Mark Anthony - Kindred Spirits

He grew hoarse from screaming, shrieking for his mama, running in circles from the buzzing that reverberated through the cavern, which suddenly lacked entrances and exits. In the middle of the cavern-the source of the noise, the light, the terror, he understood even in his young innocence-stood a pulsating gem larger than his head. Its faceted sides sent beams of gray and red darting into every depression in the rock. His eyes ached, yet closing them did not keep the rays out. He renewed his sobbing.

The gray gem wanted him. Its words pounded inside his tiny head. Release me. Let me go and I will give you everything you want. Pictures of toys, Mama, Eld Ailea, delectable foods, appeared in succession before his eyes. Miral felt feverish. His voice was raspy; he wanted a drink.

Suddenly, a cup of sweetened water appeared before him, suspended in midair. When he lunged for it, it vanished. The combination of the familiar and the impossible set the little boy wailing. He spotted a crevice along one wall and ran to squeeze himself into it. He pressed back, far back, while every monster he feared as a child threatened him from the cavern.

Then came the part he knew was coming-the strong hand yanking him farther back into the crevice.

Miral awakened, bathed in perspiration.

A.C. 308, Midsummer

More than a week later, Flint was working on Porthios’s Kentommen medallion when Lord Tyresian walked through the doorway of the dwarf’s stone dwelling-without knocking, of course, Flint noticed. Only, Tanis was welcome entering the shop without giving a warning. Even Fleetfoot knocked, in a way, her hooves’ noise usually giving the dwarf enough warning to leap for the door.

The weather had cooled since the blazing heat of a week earlier. It was the kind of day that made most folks want to pack quith-pa, cheese, and pickled vegetables in a picnic basket and head for one of the ravine overlooks. But the dwarf had no thought for relaxation. He was running apace with a deadline; the Kentommen was only a week away.

With the holiday impending, of course, numerous Qualinost nobles had discovered metalwork that they simply had to have completed before Porthios’s coming-of-age ceremony. Flint took their work but gave them all the same answer: He was working on an assignment for the Speaker of the Sun and, alas, might very well get to the supplicants’ projects after the Kentommen. They weren’t happy, of course, but the elves of Qualinost had long ago learned that Flint Fireforge, while he was undeniably the most gifted metal-artisan around, also could be as unyielding as a minotaur.

The two disks that would go into the medal lay before him; he was painstakingly cutting into the gold fore plate with a thin-bladed chisel and a small hammer. He surveyed the effect critically; the chisel gave the openings a rough-edged look that he rather liked. It worked especially well in fashioning the trees. “That’s a good thing, too, seeing as I’ve got no time to do it over,” he muttered.

That was when the door swung open, the chime sounded, and the arrogant elf lord with the short blond hair appeared in the portal.

“Dwarf, I require your services,” Tyresian announced. Taking his time, Flint covered the components of the medallion with his sketch, looked up from his chair next to the table, and flashed the elf lord a smile that looked more like a dog baring its teeth. “Come in, Lord Tyresian.” He pointed his chisel at his stone bench. “Have a seat.”

Under elven protocol, Flint should have risen to his feet when the elven noble entered the room, though he and So-lostaran had long since dispensed with that formality on occasions when the Speaker visited the dwarf alone. Tyresian, however, flushed with annoyance. The fact that the elf lord did not complain of the slight was proof to the dwarf that Tyresian wanted the dwarf’s services badly. That brought another smile to Flint’s face.

“What service is it that you ‘require’?” Flint asked expres-sionlessly, leaning back in his chair. He again pointed to the bench with the chisel. “Have a seat.”

Tyresian appeared uncertain whether to sit where the dwarf told him-and thus appear to be following an underling’s orders-or to remain standing, which might imply that he, not Flint, was the underling. He compromised by moving restlessly through the room, never stopping long enough to sit anywhere. After wandering insolently around the room, surveying the hutch, Flint’s cot, his carved chest, and the forge, Tyresian drew his short sword and presented it, hilt forward, to the dwarf.

Wordlessly, Flint accepted the weapon and examined it. It was a ceremonial weapon, carried on formal occasions, encrusted with emeralds and moonstones and inlaid with steel. The weapon, if sold, could feed a Qualinesti family for eight months.

“Not very practical in battle,” Flint commented.

“It’s for state occasions,” Tyresian said loftily.

“Such as the Kentommen of Porthios Kanan,” the dwarf finished. The elf lord nodded.

Flint resumed his examination of the weapon. The wood of the hilt had split badly; some of the steel inlay had dropped out, and one gem-an emerald, he judged, from looking at the pattern- had fallen out. It was not a simple repair job; a skilled craftsman would have to rebuild the implement, abandoning all other work during that time.

“It would take a week,” Flint finally said. “I don’t have time.”

The elf lord’s temper flared and his eyes snapped blue fire, but he kept his voice as bland as the dwarf’s. “The Kentommen is still a week away, Master Fireforge.”

“I have other work.”

Tyresian straightened. “Then put it aside. Do this assignment.”

Flint handed the short sword back to the elf lord. “Perhaps you can find another metalsmith to fix this.”

“But…”

The arrival of Eld Ailea and Tanis interrupted Lord Tyresian’s remark. The old midwife was dressed in exuberant colors, as usual-striped yellow and blue overblouse, red gathered skirt, and red slippers, all embroidered with pale yellow daisies. Next to her, Tanis looked practically colorless in tan shirt and leggings. Between them-a situation made lopsided by the great height disparity between the midwife and the half-elf-they lugged a huge woven basket filled to the top with ears of corn. In his spare hand Tanis carried a small plate with an overturned bowl on top. They paused on the doorstep and, squinting in the bright midday light, peered into the gloom of the dwarf’s shop.

“Lunch, Flint!” Ailea sang, her round eyes large in her triangular face. “Just-picked sweet corn!”

“With fresh butter,” Tanis added, holding out the crockery.

Then Lord Tyresian moved into the rectangle of light near the door, and their faces fell.

“Well, look at this,” the elf lord said laconically, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at both of them. “Two murderers keeping time together. Comparing notes, perhaps? The virtues of shooting an arrow into Lord Xenoth’s chest versus, say, letting my mother die in childbirth? Oh, but I forgot, Tanis. Ailea allowed your mother to die as well, didn’t she?”

Eld Ailea went white under her tan; her hand went to her mouth, stifling a small cry. Moving menacingly toward Tyresian, Tanis dropped his hold on the basket, and two ears rolled off the pile and bounced into the flowers outside Flint’s door.

Then suddenly, Flint was between them, his back against Tanis, shoving him back out into the sunshine, and one hand against Tyresian’s chest. The dwarf’s voice was frightening in its quietness.

“Leave, elf,” he said to Lord Tyresian, spitting out each word, “or I will show you what an experienced fighter can do.”