gnome clinked and rattled with every move. The charms, which seemed to be mostly crude sigils and icons, swayed against his stout chest, sometimes tangling themselves into his curly white beard. His thick silver hair was carefully held in place with a birchbark cap, more ornamental than functional. From his dress and the position of his chair, Martine figured the gnome to be the warren's priest, although of what god she could not possibly say.
When the two humans reached the center of the chamber, the white-bearded priest rose to his feet, age and formality making his movements rigid. His charms swayed on the ends of their thongs, and their harsh tinkling signaled quiet to the rest of the audience.
'The Council of the Vani greets Vilheim, son of Balt, and his female companion.'
'Gracious is the council, wise Sumalo,' Vil replied. 'Kind it is to be so generous with its time,' Martine added. Vil's look, seen from the corner of her eye, told her she had said the right thing.
The gnome priest nodded slightly in approval. 'We grant you the right to present your case.' There were a few murmured grumbles at this point, although Sumalo, perhaps hard of hearing, paid them no notice. 'May Gaerdal Ironhand bestow on us eyes to see through falsehood, ears to hear the truth, and tongues to speak with wisdom.' The priest picked up a peeled birch rod from the seat beside him. Pressing it to his lips, he murmured a phrase incomprehensible to Martine. Sumalo held out the rod toward the humans. Vil hesitated, then accepted the branch and kissed the wood lightly. 'Forgive me, Torm,' he whispered.
Feeling no religious compulsions, Martine took the rod and performed the ritual to satisfy her audience. 'May your god guide me,' she invoked, figuring it did not hurt to ask, before passing the rod back to the priest.
'The bond is now forged,' Sumalo pronounced as he held the rod aloft. 'Let the outsider speak.'
Until this moment when every gnome's face was turned toward her, Martine hadn't expected to be the center of such attention. The ranger had never been one to get up before a crowd and speak; in fact, she had always preferred the isolation of the forest. Now she could feel her face flush; it felt as if a cold fist were squeezing the pit of her stomach. The speech she had rehearsed in her head all morning evaporated from her memory. 'Uh-elders,' she stammered, 'I am Martine of Sembia, a huntswoman by trade. I come to you with a simple request. I'm bound for the Great Glacier and was… uh… hoping that someone here could be my guide.' It was all sort of blurted out as she hurried through a considerably shortened version of what she had intended to say.
With her speech finished, Martine waited for some reaction. The gnomes on the benches waited, too, not accustomed to such brevity. Finally, after a long, awkward silence, the Harper felt compelled to say, 'That's really all I came to ask.'
With slow understanding, the councillors came alive with a wave of murmuring. Within moments, they were deep into their discussion, seeming to forget the humans
standing before them. Martine watched with puzzlement the seriousness the elders displayed over her simple request and the vociferousness of their debate.
'Gnomes… I told you so,' Vil whispered over the ranger's shoulder so only she could hear. 'Never a simple answer. There always has to be a debate.'
'Do you know it's winter?' demanded one of the younger elders.
'Soon,' she corrected:
The first question broke open a floodgate of others, and Martine found herself besieged on all sides. She couldn't understand many of their questions, posed in thick gnomish accents, and often had to look despairingly to Vilheim for translation. With every answer, she did her best to choose her words politely and carefully. How do you plan to get to the Great Glacier?'
'Are you a wizard?' That question raised a worrisome buzz from the council.
'No, I have a hippogriff named Astriphie. We could ride him.'
'What business do you have on the glacier?' 'My own, good sir.'
'Why do you come here?'
'In truth, for no more than I said to hire a guide.' After how many minutes and how many questions she did not know, the hollow thump of the priest banging the birch rod on the floor interrupted the interrogation. 'Enough talk,' Sumalo announced. 'Brothers, we will vote.' Standing in the center of the floor, Martine wondered if she should sit or leave the room. She looked at Vil, but he only shrugged to show he was as perplexed as she. Mumbling, the old gnomes settled back into their seats, their white heads bowed. Slowly, one after the other and in no particular order, each raised his head and looked at the priest. At first Martine wondered if it was some kind of thought speech, until finally she started to notice the almost imperceptible gestures each made. Finally the gnomes were finished and once again looked at her. Standing to his full, short height, Sumalo spoke. 'Our answer to you is this: Come back in the spring, Mistress Martine of Sembia, when the weather is good for travel. Now is the season of the hearth, the time of rest for our people. It is bad luck to stray far from the warmth of the fire. Spring is the time to begin journeys, when good luck will be with you. Go now and return when the sap flows in the maples. Let your gods guide you wisely.'
Martine's shoulders sagged, crestfallen. Struggling to hold back bitterness, she somehow managed to find the composure to speak. 'I thank the council for hearing me, but I cannot wait for spring. I must reach the glacier now.' The Harper bowed slightly to all assembled.
After Vil said his good-byes, the two departed. Outside the council doors, Tikkanen met them and guided them back to the outer doors. Once they were bundled and had their skis on, the two humans set out through the woods. Martine set a punishing pace until finally, exhausted, they reached the woodsman's lonely cabin.
Once inside, Vil built a fire while Martine squirmed out of her bulky gear. Freed of its weight, she collapsed into one of the hard-backed chairs, exhausted and discouraged.
'What will you do now?' Vil asked while adding bits of tinder to the fire.
The woman shook her head in resignation, her short, sweaty bangs clinging to her forehead. 'Go on to the Great Glacier, of course. I've got a job to do.' With a groaning sigh, she considered just how much she had banked on the gnomes' help to accomplish her mission. Now, without a knowledgeable guide, the chance of quick success was almost nonexistent. The same was true of her opportunity
to impress the other Harpers with her efficiency.
Her fingers brushed Jazrac's knife, and then it was in her hand. Weighing the dagger in her palm, she thought about writing to Jazrac for advice, an idea she quickly discarded. Without thinking, she twirled the blade between her fingers effortlessly and flipped it point first into the tabletop, where it stuck, quivering.
Vil rumbled in disapproval.
Martine quickly whisked the blade back to its sheath. 'Sorry. Nervous habit. If you'll have me as guest one more night, I'll be gone in the morning.' She rubbed her hand on the table to smooth out the nick.
'Of course.' Vil stood to his full height. 'You're determined to go north, then?'
The Harper nodded.
Vil hung a pot of water on the firedog and swung it over the flame. 'If you're willing, I could guide you,' he offered almost casually:.
'You?' Martine asked, realizing how she sounded even as she spoke. 'I mean, I know you could, but aren't you-' 'Too old?'
'too busy?'
Vil chuckled. From him, it sounded strange. 'In wintertime, there's hardly a thing to do but split wood and hunt up here, and I can hunt at the glacier. I admit I know less about the north than the gnomes do.' The old warrior sat on the hearth and still managed to be taller than Martine in her chair. 'But I know more than you.'
'You don't have to do this.' 'I want to help.'
Just as she was about to voice another protest, Martine reconsidered Vil's offer. There was no mistaking the earnestness in his eyes.
'How soon can you leave?' The question was cautious, designed to still give him an excuse to say no, but Martine could only remember Jazrac's old advice about allies that no one ever helps without a good reason. What was Vilheim's reason? She wondered if the old wizard would have agreed to let him accompany her.
'As soon as you're ready. Tomorrow?'
'Seriously?' It was Vil's turn to nod. 'Then tomorrow it is,' Martine agreed, still not comfortable with her choice. The next morning found the pair airborne as Astriphie labored under the double weight of two riders. Vil sat behind Martine's saddle, bloodless fingers clutching the saddle's angled back. Although the wind was bitter at this height, it was more than the cold that made him shiver. Even with a rope lashed around his waist, the man clearly did not feel safe. Martine tried to distract him, but between the wind's howling bite and the hippogriff's labored
