"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.
The sailor pointed to the Sentinel southeast of the last dock. "'Twas the Blue Dragonarmy what built the docks. Some of 'em are still used today. Built that stronghold, too, an' the tower hooked ta it. Never quite finished it, though, 'fore they moved out. There's talk the Solamnic Knights what moved in might hire some dwarven engineers ta finish it."
"The Que-Nal never returned after the war?"
The sailor shook his head. "Nah. The ones what survived the massacre all headed north and south and west and scattered into a buncha villages along the coast. Town here was taken over after the war by settlers from Abanasinia, New Coast, some from Southlund, I guess. A coupla folks are from Southern Ergoth. An' Goldmoon's people are from all over, I understand. The Que-Nal are a superstitious bunch, an' maybe rightly so. They wouldn't come back here ta live 'cause they say the bay's haunted with the spirits of the men, women, an' children who were drowned by the dragonarmies. They say the spirits are restless on account a how horribly they died. At least the spirits haven't bothered me none. Don't seem ta bother the fishin' neither."
The sailor moved on, and Gair stared at the stone marker. In Memory of the Que-Nal, 'Whose Lives Were Cut Short by Darkness. The voices of his sisters faded, leaving him alone with his thoughts for several minutes. He stretched out with his mind, even as his fingers reached out to touch the carved letters.
"Who were you?" he asked. "Are you truly restless?" His senses floated away from him, touching the stone and stretching to the ground beneath his feet, then flowed toward the bay. He crept toward the edge of the shore until the tips of his boots touched the water. He stared down at his reflection, distorted by the rippling water. "Are your spirits tied to the place where you died? Will you speak to me?" The elf's heartbeat slowed to accommodate the spell, and his , keen ears shifted their perception of the world around him. He continued to work the magic tentatively, unsure of what would happen and uncertain if he could contact spirits whom he had never met in life.
He persisted. Concentrated. Directed more energy into the enchantment. Nothing… There! Finally he heard something, so faint he thought it was the winter wind whistling around his ears. He focused on it. Screaming, soft at first, as if it were far away, then growing louder and more horrifying. Dozens upon dozens of screaming voices. He closed his eyes to help him concentrate and separate the sounds. Unnoticed, his reflection in the water became grossly distorted as the ripples increased. Gair focused on the distant sounds, picking out the cries of terrified children, the pleas of men to spare their families. He heard dozens upon dozens of last gulping breaths, heard mental prayers to the gods who were still in the world at that time but never answered the Que-Nal. He saw faces sinking beneath the water-men, women, children so young they could barely walk. They could die. All of them could, and did, die.
He tried to contact them, any of them. It wasn't at all like talking with his father. Perhaps they couldn't see him or hear him. Maybe he needed to know their names to really establish contact. The elf intensified the spell by forcing all of his energy into it, determined to reach one of them, and steadying himself when his limbs grew weak. Then suddenly he felt a heaviness on his chest, the burning feel of tight ropes about his wrists and ankles. He sensed himself being pulled into the harbor with them, and he gasped for breath.
"Gair!" an unfamiliar voice called.
"You wish to talk to us?" the wind seemed to say. "Join us!"
"Stop! I can't breathe! Who are you? Don't do this! Who-"
"Gair!" the call repeated, intruding on his spell and rousing him. "Gair Graymist!"
The elf snarled as the spirits he'd been so close to rushed away and his senses returned to the present. He tried for an instant to regain contact, but the moment was lost.
"Sir! Oh, sorry to bother you, Mr. Graymist. I… uh… . " The stableboy looked uncertainly at the elf. "Your last order just arrived, sir. When I saw you walk down here a few minutes ago, I kept the stable open to watch for it."
Gair's expression softened. "Thank you for your attentiveness."
He followed the boy back to the stable. The sun was an orange sliver against the choppy bay by the time he and the youth were able to effect the considerable amount of pushing and rearranging required to make the large packages of garments fit inside the cart.
He felt wetness on his hand, a melting snowflake, and looked to the sky. It had begun to snow again, fat, wet flakes. The sky was darkening with the coming of night and the thickening clouds. The elf's expression darkened, too.
"I don't want to be caught in another blizzard," he growled softly.
"Sir? It's just a few flakes."
"It could herald worse to come." He let out a deep breath and handed the reins of the horse to the stableboy. "Stable the horse for me, please," he said, "and stow the cart and belongings. I will leave in two days with Iryl Songbrook. Perhaps fair Camilla will let me sleep in front of that fire she mentioned. Perhaps she will share it with me."
He turned to study the Sentinel.
I thought you wanted to be on your way, the elder Graymist intruded again. You've seen the marker. Nothing else holds your interest here.
"You pointed out there is no hurry. The burial grounds is not going anywhere."
You are looking for an excuse to visit with the human again.
"Yes." Gair said simply, ignoring the bewildered look of the stableboy. He felt in his pocket for the small package resting there. "Yes indeed."
8
The winter wind prowled angrily through the tower chamber, howling at every corner and bringing a biting cold on its tail. There were no motes of dust for it to chase. The room was spotless, and there was little furniture for it to slip under and whistle around-only a desk, stark in design, a straight-backed chair that offered no hint of comfort, and a narrow bed with a quilt so tightly in place it could toy with only a few frayed threads.
There were no rugs on the stone floor, no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks or sentimental remembrances of youth-nothing that could be disturbed by the wind, and nothing that could distract the room's occupant.
Camilla stood alone at the window, seemingly mindless of the frigid breeze that played across her face and teased her freshly washed hair. Her slender fingers were wrapped around the edge of the sill, and her gray eyes, which mirrored the shade of the early morning sky, were narrowed in contemplation.
She inhaled sharply at the rap on her door, turned, and nodded as a primly dressed woman entered, balancing a silver tray on one hand.
"Mornin', Lady Weoledge," the woman chirped. She hurried to the desk, set the tray down, and arranged the silverware precisely upon a linen napkin. She hummed as she moved to the window and pulled the shutters closed, leaving the blinds on one side open just enough for some light to spill in. "That wind! Don't want your breakfast to get cold, do you, lady? Sausage and shirred eggs, fixed just the way you like them, with a bit of sharp cheese. Sugared grapes, too. Do eat. Please, Camilla." This last she added softly. "At least somethin'. Usually you only pick at your plate-except for these past two nights when your young gentlemen dined with us. He should sup with us every night. So polite. And handsome."