Stalking Darkness

the last of his queasiness and when the meal was over he made a great show of presenting gifts to Retak and his village.
    Motioning for the others to clear a space in front of him, Seregil secretly palmed one of Nysander’s painted wands from his sleeve and snapped it between his fingers while making elaborate motions with his other hand. Several bushels of fruit appeared instantly out of thin air before his delighted audience.
    The baskets passed from hand to hand and up to the crowd overhead as the people exclaimed over their good fortune.
    Smiling, Seregil drew another wand, which produced a casket of silver coins. The Dravnians had no use for currency, but were pleased by the glint of the metal and the fineness of the designs. Subsequent conjurings brought bolts of bright silk and linen, bronze needles, coils of rope, and bundles of healing herbs.
    “You are a Fair One of great magic and generosity, Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi, and a true
biruk,”
Retak proclaimed, clapping Seregil on the shoulder. “You shall be known as a member of my clan from this day. What can we offer you in return?”
    “It is I who am honored by your excellent hospitality. My gifts are given in thanks for that alone,” Seregil replied graciously. “Though there is a matter in which you may be able to assist me.”
    Retak motioned for the others to pay attention. “What has brought you so far to our valley?”
    “I’ve come seeking a place of magic spoken of in certain legends. Do you know of such a place?”
    The reaction was instantaneous. The elders exchanged hesitant looks. A woman dropped a spit with a clatter. Overhead the childrenleft off exclaiming over their new treasures and leaned farther over the hole to listen.
    Retak motioned with his staff and an ancient little man wearing a coat decorated with sheep’s teeth shuffled forward. In the firelight he looked like an ancient tortoise, with a tortoise’s leathery, slow-blinking gaze. Kneeling slowly before Seregil, he held up a bone rattle in one tremulous hand and shook it in a wide circle before speaking.
    “I am Timan, son of Rogher and Borune,” he said at last. “And I tell you that there is such a place in this valley. It has been the duty of my clan to watch over it since the time of the spirit’s anger. It is a spirit home, deep in the rock beneath the ice. How it came there no man knows. Sometimes the door is there and sometimes it is not there, according to the will of the spirit.”
    “And this spirit has grown angry?” asked Seregil.
    Timan nodded, shaking the rattle softly in time to his words. It was more of a chant than a story, as if he’d told it many times before, and in exactly the same words.
    “The spirit made a chamber for men to dream in. Some had visions. Some did not. Some heard the voice of the spirit. Some did not. All was with the will of the spirit. When the spirit chose to speak, those who heard were called blessed, bringers of great luck to their clan. But many generations ago the spirit grew angry. Men came out maddened. They did deeds of terrible evil. Others never returned and no trace of them could be found. A man of my clan was the first to go mad, and so it has been the burden of my clan to guard the spirit home since that time.”
    He stopped, wrinkled mouth moving in silence, as if he’d run out of sound.
    “Why do you seek this place?” Retak asked.
    Seregil stared into the fire for a moment, quickly weaving this new information into a usable form. “I’d heard legends of this place and was curious to see if they were true. You know that the Aurënfaie are people of great magic. I have shown you my powers already. If you will show me this sacred place, I will speak with your spirit and find out why it’s so angry. Perhaps I can even make peace between you again.”
    A murmur of approbation went around the cramped room.
    Old Timan laid his rattle at Seregil’s feet. “This would be a great feat indeed. Many times I have tried to placate the spirit, butit has been silent to me, or driven me out with terrible noises in my head. Truly, can you do such a thing?”
    “I’ll try,” Seregil replied. “Bring me to the spirit chamber at first light tomorrow and I’ll speak to your spirit.”
    The murmur changed to a roar of acclaim.
    “The guest sleeps in my house this night,” Retak announced proudly, ending the feast. “The mountain nights are harsh for your kind, Meringil, but I have many healthy daughters