"Camilla's knights and Goldmoon's men. You will help me become as powerful, magically, as Goldmoon." It was more of a statement than a question.
No, Master, the wraith hissed. I will make you more powerful.
"When I am, I will face her. I'll kill her, and I'll capture her spirit as I've captured yours. She will serve me. I cannot have her remain alive."
Slay her, Gair's father agreed. The wraith fluttered down to float at Gair's other side. She might be the one person who could stop you. Her citadel must fall, and she with it. And then, my son…
"And then I will raise the spirit of every Que-Nal who died on this island. When I am finished with that, every Dark Knight, every farmer, every one of Goldmoon's followers, Smithsin's father, the elf of Red Creek…"
Schallsea Island will become the realm of the dead, Darkhunter finished.
The elf slowed his pace and watched the wraiths dart around the fleeing men, all of them shadows against the snow. The wraiths circled the men, though they did not yet know their path to Castle Vila had been cut off.
"The tallest is Roeland Stark," Gair said, his voice as soft as the small icicles gently clicking together on the branches in the breeze, "a miller from the port town. He came out one day in the early fall to meet the famed Hero of the Lance. Goldmoon impressed him, as she impresses nearly everyone. He went back to town the next day, closed his shop, gathered his belongings, and joined the settlement. He is strong-minded, just learning the rudiments of healing magic. I like… liked… him."
He shall die swiftly, Darkhunter pronounced. His body shall feel little pain.
"He'll not die until I've spoken to him. Do you understand?"
You've left that life, the spirit argued. You've no need of their company, no need to talk to them.
The elf chuckled. "I need only the company of the dead?"
Darkhunter's eyes seemed to glow a little redder.
"I only want to question him," the elf explained, "and then he will die. Yes, kill him quickly. That would please me. You may take your time with the others."
And then they will join us, his father's spirit whispered, all of them.
Made stronger in death, Darkhunter said.
The words were echoed by the elder Graymist and repeated in the distance by the other wraiths until they swelled into a chant. Darkhunter flowed away from Gair and moved to join the other undead.
In Goldmoon's tent, Camilla faced the healer across her makeshift table, sitting stiffly, as if she were at attention. Orvago sat on a crate near Goldmoon's bed, yawning and watching both of them, idly rubbing his heel in a small pool of spittle on the ground. He hadn't left Camilla's side since the fight with the Que-Nal band. He had hovered around both women throughout dinner, had followed them in here even after Goldmoon had said she needed to talk to Camilla alone. However, she finally relented and let him stay. He listened closely to their conversation.
"I did not ask for your healing," Camilla began, "though I suppose I should thank you for it. You probably saved my life, but I will not allow you to use your mysticism on me again. I truly want no part of it."
"As you want no part of this settlement," the healer added. "Commander Weoledge, I understand that you do not want us here. More precisely, you do not want me here. However-"
"However, the Solamnic Council does not share my opinion." Camilla fixed her eyes on the top of the healer's head, avoiding meeting her gaze. "The council is elated that you are building a center dedicated to your new mystic order. They have doubled the number of Knights of the Sword and soldiers under my command and have instructed me to protect you at all costs and afford you whatever other assistance is possible. Now that we know the threat is from a band of renegade Que-Nal, we can better defend you."
Camilla continued to stare, unblinking. "I understand from Iryl that the Que-Nal still revere the old gods, though they call them by names unfamiliar to us."
Goldmoon smoothed her hands on her tunic. "Let us hope I can make my own peace with the Que-Nal in the spring. I want no discord between them and the settlement. Commander, do you feel well enough for a walk?"
The women walked shoulder to shoulder, presenting a sharp contrast-Camilla young and very much the warrior, walking stately, though she was without her armor, the aging Goldmoon clad in soft browns, soft like her hair and expression and tone, her cloak shushing about her feet. Orvago followed several paces behind them.
The sky had darkened overhead, with clouds obscuring most of the stars, and the tents farthest from the few fires that burned loomed in a row like the bony spine of a great black beast.
"Have you walked the Silver Stair, Commander? The visions I've received there are quite illuminating."
She shook her head. "I have no need of visions. My own faith serves me well enough."
Goldmoon's path took them by each tent in the settlement, then around the construction site, where a dozen dwarves and humans continued to work by the light of a few large lanterns. Jasper and Redstone were putting the finishing touches on a doorframe, and they slowed their work long enough to nod their greetings and eavesdrop a little. The healer noted that Camilla made eye contact with each person in the settlement, as if she were constantly measuring them.
They passed by the row of closely spaced tents belonging to the knights and soldiers. Willum saw them and said he'd heard nothing yet from the search parties of knights and volunteers that had been sent out after Gair and his "whisperers." The men who went to collect the armor and the blankets on the trail to Heartspring had also come up empty-handed.
Goldmoon finished the tour at a small bay southeast of the tent town, taking Camilla down an overgrown path that led to an imposing cliff.
Camilla let out a long breath between her teeth, making a soft whistling sound. "Pelican Cove," she said, looking down at the water. "I was here with Gair not too long ago." Pilings rose above the choppy surface. "So you'll build a dock here when the weather breaks, which means you won't be needing the docks in town."
"This will be for visitors' use. The cove is not nearly deep enough to accommodate ships of much size. Materials can't be unloaded here." Goldmoon pointed down the cliff face. "In the spring, we'll build steps here."
Camilla glanced across the cove to the Straits of Schallsea and to the New Sea beyond. The water looked as black as ink, and the light from the few stars that showed in the cloudy sky was too faint to reflect on the surface.
"I know you do not want me here." Goldmoon finally brought up the subject again.
"It is because I do not agree with what you are doing."
"I am offering my students hope, teaching them to heal others."
The Solamnic Commander shook her head. "You teach them magic that comes from within."
"The power of the heart."
"Magic comes from the gods, Goldmoon. You were a priestess of Mishakal, and so you of all people should know that."
"You truly don't understand, do you, Commander? The power of the heart is from the gods, the last gift they gave men before they left to wherever Chaos bade them go. Mysticism, some call it. It is still god-magic, and I still believe in the gods. I am a priestess of Mishakal, to my last day."
Camilla's gaze softened. "I thought-"
"That I had forgotten the gods? I revere Mishakal with each breath." The healer sighed and drew Camilla back toward her tent. They paused outside a lean-to, where a family inside was singing an old elvish folk tune about the forest, some of the words mispronounced by their human tongues. "There is something you must know… about Gair Graymist."