Kindred Spirits

but even that carried a note of the unique. Strange as it all was, especially for a hill dwarf more accustomed to battlefields and taverns than gilded towers, Flint found he could only nod 'yes.'

'I must confess that, of late, our knowledge of dwarvenkind has become poor as well,' the Speaker said. 'Our people were friends once. Together they built the great fortress of Pax Tharkas-and this city. I do not propose such a dramatic undertaking for ourselves, Master Fireforge. I would be content if, together, you and I could simply build a friendship.'

Some of the elven courtiers murmured their approval. Several, including Lord Xenoth and the conclave surrounding Porthios, remained silent. Flint found he could only grin sheepishly as he stuck his hands in his pockets. 'Reorx!' he swore suddenly, and then his eyes went wide. 'Er, begging your pardon, uh… Speaker.'

Solostaran no longer made any attempt to temper his smile. 'I imagine you are wondering why I summoned you, my dwarven friend,' he said. He raised a gold-ringed hand, and a silver and moss-agate bracelet slid from his wrist to his forearm; Flint gasped, recognizing his own metalwork. Then a servant stepped forward with a silver tray decorated with the likeness of a silver dragon. Atop the tray were two goblets made of silver hammered thin and polished to a brilliance. Three aspen leaves 'grew' out of the stem of the goblet, cradling the bowl that held the wine.

'That's…' Flint blurted, and stopped. The servant waited until the Speaker and the dwarf each had selected a glass from the tray, then Solostaran lifted one goblet.

'I drink to the artisan who fashioned this bracelet and these goblets, and I hope he will do us the honor of staying at court here awhile to fashion some items especially for us.' He took one sip, watching Flint from almond- shaped green eyes.

'But that's…' Flint started again.

'You,' the Speaker finished. 'I have commissions for you if you accept our hospitality. But we can speak more of that tomorrow. For now, please drink.'

Mind reeling with the idea that the lord of all the elves of Qualinesti, a people noted for their own craftsmanship in silver and gold, would laud the efforts of a dwarf, Flint bolted the entire contents of the goblet he'd fashioned a year earlier. On the bottom of the drinking container, he knew, was his mark, the word 'Solace,' and the year. He wondered at…

He lost the thought as the taste of the elven wine slammed into his brain; his eyes misted and his throat went into paroxysms. 'Reorx's hammer!' Flint squawked.

He'd heard of elvenblossom wine. It was known for its stultifying bouquet of fruit blossoms and the battle-axe power of its alcohol content. Only those of elven blood could stomach the sweet stuff, he'd heard, and it was the alcoholic equivalent of being kicked in the head by a centaur. The odor of apple and peach blossoms seemed to permeate his body, inside and out; Flint felt as though he'd been embalmed alive in perfume. Two or three Speakers wavered in front of him; the cadre of three elves around Porthios turned into a convention of fifteen or sixteen. Lauralanthalasa's giggle rose above the chorus of Abanasinian nightingales that soared suddenly in his brain. Flint gasped and tried to sit on the Speaker's rostrum-protocol be damned-but the rostrum seemed to have grown wheels; he; couldn't quite catch up with it.

Suddenly another elf was at his side. Flint found himself looking through tears into eyes so pale that they were nearly: clear. The new face was framed by equally colorless hair and the hood of a dark crimson robe. 'Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth,' the figure said hoarsely.

'Ark,' Flint croaked. 'Uff!'

'In through your nose…' the elf repeated, and demonstrated. The dwarf, deciding he would die anyway, attempted what the elf commanded. 'Wufff!' he wheezed.

'… Out through your mouth.'

'Hoooofff!' the dwarf responded. The elf scattered some herbs and uttered words that were either an old elven tongue or magic-or both. Flint immediately felt better. He lay sprawled on the rostrum steps, the empty goblet in his hand. The hall had been emptied of all but the Speaker, Lauralanthalasa, the young half-elf, and the magic-user who'd saved the dwarf.

'With all respect, Speaker, I would posit that our guest will not desire a refill,' the elf rasped, helping Flint to his feet. 'Elvenblossom wine is an acquired taste.' The dwarf swayed, and the half-elf leaped forward to support him. Flint nodded his thanks.

'Perhaps Master Fireforge would prefer to conclude this interview at another time, Speaker,' the robed one said smoothly.

Solostaran raised his brows and looked at the dwarf. 'Perhaps you are right, Miral,' the Speaker replied.

'Ark,' Flint hacked. 'I'm fine.' He coughed and felt his face grow pale. The magic-user snapped his fingers, and thinly sliced quith-pa appeared in his outstretched hand. Flint chewed a slice of the bread while the Speaker, more casual now that court was over, waved his daughter forward.

The elf girl, pointed ear tips barely showing through her spun-gold hair, drew a slender chain from her neck. At one end dangled a single, perfect aspen leaf, glimmering green and silver in the golden light. Although it looked natural, as if it had just been plucked from a living tree, this leaf was fashioned of silver and emerald, so skillfully wrought it could not be discerned from a real leaf save for the sparkles of light it sent dancing across the little girl's rapt face.

The dwarf gasped in surprise; the movement brought up a peachy belch, prompting another chuckle from Lauralanthalasa. 'I made that leaf six months ago,' Flint exclaimed, swallowing the last morsel of quith-pa. 'Sold it to an elf passing through Solace.'

'My envoy,' the Speaker said. Flint started to speak, but the Speaker held up one hand. 'The leaf is perfect in every way. No tree is closer to the heart of an elf than the aspen. I determined to find the artist who could translate such feeling into his work. And I discovered that this artisan is no elf, but a dwarf.'

The Speaker turned away for a heartbeat, then paused. 'You must be weary from your long journey,' he said. 'Miral will show you to your chambers.'

Solostaran watched as the dwarf and the magic-user walked from the chamber. It had been a long time since a sight such as that had been seen in Qualinost. Too long. Times had been dark of late. It still seemed only a moment-instead of thirty years-since his brother Kethrenan had been slain, and such raids had not yet ended.

'Friendship…,' Solostaran echoed his earlier words. The world could do with a bit more friendship.

The streets of the elven city spread out beneath Flint's feet. Before being shown to his chambers, Flint had asked Miral to take him someplace where he might see more of the city. The elf had led him along the tiled avenues, past buildings fashioned of marble and rose quartz, the crystals splintering the light only to spin it again in dazzling new colors.

Aspen, oak, and spruce surrounded the buildings so that the houses of Qualinost seemed living things themselves, their roots sunk deep into the earth. Fountains bubbled in courtyards where elven folk, the women in dresses of cobweb silver, the men in jerkins of moss green, spoke softly or listened to the music of dulcimer and flute. The air was warm and clear, its touch as gentle as midsummer, although Flint knew that winter had barely loosened its grip on the land.

As he watched, the sun drew low in the west, the crimson sunset combining with the rosy hues of the living stone to bathe the town in pink light. The azure and white tiles of the streets deepened to purple. The scent of baking quith-pa and roasting venison filled the air, and few elves were too busy to come to the portals of their homes and businesses to enjoy the closing of the day.

The odor of blossoms still discomfited the dwarf, but he resolved to ignore it.

Miral led him to a lane that wound in arcs up a rise in the center of the city. The lane ended in a great square, the Hall of the Sky, walled only by the pale trunks of aspens and roofed only by the blue dome of the heavens. 'This is a hall?' Flint asked after the magic-user identified its name. 'There's no roof.'

Miral grinned. 'The sky is its ceiling, we say, although some believe that at one time there was a hall here, guarding something beyond value. Myth has it that Kith-Kanan caused the structure to rise into the sky to protect that which was within.' He looked wistful and drew in a great breath of pear-blossom-scented air. 'It's said that whoever finds the structure will enjoy great success.'

'That's nothing to sneeze at,' Flint agreed.

Miral darted a look at him and, after a pause, laughed shortly. The two looked over Qualinost, details beginning to vanish in the deepening twilight. Pinpoints of lamplight appeared in the uncommon glass windows of