Read Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun Online
Authors: Margaret Weis
only a few days. Send your griffon messenger to the Citadel.
Instruct Palin Majere to turn over the device and the kender who
bears it. I will take them to the dragon personally. I may be able
to stave off this doom that hangs over us-"
"Us!" Gilthas cried in anger. "You hold the executioner's axe,
Marshal! The axe hangs poised over our heads, not yours!"
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Medan replied with a low bow.
"I have lived in this land for so long that it has come to seem like
my home."
"You are our conqueror," said Gilthas, speaking the words
distinctly, separately them with bitter emphasis on each. "You
are our master. You are our jailer. Qualinesti can never be your
home, sir."
"I suppose not, Your Majesty," said Medan, after a moment's
pause. "1 should like you to consider, however, that I escorted
your mother to the palace, when I might have escorted her to the
block. I have come to warn you of the dragon's intent, when I
might have been marching prisoners to the market place to serve
as targets for my archers."
"What is all this generosity to cost us?" Gilthas demanded, his
voice cold. "What is the price you set on our lives, Marshal
Medan?"
Medan smiled slightly. "1 should like to die in my garden,
Your Majesty. Of old age, if that is possible." He poured himself
another glass of wine.
"Do not trust him, Your Majesty," Planchet said softly, coming
to pour wine for the king.
"Don't worry," said Gilthas, twisting the fragile stem of the
glass in his fingers.
"And now, madam, we do not have much time," the Marshal
said. "Here is paper and ink. Compose your letter to Majere."
"No, Marshal," Laurana said firmly. "1 have been giving this
matter a great deal of thought. Beryl must never come into pos-
session of this device. I would die a hundred deaths first."
"You would die a hundred deaths, madam," said Medan
grimly, "but what about thousands of deaths? What about your
people? Will you sacrifice them to save some sorcerer's toy?"
Laurana was pale, resolute. "It is not a toy, Marshal Medan. If
Palin is right, it is one of the most powerful magical artifacts ever
made. Qualinesti could be burned to the ground before I would
turn over the artifact to the Beryl."
"Tell me the nature of this artifact, then," Medan said.
"I cannot, MarshaL" Laurana replied. "It is bad enough that
Beryl knows the artifact exists. I will not provide her with any
more information." Calmly, she lifted her blue eyes to meet his
irate gaze. "You see, sir, I have reason to believe that I am being
spied upon."
Medan's face flushed. He seemed about to say something,
changed his mind and turned abruptly to speak to the king.
"Your Majesty. What have you to say?"
"I agree with my mother. She told me of this device, described
its powers to me. I will not give the device to the dragon.
"Do you realize what you are doing? You sentence your
nation to death! No magical artifact is worth this," Medan
protested angrily. .
"This one is, MarshaL" Laurana said. "You must trust me.
Medan regarded her intently.
She met his gaze, held it, did not blink or flinch away.
"Hush!" Planchet warned. "Someone's coming."
They could hear footfalls on the stairs, taking them two at a
time.
"My aide," Medan replied.
"Can he be trusted?" Laurana asked.
Medan gave a wry smile. "Judge for yourself, Madam.
A Knight entered the room. His black armor was covered in
blood and gray dust. He stood still for some moments, breathing
heavily, his head bowed, as if climbing those stairs had drained
every last ounce of his energy. At length, he raised his head, lifted
his hand, held out a scroll to the marshal.
"I have it, sir. Groul is dead."
"Well done, Sir Gerard," said the MarshaL accepting the scroll.
He looked at the Knight, at the blood on his armor. "Are you
wounded?" he asked.
"To be honest, my lord, I can't tell," Gerard said with a grimac.
"There isn't one single part of me that doesn't hurt. But if I am, it
not serious, or else I'd be lying out there dead in the street."
Laurana was staring, amazed.
"Queen Mother," Gerard said, bowing.
Laurana seemed about to speak, but, glancing at Medan, she
caught herself.
"I do not believe that we have met, sir," she said coolly.
Gerard's blood-masked face relaxed into a faint smile. "Thank .
you, madam, for trying to protect me, but the marshal knows I
am a Solamnic Knight. I am the marshal's prisoner, in fact."
"A Solamnic?" Gilthas was startled.
"The one I told you about," Laurana said. "The Knight who
accompanied Palin and the kender."
"I see. And so you are the marshal's prisoner. Did he do this
"to you?" Gilthas demanded angrily.
"No, Your Majesty," said Gerard. "A draconian did this to me.
Beryl's messenger. Or rather, Beryl's former messenger." He sank
down in a chair, sighed, and closed his eyes.
"Some wine here," Medan ordered. "The dragon won't be re-
ceiving any more information from Qualinesti," he added with
satisfaction. "Beryl will wait at least a day to hear from me. When
she does not, she will be forced to send another messenger. We
have gained some time, at least."
He handed Gerard a glass of wine.
"No, my lord," said Gerard, accepting the wine, but not drink-
ing it. "We haven't. The dragon deceived us. Beryl's forces are on
the march. Groul figured that they might already be crossing the
border. The largest army assembled since the Chaos War is
marching on Qualinesti."
A silence as of death settled over the room. Each person lis-
tened unmoving, absorbing the news. No one's eyes sought an-
other's. No one wanted to see the reflection of his own fear.
Marshal Medan smiled ruefully, shook his head.
"I am not to die of old age, after all, it seems," he said, and
poured himself another glass of wine.
CHAPTER THIRTYONE
THE PALE RIVER OF THE DEAD
That night, Goldmoon left the hospital, ignoring the pleas of
the Healers and Lady Camilla.
"I am well," Goldmoon said, fending off their attempts
to keep her in bed. "I need rest, that is all, and I will not find rest
here!"
Not with the dead.
She walked swiftly through the gardens and courtyards of the
citadel complex, bright with lights. She looked neither to the left
nor the right. She did not answer greetings. She kept her gaze
fixed upon the path before her. If she looked anywhere else, she
would see them. They were following her.
She heard their whispered beggings. She felt their touch, soft
as milkweed, upon her hands, her face. They wrapped around
her like silken scarves. She was afraid, if she looked at them, she
would see Riverwind. Then she thought, perhaps this is why his
spirit has not come to me. He is lost and foundering in this river,
swept away. I will never find him.
Reaching the Grand Lyceum, she ran swiftly up the many
stairs leading to her chambers. For the first time, she blessed this
strange, young body, which was not only quick but was eager to
meet the physical demands she now placed upon it. Brought to
bay, Goldmoon turned to face them.
"Be gone. I have nothing for you."
The dead drew near, an old, old man, a thief, a warrior, a crip-
pled child. Beggars all, their hands extended. Then, quite sud-
denly, they left--as if a voice had ordered them gone. But not her
voice.
Goldmoon shut the door behind.
In her chamber, she was alone, truly alone. The dead were not
here. Perhaps when she had refused to grant them what they
sought, they had left her to seek other prey. She sank back against
the door, overwhelmed by her vision. Standing in the darkness,
she could see again, in her mind's eye, the dead draining the life-
giving power from her followers. This was the reason healing
was failing in the world. The dead were robbing the living. But
why? What need had the dead for mystical power? What force
constrained them? Where were they bound with such urgency?
"And why has it been given to me to see them?" Goldmoon
murmured.
A knock sounded on her door. She ignored it and felt to make
certain the door was locked. The knock was repeated several
times. Voices-living voices-called to her. When she did not
answer, they were perplexed. She could hear them wondering
aloud what to do.
"Go away!" she ordered finally, wearily. "Go away, and leave
me in peace."
And eventually, like the dead, the living also departed and left
her alone.
Crossing her chambers, Goldmoon stood before the large win- !
dows that overlooked the sea and flung open the casement.
The waning moon cast a pallid light upon the ocean. The set!
had a strange look to it. An oily film covered the water, and be-
neath this film, the water was smooth, still. No breeze stirred, not
a breath. The air had a foul smell to it, tainted by the oil upon the
water, perhaps. The night was clear. The stars bright. The sky
empty.
Ships were putting out to sea, black against the moonlight
waters. There was a smell of thunder in the air. Seasoned
mariners were reading the signs and heading for the open waters,
far safer for them than lying close to shore, where crashing waves
could send them smashing up against the docks or the rocks of
the island's coast. Goldmoon watched them from her window,
looking like toy boats gliding across a dark mirror.
There, moving over the ocean, were the dead.
Goldmoon sank to her knees at the window. She placed her
t hands upon the window frame, rested her chin upon her hands,
and watched the dead cross the sea. The moon sank beneath the
horizon, drowned in dark water. The stars shone cold and bleak
in the sky, and they also shone in the water, which was so still that
Goldmoon could not perceive where the sky ended and the sea
began. Small waves lapped gently upon the shore with a forlorn
urgency, like a sick and fretful child trying to capture someone's
attention. The dead were traveling north, a pallid stream, paying
no attention to anything except to that call they alone could hear.
Yet not quite alone.
Goldmoon heard the song. The voice that sang the song was
compelling, stirred Goldmoon to the depths of her soul.
"You will find him," said the voice. "He serves me. You will
be together."
Goldmoon crouched at the window, head bowed, and shiv-
ered in awe and fear and an exaltation that made her cry out in
longing, reach her hands out in longing for the singer of that song
as the dead had reached out their hands to her in longing. She
spent the night on her knees, her soul listening to the song with a
thrill that was both pain and pleasure, watching the dead travel
north, heeding the call, while the wavelets of the still sea clung as
long as they could to the shore, then receded, leaving the sand
smooth and empty in their going.
Day dawned. The sun slid out of the oily water. Its light
seemed covered with the same film of oil, for it had a greenish
sheen smeared across the yellow. The air was tainted, hot and
unsatisfying to breathe. Not a cloud marred the sky.
Goldmoon rose from kneeling. Her muscles were stiff and
sore from the uncomfortable position, but usage warmed and
limbered them. She picked up a cloak, thick and heavy, and
wrapped it around her, though the early morning was already
hot.
Opening her door, she found Palin standing outside, his hand
raised to knock.
"First Master," he said. "We have all been worried. . ."
The dead were all around him. They plucked at the sleeves of
his robes. Their lips pressed against his broken fingers, their
ragged hands clutched at the magical ring he wore, trying to pull
it loose, but not succeeding, to judge by their wails of frustration.
"What?" Palin halted in the middle of his speech of concern,
alarmed by the expression on her face. "What is it, First Master?
Why do you stare at me like that?"
She pushed past him, shoving him out of her way with such
force that he staggered backward. Goldmoon caught up the skirts
of her white robes and ran down the stairs, her cloak billowing
behind her. She arrived in the hall, startling masters and students.
They called after her, some ran after her. The guards stood staring
and helpless. Goldmoon ignored them all and kept running.
Past the crystal domes, past the gardens and the fountains,
past the hedge maze and the silver stair, past Knights and guards,
visitors and pupils, past the dead. She ran down to the harbor.
She ran down to the still, smooth sea.
Tas and the gnome were mapping the hedge maze-success-
fully mapping the hedge maze, which must be considered a first
in the long and inglorious history of gnomish science.
"Are we getting close, do you think?" Tasslehoff asked the