"How long since I left?" Tanis asked after swallowing the last of Clotnik's jerked beef. Brandella had finished eating and sat off to one side, braiding her long hair into a thick plait that hung over one shoulder.
'Three days," replied the juggler, unconsciously gazing at the tree where Kishpa had lain. Tanis and Brandella followed his eyes to the spot.
"When did he die?" asked the half-elf gently.
Clotnik didn't answer at once. Nor did he look at his two companions. Instead, he poked at the ash-strewn ground at the pond's edge as his lips quivered and his hands shook. Brandella leaned over and touched his shoulder, rubbing it tenderly, her own eyes red-rimmed and liquid. She had changed from her filthy woven top into one of Clotnik's longest white shirts; now she used the puffy sleeve to wipe a tear from the little dwarf's cheek. Clotnik shivered but let her minister to him.
"He… He… lived throughout the whole first day," stammered the dwarf. He steadied himself but would not look up. "I didn't think he'd live an hour," said the juggler, shaking his head. "His eyes were closed the whole time. He never spoke to me or even acknowledged that I was there." Finally, Clotnik lifted his head and spoke directly to Tanis. "It seemed that he was reliving something that was part nightmare and part the sweetest of idylls. When it was bad for him, he thrashed and moaned-and cried. When it was good, I believe, he smiled and even laughed somewhere deep inside. Was that what you saw, Tanis? Was that how it was for him in the past: part nightmare and part idyll?"
"I suppose it was," the half-elf reflected, suddenly suffering deep pangs of guilt about his feelings for Brandella.
Clotnik stared at the ground again. "He nearly died twice during that first day," he said. 'The first time, he sat straight up and screamed at someone, "Not yet! Not yet!' Then he blinked several times as if he were lost or confused. Soon, though, he smiled again, as if it were all right. The second time, I really thought I'd lost him. It had just gotten dark. Lunitari was low in the sky, casting a dim red light on him, when he began to choke and cough up blood. His eyes opened wide as if Death had caught him by surprise. He stopped breathing. I listened for a heartbeat and couldn't hear one. He was absolutely still. I went to close his eyes, but I stopped."
Clotnik bit his lip and glanced wonderingly at Brandella. "When I looked into his eyes," he said, "I saw you."
She took his hand as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. "Kishpa came back to life," Clotnik told her in a whisper. His eyes glittered like emeralds. "For you."
"Where did you bury him?" she asked in a voice racked with emotion.
Clotnik rose and pulled her to her feet. "I'll take you to him."
Tanis chose to stay behind. The grave was at the top of a hill beyond the glade. Clotnik left her there and returned to sit quietly next to Tanis.
Her grief was private. Her words to Kishpa were carried away on the wind, but who was to say they were not heard?
38
'Tell ме about mу father," ClotNik insisted while they awaited Brandella's return from the grave site. The dwarf and the half-elf sat on a log near the water's edge. "Is that why you found me in Solace and brought me to Kishpa?" asked the half-elf. "Was it so I would meet your father?" Clotnik squinted into the harsh afternoon light from the lowering sun. Long shadows splayed out behind them, and Tanis pondered the shadow that a father could throw over the life of his child. How well he knew it. "I told you before you entered Kishpa's memory that I wanted to go myself," the dwarf reminded him. "Kishpa wouldn't let me. He was hiding something from me, Tanis. I'm sure of it. You were there. Now you know what Kishpa knew; his memory is now your memory. What was it he did not want me to know?"
Tanis averted his eyes from the dwarf to let his gaze fall, once again, on the lengthening shadows.
"Was my father an evil man? Was that it?" questioned Clotnik nervously, seeing that Tanis wasn't answering.
Tanis shook his head vehemently. "Not at all! I was only pausing to gather my thoughts," the half-elf reassured Clotnik. "He was, in fact, a rather good man. Not perfect. Better than most, I would say."
"You're not telling me anything," scowled the juggler, slinging a sharp-edged, fire-scarred chunk of granite into the lake. It landed with a plunk, scattering sodden ashes and sending floating wood bobbing on the ripples. "I don't want generalities. Tell me what happened!"
"A great deal happened. I don't know-"
"Yes, you do!" shouted Clotnik, jumping to his feet in agitation. A flush rose in his rounded cheeks, matching the glow cast by the setting sun. "Was Mertwig a thief? Did he steal? Tell me! I've heard the talk from villagers. Some said he ran away before the issue could be settled. Others said he was so offended by the accusation that he left Ankatavaka in a huff. With no help from Kishpa, I learned that it was right after that time that my father died." He wrung his stubby hands, his eyes brilliant with anguish. "My mother went back to the village and met me when the ship brought me home, but I was very young then and I don't remember much. All I know was that she was always very sad after I returned. For a very long time, I thought I was the cause of her sadness."
Clotnik stared at his hands as if he might have done something with them to spare Yeblidod her agony.
Finally, he said, "My mother died within a year of my father's death."
Tanis shook his head sadly. "I didn't know. I'm sorry," he offered. "I liked her very much." He remembered her warm alto, the kindness of her touch.
"I've heard all about my mother," Clotnik said with a world-weary sigh. His voice was leaden. "I'm proud of her and think of her often. She left me that glass ball that I juggle. The one you caught in the Inn."
Tanis held his breath. "I remember," the half-elf said softly. "Please. Sit down. I'll tell you what I can."
Clotnik sat, his attention squarely on Tanis. The half- elf touched his fingertips to his lips, contemplating his words, and the dwarf leaned forward.
"If you want to know what kind of person your father was," spoke Tanis, "I can tell you this: He twice saved my life. Both times, Clotnik, he was in great peril or great pain-or both. The first time, he attacked a giant spider that was about to devour me. I would have perished if he hadn't diverted the monster's attention to himself."
Clotnik beamed with incipient pride. But he said nothing, seeming to want to avoid interrupting the narrative.
"The second time," Tanis continued, "he was mortally wounded, yet he dragged himself to my rescue, slaying a goblin who was about to strike me from behind." Tanis looked directly in Clotnik's eyes. "Do these sound like the actions of a bad man?"
The slanting amber light from the setting sun bathed Clotnik's face, his eyes sparkling with a pleasure that went far beyond the reflected glory of the bright orb in the western sky. No, Tanis thought, the reflected glory came from Mertwig. Clotnik seemed to sit straighter, hold his head more erect-even his ears seemed to droop less. He was seeing himself in a different way, Tanis realized; Clotnik had become the son of a hero. Tanis found himself envying the dwarf.
"He did all that?" the dwarf said in awe.
"That and more," Tanis replied, wishing he were describing his own father. "He was also protective of you and generous to your mother. His first impulse was to send you out of harm's way when there was fear of a human invasion. And he wanted only the best for your mother-even," he said without thinking, "when he couldn't afford it." He caught his breath, hoping Clotnik had missed the slip.