Mark Anthony - Kindred Spirits

The elf wrenched his attention from Qualinost and looked at Tanis. He then shook his head and began moving toward the ravineside path. “It was dark. He was hooded. Did you see him?”

Tanis shook his head and explained what had happened between his escape from the palace and his dive off the cliff. He diverted Gilthanas from his trek toward the path, returning to the crevasse that Flint had disappeared into. Tanis shouted for the dwarf; he tossed pebbles down the slender opening to see if he could tell by sound how far his friend might have fallen. There was no reply, and Tanis was too large to fit into the hole.

“We have to hurry,” Gilthanas urged.

Tanis, still not sure he should leave Flint, hesitated. Gilthanas swiftly reached over and drew Tanis’s sword from his scabbard. It never occurred to the half-elf to stop the cousin he trusted-then suddenly Tanis was facing the point of his own blade. His mother’s pendant formed a spot of silvery light on the hilt. Forest birds continued to chatter around the pair as though nothing were amiss.

“What are you doing?” Tanis whispered.

“You’re my prisoner,” Gilthanas said formally. “You’ve violated an order of the Speaker. It’s my sworn duty as a ceremonial guard to arrest you and return you to Qualinost for judgment.”

Tanis glanced again at the sword that Flint had made for him, then up at Gilthanas. The serious look on his cousin’s face squelched any protest, Tanis pondered the situation. He was stronger and larger than his slight cousin, and he had a dagger. Tanis knewJKie could overpower Gilthanas, even if his cousin was armed with the half-elf’s sword.

But then what would he do? Tie up Gilthanas and leave him here unguarded? Such a prospect might be acceptable nearer to Qualinost, with folk about, but the area around the Kentommenai-kath was deserted. Reluctantly, silently vowing to return, Tanis allowed Gilthanas to lead him away from the crevasse.

The chute was a ventilation shaft, Flint decided. He looked straight up, about twenty-five feet. Striving to avoid straining his tender shoulder, the dwarf angled his stocky body through the opening and crawled into the chute, which was about as wide as a barrel of ale-a wistful thought that Flint quickly squelched. He stood atop the litter of old pine cones and dirt; near the wall lay the desiccated skeleton of something about the size of a raccoon. He tried not to think of the animal dying down here, however many years ago.

The dwarf saw a circle of light at the top, with a few spruce branches waving far above that. He searched for handholds-no luck. The shaft may have been wide enough for him to inch his way up by bracing his shoulders on one side and his feet on the other, but his shoulder was too weak; his attempts only landed him with an “oof!” on the spongy bottom of the chute.

“Reorx!” he said softly. Then, louder, “Reorx’s hammer!” He sat, disconsolate, at the shaft’s bottom. His fingers traced the scars that stoneworkers had etched into the walls millennia ago-T-shaped chisel marks. The shaft’s artisans were long dead now, probably plying their craft with Reorx in the afterlife. Flint examined one of the T-scars; he’d seen a mark just like it on Lord Tyresian’s forearm. Unbidden, the sight of Eld Ailea lying dead before her fireplace came to Flint’s mind again: The exposed calf, the purple skirt, the sleeve pushed up to her elbow. The “T,” the scar, the heir, he recalled…

The force of the realization brought Flint’s nodding head up so fast that he cracked it on the stone behind him.

“The scar, the tea, the heir,” he whispered. He’d made the same mistake with “T” that he’d made with “air.” He remembered, now, after the attempt on his life, taking the cup of tea from Miral, and the way Ailea had later administered one of her own potions, causing him to vomit. Then, several days later, the mage had asked Flint whether his medicinal tea had had any effect-minutes before they’d received Ailea’s message that she understood Lord Xenoth’s death.

The mage had given him poisoned tea! And Ailea had realized it. Yet Ailea had taken the time to mull over the situation before making an accusation. Then, when she was sure, when some last bit of information had snapped into place, she had excitedly sent a message to Flint-who had immediately shared it with… the killer!

“Reorx, help me!” the dwarf prayed as he scrabbled through the debris at the bottom of the shaft, flinging pine cones aside in his search for anything that would help him.

If he was correct, Porthios, the Speaker, Gilthanas, and Laurana would not survive the day.

In the middle of his search, as though Reorx had heard his call and sent the most unlikely rescuer possible, Flint heard a mule bray. Suddenly the light dimmed, and Flint looked up. Something was blocking the chute’s opening. Instead of out-of-focus pine boughs, the dwarf now saw a grotesque muzzle, two ears nearly as long as his leg, and a pair of brown eyes steaming with passion.

“Fleetfoot!” He stood. “You wonderful animal!” The creature blinked. “I’m still in Qualinesti!”

He never thought he’d see a day when the sight of his mule would bring tears to his eyes. What particularly thrilled him, however, was the ten feet of chewed rope attached to her collar. The elves had laughed when he’d fashioned a collar for a mule; now he’d have the laugh on them. A bridle never would have held.

Except that he was still fifteen feet short of the rope that dangled in the shaft while Fleetfoot snorted above.

Flint took stock. He had flint and steel, hammer, dagger, and rope ladder. The ladder probably would reach from the top to the bottom of the shaft, but the mechanics of setting up a limp rope ladder from the bottom seemed hopeless.

Fleetfoot brayed again. The sound reverberated in the stone chute, nearly deafening Flint.

“Stop that noise!” Flint called. When the mule began to back away from the hole, pulling the lead rope with her, he shouted, “No! Wait! I didn’t mean it!”

Tentatively, Fleetfoot peered over the edge again. Not very attractive at eye level, she looked absolutely absurd from below. She also looked irked. Flint had a sudden horrible vision of the mule stomping off in a huff. And indeed, she began to pull away from the edge again, and the end of the rope rose higher in the chute.

“Fleetfoot, you”-He thought quickly and changed to a wheedling tone-”entrancing creature, please come back.”

The rope stopped, trembled, and dropped down a few inches. Wet brown eyes searched his. One ear flopped.

Flint unwrapped the rope ladder from his middle. If he could just get the thing up to the mule… He gauged the distance and tossed the ladder overhand.

The thing dropped back down on him like a pile of snakes, and Fleetfoot brayed.

“Sure, you beast,” Flint muttered. “Laugh.”

He untangled himself and tried again, with the same result. Finally, on the third try, his shoulder aching from the effort, he tried an underhand toss and a foot of the ladder looped over the edge of the chute, where it snagged for the barest second on a rock. Fleetfoot lowered her wet muzzle and snuffled at the ladder, dislodging it and sending it spinning back down on Flint.

“Fleetfoot!” Flint chided. He affected a falsetto that reminded him of an elf girl addressing her dolls. “Do you want me to die down here, my dear?”

A hee-haw boomed down the shaft like thunder.

He threw the ladder again. This time, two feet of ladder flipped over the edge, lying on the ground right next to the mule, who gazed at it with stupid eyes. The bottom edge of the ladder dangled before Flint’s face, but the dwarf didn’t dare touch it lest he jiggle it loose. The ropes began to slide back into the chute, and Flint cursed softly.