Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (78 page)

poem that also contained encoded messages for two families of

elves who had come under suspicion of being rebel sympathizers.

He had nearly completed it and was planning to send

Planchet out to deliver the poem to those who took an interest in

the king's literary pursuits, when Gilthas suddenly visibly shud-

dered. His fingers holding the quill pen shook. He left a blot upon

his manuscript and laid down the pen hurriedly. Cold sweat

beaded his brow.

"Your Majesty!" Planchet asked, alarmed. "What is wrong?

Are you unwell?" He left his task of sorting the king's papers and

hastened to his side.

"Your Majesty?" he repeated anxiously.

"I just had the strangest feeling," Gilthas said in a low voice.

" As though a goose had walked on my grave."

" A goose, Your Majesty!" Planchet was baffled.

"It is a human saying, my friend." Gilthas smiled. "Did you

never hear it? My father used to use it. The saying describes that

feeling you get when for no reason that you can explain a chill

causes your flesh to raise and your hair to prickle. That's exactly

how I felt a moment ago. What is even stranger is that for an in-

stant I had a very strong impression of my cousin's face! Sil-

vanoshei. I could see him quite clearly, as clearly as I see you."

"Silvanoshei is dead, Your Majesty," Planchet reminded him.

"Slain by ogres. Perhaps the goose was walking on his grave."

"I wonder," said Gilthas, thoughtfully. "My cousin did not

look dead, I assure you. He wore silver armor, the kind worn by

Silvanesti warriors. I saw smoke and blood, battle raged around

him, but he was not touched by it. He stood at the edge of a

precipice. I reached out my hand, but whether it was to pull him

back or push him over, I don't know."

"I trust you were going to pull him back, Your Majesty," said

Planchet, looking slightly shocked.

"I trust so, too." Gilthas frowned, shook his head. "I remem-

ber being quite angry and afraid. Strange." He shrugged. "What-

ever it was, the feeling's gone now."

"Your Majesty must have dozed off. You have not been get-

ting much sleep-"

Planchet suddenly ceased speaking. Making a sign to Gilthas

to keep silent, his servant crept across the room and put his ear to

the door.

"Someone is coming, Your Majesty," Planchet reported,

speaking Common.

"At this hour in the morning? I am expecting no one. I hope

it's not Palthainon," said Gilthas. "I have to finish this poem. Tell

him I am not to be disturbed."

"Let me pass!" An elven voice outside the door spoke to the

guards. The voice was calm but held an underlying note of ten-

sion and strain. "I have a message to the king from his mother."

One of the guards knocked loudly. Planchet cast a warning

glance at Gilthas, who subsided back into his chair and resumed

his writing.

"Hide those clothes!" he whispered urgently, with a gesture.

Gilthas's traveling clothes lay neatly folded on top of a chest

in preparation for another nightly journey. Planchet whisked the

clothes back into the chest which he closed and locked. He

dropped the key into the bottom of a large vase of fresh-cut roses.

This done, he walked over to answer the knock.

Gilthas played with his pen and took up a pensive attitude.

Lounging back in his chair, he propped his feet up on a cushion,

ran the tip of the feather over his lips, and stared at the ceiling.

"The Runner Kelevandros," announced the guard, "to see His

Majesty."

"Let him enter" said Gilthas languidly.

Kelevandros came into the room in a bound. He was hooded

and cloaked, the hood covering his face. Planchet shut the door

behind him. Kelevandros threw back his hood. His face was

deathly pale.

Gilthas rose involuntarily to his feet.

"What-"

"Your Majesty must not excite himselL" Planchet remon-

strated with a glance at the doo4 reminding the king that the

guards could hear him.

"What has happened, Kelevandros?" Gilthas asked indo-

lently. "You look as if you had seen a ghost."

"Your Majesty!" Kelevandros said in a low, quivering voice.

"The queen mother has been arrested!"

"Arrested?" Gilthas repeated in astonishment. "Who has

done this? Who would dare? And why? What is the charge?"

"Marshal Medan. Your Majesty." Kelevandros gulped. "I

don't know how to say this-"

"Out with it, man!" Gilthas said sharply.

"Last night, Marshal Medan placed your honored mother

under arrest. He has orders from the dragon Beryl to put. . . to

put the queen mother to death."

Gilthas stared wordlessly. The blood drained from his face, as

if someone had taken a knife and drawn it across his throat. He

was so pale and shaken that Planchet left the door and hastened

to the king's side, placed a firm and comforting hand on Gilthas's

shoulder.

"I attempted to stop him, Your Majesty," Kelevandros said

miserably. "I failed."

"Last night!" Gilthas cried, anguished. "Why didn't you come

to me at once?"

"I tried, Your Majesty," Kelevandros said, "but the guards

would not let me inside without orders from Palthainon."

"Where has Medan taken the queen mother?" Planchet asked.

"What is the charge against her?"

"The charge is harboring the sorcerer Palin and helping him

escape with the magical device brought by the kender. I don't

know where Medan has taken my mistress. I went first to the

Knight's headquarters, but if she is being held there, no one

would tell me. I have had people searching for her all night. They

are to report back to Kalindas, who has offered to remain in the

house in case there is news. Finally, one of the guards who is a

friend of our cause admitted me.

"I came next to you. You have heard nothing then?" Kelevan-

dros looked anxiously at the king.

"No," said Gilthas. The word made no sound as it left his

pallid lips.

"We are about to learn something more, I believe," said

Planchet, his ear cocked. "That is Medan's heavy tread on the

staircase. His footsteps shake the house. He comes quickly."

They could hear the stamp of the guards' feet as they came to

attention, hear the thud of their spears strike the floor. One of the

guards started to knock, but the knock was never finished.

Medan, accompanied by one of his bodyguards--helmed and

wearing black leather armor-thrust the door open, strode into

the room.

"Your Majesty-"

Gilthas lunged from his chair. He covered the distance

between himself and the marshal in two great bounds. Catching

hold of the startled Medan by the throat, Gilthas slammed the

human back against the wall, while Planchet accosted the body-

guard. Seizing hold of the man's arm, Planchet twisted it behind

his back, held a knife to his ear.

"What have you done with my mother?" Gilthas demanded,

his voice hard and grim. "Tell me!" He tightened his grip on

Medan's throat. "Tell me!"

The marshal had been caught flat-footed by the king's sudden

assault. Medan did not move. The young king's fingers were ex-

ceptionally strong, and he appeared to know precisely what he

was doing.

The marshal was by no means afraid. He had his hand on the

handle of his dirk and could at any moment draw the weapon

and plunge it into the king's belly. That was not, however, what

Medan had come here to accomplish.

He stared at Gilthas long moments without speaking, then

said, as best he could for being choked, "Either the pup has

grown into a wolf, or I am in the presence of a consummate

actor." Noting the fearless determination in the young elf's eyes,

the resolution in the jaw, the firmness of the fingers and the ex-

pertness of the hold, Medan had his answer.

"I tend to think the latter," he gasped.

"My mother, sir!" Gilthas said through clenched teeth.

"Where is she?"

"I am here, Gilthas," Laurana replied, her voice echoing

inside the helm of the Neraka Knights.

"Queen Mother!" Planchet gasped. He dropped the knife he

had been holding and fell to his knees. "Forgive me! I had no

idea."

"You weren't supposed to, Planchet," Laurana said, removing

the helm. IILet the marshal go, Gilthas. I am safe. For the moment.

As safe as any of us."

Gilthas let loose of Medan, who stepped away from the waij,

massaging his bruised throat.

"Mother, are you hurt?" Gilthas demanded. IIDid he harm

you? If he did, I swear-"

"No, my son, no!" Laurana reassured him. "The marshal has

treated me with all possible respect. With great kindness, even.

He took me to his house last night. This morning, he provided me

with this disguise. The marshal fears my life may be in peril. He

took me into custody for my own safety."

Gilthas frowned as if he found all this difficult to believe.

"Mother, sit down. You look exhausted. Planchet, bring my

mother some wine."

While Planchet went to fetch the wine, the marshal walked

over to the door. Flinging it open, he stepped out into the hallway.

The guards scrambled to attention.

"Guards, the rebel force has been reported within the city

limits. His Majesty's life is in danger. Clear the household. Send

all the servants home. Everyone. No one is to remain within the

palace. Is that understood? I want guards posted at all the en-

trances. Admit no one, with the exception of my aide. Send him

to king's chambers directly upon his arrival. Go!"

The guards departed, and soon their voices could be heard

loudly ordering everyone to leave the palace. The voices of the

servants rose in perplexity or consternation. It was early morn-

ing, breakfast was prepared but had not been served, the floors

had yet to be swept. The guards were firm. There was a hubbub

of voices, the household staff exclaiming loudly and fearfully,

the scream of an overexcited maid. The guards herded every-

one out the doors and took up their positions outside as

ordered.

Within a few moments, the palace was strangely, unnaturally

quiet.

Medan reentered the room. "Where do you think you are

going?" he demanded, finding Kelevandros about to depart.

"I must take this news to my brother, my lord," Kelevandros

said. "He is frantic with worry-"

"You are not taking this news to him or to anyone. Go sit

down and keep quiet."

Laurana glanced up swiftly at this, looked searchingly at Kel-

evandros. The elf glanced at her uncertainly and then did as he

was told.

Medan left the door open behind him. "1 want to be able to

hear what is going on outside. Are you all right, madam?"

"Yes, thank you, Marshal. Will you join me in a glass of

wine?"

"With His Majesty's permission." The marshal made a slight

bow.

"Planchet," Gilthas said, "pour the marshal some wine." The

king continued to stand protectively beside his mother, continued

to glower at the marshal.

Medan raised his glass in a toast. "I congratulate you, Your

Majesty. I have been duped for the first and only time in my life.

That weak, vacillating, poetry-loving act of yours took me in

completely. I have long wondered how and why so many of my

best plans were thwarted. I believe that I now have the answer.

Your health, Your Majesty."

Medan drank the wine. Gilthas turned his back on the man.

"Mother, what is going on?"

"Sit down, Gilthas, and I will tell you," Laurana said. "Or

better yet, you may read for yourself."

She looked to Medan. He reached inside his armor, produced

the scroll sent by the dragon, and handed it, with a new and

marked show of respect, to the king.

Gilthas walked to the window, unrolled the parchment. He

held it to the waning twilight and read it slowly and carefully.

"The dragon cannot mean this," he said, his voice strained.

"She means it," said Medan grimly. "Erase all doubt from

your mind, Your Majesty. Beryl has long been seeking an excuse

to destroy Qualinesti. The rebel attacks grow bolder. She suspects

the elves of keeping the Tower of Wayreth from her. The unfortu-

nate fact that Palin Majere was discovered hiding in the house of

the queen mother merely confirms the dragon's suspicions that

the elves and the sorcerers are in collusion to rob her of her

magic."

"We pay her tribute--" Gilthas began.

"Bah! What is money to her? She demands tribute only be-

cause it pleases her to think she is inflicting a hardship on you.

Magic is what she lusts after, magic of the old world, magic of the

gods. It is a pity this blasted device ever came into his land. A pity

you sought to keep it from me, madam." The marshal's voice was

stem. "Had you turned it over to me, this tragedy might have

been averted."

Laurana sipped her wine, made no answer.

Medan shrugged. "But, you did. Spilled ale, as they said. Now

you must fetch the device back. You must, madam," he reiterated.

"I have done what I can to stall for time, but I have bought us