Don't you want us to rule the island? Darkhunter's redhot eyes bore into the elf's. At your behest? More powerful in death. Don't you want us to have power, Master? Don't you want us to serve you? Forever?
Master? Gair mouthed. For some reason, the word sounded good to the elf, and the red of Darkhunter's eyes was somehow warming and comforting. Master. The wraith of the long-dead Que-Nal seemed to make sense. "But Camilla-"
Will join us in death soon, Darkhunter continued. She will call you Master, too. She will be more powerful in death. ›Don't you want her to be more powerful?
The elf nodded. Everything was clear again. He was more powerful, too, had pulled the energy from the Silver Stair. He knew he was weakening the steps. If he kept it up, perhaps he would destroy the thing. He'd have to take much more power from it before it collapsed, enough to raise the spirit of every man who died on this island and in the sea around it, perhaps the spirits of dragons as well. "If the stairs truly did collapse in the process?" he mused aloud. "It would only be fitting. It would be keeping the magical energy from Goldmoon, and then she would not have the power to stop me."
The spirits helped him to his feet.
"Goldmoon," he said plainly, "I will destroy your Silver Stair, step by step, and then I will destroy you." Goldmoon would die, as Camilla would die, and they would be with him forever.
He padded to the northeast, letting Camilla's long cloak drag on the ground behind him to wipe away his tracks. There was still a touch of darkness left this night-time to raise a few more spirits from his favorite Que-Nal burial ground before the spirits flew him back to Castle Vila.
Camilla stifled a yawn as she started toward the port just as the sun was rising. The snow had been beaten down enough into a trail now that it would not be difficult going. Four knights clanked along behind her, all on horseback, and behind them was a rustling sound that was out of place. The knight commander swiveled in the saddle to glance over her shoulder. She groaned softly. The gnoll was following them, running fast enough to keep up with the horses.
"Good morning, Orvago," she offered as the gnoll picked up his pace and made his way around the knights' mounts. He seemed to have little trouble keeping up with the horses.
The gnoll bobbed his head. He was dressed in a flowing yellow-orange cloak with a voluminous hood that covered up his hairy snout. Bright purple sleeves extended from its folds as he shook both her hands. He had on gloves, too, the first time she'd seen him wearing any. They were colored green, and they didn't at all match the baggy forest green trousers that clashed with everything. His feet were covered with a combination of heavy gray socks and brown boots with the toes cut out of them.
"So are you along because you think we need some extra protection, or because you want to see the town?"
The head bobbed vigorously.
"All right, but keep your head covered at all times."
Beneath the voluminous hood, the gnoll grinned.
The gnoll was dumbstruck when the entourage passed through the town's gate. He'd never seen anything like this, had only spotted towns from a distance when he was on the deck of the pirate's ship.
He stopped every few steps, ogling at the colorful buildings, sniffing the people passing by, growling appreciatively at the smells coming from the bakery and from all the chimneys that puffed away, sending a variety of scents into the air. It was fast approaching dinnertime, he could tell.
They were nearly at the Sentinel when the gnoll put a gloved hand on her knee. He pointed toward a row of businesses, all of which had the snow cleared away from the sidewalks, as if the merchants were refusing to accept the winter. A trio of Que-Nal barbarians was coming out of a limner's shop. They were chattering and pointing in windows. The tallest was admiring a decorative leather tunic.
The gnoll growled softly.
"I'm going to talk to them," Camilla said, sliding from the horse's back. "Maybe they know something about this Shadowwalker." She strode toward them, head high, the other knights holding their position, but Orvago following. The gnoll's paw drifted to the pommel of the broadsword in his belt.
"Sword Commander!" the tallest barbarian began. "Is not that a fine garment?" He hadn't turned to greet her. He saw her reflection in the window. "It would look good on me, but I have not the goods to trade for it today. Maybe my next trip."
"Do you know of someone called Shadowwalker?" She came right to the point. She wasn't about to engage him in pleasant conversation about clothes.
"Shadowwalker is an old man and would not look as good in that garment as I." His fellows sniggered. "Shadowwalker's face is full of wrinkles, and he is not handsome like me. My next trip, I will buy this, or one like it if it is gone."
"Are you with Shadowwalker's clan?"
He shook his head, the beads in his hair clacking together.
"But you know him?"
"Maybe the Sword Commander would like to buy me that garment. Call it a trade. Information for the leather."
"I haven't the steel."
He sighed and turned away from the window to finally face her. "Shadowwalker is old, Sword Commander, but he is full of fire. You ask about him because you protect the Que-Shu woman. The Que-Shu and Shadowwalker's clan are not friends."
"Do you know where I can find him?"
"If I did, I would not tell you. I do not like Shadowwalker, but I like the Que-Shu even less."
She carefully regarded him. The beads in his hair were carved in the shapes of owls and hawks. None were blood-soaked like the beads of the men who had attacked her.
"Is there anything else, Sword Commander?"
"No. Thank you for speaking with me."
"A pleasure, Sword Commander. When next we meet, perhaps I will be wearing a fine garment like this one."
She watched them stroll away, heading toward the northern edge of town. The tall barbarian pointed toward a tavern, and he and his fellows slipped inside.
Camilla returned to Orvago and escorted him into the keep. One of the knights took the horses to the stable.
"We'll leave in the morning," she told the gnoll. Softer, she said, "When I have another suit of armor, my brother's sword, and a good night's sleep."
Orvago took off his cloak just as Judeth walked by. The stocky servingwoman stared wide-eyed at the creature. He grinned at her, showing all of his teeth, and she promptly swooned.
"Sorry," the gnoll offered.
Camilla knelt to tend to the woman. "Please don't go out tonight, Orvago. I don't think it would be a good idea."
The gnoll sadly nodded his head.
15
The ruins of Castle Vila were tinged a burnt orange by the rising sun. Gair traced a deep crack that ran between the age-worn stones.
"The Que-Shu sheep must die!"
He turned to watch the barbarians gathered nearby.
"It is only one Que-Shu, Shadowwalker. Hardly worth your effort. Let her be."
The old Que-Nal shaman stomped and spat at the ground, beads clacking angrily as he shook his head. "I decide if it is worth my effort, Windfisher. I decide!"
"You don't command the tribes, Shadowwalker. My brother does. He has made a truce with the elf Iryl Songbrook. You cannot command warriors to follow you on some foolish-"
"Your brother is not here."
"No. He would not dignify this gathering with his presence, but he has said the camp of the mystics is to be left alone. He gave his word."
Shadowwalker glared at the young Que-Nal, puffed out his chest, and again stomped in the snow. The pair was in front of a spirit pole, an old tree carved with oversized Que-Nal faces. The left half of each face was red, the right black. Four faces, one each facing east, south, west, and north. In decades past, the poles were believed to serve as homes for the spirits who watched over the village and who carried the shamans' prayers to the gods. Many of the barbarians believed the gods were still here but were turning a deaf ear.