“If Tyorl or I stayed, she’d be sure that she was being, well, looked after. She’d think maybe we don’t trust her to take care of herself.”
“You don’t?”
“If she could, I would. She can’t. But you can manage the thing better than we could. You’re good at that, Lavim.”
The kender dug in stubbornly. “Kelida knows how to use her dagger. I taught her and—”
“Ah, she’s that quick a study, is she? We’ll all be taking lessons from her soon, I guess.”
Lavim drew in a chestful of air and let it out in a gusty sigh. “No, of course not. I haven’t taught her my over-the-shoulder double-trouble trick yet—among other things. But Stanach, I—”
“Well, then? Are you going to leave her by herself to make camp and maybe just hope she’s there when we get back?” He sighed deliberately. “I guess I was wrong about one thing.”
Lavim wore the look of one who suspects he is being led, but he couldn’t resist the question. “About what?”
“I got the idea that you’d taken Kelida under your wing. You know, teaching her to use the dagger, telling her stories to keep her mind off being tired and frightened.” Stanach, his dark eyes as wide and innocent as any kender’s, shrugged. “I guess I was wrong.”
Tyorl swallowed a smile as Lavim, dragging his heels and kicking at small stones, returned to Kelida. “I never heard of anyone trying to actually reason with a kender before; I certainly never heard of it working,” said Tyorl.
Stanach shrugged. “He really is fond of Kelida. I figured I could take a chance on that. I don’t expect that ploy will work every time.” He jerked a thumb at Tyorl’s longbow. “I suppose I get to flush the grouse?”
“Not unless you’d like to chase a squirrel or two with your sword.”
Stanach said nothing, but followed the elf into the woods. The stars promised a clear day. The moons, both red and silver, rode high in the midnight sky, spilling light through the forest. Shadows wavered like ghosts across the ground.
Someday, Lavim told himself, I’d like to be able to move around as quietly as a ghost. He crouched down by the stream’s edge and scooped up a handful of icy water. Without, of course, actually being one. Still, there would be advantages.
Moonlight sparkled on something just beneath the water’s surface. Lavim slipped his finger back into the water and pried a gleaming stone about the size of his fist from the stream bed. Brownish red and shot through with green striations, the rock seemed to shimmer in the faint moonlight. Flecks of yellow and and white danced on the stone’s surface. Like gold and diamonds! Well, they’re probably not bits of gold and diamonds. They’re probably something with some name that only gnomes or dwarves would know.
Lavim tucked the stone into one of his pouches. He sat back on his heels and watched the moonlight rippling through the water. A gray fox barked in the thickets behind him. A nighthawk screamed high in the sky beyond the roof of the forest and a rabbit dove for its burrow in skittering panic. All around the kender, leaves rustled with the comings and goings of night creatures, stalked and stalking.
Why do you suppose, he asked himself, that people always say silent as a forest at night? This place is noisier than a market fair!
The kender laughed silently. He’d lately fallen into the habit of talking to himself. Probably because I’m getting old, he thought. People always said that the old talk to themselves because they know they’re the only ones who’ll give themselves a good answer.
Lavim found a more comfortable position and settled back to watch the forest and think in the moonlight.
That’s what I’m really doing: I’m thinking, he thought. I’m not talking to myself because I’m not all that old. Sixty isn’t really that old. Maybe my eyes aren’t what they used to be, but I still managed to save young Stanach from all those draconians!
He smiled. Right. And as long as we’re talking about Stanach … Lavim knew—and recognized the matter with only a careless shrug—that what he’d really been doing all along (as well as talking to himself) was trying to find a good answer to the puzzle of how to get his hands on Piper’s flute. Stanach had kept it close and never once let it out of his sight all day.
All I want to do, Lavim assured himself, is just borrow it for a minute or two. I could see, he went on, why the flute is really important to him, seeing as it was Piper’s and they were such good friends. Poor Stanach. He must be lonely without Piper. He was really looking forward to seeing Piper again. He’s a long way from home and probably would have appreciated seeing a friendly face. Though you’d think he’d be happy he’s getting the sword back. Now what was I saying? Oh, right. The flute. He’d be really happy to find out afterward—if I managed to get my hands on it in the first place—that he didn’t lose it but that I only borrowed it. Lavim grinned up at the moons. He hadn’t the least doubt that he’d be able to get his hands on the flute. It only required the right time and place. Red and brown cherry wood, long and light, the flute had haunted the kender ever since he’d first seen it. He’d managed to squeek just a note or two out of it before Stanach had grabbed it away. He wondered now what kind of spell must live in a mage’s flute. The kind that teaches you songs, maybe?
Lavim wrapped his arms around his drawn up knees. Aye, the kind that teaches you songs. He understood nothing about playing songs and music, but he just knew that if he ever got his hands on Piper’s flute again that would change.
The kender climbed stiffly to his feet. The ground was cold and he hadn’t caught anything for breakfast yet. It was about the only thing anyone let him do besides make camp, find wood, fill flasks, and break camp.
He slipped into the shadows, thinking about enchanted flutes, rabbits, and hot broth made from what was left of the grouse.
The smoke drifting up to the top of the cobble still smelled sweetly of roasted grouse. Stanach looked down at the camp and wondered when kenders slept. Lavim was nowhere to be seen. Kelida slept close to the fire. Tyorl, his back against a hawthorn, slept with his head resting on drawn up knees.
Not for long, Stanach thought as he started down the rocks. Tyorl should have taken the watch before now, and the dwarf wasn’t going to wait any longer for him to wake. All Stanach wanted was the fire’s warmth for a few moments and then a place to sleep that wasn’t too stony. The fire threw black shadows against the trees and made them seem to sway in a silent wind. Stanach caught a glint of fire on steel and saw Stormblade under Kelida’s outflung hand. The peace strings on the scabbard were loose and the blade lay half outside its sheath. He knelt to slide the sword back into the scabbard.
His palm touched the rough place on the chasing. He’d been smoothing that silver when the Kingsword was stolen, when the walls of the forge had shattered before his eyes.
Fire had exploded in his head and he’d felt blood running down his neck, before darkness swallowed the world and he’d fallen, senseless, to the floor.
A crimson light pulsed in the steel that was not the reflection of the fire. Stanach slid Stormblade from the scabbard so quietly that Kelida’s breathing never hitched. He stood slowly and stepped away. He held Stormblade across both palms.
Kyan Red-axe had died for this sword. Piper had died for it, too. Realgar’s men would have searched for the mage. They would have seen the cairn. I shouldn’t have built it, he thought. He shook his head. No, the Theiwar would have found Piper’s body sooner or later. By the carrion crows. Stanach shuddered.
Do what you have to do. It was the last thing Piper had said to him. I’m doing it, Stanach thought.
It was what he’d planned all along. Find Piper, take the sword, and get back to Hornfel. Now, by taking the sword, he would be leaving his companions to their deaths if the Theiwar caught up with them. Stanach looked down at Kelida. Her heart was so simple to read! He wondered when she would realize that she had fallen in love with the half-drunk ranger who had given her his sword.