Jean Rabe - The Silver Stair

He was as careful as possible where he walked, avoiding passing beneath certain trees where the crunch of his boots on fallen nuts and pine cones might give him away. Were the snow harder, he would worry about the crunch of that, too, but the snow, which had fallen most of the day, was downy soft.

Though he wasn't particularly worried about others being out in the woods at night, he didn't want to take any chances of being discovered. He didn't want to be followed by any of Goldmoon's curious students, and he didn't want to be discovered by any green-furred creatures such as he and Goldmoon had encountered this morning or by any bandits. He shuddered when he recalled his brush with death several days ago on the trail to the settlement.

Gair moved almost silently, listening carefully for wild boars, wolves, anything that might pose a threat. He wanted to be about his business, then return to Goldmoon's camp before his absence had been noticed.

The wind had died down considerably, or so it seemed in the thick woods. He breathed deep. The scent of pine needles was pleasant to one who had spent much of his early life in the forest, and he detected a trace of rotting wood from a few dying trees. These were the earthy smells of winter, and they reminded him of his home so far away along the southeastern coast of the elven country of Silvanesti.

Stepping off the path and striking off deeper into the woods, he came to a grove of willows, huge trees halfdead from age and errant lightning strikes. Some had carvings on their trunks, symbols he tried to commit to memory and hoped to decipher later. The oldest of the carvings-the bark had grown to nearly cover the scars-showed a half sun, and under it a stick figure carrying a spear. There were smaller symbols around the figure, words perhaps, much of it not readable anymore. The more recent carvings looked like masks with empty eyes, with more symbols around them. He knew several languages, but nothing here was familiar. He traced one of the symbols with a bit of charcoal and a piece of parchment he'd brought along, then thrust them deep into his coat pocket.

He turned north and followed a trail he had missed on his first few explorations of these woods in the early fall. Other eyes would have continued to miss it, but Gair's years in the forest had taught him to look for branches artfully trained to touch the ground. When the leaves began to thin with the fall, he noticed it. They were hiding a narrow trail, one not often traveled, at least on this end, and one certainly not intended for the uninvited.

The elf ducked beneath the limbs and walked faster now, listened more carefully. He'd placed a few branches across the path on his last visit, and they were still here and unbroken, indicating this part of the trail had not been traveled in the past few weeks by people or any animals of significant size.

The trees were so dense here that they blocked the mild evening breeze almost completely. They helped to lessen the cold, too, though his breath still huffed out in a vaporous cloud. There were more symbols on trunks here, none of them recent. Gair made another tracing of a few more symbols, then continued on his way.

The elf felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. He was heading toward what he believed was a sacred spot. Why else would someone hide the trails and carve symbols into trees along the way?

Finally he came to edge of a circular clearing. In the clearing was a series of earthen mounds, radiating outward from a pebble-dotted center. The mounds nearest the center were the oldest and therefore the most worn, weather and time eroding the dirt and stones and the various objects on top of them.

He crept quietly up and down the paths, slipping from mound to mound and hurriedly brushing the snow aside so he could inspect them more closely. The elf had been here twice before, both times briefly and at night. Each trip had added to his knowledge. He was certain the mounds with the smoothest, flattest stones covering them contained the remains of people of importance. Many of these stones had intricate carvings on them. Words, perhaps. On this trip, the elf pocketed one of the more elaborately carved rocks and rearranged the others so it would look as if nothing was amiss. His fingers trembled from the cold. He intended to take the stone into the port town, with the rubbings of symbols he'd made, to the scribes there. Perhaps they could be translated.

Some of the mounds had only small rocks scattered atop them, and Gair decided these graves were for commoners. The smallest mounds were likely for children or animals and had the fewest decorations. A mound near one edge of the circle was fairly recent, made within the past month, since the earth had not yet settled. He brushed away more snow. There were mounds decorated with shells and rotted nets-for fishermen, he suspected. Those graves with daggers thrust into the earth were undoubtedly the resting place of warriors. Arrowheads artfully arranged were likely for hunters. He stopped and his breath caught in his throat. Arrowheads. He dropped to his knees and tried to tug one free of the mound. The frozen earth resisted his efforts, and he resorted to pulling out a small knife from his belt and working the arrowhead free. It was made of stone, with the same jagged edges of the spear tips and the arrowhead had that found their way into him several days ago.

"Who is buried here?" he said too loudly for his liking, and instantly turned his thoughts to a whisper. "Iryl Songbrook said the natives of Schallsea couldn't have been responsible for the attack, that they are peaceful." Gair ran his fingers over the arrowhead, wincing when a sharp edge drew blood. His leg seemed to throb in response, and he shuddered. "It wasn't bandits who attacked us. Bandits don't bury their dead in elaborate graves. So this arrowhead proves Iryl was wrong. It was natives, and I must show this to her and Goldmoon." He stood and pocketed the arrowhead, then frowned. "If I show them, I'll have to tell them where I got this. Do I want to do that?" He stared at the remainder of arrowheads on the grave. "Perhaps I should say nothing. They might never attack us again."

Deciding he would give the matter more thought tonight, he padded toward the opposite edge of the clearing, passing by one mound in particular that had caught his eye on his first visit. He knelt beside it now. It seemed to be one of the oldest graves, and almost reverently he brushed the snow off it. The rocks atop the mound were so carefully arranged and so deeply embedded into the earth that they seemed to form an intricate mosaic. The pattern meant nothing to Gair, though he studied it intently in the light of the moon, trying to commit it to memory. He worked one of the larger, more intricate stones free and pocketed this too. When he returned to his tent later, he would sketch the mosaic on the grave and see if someone in town could tell him what it signified. Perhaps the man beneath the stones had been a king or a chief. Definitely someone important, as more work had gone into this mound than into any others here, and it seemed as if it were still being carefully tended. Gair's fingertips traced the pattern of the stones, and he concentrated on the feel of them, on the various textures.

"One more attempt," he whispered. "Who are you?"

He focused on his heartbeat as Goldmoon had taught him to do with healing magic, and he raised a hand to his temple to help him concentrate. He felt his heartbeat slow, sounding rhythmic and soothing in his ears. Warmth pervaded his limbs, chasing away the cold of winter. He reached out now with his senses as he had done when he calmed the boars. This time, though, he reached down, down into the earth. He sensed the coldness of the dirt, the age of the stones atop it. He sensed a hint of life-insects wintering beneath the ground. He concentrated harder, listened more intently to his heart, listened, searched. He imagined a man beneath the earth, perhaps wrapped in regal, ceremonial burial garb, imagined that what was left of the man was only a skeleton covered with scraps of rotting cloth.