The Dark Queen (5 page)

“This was south of here, in old country indeed. The ground they stood on once formed the
north- ernmost borders of Silvanesti, back in the Age of Light. 'Twas woodland until the
Second Dragon War, when Lady Chaos laid waste to the Elflands. Now it is rubble and salt,
salt and rubble.” Tamex said nothing. The two of them sat in silence, there in the bed of
the dried-up river.

“Elf country,” Larken continued, her thoughts haunted by the prospect of such devastation.
“Druid's country. And then .. .” Tamex stirred restlessly. “I know. I know. The Dragon
Wars. But what of Fordus?” “Fordus? Oh, yes. That was the night he found the kanaji.”

“Kanaji?” “A druidic oracle pit. I first saw them near Silvan-ost, on the banks of the
Thon-Thalas. Wide declivities, covered with netting and leaves. The druids descend into
them to meditate, to ... find enlightenment.” “How? How do they work, these ...” “Kanaji?
Druidic magic,” the bard answered elu-sively. Something in her shrank from the ardent
questioning. “Fordus found the pit that evening. He stood upon it, as though it had
summoned him there. ”Dig they did, hoping beyond their wildest hopes for water. Then the
three of them knelt together, pulling the heavy stone away. “They found a hollow chamber,
round, of limestone block, just large enough for two good-sized people to sit in. The
floor was nothing but fine white sand, which looked as if it had gone undisturbed by wind
and water for a thousand years. ”Fordus hopped into the circular chamber, Storm-light
close behind. They examined the gray, gritty walls, the shadowed circumference, while the
youngest, little Northstar, stood above them in an impatient watch. “Fordus and Stormlight
sat in the fine sand. They jokedthe nervous, blustering jests of young men in holy places.
But the ancientness and reverence of the place soon stilled their laughter, and they sat
in silence as, over the dry expanse of the desert, the chanting of the elders drifted to
the rise and down into the kanaji pit. ”The lads went still. In the reverence they had
been taught since infancy, Stormlight and Northstar looked up toward the heavens, toward
the mobius of Mishakal and the harp of Branchala. “Fordus, on the other hand, looked
toward the floor of the kanaji. Then, suddenly, as the sand began to ripple and eddy
beneath him, he glanced up at Stormlight, motioned his friend's gaze to the changing sand,
to the strange glyphs forming in the pristine whiteness. ” 'Druidic' my cousin Northstar
told them. 'The picture language of a thousand years past.' “With a whoop, Fordus raced
across the level expanse toward the fires of the men, leaving his companions agape at the
emerging symbols. ”Curious, not a little irritated at being disturbed at their ritual, the
elders were led to the kanaji. Staring down into the pit, all of them noticed the change
in Fordusthe sea-blue eyes suddenly bright and focused, as though his earlier addling had
been lifted, the pupils dilated until a core of fathomless dark seemed to rise out of that
blue sea. “His lips moved slowly. With great effort, as though he were translating the
hidden language of the gods, he breathed a single syllable, then another.” “Crouched by
the lip of the kanaji, Racer made the warding sign, protection against the Lady, ”and the
destruction that follows her.“ ”A foolish sign,“ Tamex observed. ”A foolish superstition.“
”Whatever its wisdom, he did not complete it. With a firm grip Kestrel grasped the old
conniver's wrist. 'There will be no warding of my son,' he decreed. 'Let him speak, Racer.
Unless you can read glyph and symbol.' “Silenced, Racer glared at Fordus, who knelt now
above the signs fully formed. ” 'Axe,' Fordus muttered. 'Tower and Lightning. The rain is
hewn of light and memory.' "The elders glanced at each other uncertainly. Surely some of
them thought of Sirrion's touch, of the flame of poetry or madness.

“Then Stormlight, his white eyes staring into the whirling depths of Fordus's blue,
translated for them all. ” 'Halfway between the Red Plateau and the Tears of Mishakal,' he
pronounced. 'Seven feet below the surface. Water enough for a month of travel.' “They had
to confirm Fordus's prophecy. Later that night they would dig to the water and their
thirst would end. But now, in a starlit cluster, Kestrel set his hands on the head of his
adopted son and began the chieftain's chant that would name the lad Water Prophet. ” 'It
cannot be!' Racer shouted, bargaining for time, for delay, for anything that would keep
the title out of the grasp of the upstart. 'The gods honor only the Prophet who stands
beneath the North Star. It has not yet risen! You know this, Kestrel, and yet you wrest
the robes from me and confer them on your firestruck son. It is not according to
tradition, not fitting, not permitted, not... not...' “Silently, triumphantly, Kestrel
pointed at the lad who stood over his son. 'Who stands above Fordus, Racer?' he asked.
'What is the name of that lad?' ”Northstar, in his place by design or accident, knelt by
the lip of the kanaji and, reaching down into the pit, gently and reverently touched the
top of Fordus's head.“ Larken smiled and stretched, rising from the bed of the old river
and dusting the sand from her tunic. ”That is the story, Tamex. That is the way it is told
at the Telling.“ ”But never so splendidly,“ Tamex soothed. ”Never by the fabled bard, the
Breath of the Gods herself." Suddenly, as though she were awakening from a trance, an
enchantment, Larken looked at her soli- tary audience in a new, harsh light. He seemed
much shorter than when he had first appeared, scarcely an hour ago.

Every morning, despite several floors of stone under his room, Vaananen awoke to the sound
of rending rock beneath the city. Sometimes it infiltrated his dawn dreams and he thought
he, too, labored in the dank, musty tunnels to blast and hammer and drag forth the glain
opals for the Kingpriest. This morning, the dreams had become especially vivid, and the
constant pounding of the city's secret heart lingered in his ears even now as he strode
rapidly down a higher passage to keep a regular appointment with his sparring partner.

Down the spiral staircase he ran, his high-necked practice shirt already damp from the
rising heat of the day, his arms covered past the wrists in padded sleeves to turn the
blows of long sword and dagger. When he reached the ground floor, he drew forth a bronze
key, wrought in the shape of a sidewinding serpent, inserted it into the elaborate lock on
the heavy oaken door, and took the last easy breath he would get for the next two hours.

“You are almost late,” said the Kingpriest, tossing a rough-hewn pole at the druid.
Vaananen deftly caught both the weapon and the malice. He bowed in silent reply, his eyes
never leaving the sea-blue stare of his opponent. This is the last time, he thought,
stepping inside the walled garden. For eight years, Vaananen had fought the King-priest in
these small battles, never winning, never telling, and always leaving the sovereign with
the suspicion that Vaananen used magic rather than martial skill to survive. It was all
for Vincus, these weekly combats and humiliations. The lad could not help that his father
had been an unfaithful weapons-master to an unfaithful ruler, that instead of teaching the
King- priest the form of the broadsword prohibited to clerical orders, old Hannakus had
tried to skip town, taking with him a hundred of the Kingpriest's treasured glain opals.

The Istarian Guard had caught Vincus's father before he reached the walls. They had
arrested old Hannakus, tried him, and executed him. But they had never found the opals.
The Kingpriest had maintained that the son, at the time a mere boy of twelve, should work
off the father's debt in the opal mines beneath the city.

It was a death sentence. Vaananen intervened, promising his services in Hannakus's old
role. And promising his silence as the Kingpriest, in a sacrilege older than the faith,
took up the edged blade that was forbidden to all who served the gods in holy orders. Now,
that service, that silence, was almost over.

The Kingpriest turned his head at last and paced to the farthest point in the practice
circle, examined the blade of his sword, and placed a booted foot against one of the
smooth white shells that marked fair ground for the fight. Vaananen dropped to a crouch
and balanced in his right hand the light pole, which was actually a living tree, its roots
bundled tightly and its branches pruned away. The Kingpriest never played by the rules;
there would be no salutation. Vaananen drew a long breath, loosened his legs, and waited.
The Kingpriest pretended to adjust his grip for a moment, then charged the druid on the
right. Vaananen stood his ground until his attacker's blade whistled through the air in a
long, deadly down-stroke, then pivoted exactly six inches aside to catch the Kingpriest
lightly in the back of the head with the pole and knock him to his knees.

Before the Kingpriest could regain sight, breath, and footing, Vaananen threw himself to
the ground and lay still. Long ago, he had learned that never a blow was dealt to this
sovereign that was not repaid tenfold outside the arena; it was best to ungracefully
sprawl in the appearance of one cut down by the mighty swipe of the monarch's blade.

The Kingpriest rose, furious and wild, only to find his fighting partner in seemingly
worse condition after the clash. He laughed smugly and kicked the druid until he “regained
consciousness.” And so it went for an hour and more, Vaananen spinning, dodging, rolling,
and feinting, always adjusting cooly to the attack, and only occasionally dealing the
Kingpriest a gentle tap with the length of the bound tree. Vaananen kept it interesting,
but never, to the Kingpriest's utter frustration, did he seem to become angry or lose
control.

“You willow-heart!” the Kingpriest taunted. “It is our last roundhave you no more spirit
left than this? Did you leave your manhood in a grove of rotten oak?” It is not my fight,
Vaananen would say to himself. This is for Vincus's freedom, so that he will never inhabit
the darkness of the mines. Then Vaananen would smile and think of another way to turn the
Kingpriest's forbidden blade, never allowing it to touch him.

At last, just before the round was meant to be over, the Kingpriest, seething with anger,
stopped the exchange. “Come over here,” he panted. “Stand exactly here.” He pointed to the
outside of the ring of shells. The sea-blue eyes shone with rage and cunning.

Vaananen knew if he left the sparring ground before the round was over that it would be a
foul, and would give the Kingpriest an opportunity to deliver an undefended blow. The
blade glistened in the noonday sun, its edge razor-sharp and lethal. The Kingpriest did
not care for blunted weapons. Vaananen moved to the center of the ring and stood his
ground. It was a show of trucethe most vulnerable place in the arena.

“Do you decline my order, noble Vaananen?” the Kingpriest said smoothly. “I think there is
a penalty for that. ... I think you will do five more years of this game, this time with
no padded shirt, eh?” For the first time, Vaananen spoke. “I have paid the debt of
Vincus's blood. He will go free. And you cannot coerce me. You violate your Order by using
this broadsword. The game is over.” The Kingpriest smiled, his sea-blue eyes flickering
coldly. “You will stay in my service,” he said. “You are bound to me by oath. Many others
who are unworthy serve mefrom the thief's son to peasants ...” He eyed Vaananen cagily.
“Perhaps even druids. Cast out from their own Order for the gods know . . . what crimes?”

Vaananen's face betrayed no emotion. “Now, willow-heart, we will arrange to pay your
debt,” the Kingpriest said with a low chuckle. Slowly, he stirred the border of shells
with his booted foot, walking around the ring, narrowing the circle around the silent
druid. Lazily the goddess walked through the Tears of Mishakal, the crystal structures
rising in bizarre angles, catching the red moonlight until they seemed like blades
dripping with blood. The crystals that housed her changed as well. No longer was she
Tamex, the menacing, mysterious warrior that would trouble Larken's dreams for yet a dozen
nights. She was Tanila nowa lithe and lovely woman, a creature of darkness to be feared
and desired by man and elf alike. Casting her black eyes toward the heavens, the goddess
breathed a summoning word . And in the far sky, somewhere over Istar on the northern
horizon, a star winked out and the long line of dune and mountain darkened ever so
slightly. Good. Her powers were growing. She could again subvert the deep heavens with an
old spell or a quiet incantation. Somewhere in the far void of space, as dark and lifeless
as her prison in the abyss, a black star cooled and died, collapsing on itself, and ten
planetsten worldsfelt the first glazing of a final ice. Who knew what civilizations now
lay chilled and silent, abandoned by warmth and light and life? Indeed, who cared? What
was important was that she could do itcould leave the world desolate with a breath, a
thought. Oh, her powers were mighty, and though Krynn was held against her, safe for now
in the shelter of a bright wing, she would govern it soon. She knew it. It was a matter of
monthsof a few years at the mostand this was the place to begin. Takhisis knew how the
salt flats had received their name. Profane ground, where healing failed and revelation
faded. No wonder Mishakal wept. But the goddess who now passed through the latticework of
crystal thought little of healing, less of revelation. On her mind were the rebel leaders,
the close-knit triad of bard, elf, and ... She had no word for Fordus. Not yet. She knew
him only through repute and legend, through his victories and through the song of his
bard. The bard was easy. Larken did not know her own powerthe hidden magic of the lyre she
resented and discarded, the awesome potential of her voice if she could free it of her own
fear and anger. Takhisis smiled. Fear and anger were her favorite lieutenants. Fear and
anger followed the elf as well. Neither of them knew themselves, much less their
commander. The sand stirred, marking the wake of the goddess, a sinuous, twisting path
like the trail left by a snake. The next time she would come to them as Tanila, and the
elf would be probed and sounded. He was Lucanesti, friend to the opals. And oh, the opals
would be important soon. But first, there was small business to attend to at the edge of
the grasslands. The grasslands rose out of sleep to embrace him, the long grain swaying in
the windless fields. Fordus knew he was dreaming because what he saw did not match what he
felt. He did not like unexpected dreams. But so be it. Would the battle come, or the
light? One or the other always appeared in his dreams, and he learned from them both, from
what the battle showed him or the light told him to say. A purple rise, dotted with fir
trees and blasted vallenwoods, rushed to meet him. Above them, a dozen birds wheeled
slowly. Hawks? Was Larken's hawk Lucas among them? He called to the birds in his mind;
they approached, descended. Not hawks. Scavengers. Then it is a battle dream, he thought.
I shall feel my dreaming in the morning run, in new soreness and stretching. But I shall
win this battle as I win them all. Larken will finally sing of how I

defeated Istar in desert, in grasslands ... Even in dreams. He had no time to savor the
prospects. Suddenly the rise fell away, as though the earth itself had collapsed beneath
him. Fordus leapt over a spinning, white-hot void and landed stiffly and unsteadily at the
crumbling edge of a bluff. A solitary Istarian warrior instantly appeared before hima
golden man, hooded and helmed, his shield adorned with seven alabaster spires, his broad
shoulders draped with a black tunic. Well, then, Fordus thought. He reached for the axe at
his belt. It was not there. For a moment, fear surged through him, dreamlike and obscure,
then he brushed it aside with a laugh. After all, it is a dream. What is the worst that
can happen? Across the arid, level ground, in the wail of a hot wind, the warrior beckoned
slowly, trumpeting a challenge in an inhuman tongue. His seven-spired shield glittered
ever more brightly until the dream was swallowed by its light. Then shadow returned, and
the man stood closer, alone and unarmed, as though he had cast aside his weaponry out of
contempt. Now he assumed a wrestler's stance: a low, feline crouch, fingers spread like
claws. With long strides, moving so slowly it seemed that he waded through waist-high
sand, Fordus closed with the warrior. They collided to the sound of distant thunder. The
arms of the enemy were cold and metallic, hard and heavy as bronze. The Istarian warrior
spun about with a roar, hurling Fordus over his head. Whooping in delight, Fordus released
his grip at the height of the violent arc, and somersaulting through the air, landed
lightly on the sun-scorched ledge some distance away. Behind him, rocks and dust toppled
into a bottomless crevasse. It is my dream. I can master it. The warrior now bristled with
six waving arms like an angry burnished insect, like a living statue of some barbarian
harvest god. The sunlight danced like flame on his helmet. It is my dream ... Fordus
hurtled toward the warrior, who cried out and braced himself for the impact. This
collision was totally silent, as though all sound had fled at the force of the impact. The
golden warrior rocked on his heels but kept his balance, lifting the struggling Fordus off
the ground, four of the arms drawing him closer . .. Fordus heard the hissing, smelled the
fetid breath of his adversary. Fascinated, distracted, he gazed into the warrior's eyes.
Lidless and lifeless. Reptilian, the vertical slits in the heart of the eyes opening like
a parted curtain, to reveal a dark nothingness, a deep and abiding void ... Fordus shook
his head, wrestled the enemy's multiple grasp, his own sudden drowsiness and lack of
resistance, the growing trust that it Would not be so bad, this defeat, that it would all
go for the better if he gave up the struggling ... if he gave in ... and looked into the
curtained eyes that opened to perpetual blackness. Fordus bolted upright, stifling a cry.
His head rang with pain, and his skin felt raw and tender. His arms ached, the muscles
cramping like they'd been gripped in the jaws of some monstrous, relentless creature. But
he was safe atop the Red Plateau. Not twenty yards away, the young sentry still snored at
his post. Fordus leapt to his feet, intent on throttling the lad, but his legs shook with
the dream's exertion, and a cold sweat rushed over him like a desert downpour. Leave the
lad alone. No sentry could protect him from his dreams. Angrily, he looked up into the
spacious desert sky, where the starry horns of Kiri-Jolith menaced the Dark Queen's
constellation. “Where were you in all of this, old bison? Old grandfather?” Fordus asked
sullenly. He stood up slowly. The heavy gold tore at his neck felt tight. With a last look
at the sleeping sentry, Fordus began to run.

Since his early childhood, running had carried him away from deceptions, from confinement
and complexities. When he sprinted over desert or plain, when the wind took him up and
carried him over dune and moon-dappled rise, when in the power of his stride he seemed to
become the wind only then could Fordus think clearly. He could cleanse his mind of the
mystery of glyph and sand, of the prophecies that passed through him. When he ran, his
blood pounding in his ears, he was purely, completely free.

Tonight Fordus outran the wind itself. Suddenly, with a dreamlike swiftness, he found
himself crossing the dunes. The Red Plateau appeared on the far horizon, and from the
rebel camp arose a faint array of lights. He crowed with delight and ran even harder
toward the widest expanse of the desert. The red moonlight bathed the landscape ahead, and
soon he passed altogether from sight of the plateau, to a point in the desert where the
hard red ground stretched in all directions, uninterrupted to the edge of the horizon.