"Tonight I shall tell the tale of the King of Silverhill!" the old man said from the small platform in front of the fireplace. "I think it appropriate given the impending phases of Shaharizod's Mirrors."
'Wonderful!' Kirnoth thought happily. 'A storyteller!'
The Old Raccoon was quite a bit more pleasant than The Hanged Man had been, and not just because this place had a storyteller. For one thing, there wasn't a corpse strung from a gibbet in front of the place. For another, these humans were more interesting to the eye than those he'd seen nearer his homeland. The latter were all long-limbed and gangly with skin as pale as any elf's. These, however, were quite different from his fellows in Galerideleli, having skin the color of earth and hair like a starless night.
They were quite interesting to look at and quite open in their delight at seeing him in their midst.
Kirnoth smiled and sipped at his honey beer.
Their food was mysterious - every bit as different from elven food as humans were from elves. They used honey, he was pleased to discover, in their beer, bread, potage, and pastry. Ginger and cinnamon flavored the beer, the pastry and the dish they called Armored Turnips. He found raisins and saffron and cheeses used liberally in the other dishes. Most of it was quite palatable; the only thing he did not sample was a peculiar item that the woman who brought the meal identified as a Mortress of Flesh. It looked to be pork, but he wasn't inclined to try it.
Tirnoth had warned him about the overly carnivorous natures of humans, and the proof was here before him.
Kirnoth realized suddenly that the Old Raccoon had grown very quiet, the hum of conversation dropping almost instantly to silence. The patrons were all looking to the man on the stage with anticipation. The elf turned to look at the old man whose long hair and beard had the color of advancing years. The man stepped off of the stage and settled into a large chair near the hearth.
He winked at Kirnoth and began his story.
"A thousand years ago," he said, his voice clear and pleasant, "there was a castle where this village now stands, and a king ruled here from a throne of silver. He was a good king, and his subjects loved him. They mined silver from the hills and fashioned beautiful jewelry from the metal. The kingdom grew and prospered."
The man paused and sipped from a wooden flagon.
"After two centuries," he continued, "the mines were worked bare; no ore remained. The king, who had grown selfish and fearful in the autumn of his magically prolonged life, refused to share the wealth he had accumulated over the years, and his people grew poor and starved. Eventually, they rebelled against him. The castle was smashed to the ground, and the king fled through Hriveblum Forest into the hills with as much wealth as he could carry. His people, angry at his greed, pursued him into one of the silver mines, but they could not catch him. Instead, they collapsed the mine entrance, trapping him inside."
He paused again and sipped from his cup. It was obvious to Kirnoth that he was pausing more for dramatic effect than to actually wet his throat. The ploy was working well; the other patrons were hanging on his next word.
"The king died soon thereafter," he went on. "But, as punishment for his avarice, the gods cursed his spirit to repeat the last actions of his life: running into the hills with his wealth. Every time the Handmaiden moon is full and Great Celune is but a sliver, the hills glow with silver light, and the King of Silverhill can be seen running into the hills with his treasure. His hoard has never been found, and it lies there still for anyone brave - or foolish - enough to claim it."
The villagers cheered the old man, raising their mugs in a toast of, "Huzzah!" before turning back to their meals. The old man accepted the accolades with bashful pride and rose up from his chair. He made straight for the small table where Kirnoth sat alone, a twinkle in his eye.
"Hello," he said in broken elvish, "Will be... my... called Torrik."
"Well met, Torrik," Kirnoth responded in the human tongue. "My name is Kirnoth."
"You speak Common," the man said with obvious relief. "My elvish isn't so good."
"I know," the elf responded with a smile. "I enjoyed your story."
"You did? Good." the man looked at the chair opposite the elf. "May I join you?"
"Of course," he said, indicating the chair with a flourish of his slender hand.
"I've told the story of the King of Silverhill for more years than I can remember," Torrik said after he'd settled into the chair. "It's probably naught but an eyeblink to one of your blood, but it has been a long time for me. And my time in this sphere grows ever shorter with each telling. I find myself wondering whether the tale I tell is the true story of the phantom that can be seen when the moons are as they will be on the 'morrow."
"I can offer you no reward, but I see that you are a traveler and I had hoped that I could entice you to investigate the story," Torrik said. "I had heard tales that elves are immune to the fear that a ghost exudes. If you could follow the phantom into the hills and observe where he goes, perhaps find the silver mine... there would be ample reward sealed within."
"I'm intrigued with your invitation," Kirnoth replied, "but I require more details to make a proper decision. I hope it does not offend you to ask a number of questions."
Torrik smiled.
"Not at all!" he said excitedly. "I'm more than happy to-"
"Here, Torrik," the waitress interrupted him as she slipped a wooden plate of food onto the table in front of the man. "Wonderful story - as ever."
"Thank you, Valle," Torrik said and grabbed his acorn bread in one hand and his spoon in the other.
Kirnoth raised his hand to detain the waitress and said. "Torrik, allow me to buy you another draft while we discuss the particulars."
"Thank you, sir," the old man replied. "I'll have a ginger beer."
"Make it two, Valle," the elf said.
The waitress nodded and picked her way through the inn toward the bar. It was quite crowded on such a cold night; there were few travelers who could pass up the warmth of the massive hearth.
After Torrik had taken a spoonful of his bean potage and a bite of bread, he looked up at his dinner companion and said, "So, what is it you wished to ask me?"
"As I said, your story was wonderful," Kirnoth told him. "You say you have been telling this story as long as you can remember. How long is that?"
The man wiped his lips on the back of his hand and swallowed thickly. "I've lived here in Shiningwater for the whole of my life. I first heard the tale told by my grandfather and later by my father." He smiled. "I come from a long line of tale-spinners. I personally have been telling the story for thirty years: since I accepted the mantle of Storyteller from my father."
"You say there is some type of phantom when the moons are as they will be tomorrow."
"Aye, the King of Silverhill," Torrik replied.
"Are there other stories?" Kirnoth asked. "Explanations of this phantom or stories of acts it has committed?"
"Acts?" the old man asked, his spoon hovering between his mouth and his bowl. "What do you mean?"
"Well," the elf answered, "You said: 'anyone brave or foolish enough' - of what risks are you aware?"
"Oh that," Torrik chuckled, making a dismissive wave with his spoon. "I say that to add a bit of a shiver to the tale. The King has never done anything beyond what I've described. He travels up the side of Silverhill under the light of the Handmaiden's full brilliance and disappears into the collapsed mine that became his grave."
"Few villagers have ever beheld the phantom," he went on. "Those that have have only seen him from afar and only for a moment. As I said before, it is the unearthly fear of ghosts which has kept others from proving... or disproving the legend. In truth, I had planned to tell the tale of Nereseä, the Druid Isle. But when I saw you here in my audience, I decided on the King instead in the hopes that I could entice you, with your elven resistance to such fear, to get close to the shade and his hoard."
"Hmm," Kirnoth said thoughtfully. "I am not overly interested in treasure. Are there other enticements?"
Torrik shook his head sadly.
"Alas, I can offer you little besides the satisfaction of helping an old man," the Storyteller looked plaintively at the elf. "In the twilight of my years, I long to have my curiosity about the King satisfied. A small token from his hoard is all I ask. Like you, I have little love for material wealth; proof of the tale I have spun for so many years means far more to me than mere money."
He thought for a moment, then added, "I can offer you the use of an amulet. It is a charm against magical fear that has been passed down in my family since the time of Shiningwater's founding. It is, so I've been told, forged from the very silver that was once mined in the foothills hereabouts. I would be willing to lend it to you if you'll agree to the task."
He fished in the pouch at his hip and drew out a silver medallion on a worn leather thong and held it out to Kirnoth. It flashed and winked in the lamplight.
"It is an Amulet of Strongheart," the old man said, "But even with it, you'll need to be a brave soul to face a ghost."
The elf took it and examined it briefly. It was heavily worked with designs that looked elvish in manufacture, featuring intricate interlacing vines and overlapping leaves. It looked old, but well cared for. It was not at once recognizable as overtly magical, but it possessed a fine quality such as was always required in the creation of ensorcelled objects. With a more careful examination, and better lighting, he could, perhaps, tell more...
"Don't do it, dandelion-eater!" a loud, slurred voice growled to his left.
Kirnoth looked up and saw ten youthful human males, dressed in unkempt leathers and furs. They stood some few feet away. One of them, a particularly dirty and scraggily lout whose face was twisted into a sneer, pointed his finger at Torrik.
"This un'll talk you to your grave," he said.
"Aye," agreed one of his fellows. "You'll never make it back alive."
"The ghost'll get ya!" chimed in another. He raised his hands and waggled his fingers in a menacing manner.
They all shared a drunken chuckle and turned to go.
"Pha!" Torrik spat. "If Marst possessed half as much courage as he does malice then he and his 'friends' would be rich men. I made him the same offer I have just made to you, but he was too scared and lazy to approach the phantom."
Once the Old Raccoon's door had shut behind the thugs, the waitress returned with two mugs of ginger beer.
"Don't pay that lot no mind, good sir elf," Valle said as she placed the cups on the table. "No good'll come of them. Not a one."
She left the table shaking her head.
"The King always appears on a rocky hillside that can be seen from the village, about four miles away," Torrik went on. "The trail to the hillside is narrow and steep in places, but is quite easy to follow. I can point you in the right direction under the light of day... that is if you're agreed to do this thing for me."
Rather than answer, Kirnoth rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his silver-ringed-violet eyes intently regarding the silver amulet. At last he said, "Tell me, Torrik. You must have been a brave young man in your day. Why is it you did not check this out yourself?"
The human's face grew red as a tomato, the color bleeding all the way into the receding roots of his gray hair. He cast his eyes at his plate, his mouth working nervously.
"You shame me, Kirnoth," he said finally. "You shame me."
He took a hasty sip of his ginger beer, as if for courage and went on.
"When I spoke before of the few villagers who had seen the phantom, I did not tell you that one of them was me," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. "As you said, I was brave in my day. Brave and foolish. I thought with all the courage of youth, that I, a young boy who had not yet grown into his first beard could solve the mystery of the Silver King."
He laughed sadly at the memory.
"Even with the Amulet of Strongheart, I caught but a glimpse of the King before my guts turned to water and I fled." He looked up at the elf then, his eyes verging on tears, it seemed. "I have not pursued the King since then. Instead I've warned others of the ghost with my stories. It is only in the past year or two, feeling the shadow of death close at my back, that I've sought others to do what I could not..."
His voice trailed off and his eyes traveled downward to stare into his mug.
"I will accept your offer," Kirnoth said flatly, "and I will take your amulet, more as a souvenir than because I think I will need it. If you will permit me to study it overnight, my skills may allow me to divine something of its nature."
Torrik looked up with an expression of near-comic surprise on his face.
"You'll do it?!" Torrik said loudly. He cast a glance around and lowered his voice. "You'll go up after the phantom?"
"Yes. What other provisions might I need?" the elf went on. "How far and physically difficult is the journey?"
"Far?" he was almost laughing now with excitement. "It's not far. Not far. An hour or two's walk is all. The trail's mostly easy going except in a spot or two. A set of warm clothes and your brave elven heart are all you'll need!"
He stood up then and made as if to go.
"We'll need to meet tomorrow," Kirnoth warned him. "We'd best make those arrangements tonight."
"I'll meet you back here at midday," he replied. "Bring my amulet and I'll point you in the right direction."
He nodded his farewell and wove his way toward the front door and a bitter Sulime night.
Lorillard , the innkeeper, charged him only 2 gold and 5 silver for the meal and a room overnight for him and a stall for his horse. In all, it seemed a small price to pay given the chill outside.
His room was small, almost claustrophobic by elven standards, but the bed had several blankets and there was a small lamp that provided enough light to examine Torrik's heirloom. The Amulet of Strongheart did indeed bear all the hallmarks of a magical object, and after an hour's study, he was content to believe that it would afford him some sort of enchanted effect. Whether it would better allow him to resist the ghost's magical fear was a question that a wizard of his fledgling ability couldn't answer.
Remembering an old lesson that he'd learned well during his mage training, he decided to do a little spell-casting in the safety of his room. Recalling the words, intonations and gestures that would call manna out of the Weave, he cloaked himself in an armor spell. Invisible to others and immaterial to him, the enchantment would keep him safe from some attacks. Not all attacks, but some.
It was much better than nothing. Content with his preparations, he put out the lamp and climbed under the covers, listening to the building creak around him.
When dawn broke, there was a scrim of hoarfrost on the small window that looked out into the street. Through it, Kirnoth could see that the morning was clear and bright with sun. The elf could hear movement in the bar below and knew that his hosts were awake. He quickly dressed and used the chamberpot, shivering all the while. The armor spell did nothing to protect him from the chill morning air. He was so cold that he decided to forego studying his spellbook in favor of a meal by the fire in the tavern. He gathered up his possessions, donned the Amulet of Strongheart and headed downstairs.
The common room was, as yet, mainly deserted, so he ordered breakfast from a sleepy-eyed Valle, selected a table near the hearth, and bent to the task of studying his small book of wizard spells. He needed only a half-hour of intense perusal to familiarize himself with his meager collection of spells, but it took him most of the morning to find that uninterrupted time. The inn filled up quickly once the smell of buckwheat pancakes began wafting up to the sleeping chambers and Kirnoth found himself the center of attention.
He entertained the other boarders with several sleight-of-hand tricks and was so successful that Lorillard gave him his breakfast for free and agreed to tend his horse while he went on Torrik's errand.
A little before noontime, Torrik came into the Old Raccoon as he'd promised. He was dressed in a heavy coat trimmed and lined with sheepskin and a pair of matching gloves. He carried a similar set for Kirnoth.
"I wasn't sure that you had clothes suitable to our climate," the old man told him as he presented the woolen coat and mittens. "I think they should fit you well enough."
He was right. The coat was somewhat short in the sleeve and loose about the shoulders, but it would keep him well warm outside. The mittens would prevent spell casting as long as he wore them, but losing a finger or two to frostbite would prevent it for a lot longer.
He thanked the man and suitably-bundled they stepped outside.
It was far warmer than it had been the previous day. The sun, pale and small as it looked, was doing it's best to clear the clouds from a bright blue sky and the world was everywhere alive with the sound of melting ice. Kirnoth inhaled deeply of the pine-scented air and smiled.
"That is Silverhill," Torrik told him pointing to the rocky foothill that rose up beyond the evergreen forest to the west of Shiningwater. In the distance beyond, Kirnoth could see the hazy peak of Lark Mountain pointing to the heavens. "The King always appears in the same spot, near where that ledge of dark rock juts out about two-thirds of the way to the summit."
Kirnoth could see the spot easily. There was little chance of missing it, for the barely visible trail passed almost directly beneath the place.
"It should take a couple of hours to get there on foot. As I said, the trail is narrow and rocky, so going by horse is impossible," the old man elaborated. "Once there, you'll have little to do except sit and wait for sunset... and the King!"
The elf could tell that Torrik was nearly overflowing with excitement. He felt a little saddened that something so small could be the obvious high point in the storyteller's life. He thanked Torrik for directions, made a show of clutching the man's amulet and set out on the trail.
Torrik had been right about the trail. It was narrow and uneven; Kirnoth's horse would surely have broken a leg had he insisted on taking it. It was easy enough to navigate on foot, although he managed to stretch the two hour march into four hours with frequent rest stops. He was ill-used to such physical exertion and he found the breaks necessary not only to ease the strain on his legs, but also to enjoy the natural beauty of the forest and hillside.
It was nearing twilight as he reached the weatherworn outcropping of rock. From there, he had a spectacular, albeit brief, view of the village far below. The sky was reflected in the mirrorlike surface of the tiny lake, temporarily doubling the Handmaiden as she crept into the darkening heavens. He could see smoke curling from the score of chimneys and he found himself wishing he were back beside the hearth in the Old Raccoon.
The sun, which had been reddening throughout the journey, finally bled away behind Silverhill causing darkness to spread over Hriveblum Forest and the village like a shroud being slowly drawn up over the face of the day. The disk of the Handmaiden and the crescent of Great Celune began painting the landscape in silver. The trees looked as if they were gilt with the precious metal, the stones looked slick with ice.
And it was cold. Although the air was unmoving, the chill sank into his body, making his toes ache and his nose drip. His breath came out in great clouds of silver steam that slowly dissipated into the clear night air.
It was in this way that the King appeared. Kirnoth exhaled a cloud of breath and as it drifted apart, the King drifted together before his eyes. He was clad in shining chain armor, cloaked in a regal robe with an ornately-tooled scabbard at his hip. He trod noiselessly up the path that Kirnoth had walked from the village. His body was dabbled in moonlight, seeming almost to be made from the very stuff for which he was named: silver. He looked through Kirnoth as he went, ignoring the elf completely, and as he passed, the mage could see undeniably that the Silver King was an elf!
Kirnoth felt ghostly fear touch his soul and he had the nearly irresistible urge to flee from the translucent figure. He clutched absently at the Amulet of Strongheart and the sensation of dread lessened; he was glad that he had taken Torrik's heirloom with him. Even with the ghost moving past him up the trail, and his resistance to supernatural terror, the fear was tremendous.
It was little wonder that Torrik had fled from the spectre all those years ago.
As Kirnoth stood trembling, clutching the amulet, his mouth gone every bit as dry as parchment, the King of Silverhill continued up the path in eerie silence. The phantom had nearly vanished around a bend in the path by the time that the elf could muster the courage to continue onward.
He scrambled to keep up on the uneven terrain. The moonlight made the trail easy to follow, but the insubstantial King moved unhindered through the few bits of rock and fallen branches that blocked the way. Kirnoth was not so fortunate and he had to scramble over the stones and weave his way through the twisted limbs of fallen trees.
As he extricated himself from one such entanglement, he looked up to see not one phantom, but two! The King was still there, moving steadily up the path toward the summit of Silverhill, but he was joined by another translucent figure. The second phantom was smaller than the first and as it turned to look back at the mage, Kirnoth could see that it was a small elven boy. Unlike the regalia of the King, he was dressed in simple trousers and a tunic.
Before Kirnoth could register the fact that the boy, unlike the Silver King, had noted his presence on the trail, the small phantom turned away and continued up the path after his fellow. About ten paces further on, they both turned off the trail and walked into the rock face of the hillside.
Stunned, Kirnoth scanned the area for sign of their passing. The hillside at this point seemed to be composed of a jumbled pile of fallen rock. His keen eyes noted a single stone blocked a small opening at about chest height. The opening was small - not large enough to allow him entrance - but would allow him some view of the area beyond if he moved it away.
The rock required little effort to topple, and it went tumbling down across the path and over the side, settling finally against a small pine tree some dozen paces down the hillside.
The opening that Kirnoth had made admitted enough of the moons' light to reveal a natural cave beyond. He could see the King and the boy. The former seemed to be looking around, while the child stood stoically by his side.
Kirnoth clutched the amulet and licked his lips. In his most friendly voice, he loudly said, "Hello. My name is Kirnoth. I mean you no harm."
There was no response.
Suddenly, after the ghost of the elven monarch had stridden about eight paces into the cave, his translucent hand went to the hilt of the sword hanging from his hip. Before he could draw the blade, however, he jerked and dropped to one knee, clutching at the opposite shin. His head went back in a kind of soundless howl and he began to convulse madly. In the span of three heartbeats he had fallen onto his side and lay still. His form dissolved into moonlight before Kirnoth could even take a breath.
The mage's eyes went to the other phantom. Throughout the eerie tableau, the ghost of the elf child had stood a few feet away, observing the death of the Silver King. Now that the King's ghost had vanished, the boy turned toward Kirnoth with doleful eyes, his tiny mouth set in a frown of grim sadness.
Kirnoth stood breathlessly for a moment, his eyes alternating between the spot where the King had faded out of existence and the phantom elf boy's sad expression.
"Did I cause that?" he asked the boy. "Truly, I meant no harm."
"It's not your fault," the phantom answered, his voice wavering and musical. "It's mine. It happens the same way every time. Just like it did the first time."
"What happened?" the mage asked.
The phantom sighed and looked at his feet. He raised his hands to indicate the cave around him and said, "I found this cave one day in the hills near our forest. I was playing in a pool by the back..." He half-turned, pointing over his shoulder. "You could see where it was if you were inside here with me."
He sighed again.