Temple of the Dragonslayer (26 page)

Nearra tried to keep the disappointment she felt out of her voice. “Somehow I thought it would be—”

“Less of a ruin?” Elidor suggested.

“It’s an
ancient
temple,” Catriona pointed out. “Of course it’s going to look old.”

“Actually,” Sindri added, “it’s something of a miracle that the temple survived the Cataclysm in such good shape.”

“Perhaps it was indeed a miracle,” Jax said in a soft, reverent voice.

Elidor peered through the gate. “It appears no one is home.”

“Well, the healer Wynda did say it was
rumored
that clerics had returned to the temple,” Catriona said. “Maybe those rumors were false.”

“If that’s so, then we’ve come all this way for nothing,” Nearra said. And if that were the case, then perhaps she would never solve the mystery of her lost memories or learn the truth behind whatever game Maddoc was playing.

Jax gripped the gate and tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. “Locked,” he said.

“I’ll go see if I can find someone to let us in,” Sindri said. He
started to slip his small body between the bars. It would be a tight fit, but it looked as if the kender was going to make it. But before he was halfway through, there was a bright flash of light. Sindri was thrown backwards.

Jax, moving with surprising dexterity for a being of his size, caught the kender before he could strike the ground.

“Are you harmed, small one?” the minotaur asked as he gently set Sindri on the ground.

“I don’t think so. What an interesting experience. It felt as if I were shoved back by a giant hand. I wonder what kind of magic it is?”

He darted forward, obviously intending to attempt to step through the bars again, like a child eager to go on a festival ride one more time. But before he could reach the gate, a voice came from the other side.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Your minotaur friend might not be able to catch you next time.”

A tall man in a dark blue robe approached the gate. A white rope tied about his waist served as a belt, and he wore sandals on his feet. Embroidered on the chest of his robe was a pattern of white dots. As Nearra looked more closely, it seemed the dots formed a shape. Then it came to her—the robe’s dark blue color was supposed to represent the night sky, and the dots made from white thread were stars. The image was a constellation … a dragon.

The man’s hair was black, with a touch of gray at the temples. His smile was friendly and his eyes were kind. He gave off an aura of quiet power that made Nearra feel safe and secure, despite the image of the star dragon that adorned his robe.

“I am Feandan, priest of the god Paladine, and this is the Temple of the Holy Orders of the Stars. What brings such an interestingly diverse band of travelers such as yourselves to our gate?”

“Well, I have this rash—” Sindri began, but Catriona shushed him.

“My name is Nearra. A healer in the village of Tresvka suggested I come here. My friends came along to make certain I reached your temple safely.”

The priest smiled. “Then they are indeed true friends. So now I know what brought them here: you did. But why have you come, young lady?”

“I have lost my memory and seek to have it restored,” Nearra said. “I just want to know who I am and where I come from.”

The priest gave her a sympathetic look. “You poor child. Come inside. We shall do all that we can to help you.” He unlocked the gate and opened it. The ancient hinges groaned and creaked in protest.

Remembering what had happened to Sindri, they all hesitated.

Feandan chuckled. “No need for concern. The temple’s protective barrier is deactivated when the gate is unlocked. You may all enter without any trouble now.”

The six companions walked into the courtyard, and Feandan closed and locked the gate behind them. None of them noticed the black falcon perched on a branch of a nearby white birch tree—a falcon which had seen, and more importantly heard, everything that had just taken place.

N
earra blew on her vegetable soup before taking a sip. The companions sat at a polished wooden table, eating a meal of hard bread and goat’s milk along with the soup.

“I’m sorry we do not have a more elaborate meal to offer you,” Feandan said. “But we weren’t expecting guests.”

Feandan and his three associates—the only clerics that currently inhabited the temple—sat at a nearby table. They had already eaten, Feandan had explained, and so they merely sat while their young guests filled their bellies.

“There is no need to apologize, Master Cleric,” Catriona said. “Humble food is often the most filling.”

Jax snorted, and Nearra thought the minotaur would have preferred more substantial fare, but he continued eating without further complaint.

While the temple looked like a ruin on the outside, the inside was well kept and clean. Nearra looked around. The dining hall was smaller than she would have expected, but it possessed a simple elegance that she found pleasing. She glanced down and saw that the floor was covered with aquamarine tile, while the walls had been constructed from smooth marbled stone. The tables and chairs were made from polished oak, and
brass wall sconces, with glowing white candles, illuminated the hall. As near as she could tell, no matter how long the candles burned, they never seemed to grow shorter.

Sindri was eating happily, his poison ivy rash gone. The first thing Feandan had done after letting them in was to lay a hand on the kender’s shoulder, close his eyes, and whisper a prayer to Paladine. A moment later, Sindri’s rash was gone and his skin was once more smooth, pink, and free of itching. Nearra knew that curing a case of poison ivy was far different from restoring lost memories, but seeing Feandan demonstrate true healing magic had filled her with hope that maybe—just maybe—she could be healed, too.

Elidor nodded at the elaborate mosaic that adorned the walls opposite the tables. The mosaic stretched from floor to ceiling—a full fifteen feet—and was made from thousands of miniature colored stones. “It’s very beautiful. What sort of stones are they?”

Elidor’s tone was innocent enough, but Nearra knew what the elf thief was really asking: Were the stones valuable?

One of Feandan’s fellow clerics, a pretty young woman named Nysse, answered. “Though each stone was smoothed and painted by hand, they have little worth individually. It’s only when they work together as one that they acquire true value.”

Elidor gave Nysse a skeptical look, as if he thought she might be lying to conceal the stones’ actual worth, but then he returned to eating his soup.

Together the stones created an image of a black-haired woman garbed in a dark blue robe. In her arm, she held a bow, string pulled back and ready to release. The arrow was made from white wood, with an ivory point and white feathers for fletching. Before the woman stood a fierce red dragon easily ten times her size, wings outspread, eyes gleaming with hate, mouth opened wide to release a blast of flame.

“Is the picture accurate?” Sindri asked, his voice muffled by the mouthful of bread he was still chewing. “Is that really what Elethia looked like when she fought the dragon?”

A third priest, a plump bald man named Pedar, answered. “None of us were there to bear witness, my dear kender.” Pedar appeared to be in late middle age, though there was something about his face and manner that reminded Nearra of a chubby child. “Some of us may be old, be we are a bit younger than that!” The priest chuckled. “But according to all written accounts—including those penned by Elethia’s own hand—the scene is correct in every detail.”

“She looks so fierce,” Nearra said. “She’s not at all what I imagined a priestess would look like.” The longer Nearra looked at the mosaic, the more real it seemed to her. She could almost feel the heat from the dragon’s flame, and the arrow appeared to glow with a bright light. She had the impression that if she reached out and touched the arrow, she would feel not polished stones set into the wall, but rather the smooth wood of the arrow’s shaft, the softness of the feathers in its fletching, the sharp point at its tip. She marveled at the artistry it had taken to create such a beautiful and realistic piece of work.

“Appearances should never be trusted.” The fourth cleric was an old woman named Gunna. “According to the temple histories, Elethia was gentle and soft-spoken—until there was a need to be otherwise.”

“And then watch out!” Pedar said. Gunna gave the jesting cleric a disapproving look, but Feandan and Nysse laughed.

“It’s true, though,” Feandan said. “Elethia could fight most strongly for what she believed in. She needed to have an iron will to attempt what she did.”

“You mean slaying the dragon?” Davyn asked.

“Yes, but more than that,” Feandan said. “Do any of you know about the Holy Orders of the Stars?”

“We’ve heard one story about it.” Nearra smiled at Sindri. “But please tell us more.”

“The Holy Orders of the Stars is the collective term for the priests and priestesses of all the gods,” Gunna said. “Good, Neutral, and Evil.”

Feandan continued. “It was Elethia’s belief that despite their differences, all the gods are necessary for Creation to function. She was a cleric of Zivilyn, who is also called the Tree of Life. Zivilyn is a Neutral god who represents balance and wisdom. Elethia dreamed of creating a single temple where clerics of all gods could come to worship, share their knowledge and faith, and work to fulfill the roles the gods had chosen for them.”

“As you might imagine, it was far easier said than done,” Pedar said. “The priests who worshiped gods of Good and gods of Neutrality came, but those who were devoted to gods of Evil were somewhat less than enthusiastic.” He grinned. “Evil clerics aren’t exactly known for working and playing well with others.”

“And those few evil clerics that did come caused more than their fair share of trouble,” Feandan said.

“Still, it was a lovely dream,” Nysse said as she glanced at the mosaic of Elethia fighting Kiernan the Crimson. “And she accomplished so much of it.”

Feandan continued. “After Elethia grew old and died, the temple continued to function, but without her leadership to hold them together, the other clerics eventually began to drift away one by one. And then the Cataclysm came. The blessings the priests had placed on the temple and the wall surrounding it prevented their complete destruction, though they were left somewhat the worse for wear. After that, the gods appeared to abandon Krynn. But during the War of the Lance, it was revealed that it was we mortals who had abandoned the gods, not the other way around. And once this was known, people returned to their faith and healing magic returned to the land.”

“All of us are scholars in our various orders,” Gunna said. “I belong to the order of the god Majere and Feandan to the order of Paladine. Pedar is a worshiper of Gilean, and Nysse is devoted to Mishakal, the goddess known as the Healing Hand. During our studies, we had read about Elethia and the temple she founded, and we all—separately and at the same time—had the idea of
seeking out and restoring her temple to its former glory so that Elethia’s dream might live once more.”

“It is our belief that the gods themselves guided us here,” Feandan said, “for it is their wish that the physical temple not only be restored, but that it once again become a center of knowledge and healing in Ansalon.”

“The mystic shield that protects the temple did not keep us out when we first arrived,” Gunna said. “We took this as further proof that the gods wish us to be here.”

“And now,” Pedar said, his eyes twinkling, “you fine young folks are our first customers, so to speak.”

The companions had remained silent while the clerics told their tale, listening with rapt attention. But none of them seemed as caught up in the story as Jax.

“I wonder,” the minotaur said. “If healing magic has returned to Krynn, can minotaur clerics now perform miracles in the name of our gods?”

“Quite possibly,” Feandan said, and Jax nodded, looking thoughtful.

Feandan stood. “I believe we’ve kept our ‘customers’ waiting long enough. If it’s agreeable, Nysse and I shall take Nearra to the Chamber of the Sky to determine what is wrong with her and what can be done about it.”

“I have sworn to protect Nearra,” Catriona said. “I would like to accompany her to this chamber if permitted.”

“I understand, my child,” Nysse said, “but the fewer people who are present when Feandan and I attempt the healing, the better. You have my word that we shall safeguard your friend at the cost of our lives if need be.”

Catriona didn’t look happy about it, but she agreed.

“Then it’s settled,” Nysse said. She and Feandan stood and the two clerics walked over to the table where Nearra sat with her friends. Nysse held out her hand and gave Nearra a reassuring smile.

“Come with us, my child,” she said.

Nearra wanted to reach out and take the cleric’s hand, but she hesitated. This was the moment she had worked for, ever since waking on the forest trail. If all went well, she would soon have her memories restored. But as bad as it was not to remember her past, what if knowing it was even worse?