"He must be stopped," Camilla said finally. She forced herself to appear stoic, thrust to the back of her mind all the happy thoughts of Gair she once indulged in. It was silly anyway, she told herself, to entertain a notion that a knight might find room in her heart for romance. She took a deep swallow of the wine. Then another.
"Roeland said weapons couldn't harm the whisperers," Goldmoon said. Her voice was weak. She dabbed at her eyes and returned to worrying about the lip of the glass. "My magic, perhaps, might. I want nothing to do with this… sort… of mysticism. It's dark magic, but maybe it's the only way to stop Gair."
The gnoll drained his mug and wiped his snout on the sleeve of his tunic. He tugged the sword free from his belt, laid it on the table, and reached for the jug of cherry wine. "Whisperers, dead by this sword."
Goldmoon ran her fingers over the edge of the blade.
"This is a magic weapon, Orvago."
He nodded.
The healer looked into his big eyes. "Why did you wait so long to talk to us, my friend?"
The gnoll gave a shrug. "Did not have anything important to say." He stared at his reflection in the sword, then met the gaze of the women.
Camilla drained her mug, and the gnoll courteously refilled it, spilling only part of the jug's contents on the table. "I've a magic sword in the Sentinel. It belonged to my brother. I've never used it. Maybe I was saving it in case he ever came back for it." She took a long pull, felt the warmth of the bitter wine flow down her throat. It felt like it was starting a fire in her belly. She barely felt the ache from the wound in her side that Goldmoon finished healing a few days ago. Her broken arm had been mended magically, too. "I'll leave to get the sword in the morning. It will give me a chance to check on the Sentinel and the town and to bring more soldiers here."
Orvago filled himself a third mug and handed the empty jug back to Goldmoon. She stoppered it and set it under the table. He wiped his hairy arm across the table to clean up what he'd spilled. His elbow smacked the lantern and it teetered precariously.
"I have a staff," Goldmoon said. It was wrapped in blankets at the side of her bed. "One I used a long time ago." During the War of the Lance, she added to herself.
"Maybe you won't have to use this dark mysticism of yours after all," Camilla said. "Maybe we can deal with Gair and his whisperers a more direct way." "Gair is my responsibility," Goldmoon said to herself.
"He was." Camilla finished her second glass and stood, balancing herself by holding the table. The knight was not used to drinking. "This island, and everyone on it, is mine to watch over. He's my responsibility, too."
The gnoll looked back and forth between the women and tucked the short sword protectively into his belt.
14
"They said Vinas Solamnus had visions." Camilla stared at the translucent silver steps that spiraled up and out of sight. Like gossamer, they didn't seem at all real, shimmering strips of fabric that she would slip right through to the ground if she tried to stand on them. She bent to touch the bottom step. "Solid," she pronounced, holding on to it for support. She felt slightly lightheaded. "I guess it'll hold me." She slowly stood and let out a long breath that fanned like a puff of smoke away from her face. "It'll hold me better than I can hold wine."
Camilla glanced upward and felt a wash of dizziness as she tried to spy the top step. "Of course, without the wine I probably wouldn't be standing here. False courage. Or foolishness. I wonder if the people who make it to the top really do have visions?" The knight found herself on the first step and then the second. She wasn't thoroughly aware she was climbing the stair until she glanced down and discovered that she was higher than the tallest tents. "Oh my." She felt instantly dizzy again. She closed her eyes and steadied herself.
The winter wind played around her, teasing her red cloak, which was threatening to become entangled in her feet. With a quick tug, the cloak fluttered to the ground, stark in the faint moonlight against the snow. Camilla opened her eyes and gave her garment a quick glance, as if she were making a note of where she left it. She returned her gaze to the spiraling steps in front of her, and she told herself again she wouldn't be doing this if she hadn't been polite and joined Goldmoon and the gnoll in a drink.
"Polite," she grumbled as she climbed higher. "Politeness had nothing to do with it. I let down my guard, indulged in a bit of melancholic ruminations, and… oh, my."
Camilla glanced down again. She felt herself swaying on the step and spread her legs as much as possible to gain better balance. There were a few lights below, around the construction site. She knew men and women were still working. A few of the tents glowed softly, as if lanterns were burning merrily inside of them, their occupants unable to sleep.
Taking a deep breath, she resumed her climb. "Don't these stairs ever stop? To think Goldmoon regularly climbs them, at her age." Camilla had witnessed truly elderly folks take the climb, hobbling up with canes, and the dwarves from time to time, their stubby legs finding this a real challenge. Jasper had climbed it again just last night.
Their legs? She touched her thighs. Her legs were aching. Camilla considered herself very well conditioned. If she was having trouble with these steps, how did the common folk in Goldmoon's settlement handle them?
Higher and higher. Still there was no end to them. The knight considered climbing back down. This was a waste of time. The chill air had helped to sober her, bringing with it more thoughts that this stunt was absurd. She had no reason to climb these stairs. Foolish though it may be, she decided, it was now a matter of triumphing over this insubstantial-looking relic. She needed to reach the top just to prove that she could do it. She would reach the top and then instantly climb down.
"In the name of Kiri-Jolith," she breathed, "do these stairs indeed reach to the stars?"
Her side ached. The air was thin, and she gulped it in raggedly. Her teeth were chattering from the cold, and when she reached down to touch her legs again, the leggings she wore felt like ice. A mist rose around her; she suspected it was the low-hanging cloud she'd spied from the ground. She stopped to catch her breath and toyed with the notion of sitting here for a moment.
"Just a moment. Sit in the cloud and think and rest." Camilla had no idea how long she had spent in Goldmoon's tent or how long it had taken her to climb this high. If morning came before she was finished, the steps would vanish from sight. Would she plummet to the ground? Disappear with them? Or were the steps always here but you could only see them in the moonlight?
Faster, she urged herself. She climbed above the mist, climbed so high it looked as if she were standing amid the stars. "Stars fallen to earth," she whispered, remembering her stroll with Gair. "So beautiful."
Camilla saw no top step, but suddenly when she thought she didn't have the energy to go any farther, she was standing on it, balanced like a dancer on a gossamer strip of… what? Just what were the steps made of? She breathed only faintly, worried that too much motion might cause her to topple. "Foolishness," she whispered. "Foolishness and cherry wine."
"I much preferred ale, dwarven if I could get it." The voice was strong and rich, coming from in front of her and behind her at the same time.
Forgetting for an instant just where she was, she pivoted and found herself in an oak-ringed glade. It was late spring or early summer, judging by the leaves on the trees and the wildflowers that grew in clumps here and there and at the feet of a towering elderly man in ornate plate mail.
His long gray hair and drooping mustache were teased by a breeze that felt pleasant and warm. All trace of Schallsea Island's winter had vanished in a heartbeat. A long sword and a shield, both gleaming in the midafternoon sun, and a great horned helmet were propped against a large block of black granite.