Mercedes Lackey & Ru Emerson - Fortress of Frost and Fire

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A NEW NOVEL OF
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ONCE A NECROMANCER
ALWAYS A NECROMANCER
At least that's what all the other elves are telling the young
human Gawaine about his master, the Dark Elf Naitachal. Of
course Gawaine doesn't believe them; Naitachal has always
treated him well and honorably, explaining that though he
once was a necromancing Dark Elf, and still has the ebon skin of
the breed, he long ago forsook all things black In order to be-
come the first elven Bard.
But though Naitachal means every word he says, and though
Gawaine has known all along that things might get a little un-
comfortable for a human with a Dark Elf master, neither has
guessed what temptations the future might hold: for Gawaine
to forsake his master, and for Naitachal to go back to his old
necromancing ways.
FORTRESS of
FROST dud
Publisher's Note: This novel takes place about twenty years after
the events chronicled In Castle of Deception, and like that highly
successful genre bestseller it is set In the universe of the most pop-
ular role playing computer game of all time: The Bard's Tale.®
Again as with Castle of Deception, no familiarity with the game is
required, but those who have played The Bard's late will find they
enjoy it even more after reading Fortress of Frost and Fire1. (The
Bard's Tale characters and descriptions are the sole property of
Electronic Arts and are used by permission. The Bard's Tale is a
registered trademark of Electronic Arts.)
721 62
0 ""76714"00599"" o
ISBN D-b71-7Slb5-3
Chapter I
For the first time in many days, the west wind died
away with sunset. It was fairly warm and very quiet
along the edge of the Whispering Woods. Quiet
enough in the stable that the human boy grooming
two travel-worn horses could easily make out indi-
vidual voices from the Moonstone Inn, some distance
to the west—and upwind—across a neatly tended
courtyard. Mostly dry or downright sarcastic elven
voices, but of course, the Moonstone was owned by
White Elves. An occasional, coarser human voice rose
above the rest.
Gawaine sighed and freed a hand from his present
task to push long, loose carrot-colored curls back
under the edge of the cloth band, then went back to
currying the horses. His master would wonder where
he was, why it was taking him so long to finish such a
simple task. But I like being in a stable, Gawaine
thought. Even after four years, I feel like I've come
home, tending to the horses, breathing the smell of
horses and hay. A loud burst of laughter from the inn
made him jump; his gray stepped back nervously and
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he automatically rubbed the heavy neck muscles, reas-
suringly. "It's all right, Thunder; sorry I startled you,"
he said softly. 'They startled me, though. Somehow
you don't expect that kind of raucous noise from an
inn full of White Elves."
Probably that had been some of the humans.
Though Gawaine had had to reevaluate his notions of
White Elves when Naitachal brought him into elven
country. "I thought they would be — well, look at
them, tall and beautiful, so long-lived! You'd think
they would all have beautiful souls, too; that anyone
with so much time would be more spiritual. It's just
like everything else, Thunder," he mumbled gloomily.
'Things used to be so simple." Thunder — named
partly for his storm-cloud color, mostly for the heavy
way he set his feet down — leaned against him and
lipped his hair. Gawaine chuckled softly, gave him a
shove so he could get past him into the open, and pat-
ted his rump on the way by.
Across the aisle, there were at least a dozen elven
horses. He smiled and sighed happily. Thunder was
his own horse, and he dearly loved the cobby dapple
gray, but those beauties . . . they made him warm and
shivery all over. "Look at those long legs, at that golden
tail, and you," he murmured as he wandered down the
aisle. "Oh, you love." The horse in question turned its
head to give him a long look from under thick lashes,
then turned back to its feed. Gawaine sighed again
and turned back to take care of his Masters black,
Star. What an insipid name for such a nice-looking fel-
low, he thought. From another point of view, he'd
been named by his Master after one of the heroic
steeds from an epic verse — which was really silly
when you got to know the phlegmatic, unexciteable
Star.
Star munched while Gawaine rubbed, ignoring
both the boy and Thunder, whose jealousy made an
hour like this difficult. Thunder caught hold of
Gawaine's tunic and tugged, and when Gawaine
turned his head to free the garment, lipped at his hair
again, catching hold of the band and pulling it off his
young masters head. Thick, copper-colored curls fell
across his face and Gawaine had to shove them back
and hold them with one hand while he snatched at the
cloth band. He finally caught it, slid it over his fore-
head and smacked Thunders neck. "Stop that. Behave
yourself." Thunder simply looked at him. Gawaine
scowled as he shoved the last of his hair off his fore-
head and out of his eyes, and moved around to Star's
other side to finish his grooming.
Another burst of laughter from the inn; someone
was telling lamp-wick jokes in there, from the sound
of things: ". . . only one, but the wick has to want to
change!" And a cutting retort topping the laughter,
"How dreadfully witty the entertainment is tonight!"
Change. Gawaine stopped rubbing and let his chin
rest on Star's back. Four years of change for him —
four years that sometimes felt more like a full lifetime.
It was increasingly difficult for him to remember that
boy who had been one of Squire Tomblys horseboys.
"Sixteen and looking for all die world like twelve," he
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murmured. Star laid back one ear and Thunder
turned to look at him curiously. Not that it was much
better now; at twenty, he still found that most of those
around him looked at the carroty hair, the slender
build, and those wretched freckles and thought, "Fif-
teen, at most." It had been worse, though: he had
been short to boot, back then, smaller than anyone
else on the squires land save the genuine children.
Fortunately, he hadn't been the twelve he'd looked,
because before his voice broke, he hadn't been able to
sing two notes in tune together. "I would probably
have still been stuck in that foul-smelling little cell
where Naitachal found me — if the squire hadn't sim-
ply executed me."
Unpleasant thought. For five years — six? — his
whole life had revolved around caring for the squire s
horses. life had been hard, of course, especially for
the smallest horseboy, and particularly for one who
looked like he did — the only pale, freckly redhead,
half the size of the others, and especially for someone
as serious as he normally had been, even then. It had
been even harder once he had shown so much of a gift
for dealing with horses and had come to the personal
attention of the squire's horsemaster. Standing out for
size and looks had been one thing; standing out
because he was good at what he did had caused no
end of trouble, with first one and then another of the
other horseboys finding ways to make life miserable
for him.
All the same, it hadn't been a bad life. He'd been
cared for, well fed, and there was a simplicity to things
he looked back at with longing. In that life, a boy per-
formed his tasks and did them well, obeyed orders,
kept to his place and got on with the other boys in the
stable — or at least, didn't fight with them enough to
bring himself to the attention of the horsemaster. That
was Right; anything else was Wrong. There weren't
any complications, none of these moral dilemmas one
tripped over constantly in the Real World. No shades
of gray anywhere.
Gawaine sighed, righted himself, and applied the
brush to Star's dusty flanks. Probably that had only
been a boy's view of matters, or what Naitachal called
"looking back with one blind eye." Things couldn't
have been quite as simple as all that, however they
looked from a distance of four years and a lot of miles.
They had certainly gotten complicated with a
vengeance when the squire's prize stallion had van-
ished — and Gawaine, as the horse's groomer and the
only one of the stableboys who dared approach the
brute, had been accused of its theft.
"So stupid," he mumbled, and Star shifted to look
back at him. "The horse vanished from his stall, it was
so obvious that magic had to be involved — and back
then, what had I ever done that someone could think I
had the least bit of magic? Besides, if I'd been able to
create Darkness all around the stable, even at night,
and then send the stallion elsewhere, wouldn't every-
one been aware I had that kind of Power?" He looked
at Star and shrugged; the horse blinked and went back
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to his feed. "Anyway, what was a mere stableboy sup-
posed to do with a horse like Firestorm?' Sell it, and at
a very high price, they'd said. Yes, and how was a mere
horseboy supposed to account for such sudden
wealth? That had been most conveniently glossed over
— everyone ignoring the fact that Gawaine hadn't dis-
appeared with the horse, or shown any signs of having
a personal supply of coin. The mage the squire hired
to examine the entire stable and all the staff hadn't
been able to locate a cache of coin or find any trace in
Gawaine's mind of having cached anything — except
the wooden top he had hidden, years before, to keep
one of the older and larger boys from taking it.
Gawaine grinned, remembering the look on that
mage's face — and on the squire's — when the com-
post heap had been excavated and they had found, not
a bag of silver and gold, but a rotting bit of fashioned
oak. At the time, he had found that episode almost
more embarrassing than being put on trial for horse
thievery.
There was no doubt the squire had been deeply
embarrassed, too: bellowing all those orders, up to his
knees in the hole, waiting for evidence to be pulled
from the hot, reeking mess only to find . . . That
moment had ended Gawaine's public trial; Squire
Tombly had tromped off, shouting furiously, and his fi-
nal order had resulted in his erstwhile horseboy being
chucked into a cell.
Magic. "Who would ever have thought?" Gawaine
murmured. He hadn't ever given it any thought him-
self; so far as he knew, neither had anyone on that
entire vast estate. If it hadn't been for someone saying
what so many thought, that the stallion could only
have been spirited out of the stable by magic . . .
Gawaine patted Star's neck, ran his fingers through
the long mane to comb free several thorny seed-pods.
That had been the real cause of all his troubles: magic.
He had only been a minor suspect in the matter until
that mage showed up. Tottery, white-haired, half
senile, the mage had gone down the line of horseboys
and come back twice before stopping in front of
Gawaine and leveling a trembly, liver-spotted hand at
his nose. And on the strength of his word that there
was "something about this boy" — and no other evi-
dence whatever —• the squire had named Gawaine
horse thief, and turned him over to the guard.
Gawaine leaned against the back wail of the stable
and stared into space; he could almost see — and
smell — that nasty little dirt-floored chamber, right
next to the goat sheds. Almost as if they had known
how very much he loathed the smell of goat and
wanted to get in a little subtle torture. Not Squire
Tombly, of course: the squire wasn't a subtle man at
any time, and he had no doubt been heating irons and
consulting with his by-the-day rent-a-mage, to see
what would hurt the most — even if the first applica-
tion of pain got a response to the whereabouts of his
stallion. Between the two — the reality and the possi-
bilities — Gawaine's spirits had been very low indeed.
"If I'd been squawking in a boy's soprano, I'll wager
Master Naitachal would have gone right by — prob-
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ably at double step," Gawaine added to himself, and
grinned. He'd been singing, partly to pass the time
and mostly to keep his spirits up, and the Dark Elf —
once Necromancer, now a full Bard — later claimed
he had been stopped in his tracks by the underlying
Power he felt in that voice. There wasn't any doubt
Naitachal had been impressed enough by Gawaine's
singing, and his potential; as proof of that, he had
immediately gone to the manor house to find out who
the singer was, and, when he had gotten that far, dis-
covering what such a singer had done to deserve such
a fate. Learning that much, he had somehow con-
vinced the squire to keep the hot irons in the firepit
and off his horseboy, and had talked long and hard
enough to — well, not convince the man of Gawaine s
innocence, but at least to let Naitachal investigate the
matter on his own.
Of course, who would dare argue with a Bard?
Naysay him, and Squire Tombly would have been
cringing for the rest of his life as his name was bandied
across the kingdom in truly hilarious, eminently singa-
ble, and extremely unflattering song.
Something tugged at his hair, Gawaine started back
into the present and looked up to see Thunder, his
long gray head resting on Stars back, gazing mourn-
fully into his face. Gawaine laughed, freed his hair and
gave Thunder a shove. "Stop that, you fool," he said.
"You look so silly when you do that. And Star has car-
ried enough weight today!" Thunder shook his head,
spraying grain fragments across Star's back; Gawaine
gave him another shove, this one hard enough the
gelding gave him a reproachful look before pulling
back into his own stall.
"Naitachal," Gawaine mumbled, and sighed heavily.
Oh, the Bard had gotten him released from that grue-
some, reeking little box of a cell. He'd found the horse
and — unfortunately — also found the thief: the
squire's own son. "At least he took me with him when
he left — and at least he left quickly." The squire
hadn't been wildly pleased to learn his spoiled son had
gone from being merely spoiled to becoming actively
involved with the wrong kind; Gawaine was glad his
new Master not only knew all the stories and songs
about the fate of messengers with ill news, he'd had
the sense to act on that knowledge — and to ask as his
reward the services of the boy he'd rescued. "I wonder
how long I would have lasted, if I had remained
there." Not a very good thing to think about.
He looked up, brought back to the present once
more as several men came into the stable, two of them
noticeably weaving. One of these latter was at the
stage of too much drink that he'd become maudlin; his
companions were trying to shush him, get their horses
together, and get free of the inn and surrounding
country before full dark fell.
"Wretched, snotty elves," one of them whined. 'Tell
a few jokes, try to get people laughing, and wha'd they
do? They kick us out!" He turned to one of his com-
panions and clutched his tunic. "Did you ever see such
a dull crowd?"
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"Well, all right, not recently," the second man
allowed. "Come on, Robyun, time we went home." But
Robyun had seen the boy at the far end of the stables;
he pulled free of his friend and came down the aisle.
He wasn't so drunk he couldn't see Thunder edging a
few steps back into the open, or the shift in the
gelding's withers; he halted two stalls short of
Thunder's and asked cheerily, "Hey, boy! Carrots! How
many Mystics does it take to change a lamp-wick?"
"Sir?" Gawaine asked. He couldn't manage any
more than that, without adding something truly abu-
sive. Carrots, indeed!
The man laughed raucously; his friend came up and
started to drag him away, and the drunk shouted out,
'Two! One to change the wick, and one to not change
the wick!"
" — and three to make loud fools of themselves,"
came a sardonic remark from the front of the stable.
The men halted so abruptly their joke-telling friend
fell flat on his face. Gawaine sent his eyes sideways to
see a long, lean, silver-haired figure propped indo-
lently against the doorframe, arms folded across his
chest. "Are you not gone yet?' he asked pointedly.
"We're just going." One of the standing men spoke
quickly and loudly, covering whatever the fallen one
was trying to say. They pulled him to his feet and
hurried down to the horses waiting there — still sad-
dled, poor creatures, Gawaine saw with irritation.
Without a backward glance or remark, the three
mounted — the joke-teller had to be pulled up by one
arm and the neck of his coarse-woven shirt — and
rode out the back way. As they vanished into the dark-
ness, though, a loud voice slurred out, "Hey! How
many White Elves does it — " The voice was cut off
abruptly, and the only further sound was that of
hooves moving quickly into the distance.
As if things weren't complicated enough, just being
in elven territory — in the company of a Dark Elf,
Gawaine thought tiredly. He went back into the stall
to check that Star had enough to eat and that the
bucket was full and knelt to collect the saddlebags
Naitachal had left for him to bring — as usual, all the
heavy stuff, but that was one of the perquisites of
being a Master — then staggered back to his feet. He
was watching the bags as he juggled them into better
position, paving no attention to anything else, as he
put a shoulder into Star's withers to get past him. A
low sound, someone clearing his throat, and the sound
of a pair of long shoes not two steps away.
Gawaine let out an airless squawk and dropped
everything. He had forgotten all about the White Elf who
had followed the drunks out to the stable, assuming he'd
gone back inside once they'd left. Apparently not.
"My. Jumpy, aren't we?" the elf asked dryly. He ran
a practiced eye over the bardlings travel-stained shirt
and breeches, ending at the scuffed boots, then looked
rather pointedly, Gawaine thought, at the pile of
leather bags between them. His stomach tried to fall
into those boots. Don't let him see how badly he did
scare you, he thought. He squared his shoulders and
drew his eyebrows together.
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"You weren't exactly making your presence known,
and I was busy," he replied shortly.
"Did you expect me to tromp like a three-legged
cow, or a human?" the elf replied. "And are you going
inside with those?"
"Why? Are you trying to say I'm stealing them?'
Impass. The elf bared his teeth in what could have
been a smile except that it didn't move beyond his lips.
"Why would I? Or why should I care if one human
steals the goods of another human?" He took a step
forward; Gawaine held his ground as the elf looked in
both directions, then leaned close to his ear to mur-
mur, "Or those of a Dark Elf, hmmm?" He tilted his
head to one side, waited for some reaction. Gawaine
raised one eyebrow, something he knew many found
very irritating, and waited. "A Necromancer?" the elf
added, in case this fool of a human boy didn't under-
stand. 'The Necromancer Naitachal?" he added
helpfully.
"You mean, the Bard — my Master?" Gawaine
asked with a lips-only smile of his own.
The elf tipped his head to the other side and stud-
ied him for a very long moment. He raised one
eyebrow himself then. "You — know what he is, then?
And who?'
"If you want to know, if I know his name, I have for
the past four years. And if I know the meanings of
those terribly long words," Gawaine replied dryly, "the
answer is yes. If you have nothing important to say, the
Bard, my Master Naitachal, who was a Necromancer
but no longer is, is waiting for his bags."
For a moment, he wondered if he might not have
pushed his luck; the elf narrowed his eyes and looked
genuinely dangerous. Suddenly, he laughed, jumped
back and gave the bardling a sweeping bow, then
turned and left the stable. Gawaine blotted a damp
forehead with his sleeve, gathered up the bags, and
practically ran for the inn.
"What, does that make three of them now?" he
grumbled as he had to slow for a very poorly lit section
of path. 'Three White Elves with my best interests at
heart and a very low impression of human ability to
tell nonhumans apart."
Even if he hadn't been able to tell White from Dark
Elves — he would have to be blind or babe-witted to
not see that — it didn't matter. Because one of the first
things Naitachal had done — even before he had let
Gawaine swear the oaths that would bind him as
apprentice to Master — was to set the boy down and
explain who and what he was, and what he had been.
He didn't really have to tell me, not then; he could have
let it go until I'd learned to trust him for what he was.
But that had never been Naitachal's way; the Dark Elf
had always been totally honest with him, and however
much his Master irritated him by shunting aside his
questions about matters mystical and the greater
truths, Gawaine had to admire his honesty. After all,
most people — most beings — went out of their way
to avoid Necromancers. All Dark Elves, really, since it
was said they all practiced that black art.
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At least this elf had given up after a few moments of
verbal fencing: The one who had accosted him at the
door had been maddeningly persistent. "He used to
practice necromancy, do you know what that is? What
it means? Why would he have given it up, entirely?
His kind don't, you know." And on and on, halfway to
the stables after a tight-lipped Gawaine. Getting no
response, he had finally made a very rude remark
about his young companion's parentage and relative
intelligence, and left him.
Oh, well. Gawaine juggled off-balance bags, mut-
tered a curse under his breath as one of them fell, and
bent down to pick it up, dropping the other two in the
process. "Could be worse," he reminded himself. "You
could have been inside the whole time, sitting with
Naitachal and having to cut your way through the
atmosphere in there to get up to the bar for more ale."
There had been plenty of other times since they'd
crossed into elven territory that the elves had gone out
of their way to make it clear their absence would be
cause for celebration; here, things had been down-
right frosty from the first.
Except for the innkeeper, of course; like most inn-
keepers, he was willing to put up with just about any
clientele, so long as the coin they carried was honest
and the guest showed some sign of reasonable behav-
ior. Coin they had, but then, Naitachal had done very
well as far as bringing in coin with his singing, at the
last three towns they had visited. And though Gawaine
had a sneaking hunch his Master minded the cold
shoulder he invariably got from his White cousins, he
dealt with those at the inn much as he did anyone else
— elven, human, or otherwise — who used the word
"dark" like a curse: with dry, cutting humor at least the
equal of any White Elf's.
The path was lit near the inn, the inn and the door-
way lit as well, but Gawaine had the bags clasped high
in his arms and couldn't see his feet at all. He tripped
up the single step; men and elves at half a dozen tables
close to the open door turned to stare. He righted
himself against the doorframe, sent his eyes briefly
skyward, and walked into the close, dark room.
He had to cross the entire common room; Nai-
tachal, as usual, had taken a table in the farthest and
darkest corner of the whole place. And between the
sooty black of his garb and the near-ebony of the
Bard's visible skin, there wasn't much to see of him but
startiingly intense blue eyes. Gawaine got a grip on the
bags, and walked over to join him, trying to show the
same cool exterior his master did. Not easy, with so
many elves casting sidelong, narrowed looks into the
corner, watching this most recent arrival with the same
suspicious glances.
"Master?"
"Hmmm? Ah. Good, you brought them. Keep
them by your chair, will you? There's a good boy." Nai-
tachal waved him to one of the empty chairs. Gawaine
felt around cautiously with his foot for the bag that
held his harp and the other that contained their shared
lute, then set the saddlebags on the floor, pulled the
chair around so his back was to the door — and all
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those speculative and unpleasant looks — and
dropped down with a sigh. He had been on his feet
longer than he'd thought; the backs of his knees and
the soles of his feet ached.
After that one rather abstracted remark, Naitachal
went back to his companion. Gawaine scooted his chair
forward and planted his elbows on the edge of the table so
he could listen to the low conversation. The third at the
table paused, eyeing Gawaine sidelong, then staring
openly at the bright red hair. Gawaine scowled, the man
blinked as though suddenly aware he'd been caught
staring — and probably about to make some remark
about fires, or carrots, or something else equally
infuriating—and turned hastily away.
The Bard stretched, looked up as the innkeeper
appeared between him and the human with a pitcher
and an extra cup for the new arrival. "Gawaine, this is
Herrick, a trader from the north. Herrick, my appren-
tice, the bardling Gawaine. Herrick has been telling
me about the lands he's passed through recently, and
he has the most interesting story about — well, if you
don't mind telling it once more, master trader?"
Herrick shrugged, drew his cup close and poured,
sucked the foam off the rim before it could run over
the edge, then drank down half the contents. Gawaine
watched him and fought a sigh; he suddenly felt tired
all over. I know full well what this means. I know that
look. Master Naitachal has found another detour on
the road to the Druids. Another wretched Adventure,
when all I really want is Truth. And after all he had
promised, after these last three side trips — / It's not
fair. He's been around for so long, he's seen and done
so much, but when I ask for answers, he can't or won't
help me, and he — well, he doesn't laugh, but he might
as well. And then, when I ask to go somewhere where I
might learn what I want to know, he does this. Again!
Well, there wasn't any use fighting it; only one of
them was Master, and it certainly wasn't Gawaine. He
filled his cup, leaned back in his chair, and tried to
make himself look interested in the man's story.
Chapter II
If Gawaine had to force himself to look attentive at
first, he became genuinely interested as time passed:
Herrick had been plenty of places and had an ear for a
good story; better, he could tell one himself. One
couldn't readily separate truth from tall tale, but
Gawaine didn't mind that: As a bardling, he knew
quite a few tall tales of his own — most of his being set
to a tune, of course — and he liked a good one. The
one Herrick had just finished, about the lake full of
drowned men who rose to the surface at the full moon
and crept ashore to lure village women — well, that
just begged to be set to music; Gawaine's eyes glazed
over as he considered a variation on an old, minor-key
tune that might fit the tale s mood.
He came back to the present with a start as Nai-
tachal kicked his shin under the table. Herrick had
moved on to another story and the Masters eyes were
bright. Pay attention. Gawaine leaned forward and
nodded once, warily drawing his feet back under the
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chair in case the Bard decided to make certain he was
with them once more.
"Now, some of these things I've told you were told
to me, young master," Herrick said as he turned from
Naitachal to Gawaine. 'Though I know well the men
who told them, and don't doubt their veracity. This I
am about to tell you I can swear is solemn truth, for I
have seen this place with my own eyes, as I swore to
the Bard here." He lifted his cup and tipped his head
back to drain it, let Naitachal fill it for him once again,
and slid down in the chair until he looked no taller
than a dwarf.
'To the north of here, many days journey above
Portsmith and not a little east, there is a broad, rolling
land where the peasants are rosy-cheeked, their sheep
and goats fat, the babies plump, and the grain grows
very tall and thick — surprisingly to my mind, for the
winters are long and there are many days to each side
of the shortest when the sun barely peers above the
southern mountains before it sets again. Then, the
local people say, the snows come and lie deep in the
valleys and dells, wind blows it into sharp-edged
peaks, and lakes freeze to a great depth so that a man
who would take fish must spend a long time indeed
hacking his way through ice. The men sit around such
holes, they say, drinking the clear, oily and viciously
strong liquor they distill from tubers, safe from the
wind in tents which they bring onto the lakes, and they
fish and smoke, and tell tall tales. The bears which
come down from the northern mountains are very
large, and there are men who swear to me they have
seen white bears in particularly cold years.
'The women spend the cold season spinning and
weaving a truly splendid wool, some of which I carry
with me even now, in hopes of trading it to seamen
who sail in chill northern waters — for the stuff is
waterproof, thick, and keeps out the worst of winter."
Naitachal stirred; this corner was dark even com-
pared to the rest of the poorly lit common room, but
his eyes gleamed, and Gawaine bit back another sigh.
"Yes, but my dear Herrick, all this of winter is interest-
ing, but surely no one would go there in winter."
Herrick laughed, and the elves at the next table who
had been scowling at the three off and on for some
time made a great show of getting up and moving. The
Bard turned a hand over and smiled faintly as the
laughter died on the traders lips. "Pay no heed; if we
were out of line, the innkeeper would say so. They are
simply paying guests, like us." His voice had risen a lit-
tle on the last words; one of the elves turned to glare at
him and Naitachal gave him a cheerfully toothy grin.
"Well — what was I saying?" Herrick asked, and
supplied his own answer before either of his compan-
ions could. "Oh, yes — winter. No, no one would go
there in winter — or try to; he would never reach his
destination, between wild animals, creatures that pre-
fer night to day and don't mind the chill, and the roads
are impassible in any event. Certainly no one would go
and stay over the winter, who wasn't used to such a cli-
mate; imagine a hundred days or more with nothing
but a little twilight once a day! I myself would go mad
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