Jean Rabe - The Silver Stair

The elf's fingers gripped the frigidly cold step, and he concentrated on the energy pulsing in the magical site. So strong! His senses heightened under Darkhunter's tutelage, he was able to picture in his mind the shifting bands of arcane power that ran the length of the ruin. Sometimes dozens of feet long, sometimes hundreds, the ruin seemed not to have a precise height. The elf suspected it varied based on the individual climbing it. The stronger the man-or woman-the higher the stairs went.

The Silver Stair would likely stretch to the very heavens for him if they were to present a challenge, Gair guessed. He was becoming stronger and more magically aware with each passing day. The steps would have to stretch beyond the stars! He did not need the visions, and therefore did not have to climb to the top step. He only needed their power, and that he could get right here.

He focused on the bands of energy and pulled them toward him, felt the arcane aura surge into his hands and arms, stoke his chest as if it were a caldron. His feet felt as if they were on fire; his chest felt as if it might explode.

"More," he coaxed. "I need more."

He felt the step crack beneath his fingers, a spiderweb of fine lines racing away beneath his palm. A chunk of whatever material it was made of fell away, and then another, and he scrabbled down to a lower step to pull still more energy. Another step damaged. And then another.

"More!"

The elf's body shook, mildly at first, then as if he were having a seizure. He wondered if Goldmoon had thought to use the ruin in this manner. He pictured her in her tent.

She was trying to sleep! What are you dreaming of? he asked. In a corner of his mind, he saw her eyes flutter open and her mouth gape in surprise. "I woke her up," he told the wraiths.

Were you dreaming of me, Goldmoon?

"Gair!" she gasped.

Or were you dreaming of Riverwind? I could make him a creature of half-life, too, Goldmoon, if I draw enough energy from these stairs. I've tried before, you know, to solidify his spirit here, but he's very willful and wants to remain very dead. He's just beyond my grasp-but not if I gain more power. He could walk at my side, Goldmoon. He could be unreachable to you until you, also, walk at my side.

He saw her stand. In a woolen nightgown and bare feet, she walked to the flap of her tent and pulled it back, looked in the direction of the stair, but he knew she could not see him.

You realize I am on the stair. You can sense me, as I sense you. Good. The link is stronger; the stair did that. I'll use the link to learn all your secrets. I'd best hurry now, Goldmoon, since I sense you're planning to summon the soldiers. I cannot have you interrupt me, and I cannot have you catch me. Gair withdrew from the healer's mind and returned his full concentration to the stair. So hot. The energy made the steps feel as if he were sticking his hands into hot coals. "Just another moment more. Power. Give me all your power."

Darkhunter's icy dead fingers grabbed one arm. His father took the other. The power flowed into them, too, and they soaked it up like inky sponges.

"More!" Suddenly he felt as if his entire body were engulfed in flames. The sensation was too much for him to handle. The fire so hot. So…

He awoke on the ground at the base of the gossamer spiral, the blackness of his father and Darkhunter hovering over him.

We carried you here, Darkhunter explained. You would have fallen. We saved you from death. It is not yet your time to join us, Gair. You must make more of us first.

Many more. Enough to rule the island, the elder Graymist insisted.

Gair shook his head as if to clear his senses. A small part of himself was scrabbling for control, forcing the darkness back. "Why would I want to do that? It would be wrong, evil, to bring more spirits into this world. I have already done enough damage. It would be wrong. And-"

Don't you want us to rule the island? Darkhunter's redhot eyes bore into the elf's. At your behest? More powerful in death. Don't you want us to have power, Master? Don't you want us to serve you? Forever?

Master? Gair mouthed. For some reason, the word sounded good to the elf, and the red of Darkhunter's eyes was somehow warming and comforting. Master. The wraith of the long-dead Que-Nal seemed to make sense. "But Camilla-"

Will join us in death soon, Darkhunter continued. She will call you Master, too. She will be more powerful in death. ›Don't you want her to be more powerful?

The elf nodded. Everything was clear again. He was more powerful, too, had pulled the energy from the Silver Stair. He knew he was weakening the steps. If he kept it up, perhaps he would destroy the thing. He'd have to take much more power from it before it collapsed, enough to raise the spirit of every man who died on this island and in the sea around it, perhaps the spirits of dragons as well. "If the stairs truly did collapse in the process?" he mused aloud. "It would only be fitting. It would be keeping the magical energy from Goldmoon, and then she would not have the power to stop me."

The spirits helped him to his feet.

"Goldmoon," he said plainly, "I will destroy your Silver Stair, step by step, and then I will destroy you." Goldmoon would die, as Camilla would die, and they would be with him forever.

He padded to the northeast, letting Camilla's long cloak drag on the ground behind him to wipe away his tracks. There was still a touch of darkness left this night-time to raise a few more spirits from his favorite Que-Nal burial ground before the spirits flew him back to Castle Vila.

Camilla stifled a yawn as she started toward the port just as the sun was rising. The snow had been beaten down enough into a trail now that it would not be difficult going. Four knights clanked along behind her, all on horseback, and behind them was a rustling sound that was out of place. The knight commander swiveled in the saddle to glance over her shoulder. She groaned softly. The gnoll was following them, running fast enough to keep up with the horses.

"Good morning, Orvago," she offered as the gnoll picked up his pace and made his way around the knights' mounts. He seemed to have little trouble keeping up with the horses.

The gnoll bobbed his head. He was dressed in a flowing yellow-orange cloak with a voluminous hood that covered up his hairy snout. Bright purple sleeves extended from its folds as he shook both her hands. He had on gloves, too, the first time she'd seen him wearing any. They were colored green, and they didn't at all match the baggy forest green trousers that clashed with everything. His feet were covered with a combination of heavy gray socks and brown boots with the toes cut out of them.

"So are you along because you think we need some extra protection, or because you want to see the town?"

The head bobbed vigorously.

"All right, but keep your head covered at all times."

Beneath the voluminous hood, the gnoll grinned.

The gnoll was dumbstruck when the entourage passed through the town's gate. He'd never seen anything like this, had only spotted towns from a distance when he was on the deck of the pirate's ship.

He stopped every few steps, ogling at the colorful buildings, sniffing the people passing by, growling appreciatively at the smells coming from the bakery and from all the chimneys that puffed away, sending a variety of scents into the air. It was fast approaching dinnertime, he could tell.

They were nearly at the Sentinel when the gnoll put a gloved hand on her knee. He pointed toward a row of businesses, all of which had the snow cleared away from the sidewalks, as if the merchants were refusing to accept the winter. A trio of Que-Nal barbarians was coming out of a limner's shop. They were chattering and pointing in windows. The tallest was admiring a decorative leather tunic.