The Kir banded together for their own protection, dwelt in isolated parts of the Mid Realm. Their search for the means to capture souls took a darker path. Having had no luck with the living, the Kir began to study the dead, hoping to find out what happened to the soul after it left the body. Now they searched for corpses, particularly corpses abandoned by the living.
The Kir continued to keep to themselves, avoiding contact with outsiders as much as possible, taking far more interest in the dead than in the living. Though still viewed with loathing, they were no longer viewed with fear. They became accepted and even welcome members of society. They eventually gave up the search for the soul-trapping magic, began instead—perhaps naturally enough—to worship death.
And though, over the centuries, their views on death and life had grown divergent and were now far apart, the Kir monks and the Kenkari elves never forgot that the two trees had sprung from the same seed. The Kenkari were among the few outsiders ever permitted to enter a Kir monastery and the Kir were the only humans able to obtain safe passage in elven lands. Hugh, having been raised by the Kir monks, knew about this bond, knew that this disguise would provide the only safe means of entering elven lands. He’d used it before, with success, and he’d taken the precaution of procuring two black robes before he’d left the monastery, one robe for himself and one for Iridal.
No women being allowed in the order, it was necessary for Iridal to keep her hands and face covered and to refrain from speaking. This was not a great difficulty, since elven law prohibited the Kir from talking to any elf. Nor was any elf likely to break the prohibition. The elves viewed the Kir with loathing and superstitious dread that would make it quite easy for Hugh and Iridal to travel without interference.
The official at the port authority rushed them through with insulting haste, threw their papers at them from a safe distance.
“How do we find the Cathedral of the Albedo?” Hugh asked in fluent elven.
“No understand.” The elf shook his head.
Hugh persisted. “What’s the best route into the mountains, then?”
“No speak human,” the elf said, turned his back, and walked off. Hugh glowered, but said nothing, made no further argument. He took their papers, thrust them into the rope belt girdling his waist, and walked back out into the streets of the bustling port town of Paxaua.
From the depths of her cowl, Iridal gazed in awe and despair at the row after row of buildings, the winding streets, the crowds of people. The largest city in Volkaran could have fit easily into Paxaua’s market district.
“I never imagined anyplace so vast or one filled with so many people!” she whispered to Hugh, taking hold of his arm and crowding close. “Have you ever been here before?”
“My business has never brought me this deep into elven territory,” Hugh answered, with a grim smile.
Iridal looked at the numerous, converging, winding, twisting city streets in dismay. “How will we ever find our way? Don’t you have a map?”
“Only of the Imperanon itself. All I know is that the cathedral’s located somewhere in those mountains,” said Hugh, indicating a range of mountains on the distant horizon. “The streets of this rat’s warren have never been mapped, to my knowledge. Most of them don’t have names, or if they do, only the inhabitants know them. We’ll ask directions. Keep moving.” They followed the flow of the crowd, began walking up what appeared to be a main street.
“Asking directions is going to be rather difficult,” Iridal remarked in a low voice, after a few moments’ walking. “No one comes near us! They just... stare...”
“There are ways. Don’t be afraid. They don’t dare harm us.” They continued along the street, their black robes standing out like two dark holes torn from the gaily colored, living tapestry formed by the throngs of elves going about their daily lives. Everywhere the dark figures walked, daily life came to a halt.
The elves stopped talking, stopped bartering, stopped laughing or arguing. They stopped running, stopped walking, seemed to stop living, except for their eyes, which followed the black-robed pair until they had moved on to the next street, where it happened all over again. Iridal began to think that she carried silence in her hand, was draping its heavy folds over every person, every object they passed.
Iridal looked into the eyes, saw hatred—not for what she was, which surprised her, but for what she brought—death. A reminder of mortality. Long-lived though the elves are, they can’t live forever.
She and Hugh kept walking, aimlessly, it seemed to Iridal, though they traveled in the same direction, presumably moving toward the mountains, though she could no longer see them, hidden by the tall buildings.
At length, she came to realize that Hugh was searching for something. She saw his hooded head turn from one side of the narrow street to the other, looking at the shops and the signs over the shops. He would leave a street, for no apparent reason, draw her into a street running along parallel. He would pause, study diverging streets, choose one, and head that direction. Iridal knew better than to ask him, certain she would receive no reply. But she began to use her eyes, studied the shops and the signs as he was studying them. Paxaua’s marketplace was divided into districts. Cloth sellers had their street next to the weavers. Swordsmiths were up a block or two from the tinker, the fruit vendors seemed to stretch for a mile. Hugh led her into a street lined with perfumers; the fumes from their aromatic shops left Iridal breathless. A left-angle turn brought them to the herbalists. Hugh appeared to be nearing his goal, for he moved faster, casting only the briefest glances at the signs hanging above the shops. They soon left the larger herb shops behind, continued on down the street, heading into the central part of Paxaua. Here the shops were smaller and dirtier. The crowds were smaller, as well, for which Iridal was thankful, and appeared to be of a poorer class.
Hugh glanced to his right, leaned near Iridal.
“You’re feeling faint,” he whispered.
Iridal stumbled, clutched at him obligingly, swayed on her feet. Hugh grasped hold of her, looked around.
“Water!” he called sternly. “I ask for water for my companion. He is not well.”
The few elves who had been in the street vanished. Iridal let her body go heavy, sagged in Hugh’s arms. He half carried, half dragged her over to a stoop, under a shabby, swinging sign that marked yet another herb shop.
“Rest here,” he told her in a loud voice. “I will go inside and ask for water. Keep a watch out,” he muttered beneath his breath before he left her. Iridal nodded silently, drew her hood well over her face, though she still made certain she could see. She sat limply where Hugh left her, darting alarmed glances up and down the street. It had not occurred to her until now that they were being followed. Such a thing seemed ludicrous, when every elf in Paxaua must know by now of their presence and probably where they were bound, for they had certainly made no secret of it.
Hugh entered the shop door, left it open behind him. Out of the corner of her eye, Iridal watched him walk over to a counter. Behind it, long rows of shelving were lined with bottles of every shape, color, and size, containing an astonishing variety of plants, powders, and potions.
Elven magic tends to be mechanical in nature (dealing with machines) or spiritual (the Kenkari). Elves don’t believe in mixing a pinch of this herb with a scoop of that powder, except for use in healing. And healing potions weren’t considered magical, merely practical. The elf behind the counter was an herbalist. He could dispense ointments to treat boils and blisters and diaper rash, provide liquids to cure coughs and insomnia and fainting spells. And perhaps a love charm or two, delivered under the counter. Iridal couldn’t imagine what Hugh was after. She was reasonably certain it wasn’t water.