"Had they no healers? Or had the disease simply spread throughout the child's body before someone sensed its seriousness and tried to do something?" he mused aloud. There was a strange substance on the skin, the remnants of a poultice, he finally determined. "So someone had tried to treat the child, but he was unsuccessful. So young to die."
The features he pictured were truly amazing. He continued his mental explorations, never leaving the side of the mosaic-covered mound. Some in the clearing had died of old age, which somehow made death a little more palatable to the elf. Some died from harsh diseases, a few from what Gair assumed were falls; necks or backs were broken. One died from a sword thrust to his chest, the splintered ribs telling the tale. Another had two arrowheads resting amid the bones. The wooden shafts of the weapons that killed him had rotted away.
"Who killed you? Do their bones rest here, too?"
No answer. There never would be an answer, he sensed, because he hadn't known them.
There were three whom he could not begin to guess at what they succumbed to, though he suspected he could eventually determine that he could if he spent enough time and mystical energy here. Neither could he tell what had killed the man in the ornate mound. Perhaps he would focus all of his initiative here.
"Who were you?"
Darkhunter, the spirit replied.
Gair's heart soared. He had contacted a spirit-the essence of someone he had not known in life, a complete stranger. The door was opening wider for him, he knew. Next he would talk to the elf of Red Creek, to Lenerd Smithsin's father, and to the Que-Nal who drowned at the hands of the Blue Dragonarmy in the Schallsea harbor, perhaps now able to shut out their screams and hold a reasonable conversation with them. He would ask them all about what, precisely, rested beyond this life, and about what their lives on Krynn were like. If his father would not give him the answers, perhaps strangers would.
I am Darkhunter, the spirit repeated, and you are Gair Graymist, puppet of the healer Goldmoon. The spirit pulled the names-and more-from the elf's mind. My people hate the Que-Shu. My people will drive your mentor from the land or drive her to her death, her spirit to be tormented forever. Do not get in their way or you will fall with her.
The questions instantly drained from Gair's mind, and he felt chilled, the sensation not at all a result of the cold. A shiver raced down his spine and his eyes snapped wide open. Calm yourself, he scolded. "The spirit cannot harm me, nor will it frighten me. The spirit is of another realm. Goldmoon is safe."
From the dead, she is safe, the spirit continued. But not from the living.
The elf concentrated on his breathing, then focused all his efforts on the mound beneath his fingertips, searching the form more closely, discovering bits of jewelry against the bones of the wrist, semiprecious stones on the numerous heavy bracelets. Jade and-he studied them more intently-jade and moonstone, garnet and onyx. More jewelry lay about the neck, silver and gold chains, not of Que-Nal make, elaborate, such as would be found in the large cities of Palanthas, Silvanost, and Solanthus. They were covered with gems-mostly garnets, but pieces of agate and peridot, too, stones not naturally available on this island or from Abanasinia. A bit more at ease now, the questions started returning.
"Your necklaces and bracelets were gifts? Gifts to an important man? Purchases?"
Conquests. I took them from those I vanquished. As Goldmoon will be vanquished. If you wish to save her, puppet, make her leave the island.
Gair shivered again and focused on the jewelry.
The jewelry was valuable and would have netted a tribe considerable food and goods in trade. But the tribe had buried them with the man-because he was so important. A warrior. A chief? A king?
They buried, them with me because they feared to take anything from me, even in death.
"Perhaps," the elf conceded. "All powerful men are feared and respected, but they honored you by wrapping your body in this embroidered cloth and covering your mound with these carved stones."
One of which you stole.
Gair's mouth fell open. So the spirit had been aware of his son's activities on his previous visit. Were all the spirits here so aware? he wondered. All the spirits everywhere? Were the eyes of a hundred dead men on him now? I should end this, Gair thought.
End this? But there is so much left of the night.
The air around him felt thick, and where the snow fell directly in front of him, it did not melt. The elf couldn't see the man, not as he could see images of his father and his sisters, and not as Goldmoon could see Riverwind, he was certain. Yet he sensed the spirit was right in front of him.
Do you fear me, young elf? Do you entertain thoughts of leaving because you are afraid?
For some reason, the elf did. Nevertheless, he said, "No."
You should be afraid.
"I have nothing to fear from the dead." He tarried over the mound. "Still, I should end this soon," he said, "and get back to the settlement, but not just yet. Just a little longer. Another question or two of this Darkhunter."
His mind drifted up to the skeleton's face, and he pictured what the man had looked like in life. If the spirit would not show himself, Gair would use his mystical senses to gain an image. Broad-faced, he had a long, straight nose and dark eyes.
Eyes that Gair felt were directed at him.
"Why do you hate Goldmoon, Darkhunter? You do not know her. You died before she came to this island."
Before she was born. She is a Que-Shu, that much I have pulled from your mind, and that is enough reason to hate her. There are living who hate her, too. Their blood boils at her presence.
Gair focused harder on the remains. Darkhunter had eyebrows that were thick and muddy brown, like the shaggy mane of hair that had once covered the man's head. Blood-soaked beads and feathers were braided down its length along the sides of his angular head, and from the ends of the braids hung polished shells. His lips were thin, set in death as if they were in a perpetual sneer.
Gair felt as if the corpse was sneering at him.
"Goldmoon means no one harm."
But my people mean to harm her. I sense their thoughts, as I sense yours. I sense their anger, and I know their plans. Shadowwalker leads them.
"Enough!" Gair felt the spirit move closer still, felt a chill so intense and unnatural that he gritted his teeth. "Enough! No more questions. I will have no more to do with you!" The elf spat the words as he pulled his hands off the mosaic stones and stepped away from the mound, slamming shut the door between this world and the realm of spirits. "Enough of my curiosity this night. Some doors are better left closed," he said, repeating Goldmoon's words. His breath was ragged, puffing away from his face and melting the snow before it could touch the ground, but on Darkhunter's mound, a thin coating of new snow remained, as if it were colder than the other mounds.
He hurried to the edge of the clearing, still feeling unnaturally chill. He sensed that a bit of Darkhunter's foulness had settled itself in the pit of his stomach. He felt dirty. "Footprints." He cursed himself and retraced his path, remembering to cover his tracks and grab his coat and long sword. "No more visits here," he admonished himself. "I'll keep my conversations to the spirits I know-at least for a while. Father?"
Even that spirit was distant now, the door firmly closed and locked. "All right," he said, needing to hear his own voice. He forced his heart to slow, his breathing to become regular. He used the enchantment Goldmoon had taught him to calm himself. "I'll talk to you later, Father. I'll open the door just a crack when I'm far from here and a few hours have passed."