'You wished to see me, sir?' the half-elf asked Solostaran. Tanis's features had the look, his limbs the awkwardness, of a youth just shy of manhood. He appeared doubly poised between two worlds-elf and human, child and adult. He'll be shaving soon, the dwarf thought. Yet more evidence of Tanis's human blood. The dwarf winced at the hazing the half-elf could expect from some of the smooth-faced elves. Tanis stood before the Speaker's desk, sparing a nod for Flint, who, despite his earlier refusal of refreshments, was nibbling a slice of dried apple and did not speak.
'It's time for you to begin advanced training in the longbow, Tanis,' Solostaran said. 'I have selected a teacher.' Tanis looked in pleased surprise at Flint. 'Master Fireforge?' the half-elf asked tentatively.
Flint swallowed the fruit and shook his head. 'Not me, lad. The longbow's not my weapon, although I'd be glad to demonstrate the fine points of the battle-axe.' And an excellent job the half-elf would make of it, too, with those growing human muscles, Flint said to himself.
'The battle-axe is not an elven weapon,' Solostaran gently corrected Flint. 'No, Tanis, Lord Tyresian has agreed to take up your training.'
'But Tyresian…' The half-elf's voice trailed off, and the dissatisfied cast clamped down over his countenance again.
'…is one of the most experienced bowmen in court,' the Speaker concluded. 'He's Porthios's closest friend and heir to one of the highest families in Qualinost. He could be a valuable ally for you, Tanthalas, if you impress him as a student.'
Apparently forgotten in the exchange, Flint squinted at Tanis and plucked a sugared pear from the silver bowl. Tanis and Tyresian would never be allies, the dwarf thought, recalling the elf lord from Flint's first day at court. A member of the cadre of four or five well-born elves who stuck to Porthios, the Speaker's heir, like flies to honey, Tyresian had a knack for charming the aristocracy. But rare was the common elf who could meet Tyresian's high social standards. Considered handsome by courtiers, Tyresian had sharp blue eyes and-odd among elves- hair no more than an inch long, cut with precision. Not surprisingly, a hill dwarf, however skilled, did not quite measure up in Tyresian's eyes, and Flint guessed that a half-elf would fall even lower. The dwarf wondered how much of Porthios's ill-concealed condescension toward his father's ward was born of Tyresian's opinions.
Tanis dared one last protest. 'But, Speaker, my studies with Master Miral take most of the day-'
An irritated Solostaran cut him off. 'That's enough, Tanthalas. Miral has taught you much of science and mathematics and history, but he is a mage. He cannot demonstrate the arts of weaponry. Tyresian expects you to meet him in the courtyard north of the palace at midafternoon. If you wish to speak with him before then, you can find him in Porthios's quarters.'
Tanis opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. With a curt 'Yes, sir,' he walked with stiff back across the marble tiles and out the door.
Solostaran continued gazing at the door a few seconds after it banged shut. It wasn't until Flint began rolling up the drawings that the Speaker's attention returned to his audience with the dwarf. 'Can I offer you anything?' Solostaran said again, with a vague wave toward the now half-empty silver bowl. 'Some wine? Dried fruit?'
Flint declined, commenting that he'd eaten before he arrived at the Speaker's chambers. Solostaran suddenly grinned-why, Flint couldn't see-but the smile soon faded. Flint tucked the rolled parchments under his burly arm and was preparing to leave when the Speaker's voice halted him.
'Do you ever have cause to wish you could rewrite history, Master Fireforge?' The words were wistful.
Flint paused, staring with alert blue-gray eyes into the Speaker's green ones, and thought, He has no elves he can call friends. Since taking up the Speaker's mantle in the tumultuous years after the Cataclysm had changed the face of Krynn, Solostaran had been the focus of one rumor of deposition after another. He held his post through the force of his personality, through the truth that few elves could trace their bloodlines back several millennia to Kith- Kanan, and through the innate elven horror of drawing the blood of their elven kin. Still, Solostaran had to be aware of the occasional murmurs of unhappiness among courtiers, Flint thought. Some believed Qualinesti should be opened to wider trade with the rest of Ansalon. Others felt that all but pure elves should be deported over the border into Abanasinia.
The hill dwarf cast about for an answer to the Speaker's query. He drew in a breath of air tinged with the scent of fruit, and said, 'Certainly I would change history if I could. My grandfather's family lost many numbers because of the Cataclysm.'
Three centuries before, the Cataclysm occurred because the old gods retaliated against the pride of the era's most influential religious leader, the Kingpriest of Istar. When the Cataclysm rained destruction upon Krynn, the mountain dwarves retreated into Thorbardin, the great underground kingdom, and sealed the gates; as a result, their hill dwarf cousins, trapped outside, suffered the brunt of the gods' punishment.
The Speaker's eyebrows rose, and, confoundedly, in the face of Solostaran's sympathy, Flint found himself unable to go on. 'They died because the mountain dwarves locked the gates… 7' the Speaker asked, and Flint nodded, unwilling to say more.
Solostaran stood and walked slowly to the clear wall. The gold circlet on his forehead glittered. The room was silent except for the breathing of the two figures. 'I would give almost anything,' Solostaran said, 'to have Tanis be my true nephew, to have my brother Kethrenan back among us with his wife, Elansa. To see my brother Arelas one more time.'
Miral, the Speaker's mage, had told Flint the story of Kethrenan Kanan and Elansa and the birth of Tanis. But he had not mentioned the existence of another brother. The Speaker seemed to wish to speak, and Flint knew no one but himself that he would trust with the Speaker's secrets. Taking a handful of glazed almonds, the dwarf chewed one and prompted, 'Arelas…?'
The Speaker turned. 'My youngest brother.' At the rising of Flint's furry brows, he went on, 'I barely knew him. He left Qualinost as a little boy. And he died before he could return.'
'Why did he leave?' Flint asked.
'He was…ill. We could not cure him here.'
The ensuing silence stretched into minutes, and Flint cast about for a response. 'It is a sad thing when a child dies,' he said.
Solostaran looked up suddenly, a look of surprise creasing his features. 'Arelas was a man when he died. He was returning to Qualinost, but he never got here.' The Speaker stepped back toward Flint, seemingly trying to control his emotions. 'Had he lived another week, he would have found safety here. But the roads were dangerous, even more so than today.' The Speaker sat heavily.
Flint found himself unsure what to say. After a short time, the Speaker asked the dwarf to leave him.
Almost mindless of the parchment drawings, Flint walked somberly back to the small shop the Speaker had given him, a squat building southeast of the Tower. Here, in the last few months, he had wrought many things: necklaces of jade woven with near-fluid chains of silver, rings of braided gold as fine as strands of hair, bracelets of burnished copper and emerald.
The workshop stood at the end of a small lane in a grove of pear trees. Climbing roses entwined about its wooden doorway. Flint, remembering his mother's fondness for morning glories, had planted the flower at the feet of the roses, and the pink, blue, and white blossoms now intertwined with the white, pink, and yellow roses.
The dwelling had been awarded to Flint for as long as he wished it, but how long that might be, the dwarf was unsure. Certainly he would stay until the end of spring, he had told himself at first; after all, what was the use of journeying so far if he only went dashing back home right off? Still, thoughts of his warm house far away in Solace-and of a foamy tankard of ale-often ran through his mind. Elven ale had proved to be a pathetic imitation of the real thing, as far as the dwarf was concerned, although it was head and foam above elvenblossom wine.
Busy as he was, what with near-daily appointments with the Speaker and more commissions for his work than he could shake his hammer at, it was hardly surprising that the last day of spring had slipped by quite unnoticed and the warm, golden days of summer stretched out before the dwarf.
Often the window of his shop could be seen glowing as red as Lunitari, late into the night, and it was not uncommon that the first elf to wake in Qualinost the next day did so to the ringing of hammer on anvil. Many marveled at the dwarf's diligence, and just as many hoped the Speaker would make them the lucky recipients of a gift of one of Master Fireforge's creations.
On this afternoon, he stomped back to the heat of the forge, hefted his iron hammer, and once again used blazing fire and the blows of his hammer to transform a lifeless lump of metal into a thing of beauty. He spent
