Read Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun Online
Authors: Margaret Weis
Comes war. War to Silvanesti.
Lorac summons all his people, orders them to flee their
homelands
Orders them away.
Says to them,
"I alone will be the savior of the people.1I
"I alone will stop the Queen of Darkness.1I
Away the people.
Away the loved daughter, Alhana Starbreeze.
Alone, Lorac hears the voice of the dragon orb,
calling his name, calling to him to come to the darkness.
Lorac heeds the call.
Descends into darkness.
Puts his hands upon the dragon orb and
the dragon orb puts its hands upon Lorac.
Comes the dream.
Comes the dream to Silvanesti,
dream of horror,
dream of fear,
dream of trees that bleed the blood of elvenkind,
dream of tears forming rivers,
dream of death.
Comes a dragon,
Cyan Bloodbane,
minion of Takhisis,
to hiss into Lorac's ear the terrors of the dream.
To hiss the words, 1 alone have the power to save the people.
I alone." To mock the words, "I alone have the power to save."
The dream enters the land,
kills the land,
twists the trees, trees that bleed,
fills the rivers with the tears of the people,
the tears of Lorac,
held in thrall by the orb and by Cyan Bloodbane,
minion of Queen Takhisis,
minion of evil,
who alone has the power.
"I can understand why my mother does not like to hear that
song," Silvan said when the last long-held, sweet, sad note
drifted over the water, to be echoed by a sparrow. "And why our
people do not like to remember it."
"Yet, they should remember it," said Rolan. "The song would
be sung daily, if I had my way. Who knows but that the song of
our own days will be just as tragic, just as terrible? We have not
changed. Lorac Caladon believed that he was strong enough to
wield the dragon orb, though he had been warned against it by
all the wise. Thus he was snared, and thus he fell. Our people, in
their fear, chose to flee rather than to stand and fight. And thus in
fear today we cower under this shield, sacrificing the lives of
some of our people in order to save a dream."
" A dream?" Silvan asked. He was thinking of Lorac's dream,
the dream of the song.
"I do not refer to the whispers of the dragon," said Rolan.
"That dream is gone, but the sleeper refuses to wake and thus an-
other dream has come to take its place. A dream of the past. A
dream of the glories of days that have gone. I do not blame them,"
Rolan added, sighing. "I, too, love to think upon what has gone
and long to regain it. But those of us who fought alongside your
father know that the past can never be recovered, nor should it
be. The world has changed, and we must change with it. We must
become a part of it, else we will sicken and die in the prison house
in which we have locked ourselves."
Rolan ceased paddling for a moment. He turned in the boat to
face Silvan. "Do you understand what I am saying, Your
Majesty?"
"I think so," said 5ilvan cautiously. "I am of the world, so to
speak. I come from the outside. I am the one who'can lead our
people out into the world."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Rolan smiled.
"S0 long as I avoid the sin of hubris," Silvan. said, ceasing his
paddling, thankful for the rest. He grinned when he said it for he
meant it teasingly, but on reflection, he became more serious.
"Pride, the family failing," Silvan said, half to himself. "I am fore-
warned, and that is forearmed, they say."
Picking up his paddle, he fell to work with a will.
The pallid sun sank down behind the trees. Day languished,
as if it too was one of the victims of the wasting sickness. Rolan
watched the bank, searching for a suitable site to moor for the
night. Silvan watched the opposite shore and so he saw first what
the kirath missed.
"Rolan!" Silvan whispered urgently. "Pull for the western
shore! Quickly!"
"What is it, Your Majesty?" Rolan was quick to take alarm.
"What do you see?"
"There! on the eastern bank! Don't you see them? Hurry! We
are nearly within arrow range!"
Rolan halted his rapid stroking. He turned around to smile
sympathetically at Silvan. "You are no longer among the hunted,
Your Majesty. Those people you see gathered on that bank are
your own. They have come to look upon you and do you honor."
Silvan was astonished. "But. . . how do they know?"
"The kirath have been here, Your Majesty."
"So soon?"
"I told Your Majesty that we would spread the word rapidly."
Silvan blushed. "I am sorry, Rolan. I did not mean to doubt you.
It's just that. . . My mother uses runners. They travel in secret, car-
rying messages between my mother and her sister by marriage,
Laurana, in Qualinesti. Thus we are kept apprised of what is hap-
pening with our people in that realm. But it would take them many
days to cover the same number of miles. . . . I had thought-"
"You thought I was exaggerating. You need make no apology
for that, Your Majesty. You are accustomed to the world beyond
the shield, a world that is large and filled with dangers that wax
and wane daily, like the moon. Here in Silvanesti, we kirath know
every path, every tree that stands on that path, every flower that
grows beside it, ever squirrel that crosses it, every bird that sings
in every branch, so many times have we run them. If that bird
sings one false note, if that squirrel twitches its ears in alarm, we
are aware of it. Nothing can surprise us. Nothing can stop us."
Rolan frowned. "That is why we of the kirath find it troubling
that the dragon Cyan Bloodbane has so long eluded us. It is not
possible that he should. And yet it is possible that he has."
The river carried them within sight of the elves standing on the
western shoreline. Their houses were in the trees, houses a human
would have probably never seen, for they were made of the living
tree, whose branches had been lovingly coaxed into forming walls
and roofs. Their nets were spread out upon the ground to dry,
their boats pulled up onto the shore. There were not many elves,
this was only a small fishing village, and yet it was apparent that
the entire population had turned out. The sick had even been car-
ried to the river's edge, where they lay wrapped in blankets and
propped up with pillows.
Self-conscious, Silvan ceased paddling and rested his oar at
the bottom of the boat.
"What do I do, Rolan?" he asked nervously.
Rolan looked back, smiled reassuringly. "You need only be
yourself, Your Majesty. That'is what they expect."
Rolan steered closer to the bank. The river seemed to run
faster here, rushed Silvan toward the people before he was quite
ready. He had ridden on parade with his mother to review the
troops and had experienced the same uneasiness and sense of un-
worthiness that assailed him now.
The river brought him level with his people. He looked at
them and nodded slightly and raised his hand in a shy wave. No
one waved back. No one cheered, as he had been half-expecting.
They watched him float upon the river in silence, a silence that
was poignant and touched Silvan more deeply than the wildest
cheering. He saw in their eyes, he heard in their silence, a wistful
hopefulness, a hope in which they did not want to believe, for
they had felt hope before and been betrayed.
Profoundly moved, Silvan ceased his waving and stretched
out his hand to them, as if he saw them sinking and he could keep
them above the water. The river bore him away from them, took
him around a hill, and they were lost to his sight.
Humbled, he huddled in the stem and did not move nor
speak. For the first time, he came to the full realization of the
crushing burden he had taken upon himself. What could he do to
help them? What did they expect of him? Too much, perhaps.
Much too much.
Rolan glanced back every now and again in concern, but he
said nothing, made no comment. He continued to paddle alone
until he found a suitable place to beach the boat. Silvan roused
himself and jumped into the water, helped to drag the boat up
onto the bank. The water was icy cold and came as a pleasant
shock. He submerged his worries and fears of his own inadequa-
cies in the Thon- Thalas, was glad to have something to do to keep
himself busy.
Accustomed to living out of doors, Silvan knew what needed
to be done to set up camp. He unloaded the supplies, spread out
the bedrolls, and began to prepare their light supper of fruit and
flatbread, while Rolan secured the boat. They ate for the most
part in silence, Silvan still subdued by the enormity of the re-
sponsibility he had accepted so blithely just two nights before
and Rolan respecting his ruler's wish for quiet. The two made an
early night of it. Wrapping themselves in their blankets, they left
the woodland animals and night birds to stand watch over their
slumbers.
Silvan fell asleep much sooner than he'd anticipated. He was
wakened in the night by the hooting of an owl and sat up in fear,
but Rolan, stirring, said the owl was merely calling to a neighbor,
sharing the gossip of the darkness.
Silvan lay awake, listening to the mournful, haunting call and
its answer, a solemn echo in some distant part of the forest. He lay
awake, long, staring up at the stars that shimmered uneasily
above the shield, the Song of Lorac running swift like the river
water through his mind.
The tears of Lorac,
held in thrall by the orb and by Cyan Bloodbane,
minion of Queen Takhisis,
minion of evil,
who alone has the power.
The words and melody of the song were at this moment being
echoed by a minstrel singing to entertain guests at a party in the
captial city of Silvanost.
The party was being held in the Garden of Astarin on the
grounds of the Tower of the Stars, where the Speaker of the Stars
would live had there been a Speaker. The setting was beautiful. The
Tower of the Stars was magically shaped of marble, for the elves
will not cut or otherwise harm any part of the land, and thus the
Tower had a fluid, organic feel to it, looking almost as if someone
had formed it of melted wax. During Lorac's dream, the Tower had
been hideously transformed, as were all the other structures in Sil-
vanost. BIven mages worked long years to reshape the dwelling.
They replaced the myriad jewels in the walls of the tall building,
jewels which had once captured the light of the silver moon, Soli-
nari, and the red moon, Lunitari, and used their blessed moonlight
to illuminate the Tower's interior so that it seemed bathed in silver
and in flame. The moons were gone now. A single moon only
shone on Krynn and for some reason that the wise among the elves
could not explain, the pale light of this single moon glittered in
each jewellike a staring eye, bringing no light at all to the Tower,
so that the elves were forced to resort to candles and torches.
Chairs had been placed among the plants in the Garden of As-
tarin. The plants appeared to be flourishing. They filled the air
with their fragrance. Only Konnal and his gardeners knew that
the plants in the garden had not grown there but had been carried
there by the Woodshapers from their own private gardens, for no
plants lived long now in the Garden of Astarin. No plants except
one, a tree. A tree surrounded by a magical shield. A tree known
as the Shield Tree, for from its root was said to have sprung the
magical shield that protected Silvanesti.
The minstrel was singing the Song of Lorac in answer to a re-
quest from a guest at the party. The minstrel finished, ending
the song on its sad note, her hand brushing lightly the strings of
her lute.
"Bravo! Well sung! Let the song be sung again," came a lilting
voice from the back row of seats.
The minstrel looked uncertainly at her host. The elven audi-
ence was much too polite and too well bred to indicate overt
shock at the request, but a performer comes to know the mood of
the audience by various subtle signs. The minstrel noted faintly
flushed cheeks and sidelong embarrassed glances cast at their
host. Once around for this song was quite enough.
"Who said that?" General Reyl Konnal, military governor of
Silvanesti, twisted in his seat.
"Whom do you suppose, Uncle?" his nephew replied with a
dark glance for the seats behind them. "The person who
requested it be sung in the first place. Your friend, Glaucous."
General Konnal rose abruptly to his feet, a move that ended the
evening's musical entertainment. The minstrel bowed, thankful to
be spared so arduous a task as singing that song again. The audi-
ence applauded politely but without enthusiasm. A sigh that might
have been expressive of relief joined the night breeze in rustling the