Jean Rabe - The Silver Stair

Gair's path took him to a silversmith whose shop had just opened this week, and eventually to a scroll merchant. After purchasing rolls of parchment and ink for Goldmoon, he tugged the leather-bound book out from beneath his shirt and opened it. The rubbings he'd made from the trees by the burial grounds were folded neatly inside, as was the sketch he'd made of the mosaics on the elaborate mound. He carefully removed them and spread them out, his fingers avoiding the charcoal so he would not mar the tracings.

"What do you make of these?" he prodded.

The pot-bellied merchant drew close and carefully studied the symbols. "There are translating costs, you realize," he said. His voice was soft, like a harsh whisper.

"Everything costs. How much?"

"One steel. You might think that too high, but…"

Gair placed three steel pieces on the counter. "I'd like to know what they mean by day's end."

The scribe laughed and waggled a thick finger at the elf. "You can push all the steel at me you want- I'd certainly like to accept your money. It takes time to do research on something like this, and no amount of coins will cut the hours I'll have to spend digging through my notes and books. I can tell you they're Que-Nal. That I'll give you for free."

"Que-Nal," Gair said softly. "So they are indeed the ones who attacked us. But why?"

"Pardon, sir?"

He placed the arrowhead on the counter. "Que-Nal, too?"

"I deal with words, not weapons, lad. But the Que-Nal use stone arrowheads and knives. They don't like steel."

"What can you tell me of the Que-Nal?"

The man exhaled slowly. "They've lived on the island a long time," he began. "Came here from Abanasinia. Most folks around here call 'em barbarians. There's nine main villages on the island, mostly along the east coast, a few small ones inland at the edges of the Barren Hills. A tribe used to live near Castle Vila and-"

"Where's that?"

"North of the Silver Stair. It's nothing but ruins now. Nobody lives there. Anyway, the Que-Nal are peaceful folks. Don't bother anyone."

Gair edged three more coins toward the man and placed a stone next to the parchment, the one he'd appropriated from one of the burial mounds. He added to it a piece of the carved mosaic from the elaborate mound. "Please translate these as well. How soon?"

"Hard to say. Two, maybe three weeks. I've dozens of orders… folks visiting Goldmoon's settlement wanting letters sent back home and such. So I'll have to juggle my time. A little information would help my work, though." The scribe searched beneath his counter for a quill, brought up a piece of parchment, and took down Gair's name. "Where are the symbols from? Locations are important with Que-Nal writings. Were there other symbols with them?"

Gair didn't reply, pretending not to hear and to be engrossed in the framed, ornate letters on the man's walls.

The scribe scratched his head, leaving a trace of ink on his age-spotted skin. He raised his voice, thinking his customer hadn't heard him. "You see, young elf, a few of the tribes here on the island put precious little to paper. Written language just isn't important to them. Even their history is held in stories. Where are these tracings from?"

Gair shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. "I am from Goldmoon's settlement," he said finally. "I take my walks to the north, beyond the Lake of Swords and into the woods. I came upon a burial ground in the vicinity." He expected the man to lecture him about the folly of trespassing. The scribe's answer surprised him.

"Interesting places, cemeteries. I find myself studying the stones in the cemetery east of town- made a few rubbings from the small mausoleum there. My wife's buried in that cemetery. If you're into studying such things, there're some interesting gravestones in that cemetery, especially on the south side, where the oldest markers are from the first settlers from Abanasinia. Of course, they're all easy to read, except for the very oldest. The weather's beaten those stones something fierce. Only a handful are Que-Nal, though more'n enough of 'em died around here, but there's a marker for 'em down by the harbor. Sailors'll point you to it. Don't need to purchase my services for that information either." He continued to study Gair's symbols. "Fascinating. Two weeks, three at the most." He took three coins, pushed the other three back at the elf. "You pay me the rest if I'm successful. You coming back into town? I don't deliver."

"You may take three weeks," Gair said. "I will not be back until then."

The cart was the sturdiest to be had in the town, and it was practically filled to overflowing with clothes, blankets, food, a few expensive bottles of Porliost wine for himself, a keg of ale for Jasper and Redstone, and various supplies. A carefully wrapped bundle contained a woolen shawl he'd spotted in a window that he thought Goldmoon would like. A similar shawl rested about the shoulders of a woman who'd been admiring it in the shop at the same time, but who didn't have the coins for it. Gair told her to consider it a gift from Goldmoon's settlement. Her thanks made the elf feel surprisingly good. Another bundle tied with colorful ribbons was for one of the settlement's healers who was celebrating a birthday next week. Several small bundles held spices and sugar for the cooks among Goldmoon's followers, and there was the small package in his pocket.

The cart was pulled by a large draft horse with a shaggy coat. Gair intended to give the horse to the farmer's village in the spring to help with the plowing. The dwarves could have the cart, as the elf didn't intend to buy so much again for quite some time. If he did, there were other carts to be acquired, and there was the large wagon at the settlement.

He waited patiently at the horse's side, glancing to the west, where the sun was starting to set, and talking to his sisters. "Where are those clothes?" he mused aloud. He strolled a dozen yards away, toward the docks, glancing often over his shoulder to make sure the cart remained undisturbed. "I wanted to be on my way well before dark. Iryl won't be leaving for two more days. I suppose I could wait for her, but-"

But you want to return to the burial ground? His father intruded on his thoughts.

"Well, yes, and to the ruin of the castle the scribe mentioned."

Neither will be going anywhere, Son. Leaving tonight or tomorrow will make little difference. There is something in town you've yet to see.

Gair huffed, watching his breath rush away from his face in a misty cloud. "The Que-Nal marker" he said.

Yes. The marker. You should go pay your respects.

A few sailors directed him to it. One lingered beside the marker with him and wiped at some dirt and sand that had become wedged in the crevices of the carved letters and brushed the snow off the top. Even the sailors of Schallsea were fastidious.

"Horrible thing," the sailor began.

Ask him what is so horrible, Gair's sisters urged. The elf had inadvertently opened the door wider.

"The deaths of the Que-Nal?"

The sailor nodded and scratched his chin. "Horrible thing. Never cared much fer the barbar'ns. They come into town once in a while. Not often, though. I always steer clear of 'em. Odd ones, ya know, wearin' feathers an' beads, keepin' ta themselves. Not that I blames 'em really. What do we got ta offer 'em?"

"How did they die?"

"Die? They was all massacred."

For several long minutes, Gair pried the sailor with questions, and he listened intently to the answers. Many decades ago only the Que-Nal and a handful of elves lived on the ground that was to become the port town. According to the few barbarians who still came to town today to trade, it was in the process of becoming a thriving, cooperative village. All of that changed during the War of the Lance. The dragonarmies moved in and slayed all the Que-Nal they could catch, tying them to boulders and dropping them into the bottom of the deep bay. The dragonarmies then settled in, using the island-and the port in particular-as a staging area for their military campaigns to the east and west.