Read Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun Online
Authors: Margaret Weis
left for battle, for defiance. My heart is in the tomb where my dear
husband, Tanis, lies buried. My family is all that matters to me
now. I want to see my son happily married, I want to hold grand-
children in my arms. I want our land to be at peace and I am will-
ing to pay tribute to the dragon for our land to remain at peace."
Medan regarded her skeptically. He heard the ring of truth in
her voice, but she was not telling him the entire truth. Laurana
had been a skilled diplomat in the days following the war. She
was accustomed to telling people what they wanted to hear while
subtly swaying them to believe what she wanted them to believe.
Still, it would have been extremely impolite to openly doubt her
words. And if she meant them, Medan pitied her. The son on
whom she doted was a spineless jellyfish who took hours to
decide whether to have strawberries or blueberries for luncheon.
Gilthas was not likely to ever take such an important step as
making up his mind to wed. Unless, of course, someone else
picked out his bride for him.
Laurana averted her head but not before Medan had seen the
tears welling in her almond eyes. He changed the subject back to
orchids. He was attempting to grow some in his own garden and
was having minimal success. He discussed orchids for a long
while, giving Laurana a chance to regain her composure. A quick
touch of her hand to her eyes and she was once more in control.
She recommended her own gardener, a master with orchids.
Medan accepted the offer with pleasure. The two of them lin-
gered another hour in the arboretum, discussing strong roots and
waxen flowers.
"Where is my honored mother, Palthainon?" Gilthas, Speaker
of the Sun, asked. "I have not seen her this past half-hour."
The king was dressed in the costume of an elven ranger, all in
greens and browns, colors that were becoming to him. Gilthas
ind it difficult to believe that someone
looked quite impressive, though few elven rangers were likely to
go about their duties attired in the finest silken hose and shirts, or
a hand-tooled and gold-embossed leather vest with matching
boots. He held a cup of wine in his hand, but he only sipped at it
out of politeness. Wine gave him a headache, everyone knew.
"I believe that your mother is walking in the garden, Your
Majesty," said Prefect Palthainon, who missed nothing of the com-
ings and goings of the House Royal. "She spoke of needing air.
Would you have me send for her? Your Majesty does not look well."
"I am not well," Gilthas said. "Thank you for your kind offer,
Palthainon, but do not disturb her." His eyes darkened, he looked
out upon the throng of dancers with sadness and wistful envy.
"Do you think anyone would take it amiss if I were to retire to my
room, Prefect?" he asked in a low voice.
"Perhaps a dance would cheer Your Majesty," Palthainon
said. "There, look at how the lovely Amiara smiles at you." The
prefect leaned near the king to whisper, "Her father is one of the
wealthiest elves in all of Qualinesti. Silversmith, you know. And
she is perfectly charming-"
"Yes, she is," said Gilthas in disinterested agreement. "But I
do not feel equal to dancing. I am feeling faint and nauseated. I
believe that I really must retire."
"By all means, if Your Majesty is truly not well," said
Palthainon reluctantly. Medan was right. Having robbed the king
of a spine, the prefect could not very well fault the young man for
crawling about on his hands and knees. "Your Majesty should
rest in bed tomorrow. I will take care of the affairs of state."
"Thank you, Palthainon," Gilthas said quietly. "If I am not.
needed, I will spend the day working on the twelfth canto in my
new poem."
He rose to his feet. The music came to a sudden halt. The
dancers ceased in mid-whirl. Elven men bowed, elven women
curtsied. The elven maidens looked up in expectation. Gilthas
seemed embarrassed by the sight of them. Ducking his head, he
stepped down off the dais and walked quickly toward the door
that led to his private chambers. His personal servant accompa-
nied him, walking ahead of the king, bearing a glowing cande-
labra to light His Majesty's way. The elven maidens shrugged and
glanced about demurely for new partners. The music began
again. The dancing continued.
Prefect Palthainon, muttering imprecations, headed for the re-
freshment table.
Gilthas, glancing back before he left the room, smiled to him'-
self. Turning, he followed the soft glow of the candlelight through
the darkened hallways of his palace. Here no courtiers flattered
and fawned, here no one was permitted to enter without first ob-
taining permission from Palthainon, who lived in constant fear
that some day someone else might wrest away the marionette's
strings. Kagonesti guards stood at every entrance.
Freed from the music and the lights, the twittering laughter
and the whispering conversations, Gilthas breathed a sigh of
relief as he walked the well-guarded corridors. The newly built
palace of the Speaker of the Sun was a large and airy dwelling of
living trees that had been magically altered and lovingly trans-
formed into ceilings and walls. The tapestries were made of flow-
ers and plants coaxed to form beautiful works of art that changed
daily depending on what was in bloom. The floors of some of the
rooms of the palace, such as the dancing room and the audience
chambers, were made of marble. Most of the private rooms and
the hallways that wound among the boles of the trees were car-
peted with fragrant plants.
The palace was considered something of a marvel among the
Qualinesti people. Gilthas had insisted that all the trees standing
on the land be utilized in the shapes and positions in which the
trees had grown naturally. He would not permit the Wood-
shapers to coax them into bending themselves into unnatural
poses to accommodate a staircase or shifting their branches to
provide more light. Gilthas intended this as a sign of honor to the
trees, who were pleased, it seemed, for they flourished and
thrived. The result was, however, an irregular maze of leafy cor-
ridors, where those new to the palace would often lose them-
selves for hours on end.
The king did not speak, but walked with his head bowed and
his hands clasped behind him. He was often to be seen in this at-
titude, roaming restlessly the halls of the palace. It was known
that at these times he was mulling over some rhyme or trying to
work out the rhythm of a stanza. The servants knew better than
to interrupt him. Those who passed bowed low and said nothing.
The palace was quiet this night. The music of the dance could
be heard, but it was soft and muted by the gentle rustling of the
thickly entangled leaves that formed the high ceiling of the corri-
dor through which they walked. The king lifted his head, glanced
about. Seeing no one, Gilthas moved a step closer to his servant.
"Planchet," said Gilthas in a low voice, speaking the human
language which few elves spoke, "where is Marshal Medan? I
thought I saw him go into the garden."
"He did, Your Majesty," his servant replied, answering in the
same language, soft and low, not turning around to look at the
king lest someone should be watching them. Palthainon's spies
were everywhere.
"That's unfortunate," said Gilthas, frowning. "What if he's
still hanging about out there?"
"Your mother noticed and followed after him immediately,
Your Majesty. She will keep him occupied."
"You are right," said Gilthas with a smile, a smile only a
trusted few ever saw. "Medan will not bother us this night. Is
everything ready?"
"I have packed food enough for a day's journeying, Your
Majesty. The knapsack is hidden in the grotto."
"And Kerian? Does she know where to meet me?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. I 'left the message in the usual spot. It was
gone the next morning when I went to check. A red rose was in its
place."
"You have done well, as always, Planchet," Gilthas said. "I do
not know what I would do without you. I want that rose, by the
way."
"The rose is with Your Majesty's knapsack," said Planchet.
The two ceased talking. They had arrived at the Speaker's
personal chambers. The king's Kagonesti guards-ostensibly
body guards, but in reality, prison guards-saluted as His
Majesty approached. Gilthas paid them no heed. The guards were
in Palthainon's pay, they reported every movement the king
made to the prefect. Servants waited in the king's bedroom to
assist His Majesty in undressing and preparing for bed.
"His Majesty is not feeling well," Planchet announced to the
servants as he placed the candelabra upon a table. "I will attend
him. You have leave to go."
Gilthas, pale and languishing, dabbed his lips with his lace
handkerchief and went immediately to lie down upon his bed,
not even bothering to take off his boots. Planchet would see to
that for him. The servants, who were accustomed to the king's ill
health and his desire for solitude, had expected nothing else after
the rigors of a party. They bowed and departed.
"No one is to disturb His Majesty," Planchet said, shutting the
door and locking it. The guards also had keys, but they rarely
used them now. In the past, they had checked upon the young
king on a frequent basis. They always found him where he was
supposed to be, sick in bed or dreaming over his pen and paper,
and at last they'd stopped checking.
Planchet listened at the door a moment, waited to hear the
guards relax and return to their games of chance with which they
whiled away the long and boring hours. Satisfied, he crossed the
room, threw open the doors that led to the balcony, and looked
out into the night.
" All is well, Your Majesty."
Gilthas jumped from the bed and headed for the window.
"You know what to do?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. The pillows are prepared that will take
your place in the bed. I am to keep up the pretence that you are
in the room. I will not permit anyone to visit you."
"Very good. You need not worry about Palthainon. He will not
put in an appearance until tomorrow morning. He will be too busy
signing my name and affixing my seal to important documents."
Gilthas stood by the balustrade of the balcony. Planchet af-
fixed a rope to the balustrade, held it fast. "A profitable journey,
Your Majesty. When do you return?"
"If all goes well, Planchet, I will be back by midnight tomor-
row night."
" All will go well," said the elf. He was several years older
than Gilthas, hand-picked by Laurana to serve her son. Prefect
Palthainon had approved the choice. Had the prefect bothered to
check Planchet's background, which included many years of
loyal service to the dark elf Porthios, the prefect might not have.
"Fate smiles upon Your Majesty."
Gilthas had been looking into the garden, searching for signs
of movement. He glanced back quickly. "There was a time I could
have argued with that statement, Planchet. I used to believe
myself the unluckiest person in this world, snared by my own
vanity and conceit, imprisoned by my own fear. There was a time
I used to see death as my only escape."
Impulsively, he reached out and grasped the hand of his ser-
vant. "You forced me to look away from the mirror, Planchet. You
forced me to stop staring into my own reflection, to turn and look
upon the world. When I did, I saw my people suffering, crushed
beneath the heel of black boots, living in the shadows of dark
wings, facing a future of despair and certain destruction."
"No longer do they live without hope," said Planchet, gently
withdrawing his hand, embarrassed by the king's regard. "Your
Majesty's plan will succeed."
Gilthas sighed. "Let us hope so, Planchet. Let us hope that
Fate smiles on more than me. Let us hope she smiles upon our
people."
He descended the rope nimbly, hand over hand, and dropped
lightly into the garden. Planchet watched from the balcony until
the king had disappeared into the night. Planchet then shut the
doors and walked back over to the bed. He placed the pillows on
it and arranged the coverlet convincingly about them so that if
anyone looked, they would see what appeared to be a body in
the bed.
"And now, Your Majesty:' Planchet said loudly, picking up a
small harp and running his hands over the strings, "take your
sleeping draught and I will play some soft music to lull you into
slumber."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TASSLEHEOFF, THE ONE AND ONLY
"Despite being in pain and extreme discomfort, Sir Gerard
was satified with the way things were going thus far. He
had a throbbing headache from where the elf had kicked
him. He was tied to his horse, dangling head down over the