Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (79 page)

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