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Chapter Three
Will You Find Me?
The ruins were haunting, dark, gloomy spirals of broken stone reaching towards the black, star-strewn sky. Once beautiful pillars, graceful homes of the ancients, they lay in ruin, cracked and mossy and dull. Broken stone littered the floor; bits of jagged glass shone through the dust of the ages. Trees grew here and there among the devastation, their trunks twisted and warped due to damage as seedlings from the falling stone, their branches snagging on the stone, their leaves small and half-dead for want of light.
Light did not come to the Ruins of Dal-Tamarath.
Here and there, though, there were things that were oddly out of place; a footstep in the dust, a tattered bit of cloth hanging limply on a cut stone, the whisper of little voices, a flash of clothing or hair or skin resting in the trees.
Or the tattered, limp rag doll lying face-down in the dust.
"Marigny!" a pretty voice, a child's voice, called from time to time, echoing eerily on the stone. "Marigny!"
And, following the call, the whispered words, "Where are you? Are you lost? Are you scared, all alone, poor Marigny?"
. . . You, lost . . . Marigny, Marigny, ny, ny . . . echoed the stones hauntingly, the child's voice tossed to the winds by the stones to dwell with the whispering of thedead leaves against the stone.
It was this voice that the four men, nervously clutching hoes and old, dusty spears, heard as they crept towards the ruins.
"I tell you, it's haunted!" one, a skinny fellow with straight, black hair and darting, pale blue eyes whispered hoarsely to his companions. "You can feel the chill in your bones, for god's sakes!"
"Paladine be with us." muttered a second, a brawny, tall man with bright red hair. "This place is perfect for haunts."
"Ayuh." the third man, a brown-haired middle-aged man with weathered skin and hazel eyes, muttered, clutching his spear.
"Oh, hush!" the fourth, a well-dressed cleric wearing blue robes of a Son of Mishakal, whispered. "Haunts! Look around! We're the only ones to set foot here for centuries!"
"Oh?" The red-haired man asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. "What about that, eh?"
All four men followed his pointing finger, their eyes traveling along it's length, through the air, to rest finally on the little doll lying in the dust.
"That's not been left by any haunt." the cleric whispered, his eyes on the doll, his voice breaking the silence.
"Nah." agreed the black-haired fellow.
"Tavish." the middle-aged man waved his hand in the cleric's direction, pointing to a gap between a mossy stone and a tree. "Look!"
"What?" Tavish turned, his medallion swinging over his breast.
"I saw something!" the man whispered, his voice hushed.
"Probably a village child," Tavish concluded, kneeling down and scooping up the doll. Noticing the well-worn fabric of the 'skin' and dress, the half-hanging left button that served as the eye, the tangeled and faded thread that served as the mouth, he smiled slightly and continued. "Some little girl who came with her brothers on a dare. I used to do that, with my sister; investigating the spooky woods behind the village house."
"Ain't no village child." the brawny man argued. "I know 'em all - I fathered a good deal of 'em - and I know for certain that no Anny or Tommy has been out in the Ruins."
"Their mothers would go balistic." the skinny man agreed soberly. "I agree with Rannon, I'd've known if any of my kids were out here. Too dangerous."
"Far too dangerous for any child." agreed the middle-aged man. "Look at that brokenglass!Forget the mothers,I'd go balistic if my youngins were out here."
"Then how'd the doll get out here?" Tavish asked, holding the thing. "It hasbeen well-loved."
"T'has." muttered Rannon. "But Janek is righ' - there's been no children out of the village. Too long a walk, for most of 'em, and they know plum well how their mothers are."
"Aye." Janek muttered beneath his breath. "What do you think of this, Niall?"
"I thinkit's the haunt of a girl." Niall, the middle-aged man, concluded.
"Haunts can't hold dolls." Rannon muttered. Tavish nodded, smoothing the yarn-hair with his fingers.
"There!" yelled Rannon, breaking the ominous silence. "I just done seen what old Niall'd!"
"What did you see?" Janek asked worridly, peering down the alley.
"A pair of eyes!"
"Let us gocheck it out." Tavish said, grimly placing the doll into a pouch and setting off at a quick pace. Janek, Niall, and Rannon were swift to follow.
No sooner has they taken two steps beyond the tree then a little, piping voice called out from above, "Who're you?"
Tavish started, having nearly been run over by Rannon when he stopped suddenly. "What?"
"I asked, who're you? I've never seen anyone like you before. You don't look like Asheyl, and you don't look like Asheyl said Mamma looked like, so who are you? For that matter, I don't remember Mamma, and Asheyl's the only one I've seen, ever -"
Tavish snapped his head up, searching the creaking, old, half-dead branches for the source of the voice. The three other men were quick to mimic him.
Up, in the tree, was a little boy.
At least, that was what Tavish origionally thought. The little boy had sandy locks that fell to his shoulders, dirty, dusty, tangled locks that framed a pale face. He had large, grey eyes and a small, quick body dressed in faded, old rags clumsily sewn together by childish hands. A too-large, grey-white shirt covered his chest; mismatched pants covered his legs. His feet and hands were bare, quick and nimble. There was something kenderish about the child, who couldn't have been more than six years old; Tavish saw Rannon's hands go instandly to his pouch hanging about his neck.
"Who are you?" Niall asked, his eyes wide.
"Oh, didn't I say? Probably not. You see, Asheyl knows my name, so it seemed rather stupid to keep telling her, so I stopped intoducing myself. But my name's Tanhin. What's yours?"
"Are you a kender?" Janek asked suspiciously.
"Me? No, but Asheyl said something about Mamma saying that I was half-kender . . . or something like that. You see," Tanhin's grey eyes grey sad, "I don't remember my Mamma. Asheyl said that one day, Mamma took us down to these ruins and left us. Years ago, when I was about three. Asheyl was five, she remembers. She has a good memory."
"So . . . you're a half-kender?" Tavish asked, trying to make some sense out of thechild'swords.
"Ask Asheyl." the boy replied.
"Ok . . ." Rannon said slowly. "Where is this Asheyl?"
"Oh, right behind you. Hi, Ash." the little boy waved to someone behind Tavish, who turned to look behind him.
There stood a little girl with tangeled, dirty hair the color of midnight, slightly tilted, almond-shaped eyes, delicately boned and smooth-skinned, though that smooth skin was covered, as was the boy's, with a thin layer of dirt, dust, and ash. She was dressed in a shapeless dress made of rags, and, like Tanhin, was barefoot. Her grey irises darted from face to face.
"Are you . . . Asheyl?" Tavish asked uncertainly. The little girl had something eerie about her.
"What do you want with me?" the voice was clipped and horse, as if she hadn't used it in a while. "Who are you?"
"I am Tavish Klenmore, and I am a cleric of Mishakal." Tavish replied, smiling.
"I never heard of her." the girl did not return the smile, but stared at Tavish with suspicion in her eyes.
"Have you lived here all your life?" Tavish asked, kneeling on the cracked stone, speaking gently.
"No." her lips barely moved as she spoke the word.
"Ah. Where did you live before?"
"With Mamma. Why?" her eyes fixed on his.
"I just want to know."
"You won't take us!"
Tavish rocked back on his heels, momentarily stunned at the force of those words - you won't take us! He recovered, and spoke calmly, "Why not?"
"Mamma said evil people would take us if they found us. Mamma said they'd hurt us." the girl snapped fiercely.
"I am not evil." Tavish spread his hands.
"They seem nice to me." Tanhin put in helpfully.
"Where do you live?" Tavish asked kindly, his eyes never leaving her face, pale beneath the smudges and ash.
"Here. With my brother. And Marigny."
"Marigny?"
"My doll. The one you have in your pouch." Asheyl pointed. "Give her back!"
Surprised, Tavish drew the limp doll from his pouch and held it out, then blinked as Asheyl darted forward and snatched it from his hand, clutching it to her chest.
"Where did you get the doll?" Tavish asked kindly, ignoring the mutters of the men.
"Mind your own business!" Asheyl snarled as much as her hoarse yet undeniably melodic voice would allow. She cradled the doll, wrung it between her fingers.
"I apologize." Tavish stood and bowed. "Could you show me where you live? I want only to help you." he added, seeing her delicate scowl.
"I don't need help." Asheyl clutched the doll, her fingers digging into the fabric. "I'm fine."
"Who taught you to speak?" Tavish asked, changing the subject.
"My Mamma." Asheyl spoke quickly, as if to get the words out.
"And she left you, didn't she?" Tavish looked sympethedically at the girl's ragged clothing and hair. "Left you here?"
"Why do you care?"
"I care." Tavish held outout his hand. "Would you please show me where you live?"
Asheyl refused his hand, turned her body away. "You can see just fine."
"Where do you sleep?"
Asheyl walked off, her gait stiff and rigid. Shrugging, Tanhin hopped off his branch and followed her. The men fell in line behind the two children.
"Tell me, Asheyl." spoke Tavish as he walked behind the girl. "Are you human?"
"No."
"Are you a half-elf?" he pressed.
"My father was an elf." her tone was as rigid as her walk.
"Ah. I see. How do you know that?"
"My Mamma told me."
"Is your brother half-elf?"
"No."
"Is he half-kender?"
"Yes. Mamma was weird that way." her steps quickened, as if to distance herself from this probing human as fast as possible.
They arrived at what might have been a house but was half-collapsed and draped with moss. A huge tree, twisted but alive, covered half the entrance. Asheyl slipped past it and ducked inside, Tanhin and Tavish on her heels.
Inside was one room, with a chimney, a pot, some blankets, a backpack, some pieces of random fabric, some candles, flint, steel, a needle, thread, and a carved rose. There was no furniture. Tavish had to duck to get in.
"You stay outside." he whispered to the men, who obeyed grumpily.
Now, crouching down in the 'house', Tavish thought he might know the children's story. Apparently, their Mamma had abandoned them, two half-breeds, to live in this unsuitable ruin. Looking at Asheyl's hands, clutching the doll, and at Tanhin's dirty face, then at the hovel, Tavish could not recall feeling sorrier for anyone.
"This is where you live?"
"Yes." Asheyl snapped.
Tavish looked around. "There is more to life than this." he whispered.
"Prove it." Asheyl hissed back, her teeth clenched.
Tavish looked at her, seated admist the rubble and cluttered, holding Marigny in those thin arms. "What did you have for dinner last night?" he asked softly.
"Food." she replied, avoiding his gaze.
Tavish made uphis mind then and there. "There is a monastery of Majere near here. They would be overjoyed to take you in, Asheyl. And Tanhin -near the monastery is a tavern known as the Elfsong Tavern. The owner, Alyth Kerril, would be overjoyed to have you."
Asheyl was expressionless. Tanhin looked thrilled, then downcast. "But when would I see Asheyl?"
"You'd see her." Tavish smiled. "And maybe we could track down your, uh, Mamma."
At these words, Asheyl turned her face to his. He could see skeptical curiosity in those elven eyes. "The monastery is flourishing," he told her gently. "Now that the War of the Lance is over, there are children there, children that could be your friends. What do you say?"
"No. I want to stay here."
"Oh, come on, Ash, it'll be fun!" Tanhin grinned happily. "And here is getting boring, anyway."
"You never said that before." she whispered to him, her expression fathomless. Tanhin shifted in his seat.
"Sorry, Ash." he whispered to the floor.
"Well," Tavish said, his mind by now more than made up. "Get your stuff, and let's go!"
"Now?" Asheyl asked, her expression cold.
"Er, yes. Of course, we'll drop you off at the Elfsong, then get you settled at the monastery." Tavish said kindly. "Come on!"
Ten minutes later, carrying bundles of odds and ends, the three emerged from the ruins. The three men started ahead, with fresh tales to tell to their wives and children waiting for them, while Tavish started for the opposite direction, Tanhin bouncing at his heels.
Asheyl, however, stopped. Holding the bundle, with Marigny tight in her arms, she looked out at the Ruins. Here her mother had dropped off her brother and herself, waved, and vanished into the trees. Here she had lived, gathering water from the stream, food from the forest and the provisions left by her mother, sewing clothes for her brother and herself from the old blankets. Here she had sweated in summer, played in autumn, stayed warm inside the house in winter, taken long walks in summer. Marigny, the only reminder of her beforelife, the doll her mother had given her, the doll that still smelled like her mother - a mixture of cheap perfume and sweat - was all that she had taken, along with the flint, the steel, the candles, and, lastly, the delicate, wooden rose her father had given her mother. Long ago.
Tears crept into her eyes.
And now she was leaving. Leaving. Gone. She'd never swing from the tree, never hide in the stone, never see her reflection in the old, pitted, broken glass. And . . . from deep inside her guarded heart, the hope, the emotion sprang; what if her mother came looking for her and Tanhin? She would find traces that they were there: the cracked stone where Tanhin had banged his knee, the threads and scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the stoned, the bent branches where they had climbed. But no children. Would she give up? Would she stop looking, if she had ever begun, for her children?
She blinked the tears from her eyes, turned, and wiped the emotion from her face. Sobbing inside, cold outside, she walked behind the two males, her arms tight around her bundle, tight around Marigny.
Her last memory of the Ruins was a piece of ragged cloth, caught on the stone, flapping idly in the rare wind as the branches of the tree swayed.
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