Jean Rabe - The Silver Stair

As more years passed, and the land changed with the addition of buildings and people who'd moved here from Abanasinia and Southern and Northern Ergoth and elsewhere, the elf moved on to the northern end of the island, and the creek dried up-at least on the surface. Below ground, the water still ran from a crystal-clear spring. So the well outside of the building at which Gair now stood pulled water from what was once Red Elf's Creek. The brightly clad elf who unknowingly had the alley named after him was said to have died roughly a dozen years ago, killed during a misunderstanding with a hunter. Gair considered using his newfound skill to attempt to contact the deceased elf's spirit, and perhaps the spirit of Lenerd Smithsin's father, so he could learn firsthand what the village was like decades ago. He would indeed do just that-but not today. Gair had too many other things to accomplish today.

Gair strode into Logan's Bootery and Leather Shop and inhaled deeply. The scents of leather and polish pleasantly filled his nostrils. Carefully tooled shoes and boots gleamed on shelves from floor to ceiling along the right-hand wall, embroidered belts and satchels hung along the back on either side of a counter, and leather trousers and shirts were carefully folded on shelves along the left.

"Good day to you sir!" The balding proprietor beamed at the elf. "What can I help you with?"

"Boots, trousers, a few belts." Gair rattled off a considerable list while the proprietor measured his feet and selected a few pairs for the elf to try on. "And a very large belt-something that would go around me two… no, make that three times."

His choices made, Gair paid the man generously, then added a tip. "Could you have them delivered? To Smithsin's stable? I've obtained a cart there to transport my purchases."

The man set about accommodating the generous elf, nodding politely as Gair exited the shop and strode to the weaver's across the alley. Here he purchased three dozen blankets, all exquisitely made and practically the weaver's entire stock. He made little fuss about his choices, as they were meant to be hung inside his tent-and inside the tents of the dwarven builders and the Solamnic Knights and soldiers-and so they did not need to be of any particular color. They just needed to be thick. Again he had them delivered to the stable.

His last stop was to the smallest shop, where an elderly man custom-made garments. The elf suspected the owner could have easily afforded more expensive space in a better district. He charged enough for his clothes, and for good reason. The man was an artist with scissors and thread, and the elf envied his talent. Gair pressed him why he stayed on Red Street when he could certainly increase his sales elsewhere. The man answered that he simply liked it here. It was quiet. He lived upstairs with his wife, worked when he wanted, made a reasonable living- better now with the influx of people coming here to see Goldmoon and the Silver Stair. He had no desire to run a shop in a busier part of town, where he himself would be therefore busier and would be forced to hire others to work for him to keep up with the demand. Too much bookwork, too few days off-and a bigger store meant there would be more snow to clear away from the front door and walk. Gair immediately liked him.

"I need a cloak," the elf began. "Better make that two cloaks."

"Colors?"

"I don't suppose it matters. They just need to be long… very, very long."

"You want it to drag on the ground behind you? A fashionable thing, though not very practical, especially in the winter."

"It's not for me," the elf sighed. "It's for… an acquaintance. He's nearly seven feet tall, broad shouldered. I'd say twice as thick as I, a trifle more. Make sure it's plenty big. A tunic, too, with very long sleeves. No, make that two of them. And trousers. Make them baggy, to be safe-and make them long."

"Your oversized friend can't come here for a fitting?"

The elf shook his head. "It wouldn't be… practical. How soon can you have them done?"

"A few days," the old man replied.

The elf reached into his pocket and extracted an oval-cut emerald. It gleamed enticingly in the light that spilled through the window. "Today?"

The old man's eyes widened, realizing the gem was worth more than all the garments and fabrics he had on display, probably worth as much as the entire building. "I could alter some garments already finished. Get my wife to help, but to be honest, I still couldn't promise them before sundown."

"Make sure the cloaks have hoods-large hoods. If you've any shirts that are very big, I'd like those, too."

"Certainly, sir."

Gair drifted away to the shelves, pulling down a few cloaks that were roughly his size and a coat to replace the one he'd wrapped around Amanda. He felt the fabric to select the warmest ones, then brought them to the counter. He tugged off the blanket that he'd tied around his neck, passed it to the shopkeeper, and put on one of the cloaks he selected.

"Deliver everything to Smithsin's stable. I've a cart there. And-"

"Yes?"

"Do you know where I might purchase some wax?"

The old man looked at him quizzically.

"My… acquaintance… has a terrible problem with snoring. Therefore I'm in terrible need for something to stuff in my ears, some strongly scented lamp oil, and some perfumed soap."

"Ah, Father," Gair mused as he left Red Street behind. "The wind that used to race through the Silvanesti Forest pales beside the winter wind that blows here. This wind brings with it only scents of the sea, not the sweet smells of the deep woods."

He followed the main road that ran down to the harbor and listened through the rhythmic rush of the sea against the docks and the cries of hungry gulls to hear the phantom voice of his father.

"Nothing to slow the wind here, you say?" Gair shook his head. "The buildings here are thicker than Silvanesti's oldest trees, Father, and still they don't do much to take the edge off the wind. But spring… ah, I suspect spring here will be beautiful. There will be flowers in the spring, everywhere, I'd guess. And I will pick bouquets for Camilla."

The elder Graymist glided at his side and encouraged Gair to look elsewhere for female companionship. Humans do not live long enough," his father said. "There is the elf, Iryl Songbrook, to consider. She is pretty, and a Silvanesti besides.

"How long is enough?" Gair asked. He ignored the stares of a few passersby who thought he was talking to himself. "Long enough to love? I don't know if I love Camilla, but I'm truly smitten with her, Father. I can't get her face out of my mind. I can still feel the softness of her cheek against my lips."

She will join me in the spirit realm before you've a hint of gray in your hair, my son. Humans count their lives in months and years, not decades and centuries. She gives all her wealth to the Solamnics. Foolishness. Look elsewhere.

Gair changed the subject and continued through the town's pristine streets, dashing around the snow swept into piles on corners, chattering endlessly to his father, and ignoring the stares of townsfolk who cast curious glances his way. Goldmoon is not mad, as I am not mad, he mused. My teacher and I simply enjoy conversing with the dead.

He stopped at a bathhouse, where he indulged himself for nearly an hour, discussing the world with his father, all the while thinking about Camilla, and ending his session with a haircut. After a sumptuous late lunch, he made a brief, unplanned stop in a weaponsmith's when he spied an ivory-pommeled broadsword in the window. It wasn't the elf's blade of choice-he favored the more elegant long sword on his hip-but the pommel was exquisite, covered with carvings of pegasi and other fantastical winged creatures, decorated with inlaid platinum and large opals. It was nothing he expected to find in this town, and he intended to hang it in his tent and admire it as one might admire a painting.