Jean Rabe - The Silver Stair

"Could I?" the elf mused aloud. "Could I give the general form?"

Please , the spirit replied.

Should I even dare try? Gair wondered. The elf was still leery after his scare at the Que-Nal burial circle, but he hadn't been harmed then, only spooked. Spirits couldn't harm the living, could they?

No , his father answered. We have left this world long behind. Only our shadows remain, but you could give those shadows substance. You have the ability.

"What harm, then," Gair said.

It would be another test of his mystical energies to give the dead some semblance of life. Only good could come of improving his magical skills, he told himself. He could apply it to other areas, perhaps helping those very close to dying.

He paused. "Who am I kidding?" he whispered.

"There is no good to this. There is only feeding my own morbid curiosity."

Then feed your curiosity , his father encouraged. You do not take enough chances.

"I've heard that somewhere before," the elf mused. "And I suppose you are right, but how to go about it?

He looked to his heart, to the strength Goldmoon taught him was there, felt the power surge through his chest and down his arms, through the cold wood his body was still sitting on and over the water to touch the black silken image hovering there. Gair concentrated as if the general were a patient he was tending to and directed his efforts to healing that patient.

He stared at the image, which seemed for a moment to become blacker than the water, a touch thicker. "Much thicker," he implored. The silk wavered, began to fold in on itself, and the general's wispy form disappeared.

"No!" Gair croaked.

The general's thoughts remained strong, however, and they urged Gair to try again.

"I can't," he said finally. "I don't know how. Even if I did, I haven't the power to give you substance."

You have the ability, his fattier repeated, but you do not have the power-here.

"I know better than to ask Goldmoon for help. I suspect she wouldn't approve of how I'm using her mysticism. It's why I haven't told her about the Que-Nal and Shadowwalker."

Do not give up, my son. You could get the power, his father encouraged, oh so easily.

The elf pushed himself to his feet and thrust his cold hands into his pockets. "No, Father, I will not ask Goldmoon."

You do not need Goldmoon. You need something that bristles with energy. You could steal a hit of it. Gair, your sisters and substance as you almost did the general… What a gift!

Gair's eyes widened. "The Silver Stair surges with power," he breathed.

Yes, his father answered. The Silver Stair. You are a bright son.

The elf's heart beat faster. "It could just work! Goldmoon sometimes relies on the magical medallion she wears, pulling energy from it to heal the gravest of injuries. There is a tremendous amount of energy in the stair. I felt it when I first touched the steps!"

You could use that energy.

"Of course! I will leave first thing in the morning and… damn! The scribe. The shop doesn't open until midmorning. Well, that simply won't do." Gair hurried from the dock.

The city was exceptionally quiet this night. Outside of the lights spilling from the windows of homes, only the light from one tavern still burned. The cold and the hour were keeping the townsfolk inside. No light burned in the scribe's shop. Gair pounded on the door, loudly rattling the pane of glass in it. He pounded again and again until the door threatened to break.

"See here!" The voice came from the second floor.

Gair looked up into the irate face of the scribe.

"You! Come back tomorrow, elf. Be on your way now, or I'll call for the watch."

Gair scowled and dug into his pocket, pulling out an emerald. "Will this open your shop?"

The scribe squinted and shook his head. He couldn't see what the elf was holding. "Come back tomorrow."

"It's an emerald, a valuable one," Gair said, "and neither it nor I will be here when you open tomorrow."

The scribe pulled back into the room, closing the window. A moment later a lantern blinked on downstairs. Dressed in a long woolen nightshirt, with thick socks on his feet, the scribe opened the door and yawned.

Gair thrust the emerald at him. "The Que-Nal rubbings… what do they mean?"

He waved the elf inside and to the counter, lit a second lantern, and pulled out the parchments Gair had given him. He stifled another yawn.

"Well?" The impatience was thick in Gair's voice. "What do they say?"

"These are tribal symbols only," the scribe began, "They tell you-that is, if you're a Que-Nal-which tribe lays claim to the land. Sort of like a no trespassing sign, I guess, unless you're considered friendly to the tribe, and then you wouldn't be trespassing."

"The stone and the mosaic chip?"

The scribe let out a low whistle. "Now, those are interesting pieces."

"Well? Be quick about it, will you? I'm in a hurry." The elf's tone was harsh, and he instantly apologized.

"The etching on this stone is only a part of something larger, like a couple of words out of a phrase. As far as I can tell, this mark here means 'shield' or 'safe' or perhaps 'protected' or 'blessed'-something like that. The mark on this chip is similar, but it seems to mean the opposite-'treachery' 'violence' 'danger' 'evil' 'corruption' something dark."

"Darkhunter."

The man yawned and cocked his head.

"And… ?"

"That's it. These are only a couple of pieces, like out of a puzzle. Bring me more of the puzzle and I can give you more information." He looked at the emerald in his palm. "Bring me more and there's no charge. You've paid me more than enough."

Gair took the Que-Nal stone and the mosaic chip and left. He found his way back to the Sentinel and was able to catch a few hours of sleep before being roused for breakfast. He nearly declined the meal, wanting to be on his way back to the settlement and the Silver Stair, but there was the company of Camilla Weoledge to consider. The elf genuinely liked her.

"So you will be coming with me to the settlement?" Gair's voice sounded hopeful. His eyes sparkled and locked onto hers.

Camilla broke free of the stare and fixed her gaze on a spot over his shoulder. "Yes. I am leading a garrison of soldiers to your settlement for added protection."

Gair looked incredulous. "An entire garrison? Then who will remain here to man the Sentinel and look after the town?"

"More soldiers and knights will be arriving within the week." Her voice carried a hint of disappointment as she thought of the letter on her desk. "The Solamnic Council has decreed that Goldmoon's citadel project be protected at all costs. No more sabotage to her Citadel of Light, no more raids on the trail. The Solamnic Council wants her guarded for as long as she desires to remain on the island." She swallowed hard. "Guarded so that she can spread her mysticism."

She stirred her eggs. "If we're fortunate, the settlement's problems will stop with the presence of my men. I would just like to know who is responsible… who the enemy is."

Gair felt for the stone in his pocket.

Gair stood at the base of the Silver Stair. Dawn was only a few hours away, the sky already lightening. His legs were numb from the cold; he'd been standing here that long, trying to gain the courage. Once more snow was falling, deepening the cover already on the ground and soaking his hair.

"Stars falling to earth," he mused aloud. "That's what Camilla calls snow."

You think too often of her, my son.

"When I am not thinking of spirits, I am thinking of her. I can't get her out of my mind, Father. She makes the air seem sweeter, the winter bearable. I hated leaving her side tonight, but I dare not press myself on her. She is hesitant, does not want to be here. I think she fights her feelings for me, as I do with Goldmoon."