch. “Well, you know I don’t have much business with many of the courtiers now.” Especially since he’d taken Tanis’s side after the tylor hunt, he might have added.

“What are the common folk saying, then?”

Flint tied a string around the rolled paper and exhaled slowly. “Lord Xenoth wasn’t much liked by many people, especially those he considered… lower-class,” he said carefully. “But many elves also approved of his views about keeping Qualinesti apart from the rest of Krynn.” He decided to plunge on ahead. ‘Those same elves don’t approve of my being here, and they’re not overly fond of allowing half-elves to live in the city, either.”

‘There are fanatics on every issue,” Solostaran murmured. “The question is, how prevalent are they?”

“That I don’t know, sir.”

Solostaran smiled wanly. “Call me ‘Speaker,’ “ he said. “Remember when I told you that, the day you arrived in Qualinost?”

“Remember?” The dwarf hooted. “How could I forget? How many folks get lessons in court decorum from the Speaker of the Sun himself?”

Solostaran didn’t speak, and eventually his smile and Flint’s grin faded. “Many of the courtiers are not pleased, Flint. They say… they say I am protecting Tanthalas because he is my ward. They say I should banish him.”

Banish Tanis? “That’s absurd,” Flint said. “He didn’t kill Xenoth. Didn’t Miral explain how the burst of magic might have diverted the second arrow?”

“Flint,” Solostaran said, “I have talked to a number of magic-users in the past weeks, and they all agree. Circumstances such as those Miral painted are extremely unlikely. His explanation would call for the tylor’s powerful magic to ‘ricochet’ off a weak mage like Miral and somehow force one small arrow off course to land in an elf’s chest. They say it’s not impossible, but not probable, either. For one thing, such an occurrence most likely would have killed any but a powerful mage.

“For the past weeks, I’ve been going from expert to expert, hoping to find one who will say, ‘Yes, that’s probably what happened.’ “

Solostaran pushed his leather chair away from the massive table and turned to face the huge windows. “It can’t be done, Flint. No one who understands magic will say that.” Despite the blazing heat outside, the marble and quartz building stayed cool inside. Flint shivered.

“What will you do. Speaker?”

“What can I do?” Solostaran demanded, his angry movements rustling his robe of state. “I am left with a situation in which the closest eyewitness-and someone I trust absolutely-says that the most obvious explanation-that Tanis aimed badly-simply is not true. The other explanations that would exonerate my ward are deemed virtually impossible by elves who should know.

“That leaves me with one conclusion. What happened to Xenoth could not have happened. Yet it obviously did.” The Speaker paced before the window wall. “My courtiers feel I should ‘do something,’ but the result they want appears morally indefensible to me. I cannot banish Tanthalas solely because some hidebound members of court resent his presence and have found a way to get rid of him. And yet…”

He returned to his chair, where he slumped backward. “Somehow I always get back to ‘and yet…’ “

Flint cast about for a reply, but none was forthcoming. All he could promise to do was to think on the subject, and to keep his ears open to gauge elven opinion on the matter.

When Flint emerged from the Tower of the Sun moments later, prepared to walk slowly down the blue and white tiled streets to his shop, a familiar figure was waiting on the steps of the Tower. A small crowd of admiring children had gathered around Fleetfoot, who lifted her graying muzzle and brayed enthusiastically as Flint drew near. A ragged length of rope hung from the collar that Flint had fashioned for her-his latest attempt to clip her wings.

“You doorknob of a mule!” the dwarf huffed. “Only a kender could be a bigger pest.” He grabbed the chewed length of rope and hauled the infatuated animal along the street.

The scorching weather, so unusual for Qualinost forced even calm sleepers into nightmares. And Miral was no exception.

He was back in the cavern. Stalactites, glowing with some inner light-the only illumination in the cave-dripped from the ceiling. Stalagmites had grown up from the damp floor. He could barely keep his balance on the slippery surface.

He looked down then and saw that he was wearing the type of thin leather sandals that elven children wore. His playsuit was torn and filthy from all the falls he’d taken.

Miral didn’t know how long he’d been in the cavern. It seemed like days, but time was fluid for young children. He was not hungry. As he’d clambered about the caverns, moving through tunnel after tunnel, always seeking the Presence that called him, he’d fortuitously found food whenever hunger pangs gripped him. Like a child, he did not question these finds; he merely ate his fill and moved on.

He was not really frightened. When he’d longed for a nap, he had found a warm pallet by one of the walls, with a down pillow and a flannel comforter turned back as if to beckon to him. And when he’d awakened, a plate of toasted quith-pa with cinnamon and sugar had been waiting.

Little Miral had accepted these gifts, and never questioned where they came from. If he’d been asked, he’d have said that his mama probably sent them, though he hadn’t seen her in what seemed like ages-ever since she’d called to him to “Come back here immediately, young elf,” so long ago at the mouth of the cave.

He had no idea where the cave mouth was anymore. He had no idea where Qualinost was, or Mama.

The Presence called from deep in the cavern. With the calling, however, came a buzzing, a roaring that confused young Miral. He was alternately frightened and consoled by the sound.

The Presence wanted him. It would comfort him.

Suddenly, the calling became more urgent, as though the Presence were fearful and angry at once. Come this way, little elf. Come this way. I will protect you. I will provide everything you want, if you only set me free. Come this way.

At that moment, Miral knew where to go. The Presence told him. He set his pudgy toddler’s legs moving and began to run down one stone corridor after another. He spurted around one last corner, knowing that the Presence was nearby, and…

Sudden light flared through the new chamber that Miral found himself in. For minutes afterward, he could not see. The sense of great good was gone from the Presence. In its place was overweening evil.