Jean Rabe - The Silver Stair

Gair mused that it seemed a shame to mar the landscape with their boot tracks, yet that is what they continued to do by plodding onward. They'd traveled several minutes when the sun broke through the gray sky and painted the snow a delicate pink. As the sky brightened further, the snow turned a glistening white, cut through at the edges of their vision by the blue shadows of the tall pines. A breeze was blowing from the south, dusting flakes across their path.

By midmorning, Heartspring came into view. The village was quaint, though not as tidy as the port of Schallsea. There were fewer than two dozen homes, all of them a mix of large fieldstone, mortar, and logs, none of them looking quite the same. The roofs were thatch, patched here and there with sod, and all had chimneys puffing merrily away. Outside each home was a collection of tools: plows, axes, bins, and others in various states of repair. These gave the village an old, cluttered look. Added to that were barns, some with roofs sagging under the weight of the snow, most with peeling paint, some with doors standing permanently ajar because the wood had warped. The fields extended to the east and south of the village, blanketed with white, though it was obvious Heartspring was spared from the worst of the blizzard that had struck Goldmoon's settlement many days ago. In the distance, a shed leaned into the wind, its door banging back and forth with each gust of wind. Behind it, an ice-covered lake reflected the sun's rays like a mirror.

The people who came out to meet the elves and knights seemed to match the buildings. Homesteaders who chose the fertile lands inland from the coast, they were all human. Many were in rumpled, mismatched clothes decorated with patches. The adults had weathered skin from the hours they spent under the sun in better climes. Some had hammers and other small tools sticking out of their pockets. The children wore clothes that looked either too small because they were outgrowing them or too large because they hadn't yet grown into the hand-me-downs. Only a few children had clothes that seemed to fit right. Nearly all of them wore smiles, and they were obviously happy to see Gair.

The children ogled the knights, rubbing grubby fingers over the silver armor and oohing and aahing at their wide-eyed reflections in the leg plates. The knights obliged the youths by answering questions about weapons, fighting, and life beyond Schallsea Island.

The visit in Heartspring was not unpleasant, but it had the feel of a ritual, with Gair presenting the dried fish to the village leader, a crusty old man with a voice as gravelly as any dwarf's. Iryl visited with a man who raised sheep, and Camilla could tell from the delicate elf's expression that she had secured more blankets.

Gair stopped at each home, taking time to ease the fever of an elderly farmer, mend the arm of a young child who slipped on the lake, offer reassurances to a pregnant woman. There was tea at one home, hot biscuits at another, kind words exchanged at all of them. Camilla silently watched, amazed at Gair's mystical talent-and troubled by it.

It was late afternoon before Gair had finished his rounds, turning down invitation upon invitation for dinner and promising that someone would return next week.

"Home, m'lady?" Gair said, extending his arm to Camilla.

"The settlement is your home, not mine," she replied. She volunteered to carry some of Iryl's blankets, keeping her arms occupied.

The entourage made better time on the return trip, following the trail they'd blazed in the morning. The knight noted that they would be at the settlement by sunset, in time for the evening meal and in time for her to patrol the grounds with Willum again before turning in. The wind had picked up considerably, blowing the topmost powdery layer of snow across their path and nipping at their fingers. The sky had quickly turned gray again.

"I'm looking forward to spring," Gair said simply. "I think-"

"Down!" Iryl dropped, hands and legs flying out, bundled body hitting the snow with a muffled whuff.

"What is it?" This came from one of the knights who'd been toting blankets. The other was fast to follow Iryl's example, landing atop his pile of blankets and driving them into the snow.

"Get down!" Iryl repeated.

Gair reflexively crouched, pushing Camilla into a drift just as a spear whizzed past from the north, slicing through the air where the commander had been standing a heartbeat before. Another spear came from the south, striking the sluggish knight's armor with enough of an impact to rattle him. He pitched forward, blankets flying like big, spooked birds.

Gair pressed himself into a drift, then rolled to face to the north, his fingers splayed across the snow. He was stretching out, magically, with his senses. He cursed himself for paying so much attention to Camilla that he hadn't noticed anyone lying in wait. He knew Iryl's natural senses, not so distracted, had warned her heartbeats ago that something was wrong. He reached inside himself and coaxed his mystical power to grow and flow outward.

My son, take care. Gair's father had opened the door. There are barbarians on both sides of the trail. Que-Nal. A deadly ambush.

"I think I saw something move!" Iryl called. "Too far away to make anything out. Can't tell how many!"

Gair swallowed hard. "Que-Nal," he said softly.

"Why didn't I say something about their involvement before now?"

Your words would not have prevented this.

The elf saw an unending blanket of white, cut through here and there by scraggly bushes. In the distance stood some evergreens, but the spear-throwers would not be that far away. Hiding behind one of the drifts, then.

"How many of them?" he asked as his senses flowed over the snow like running water.

Seven, the elder Graymist replied. To the north. Hidden by deep drifts.

"We're halfway between Heartspring and the settlement, too far from either to be seen," Iryl said, her voice low and panicked. "A perfect spot for an ambush. Why? Who would do this? We've nothing of value!"

"Except blankets," Camilla muttered.

Gair glanced over his shoulder to make sure Camilla was all right. She was extricating herself from the drift he had pushed her into and was now crouched in the narrow path they'd been making, edging her head up and looking to the south.

The elf returned his concentration to his spell and felt a tingling warmth in his fingertips, though his exposed skin was cherry-red from the cold. Directing the warmth away from him, his senses grew even more acute. He smelled the faint scent of pine, carried from the distant row of evergreens, smelled rotting wood where a bush had died and the snow was decaying the dead branches, smelled the snow, which had a clean, almost mystical scent. And he smelled wolves, mixed with the scent of men, the scent of the latter being more prominent. Men were wearing the skin of wolves for warmth, he decided. Indeed, there were seven to the north. To the south? He directed the warmth away and behind him, where he heard the shush of steel as Camilla drew her sword, then more whispers of steel as her two knights followed suit. Next he heard a fluttering noise. Camilla released her woolen cloak so it would not hamper her.

I can direct you out of here, the elder Graymist said. Alone, you would have a chance to escape. The barbarians would concentrate on the knights.

"Out of the question," Gair hissed.

Save yourself

The elf blocked out his father's insistent urgings, not bothering to shut the door, since the effort to do so might disrupt his other enchantment. His senses continued flowing farther to the south, where he discovered more men, wearing the skins of wolves and beavers. His acute hearing picked up their hushed conversation, but it was of a language he could not comprehend. The group was about thirty feet from the trail, well hidden behind snowdrifts and crawling closer. From the west, one large figure was approaching.