MARGARET WEIS & TRACY HICKMAN
                DRAGONS OF THE FALLEN SUN
              THE WAR OF THE SOULS VOLUME ONE
                      DRAGONLANCE
                        MAR 2000

                     MiNa's SONG

            The day has passed beyond our power.
            The petals close upon the flower.
            The light is failing in this hour
            Of day's last waning breath.
            The blackness of the night surrounds
            The distant souls of stars now found,
            Far from this world to which we're bound,
            Of sorrow, fear and death.
            Sleep, love; forever sleep.
            Your soul the night will keep.
            Embrace the darkness deep.
            Sleep, love; forever sleep.
            The gathering darkness takes our souls,
            Embracing us in chilling folds,
		Deep in a Mistress's void that holds
		Our fate within her hands.
		Dream, warriors, of the dark above
		And feel the sweet redemption of
		The Night's Consort, and of her love
		For those within her bands.
		Sleep, love; forever sleep.
		Your soul the night will keep.
		Embrace the darkness deep.
		Sleep, love; forever sleep.
		We close our eyes, our minds at rest,
		Submit our wills to her behest,
		Our weaknesses to her confessed,
		And to her will we bend.
       	The strength of silence fills the sky,
		Its depth beyond both you and I.
		Into its arms our souls will fly,
		Where fear and sorrows end.
		Sleep, love; forever sleep.
		Your soul the night will keep.
		Embrace the darkness deep.
		Sleep, love; forever sleep.

                        BOOK  ONE

                       CHAPTER ONE
                    THE SONG OF DEATH

  The dwarves named the valley Gamashinoch-the Song of
Death. None of the living walked here of their own free
will. Those who entered did so out of desperation, dire
need, or because they had been ordered to do so by their com-
manding officer.
  They had been listening to the" song" for several hours as
their advance brought them nearer and nearer the desolate valley.
The song was eerie, terrible. Its words, which were never clearly
heard, never quite distinguishable-at least not with the ears-
spoke of death and worse than death. The song spoke of entrap-
ment, bitter frustration, unending torment. The song was a
lament, a song of longing for a place the soul remembered, a
haven of peace and bliss now unattainable.
  On first hearing the mournful song, the Knights had reined in
their steeds, hands reaching for their swords as they stared about
them in unease, crying "what is that?" and "who goes there?"
  But no one went there. No one of the living. The Knights
looked at their commander, who stood up in his stirrups, inspect-
ing the cliffs that soared above them on their right and the left.
"It is nothing," he said at last. "The wind among the rocks.
Proceed."
  He urged his horse forward along the road, which ran, turn-
ing and twisting, through the mountains known as the Lords of
Doom. The men under his command followed single file, the pass
was too narrow for the mounted patrol to ride abreast.
  "I have heard the wind before, my lord," said one Knight
gruffly, "and it has yet to have a human voice. It warns us to stay
away. We would do well to heed it."
  "Nonsense!" Talon Leader Ernst Magit swung around in his
saddle to glare at his scout and second-in-command, who walked
behind him. "Superstitious claptrap! But then you minotaurs are
noted for clinging to old, outmoded ways and ideas. It is time you
entered the modem era. The gods are gone, and good riddance, I
say. We humans rule the world."
  A single voice, a woman's voice, had first sung the Song of
Death. Now her voice was joined by a fearful chorus of men,
women, and children raised in a dreadful chant of hopeless loss
and misery that echoed among the mountains.
  At the doleful sound, several of the horses balked, refused to
go farther, and, truth told, their masters did little to urge them.
Magit's horse shied and danced. He dug his spurs into the
horse's flanks, leaving great bloody gouges, and the horse sulked
forward, head lowered, ears twitching. Talon Leader Magit rode
about half a mile when it occurred to him that he did not hear
other hoof beats. Glancing around, he saw that he was proceed-
ing alone. None of his men had followed.
  Furious, Magit turned and galloped back to his command. He
found half of his patrol dismounted, the other half looking very
ill at ease; sitting astride horses that stood shivering on the road.
  "The dumb beasts have more brains than their masters," said
the minotaur from his place on the ground. Few horses will allow
a minotaur to sit upon their backs and fewer still have the
strength and girth to carry one of the huge minotaurs. Galdar was
seven feet tall, counting his horns. He kept up with the patrol,
running easily alongside the stirrup of his commander.
  Magit sat upon his horse, his hands on the pommel, facing his
men. He was a tall, excessively thin man, the type whose bones
seem to be strung together with steel wire, for he was far stronger
than he looked. His eyes were flat and watery blue, without
intelligence, without depth. He was noted for his cruelty, his
inflexible-many would say mindless-discipline, and his com-
plete and total devotion to a single cause: Ernst Magit.
  "You will mount your horses and you will ride after me," said
Talon Leader Magit coldly, "or I will report each and every one of
you to the groupcommander. I will accuse you of cowardice and
betrayal of the Vision and mutiny. As you know, the penalty for
even one of those counts is death."
  "Can he do that?" whispered a newly made Knight on his first
assignment.
  "He can," returned the veterans grimly, "and he will."
  The Knights remounted and urged their steeds forward, using
their spurs. They were forced to circle around the minotaur,
Galdar, who remained standing in the center of the road.
  "Do you refuse to obey my command, minotaur?" demanded
Magit angrily. "Think well before you do so. You may be the pro-
tege of the Protector of the Skull, but I doubt if even he could
save you if I denounce you to the Council as a coward and an
oath-breaker."
  Leaning over his horse's neck, Magit spoke in mock confi-
dentiality. "And from what I hear, Galdar, your master might
not be too keen on protecting you anymore. A one-armed mino-
taur. A minotaur whose own kind view him with pity and with
scorn. A minotaur who has been reduced to the position of 
scout.' And we all know that they assigned you to that post 
only because they had to do something with you. Although I 
did hear it suggested that they turn you out to pasture with the
rest of the cows." 
  Galdar clenched his fist, his remaining fist, driving the sharp
nails into his flesh. He knew very well that Magit was baiting
him, goading him into a fight. Here, where there would be few
witnesses. Here where Magit could kill the crippled minotaur
and return home to claim that the fight had been a fair and glori-
ous one. Galdar was not particularly attached to life, not since the
loss of his sword arm had transformed him from fearsome war-
rior to plodding scout. But he'd be damned if he was going to die
at the hands of Ernst Magit. Galdar wouldn't give his commander
the satisfaction.
  The minotaur shouldered his way past Ernst Magit, who
watched him with a sneer of contempt upon his thin lips.
The patrol continued toward their destination, hoping to 
reach it while there was yet sunlight-if one could term the chill
gray light that warmed nothing it touched sunlight. The Song of
Death wailed and mourned. One of the new recruits rode with
tears streaming down his cheeks. The veterans rode hunkered
down, shoulders hunched up around their ears, as if they would 
block out the sound. But even if they had stuffed their ears with 
tow, even if they had blown out their eardrums, they would have
still heard the terrible song.
  The Song of Death sang in the heart. 
  The patrol rode into the valley that was called Neraka.
  In a time past memory, the goddess Takhisis, Queen of Dark-
ness, laid in the southern end of the valley a foundation stone, 
rescued from the blasted temple of the Kingpriest of Istar. The 
foundation stone began to grow, drawing upon the evil in the
world to give it lif~: The st~ne grew into a temple, vast and awful; 
a temple of magnificent, hideous darkness. 
  Takhisis planned to use this temple to return to the world 
from which she'd been driven by Huma Dragonbane, but her
way was blocked by love and self-sacrifice. Nevertheless she had
great power, and she launched a war upon the world that came
near to destroying it. Her evil commanders, like a pack of wild 
dogs,.fell.to figh~g among themselves. A band of heroes rose up
Looking mto theIr hearts, they found the power to thwart her, 
defeat her, and cast her down. Her temple at Neraka was de-
stroyed, blasted apart in her rage at her downfall. 
  The temple's walls exploded and rained down from the skies 
on that terrible day, huge black boulders that crushed the city of
Neraka. Cleansing fires destroyed the buildings of the cursed city, 
burned down its markets and its slave pens, its numerous guard 
houses, filling its twisted, mazelike streets with ash. 
  Over fifty years later, no trace of the original city remained. 
The splinters of the temple's bones littered the floor of the south- 
em portion of the valley of Neraka. The ash had long since blown
away. Nothing would grow in this part of the valley. All sign of 
life had long been covered up by the swirling sands.
  Only the black boulders, remnants of the temple, remained in 
the valley. They were an awful sight, and even Talon Leader
Magit, gazing upon them for the first time, wondered privately if
his decision to ride into this part of the valley had been a smart
one. He could have taken the long route around, but that would
have added two days to his travel, and he was late as it was,
having spent a few extra nights with a new whore who had ar-
rived at his favorite bawdyhouse. He needed to make up time,
and he'd chosen as his shortcut this route through the southern
end of the valley.
  Perhaps due to the force of the explosion, the black rock that
had formed the outer walls of the temple had taken on a crys-
talline structure. Jutting up from the sand, the boulders were not
craggy, not lumpy. They were smooth-sided, with sharply de-
fined planes culminating in faceted points. Imagine black quartz
crystals jutting up from gray sand, some four times the height of
a man. Such a man could see his reflection in those glossy black
planes, a reflection that was distorted, twisted, yet completely
recognizable as being a reflection of himself.
  These men had willingly joined up with the army of the
Knights of Takhisis, tempted by the promises of loot and slaves
won in battle, by their own delight in killing and bullying, by
their hatred of elves or kender or dwarves or anyone different
from themselves. These men, long since hardened against every
good feeling, looked into the shining black plane of the crystals
and were appalled by the faces that looked back. For on those
faces they could see their mouths opening to sing the terrible
song.
  Most looked and shuddered and quickly averted their gaze.
Galdar took care not to look. At first sight of the black crystals
rising from the ground, he had lowered his eyes, and he kept
them lowered out of reverence and respect. Call it superstition, as
Ernst Magit most certainly would. The gods themselves were not
m this valley. Galdar knew that to be impossible; the gods had
been driven from Krynn more than thirty years ago. But the
ghosts of the gods lingered here, of that Galdar was certain.
  Ernst Magit looked at his reflection in the rocks, and simply
because he shrank from it inwardly, he forced himself to stare at
It until he had stared it down.
  "I will not be cowed by the sight of my own shadow!" he said
WIth a meaningful glance at Galdar. Magit had only recently
thought up this bovine humor. He considered it extremely funny
and highly original, and he lost no opportunity to use it. "Cowed.
Do you get it, minotaur?" Ernst Magit laughed.
The death song swept up the man's laughter and gave it
melody and tone-dark, off key, discordant, opposing the rhythm
of the other voices of the song. The sound was so horrible that
Magit was shaken. He coughed, swallowed his laughter, much to
the relief of his men.
  "You have brought us here, Talon Leader," said Galdar. "We
have seen that this part of the valley is uninhabited, that no force
of Solamnics hides here, prepared to sweep down on us. We may
proceed toward our objective safe in the knowledge that we have
nothing from the land of the living to fear from this direction. Let us
now leave this place, and swiftly. Let us turn back and make our
report."
  The horses had entered the southern valley with such reluc-
tance that in some cases their riders had been forced to dismount
again and cover their eyes and guide them, as if from a burning
building. Both man and beast were clearly eager to be gone. The
horses edged their way back toward the road by which they'd ar-
rived, their riders sidling along with them.
  Ernst Magit wanted to leave this place as much as any of
them. It was for precisely that reason that he decided they would
stay. He was a coward at heart. He knew he was a coward. All his
life, he'd done deeds to prove to himself that he wasn't. Nothing
truly heroic. Magit avoided danger when at all possible, one
reason he was riding patrol duty and not joining with the other
Knights of Neraka to lay siege to the Solamnic-controlled city of
Sanction. He undertook to perform cheap, petty actions and
deeds that involved no risk to himself but that would prove to
himself and to his men he wasn't afraid. A deed such as spending
the night in this cursed valley.
  Magit made a show of squinting up at the sky, which was a
pale and unwholesome yellow, a peculiar shade, such as none of
the Knights had ever before seen.
  "It is now twilight," he announced sententiously. "I do not
want to find myself benighted in the mountains. We will make
camp here and ride out in the morning."
  The Knights stared at their commander incredulously, ap-
palled. The wind had ceased to blow. The song no longer sang in
their hearts. Silence settled over the valley, a silence that was at
first a welcome change but that they were growing to loathe the
longer it lasted. The silence weighed on them, oppressed them,
mothered them. None spoke. They w~it~ for their commander 
to tell them he'd been playing a little jokt! on them. 
  Talon Leader Magit dismounted his horse. "We will set up 
camp here. Pitch my command tept near the tallest of those
monoliths. Galdar, you're in chargd of setting up camp. I trust
you can handle that simple task?"
  His words seemed unnaturally loud, his voice shrill and rau-
cous. A breath of air, cold and sharp, hissed through the valley,
swept the sand into dust devils that swirled across the barren
ground and whispered away.
  "You are making a mistake, sir," said Galdar in a soft under-
tone, to disturb the silence as little as possible. "We are not
wanted here."
  "Who does not want us, Galdar?" Talon Leader Magit
sneered. "These rocks?" He slapped the side of a black crystal
monolith. "Ha! What a thick-skulled, superstitious cow!" Magit's
voice hardened. "You men. Dismount and begin setting up camp.
That is an order."
  Ernst Magit stretched his limbs, making a show of being re-
laxed. He bent double at the waist, did a few limbering exercises.
The Knights, sullen and unhappy, did as he commanded. They
unpacked their saddle rolls, began setting up the small, two-man
tents carried by half the patrol. The others unpacked food and
water.
  The tents were a failure. No amount of hammering could
drive the iron spikes into the hard ground. Every blow of the
hammer reverberated among the mountains, came back to them
amplified a hundred times, until it seemed as if the mountains
were hammering on them.
  Galdar threw down his mallet, which he had been awkwardly
wielding with his remaining hand.
  "What's the matter, minotaur?" Magit demanded. "Are you
so weak you can't drive a tent stake?"
  "Try it yoursel£ sir," said Galdar.
  The other men tossed down their mallets and stood staring at
their commander in sullen defiance.
  Magit was pale with anger. "You men can sleep in the open if
you are too stupid to pitch a simple tent!"
  He did not, however, choose to try to hammer the tent
stakes into the rocky floor. He searched around until he located
four of the black, crystal monoliths that formed a rough, irreg
ular square. 
"Tie my tent to four of these boulders," he ordered. "At least 
I will sleep well this night."
Galdar did as he was commanded. He wrapped the ropes 
around the bases of the monoliths,. all the while muttering a
minotaur mcantation meant to propItiate the spmts of the rest-
less dead.
  The men also endeavored to tie their horses to the monoliths,
but the beasts plunged and bucked in panicked terror. Finally, 
the Knights strung a line between two of the monoliths and tied 
the horses up there. The horses huddled together, restive and 
nervous, rolling their eyes and keeping as far from the black
rocks as possible.
  While the men worked, Ernst Magit drew a map from his sad-
dlebags and, with a final glare around to remind them of their 
duty, spread the map open and began studying it with a studious 
and unconcerned air that fooled no one. He was sweating, and 
he'd done no work.
  Long shadows were stealing over the valley of Neraka,
making the valley far darker than the sky, which was lit with a 
flame-yellow afterglow. The air was hot, hotter than when they'd 
entered, but sometimes eddies of cold wind swirled down from!
the west, chilling the bones to the marrow. The Knights had
brought no wood with them. They ate cold rations, or tried to eat!
them. Every mouthful was polluted with sand, everything they 
ate tasted of ashes. They eventually threw most of their food!
away. Seated upon the hard ground, they constantly looked over 
their shoulders, peering intently into the shadows. Each man
had his sword drawn. No need to set the watch. No man in-
tended to sleep. 
  "Ho! Look at this!" Ernst Magit called out with triumph. "I
have made an important discovery! It is well that we spent some
time here." He pointed at his map and then to the west. "See that
mountain range there. It is not marked upon the map. It must be
newly formed. I shall certainly bring this to the attention of the
Protector. Perhaps the range will be named in my honor."
  Galdar looked at the mountain range. He rose slowly to his
feet, staring hard into the western sky. Certainly at first glance the
formation of iron gray and sullen blue looked very much as if a
new mountain had thrust up from the ground. But as Galdar
watched, he noticed something that the talon leader, in his eager- 
ness, had missed. This mountain was growing, expanding, at an
alarming rate.
  "Sir!" Galdar cried. "That is no mountain! Those are storm
clouds!"
  "You are already a cow, don't be an ass as well," Magit said.
He had picked up a bit of black rock and was using it like chalk
to add Mount Magit to the wonders of the world.
  "Sir, I spent ten years at sea when I was a youth," said Galdar.
"I know a storm when I see one. Yet even I have never seen any-
thing like that!"
  Now the cloud bank reared up with incredible speed, solid
black at its heart, roiling and churning like some many-headed
devouring monster, biting off the tops of the mountains as it over-
took them, crawling over them to consume them whole. The chill
wind strengthened, whipping the sand from the ground into eyes
and mouths, tearing at the command tent, which flapped wildly
and strained against its bonds.
  The wind began to sing again that same terrible song, keen-
ing, wailing in despair, shrieking in anguished torment.
  Buffeted by the wind, the men struggled to their feet. "Com-
mander! We should leave!" Galdar roared. "Now! Before the
storm breaks!"
  "Yes," said Ernst Magit, pale and shaken. He licked his lips,
spit out sand. "Yes, you are right. We should leave immediately.
Never mind the tent! Bring me my horse!"
  A bolt of lightning flashed out from the blackness, speared the
ground near where the horses were tethered. Thunder exploded.
The concussion knocked some of the men flat. The horses
screamed, reared, lashed out with their hooves. The men who
were still standing tried to calm them, but the horses would have
none of it. Tearing free of the rope that held them, the horses gal-
loped away in mad panic.
  "Catch them!" Ernst screamed, but the men had all they could
do to stand upright against the pummeling wind. One or two
took a few staggering steps after the horses, but it was obvious
that the chase was a futile one.
  The storm clouds raced across the sky, battling the sunlight,
defeating it handily. The sun fell, overcome by darkness. 
Night was upon them, a night thick with swirling sand.
Galdar could see nothing at all, not even his own single hand. The
next second all around him was illuminated by another devastat-
ing lightning bolt.
  "Lie down!" he bellowed, flinging himself to the ground. "Lie
flat! Keep away from the monoliths!"
  Rain slashed sideways, coming at them like arrows fired from
a million bowstrings. Hail pounded on them like iron-tipped
flails, cutting and bruising. Galdar's hide was tough, the hail was
like stinging ant bites to him. The other men cried out in pain and
terror. Lightning walked among them, casting its flaming spears.
Thunder shook the ground and boomed and roared.
  Galdar lay sprawled on his stomach, fighting against the im-
pulse to tear at the ground with his hand, to burrow into the
depths of the world. He was astounded to see, in the next light-
ning flash, his commander trying to stand up.
  Sir, keep down!" Galdar roared and made a grab for him.
  Magit snarled a curse and kicked at Galdar's hand. Head
down against the wind, the talon leader lurched over to one of the
monoliths. He crouched behind it, used its great bulk to shield
him from the lancing rain and the hammering hail. Laughing at
the rest of his men, he sat on the ground, placed his back against
the stone and stretched out his legs.
  The lightning flash blinded Galdar. The blast deafened him.
The force of the thunderbolt lifted him up off the ground,
slammed him back down. The bolt had struck so close that he had
heard it sizzle the air, could smell the phosphorous and the sul-
phur. He could also smell something else-burned flesh. He
rubbed his eyes to try to see through the jagged glare. When his
sight was restored, he looked in the direction of the commander.
In the next lightning flash, he saw a misshapen mass huddled at 
the foot of the monolith. 
  Magit's flesh glowed red beneath a black crust,like a hunk of
overcooked meat. Smoke rose from it; the wind whipped it away,
along with flecks of charred flesh. The skin of the man's face had
burned away, revealing a mouthful of hideously grinning teeth.
  Glad to see you're still laughing, Talon Leader,Galdar mut-
tered. You were warned."
  Galdar scrunched down even closer to the ground, cursed his
ribs for being in the way. 
The rain fell harder, if that were possible. He wondered how
long the raging storm could last. It seemed to have lasted a life-
time, seemed to him that he had been born into this storm and
that he would grow old and die in this storm. A hand grabbed
hold of his arm, shook him.
  "Sir! Look there!" One of the Knights had crawled across the
ground, was right next to him: "Sir!" the Knight put his mouth to
Galdar's ear, shouted hoarsely to make himself heard over the
lashing rain and pounding hail, the constant thunder and, worse
than rain or hail or thunder, the song of death. "I saw something
move out there!"
  Galdar lifted his head, peered in the direction the Knight
pointed, peered into the very heart of the valley of Neraka.
  "Wait until the next lightning flash!" the Knight yelled.
"There! There it is!"
  The next lightning flash was not a bolt but a sheet of flame
that lit the sky and the ground and the mountains with a purple
white radiance. Silhouetted against the awful glow, a figure
moved toward them, walking calmly through the raging storm,
seeming untouched by the gale, unmoved by the lightning, un-
afraid of the thunder.
  "Is it one of ours?" Galdar asked, thinking at first that one of
the men might have gone mad and bolted like the horses.
  But he knew the moment he asked the question that this was
not the case. The figure was walking, not running. The figure was
not fleeing, it was approaching.
  The lightning flared out. Darkness fell, and the figure was
lost. Galdar waited impatiently for the next lightning flash to
show him this insane being who braved the fury of the storm. The
next flash lit the ground, the mountains, the sky. The person was
still there, still moving toward them. And it seemed to Galdar that
the .song of death had transformed into a paean of celebration.
  Darkness again. The wind died. The rain softened to a steady
downpour. The hail ceased altogether. Thunder rumbled a drum-
roll, which seemed to mark time with the pace of the strange
figure of darkness drawing steadily nearer with each illuminating
flare. The storm carried the battle to the other side of the moun-
tains, to other parts of the world. Galdar rose to his feet.
  Soaking wet, the Knights wiped wate.r and muck from their
eyes, looked ruefully at sodden blankets. The wind was cold and
crisp and chill, and they were shivering except L;aldar, wnose
thick hide and fur pelt protected him from all but the most severe
cold. He shook the rain water from his horns and waited for the
figure to come within hailing distance.
  Stars, glittering cold and deadly as spear points, appeared in
the west. The ragged edges of the storm's rear echelon seemed to
uncover the stars as they passed. The single moon had risen in de-
fiance of the thunder. The figure was no more than twenty feet
away now, and by the moon's argent light Galdar could see the
person clearly.
  Human, a youth, to judge by the slender, well-knit body and
the smooth skin of the face. Dark hair had been shaved close to
the skull, leaving only a red stubble. The absence of hair accentu-
ated the features of the face and thrust into prominence the high
cheekbones, the sharp chin, the mouth in its bow curve. The
youth wore the shirt and tunic of a common foot knight and
leather boots, carried no sword upon his htp nor any sort of
weapon that Galdar could see.
  "Halt and be recognized!" he shouted harshly. "Stop right
there. At the edge of camp."
  The youth obligingly halted, his hands raised, palms outward
to show they were empty.
  Galdar drew his sword. In this strange night, he was taking no
chances. He held the sword awkwardly in his left hand. The
weapon was almost useless to him. Unlike some other amputees,
he had never learned to fight with his opposite hand. He had
been a skilled swordsman before his injury, now he was clumsy
and inept, as likely to do damage to himself as to a foe. Many
were the times Ernst Magit',pad watched Galdar practice,
watched him fumble, and laughed uproariously.
  Magit wouldn't be doing inuch laughing now.
  Galdar advanced, sword in hand. The hilt was wet and slip-
pery, he hoped he wouldn't drop it. The youth could not know
that Galdar was a washed-up warrior, a has-been. The minotaur
looked intimating, and Galdar was somewhat surprised that the
youth did not quail before him, did not even really look all that
impressed.
  "I am unarmed," said the youth in a deep voice that did not
match the youthful appearance. The voice had an odd timbre to
it, sweet, musical, reminding Galdar strangely of one of the
voices he'd heard in the song, the song now hushed and mur-
muring, as if in reverence. The voice was not the voice of a man.
  Galdar looked closely at the youth, at the slender neck that
was like the long stem of a lily, supporting the skull, which was
perfectly smooth beneath its red down of hair, marvelously
formed. The minotaur looked closely at the lithe body. The arms
were muscular, as were the legs in their woolen stockings. The
wet shirt, which was too big, hung loosely from the slender
shoulders. Galdar could see nothing beneath its wet folds, could
not ascertain yet whether this human was male or female.
  The other knights gathered around him, all of them staring at
the wet youth; wet and glistening as a newborn child. The men
were frowning, uneasy, wary. Small blame to them. Everyone was
asking the same question as Galdar. What in the name of the great
homed god who had died and left his people bereft was this
human doing in this accursed valley on this accursed night?
  "What are you called?" Galdar demanded.
  "My name is Mina."
  A girl. A slip of a girl. She could be no more than seventeen
. . . if that. Yet even though she had spoken her name, a feminine
name popular among humans, even though he could trace her
sex in the smooth lines of her neck and the grace of her move-
ments, he still doubted. The;re was something very unwomanly
about her.
  Mina smiled slightly, as if she could hear his unspoken
doubts, and said, "I am female." She shrugged. "Though it makes
little difference."
  "Come closer," Galdar ordered harshly.
  The girl obeyed, took a step forward.
  Galdar looked into her eyes, and his breath very nearly
stopped. He had seen humans of all shapes and sizes during his
lifetime, but he'd never seen one, never seen any living being
with eyes like these.
  Unnaturally large, deep-set, the eyes were the color of
amber, the pupils black, the irises encircled by a ring of shadow.
The absence of hair made the eyes appear larger still Mina
seemed all eyes, and those eyes absorbed Galdar and impris-
oned him, as golden amber holds imprisoned the carcasses of
small insects.
  "Are you the commander?" she asked.
Galdar flicked a glance in the direction of the charred body
lying at the base of the monolith. "I am now," he said.
  Mina followed his gaze, regarded the corpse with cool de-
tachment. She turned the amber eyes back to Galdar, who could
have sworn he saw the body of Magit locked inside.
  "What are you doing here, girl?" the minotaur asked harshly.
"Did you lose your way in the storm?"
  "No. I found my way in the storm," said Mina. The amber
eyes were luminous, unblinking. "I found you. I have been called,
and I have answered. You are Knights of Takhisis, are you not?"
  "We were once," said Galdar dryly. "We waited long for
Takhisis's return, but now the commanders admit what most of
us knew long before. She is not coming back. Therefore we have
come to term ourselves Knights of Neraka."
  Mina listened, considered this. She seemed to like it, for she
nodded gravely. "I understand. I have come to join the Knights of
Neraka."
  At any other time, in any other place, the Knights might have
snickered or made rude remarks. But the men were in no mood
for levity. Neither was Galdar. The storm had been terrifying,
unlike any he'd ever experienced, and he had lived in this world
forty years. Their talon leader was dead. They had a long walk 
ahead of them, unless by some miracle they could recover the 
horses. They had no food-the horses had run away with their 
supplies. No water except what they could wring out of their
sodden blankets.
 "Tell the silly chit to run back home to mama," said one
Knight impatiently. "What do we do, Subcommander?"
  "I say we get out of here," said another. "I'll walk all night if I
have to."
  The others muttered their assent.
  Galdar looked to the heavens. The sky was clear. Thunder
rumbled, but in the distance. Far away, lightning flashed purple
on the western horizon. The moon gave light enough to travel.
Galdar was tired, unusually tired. The men were hollow-
cheeked and gaunt, all of them near exhaustion. Yet he knew
how they felt.
  "We're moving out," he said. "But first we need to do some-
thing with that." He jerked a thumb at the smoldering body of
Ernst Magit. 
"Leave it," said one of the Knights.
Galdar shook his homed head. He was conscious, all the while,
of the girl watching him intently with those strange eyes of hers.
  "Do you want to be haunted by his spirit the rest of your
days?" Galdar demanded.
  The others eyed each other, eyed the body. They would have
guffawed at the thought of Magit's ghost haunting them the day
before. Not now.
  "What do we do with him?" demanded one plaintively. "We
can't bury the bastard. The ground's too hard. We don't have any
wood for a fire."
  "Wrap the body in that tent" said Mina. "Take those rocks
and build a cairn over him. He is not the first to die in the valley
of Neraka," she added coolly, "nor will he be the last."
 Galdar glanced over his shoulder. The tent they had strung
between the monoliths remained intact though it sagged with an
accumulation of rainwater.
  "The girl's idea is a good one," he said. "Cut down the tent
and use it for a shroud. And be quick about it. The quicker we're
finished, the quicker we're away. Strip off his armor" he added.
"We're required to take it back to headquarters as proof of his
death."
  "How?" asked one of the Knights, grimacing. "His flesh is
stuck to the metal like a steak seared on a gridiron."
  "Cut it off," said Galdar. "Clean it up as best you can. I wasn't
that fond of him that I want to be hauling bits of him around."
  The men went about their grisly task with a wiR eager to be
done and away.
  Galdar turned back to Mina, found those amber eyes, large,
intent upon him.
  "You had best go back to your family, girl," he said gruffly.
"We'll be traveling hard and fast. We won't have time to coddle
you. Besides, you're a female. These men are not very great re-
specters of women's virtues. You run along home."
  "I am home," said Mina with a glance around the valley. The
black monoliths reflected the cold light of the stars, summoned
the stars to shine pale and chill among them. "And I have found
my family. I will become a Knight. That is my calling."
  Galdar was exasperated, uncertain what to say. The last thing
he wanted was this fey woman-child traveling with them. But she
was so self-possessed, so completely in control of herself and in
control of the situation that he could not come up with any ra-
tional argument.
  Thinking the matter over, he made to return his sword to its
sheath. The hilt was wet and slippery, his grip on it awkward. He
fumbled, nearly dropped the sword. Managing to hang onto it by
a desperate effort, he looked up fiercely, glowering, daring her to
so much as smile with either derision or pity.
  She watched his struggles, said nothing, her face expressionless.
  Galdar shoved the sword into the sheath. "As to joining the
Knighthood, the best thing to do is go to your local headquarters
and put in your name."
  He continued with a recitation of the recruitment policies, the
training involved. He launched into a discourse about the years
of dedication and self-sacrifice, all the while thinking of Ernst
Magit, who had bought his way into the Knighthood, and sud-
denly Galdar realized that he'd lost her. 
  The girl was not listening to him. She seemed to be listening
to another voice, a voice he could not hear. Her gaze was ab-
stracted, her face smooth, without expression.
  His words trailed off.
  "Do you not find it difficult to fight one handed?" she asked.
  He regarded her grimly. "I may be awkward," he said causti-
cally, "but I can handle a sword well enough to strike your shorn
head from your body!"
  She smiled. "What are you called?"
  He turned away. This conversation was at an end. He
looked to see that the men had r:nanaged to separate Magit from
his armor, were rolling the still':'smoking lump of a corpse onto
the tent.
  "Galdar, I believe," Mina cohtinued.
  He turned back to stare at her in astonishment, wondering
how she knew his name.
  Of course, he thought, one of the men must have spoken it.
But he could not recall any of them having done so.
  "Give me your hand, Galdar," Mina said to him.
  He glowered at her. "Leave this place while you have a
chance, girl! We are in no mood for silly games. My comman-
der's dead. These men are my responsibility. We have no
mounts, no food."
"Give me your hand, Galdar," said Mina softly.
  At the sound of her voice, rough, sweet, he heard again the
song singing among the rocks. He felt his hackles rise. A shudder
went through him, a thrill flashed along his spine. He meant to
turn away from her, but he found himself raising his left hand.
  "No, Galdar," said Mina. ",Your right hand. Give me your
right hand."
  "I have no right hand!" Galdar cried out in rage and anguish.
The cry rattled in his throat. The men turned, alarmed, at the
strangled sound.
  Galdar stared in disbelief. The arm had been cut off at the
shoulder. Extending outward from the stump was a ghostly
image of what had once been his right arm. The image wavered
in the wind, as if his arm were made of smoke and ash, yet he
could see it clearly, could see it reflected in the smooth black
plane of the monolith. He could feel the phantom arm, but then
he'd always felt the arm even when it wasn't there. Now he
watched his arm, his right arm, lift; watched his hand, his right
hand, reach out trembling fingers.
  Mina extended her hand, touched the phantom hand of the
minotaur.
  "Your sword arm is restored," she said to him.
  Galdar stared in boundless astoundment.
  His arm. His right arm was once again. . .
  His right arm.
  No longer a phantom arm. No longer an arm of smoke and
ash, an arm of dreams to be lost in the despair of waking. Galdar
closed his eyes, closed them tight and then opened them.
  The arm remained.
  The other Knights were struck dumb and motionless. Their
faces dead white in the moonlight, they stared at Galdar, stared at
the arm, stared at Mina.
  Galdar ordered his fingers to open and clench, and they
obeyed. He reached out with his left hand, trembling, and
touched the arm.
  The skin was warm, the fur was soft, the arm was flesh and
bone and blood. The arm was real.
  Galdar reached down the hand and drew his sword. His fin-
gers closed over the hilt lovingly. He was suddenly blinded by
tears.
Weak and shivering, Galdar sank to his knees. "Lady," he
said, his voice shaking with awe and wonder, "I do not know
what you did or how you did it, but I am in your debt for the rest
of my days. Whatever you want of me, I grant you."
  "Swear to me by your sword arm that you will grant me what
I ask," Mina said.
  "I swear!" Galdar said harshly.
  "Make me your commander," said Mina.
  Galdar's jaw sagged. His mouth opened and closed. He swal-
lowed. "I . . . I will recommend you to my superiors. . ."
  "Make me your commander," she said, her voice hard as the
ground, dark as the monoliths. "I do not fight for greed. I do not
fight for gain."I do not fight for power. I fight for one cause, and
that is glory. Not for myself, but for my god." 
  "Who is your god?" Galdar asked, awed.
Mina smiled, a fell smile, pale and cold. "The name may not
be spoken. My god is the One God. The One who rides the storm,
the One who rules the night. My god is the One God who made
your flesh whole. Swear your loyalty to me, Galdar. Follow me to
victory."
  Galdar thought of all the commanders under whom he'd
served. Commanders such as Ernst Magit, who rolled their eyes
when the Vision of Neraka was mentioned. The Vision was fake,
phony, most of the upper echelon knew it. Commanders such as
the Master of the Lily, Galdar's patron, who yawned openly
during the recitation of the Blood Oath, who had brought the
minotaur into the Knighthood as a joke. Commanders such as the
current Lord of the Night, Targonne, whom everyone knew was
skimming funds from the knightly coffers to enrich himself.
Galdar raised his head, looked into the amber eyes. "You are
my commander, Mina," he said. "I swear fealty to you and to no
other."
  Mina touched his hand again. Her touch was painful, scalded
his blood. He reveled in the sensation. The pain was welcome.
For too long now, he'd felt the pain of an arm that wasn't there.
  "You will be my second in command, Galdar." Mina turned
the amber gaze upon the other Knights. "Will the rest of you
follow me?"
  Some of the men had been with Galdar when he had lost his
arm, had seen the blood spurt from the shattered limb. Four of
these men had'held him down when the surgeon cut off his arm.
They had heard his pleas for death, a death they'd refused to
grant him, a death that he could not, in honor, grant himself.
These men looked at the new arm, saw Galdar holding a sword
again. They had seen the girl walk through the murderous, un-
natural storm, walk unscathed.
  These men were in their thirties, some of them. Veterans of
brutal wars and tough campaigns. It was all very well for Galdar
to swear allegiance to this strange woman-child. She had made
him whole. But for themselves. . .
  Mina did not press them, she did not cajole or argue. She ap-
peared to take their agreement for granted. Walking over to
where the corpse of the talon leader lay on the ground beneath
the monolith, the body partially wrapped in the tent, Mina picked
up Magit's breastplate. She looked at it, studied it, and then, slid-
ing her arms through the straps, she put on the breastplate over
her wet shirt. The breastplate was too big for her and heavy.
Galdar expected to see her bowed down under the weight.
  He gaped to see instead the metal glow red, reform, mold
itself to her slender body, embrace her like a lover.
  The breastplate had been black with the image of a skull upon
it. The armor had been hit by the lightning strike, apparently,
though the damage the strike had done was exceedingly strange.
The skull adorning the breastplate was split in twain. A lightning
bolt of steel sliced through it.
  "This will be my standard," said Mina, touching the skull.
  She put on the rest of Magit's accoutrements, sliding the brac-
ers over her arms, buckling the shin guards over her legs. Each
piece of armor glowed red when it touched her as if newly come
from the forge. Each piece, when cooled, fit her as if it had been
fashioned for her.
  She lifted the helm, but did not put it on her head. She handed
the helm to Galdar. "Hold that for me, Subcomrnander," she said.
  He received the helm proudly, reverently, as if it were an arti-
fact for which he had quested all his life.
  Mina knelt down beside the body of Ernst Magit. Lifting the
dead, charred hand in her own, she bowed her head and began to
pray.
  None could hear her words, none could hear what she said or
to whom she said it. The song of death keened among the stones.
The stars vanished, the moon disappeared. Darkness enveloped
them. She prayed, her whispered words bringing comfort.
  Mina arose from her prayers to find all the Knights on their
knees before her. In the darkness, they could see nothing, not each
other, not even themselves. They saw only her.
  "You are my commander, Mina," said one, gazing upon her as
the starving gaze upon bread, the thirsty gaze upon cool water. "I
pledge my life to you."
  "Not to me," she said. "To the One God."
  "The One God!" Their voices lifted and were swept up in the
song that was no longer frightening but was exalting, stirring, a
call to arms. "Mina and the One God!"
  The stars shone in the monoliths. The moonlight gleamed in
the jagged lightning bolt of Mina's armor. Thunder rumbled
again, but this time it was not from the sky.
  "The horses!" shouted one of the knights. "The horses have
returned."
  Leading the horses was a steed the likes of which none of
them had ever seen. Red as wine, red as blood, the horse left the
others far behind. The horse came straight to Mina and nuzzled
her, rested its head over her shoulder.
  "I sent Foxfire for the mounts. We will have need of them,"
said Mina, stroking the black mane of the blood-colored roan.
"We ride south this night and ride hard. We must be in Sanction
in three days' time."
  "Sanction!" Galdar gaped. "But, girl-I mean, Talon Leader-
the Solamnics control Sanction! The city is under siege. Our post-
ing is in Khur. Our orders-"
  "We ride this night to Sanction," said Mina. Her gaze turned
southward and never looked back.
  "But, why, Talon Leader?" Galdar asked.
  "Because we are called," Mina answered.

                        CHAPTER TWO
                        SILVANOSHEI

  The strange and unnatural storm laid siege to all of Ansa-
lon. Lightning walked the land; gigantic, ground-shaking
warriors who hurled bolts of fire. Ancient trees-huge
oaks that had withstood both Cataclysms-burst into flame and
were reduced to smoldering ruin in an instant. Whirlwinds raged
behind the thundering warriors, ripping apart homes, flinging
boards, brick, and stone and mortar into the air with lethal aban-
Idon. Torrential cloudbursts caused rivers to swell and overflow
their banks, washing away the young green shoots of grain strug-
gling up from the darkness to bask in the early summer sun.
  In Sanction, besieger and besieged alike abandoned the ongo-
ing struggle to seek refuge from the terrible storm. Ships on the
.. high seas tried to ride it out, with the result that some went under,
never to be seen or heard from again. Others would later limp
home with jury-rigged masts, telling tales of sailors swept over-
board, the pumps at work day and night.
  In Palanthas, innumerable cracks appeared in the roof of the
Great Library. The rain poured inside, sending Bertrem and the
monks into a mad scramble to staunch the flow, mop the floor
and move precious volumes to safety. In Tarsis, the rain was so
heavy that the sea which had vanished during the Cataclysm re-
turned, to the wonder and astonishment of all inhabitants. The
sea was gone a few days later, leaving behind gasping fish and an
ungodly smell.
  The storm struck the island of Schallsea a particularly devas-
tating blow. The winds blew out every single window in the Cozy
Hearth. Ships that rode at anchor in the harbor were dashed
against the cliffs or smashed into the docks. A tidal surge washed
away many buildings and homes built near the shoreline. Count-
less people died, countless others were left homeless. Refugees
stormed the Citadel of Light, pleading for the mystics to come to
their aid.
  The Citadel was a beacon of hope in Krynn's dark night.
Trying to fill the void left by the absence of the gods, Goldmoon
had discovered the mystical power of the heart, had brought
healing back to the world. She was living proof that although Pal-
adine and Mishakal were gone, their power for good lived on in
the hearts of those who had loved them.
  Yet Goldmoon was growing old. The memories of the gods
were fading. And so, it seemed, was the power of the heart. One
after another, the mystics felt their power recede, a tide that went
out but never returned. Still the mystics of the Citadel were glad
to open their doors and their hearts to the storm's victims, provide
shelter and succor, and work to heal the injured as best they could.
  Solamnic Knights, who had established a fortress on
Schallsea, rode forth to do battle with the storm-one of the most
fearsome enemies these valiant Knights had ever faced. At risk of
their own lives, the Knights plucked people from the raging
water and dragged them from beneath smashed buildings,
working in the wind and rain and lightning-shattered darkness
to save the lives of those they were sworn by Oath and Measure
to protect.
  The Citadel of Light withstood the storm's rage, although its
buildings were buffeted by fierce winds and lancing rain. As if in
a last ditch attempt to make its wrath felt, the storm hurled hail-
stones the size of a man's head upon the citadel's crystal walls.
Everywhere the hailstones struck, tiny cracks appeared in the
crystalline walls. Rainwater seeped through these cracks, trickled
like tears down the walls.
One particularly loud crash came from the vicinity of the
chambers of Goldmoon, founder and mistress of the Citadel. The
mystics heard the sound of breaking glass and ran in fear to see if
the elderly woman was safe. To their astonishment, they found
the door to her rooms locked. They beat upon it, called upon her
to let them inside.
  A voice, low and awful to hear, a voice that was Goldmoon's
beloved voice and yet was not, ordered them to leave her in
peace, to go about their duties. Others needed their aid, she said.
She did not. Baffled, uneasy, most did as they were told. Those
who lingered behind reported hearing the sound of sobbing,
heartbroken and despairing.
  "She, too, has lost her power,lI said those outside her door.
Thinking that they understood, they left her alone.
  When morning finally came and the sun rose to shine a lurid
red in the sky, people stood about in dazed horror, looking upon
the destruction wrought during the terrible night. The mystics
went to Goldmoon's chamber to ask for her counsel, but no
answer came. The door to Goldmoon's chamber remained closed
and barred.
  The storm also swept through Qualinesti, another elven
kingdom, but one that was separated from its cousins by dis-.
tance that could be measured both in hundreds of miles and in
ancient hatred and distrust. In Qualinesti, whirling winds up-
rooted giant trees and flung them about like the slender sticks
used in Quin Thalasi, a popular elven game. The storm shook the
fabled Tower of the Speaker of the Sun on its foundation, sent
the beautiful stained glass of its storied windows raining down
upon the floor. Rising water flooded the lower chambers of the
newly constructed fortress of the Dark Knights at Newport,
forcing them to do what an enemy army could not-abandon
their posts.
  The storm woke even the great dragons, slumbering, bloated
and fat, in their lairs that were rich with tribute. The storm shook
the Peak of Malys, lair of Malystrx, the enormous red dragon who
now fashioned herself the Queen of Ansalon, soon to become
Goddess of Ansalon, if she had her way. The rain formed rushing
rivers that invaded Malys's volcanic home. Rainwater flowed
into the lava pools, creating enormous clouds of a noxious-
smelling steam that filled the corridors and halls. Wet, half-blind,
choking in the fumes, Malys roared her indignation and flew
from lair to lair, trying to find one that was dry enough for her to
return to sleep.
  Finally she was driven to seek the lower levels of her moun-
tain home. Malys was an ancient dragon with a malevolent
wisdom. She sensed something unnatural about this storm, and it
made her uneasy. Grumbling and muttering to herself, she en-
tered the Chamber of the Totem. Here, on an outcropping of black
rock, Malys had piled the skulls of all the lesser dragons she had
consumed when she first came to the world. Silver skulls and
gold, red skulls and blue stood one atop the other, a monument
to her greatness. Malys was comforted by the sight of the skulls.
Each brought a memory of a battle won, a foe defeated and de-
voured. The rain could not penetrate this far down in her moun-
tain home. She could not hear the wind howl. The flashes of
lightning did not disturb her slumbers.
  Malys gazed ~pon the empty eyes of the skulls with pleasure,
and perhaps she dozed, because suddenly it seemed to her that
the eyes of skulls were alive and they were watching her. She
snorted, reared her head. She stared closely at the skulls, at the
eyes. The lava pool at the heart of the mountain cast a lurid light
upon the skulls, sent shadows winking and blinking in the empty
eye sockets. Berating herself for an overactive imagination, Malys
coiled her body comfortably around the totem and fell asleep.
  Another of the great dragons, a Green known grandiosely as
Beryllinthranox was also not able to sleep through the storm.
Beryl's lair was formed of living trees-ironwoods and red-
woods-and enormous, twining vines. The vines and branches of
the trees were so thickly interwoven that no raindrop had ever
managed to wriggle its way through. But the rain that fell from
the roiling black clouds of this storm seemed to make it a personal
mission to find a way to penetrate the leaves. Once one had man-
aged to sneak inside, it opened the way for thousands of its fel-
lows. Beryl woke in surprise at the unaccustomed feel of water
splashing on her nose. One of the great redwoods that formed a
pillar of her lair was struck by a lightning bolt. The tree burst into
flames, flames that spread quickly, feeding on rainwater as if it
were lamp oil.
  Beryl's roar of alarm brought her minions scrambling to
douse the flames. Dragons, Reds and Blues who had joined Beryl
rather than be consumed by her, dared the flames to pluck out the
burning trees and cast them into the sea. Draconians pulled down
blazing vines, smothered the flames with dirt and mud. Hostages
and prisoners were put to work fighting the fires. Many died
doing so, but eventually Beryl's lair was saved. She was in a ter-
rible humor for days afterward, however, convincing herself that
the storm had been an attack waged magically by her cousin
Malys. Beryl meant to rule someday in Malys's stead. Using her
magic to rebuild-a magical power that had lately been dwin-
dling, something else Beryl blamed on Malys-the Green nursed
her wrongs and plotted revenge.
  Khellendros the Blue (he had abandoned the name Skie for
this more magnificent title, which meant Storm over Ansalon),
was one of the few of the dragons native to Krynn to have
emerged from the Dragon Purge. He was now ruler of Solamnia
and all its environs. He was overseer of Schallsea and the Citadel
of Light, which he allowed to remain because-according to
him-he found it amusing to watch the petty humans struggle fu-
tilely against the growing darkness. In truth, the real reason he
permitted the citadel to thrive in safety was the citadel's
guardian, a silver dragon named Mirror. Mirror and Skie were
longtime foes and now, in their mutual detestation of the new,
great dragons from afar who had killed so many of their brethren,
they had become not friends, but not quite enemies either.
  Khellendros was bothered by the storm far more than either
of the great dragons, although-strangely enough-the storm did
not do his lair much damage. He paced restively about his enor-
mous cave high in the Vingaard mountains, watched the light-
ning warriors strike viciously at the ramparts of the High Clerist's
Tower, and he thought he heard a voice in the wind, a voice that
sang of death. Khellendros did not sleep but watched the storm
to its end.
  The storm lost none of its power as it roared down upon the
ancient elven kingdom of Silvanesti. The elves had erected a mag-
ical shield over their kingdom, a shield that had thus far kept the
marauding dragons from conquering their lands, a shield that
also kept out all other races. The elves had finally succeeded in
their historic goal of isolating themselves from the troubles of the
rest of the world. But the shield did not keep out the thunder and
rain, wind and lightning.
Trees burned, houses were torn apart by the fierce winds.
The Than-thalas River flooded, sending those who lived on its
banks scrambling to reach higher ground. Water seeped into the
palace garden, the Garden of Astarin, where grew the magical
tree that was, many believed, responsible for keeping the shield
in place. The tree's magic kept it safe. Indeed, when the storm
was ended, the soil around the tree was found to be bone dry.
Everything else in the garden was drowned or washed away.
The elf gardeners and Woodshapers, who bore for their plants
and flowers, ornamental trees, herbs, and rose bushes the same
love they bore their own children, were heartbroken, devastated
to view the destruction.
  They replanted after the storm, bringing plants from their
own gardens to fill the once wondrous Garden of Astarin. Ever
since the raising of the shield, the plants in the garden had not
done well, and now they rotted in the muddy soil which could
never, it seemed, soak up enough sunlight to dry out.
  The strange and terrible storm eventually left the continent,
marched away from the war, a victorious army abandoning the
field of battle, leaving devastation and destruction behind. The
next morning, the people of Ansalon would go dazedly to view
the damage, to comfort the bereaved, to bury the dead, and to
wonder at the dreadful night's ominolls portent.

  And yet, there was, after all, one person that night who en-
joyed himself. His name was Silvanoshei, a young elf, and he ex-
ulted in the storm. The clash of the lightning warriors, the bolts
that fell like sparks struck from swords of thunder, beat in his
blood like crashing drums. Silvanoshei did not seek shelter from
the storm but went out into it. He stood in a clearing in the forest,
his face raised to the tumult, the rain drenching him, cooling the
burning of vaguely felt wants and desires. He watched the daz-
zling display of lightning, marveled at the ground-shaking thun-
der, laughed at the blasts of wind that bent the great trees, making
them bow their proud heads.
  Silvanoshei's father was Porthios, once proud ruler of the
Qualinesti, now cast out by them, termed a "dark elf," one cursed
to live outside the light of elven society. Silvanoshei's mother was
Alhana Starbreeze, exiled leader of the Silvanesti nation that had
cast her out too when she married Porthios. They had meant, by 
their marriage, to at last reunite the two elven nations, bring them
together as one nation, a nation that would have probably been
strong enough to fight the cursed dragons and maintain itself in
freedom.
  Instead, their marriage had only deepened the hatred and
mistrust. Now Beryl ruled Qualinesti, which was an occupied
land, held in subjugation by the Knights of Neraka. Silvanesti
was a land cut off, isolated, its inhabitants cowering under its
shield like children hiding beneath a blanket, hoping it will pro-
tect them from the monsters who lurk in the darkness.
  Silvanoshei was the only child of Porthios and Alhana.
  "Silvan was born the year of the Chaos War," Alhana was
wont to say. "His father and I were on the run, a target for every
elven assassin who wanted to ingratiate himself with either the
Qualinesti or the Silvanesti rulers. He was born the day they
buried two of the sons of Caramon Majere. Chaos was Silvan's
nursemaid, Death his midwife."
  Silvan had been raised in an armed camp. Alhana's marriage
to Porthios had been a marriage of politics that had deepened to
one of love and friendship and utmost respect. Together she and
her husband had waged a ceaseless, thankless battle, first
against the Dark Knights who were now the overlords of Qua-
linest, then against the terrible domination of Beryl, the dragon
who had laid claim to the Qualinesti lands and who now de-
manded tribute from the Qualinesti elves in return for allowing
them to live.
  When word had first reached Alhana and Porthios that the
elves of Silvanesti had managed to raise a magical shield over
their kingdom, a shield that would protect them from the ravages
of the dragons, both had seen this as a possible salvation for their
people. Alhana had traveled south with her own forces, leaving
Porthios to continue the fight for Qualinesti.
  She had tried to send an emissary to the Silvanesti elves,
asking permission to pass through the shield. The emissary had
not even been able to enter. She attacked the shield with steel and
with magic, trying every way possible of breaking through it,
without success. The more she studied the shield, the more she
was appalled that her people could permit themselves to live
beneath it.
  Whatever the shield touched died. Woodlands near the
shield's boundaries were filled with dead and dying trees.
Grasslands near the shield were gray and barren. Flowers
wilted, withered, decomposed into a fine gray dust that cov-
ered the dead like a shroud.
  The shield's magic is responsible for this! Alhana had written to
her husband. The shield is not protecting the land. It is killing it!
  The Silvanesti do not care, Porthios had written in reply. They are
subsumed by fear. Fear of the ogres, fear of the humans, fear of the drag-
ons,fear of terrors they can not even name. The shield is but the outward
manifestation of their fear. No wonder anything that comes in contact
with it withers and dies!
  These were the last words she had heard from him. For years
Alhana had kept in contact with her husband through the mes- I
sages carried between them by the swift and tireless elven run-
ners. She knew of his increasingly futile efforts to defeat Beryl.
Then came the day the runner from her husband did not return.
She had sent another, and another vanished. Now weeks had
passed and still no word from Porthios. Finally, unable to expend
any more of her dwindling manpower, Alhana had ceased send-
ing the runners.
  The storm had caught Alhana and her army in the woods near
the border of Silvanesti, after yet another futile attempt to pene-
trate the shield. Alhana took refuge from the storm in an ancient
burial mound near the border of Silvanesti. She had discovered
this mound long ago, when she had first begun her battle to wrest
control of her homeland from the hands of those who seemed
intent upon leading her people to disaster.
  In other, happier circumstances, the elves would not have dis-
turbed the rest of the dead, but they were being pursued by ogres,
their ancient enemy, and were desperately seeking a defensible
position. Even so, Alhana had entered the mound with prayers of
propitiation, asking the spirits of the dead for understanding.
  The elves had discovered the mound to be empty. They found
no mummified corpses, no bones, no indication that anyone had
ever been buried here. The elves who accompanied Alhana took
this for a sign that their cause was just. She did not argue, though
she felt the bitter irony that she--the true and rightful Queen of
the Silvanesti-was forced to take refuge in a hole in the ground
even the dead had abandoned.
  The burial mound was now Alhana's headquarters. Her
knights, her own personal bodyguard, were inside with her. The
rest of the army was camped in the woods around her. A perime-
ter of elven runners kept watch for ogres, known to be rampag-
ing in this area. The runners, lightly armed, wearing no armor,
would not engage the enemy in battle, if they spotted them, but
would race back to the picket lines to alert the army of an enemy's
presence.
  The elves of House Woodshaper had worked long to magi-
cally raise from the ground a barricade of thorn bushes sur-
rounding the burial mound. The bushes had wicked barbs that
could pierce even an ogre's tough hide. Within the barricade, the
soldiers of the elven army found what shelter they could when
the torrential storm came. Tents almost immediately collapsed,
leaving the elves to hunker down behind boulders or crawl into
ditches, avoiding, if possible, the tall trees-targets of the vicious
lightning.
  Wet to the bone, chilled and awed by the storm, the likes of
which not even the longest lived among the elves had ever before
seen, the soldiers looked at Silvanoshei, cavorting in the storm
like a moonstruck fool, and shook their heads.
  He was the son of their beloved queen. They would not say
one word against him. They would give their lives defending him,
for he was the hope of the elven nation. The elven soldiers liked 
him well enough, even if they neither admired nor respected him.
Silvanoshei was handsome and charming, winning by nature, a
boon companion, with a voice so sweet and melodious that he
could talk the songbirds out of the trees and into his hand.
  In this, Silvanoshei was like neither of his parents. He had
none of his father's grim, dour, and resolute nature, and some
might have whispered that he was not his father's child, but Sil-
vanoshei so closely resembled Porthios there could be no mistak-
ing the relationship. Silvanoshei, or Silvan, as his mother called
him, did not inherit the regal bearing of Alhana Starbreeze. He
had something of her pride but little of her compassion. He cared
about his people, but he lacked her undying love and loyalty. He
considered her battle to penetrate the shield a hopeless waste of
time. He could not understand why she was expending so much
energy to return to a people who clearly did not want her.
  Alhana doted on her son, more so now that his father ap-
peared to be lost. Silvan's feelings toward his mother were more
complex, although he had but an imperfect understanding of
them. Had anyone asked him, he would have said that he loved
her and idolized her, and this was true. Yet that love was an oil
floating upon the surface of troubled water. Sometimes Silvan felt
an anger toward his parents, an anger that frightened him in its
fury and intensity. They had robbed him of his childhood, they
had robbed him of comfort, they had robbed him of his rightful
standing among his people.
  The burial mound remained relatively dry during the down-
pour. Alhana stood at the entrance, watching the storm, her atten-
tion divided between worry for her son-standing bareheaded in
the rain, exposed to the murderous lightning and savage winds-
and in thinking bitterly that the rain drops could penetrate the
shield that surrounded Silvanesti and she, with all the might of
her army, could not.
  One particularly close lightning strike half-blinded her, its
thunderclap shook the cave. Fearful for her son, she ventured a
short distance outside the mound's entrance and endeavored to
see. through the driving rain. Another flash, overspreading the
sky with a flame of purple white, revealed him staring upward,
his mouth open, roaring back at the thunder in laughing
defiance.
  "Silvan!" she cried. "It is not safe out there! Come inside
with me!"
  He did not hear her. Thunder smashed her words, the wind
blew them away. But perhaps sensing her concern, he turned his
head. "Isn't it glorious, Mother?" he shouted, and the wind that
had blown away his mother's words brought his own to her with
perfect clarity.
  "Do you want me to go out and drag him inside, my queen,"
asked a voice at her shoulder. 
  Alhana started, half-turned. "Samar! You frightened me!"
  The elf bowed. "I am sorry, Your Majesty. I did not mean to
alarm you."
  She had not heard him approach, but that was not surpris-
ing. Even if there had been no deafening thunder, she would
not have heard the elf if he did not want her to hear. He was
from House Protector, had been assigned to her by Porthios,
and had been faithful to his calling throughout thirty years of
war and exile.
Samar was now her second in command, the leader of her
armies. That he loved her, she knew well, though he had never
spoken a word of it, for he was loyal to her husband Porthios as
friend and ruler. Samar knew that she did not love him, that she
was faithful to her husband, though they had heard no word of
Porthios or from him for months. Samar's love for her was a gift
he gave her daily, expecting nothing in return. He walked at her
side, his love for her a torch to guide her footsteps along the dark
path she walked.
  Samar had no love for Silvanoshei, whom he took to be a
spoilt dandy. Samar viewed life as a battle that had to be fought
and won on a daily basis. Levity and laughter, jokes and pranks,
would have been acceptable in an elf prince whose realm was at
peace-an elf prince who, like elf princes of happier times, had
nothing to do all day long but learn to play the lute and contem-
plate the perfection of a rose bud. The ebullient spirits of youth
were out of place in this world where the elves struggled simply
to survive. Slivanoshei's father was lost and probably dead. His
mother expended her life hurling herself against fate, her body
and spirit growing more bruised and battered every day. Samar
considered Silvan's laughter and high spirits an affront to both,
an insult to himself.
  The only good Samar saw in the young man was that Sil-
vanoshei could coax a smile from his mother's lips when nothing
and no one else could cheer her.
  Alhana laid her hand upon Samar's arm. "Tell him that I am
anxious. A mother's foolish fears. Or not so foolish," she added to
herself, for Samar had already departed. "There is something dire
about this storm."
  Samar was instantly drenched to the skin when he walked
into the storm, as soaked as if he had stepped beneath a waterfall.
The wind gusts staggered him. Putting his head down against the
blinding torrent, cursing Silvan's heedless foolery, Samar forged
ahead.
  Silvan stood with his head back, his eyes closed, his lips
parted. His arms were spread, his chest bare, his loose-woven
shirt so wet that it had fallen from his shoulders. The rainwater
poured over his half-naked body.
  "Silvan!" Samar shouted into the young man's ear. Grabbing
his arm roughly, Samar gave the young elf a good shake. "You are
making a spectacle of yourself!" Samar said, his tone low and
fierce. He shook Silvan again. "Your mother has worries enough
without you adding to them! Get inside with her where you
belong!"
  Silvan opened his eyes a slit. His eyes were purple, like his
mother's, only not as dark; more like wine than blood. The wine-
like eyes were alight with ecstasy, his lips parted in smile.
  "The lightning, Samar! I've never seen anything like it! I can
feel it as well as see it. It touches my body and raises the hair on
my arms. It wraps me in sheets of flame that lick my skin and
set me ablaze. The thunder shakes me to the core of my being,
the ground moves beneath my feet. My blood burns, and the
rain, the stinging rain, cools my fever. I am in no danger,
Samar." Silvan's smile widened, the rain sleeked his face and
hair. "I am in no more danger than if I were in bed with a
lover-"
  "Such talk is unseemly, Prince Silvan," Samar admonished in
stem anger. "You should-"
  Hunting horns, blowing wildly, frantically, interrupted him.
Silvan's ecstatic dream shattered, dashed away by the blasting
horns, a sound that was one of the first sounds he remembered
hearing as a little child. The sound of warning, the sound of
danger.
  Silvan's eyes opened fully. He could not tell from what direc-
tion the horn calls came, they seemed to come from all directions
at once. Alhana stood at the entrance of the mound, surrounded
by her knights, peering into the storm.
  An elven runner came crashing through the brush. No time
for stealth. No need.
  "What is it?" Silvan cried.
  The soldier ignored him, raced to his commander. "Ogres,
sir!" he cried.
  "Where?" Samar demanded.
  The soldier sucked in a breath. "All around us, sir! They have
us surrounded. We didn't hear them. They used the storm to
cover their movements. The pickets have retreated back behind
the barricade, but the barricade. . ."
  The elf could not continue, he was out of breath. He pointed
to the north.
  A strange glow lit the night purple white, the color of the
lightning. But this glow did not strike and then depart. This glow
grew brighter.
  "What is it?" Silvan shouted, above the drumming of the
thunder. "What does that mean?"
  "The barricade the Woodshapers created is burning," Samar
answered grimly. "Surely the rain will douse the fire-"
  "No, sir." The runner had caught his breath. "The barricade
was struck by lightning. Not only in one place, but in many."
  He pointed again, this time to the east and to the west. The
fires could be seen springing up in every direction now, every di-
rection except due south.
  "The lightning starts them. The rain has no effect on them.
Indeed, the rain seems to fuel them, as if it were oil pouring down
from the heavens."
  "Tell the Woodshapers to use their magic to put the fire out."
  The runner looked helpless. "Sir, the Wood shapers are ex-
hausted. The spell they cast to create the barricade took all their
strength."
  "How can that be?" Samar demanded angrily. "It is a simple
spell- No, never mind!"
  He knew the answer, though he continually struggled against
it. Of late, in the past two years, the elven sorcerers had felt their
power to cast spells ebbing. The loss was gradual, barely felt at
first, attributed to illness or exhaustion, but the sorcerers were at
last forced to admit that their magical power was slipping away
like grains of sand from between clutching fingers. They could
hold onto some, but not all. The elves were not alone. They had
reports that the same loss was being felt among humans, but this
was little comfort.
  Using the storm to conceal their movements, the ogres had
slipped unseen past the runners and overwhelmed the sentries.
The briar-wall barricade was burning furiously in several places
at the base of the hill. Beyond the flames stood the tree line,
where officers were forming the elven archers into ranks behind
the barricade. The tips of their arrows glittered like sparks.
  The fire would keep the ogres at bay temporarily, but when it
died down, the monsters would come surging across. In the
darkness and the slashing rain and the howling wind, the archers
would stand little chance of hitting their targets before they were
overrun. And when they were overrun, the carnage would be
horrible. Ogres hate all other races on Krynn, but their hatred for
elves goes back to the beginning of time, when the ogres were
once beautiful, the favored of the gods. When the ogres fell, the
elves became the favored, the pampered. The ogres had never for-
given them.
  "Officers to me!1I Samar shouted. IIFieldmaster! Bring your
archers into a line behind the lancers at the barrier, and tell them
to hold their volley until directed to loose it.1I
  He ran back inside the mound. Silvan followed him, the ex-
citement of the storm replaced by the tense, fierce excitement of
the attack. Alhana cast her son a worried glance. Seeing he was
unharmed, she turned her complete attention to Samar, as other
elven officers crowded inside. 
  "Ogres?" she asked.
  "Yes, my queen. They used the storm for cover. The runner be-
lieves that they have us surrounded. I am not certain. I think that
the way south may still be open."
  "You suggest?"
  "That we fall back to the fortress of the Legion of Steel, Your
Majesty. A fighting retreat. Your meetings with the human
knights went well. It was my thought that-"
  Plans and plots, strategy and tactics. Silvan was sick of them,
sick of the sound of them. He took the opportunity to slip away.
The prince hurried to the back of the mound, where he had laid
out his bedroll. Reaching beneath his blanket, he grasped the hilt
of a sword, the sword he had purchased in Solace. Silvan was de-
lighted with the weapon, with its shiny newness. The sword had
an ornately carved hilt with a griffon's beak. The hilt was admit-
tedly difficult to hold-the beak dug into his flesh-but the
sword looked splendid.
  Silvanoshei was not a soldier. He had never been trained as a
soldier. Small blame to him. Alhana had forbidden it.
  "Unlike my hands, these hands II-his mother would take
her son's hands in her own, hold them fast-II will not be
stained with the blood of his own kind. These hands will heal
the wounds that his father and I, against our will, have been
forced to inflict. The hands of my son will never spill elven
blood. 
  But this was not elven blood they were talking about spilling.
it was ogre blood. His mother could not very well keep him out 
of this battle. Growing up unarmed and untrained for soldiering
in a camp of soldiers, Silvan imagined that the others looked
down upon him, that deep inside they thought him a coward. He
had purchased the sword in secret, taken a few lessons-until he
grew bored with them-and had been looking forward for some
time for the chance to show off his prowess.
  Pleased to have the opportunity, Silvan buckled the belt
around his slender waist and returned to the officers, the sword
clanking and banging against his thigh.
  Elven runners continued to arrive with reports. The unnatural
fire was consuming the barricade at an alarming rate. A few ogres
had attempted to cross it. Illuminated by the flames, they had
provided excellent targets for the archers. Unfortunately, any
arrow that came within range of the fire was consumed by the
flames before it could strike its target.
  The strategy for retreat settled-Silvan didn't catch much of
it, something about pulling back to the south where they would
meet up with a force from the Legion of Steel-the officers re-
turned to their commands. Samar and Alhana remained standing
together, speaking in low, urgent tones.
  Drawing his sword from his sheath with a ringing sound,
Silvan gave it a flourish and very nearly sliced off Samar's arm.
  "What the-" Samar glared at the bloody gash in his sleeve,
glared at Silvan. "Give me that!" He reached out and before
Silvan could react, snatched the sword from his grasp.
  "Silvanoshei!" Alhana was angry, as angry as he had ever
seen her. "This is no time for such nonsense!" She turned her back
on him, an indication of her displeasure.
  "It is not nonsense, Mother," Silvan retorted. "No, don't turn
away from me! This time you will not take refuge behind a wall
of silence. This time you will hear me and listen to what I have
to say!"
  Slowly Alhana turned around. She regarded him intently, her
eyes large in her pale face.
  The other elves, shocked and embarrassed, did not know
where to look. No one defied the queen, no one contradicted her,
not even her willful, headstrong son. Silvan himself was amazed
at his courage.
  "I am a prince of Silvanesti and of Qualinesti," he continued.
It is my privilege, it is my duty to join in the defense of my
people. You have no right to try to stop me!"
  "I have every right my son," Alhana returned. She grasped
his wrist her nails pierced his flesh. "You are the heir, the only
heir. You are all I have left. . . ." Alhana fell silent regretting her
words. "I am sorry. I did not mean that. A queen has nothing of
her own. Everything she has and is belongs to the people. You are
all your people have left Silvan. Now go collect your things," she
ordered, her voice tight with the need to control herself. "The
knights will take you deeper into the woods-"
  "No, Mother, I will not hide anymore," Silvan said, taking
care to speak firmly, calmly, respectfully. His cause was lost if he
sounded like petulant child. "AII my life, whenever danger
threatened, you whisked me away, stashed me in some cave,
stuffed me under some bed. It is no wonder my people have
small respect for me." His gaze shifted to Samar, who was watch-
ing the young man with grave attention. "I want to do my part for
a change, Mother."
  "Well spoken, Prince Silvanoshei," said Samar. "Yet the elves
have a saying. A sword in the hand of an untrained friend is
more dangerous than the sword in the hand of my foe.' One does
not learn to fight on the eve of battle, young man. However, if you
are serious about this pursuit I will be pleased to instruct you at
some later date. In the meanwhile, there is something you can do,
a mission you can undertake."
  He knew the response this would bring and he was not
wrong. Alhana's arrow-sharp anger found a new target.
  "Samar, I would speak with you!" Alhana said, her voice cold,
biting, imperious. She turned on her heeL stalked with rigid back
and uplifted chin to the rear of the burial mound. Samar, defer-
entiaL accompanied her.
  Outside were cries and shouts, horns blasting, the deep and
terrible ogre war chant sounding like war drums beneath it. The
storm raged, unabated, giving succor to the enemy. Silvan stood
near the entrance to the burial mound, amazed at himsel£ proud
but appalled, sorry, yet defiant fearless and terrified all at the
same time. The jumble of his emotions confused him. He tried to
see what was happening, but the smoke from the burning hedge
had settled over the clearing. The shouts and screams grew
muted, muffled. He wished he could eavesdrop on the conversa-
tion, might have lingered near where he could hear, but he con-
sidered that childish and beneath his pride. He could imagine
what they were saying anyway. He'd heard the same conversa-
tion often enough.
  In reality, he was probably not far wrong.
  "Samar, you know my wishes for Silvanoshei," Alhana said,
when they were out of earshot of the others. "Yet you defy me
and encourage him in this wild behavior. I am deeply disap-
pointed in you, Samar."
  Her words, her anger were piercing, struck Samar to the heart
and drew blood. But as Alhana was queen and responsible to her
people, so Samar was also responsible to the people as a soldier.
He was committed to providing his people with a present and a
future. In that future, the elven nations would need a strong heir,
not a milksop like Gilthas, the son of Tanis Half-Elven, who cur-
rently played at ruling Qualinesti.
  Samar did not speak his true thoughts, however. He did not
say, "Your Majesty, this is the first sign of spirit I've seen in your
son, we should encourage it." He was diplomat as well as
soldier.
  "Your Majesty," he said, "Silvan is thirty years old-"
  " A child-" Alhana interrupted.
  Silvan bowed. "Perhaps by Silvanesti standards, my queen.
Not by Qualinesti. Under Qualinesti law, he would have at-
tained ranking as a youth. If he were in Qualinesti, he would al-
ready be participating in military training. Silvanoshei may be
young in years, Alhana," Samar added, dropping the formal
title as he did sometimes when they were alone together, "but
think of the extraordinary life he has led! His lullabies were war
chants, his cradle a shield.. He has never known a home. Rarely
have his parents been both together in the same room at the
same time since the day of his birth. When battle called, you
kissed him and rode forth, perhaps to your death. He knew that
you might never come back to him, Alhana. I could see it -in
his eyes!"
  "I tried to protect him from all that," she said, her gaze going
to her son. He looked so like his father at that moment that her
pain overwhelmed her. "If I lose him, Samar, what reason do I
have to prolong this bleak and hopeless existence?"
  "You cannot protect him from life, Alhana," Samar countered
gently. "Nor from the role he is destined to play in life. Prince
Silvanoshei is right. He has a duty to his people. We will let him
fulfill that duty and"-he laid emphasis on the word-"we will
take him out of harm's way at the same time."
  Alhana said nothing, but by her look, she gave him reluctant
permission to speak further.
  "Only one of the runners has returned to camp," Samar con-
tinued. "The others are either dead or are fighting for their lives.
You said yourself, Your Majesty, that we must send word to the
Legion of Steel, warning them of this attack. I propose that we
send Silvan to apprise the knights of our desperate need for
help. We have only just returned from the fortress, he remem-
bers the way. The main road is not far from the camp and easy
to find and follow.
  "The danger to him is small. The ogres have not encircled us.
He will be safer away from camp than here." Samar smiled. "If
I had my way, my Queen, you would go back to the fortress
with him."
  Alhana smiled, her anger dissipated. "My place is with my
soldiers, Samar. I brought them here. They fight my cause. They
would lose all trust and respect if I deserted them. Yes, I concede
that you are right about Silvan," she added ruefully. "No need to
rub salt in my many wounds."
  "My queen, I never meant-"
  "Yes, you did, Samar," Alhana said, "but you spoke from
the heart, and you spoke the truth. We will send the prince
upon this mission. He will carry word of our need to the Legion
of Steel."
  "We will sing his praises when we return to the fortress," said
Samar. "And I will purchase him a sword suited to a prince, not
a clown."
  "No, Samar," said Alhana. "He may carry messages, but he
will never carry a sword. On the day he was born, I made my vow
to the gods that he would never bear arms against his people.
Elven blood would never be spilled because of him."
  Samar bowed, wisely remained silent. A skilled commander,
he knew when to bring his advance to a halt, dig in, and wait.
Alhana walked with stiff back and regal mien to the front of
the cave.
  "My son," Alhana said and there no emotion in her voice, no
feeling. "I have made my decision."
Silvanoshei turned to face his mother. Daughter of Lorac,
ill-fated king of the Silvanesti, who had very nearly been his
people's downfall, Alhana Starbreeze had undertaken to pay
for her father's misdeeds, to redeem her people. Because she
had sought to unite them with their cousins, the Qualinesti, be-
cause she had advocated alliances with the humans and the
dwarves, she was repudiated, cast out by those among the Sil-
vanesti who maintained that only by keeping themselves aloof
and isolated from the rest of the world could they and their cul-
ture survive.
  She was in mature adulthood for the elves, not yet nearing her
elder years, incredibly beautiful, more beautiful than at any other
time of her life. Her hair was black as the depths of the sea, sunk
far below where sunbeams can reach. Her eyes, once amethyst,
had deepened and darkened as if colored by the despair and pain
which was all they saw. Her beauty was a heartbreak to those
around her, not a blessing. Like the legendary dragonlance,
whose rediscovery helped bring victory to a beleaguered world,
she might have been encased in a pillar of ice. Shatter the ice,
shatter the protective barrier she had erected around her, and
shatter the woman inside.
  Only her son, only Silvan had the power to thaw the ice, to
reach inside and touch the living warmth of the woman who was
mother, not queen. But that woman was gone. Mother was gone.
The woman who stood before him, cold and stem, was his queen.
Awed, humbled, aware that he had behaved foolishly, he fell to
his knees before her.
  "I am sorry, Mother," he said. "1 will obey you. I will leave-"
  "Prince Silvanoshei," said the queen in a voice he recognized
as being her court voice, one she had never used to him. He did
not know whether to feel glad or to weep for something irrevo-
cably lost. "Commander Samar has need of a messenger to run
with all haste to the outpost of the Legion of Steel. There you will
apprise them of our desperate situation. Tell the Lord Knight that
we plan to retreat fighting. He should assemble his forces, ride
out to meet us at the crossroads, attack the ogres on their right
flank. At the moment his knights attack we will halt our retreat
and stand our ground. You will need to travel swiftly through
the night and the storm. Let nothing deter you, Silvan, for this
message must get through."
"I understand, my queen," said Silvan. He rose to his feet,
flushed with victory, the thrill of danger flashing like the light-
ning through his blood. "I will not fail you or my people. I thank
you for your trust in me."
  Alhana took his face in her hands, hands that were so cold
that he could not repress a shiver. She placed her lips upon his
forehead. Her kiss burned like ice, the chill struck through to his
heart. He would always feel that kiss, from that moment after. He
wondered if her pallid lips had left an indelible mark.
  Samar's crisp professionalism came as a relief.
  "You know the route, Prince Silvan," Samar said. "You rode it
only two days before. The road lies about a mile and a half due
south of here. You will have no stars to guide you, but the wind
blows from the north. Keep the wind at your back and you will
be heading in the right direction. The road runs east and west,
straight and true. You must eventually cross it. Once you are on
the road, travel westward. The storm wind will be on your right
cheek. You should make good time. There is no need for stealth.
The sound of battle will mask your movements. Good luck,
Prince Silvanoshei."
  "Thank you, Samar," said Silvan, touched and pleased. For
the first time in his life, the elf had spoken to him as an equal,
with even a modicum of respect. "I will not fail you or my
mother."
  "Do not fail your people, Prince," said Samar.
  With a final glance and a smile for his mother, a smile she did
not return, Silvan turned and left the burial mound, striking out
in the direction of the forest. He had not gone far, when he heard
Samar's voice raised in a bellowing cry.
  "General Aranoshah! Take two orders of swordsmen off to the
left flank and send two more to the right. We'll need to keep four
units here with Her Majesty in reserve in case they breach the line
and break through."
  Break through! That was impossible. The line would hold.
The line must hold. Silvan halted and looked back. The elves had
raised their battle song, its music sweet and uplifting, soaring
above the brutish chant of the ogres. He was cheered by the sight
and started on, when a ball of fire, blue-white and blinding, ex-
ploded on the left side of the hill. The fireball hurtled down the
hillside, heading for the burial mounds.
"Shift fire to your left!" Samar called down the slope.
  The archers were momentarily confused, not understanding
their targets, but their officers managed to turn them in the right
direction. The ball of flame struck another portion of the barrie4
ignited the thicket, and continued to blaze onward. At first
Silvan thought the balls of flame were magical, and he wondered
what good archers would do against sorcery, but then he saw
that the fireballs were actually huge bundles of hay being
pushed and shoved down the hillside by the ogres. He could see
their hulking bodies silhouetted black against the leaping flames.
The ogres carried long sticks that they used to shove the burning
hay stacks.
  "Wait for my order!" Samar cried, but the elves were nervous
and several arrows were loosed in the direction of the blazing
hay.
  "No, damn it!" Samar yelled with rage down the slope.
"They're not in range yet! Wait for the order!"
  A crash of thunder drowned out his voice. Seeing their com-
rades fire, the remainder of the archer line loosed their first volley.
The arrows arched through the smoke-filled night. Three of the
ogres pushing the flaming haystacks fell under the withering fire,
but the rest of the arrows landed far short of their marks.
  "Still," Silvan told himself, "they will soon stop them."
  A baying howl as of a thousand wolves converging on their
prey cried from the woods close to the elven archers. Silvan
stared, startled, thinking that the trees themselves had come
alive.
  "Shift fire forward!" Samar cried desperately.
  The archers could not hear him over the roar of the ap-
proaching flames. Too late, their officers noticed the sudden
rushing movement in the trees at the foot of the hill. A line of
ogres surged into the open, charging the thicket wall that pro-
tected the archers. The flames had weakened the barrier. The
huge ogres charged into the smoldering mass of burned sticks
and logs, shouldering their way through. Cinders fell on their
matted hair and sparked in their beards, but the ogres, in a
battle rage, ignored the pain of their burns and lurched
forward.
  Now being attacked from the front and on their flank, the
elven archers grappled desperately for their arrows, tried to
loose another volley before the ogres closed. The flaming
haystacks thundered down on them. The elves did not know
which enemy to fight first. Some lost their heads in the chaos.
Samar roared orders. The officers struggled to bring their
troops under control. The elves fired a second volley, some into
the burning hay bales, others into the ogres charging them on
the flank.
  More ogres fell, an immense number, and Silvan thought that
they must retreat. He was amazed and appalled to see the ogres
continue forward, undaunted.
  "Samar, where are the reserves?" Alhana called out.
  "I think they have been cut off," Samar returned grimly. "You
should not be out here, Your Majesty. Go back inside where you
are safe."
  Silvan could see his mother now. She had left the burial
mound. She was clad in silver armor, carried a sword at her
side.
  "I led my people here," Alhana returned. "Will you have me
skulk in a cave while my people are dying, Samar?"
  "Yes," he growled.
She smiled at him, a tight strained smile, but still a smile.
  She gripped the hilt of her sword. "Will they break through, do
you think?"
  "I don't see much stopping them, Your Majesty," Samar said
grimly.
  The elven archers loosed another volley. The officers had re-
gained control of the troops. Every shot told. The ogres charging
from the front fell by the score. Half the line disappeared. Still the
ogres continued their advance, the living trampling the bodies of
the fallen. In moments they would be within striking range of the
archers' position.
  "Launch the assault!" Samar roared.
  Elven swordsmen rose up from their positions behind the
left barricades. Shouting their battle cries, they charged the ogre
line. Steel rang against steel. The flaming haystacks burst into
the center of the camp, crushing men, setting fire to trees and
grass and clothing. Suddenly, without warning, the ogre line
turned. One of their number had caught sight of Alhana's silver
armor, reflecting the firelight. With guttural cries, they pointed
at her and were now charging toward the burial mound.
"Mother!" Silvan gasped, his heart tangled up with his stom-
ach. He had to bring help. They were counting on him, but he was
paralyzed, mesmerized by the terrible sight. He couldn't run to
her. He couldn't run away. He couldn't move.
  "Where are those reserves?" Samar shouted furiously. "Ara-
nosha! You bastard! Where are Her Majesty's swordsmen!"
  "Here, Samar!" cried a warrior. HWe had to fight our way to
you, but we are here!"
  "Take them down there, Samar," said Alhana calmly.
  "Your Majesty!" He started to protest. HI will not leave you
without guards."
  "If we don't halt the advance, Samar," Alhana returned. HIt
won't much matter whether I have guards or not. Go now.
Quickly!"
  Samar wanted to argue, but he knew by the remote and res-
olute expression on his queen's face that he would be wasting his
breath. Gathering the reserves around him, Samar charged down
into the advancing ogres.
  Alhana stood alone, her silver armor burning with the re-
flected flames.
  "Make haste, Silvan, my son. Make haste. Our lives rest on
you."
  She spoke to herself, but she spoke, unknowingly, to her son.
  Her words impelled Silvan to action. He had been given an
order and he would carry it out. Bitterly regretting the wasted
time, his heart swelling with fear for his mother, he turned and
plunged into the forest.

  Adrenaline pumped in Silvan's veins. He shoved his way
through the underbrush, thrusting aside tree limbs, trampling
seedlings. Sticks snapped beneath his boots. The wind was cold
and strong on his right cheek. He did not feel the pelting rain. He
welcomed the lightning that lit his path.
  He was prudent enough to keep careful watch for any signs of
the enemy and constantly sniffed the air, for the filthy, flesh-
eating ogre is usually smelt long before he is seen. Silvan kept his
hearing alert, too, for though he himself made what an elf would
consider to be an unconscionable amount of noise, he was a deer
gliding through the forest compared to the smashing and
cracking, ripping and tearing of an ogre.
Silvan traveled swiftly, encountering not so much as a noctur-
nal animal out hunting, and soon the sounds of battle dwindled
behind him. Then it was that he realized he was alone in the forest
in the night in the storm. The adrenaline started to ebb. A sliver
of fear and doubt pierced his heart. What if he arrived too late?
What if the humans-known for their vagaries and their change-
able natures-refused to act? What if the attack overwhelmed his
people? What if he had left them to die? None of this looked fa-
miliar to him. He had taken a wrong turning, he was lost. . . .
  Resolutely Silvan pushed forward, running through the
forest with the ease of one who has been born and raised in the
woodlands. He was cheered by the sight of a ravine on his left
hand; he remembered that ravine from his earlier travels to the
fortress. His fear of being lost vanished. He took care to keep
clear of the rocky edge of the ravine, which cut a large gash
across the forest floor.
  Silvan was young, strong. He banished his doubts that were a
drag on his heart, and concentrated on his mission. A lightning
flash revealed the road straight ahead. The sight renewed his
strength and his determination. Once he reached the road, he
could increase his pace. He was an excellent runner, often run-
ning long distances for the sheer pleasure of the feel of the mus-
cles expanding and contracting, the sweat on his body, the wind
in his face and the warm suffusing glow that eased all pain.
  He imagined himself speaking to the Lord Knight, pleading
their cause, urging him to haste. Silvan saw himself leading the
rescue, saw his mother's face alight with pride. . . .
  In reality, Silvan saw his way blocked. Annoyed, he slid to a
halt on the muddy path to study this obstacle.
  A gigantic tree limb, fallen from an ancient oak, lay across the
path. Leaves and branches blocked his way. Silvan would be
forced to circle around it, a move that would bring him close to
the edge of the ravine. He was sure on his feet, however. The
lightning lit his way. He edged around the end of the severed
limb with a good few feet to spare. He was climbing over a single
branch, reaching out his hand to steady himself on a nearby pine
tree, when a single bolt of lightning streaked out of the darkness
and struck the pine.
  The tree exploded in a ball of white fire. The concussive force
of the blast knocked Silvan over the edge of the ravine. Rolling
and tumbling down its rock-strewn wall, he slammed against the
stump of a broken tree at the bottom.
  Pain seared his body, worse pain seared his heart. He had
failed. He would not reach the fortress. The knights would never
receive the message. His people could not fight alone against the
ogres. They would die. His mother would die with the belief that
he had let her down.
  He tried to move, to rise, but the pain flashed through him,
white hot, so horrible that when he felt consciousness slipping
away, he was glad to think he was going to die. Glad to think that
he would join his people in death, since he could do nothing else
for them.
  Despair and grief rose in a great, dark wave, crashed down
upon Silvan and dragged him under.

            	    CHAPTER THREE
                  AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

  The storm disappeared. A strange storm, it had burst upon
Ansalon like an invadmg army, striking all parts of that
vast continent at the same time, attacking throughout the
night, only to retreat with the coming of dawn. The sun crawled
out from the dark lightning-shot cloudbank to blaze tri-
umphantly in the blue sky. Light and warmth cheered the inhab-
itants of Solace, who crept out of their homes to see what
destruction the tempest had wrought.
  Solace did not fare as badly as some other parts of Ansalon, al-
though the storm appeared to have targeted that hamlet with par-
ticular hatred. The mighty vallenwoods proved stubbornly
resistant to the devastating lightning that struck them time and
again. The tops of the trees caught fire and burned, but the fire
did not spread to the branches below. The trees' strong arms
tossed in the whirling winds but held fast the homes built there,
homes that were in their care. Creeks rose and fields flooded, but
homes and barns were spared.
  The Tomb of the Last Heroes, a beautiful structure of white
and black stone that stood in a clearing on the outskirts of town,
had sustained severe damage. Lightning had hit one of the spires,
splitting it asunder, sending large chunks of marble crashing
down to the lawn.
  But the worst damage was done to the crude and makeshift
homes of the refugees fleeing the lands to the west and south,
lands which had been free only a year ago but which were now
falling under control of the green dragon Beryl.
  Three years ago, the great dragons who had fought for control
of Ansalon had 'come to an uneasy truce. Realizing that their
bloody battles were weakening them, the dragons agreed to be
satisfied with the territory each had conquered, they would not
wage war against each other to try to gain more. The dragons had
kept this pact, until a year ago. It was then that Beryl had noticed
her magical powers starting to decline. At first, she had thought
she was imagining this, but as time passed, she became con-
vinced that something was wrong.
  Beryl blamed the red dragon Malys for the loss of her magic-
this was some foul scheme being perpetrated by her larger and
stronger cousin. Beryl also blamed the human mages, who were
hiding the Tower of High Sorcery of Wayreth from her. Conse-
quently, Beryl had begun ever so gradually to expand her control
over human lands. She moved slowly, not wanting to draw
Malys's attention. Malys would not care if here and there a town
was burned or a village plundered. The city of Haven was one
such, recently fallen to Beryl's might. Solace remained un-
touched, for the time being. But Beryl's eye was upon Solace. She
had ordered closed the main roads leading into Solace, letting
them feel the pressure as she bided her time.
  The refugees who had managed to escape Haven and sur-
rounding lands before the roads were closed had swelled Solace's
population to three times its normal size. Arriving with their be-
longings tied up in bundles or piled on the back of carts, the
refugees were being housed in what the town fathers designated
"temporary housing." The hovels were truly meant only to be
temporary, but the flood of refugees arriving daily overwhelmed
good intentions. The temporary shelters had become, unfortu-
nately, permanent.
  The first person to reach the refugee camps the morning after
the storm was Caramon Majere, driving a wagon loaded with
sacks of food, lumber for rebuilding, dry firewood, and blankets.
Caramon was over eighty-just how far over no one really
knew, for he himself had lost track of the years. He was what they
term in Solamnia a "grand old man." Age had come to him as an
honorable foe, facing him and saluting him, not creeping up to
stab him in the back or rob him of his wits. Hale and hearty, his
big frame corpulent but unbowed ("I can't grow stooped, my gut
won't let me," he was wont to say with a roaring laugh), Cara-
mon was the first of his household to rise, was out every morning
chopping wood for the kitchen fires or hauling the heavy ale bar-
rels up the stairs.
  His two daughters saw to the day-to-day workings of the Inn
of the Last Home--this was the only concession Caramon made
to his age--but he still tended the bar, still told his stories. Laura
ran the Inn, while Dezra, who had a taste for adventure, traveled
to markets in Haven and elsewhere, searching out the very best
in hops for the Inn's ale, honey for the Inn's legendary mead, and
even hauling dwarf spirits back from Thorbardin. The moment
Caramon went outdoors he was swarmed over by the children of
Solace, who one and all called him "Grampy" and who vied for
rides on his broad shoulders or begged to hear him tell tales of
long-ago heroes. He was a friend to the refugees who would have
likely had no housing at all had not Caramon donated the wood
and supervised the construction. He was currently overseeing a
project to build permanent dwellings on the outskirts of Solace,
pushing, cajoling, and browbeating the recalcitrant authorities
into taking action. Caramon Majere never walked the streets of
Solace but that he heard his name spoken and blessed.
  Once the refugees were assisted, Caramon traveled about the
rest of Solace, making certain that everyone was safe, raising
hearts and spirits oppressed by the terrible night. This done, he
went to his own breakfast, a breakfast he had come to share, of
late, with a Knight of Solamnia, a man who reminded Caramon
of his own two sons who had died in the Chaos War.
  In the days immediately following the Chaos War, the Solam-
nic Knights had established a garrison in Solace. The garrison had
been a small one in the early days, intended only to provide
Knights to stand honor guard for the Tomb of the Last Heroes.
The garrison had been expanded to counter the threat of the great
dragons, who were now the acknowledged, if hated, rulers of
much of Ansalon.
So long as the humans of Solace and other cities and lands
under her control continued to pay Beryl tribute, she allowed the
people to continue on with their lives, allowed them to continue
to generate more wealth so that they could pay even more tribute.
Unlike the evil dragons of earlier ages, who had delighted in
burning and looting and killing, Beryl had discovered that
burned-out cities did not generate profit. Dead people did not
pay taxes.
  There were many who wondered why Beryl and her cousins
with their wondrous and terrible magicks should covet wealth,
should demand tribute. Beryl and Malys were cunning creatures.
If they were rapaciously and wantonly cruel, indulging in whole-
sale slaughter of entire populations, the people of Ansalon would
rise up out of desperation and march to destroy them. As it was,
most humans found life under the dragon rule to be relatively
comfortable. They were content to let well enough alone.
  Bad things happened to some people, people who no doubt
deserved their fate. If hundreds of kender were killed or driven
from their homes, if rebellious Qualinesti elves were being tor-
tured and imprisoned, what did this matter to humans? Beryl and
Malys had minions and spies in every human town and village,
placed there to foment discord and hatred and suspicion, as well
as to make certain that no one was trying to hide so much as a
cracked copper from the dragons.
  Caramon Majere was one of the few outspoken in his hatred
of paying tribute to the dragons and actually refused to do so.
  "Not one drop of ale will I give to those fiends," he said heat-
edly whenever anyone asked, which they rarely did, knowing
that one of Beryl's spies was probably taking down names.
  He was staunch in his refusal, though much worried by it.
Solace was a wealthy town, now larger than Haven. The tribute
demanded from Solace was quite high. Caramon's wife Tika had
pointed out that their share was being made up by the other citi-
zens of Solace and that this was putting a hardship on the rest.
Caramon could see the wisdom of Tika's argument. At length he
came up with the novel idea of levying a special tax against him-
self, a tax that only the Inn paid, a tax whose monies were on no
account to be sent to the dragon but that would be used to assist
those who suffered unduly from having to pay what was come to
be known as "the dragon tax."
The people of Solace paid extra tax, the city fathers refunded
them a portion out of Caramon's contribution, and the tribute
went to the dragon as demanded.
  If they could have found a way to silence Caramon on the
volatile subject, they would have done so, for he continued to be
loud in his hatred of the dragons, continued to express his views
that "if we just all got together we could poke out Beryl's eye with
a dragonlance." Indeed, when the city of Haven was attacked by
Beryl just a few weeks earlier-ostensibly for defaulting on its
payments-the Solace town fathers actually came to Caramon and
begged him on bended knee to cease his rabble-rousing remarks.
  Impressed by their obvious fear and distress, Caramon agreed
to tone down his rhetoric, and the town fathers left happy. Cara-
mon did actually comply, expressing his views in a moderate tone
of voice as opposed to the booming outrage he'd used previously.
  He reiterated his unorthodox views that morning to his break-
fast companion, the young Solamnic.
  " A terrible storm, sir," said the Knight, seating himself oppo-
site Caramon.
  A group of his fellow Knights were breakfasting in another
part of the Inn, but Gerard uth Mondar paid them scant attention.
They, in their turn, paid him no attention at all.
  "It bodes dark days to come, to my mind," Caramon agreed,
settling his bulk into the high-backed wooden booth, a booth
whose seat had been rubbed shiny by the old man's backside.
"But all in all I found it exhilarating."
  "Father!" Laura was scandalized. She slapped down a plate of
beefsteak and eggs for her father, a bowl of porridge for the
Knight. "How can you say such things? With so many people
hurt. Whole houses blown, from what I hear."
  "I didn't mean that," Caramon protested, contrite. "I'm sorry
for the people who were hurt, of course, but, you know, it came
to me in the night that this storm must be shaking Beryl's lair
about pretty good. Maybe even burned the evil ol.d bitch out.
That's what I was thinking." He looked worriedly at the young
Knight's bowl of porridge. "Are you certain that's enough to eat,
Gerard? I can have Laura fry you up some potatoes-"
  "Thank you, sir, this is all I am accustomed to eat for break-
fast," Gerard said as he said every day in response to the same
question.
Caramon sighed. Much as he had come to like this young
man, Caramon could not understand anyone who did not enjoy
food. A person who did not relish Otik's famous spiced potatoes
was a person who did not relish life. Only one time in his own life
had Caramon ever ceased to enjoy his dinner and that was fol-
lowing the death several months earlier of his beloved wife Tika.
Caramon had refused to eat a mouthful for days after that, to the
terrible worry and consternation of the entire town, which went
on a cooking frenzy to try to come up with something that would
tempt him.
  He would eat nothing, do nothing, say nothing. He either
roamed aimlessly about the town or sat staring dry-eyed out the
stained glass windows of the Inn, the Inn where he had first met
the red-haired and annoying little brat who had been his comrade
in arms, his lover, his friend, his salvation. He shed no tears for
her, he would not visit her grave beneath the vallenwoods. He
would not sleep in their bed. He would not hear the messages of
condolence that came from Laurana and Gilthas in Qualinesti,
from Goldmoon in the Citadel of Light.
  Caramon lost weight, his flesh sagged, his skin took on a gray
hue.
  "He will follow Tika soon," said the townsfolk.
  He might have, too, had not one day a child, one of ,the refugee
children, happened across Caramon in his dismal roamings. The
child placed his small body squarely in front of the old man and
held out a hunk of bread.
  "Here, sir," said the child. "My mother says that if you don't
eat you will die, and then what will become of us?"
  Caramon gazed down at the child in wonder. Then he knelt
down, gathered the child into his arms, and began to sob uncon-
trollably. Caramon ate the bread, every crumb, and that night he
slept in the bed he had shared with Tika. He placed flowers on
her grave the next morning and ate a breakfast that would have
fed three men. He smiled again and laughed, but there was some-
thing in his smile and in his laughter that had not been there
before. Not sorrow, but a wistful impatience.
  Sometimes, when the door to the Inn opened, he would look
out into the sunlit blue sky beyond and he would say, very softly,
"I'm coming, my dear. Don't fret. I won't be long."
  Gerard uth Mondar ate his porridge with dispatch, not really
tasting it. He ate his porridge plain, refusing to flavor it with
brown sugar or cinnamon, did not even add salt. Food fueled his
body, and that was all it was good for. He ate his porridge, wash-
ing down the congealed mass with a mug of tar-bean tea, and lis-
tened to Caramon talk about the awful wonders of the storm.
  The other Knights paid their bill and left, bidding Caramon a
polite good-day as they passed, but saying nothing to his com-
panion. Gerard appeared not to notice, but steadfastly spooned
porridge from bowl to mouth.
  Caramon watched the Knights depart and interrupted his
story in mid-lightning bolt. "1 appreciate the fact that you share
your time with an old geezer like me, Gerard, but if you want to
have breakfast with your friends-"
  "They are not my friends," said Gerard without bitterness or
rancor, simply making a statement of fact. "1 much prefer dining
with a man of wisdom and good, common sense." He raised his
mug to Caramon in salute.
  "It's just that you seem. . ." Caramon paused, chewed steak
vigorously. "Lonely," he finished in a mumble, his mouth full. He
swallowed, forked another piece. "You should have a girl friend
or . . . or a wife or something."
  Gerard snorted. "What woman would look twice at a man
with a face like this?" He eyed with dissatisfaction his own re-
flection in the highly polished pewter mug.
  Gerard was ugly; there was no denying that fact. A childhood
illness had left his face cragged and scarred. His nose had been
broken in a fight with a neighbor when he was ten and had
healed slightly askew. He had yellow hair-not blond, not fair,
just plain, straw yellow. It was the consistency of straw, too, and
would not lie flat, but stuck up at all sorts of odd angles if al-
lowed. To avoid looking like a scarecrow, which had been his
nickname when he was young, Gerard kept his hair cut as short
as possible.
  His only good feature were his eyes, which were of a startling,
one might almost say, alarming blue. Because there was rarely
any warmth behind these eyes and because these eyes always fo-
cused upon their objective with unblinking intensity, Gerard's
blue eyes tended to repel more people than they attracted.
  "Bah!" Caramon dismissed beauty and comeliness with a
Wave of his fork. "Women don't care about a man's looks. They
want a man of honor, of courage. A young Knight your age. . .
How old are you?"
  "I have seen twenty-eight years, sir," Gerard replied. Finish-
ing his porridge, he shoved the bowl to one side. "Twenty-eight
boring and thoroughly wasted years."
  "Boring?" Caramon was skeptical. "And you a Knight? I was
in quite a few wars myself. Battles were lots of things, as I recall,
but boring wasn't one of them-"
  "I have never been in battle, sir," said Gerard and now his
tone was bitter. He rose to his feet, placed a coin upon the table.
"If you will excuse me, I am on duty at the tomb this morning.
This being Midyear Day, and consequently a holiday, we expect
an influx of rowdy and destructive kender. I have been ordered to
report to my post an hour early. I wish you joy of the day, sir, and
I thank you for your company."
  He bowed stiffly, turned on his heel as if he were already per-
forming the slow and stately march before the tomb, and walked
out the door of the Inn. Caramon could hear his booted feet ring-
ing on the long staircase that led down from the Inn, perched high
in the branches of Solace's largest vallenwood.
  Caramon leaned back comfortably in the booth. The sunshine
streamed in through the red and green windows, warming him.
His belly full, he was content. Outside, people were cleaning up
after the storm, gathering up the branches that had fallen from
the vallenwoods, airing out their damp houses, spreading straw
over the muddy streets. In the afternoon, the people would dress
in their best clothes, adorn their hair with flowers, and celebrate
the longest day of the year with dancing and feasting. Caramon
could see Gerard stalking stiff-backed and stiff-necked through
the mud, paying no heed to anything going on around him,
making his way to the Tomb of the Last Heroes. Caramon
watched as long as he could see the Knight, before finally losing
sight of him in the crowd.
  "He's a strange one," said Laura, whipping away the empty
bowl and pocketing the coin. "1 wonder how you can eat along-
side him, Father. His face curdles the milk."
  "He cannot help his face~ Daughter," Caramon returned
sternly. "Are there any more eggs?"
  "I'll bring you some. You've no idea what a pleasure it is to
see you eating again." Laura paused in her wor~ to kiss her father
tenderly on his forehead. "As for that young man, it's not his face
that makes him ugly. I've loved far uglier in looks in my time. It's
his arrogance, his pride that drives people away. Thinks he's
better than all the rest of us, so he does. Did you know that he
comes from one of the wealthiest families in all of Palanthas? His
father practically funds the Knighthood, they say. And he pays
well for his son to be posted here in Solace, away from the fight-
ing in Sanction and other places. It's small wonder the other
Knights have no respect for him."
  Laura flounced off to the kitchen to refill her father's plate.
  Caramon stared after his daughter in astonishment. He'd
been eating breakfast with this young man every day for the past
two months, and he had no notion of any of this. They'd devel-
oped what he considered a close relationship, and here was
Laura, who'd never said anything to the young Knight beyond,
"Sugar for your tea?" knowing his life's history.
  "Women," Caramon said to himself, basking in the sunlight.
"Eighty years old and I might as well be sixteen again. I didn't
understand them then, and I don't understand them now."
  Laura returned with a plate of eggs piled high with spiced po-
tatoes on the side. She gave her father another kiss and went
about her day.
  "She's so much like her mother, though," Caramon said
fondly and ate his second plate of eggs with relish.

  Gerard uth Mondar was thinking about women, as well, as he
waded through the ankle-deep mud. Gerard would have agreed
with Caramon that women were creatures not to be understood
by men. Caramon liked women, however. Gerard neither liked
them nor trusted them. Once when he had been fourteen and
newly recovered from the illness that had destroyed his looks, a
neighbor girl had laughed at him and called him "pock face."
  Discovered in gulping tears by his mother, he was comforted
by his mother, who said, "Pay no attention to the stupid chit, my
son. Women will love you one day." And then she had added, in
a vague afterthought, "You are very rich, after all."
  Fourteen years later, he would wake in the night to hear the
girl's shrill, mocking laughter, and his soul would cringe in
shame and embarrassment. He would hear his mother's counsel
and his embarrassment would bum away in anger, an anger
that burned all the hotter because his mother had proved a
prophetess. The "stupid chit" had thrown herself at Gerard
when they were both eighteen and she had come to realize that
money could make the ugliest weed beautiful as a rose. He had
taken great pleasure in scornfully snubbing her. Ever since that
day, he had suspected that any woman who looked at him with
any interest whatsoever was secretly calculating his worth, all
the while masking her disgust for him with sweet smiles and
fluttering lashes.
  Mindful of the precept that the best offense is a good de-
fense, Gerard had built a most excellent fortress around himsel£
a fortress bristling with sharp barbs, its walls stocked with
buckets of acidic comments, its high towers hidden in a cloud of
dark humors, the entire fortress surrounded by a moat of sullen
resentment.
  His fortress proved extremely good at keeping out men, as
well. Laura's gossip was more accurate than most. Gerard uth
Mondar did indeed come from one of the wealthiest families in
Palanthas, probably one of the wealthiest in all of Ansalon. Prior
to the Chaos War, Gerard's father, Mondar uth Alfric, had been
the owner of the most successful shipyard in Palanthas. Foresee-
ing the rise of the Dark Knights, Sir Mondar had wisely con-
verted as much of his property into good solid steel as possible
and moved his family to Southern Ergoth, where he started his
shipbuilding and repairing business anew, a business which was
now thriving.
  Sir Mondar was a powerful force among the Knights of So-
lamnia. He contributed more money than any other Knight to the
support and maintenance of the Knighthood. He had seen to it
that his son became a Knight, had seen to it that his son had the
very best, the safest posting available. Mondar had never asked
Gerard what he wanted from life. The elder Knight took it for
granted that his son wanted to be a Knight and the son had taken
it for granted himself until the very night he was holding vigil
before the ceremony of knighthood. In that night, a vision came
to him, not a vision of glory and honor won on the battlefield, but
a vision of a sword rusting away in its scabbard, a vision of run-
ning errands and posting guard detail over dust and ashes that
didn't need guarding.
  Too late to back out. To do so would break a family tradition
that supposedly extended back to Vinas Solamnus. His father
would renounce him, hate him forever. His mother, who had sent
out hundreds of invitations to a celebratory party, would take to
her bed for a month. Gerard had gone through with the cere-
mony. He had taken his vow, a vow he considered meaningless.
He had donned the armor that had become his prison.
  He had served in the Knighthood now for seven years, one of
which had been spent in the "honorary" duty of guarding a
bunch of corpses. Before that, he'd brewed tar-bean tea and writ-
ten letters for his commanding officer in Southern Ergoth. He
had requested posting to Sanction and had been on the verge of
leaving, when the city was attacked by the armies of the Knights
of Neraka and his father had seen to it that his son was sent in-
stead to Solace. Returning to the fortress, Gerard cleaned the
mud from his boots and left to join the fellow of his watch, taking
up his hated and detested position of honor before the Tomb of
the Last Heroes.
  The tomb was a simple structure of elegant design, built by
dwarves of white marble and black obsidian. The tomb was sur-
rounded by trees, that had been planted by the elves, and which
bore fragrant flowers all year long. Inside lay the bodies of Tanis
Half-elven, fallen hero of the battle of the High Clerist's Tower,
and Steel Brightblade, son of Sturm Brightblade and the hero of
the final battle against Chaos. Here also were the bodies of the.
knights who had fought the Chaos god. Above the door of the
tomb was written a single name, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, the kender
hero of the Chaos war.
  Kender came from allover Ansalon to pay tribute to their
hero, feasting and picnicking on the lawns, singing songs of
Uncle Tas and telling stories about his brave deeds. Unfortu-
nately, some years after the tomb had been built, the kender took
it into their heads to each come away with a piece of the tomb for
luck. To this end, they began to attack the tomb with chisels and
hammers, forcing the Solamnic knights to erect a wrought-iron
fence around the tomb that was starting to have the appearance
of being nibbled by mice.
  The sun blazing down on him, his armor baking him slowly as
Laura was slowly baking her beef roast, Gerard marched with slow
and solemn step the one hundred paces that took him from the left
of the tomb to the center. Here he met his fellow who had marched
an equal distance. They saluted one another. Turning, they saluted
the fallen heroes. Turning, they marched back, each guard's mo-
tions mirroring exactly the motions of the guard opposite.
  One hundred paces back. One hundred paces forth.
  Over and over and over.
  An honor to some, such as the Knight who stood watch this
day with Gerard. This Knight had purchased this posting with
blood, not with money. The veteran Knight walked his beat with
a slight limp, but he walked it proudly. Small blame to him that
every time he came face to face with Gerard, he regarded him
with lip-curling enmity.
  Gerard marched back and forth. As the day progressed,
crowds gathered, many having traveled to Solace especially for
this holiday. Kender arrived in droves, spreading lunches on the
lawn, eating and drinking, dancing and playing games of goblin
ball and kender-keep-away. The kender loved to watch the
Knights, loved to annoy them. The kender danced around the
Knights, tried to make them smile, tickled them, rapped on their
armor, called them "Kettle Head" and "Canned Meat," offered
them food, thinking they might be hungry.
  Gerard uth Mondar disliked humans. He distrusted elves. He
hated kender. Actively hated them. Detested them. He hated all
kender equally, including the so-called "afflicted" kender, whom
most people now viewed with pity. These kender were survivors
of an attack by the great dragon Malys on their homeland. They
were said to have seen such acts of violence and cruelty that their
merry, innocent natures had been forever altered, leaving them
much like humans: suspicious, cautious, and vindictive. Gerard
didn't believe this "afflicted" act. To his mind, it was just another
sneaky way for kender to get their grubby little hands into a
man's pockets.
  Kender were like vermin. They could flatten their boneless
little bodies and crawl into any structure made by man or dwarf.
Of this Gerard was firmly convinced, and so he was only a little
surprised when, sometime nearing the end of his watch, drawing
on late afternoon, he heard a shrill voice hallooing and hollering.
The voice came from inside the tomb.
"I say!" cried the voice. "Could someone let me out? It's ex-
tremely dark in here, and I can't find the door handle."
  The partner of Gerard's watch actually missed a step. Halting,
he turned to stare. "Did you hear that?" he demanded, regarding
the tomb with frowning concern. "It sounded like someone was
in there."
  "Hear what?" Gerard said, though he himself had heard it
plainly. "You're imagining things."
  But they weren't. The noise grew louder. Knocking and
pounding were now added to the hallooing and hollering.
  "Hey, I heard a voice inside the tomb!" shouted a kender
child, who had dashed forward to retrieve a ball that had
bounced off Gerard's left foot. The kender put his face to the
fence, pointed inside at the tomb's massive and sealed doors.
"There's someone trapped in the tomb! And it wants outfIt
  The crowd of kender and other residents of Solace who had
come to pay their respects to the dead by swilling ale and munch-
ing cold chicken forgot their suppers and their games. Gasping in
wonder, they crowded around the fence, nearly overrunning the
Knights.
  "They buried someone alive in there!" a girl screamed. -
  The crowd surged forward.
  "Keep back!" Gerard shouted, drawing his sword. "This is
holy ground! Any who desecrates it will be arrested! Randolph,
go and get reinforcements! We need to clear this area."
  "I suppose it could be a ghost," his fellow Knight speculated,
his eyes glowing with awe. "A ghost of one of the fallen Heroes
come back to warn us of dire peril."
  Gerard snorted. "You've been listening to too many bards'
tales! It's nothing more than one of these filthy little vermin who's
got himself inside there and can't get out. I have the key to the
fence, but I have no idea how to open the tomb."
  The banging on the door was growing louder.
  The Knight cast Gerard a disgusted glance. "I will go fetch the
provost. He'll know what to do."
Randolph pelted off, holding his sword to his side to keep it
from clanking against his armor.
  "Get away! Move aside!" Gerard ordered in firm tones.
  He drew out the key and, putting his back against the gate,
keeping his face to the crowd, he fumbled around behind his back
until he managed to fit the key into the lock. Hearing it click, he
opened the gate, much to the delight of the crowd, several of
whom endeavored to push through. Gerard walloped the boldest
with the flat of his sword, drove them back a few moments, time
enough for him to hastily dodge inside the fence gate and slam it
shut behind him.
  The crowd of humans and kender pressed in around the
fence. Children poked their heads through the bars, promptly got
their heads stuck, and began to wail. Some climbed the bars in a
futile attempt to crawl over, while others thrust their hands and
arms and legs inside for no logical reason that Gerard could see,
which only went to prove what he'd long suspected-that his
fellow mortals were ninnies.
  The Knight made certain the gate was locked and secure and
then walked over to the tomb, intending to post himself at the
entrance until the Provost came with some means of breaking
the seal.
  He was climbing the marble and obsidian stairs when he
heard the voice say cheerfully, "Oh, never mind. I've got it!"
  A loud snick, as of a lock being tripped, and the doors to the
tomb began to slowly creak open.
  The crowd gasped in thrilled horror and crowded nearer the
fence, each trying to get the best view possible of the Knight
being ripped apart by hordes of skeletal warriors.
  A figure emerged from the tomb. It was dusty, dirty, its hair
windswept, its clothes in disarray and singed, its pouches rather
mangled and worse for wear. But it wasn't a skeleton. It wasn't a
blood-sucking vampire or an emaciated ghoul.
  It was a kender.
  The crowd groaned in disappointment.
  The kender peered out into the bright sunlight and blinked,
half-blinded. "Hullo," he said. "I'm-" The kender paused to
sneeze. "Sorry. It's extremely dusty in there. Someone should really
do something about that. Do you have a handkerchief? I seem to
have mislaid mine. Well, it actually belonged to Tanis, but I don't
suppose he'll be wanting it back now that he's dead. Where am I?"
  "Under arrest," said Gerard. Laying firm hands upon the
kender, the Knight hauled him down the stairs.
  Understandably disappointed that they weren't going to wit-
ness a battle between the Knight and the undead, the crowd re-
turned to their picnics and playing goblin ball.
  "I recognize this place," said the kender, staring about instead
of watching where he was going and consequently tripping
himself. "I'm in Solace. Good! That's where I meant to come. My
name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot, and I'm here to speak at the funeral
of Caramon Majere, so if you could just take me to the Inn
quickly, I really do have to get back. You see, there's this giant foot
about to come down-blam! right on top of me, and that's some-
thing I don't want to miss, and now then-"
  Gerard put the key into the gate lock, turned it and opened
the gate. He gave the kender a shove that sent him sprawling.
"The only place you're going is off to jail. You've done enough
mischief already."
  The kender picked himself up cheerfully, not at all angry or
disconcerted. "Awfully nice of you to find me a place to spend the
night. Not that I'll be here that long. I've come to speak. . ." He
paused. "Did I mention that I was Tasslehoff Burrfoot?"
  Gerard grunted, not interested. He took firm hold of the
kender and stood waiting with him until someone came to take
the little bastard off his hands. 
  "The Tasslehoff," said the kender. 
  Gerard cast a weary glance out over the crowd and shouted,
  "Everyone named Tasslehoff Burrfoot raise his hand!"
  Thirty-seven hands shot up in the air and two dogs barked:
  "Oh, my!" said the kender clearly taken aback. 
  "You can see why I'm not impressed," said Gerard and searched 
hopefully for some sign that relief was on the way. 
  "I don't suppose it would matter if I told you that I was the
original Tasslehoff . . . No, I guess not." The kender sighed and
stood fidgeting in the hot sun. His hand, strictly out of boredom,
found its way into Gerard's money pouch, but Gerard was pre-
pared for that and gave the kender a swift and nasty crack across
the knuckles.
  The kender sucked his bruised hand. "What's all this?" He
looked around at the people larking and frolicking upon the
lawn. "What are these people doing here? Why aren't they at-
tending Caramon's funeral? It's the biggest event Solace has
ever seen!"
  "Probably because Caramon Majere is not dead yet" said
Gerard caustically. "Where is that good-for-nothing provost?"
  "Not dead?" The kender stared. "Are you sure?"
  "I had breakfast with him myself this very morning," Gerard
replied.
"Oh, no!" The kender gave a heartbroken wail and slapped him-
self on the forehead. "I've gone and goofed it up again! And I don't
suppose that now I've got time to try it a third time. What with the
giant foot and all." He began to rummage about in his pouch. "Still,
I guess I had better try. Now, where did I put that device--"
  Gerard glowered around as he tightened his grip on the collar
of the kender's dusty jacket. The thirty-seven kender named
Tasslehoff had all come over to meet number thirty-eight.
  "The rest of you, clear out!" Gerard waved his hand as if he
were shooing chickens.
  Naturally, the kender ignored him. Though extremely disap-
pointed that Tasslehoff hadn't turned out to be a shambling
zombie, the kender were interested to hear where he'd been, what
he'd seen and what he had in his pouches.
  "Want some Midyear Day's cake?" asked a pretty female
kender.
  "Why, thank you. This is quite good. I-" The kender's eyes
opened wide. He tried to say something, couldn't speak for the
cake in his mouth, and ended up half choking himself. His fellow
kender obligingly pounded him on the back. He bolted the cake,
coughed, and gasped out, "What day is this?"
  "Midyear's Day!" cried everyone.
  "Then I haven't missed it!" the kender shouted triumphantly.
"In fact, this is better than I could have hoped! I'll get to tell Cara-
mon what I'm going to say at his funeral tomorrow! He'll proba-
bly find it extremely interesting."
  The kender looked up into the sky. Spotting the position of the
sun, which was about half-way down, heading for the horizon, he
said, "Oh, dear. I don't have all that much time. If you'll just
excuse me, I had best be running."
  And run he did, leaving Gerard standing flat-footed on the
grassy lawn, a kender jacket in his hand.
  Gerard spent one baffled moment wondering how the imp
had managed to wriggle out of his jacket, yet still retain all his
pouches, which were jouncing and bouncing as he ran, spilling
their contents to the delight of the thirty-seven Tassleho£fs. Con-
cluding that this was a phenomenon that, much like the depar-
ture of the gods, he would never understand, Gerard was about
to run after the errant kender, when he remembered that he could
not leave his post unguarded.
At this juncture, the provost came into sight, accompanied by
an entire detail of Solamnic Knights solemnly arrayed in their
best armor to welcome back the returning Heroes, for this is what
they had understood they were going to be meeting.
"  Just a kender, sir," Gerard explained. "Somehow he man-
aged to get himself locked inside the tomb. He let himself out. He
got away from me, but I think I know where he's headed."
  The provost, a stout man who loved his ale, turned very red
in the face. The Knights looked extremely foolish-the kender
were now dancing around them in a circle-and all looked very
black at Gerard, whom they clearly blamed for the entire incident.
  "Let them," Gerard muttered, and dashed off after his prisoner.
  The kender had a good head start. He was quick and nimble
and accustomed to fleeing pursuit. Gerard was strong and a swift
runner, but he was encumbered by his heavy, ceremonial armor,
which clanked and rattled and jabbed him uncomfortably in sev-
eral tender areas. He would likely have never even caught sight
of the felon had not the kender stopped at several junctures to
look around in amazement, demanding loudly to know, "Where
did this come from?" staring at a newly built garrison, and, a little
farther on, "What are all these doing here?" This in reference to
the refugee housing. And "Who put that there?" This to a large
sign posted by the town fathers proclaiming that Solace was a
town in good standing and had paid its tribute to the dragon and
was therefore a safe place to visit.
  The kender seemed extremely disconcerted by the sign. He
stood before it, eyeing it severely. "That can't stay there," he said
loudly. "It will block the path of the funeral procession."
  Gerard thought he had him at this point, but the kender gave
a bound and a leap and dashed off again. Gerard was forced to
halt to catch his breath. Running in the heavy armor in the heat
caused his head to swim and sent little shooting stars bursting
across his vision. He was close to the Inn, however, and he had
the grim satisfaction of seeing the kender dash up the stairs and
through the front door.
  "Good," Gerard thought grimly. "I have him."
Removing his helm, he tossed it to the ground, and leaned
back against the signpost until his breathing returned to normal,
while he watched the stairs to make certain the kender didn't
depart. Acting completely against regulations, Gerard divested
himself of the pieces of armor that were chafing him the worst,
wrapped them in his cloak, and stashed the bundle in a dark
corner of the Inn's woodshed. He then walked over to the com-
munity water barrel and plunged the gourd deep into the water.
The barrel stood in a shady spot beneath one of the vallen-
woods. The water was cool and sweet. Gerard kept one eye on
the door of the Inn and, lifting the dipper, dumped the water
over his head.
  The water trickled down his neck and breast, wonderfully
refreshing. He took a long drink, slicked back his hair, wiped his
face, picked up his helm and, tucking it beneath his arm, made
the long ascent up the stairs to the Inn. He could hear the
kender's voice quite clearly. Judging by his formal tones and un-
naturally deep voice, the kender appeared to be making a
speech.
  "Caramon Majere was a very great hero. He fought dragons
and undead and goblins and hobgoblins and ogres and draconi-
ans and lots of others I can't remember. He traveled back in time
with this very device-right here, this very device-' II The
kender resumed normal speech for a moment to say, I'Then I
show the crowd the device, Caramon. I'd show you that part, but
I can't quite seem to find it right now. Don't worry, I won't let
anyone touch it. Now, where was I?"
  A pause and the sound of paper rustling.
  Gerard continued climbing the stairs. He had never truly no-
ticed just how many stairs there were before. His legs, already
aching and stiff from running, burned, his breath came short. He
wished he'd taken off all his armor. He was chagrined to see how
far he'd let himself go. His formerly strong athlete's body was
soft as a maiden's. He stopped on the landing to rest and heard
the kender launch back into his speech.
  "Caramon Majere traveled back in time. He saved Lady
Crysania from the Abyss.' She'll be here, Caramon. She'll fly
here on the back of a silver dragon. Goldmoon will be here, too,
and Riverwind will come and their beautiful daughters and Sil-
vanoshei, the king of the United Elven Nations, will be here,
along with Gilthas, the new ambassador to the United Human
Nations, and, of course, Laurana. Even Oalamar will be here!
Think of that, Caramon! The Head of the Conclave coming to
your funeral. He'll be standing right over there next to Palin,
who's head of the White Robes, but then I guess you already
know that, him being your son and all. At least, I think that's
where they were standing. The last time I was here for your fu-
neral I came after it was all over and everyone was going home.
I heard about it later from Palin, who said that they were sorry.
If they'd known I was coming they would have waited. I felt a
bit insulted, but Palin said that they all thought I was dead,
which I am, of course, only not at the moment. And because I
missed your funeral the first time, that's why I had to try to hit
it agam.
  Gerard groaned. Not only did he have to deal with a kender,
he had to deal with a mad kender. Probably one of those who
claimed to be "afflicted." He felt badly for Caramon, hoped the
old man wasn't too upset by this incident. Caramon would prob-
ably be understanding. For reasons passing Gerard's compre-
hension, Caramon seemed to have a soft spot for the little
nuisances.
  "So anyway my speech goes on," the kender said. " 'Caramon
Majere did all these things and more. He was a great hero and a
great warrior, but do you know what he did best?' " The kender's
voice softened. " 'He was a great friend. He was my friend, my
very best friend in all of the world. I came back-or rather I came
forward-to say this because I think it's important, and Fizban
thought it was important, too, which is why he let me come. It
seems to me that being a great friend is more important than
being a great hero or a great warrior. Being a good friend is the
most important thing there is. Just think, if everyone in the world
were great friends, then we wouldn't be such terrible enemies.
Some of you here are enemies now-' I look at Dalamar at this
point, Caramon. I look at him very sternly, for he's done some
things that haven't been at all nice. And then I go on and say, 'But
you people are here today because you were friends with this one
man and he was your friend, just like he was mine. And so maybe
when we lay Caramon Majere to rest, we will each leave his grave
with friendlier feelings toward everyone. And maybe that will be
the beginning of peace.' And then I bow and that's the end. What
do you think?"
  Gerard arrived in the doorway in time to see the kender jump
down off a table, from which vantage point he'd been delivering
his speech, and run over to stand in front of Caramon. Laura was
wiping her eyes on the comers of her apron. Her gully dwarf
helper blubbered shamelessly in a comer, while the Inn's patrons
were applauding wildly and banging their mugs on the table,
shouting "Hear, hear!"
  Caramon Majere sat in one of the high-backed booths. He was
smiling, a smile touched by the last golden rays of the sun, rays
that seem to have slipped into the Inn on purpose just to say
goodnight.
  "I'm sorry this had to happen, sir," said Gerard, walking
inside. "I didn't realize he would trouble you. I'll take him away
now."
  Caramon reached out his hand and stroked the kender's top-
knot, the hair of which was standing straight up, like the fur of a
startled cat.
  "He's not bothering me. I'm glad to see him again. That part
about friendship was wonderful, Tas. Truly wonderful. Thank
you."
  Caramon frowned, shook his head. "But I don't understand
the rest of what you said, Tas. All about the United Elven Na-
tions and Riverwind coming to the Inn when he's been dead
these many years. Something's peculiar here. I'll have to think
about it." Caramon stood up from the booth and headed
toward the door. "I'll just be taking my evening walk, now,
Laura."
  "Your dinner will be waiting when you come back, Father,"
she said. Smoothing her apron, she shook the gully dwarf, or-
dered him to pull himself together and get back to work.
  "Don't think about it too long, Caramon," Tas called out. "Be-
cause of . . . well, you know."
  He looked up at Gerard, who had laid a firm hand on the
kender's shoulder, getting a good grip on flesh and bone this time.
  "It's because he's going to be dead pretty soon," Tas said in a
loud whisper. "I didn't like to mention that. It would have been
rude, don't you think?"
  "I think you're going to spend the next year in prison," said
Gerard sternly.
  Caramon Majere stood at the top of the stairs. "Yes, Tika, dear.
I'm coming," he said. Putting his hand over his heart, he pitched
forward, headfirst.
  The kender tore himself free of Gerard, flung himself to the
floor, and burst into tears.
  Gerard moved swiftly, but he was too late to halt Caramon's
fall. The big man tumbled and rolled down the stairs of his
beloved Inn. Laura screamed. The patrons cried out in shock and
alarm. People in the street, seeing Caramon falling, began to run
toward the Inn.
  Gerard dashed down the stairs as fast as ever he could and
was the first to reach Caramon. He feared to find the big man in
terrible pain, for he must have broken every bone in his body.
Caramon did not appear to be suffering however. He had already
left mortal cares and pain behind, his spirit lingering only long
enough to say good-bye. Laura threw herself beside him on the
ground. Taking hold of his hand, she held it pressed to her lips.
  "Don't cry, my dear," he said softly, smiling. "Your mother's
here with me. She'll take good care of me. I'll be fine."
  "Oh, Daddy!" Laura sobbed. "Don't leave me yet!"
Caramon's eyes glanced around at the townspeople who had
gathered. He smiled and gave a little nod. He continued to search
through the crowd and he frowned.
  "But where's Raistlin?" he asked.
  Laura looked startled, but said, brokenly, "Father, your
brother's been dead a long, long time-"
  "He said he would wait for me," Caramon said, his voice be-
ginning strong, but growing fainter. "He should be here. Tika's
here. I don't understand. This is not right. Tas. . . What Tas said
. . . A different future. . ."
  His gaze came to Gerard. He beckoned the Knight to come
near.
  "There's something you must. . . do," said Caramon, his
breath rasping in his chest.
  Gerard knelt beside him, more touched by this man's death
than he could have imagined possible. "Yes, sir," he said. "What
is it?"
  "Promise me . . ." Caramon whispered. "On your honor. . . as
a Knight."
"I promise," said Gerard. He supposed that the old man was
going to ask him to watch over his daughters or to take care of his
grandchildren, one of whom was also a Solamnic Knight. "What
would you have me do, sir?"
  "Dalamar will know. . . . Take Tasslehoff to Dalarnar," Cara-
mon said and his voice was suddenly strong and firm. He looked
intently at Gerard. "Do you promise? Do you swear that you will
do this?"
  "But sir," Gerard faltered, "what you ask of me is impossible!
No one has seen Dalamar for years. Most believe that he is dead.
And as for this kender who calls himself Tasslehoff . . ."
  Caramon reached out his hand, a hand that was bloody from
his fall. He grasped hold of Gerard's most unwilling hand and
gripped it tightly.
  "I promise, sir," said Gerard.
  Caramon smiled. He let out his breath and did not draw an-
other. His eyes fixed in death, fixed on Gerard. The hand, even in
death, did not relinquish its grip. Gerard had to pry the old man's
fingers loose and was left with a smear of blood on his palm.
  "I'll be happy to go with you to see Dalamar, Sir Knight, but I
can't go tomorrow," said the kender, snuffling and wiping his
tear-grimed face with the sleeve of his shirt. "1 have to speak at
Caramon's funeral."

                     CHAPTER FOUR
                 A STRANGE AWAKENING

  Silvan's arm was on fire. He couldn't put out the blaze, and
no one would come help him. He called out for Samar and
for his mother, but his calls went unanswered. He was
angry, deeply angry, angry and hurt that they would not come,
that they were ignoring him. Then he realized that the reason they
were not coming was that they were angry with him. He had
failed them. He had let them down, and they would come to him
no more. . . .
  With a great cry, Silvan woke himself. He opened his eyes to
see above him a canopy of gray. His vision was slightly blurred,
and he mistook the gray mass above him for the gray ceiling of
the burial mound. His arm pained him, and he remembered the
fire. Gasping, he shifted to put out the flames. Pain lanced
through his arm and hammered in his head. He saw no flames,
and he realized dazedly that the fire had been a dream. The pain
in his left arm was not a dream, however. The pain was real. He
examined the arm as best he could, though every movement of
his head cost him a gasp.
  Not much doubt. The arm was broken just above the wrist.
The flesh was swollen so that it looked like a monster arm, a
strange color of greenish purple. He lay back down and stared
around him, feeling sorry for himself, and wondered very
much that his mother did not come to him when he was in such
agony. . . .
  "Mother!" Silvan sat up so suddenly that the pain coiled
round his gut and caused him to vomit.
  He had no idea how he came to be here or even where here
was. He knew where he was supposed to be, knew he had been
dispatched to bring help to his beleagured people. He looked
around, trying to gain some sense of the time. Night had passed.
The sun shone in the sky. He had mistaken a canopy of gray
leaves for the ceiling of the burial mound. Dead gray leaves,
hanging listlessly from dea~ranches. Death had not come natu-
rally, as with the fall of the year, causing them to release their hold
on life and drift in a dream of reds and golds upon the crisp air.
The life had been sucked from leaves and branches, trunk and
roots, leaving them desicated, mummified but still standing, a
husk, an empty mockery of life.
  Silvan had never seen a blight of this kind attack so many
trees before, and his soul shrank from the sight. He could not take
time to consider it, however. He had to complete his mission.
  The sky above was a pearl gray with a strange kind of shim-
mer that he put down to the aftereffects of the storm. Not so many
hours have passed, he told himself. The army could hold out this
long. I have not failed them utterly. I can still bring help.
  He needed to splint his arm, and he searched through the
forest undergrowth for a strong stick. Thinking he'd found what
he sought, he put out his hand to grasp it. The stick disintegrated
beneath his fingers, turned to dust. He stared, startled. The ash
was wet and had a greasy feel to it. Repulsed, he wiped his hand
on his shirt, wet from the rain.
  All around him were gray trees. Gray and dying or gray and
dead. The grass was gray, the weeds gray, the fallen branches
gray, all with that look of having been sucked dry.
  He'd seen something like this before or heard of something
like this. . . . He didn't recall what, and he had no time to think.
He searched with increasingly frantic urgency among the gray-
covered undergrowth for a stick and found one eventually, a
stick that was covered with dust but had not been struck with the
strange blight. Placing the stick on his arm, gasping at the pain,
he gritted his teeth against it. He ripped off a shred of his shirt-
tail and tied the splint in place. He could hear the broken ends of
the bone grind together. The pain and the hideous sound com-
bined to nearly make him pass out. He sat hunched over, his
head down, fighting the nausea, the sudden heat that swept over
his body.
  Finally, the star bursts cleared from his vision. The pain eased
somewhat. Holding his injured left arm close to his body, Silvan
staggered to his feet. The wind had died. He could no longer feel
its guiding touch upon his face. He could not see the sun itself for
the pearl gray clouds, but the light shone brightest in one portion
of the sky, which meant that way must be east. Silvan put his back
to the light and looked to the west.
  He did not remember his fall or what had occurred just prior
to the fall. He began to talk to himself, finding the sound of his
voice comforting.
  "The last thing I remember, I was within sight of the road I
needed to take to reach Sithelnost," he said. He spoke in Sil-
vanesti, the language of his childhood, the language his mother
favored.
  A hill rose up above him. He was standing in the bottom of a
ravine, a ravine he vaguely remembered from the night before.
  "Someone either climbed or fell down into the ravine," he
said, eyeing a crooked trail left in the gray ash that covered the
hillside. He smiled ruefully. "My guess would be that someone
was me. I must have taken a misstep in the darkness, tumbled
down the ravine. Which means," he added, heartened, "the road
must lie right up there. I do not have far to go."
  He began to climb back up the steep sides of the ravine, but
this proved more difficult than he'd supposed. The gray ash had
formed a silt with the rain and was slippery as goose grease. He
slid down the hill twice, jarring his injured arm, causing him
almost to lose consciousness.
  "This will never do," Silvan muttered.
  He stayed at the bottom of the ravine where the walking was
easier, always keeping the top of the hill in sight, hoping to find
an outcropping of rock that would act as a staircase up the slip-
pery slope.
  He stumbled over the uneven ground in a haze of pain and
fear. Every step brought a jolt of pain to his arm. He pushed
himself on, however, trudging through the gray mud that seemed
to try to drag him down among the dead vegetation, searching
for a way out of this gray vale of death that he grew to loathe as
a prisoner loathes his cell.
  He was parched with thirst. The taste of ash filled his mouth,
and he longed for a drink of water to wash it away. He found a
puddle once, but it was covered with a gray film, and he could
not bring himself to drink from it. He staggered on.
  "I have to reach the road," he said and repeated it many times
like a mantra, matching his footfalls to its rhythm. "I have to go
on," he said to himself dreamily, "because if I die down here, I
will turn into one of the gray mummies like the trees and no one
will ever find me."
  The ravine came to a sudden end in a jumble of rock and
fallen trees. Silvan straightened, drew in a deep breath and wiped
chill sweat from his forehead. He rested a moment, then began to
climb, his feet slipping on the rocks, sending him scrabbling back-
ward more than once. Grimly, he pressed on, determined to
escape the ravine if it proved to be the last act of his life. He drew
nearer and nearer the top, up to the point where he thought he
should have been able to see the road.
  He peered out through the boles of the gray trees, certain the
road must be there but unable to see it due to some sort of strange
distortion of the air, a distortion that caused the trees to waver in
his sight.
  Silvan continued to climb.
 "A mirage," he said. "Like seeing water in the middle of the
road on a hot day. It will disappear when I come near it."
  He reached the top of the hill and tried to see through the trees
to the road he knew must lie beyond. In order to keep moving, .
moving through the pain, he had concentrated his focus upon the
road until the road had become his one goal.
  "I have to reach the road," he mumbled, picking up the
mantra. "The road is the end of pain, the road will save me, save
my people. Once I reach the road, I am certain to run into a band
of elven scouts from my mother's army. I will turn over my mis-
sion to them. Then I will lie down upon the road and my pain will
end and the gray ash will cover me . . ."
  He slipped, nearly fell. Fear jolted him out of his terrible
reverie. Silvan stood trembling, staring about, prodding his mind
to return from whatever comforting place it had been trying to
find refuge. He was only a few feet from the road. Here, he was
thankful to see, the trees were not dead, though they appeared to
be suffering from some sort of blight. The leaves were still green,
though they drooped, wilting. The bark of the trunks had an un-
healthy look to it, was staring to drop off in places.
  He looked past them. He could see the road, b\lt he could not
see it clearly. The road wavered in his vision until he grew dizzy
to look at it. He wondered uneasily if this was due to his fall.
  "Perhaps I am going blind," he said to himself.
  Frightened, he turned his head and looked behind him. His
vision cleared. The gray trees stood straight, did not shimmer. Re-
lieved, he looked back to the road. The distortion returned.
  "Strange," he muttered. "1 wonder what is causing this?"
  His walk slowed involuntarily. He studied the distortion
closely. He had the oddest impression that the distortion was like
a cobweb spun by some horrific spider strung between him and
the road, and he was reluctant to come near the shimmer. The dis-
quieting feeling came over him that the shimmering web would
seize him and hold him and suck him dry as it had sucked dry the
trees. Yet beyond the distortion was the road, his goal, his hope.
  He took a step toward the road and came to a sudden halt. He
could not go on. Yet there lay the road, only a few steps away.
Gritting his teeth, he shoved forward, cringing as if he expected
to feel sticky web cling to his face.
  Silvan's way was blocked. He felt nothing. No physical pres-
ence halted him, but he could not move. Rather, he could not
move forward. He could move sideways, he could move back-
ward. He could not move ahead.
  "An invisible barrier. Gray ash. Trees dead and dying," he
murmured.
  He reached into the swirling depths of pain and fear and de-
spair and brought forth the answer.
  "The shield. This is the shield!" he repeated, aghast.
  The magical shield that the Silvanesti had dropped over their
homeland. He had never seen it, but he'd heard his mother de-
scribe it often enough. He had heard others describe the strange
shimmer, the distortion in the air produced by the shield.
  "It can't be," Silvan cried in frustration. "The shield cannot
be here. It is south of my position! I was on the road, traveling
west. The shield was south of me." He twisted, looked up to
find the sun, but the clouds had thickened, and he could not
see it.
  The answer came to him and with it bitter despair. "I'm
turned around," he said. "I've come all this way. . . and it's been
the wrong way!"
  Tears stung his eyelids. The thought of descending this hill, of
going back down into the ravine, of retracing his steps, each step
that had cost him so dearly in pain, was almost too much to bear.
He sank down to the ground, gave way to his misery.
  " Alhana! Mother!" he said in agony, "forgive me! I have failed
you! What have I ever done in life but fail you. . . ?"
  "Who are you who speaks the name that is forbidden to
speak?" said a voice. "Who are you who speaks the name
Alhana?"
  Silvan leaped to his feet. He dashed the tears from his eyes
with a backhand smear, looked about, startled, to see who had
spoken.
  At first he saw only a patch of vibrant, living green, and he
thought that he had discovered a portion of the forest untouched
by the disease that had stricken the rest. But then the patch
moved and shifted and revealed a face and eyes and mouth and
hands, revealed itself to be an elf.
  The elf's eyes were gray as the forest around him, but they
were only reflecting the death he saw, revealing the grief he felt
for the loss.
  "Who am I who speaks my mother's name?" Silvan asked im-
patiently. "Her son, of course." He took a lurching step forward,
hand outstretched. "But the battle. . . Tell me how the battle went!
How did we fare?"
  The elf drew back, away from Silvan's touch. "What battle?"
he asked.
  Silvan stared at the man. As he did so, he noted movement
behind him. Three more elves emerged from the woods. He
would have never seen them had they not stirred, and he won-
dered how long they had been there. Silvan did not recognize
them, but that wasn't unusual. He did not venture out much
among the common soldiers of his mother's forces. She did not
encourage such companionship for her son, who was someday
destined to be king, would one day be their ruler.
  "The battle!" Silvan repeated impatiently. "We were attacked
by ogres in the night! Surely, you must. . ."
  Realization dawned on him. These elves were not dressed for
warfare. They were clad in clothes meant for traveling. They
might well not know of any battle.
  "You must be part of the long-range patrol. You've come back
in good time." Silvan paused, concentrated his thoughts, trying to
penetrate the smothering fog of pain and despair. "We were at-
tacked last night, during the storm. An army of ogres. I . . ." He
paused, bit his lip, reluctant to reveal his failure. "1 was sent to 
fetch aid. The Legion of Steel has a fortress near Sithelnost. Down 
that road." He made a feeble gesture. "1 must have fallen. My arm
is broken. I came the wrong way and now I must backtrack, and 
I don't have the strength. I can't make it, but you can. Take this 
message to the commander of the legion. Tell him that Alhana i1~
Starbreeze is under attack. . . ."
  He stopped speaking. One of the elves had made a sound, a
slight exclamation. The elf in the lead, the first to approach Silvan,
raised his hand to impose silence.
  Silvan was growing increasingly exasperated. He was morti-
fyingly aware that he cut but a poor figure, clutching his 
wounded arm to his side like a hurt bird dragging a wing. But he
was desperate. The time must be midmorning now. He could not
go on. He was very close to collapse. He drew himself up, draped
in the cloak of his title and the dignity it lent him. 
  "You are in the service of my mother, Alhana Starbreeze," he 
said, his voice imperious. "She is not here, but her son, Sil- 
vanoshei, your prince, stands before you. In her name and in my
own, I command you to bear her message calling for deliverance
to the Legion of Steel. Make haste! I am losing patience!"
  He was also rapidly losing his grip on consciousness, but he
didn't want these soldiers to think him weak. Wavering on his
feet, he reached out a hand to steady himself on a tree trunk. The
elves had not moved. They were staring at him now in wary as-
tonishment that widened their almond eyes. They shifted their
gazes to the road that lay beyond the shield, looked back at him.
  "Why do you stand there staring at me?" Silvan cried. "Do as
rou are commanded! I am your prince!" A thought came to him.
You need have no fear of leaving me," he said. "1'11 be all right."
He waved his hand. "Just go! Go! Save our people!"
  The lead elf moved closer, his gray eyes intent upon Silvan,
looking through him, sifting, sorting.
  "What do you mean that you went the wrong way upon the
road ?"
  "Why do you waste time with foolish questions?" Silvan re-
turned angrily. "I will report you to Samar! I will have you de-
moted!" He glowered at the elf, who continued to regard him
steadily. "The shield lies to the south of the road. I was traveling
to Sithelnost. I must have gotten turned around when I fell! Be-
cause the shield. . . the road. . ."
  He turned around to stare behind him. He tried to think this
through, but his head was too muzzy from the pain.
  "It can't be," he whispered.
  No matter what direction he would have taken, he must have
still been able to reach the road, which lay outside the shield.
  The road still lay outside the shield. He was the one who was
inside it.
  "Where am I?" he asked.
  "You are in Silvanesti," answered the elf.
Silvan closed his eyes. All was lost. His failure was complete.
He sank to his knees and pitched forward to lie face down in the
gray ash. He heard voices but they were far away and receding
rapidly.
  "Do you think it is truly him?"
  "Yes. It is."
  "How can you be sure, Rolan? Perhaps it is a trick!"
  "You saw him. You heard him. You heard the anguish in his
voice, you saw the desperation in his eyes. His arm is broken.
Look at the bruises on his face, his tom and muddy clothes. We
found the trail in ash left by his fall. We heard him talking to him-
self when he did not know we were close by. We saw him try to
reach the road. How can you possibly doubt?"
  Silence, then, in a piercing hiss, "But how did he come
through the shield?"
  "Some god sent him to us," said the lead elf, and Silvan felt a
gentle hand touch his cheek.
  "What god?" The other was bitter, skeptical. "There are no
gods."
Silvan woke to find his vision clear, his senses restored. A dull
ache in his head made thinking difficult, and at first he was con-
tent to lie quite still, take in his surroundings, while his brain
scrambled to make sense of what was happening. He remem-
bered the road. . .
  Silvan struggled to sit up.
  A firm hand on his chest arrested his movement.
  "Do not move too hastily. I have set your arm and wrapped it
in a poultice that will speed the healing. But you must take care
not to Jar It.
  Silvan looked at his surroundings. He had the thought at first
that it had all been a dream, that he would wake to find himself
once again in the burial mound. He had not been dreaming,
however. The boles of the trees were the same as he remem-
bered-ugly gray, diseased, dying. The bed of leaves on which
he lay was a deathbed of rotting vegetation. The young trees and
plants and flowers that carpeted the forest floor drooped and
languished.
  Silvanoshei took the elf's counsel and lay back down, more to
give himself time to sort out the confusion over what had hap-
pened to him than because he needed the rest.
  "How do you feel?" The elf's tone was respectful.
  "My head hurts a little," Silvan replied. "But the pain in my
arm is gone."
  "Good," said the elf. "You may sit up then. Slowly, slowly.
Otherwise you will pass out."
  A strong arm assisted Silvan to a seated position. He felt a
brief flash of dizziness and nausea, but he closed his eyes until
the sick feeling passed.
  The elf held a wooden bowl to Silvan's lips.
  "What's this?" he asked, eying with suspicion the brown
liquid the bowl contained.
  " An herbal potion," replied the elf. "I believe that you have
suffered a mild concussion. This will ease the pain in your head
and promote the healing. Come, drink it. Why do you refuse?"
  "I have been taught never to eat or drink anything unless I
know who prepared it and I have seen others taste it first,"
Silvanoshei replied.
  The elf was amazed. "Even from another elf?"
  "Especially from another elf," Silvanoshei replied grimly.
"Ah," said the elf, regarding him with sorrow. "Yes, of course.
I understand."
  Silvan attempted to rise to his feet, but the dizziness assailed
him again. The elf put the bowl to his own lips and drank several
mouthfuls. Then, politely wiping the edge of the bowl, he offered
it again to Silvanoshei.
  "Consider this, young man. If I wanted you dead, I could
have slain you while you were unconscious. Or I could have
simply left you here.1I He cast a glance around at the gray and
withered trees. IIYour death would be slower and more painful,
but it would come to you as it has come to too many of us."
  Silvanoshei thought this over as best he could through the
throbbing of his head. What the elf said made sense. He took the
bowl in unsteady hands and lifted it to his lips. The liquid was
bitter, smelled and tasted of tree bark. The potion suffused his
body with a pleasant warmth. The pain in his head eased, the
dizziness passed.
  Silvanoshei saw that he had been a fool to think this elf was a
member of his mother's army. This elf wore a cloak strange to
Silvan, a cloak made of leather that had the appearance of leaves
and sunlight and grass and brush and flowers. Unless the elf
moved, he would blend into his forest surroundings so perfectly
that he would never be detected. Here in the midst of death, he 
stood out; his cloak retaining the green memory of the living 
forest, as if in defiance.
  "How long have I been unconscious?1I Silvan asked. .
  "Several hours from when we found you this morning. It is 
Midyear's Day, if that helps you in your reckoning."
  Silvan glanced around. IIWhere are the others?1I He had the 
thought that they might be in hiding. ~
  "  Where they need to be,1I the elf answered.
  "I thank you for helping me. You have business elsewhere,
and so do I "Silvan rose to his feet. "I must go. It may be too late.
. . ." He tasted bitter gall in his mouth, took a moment to choke it 
down. "I must still fulfiil my mission. If you will show me the 
place I can use to pass back through the shield. . ."
  The elf regarded him with that same strange intensity. "There
is no way through the shield."
"But there has to be!1I Silvan retorted angrily. I "came through,
didn't I?" He glanced back at the trees standing near the road, I
saw the strange distortion. "I'll go back to the point where I fell.
I'll pass through there."
  Grimly, he started off, retracing his steps. The elf said no word
to halt him but accompanied him, following after him in silence.
  Could his mother and her army have held out against the
ogres this long? Silvan had seen the army perform some incredi-
ble feats. He had to believe the answer was yes. He had to believe
there was still time.
  Silvan found the place where he must have entered the shield,
found the trail his body had left as it rolled down the ravine. The
gray ash had been slippery when he'd first tried to climb back up,
but it had dried now. The way was easier. Taking care not to jar
his injured arm, Silvan clambored up the hill. The elf waited in
the bottom of the ravine, watching in silence.
  Silvan reached the shield. As before, he was loathe to touch it.
Yet here, this place, was where he'd entered it before, however
unknowingly. He could see the gouge his boot heel had made in
the mud. He could see the fallen tree crossing the path. Some dim
memory of attempting to circumvent it returned.
  The shield itself was not visible, except as a barely percepti-
ble shimmer when the sun struck it at exactly the correct angle.
Other than that the only way he could tell the shield was before
him was by its effect on his view of the trees and plants beyond
it. He was reminded of heat waves rising from a sun-baked road,
causing everything visible behind the waves to ripple in a mock-
ery of water.
  Gritting his teeth, Silvan walked straight into the shield.
  The barrier would not let him pass. Worse, wherever he
touched the shield, he felt a sickening sensation, as if the shield had
pressed gray lips against his flesh and was seeking to suck him dry.
  Shuddering, Silvan backed away. He would not try that again.
He glared at the shield in impotent fury. His mother had worked
for months to penetrate that barrier and for months she had
failed. She had thrown armies against it only to see them flung
back. At peril to her own life, she had ridden her griffon into it
without success. What could he do against it one elf.
  "Yet" Silvan argued in frustration. "I am inside it! The shield
let me in. It will let me out! There must be a way. The elf. It must
have something to do with the elf. He and his cohorts have
entrapped me, imprisoned me."
Silvan whipped around to find the elf still standing at the
bottom of the ravine. Silvan scrambled down the slope, half-falling,
slipping and sliding on the rain-wet grass. The sun was sinking.
Midyear's Day was the longest day of the year, but it must even-
tually give way to night. He reached the bottom of the ravine.
  "You brought me in here!" Silvan said, so angry that he had to
suck in a huge breath to even force the words out. "You will let me
out. You have to let me out!"
  "That was the bravest thing I ever saw a man do." The elf cast
a dark glance at the shield. "I myself cannot bear to come near it,
and I am no coward. Brave, yet hopeless. You cannot pass. None
can pass."
  "You lie!" Silvan raged. "You dragged me inside here. Let me
out!"
  Without really knowing what he was doing, he reached out
his hand to seize the elf by the throat and choke him, force him to
obey, frighten him into obeying.
  The elf caught hold of Silvan's wrist, gave it an expert twist,
and before he knew what was happening, Silvan found himself
on his knees on the ground. The elf immediately released him.
  "You are young, and you are in trouble. You do not know me.
I make allowances. My name is Rolan. I am one of the kirath. My
companions and I found you lying at the bottom of the ravine.
That is the truth. If you know of the kirath, you know that we do
not lie. I do not know how you came through the shield."
  Silvan had heard his parents speak of the kirath, a band of
elves who patrolled the borders of Silvanesti. The kirath's duty
was to prevent the entrance of outsiders into Silvanesti.
  Silvan sighed and lowered his head to his hands.
  "I have failed them! Failed them, and now they will die!"
Rolan came near, put his hand upon the young elf's shoulder.
  "You spoke your name before when we first found you, but I
would ask that you give it to me again. There is no need to fear
and no reason to keep your identity a secret, unless, of course," he
added delicately, "you bear a name of which you are ashamed."
  Silvan looked up, stung. "I bear my name proudly. I speak it
proudly. If my name brings about my death, so be it." His voice
faltered, trembled. "The rest of my people are dead, by now. Dead
or dying. Why should I be spared?"
  He blinked the tears from his eyes, looked at his captor. "I am
the son of those you term' dark elves' but who are, in truth, the
only elves to see clearly in the darkness that covers us all. I am the
son of Alhana Starbreeze and Porthios of the Qualinesti. My
name is Silvanoshei."
  He expected laughter. Disbelie£ certainly.
  " And why do you think your name would bring death to you,
Silvanoshei of the House of Caldaron ?" Rolan asked calmly.
  "Because my parents are dark elves. Because elven assassins
have tried more than once to kill them," Silvan returned.
  "Yet Alhana Starbreeze and her armies have tried many times
to penetrate the shield, to enter into this land where she is outlaw.
I have myself seen her, as I and my fellows walked the border
lands."
  "I thought you were forbidden to speak her name," Silvan
muttered sullenly.
  "We are forbidden to do many things in Silvanesti," Rolan
added. "The list grows daily, it seems. Why does Alhana Star-
breeze want to return to a land that does not want her?
  "This is her home," Silvan answered. "Where else would she
come?"
  "And where else would her son come?" Rolan asked gently.
  "Then you believe me?" Slivan asked.
  "I knew your mother and your father, Your Highness," Rolan
replied. "I was a gardener for the unfortunate King Lorac before
the war. I knew your mother when she was a child. I fought with
your father Porthios against the dream. You favor him in looks,
but there is something of her inside you that brings her closer to
the mind. Only the faithless do not believe. The miracle has oc-
curred. You have returned to us. It does not surprise me that for
you, Your Highness, the shield would part."
  "Yet it will not let me out" said Silvan dryly.
  "Perhaps because you are where you are supposed to be, Your
Highness. Your people need you."
  "If that is true, then why don't you lift the shield and let my
mother return to her kingdom?" Silvanoshei demanded. "Why
keep her out? Why keep your own people out? The elves who
fight for her are in peril. My mother would not now be battling
ogres, would not be trapped-"
  Rolan's face darkened. "Believe me, Your Majesty. If we, the
kirath, could take down this accursed shield, we would. The
shield casts a pall of despair on those who venture near it. It kills
every living thing it touches. Look! Look at this, Your Majesty.1I
  Rolan pointed to the corpse of a squirrel lying on the ground,
her young lying dead around her. He pointed to golden birds
buried in the ash, their song forever silenced.
  "Thus our people are slowly dying,lI he said sadly."
  " What is this you say?"Silvan was shocked. IIDYing?"
  "Many people, young and old, contract a wasting sickness for
which there is no cure. Their skin turns gray as the skin of these
poor trees, their limbs wither, their eyes dull. First they cannot
run without tiring, then they cannot walk, then they cannot stand
or sit. They waste away until death claims them.
  "Then why don't you take down the shield? "Silvan demanded.
  "We have tried to convince the people to unite and stand
against General Konnal and the Heads of House, who decided to
raise the shield. But most refuse to heed our words. They say the
sickness is a plague brought to us from the outside: The shield is
all that stands between them and the evils of the world. If it is re-
moved, we all will die."
  "Perhaps they are right," Silvan said, glancing back through
the shield, thinking of the ogres attacking in the night. "There is
no plague striking down elves, at least none that I have heard of.
But there are other enemies. The world is fraught with danger. In
here, at least you are safe."
  "Your father said that we elves had to join the world, become
a part of it," Rolan replied with a grim smile. IIOtherwise we
would wither away and die, like a branch that is cut from the tree
or the-"
  "-rose stripped from the bush," Silvan said and smiled in
remembrance. IIWe haven't heard from my father in a long
time," he added, looking down at the gray ash and smoothing
it with the toe of his boot. "He was fighting the great dragon
Beryl near Qualinesti, a land she holds in thrall. Some believe
he is dead-my mother among them, although she refuses to
admit it."
  "If he died, he died fighting for a cause he believed in," Rolan
said.IIHis death has meaning. Though it may seem pointless now,
his sacrifice will help destroy the evil, bring back the light to drive
away the darkness. He died a living man! Defiant, courageous.
When our people die," Rolan continued, his voice taking on
increasing bitterness, "one hardly notices their passing. The
feather flutters and falls limp."
  He looked at Silvan. "You are young, vibrant, alive. I feel the
life radiate from you, as once I felt it radiate from the sun. Con-
trast yourself with me. You see it, don't you: the fact that I am
withering away? That we are all slowly being drained of life?
Look at me, Your Highness. You can see I am dying."
  Silvan did not know what to say. Certainly the elf was paler
than normal, his skin had a gray tinge to it, but Silvan had put
that down to age, perhaps, or to the gray dust. He recalled now
that the other elves he had seen bore the same gaunt, hollow-
eyed look.
  "Our people will see you, and they will see by contrast what
they have lost," Rolan pursued. "This is the reason you have been
sent to us. To show them that there is no plague in the world out-
side. The only plague is within." Rolan laid his hand on his heart.
"Within us! You will tell the people that if we rid ourselves of this
shield, we will restore our land and ourselves to life."
  Though my own has ended, Silvan said to himself. The pain
returned. His head ached. His armed throbbed. Rolan regarded
him with concern.
  "You do not look well, Your Highness. We should leave this
place. We have lingered near the shield too long already. You
must come away before the sickness strikes you, as well."
  Silvanoshei shook his head. "Thank you, Rolan, but I caanot
leave. The Shield may yet open and let me out as it has let me m."
  "If you stay here, you will die, Your Majesty," said Rolan.
"Your mother would not want that. She would want you to come
to Silvanost and to claim your rightful place upon the throne."
  You will someday sit upon the throne of the United Elven Nations,
Silvanoshei. On that day, you will right the wrongs of the past. You will
purge our people of the sins we elves have committed, the sin of pride,
the sin of prejudice, the sin of hatred. These sins have brought about our
ruin. You will be our redemption.
  His mother's words. He remembered the very first time she
had spoken them. He had been five or six. They were camping in
the wilderness near Qualinesti. It was night. Silvan was asleep.
Suddenly a cry pierced his dreams, brought him wide awake. The
fire burned low, but by its light he could see his father grappling
with what seemed a shadow. More shadows surrounded them.
He saw nothing else because his mother flung her body over his,
pressed him to the ground. He could not see, he could not
breathe, he could not cry out. Her fear, her warmth, her weight
crushed and smothered him.
  And then it was allover. His mother's warm, dark weight was
lifted from him. Alhana held him in her arms, cradling him,
weeping and kissing him and asking him to forgive her if she
hurt him. She had a bloody gash on her thigh. His father bore a
deep knife wound in his shoulder, just missing the heart. The
bodies of three elves, clad all in black, lay around the fire. Years
later Silvanoshei woke suddenly in the night with the cold real-
ization that one of those assassins had been sent to murder him.
  They dragged away the bodies, left them to the wolves, not
considering them worthy of proper burial rites. His mother
rocked him to sleep, and she spoke those words to him to comfort
him. He would hear them often, again and again.
  Perhaps now she was dead. His father dead. Their dream
lived, however, lived in him.
  He turned away from the shield. "1 will come with you," he
said to Rolan of the kirath.

                    CHAPTER FIVE
                    THE HOLY FIRE   

  In the old days, the glory days, before the War of the Lance,
the road that led from Neraka to the port city of Sanction
had been well maintained, for that road was the only route
through the mountains known as the Lords of Doom. The road-
known as the Hundred Mile Road, for it was almost one hundred
miles long, give or take a furlong or two-was paved with
crushed rock. Thousands of feet had marched over the crushed
rock during the intervening years; booted human feet, hairy
goblin feet, clawed draconian feet. So many thousand that the
rock had been pounded into the ground and was now deeply
embedded.
  During the height of the War of the Lance, the Hundred Mile
Road had been clogged with men, beasts, and supply wagons.
Anyone who had need of speed took to the air, riding on the
backs of the swift-flying blue dragons or traversing the skies in
floating citadels. Those forced to move along the road could be
delayed for days, blocked by the hundreds of foot soldiers who
slogged along its torturous route, either marching to the city of
Neraka or marching away from it. Wagons lurched and jolted
along the road. The grade was steep, descending from the high
mountain valley all the way to sea level, making the journey a
perilous one.
  Wagons loaded with gold, silver, and steel, boxes of stolen
jewels, booty looted from people the armies had conquered,
were hauled by fearsome beasts known as mammoths, the only
creatures strong enough to drag the heavily laden wagons up
the mountain road. Occasionally one of the wagons would tip
over and spill its contents or lose a wheel, or one of the mam-
moths would run berserk and trample its keepers and anyone
else unfortunate enough to be in its path. At these times, the
road was shut down completely, bringing everything to a halt
while officers tried to keep their men in order and fumed and
fretted at the delay.
  The mammoths were gone, died out. The men were gone too.
Most of them now old. Some of them now dead. All of them now
forgotten. The road was empty, deserted. Only the wind's
whistling breath blew across the road, which, with its smooth,
inlaid gravel surface, was considered one of the man-made won-
ders of Krynn.
  The wind was at the backs of the Dark Knights as they gal-
loped down the winding, twisting snake's back that was the Hun-
dred Mile Road. The wind, a remnant of the storm, howled
among the mountain tops, an echo of the Song of Death they had
heard in Neraka, but only an echo, not as terrible, not as fright-
ening. The Knights rode hard, rode in a daze, rode without any
clear idea of why they rode or where they were heading. They
rode in an ecstasy, an excitement that was unlike anything they
had ever before experienced.
  Certainly Galdar had felt nothing like it. He loped along at
Mina's side, running with new-found strength. He could have
run from here to Ice Wall without pause. He might have credited
his energy to pure joy at regaining his severed limb, but he saw
his awe and fervor reflected in the faces of the men who made
that exhilarating, mad dash alongside him. It was as if they
brought the storm with them-hooves thundering among the
mountain walls, the iron shoes of the horses striking lightning
bolts from the rock surface.
  Mina rode at their head, urging them on when they would
have stopped from fatigue, forcing them to look into themselves
to find just a bit more strength than they knew they possessed. 
They rode through the night, their way lit by lightning flashes. 
They rode through the day, halting only to water the horses and
eat a quick bite standing.
  When it seemed the horses must founder, Mina called a halt.
The Knights had traversed well over half the distance. As it was,
her own roan, Foxfire, could have continued on. He appeared to
actually resent the stop, for the horse stamped and snorted in dis-
pleasure, his irritated protests splitting the air and bouncing back
from the mountain tops.
  Foxfire was fiercely loyal to his mistress and to her alone. He
had no use for any other being. During their first brief rest stop,
Galdar had made the mistake of approaching the horse to hold
Mina's stirrup as she dismounted, as he had been trained to do for
his commander and with much better grace than he'd used for
Ernst Magit. Foxfire's lip curled back over his teeth, his eyes
gleamed with a wild, wicked light that gave Galdar some idea of
how the beast had come by his name. Galdar hastily backed away.
  Many horses are frightened by minotaurs. Thinking this
might be the problem, Galdar ordered one of the others to attend
the commander.
  Mina countermanded his order. "Stay back, all of you. Foxfire
has no love for any being other than myself. He obeys only my
commands and then only when my commands agree with his
own instincts. He is very protective of his rider, and I could not
prevent him from lashing out at you if you came too near."
  She dismounted nimbly, without aid. Removing her own
saddle and bridle, she led Foxfire to drink. She fed him and
brushed him down with her own hands. The rest of the soldiers
tended to their own weary mounts, saw them safely settled for
the night. Mina would not allow them to build a campfire. So-
lamnic eyes might be watching, she said. The fire would be
visible a long distance.
  The men were as tired as the horses. They'd had no sleep for
two days and a night. The terror of the storm had drained them,
the forced march left them all shaking with fatigue. The excite-
ment that had carried them this far began to ebb. They looked like
prisoners who have wakened from a wonderful dream of free-
dom to find that they still wear their shackles and their chains.
  No longer crowned by lightning and robed with thunder,
Mina looked like any other girl, and not even a very attractive
girl, more like a scrawny youth. The Knights sat hunched over
their food in the moonlit darkness, muttering that they'd been led
on a fool's errand, casting Mina dark looks and angry glances.
One man even went so far as to say that any of the dark mystics
could have restored Galdar's arm, nothing so special in that.
  Galdar could have silenced them by pointing out that no dark
mystic had restored his arm, though he had begged them often
enough. Whether they refused because their powers were not
strong or because he lacked the steel to pay them, it was all the
same to him. The dark mystics of the Knights of Neraka had not
given him an arm. This strange girl had and he was dedicated to
her for life. He kept quiet, however. He was ready to defend Mina
with his life, should that become necessary, but he was curious to
see how she would handle the increasingly tense situation.
  Mina did not appear to notice that her command was slowly
slipping away. She sat apart from the men, sat above them,
perched on an enormous boulder. From her vantage point, she
could look out across the mountain range, jagged black teeth
taking a bite out of the starry sky. Here and there, fires from the
active volcanoes were blots of orange against the black. With-
drawn, abstracted, she was absorbed in her thoughts to the point
that she seemed totally unaware of the rising tide of mutiny at
her back.
  "I'll be damned if I'm riding to Sanction!" said one of the
Knights. "You know what's waiting for us there. A thousand of
the cursed Solamnics, that's what!"
  "I'm off to Khur with the first light," said another. "I must
have been thunderstruck to have come this far!"
  "I'll not stand first watch," a third grumbled. "She won't let us
have a fire to dry out our clothes or cook a decent meal. Let her
stand first watch."
  " Aye, let her stand first watch!" The others agreed.
  "I intend to," said Mina calmly. Rising from her seat, she de-
scended to the road. She stood astride it, her feet planted firmly.
Arms crossed over her chest, she faced the men. "I will stand all
the watches this night. You will need your rest for the morrow.
You should sleep."
  She was not angry. She was not sympathetic. She was cer-
tainly not pandering to them, did not seem to be agreeing with
them in hope of gaining their favor. She was making a statement
of fact, presenting a logical and rational argument. The men
would need their rest for the morrow.
  The Knights were mollified, but still angry, behaving like chil-
dren who've been made the butt of a joke and don't like it. Mina
ordered them to make up their beds and lie down.
  The Knights did as they were told, grumbling that their blan-
kets were still wet and how could she expect them to sleep on the
hard rock? They vowed, one and all, to leave with the dawn.
  Mina returned to her seat upon the boulder and looked out
again at the stars and the rising moon. She began to sing.
  The song was not like the Song of Death, the terrible dirge
sung to them by the ghosts of Neraka. Mina's song was a battle
song. A song sung by the brave as they march upon the foe, a
song meant to stir the hearts of those who sing it, a song meant to
strike terror into the hearts of their enemies.

		Glory calls us
		With trumpet's tongue,
		calls us do great deeds
		on the field of valor,
		calls us to give our blood
		to the flame,
		to the ground,
		the thirsty ground,
		the holy fire.

  The song continued, a paean sung by the victors in their
moment of triumph, a song of reminiscence sung by the old sol-
dier telling his tale of valor.
  Closing his eyes, Galdar saw deeds of courage and bravery,
and he saw, thrilling with pride, that he was the one performing.
these heroic feats. His sword flared with the purple white of the
lightning, he drank the blood of his enemies. He marched from
one glorious battle to the next, this song of victory on his lips.
Always Mina rode before him, leading him, inspiring him, urging
him to follow her into the heart of the battle. The purple white
glow that emanated from her shone on him.
  The song ended. Galdar blinked, realized, to his astonishment
and chagrin, that he had fallen asleep. He had not meant to, he
had intended to stand watch with her. He rubbed his eyes,
wished she would start singing again. The night was cold and
empty without the song. He looked around to see if the others felt
the same.
  They slumbered deeply and peacefully, smiles on their lips.
They had laid their swords within reach on the ground beside
them. Their hands closed over the hilts as if they would leap up
and race off to the fray in an instant. They were sharing Galdar's
dream, the dream of the song.
  Marveling, he looked at Mina to find her looking at him.
  He rose to his feet, went to join her upon her rock.
  "Do you know what I saw, Commander?" he asked.
  Her amber eyes had caught the moon, encased it. "1 know,"
she replied.
  "Will you do that for me, for us? Will you lead us to victory?"
  The amber eyes, holding the moon captive, turned upon him.
"I will."
  "Is it your god who promises you this?"
  "It is," she replied gravely.
  "Tell me the name of this god, that I may worship him," said
Galdar.
  Mina shook her head slowly, emphatically. Her gaze left the
minotaur, went back to the sky, which was unusually dark, now
that she had captured the moon. The light, the only light, was in
her eyes. "It is not the right time."
  "When will it be the right time?" Galdar pursued.
  "Mortals have no faith in anything anymore. They are like
men lost in a fog who can see no farther than their own noses, and
so that is what they follow, if they follow anything at all. Some are
so paralyzed with fear that they are afraid to move. The people
must acquire faith in themselves before they are ready to believe
in anything beyond themselves."
  "Will you do this, Commander? Will you make this happen."
  "Tomorrow, you will see a miracle," she said.
  Galdar settled himself upon the rock. "Who are you, Com-
mander?" he asked. "Where do you come from?"
  Mina turned her gaze upon him and said, with a half-smile,
"Who are you, Sub commander? Where do you come from?"
  "Why, I'm a minotaur. I was born in-"
  "No." She shook her head gently. "Where before that?"
"Before I was born?" Galdar was confused. "I don't know. No
person does."
  "Precisely," said Mina and turned away.
  Galdar scratched his homed head, shrugged in his turn. Ob-
viously she did not want to tell him, and why should she? It was
none of his business. It made no difference to him. She was right.
He had not believed in anything before this moment. Now he had
found something in which to believe. He had found Mina.
  She confronted him again, said abruptly, "Are you still tired?"
  "No, Talon Leader, I am not," Galdar replied. He had slept
only a few hours, but the sleep had left him unusually refreshed.
  Mina shook her head. "Do not call me 'Talon Leader.' I want
you to call me 'Mina.' "
  "That is not right, Talon Leader," he protested. "Calling you
by your name does not show proper respect."
  "If the men have no respect for me, will it matter what they
call me?" she returned. "Besides," she added with calm convic-
Ition, "the rank I hold does not yet exist."
  Galdar really thought she was getting a bit above herself now,
needed taking down a notch or two. "Perhaps you think you should
be the 'Lord of the Night,'" he suggested by way of a joke, naming
the highest rank that could be held by the Knights of Neraka.
  Mina did not laugh. "Someday, the Lord of the Night will
kneel down before me."
  Galdar knew Lord Targonne well, had difficulty imagining
the greedy, grasping, ambitious man kneeling to do anything
unless it might be to scoop up a dropped copper. Galdar didn't
quite know what to say to such a ludicrous concept and so fell
silent, returning in his mind to the dream of glory, reaching for it
as a parched man reaches out to water. He wanted so much to be-
lieve in it, wanted to believe it was more than mirage.
  "If you are certain you are not tired, Galdar," Mina continued,
"I want to ask a boon of you."
  "Anything, Tal- Mina," he said, faltering.
  "Tomorrow we ride into battle." A little frown line marred Mina's
smooth complexion. "I have no weapon, nor have I ever been trained
in the use of one. Have we time to do so tonight, do you think?"
  Galdar's jaw went slack. He wondered if he'd heard correctly.
He was so stunned, he could at first make no reply. "You. . .
you've never wielded a weapon?" 
Mina shook her head calmly.
  "Have you ever been in battle, Mina?"
  She shook her head again.
  "Have you ever seen a battle?" Galdar was feeling desperate.
  "No, Galdar." Mina smiled at him. "That is why I am asking
for your help. We will go a little ways down the road to prac-
tice, so that we will not disturb the others. Do not worry. They
will be safe. Foxfire would warn me if an enemy approached.
Bring along whatever weapon you think would be easiest for
me to learn."
  Mina walked off down the road to find a suitable practice
field, leaving an amazed Galdar to search through the weapons
he and the others carried, to find one suitable for her, a girl who
had never before held a weapon and who was, tomorrow, going
to lead them into battle.
  Galdar cudgeled his brain, tried to knock some common sense
back into his head. A dream seemed reality, reality seemed a
dream. Drawing his dagger, he stared at it a moment, watched the
moonlight flow like quicksilver along the blade. He jabbed the
point of the dagger into his arm, the arm Mina had restored to
him. Stinging pain and the warm flow of blood indicated that the
arm was real, confirmed that he was indeed awake.
  Galdar had given his promise, and if he had one thing left to
him in this life that he hadn't sold, battered, or flung away, it was
his honor. He slid the dagger back into its sheathe upon his belt
and looked over the stock of weapons.
  A sword was out of the question. There was no time to train
her properly in its use, she would do more damage to herself or
those around than to a foe. He could find nothing that he deemed
suitable, and then he noticed the moonlight shining on one
weapon in particular, as if it were trying to bring it to his atten-
tion-the weapon known as a morning star. Galdar eyed it.
Frowning thoughtfully, he hefted it in his hand. The morning star
is a battlehammer adorned with spikes on the end, spikes the fan-
ciful said give it the look of a star, hence its name. The morning
star was not heavy, took relatively little skill to learn to use, and
was particularly effective against knights in armor. One simply
bashed one's opponent with the morning star until his armor
cracked like a nutshell. Of course, one had to avoid the enemy's
own weapon while one was doing the bashing. Galdar picked up
a small shield and, armed with these, trudged off down the road,
leaving a horse to stand watch.
  "I've gone mad," he muttered. "Stark, staring mad."
  Mina had located an open space among the rocks, probably
used as a wayside camping place for those long-ago armies that
had marched along the road. She took hold of the morning star,
eyed it critically, hefted it to test its weight and balance. Galdar
showed her how to hold the shield, where to position it for best
advantage. He instructed her in the use of the morning star, then
gave her some simple exercises so that she could accustom herself
to the feel of the weapon.
  He was gratified (and relieved) to learn that Mina was a quick
study. Though her frame was thin, she was well-muscled. Her
balance was good, her movements were graceful and fluid.
Galdar raised his own shield, let her take a few practice blows.
Her first strike was impressive, her second drove him backward,
her third put a great dent in his shield and jarred his arm to the
marrow.
  "I like this weapon, Galdar," she said approvingly. "You have
chosen well."
  Galdar grunted, rubbed his aching arm, and laid down his
shield. Drawing his broadsword from its sheathe, he wrapped the
sword in a cloak, bound the cloth around it tightly with rope, and
took up a fighting stance.
  "Now we go to work," he said.
  At the end of two hours, Galdar was astonished at his pupil's
progress.
  "Are you certain you have never trained as a soldier?" he
asked, pausing to catch his breath.
  "I have never done so," said Mina. "Look, I will show you."
Dropping her weapon, she held out the hand that had been wield-
ing the morning star to the moonlight. "Judge my truthfulness."
  Her soft palm was raw and bloody from opened blisters. Yet
she had never once complained, never flinched in her strikes,
though the pain of her wounds must have been excruciating.
  Galdar regarded her with undisguised admiration. If there is
one virtue the minotaurs prize, it is the ability to bear pain in
stoic silence. liThe spirit of some great warrior must live in you,
Mina. My people believe that such a thing is possible. When one
of our warriors dies courageously in battle, it is the custom in
my tribe to cut out his heart and eat it, hoping that his spirit will
enter our own."
  "The only hearts I will eat will be those of my enemies," said
Mina. "My strength and my skill are given to me by my god." She
bent to pick up the morning star.
  "No, no more practice this night," said Galdar, snatching it
out from under her fingers. "We must tend to those blisters. Too
bad," he said, eyeing her. "1 fear that you will not be able to even
set your hand to your horses' reins in the morning, much less
hold a weapon. Perhaps we should wait here a few days until you
are healed."
  "We must reach Sanction tomorrow," said Mina. "So it is or-
dered. If we arrive a day late, the battle will be finished. Our
troops will have suffered a terrible defeat."
  "Sanction has long been besieged," Galdar said, disbelieving.
"Ever since the foul Solamnics made a pact with that bastard who
rules the city, Hogan Bight. We cannot dislodge them, and they do
not have the strength to drive us back. The battle is at a stalemate.
We attack the walls every day and they defend. Civilians are
killed. Parts of the city catch fire. Eventually they'll grow weary
of this and surrender. The siege has lasted for well over a year
now. I don't see that a single day will make any difference. Stay
here and rest."
  "You do not see because your eyes are not yet fully open,"
Mina said. "Bring me some water to wash my hands and some
cloth to wipe them clean of blood. Have no fear. I will be able to
ride and to fight."
  "Why not heal yourself, Mina?" Galdar suggested, testing her,
hoping to see another miracle. "Heal yourself as you healed me."
  Her amber eyes caught the light of the coming dawn, just
starting to brighten the sky. She looked into the dawn and the
thought came to his mind that she was already seeing tomorrow's
sunset.
  "Many hundreds will die in terrible agony," she said in a soft
voice. "The pain I bear, I bear in tribute to them. I give it as gift to
my god. Rouse the others, Galdar. It is time."
  Galdar expected more than half the soldiers to depart as they
had threatened to do in the night. He found on his return to camp
that the men were already up and stirring. They were in excellent
spirits, confident excited, speaking of the bold deeds they would
do this day. Deeds that they said had come to them in dreams
more real than waking.
  Mina appeared among them, carrying her shield and her
morning star in hands that still bled. Galdar watched her with
concern. She was weary from her exercise and from the previous
day's hard ride. Standing upon the road, isolated, alone, she
seemed suddenly mortal, fragile. Her head drooped, her shoul-
ders sagged. Her hands must bum and sting, her muscles ache.
She sighed deeply and looked heavenward, as if questioning
whether or not she truly had the strength to carry on.
  At sight of her, the Knights lifted their swords, clashed them
against their shields in salute.
  "Mina! Mina!" they chanted and their chants bounded back
from the mountains with the stirring sound of a clarion's call.
  Mina lifted her head. The salute was wine to her flagging
spirits. Her lips parted, she drank it in. Weariness fell from her
like cast-off rags. Her armor shone red in the lurid light of the
rising sun.
  "Ride hard. We ride this day to glory," she told them, and the
Knights cheered wildly.
  Foxfire came at her command. She mounted and grasped the
reins firmly in her bleeding, blistered hands. It was then that
Galdar, taking his place alongside her, running at her stirrup,
noted that she wore around her peck a silver medallion upon a
silver chain. He looked at it closely, to see what the medallion
might have engraved upon its surface.
  The medallion was blank. Plain silver, without mark.
Strange. Why should anyone wear a blank medallion? He had no
chance to ask her, for at that instant Mina struck her spurs to her
horse's flank.
  Foxfire galloped down the road. 
  Mina's Knights rode behind her.

                           CHAPTER SIX
                 THE FUNERAL OF CARAMON MAJERE

  At the rising of the sun-a splendid dawn of gold and
purple with a heart of deep, vibrant red-the people of
Solace gathered outside the Inn of the Last Home in silent
vigil, offering their love and their respect for the brave, good and
gentle man who lay inside.
  There was little talk. The people stood in silence presaging the
great silence that will fall eventually upon us all. Mothers quieted
fretful children, who stared at the Inn, ablaze with lights, not un-
derstanding what had happened, only sensing that it was some-
thing great and awful, a sensation that impressed itself upon their
unformed minds, one they would remember to the end of their
own days.
"I'm truly sorry, Laura," Tas said to her in the quiet hour
before dawn.
  Laura stood beside the booth where Caramon was accus-
!omed to have his breakfast. She stood there doing nothing, star-
ing at nothing, her face pale and drawn.
  "Caramon was my very best friend in all the world," Tas
told her.
"Thank you." She smiled, though her smile trembled. Her
eyes were red from weeping.
  "Tasslehoff," the kender reminded her, thinking she had for-
gotten his name.
  "Yes." Laura appeared uneasy. "Er . . . Tasslehoff."
  "I am Tasslehoff Burrfoot. The original," the kender added, re-
calling his thirty-seven namesakes-thirty-nine counting the
dogs. "Caramon recognized me. He gave me a hug and said he
was glad to see me."
  Laura regarded him uncertainly. "You certainly do look like
Tasslehoff. But then I was just a little girl the last time I re-
member seeing him, and all kender look alike anyway, and it
just doesn't make sense! Tasslehoff Burrfoot's been dead these
thirty years!"
  Tas would have explained-all about the Device of Time
Journeying and Fizban having set the device wrong the first time
so that Tas had arrived at Caramon's first funeral too late to give
his speech, but there was a lump of sadness caught in the
kender's gullet, a lump so very big that it prevented the words
from coming out.
  Laura's gaze went to the stairs of the Inn. Her eyes filled again
with tears. She put her head in her hands.
  "There, there," Tas said, patting her shoulder. "Palin will be
here soon. He knows who I am, and he'll be able to explain
everything."
  "Palin won't be here," Laura sobbed. "1 can't get word to him.
It's too dangerous! His own father dead and him not able to come
to the burial. His wife and my dear sister trapped in Haven, since
the dragon's closed the roads. Only me here to say good-bye to
father. It's too hard! Too hard to bear!"
  "Why, of course, Palin will be here," Tas stated, wondering
what dragon had closed the roads and why. He meant to ask, but
with all the other thoughts in his mind, this one couldn't battle its
way to the front. "There's that young wizard staying here in the
Inn. Room Seventeen. His name is . . . well, I forget his name, but
you'll send him to the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, where
Palin is Head of the Order of White Robes."
  What tower in Wayreth?" Laura said. She had stopped
crYIng and was looking puzzled. "The tower's gone, disap-
peared, just like the tower in Palanthas. Palin was head of the
Academy of Sorcery, but he doesn't even have that, anymore.
The dragon Beryl destroyed the academy a year ago, almost to
this date. And there is no Room Seventeen. Not since the Inn was
rebuilt the second time."
  Tas, busy with remembering, wasn't listening. "Palin will
come right away and he'll bring Dalamar, too, and Jenna. Palin
will send the messengers to Lady Crysania in the Temple of Pal-
adine and to Goldmoon and Riverwind in Que-shu and Laurana
and Gilthas and Silvanoshei in Silvanesti. They'll all be here soon
so we...we...
  Tas's voice trailed off.
  Laura was staring at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted two
heads. Tas knew because he'd felt that same expression on his
own face when he'd been in the presence of a troll who had done
that very thing. Slowly, keeping her eyes on Tas, Laura edged
away from him.
  "You sit right down here," she said, and her voice was very
soft and very gentle. "Sit right here, and I'll . . . I'll bring you a big
plate of-"
  "Spiced potatoes?" Tas asked brightly. If anything could get
rid of the lump in his throat, it was Otik's spiced potatoes.
  "Yes, a big, heaping dish of spiced potatoes. We haven't lit the
cook fires yet this morning, and Cook was so upset I gave her the
day off, so it may take me awhile. You sit down and promise you
won't go anywhere, " Laura said, backing away from the table.
She slid a chair in between her and Tas.
  "Oh, I won't go anywhere at all," Tas promised, plopping
himself down. III have to speak at the funeral, you know."
  "Yes, that's right." Laura pressed her lips tightly together with
the result that she wasn't able to say anything for a few moments.
Drawing in a deep breath, she added, "You have to speak at the
funeral. Stay here, that's a good kender."
  "Good" and IIkender" being two words that were rarely, if
ever, linked, Tasslehoff spent the time sitting at the table, thinking
about what a good kender might be and wondering if he was one
himself. He assumed he probably was, since he was a hero and all
that. Having settled this question to his satisfaction, he took out
his notes and went over his speech, humming a little tune to keep
himself company and to help the sadness work its way down his
windpipe.
He heard Laura talking to a young man, perhaps the wizard
in Room Seventeen, but Tas didn't really pay much attention to
what she was saying, since it seemed to involve a poor person
who was afflicted, a person who had gone crazy and might be
dangerous. At any other time, Tas would have been interested to
see a dangerous, afflicted, crazy person, but he had his speech to
worry about, and since that was the reason he'd made this trip in
the first place-or rather, in the second place--he concentrated
on that.
  He was still concentrating on it, along with a plate of potatoes
and a mug of ale, when he became aware that a tall person was
standing over him wearing a grim expression.
  "Oh, hullo," Tas said, looking up smiling to see that the tall
person was actually his extremely good friend, the Knight who'd
arrested him yesterday. Since the Knight was an extremely good
friend, it was a pity Tas couldn't recall his name. "Please, sit
down. Would you like some potatoes? Maybe some eggs?"
  The Knight refused all offers of anything to eat or drink. He took
a seat opposite Tas, regarded the kender with a stem expression.
  "I understand that you have been causing trouble," the
Knight said in a cold and nasty flat tone of voice.
  It just so happened that at that moment Tasslehoff was rather
proud of himself for not causing any trouble. He'd been sitting
quietly at the table, thinking sad thoughts of Caramon's being
gone and happy thoughts of the wonderful time they'd spent to-
gether. He hadn't once looked to see if there might be something
interesting in the wood box. He had foregone his usual inspection
of the silver chest, and he had only acquired one strange purse,
and while he didn't exactly remember how he had come by that,
he had to assume that someone had dropped it. He'd be sure to
return it after the funeral.
  Tas was therefore justifiably resentful of the Knight's implica-
tion. He fixed the Knight with a stem eye-dueling stem eyes, as
it were. "I'm sure you don't mean to be ugly," Tas said. "You're
upset. I understand."
  The young Knight's face took on a very peculiar color, going ex-
tremely red, almost purple. He tried to say something, but he was
so angry that when he opened his mouth, only sputters came out.
  "I see the problem," Tas said, correcting himself. "No
wonder you didn't understand me. I didn't mean 'ugly' as in
'ugly.' I was referring to your disposition, not your face, which
is, however, a remarkably ugly one. I don't know when I've seen
one uglier. StilL I know you can't mend your face, and perhaps
you can't mend your disposition either, being a Solamnic Knight
and all, but you have made a mistake. I have not been causing
trouble. I have been sitting at this table eating potatoes-they're
really quite good, are you sure you won't have some? Well, if
you won't, I'll just finish up these last few. Where was I? Oh,
yes. I've been sitting here eating and working on my speech. For
the funeral."
  When the Knight was finally able to speak without sputters,
his tone was even colder and nastier, if such a thing were pos-
sible. "Mistress Laura sent word through one of the customers
that you were scaring her with your outlandish and irrational
statements. My superiors sent me to bring you back to jail. They
would also like to know," he added, his tone grim, "how you
managed to get out of jail this morning."
  "I'll be very happy to come back to the jail with you. It was a
very nice jail," Tas answered politely. "I've never seen one that
was kender-proof before. I'll go back with you right after the fu-
neral. I missed the funeral once, you see. I can't miss it again.
Oops! No, I forgot." Tas sighed. "I can't go back to the jail with
you." He really wished he could remember the Knight's name.
He didn't like to ask. It wasn't polite. "1 have to return to my own
time right away. I promised Fizban I wouldn't go gallivanting.
Perhaps I could visit your jail another time."
  "Maybe you should let him stay, Sir Gerard," Laura said,
coming up to stand beside them, twisting her apron in her hands.
"He seems very determined, and I wouldn't want him to cause
any trouble. Besides"-her tears started to flow- "maybe he's
telling the truth! After all, Father thought he was Tasslehoff."
  Gerard! Tas was vastly relieved. Gerard was the knight's
name.
  "He did?" Gerard was skeptical. "He said so?"
  "Yes," Laura said, wiping her eyes with her apron. "The
kender walked into the Inn. Daddy was sitting here in his usual
place. The kender walked right up to him and said, 'Hullo, Cara-
mon! I've come to speak at your funeral. I'm a little bit early, so I
thought you might like to hear what I'm going to say,' and Daddy
looked at him in surprise. At first I don't think he believed him,
but then he looked at him closer and cried out, 'Tas!' And he gave
him a big hug."
  "He did." Tas felt a snuffle coming on. "He hugged me, and
he said he was glad to see me and where had I been all this time?
I said that it was a very long story and time was the one thing he
didn't have a lot of so I should really let him hear the speech
first." Giving way to the snuffle, Tas mopped his dribbling nose
with his sleeve.
  "Perhaps we could let him stay for the funeral," Laura urged.
"I think it would have pleased Daddy. If you could. . . well. . .
just keep an eye on him."
  Gerard was clearly dubious. He even ventured to argue with
her, but Laura had made up her mind, and she was very much
like her mother. When her mind was made up, an army of drag-
ons would not move her. ,
  Laura opened the doors to the Inn to let in the sunshine, to let
in life and to let in the living who came to pay their respects to the
dead. Caramon Majere lay in a simple wooden casket in front of
the great fireplace of the Inn he loved. No fire burned, only ashes
filled the grate. The people of Solace filed past, each pausing to
offer something to the dead-a silent farewell, a quiet blessing, a
favorite toy, fresh-picked flowers.
  The mourners noted that his expression was peaceful, even
cheerful, more cheerful than they had seen him since his beloved
Tika died. "Somewhere, they're together," people said and smiled
through their tears.
  Laura stood near the door, accepting condolences. She was
dressed in the clothes she wore for work-a snowy white blouse, a
clean fresh apron, a pretty skirt of royal blue with white petticoats.
People wondered that she wasn't draped head to toe in black.
  "Father would not have wanted me to," was her simple reply.
  People said it was sad that Laura was the only member of the
family to be present to lay their father t~rest. Dezra, her sister,
had been in Haven purchasing hops for the Inn's famous ale, only
to be trapped there when the dragon Beryl attacked the city.
Dezra had managed to smuggle word to her sister that she was
safe and well, but she dared not try to return; the roads were not
safe for travelers.
  As for Caramon's son, Palin, he was gone from Solace on yet
another of his mysterious journeys. If Laura knew where he was,
she didn't say. His wife, Usha, a portrait painter of some renown,
had traveled to Haven as company for Dezra. Since Usha had
painted the portraits of families of some of the commanders of the
Knights of Neraka, she was involved in negotiations to try to win
a guarantee of safe passage for herself and for Dezra. Usha's chil-
dren, Ulin and Linsha, were off on adventures of their own.
Linsha, a Solamnic Knight, had not been heard from in many
months. Ulin had gone away after hearing a report of some mag-
ical artifact and was believed to be in Palanthas.
  Tas sat in a booth, under guard, the Knight Gerard at his side.
Watching the people file in, the kender shook his head.
  "But I tell you this isn't the way Caramon's funeral's sup-
posed to be," Tasslehoff repeated insistently.
  "Shut your mouth, you little fiend," Gerard ordered in a low,
harsh tone. "This is hard enough on Laura and her father's
friends without you making matters worse with your foolish
chatter." To emphasize his words, he gripped the kender's shoul-
der hard, gave him a good shake.
  "You're hurting me," Tas protested.
  "Good," Gerard growled. "Now just keep quiet, and do as
you're told."
  Tas kept quiet, a remarkable feat for him, but one that was
easier at this moment than any of his friends might have had
reason to expect. His unaccustomed silence was due to the
lump of sadness that was still stuck in his throat and that he
could not seem to swallow. The sadness was all mixed up with
the confusion that was muddling his mind and making it hard
to think.
  Caramon's funeral was not going at all the way it was meant
to go. Tas knew this quite well because he'd been to Caramon's
funeral once already and remembered how it went. This wasn't it.
Consequently, Tas wasn't enjoying himself nearly as much as
he'd expected.
  Things were wrong. All wrong. Utterly wrong. Completely
and irretrievably wrong. None of the dignitaries were here who
were supposed to be here. Palin hadn't arrived, and Tas began to
think that perhaps Laura was right and he wasn't going to arrive.
Lady Crysania did not come. Goldmoon and Riverwind were
missing. Dalamar did not suddenly appear, materializing out of
the shadows and giving everyone a good scare. Tas discovered
that he couldn't give his speech. The lump was too big and
wouldn't let him. Just one more thing that was wrong.
  The crowds were large-the entire population of Solace and
surrounding communities came to pay their final respects and to
extol the memory of the beloved man. But the crowds were not as
large as they had been at Caramon's first funeral.
  Caramon was buried near the Inn he loved, next to the graves
of his wife and sons. The vallenwood sapling Caramon had
planted in honor of Tika was young and thriving. The vallen-
woods he had planted for his fallen sons were full-grown trees,
standing tall and proud as the guard provided by the Knights of
Solamnia, who accorded Caramon the honor rarely performed for
a man who was not a Knight: escorting his coffin to the burial site.
Laura planted the vallenwood in her father's memory, planted
the tree in the very heart of Solace, near the tree she had planted
for her mother. The couple had been the heart of Solace for many
years, and everyone felt it was fitting.
  The sapling stood uneasily in the fresh-turned earth, looking
lost and forlorn. The people said what was in their hearts, paid
their tribute. The Knights sheathed their swords with solemn
faces, and the funeral was over. Everyone went home to dinner.
  The Inn was closed for the first time since the red dragon had
picked it up and hurled it out of its tree during the War of the
Lance. Laura's friends offered to spend the first lonely nights
with her, but she refused, saying that she wanted to have her cry
in private. She sent home Cook, who was in such a state that
when she finally did come back to work, she did not need to use
any salt in the food for the tears she dripped into it. As for the
gully dwarf, he had not moved from the comer into which he'd
collapsed the moment he heard of Caramon's death. He lay in a
huddled heap wailing and howlinr:-.dismally until, to everyone's
relief, he cried himself to sleep.
  "Good-bye, Laura," said Tas, reaching out his hand. He and
Gerard were the last to leave; the kender having refused to
budge until everyone was gone and he was quite certain that
nothing was going to happen the way it was intended to happen.
"The funeral was very nice. Not as nice as the other funeral, but
then I guess you couldn't help that. I really do not understand
what is going on. Perhaps that's why Caramon told Sir Gerard to
take me to see Dalamar, which I would, except that I think
Fizban might consider that to be gallivanting. But, anyway,
good-bye and thank you."
  Laura looked down at the kender, who was no longer jaunty
and cheerful but looking very forlorn and bereft and downcast.
Suddenly, Laura knelt beside him and enfolded him in her arms.
  "I do believe you're Tasslehofft" she said to him softly,
fiercely. "Thank you for coming." She hugged the breath from
his small body and then turned and ran through the door lead-
ing to the family's private quarters. "Lock up, will you, Sir
Gerard?" she called out over her shoulder and shut and locked
the door behind her.
  The Inn was quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the
rustling of the leaves of the vallenwood tree and the creaking of
the branches. The rustling had a weepy sound to it, and it seemed
that the branches were lamenting. Tas had never seen the Inn
empty before. Looking around, he remembered the night they had
all met here after their five-year separation. He could see Flint's
face and hear his gruff complaining, he could see Caramon stand-
ing protectively near his twin brother, he could see Raistlin's sharp
eyes keeping watch over everything. He could almost hear Gold-
moon's song again.

		The staff flares in blue light
		And both of them vanish;
		The grasslands are faded, and autumn is here.

  "Everyone's vanished," Tas said ..to himself softly, and felt an-
other snuffle coming on.
  "Let's go," said Gerard.
  Hand on the kender's shoulder, the Knight steered Tas
toward the door, where he brought the kender to a halt to
remove several articles of a valuable nature, which had hap-
pened to tumble into his pouches. Gerard left them on the bar for
their owners to reclaim. This done, he took down the key that
hung from a hook on the wall near the door, and locked the door.
He hung the key on a hook outside the Inn, placed there in case
anyone needed a room after hours, and then marched the kender
down the stairs.
  "Where are we going?" Tas asked. "What's that bundle you're
carrying? Can I look inside? Are you going to take me to see
Dalamar? I haven't seen him in a long time. Did you ever hear the
story of how I met Dalamar? Caramon and I were--"
  "Just shut up, will you?" Gerard said in a nasty, snapping sort
of way. "Your chatter is giving me a headache. As to where we're
going, we're returning to the garrison. And speaking of the
bundle I'm carrying, if you touch it I'll run you through with my
sword."
  The Knight would say nothing more than that, although Tas
asked and asked and tried to guess and then asked if he'd
guessed right and if not, could Gerard give him a clue. Was what
was in the bundle bigger than a breadbox? Was it a cat? Was it a
cat in a breadbox? All to no avail. The Knight said nothing. His
grip on the kender was firm.
  The two of them arrived at the Solamnic garrison. The guards
on duty greeted the Knight distantly. Sir Gerard did not return
their greetings but said that he needed to see the Lord of Shields.
The guards, who were members of the Lord of Shield's own per-
sonal retinue, replied that his lordship had just returned from the
funeral and left orders not to be disturbed. They wanted to know
the nature of Gerard's request.
  "The matter is personal," the knight said. "Tell his lordship
that I seek a ruling on the Measure. My need is urgent."
  A guardsman departed. He returned a moment later to say,
grudgingly, that Sir Gerard was to go in.
  Gerard started to enter with Tasslehoff in tow.
  "Not so fast, sir," the guard said, blocking their way with his
halberd. "The Lord of Shields said nothing about a kender."
  "The kender is in my custody," said Gerard, ''as ordered by
the lord himself. I have not been given leave to release him from
my care. I would, however, be willing to leave him here with you
if you will guarantee that he does nojlarm during the time I am
with His Lordship-which may be several hours, my dilemma is
complex-and that he will be here when I return."
  The Knight hesitated.
  "He will be pleased to tell you his story of how he first met the
wizard Dalamar," Gerard added dryly.
  "Take him," said the Knight.
  Tas and his escort entered the garrison, passing through the
gate that stood in the center of a tall fence made of wooden poles,
each planed to a sharp point at the top. Inside the garrison were
stables for the horses, a small training field with a target set up for
archery practice, and several buildings. The garrison was not a
large one. Having been established to house those who guarded
the Tomb of the Heroes, it had been expanded to accommodate
the Knights who would make what would probably be a last-
stand defence of Solace if the dragon Beryl attacked.
  Gerard had been thinking with some elation that his days of
guarding a tomb might be drawing to a close, that battle with the
dragon was imminent, though he and all the Knights were under
orders not mention this to anyone. The Knights had no proof that
Beryl was preparing to sweep down on Solace and they did not
want to provoke her into attacking. But the Solamnic command-
ers were quietly making plans.
  Inside the stockade, a long, low building provided sleeping
quarters for the Knights and the soldiers under their command.
In addition, there were several outbuildings used for storage and
an administrative building, where the head of the garrison had
his own lodgings. These doubled as his office.
  His lordship's aide-de-camp met Gerard and ushered him
inside. "His lordship will be with you shortly, Sir Gerard," said
the aide.
  "Gerard!" called out a woman's voice. "How good to see you!
I thought I heard your name."
  Lady Warren was a handsome woman of about sixty years
with white hair and a comple~ion the color of warm tea. Through-
out their forty years of marriage, she had accompanied her hus-
band on all his journeys. As gruff and bluff as any soldier, she
presently wore an apron covered with flour. She kissed Gerard on
his cheek-he stood stiffly at attention, his helm beneath his
arm-and glanced askance at the kender.
  "Oh, dear," she said. "Midge!" she called to the back of the
house in a voice that might have rung across the battlefield, "lock
up my jewels!"
  "Tasslehoff Burrfoot, ma'am," said Tas, offering his hand.
  "Who isn't these days?" Lady Warren returned and promptly
thrust her flour-covered hands that sparkled with several inter-
esting looking rings beneath her apron. "And how are your dear
father and mother, Gerard?"
  "Quite well, I thank you, ma'am," said Gerard.
  "You naughty boy." Lady Warren scolded, shaking her
finger at him. "You know nothing about their health at all. You
haven't written to your dear mother in two months. She writes
to my husband to complain and asks him, most pathetically, if
you are well and keeping your feet dry. For shame. To worry
your good mother so! His lordship has promised that you shall
write to her this very day. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't sit
you down and have you compose the letter while you are in
there with him."
  "Yes, ma'am," said Gerard.
  "Now I must go finish the baking. Midge and I are taking one
hundred loaves of bread to Laura to help keep the Inn going, poor
thing. Ah, it's a sad day for Solace." Lady Warren wiped her face
with her hand, leaving a smear of flour behind.
  "Yes, ma'am," said Gerard.
  "You may go in now," said the aide and opened a door lead-
ing from the main lodging to the lord's personal quarters.
Lady Warren took her leave, asking to be remembered to
Gerard's dear mother. Gerard promised, his voice expressionless,
that he would do so. Bowing, he left to follow the aide.
  A large man of middle years with the black skin common to the
people of Southern Ergoth greeted the young man warmly, a greet-
ing the young Knight returned with equal and unusual warmth.
  "I'm glad you stopped by, Gerard!" said Lord Warren. "Come
and sit down. So this is the kender, is it?"
  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll be with you in a moment." Gerard
led Tas to a chair, plunked him down, and took out a length of
rope. Acting so swiftly that Tas did not have time to protest, the
Knight tied the kender's wrists to the chair's arms. He then
brought out a gag and wrapped i.around Tas's mouth.
  "Is that necessary?" Lord Warren asked mildly.
  "If we want to have any semblance of a rational conversa-
tion, it is, sir," Gerard replied, drawing up a chair. He placed the
mysterious bundle on the floor at his feet. "Otherwise you
would hear stories about how this was the second time Cara-
mon Majere had died. The kender would tell you how this fu-
neral differed from Caramon Majere's first funeral. You would
hear a recitation of who attended the first time and who wasn't
at this one."
  "Indeed." Lord Warren's face took on a softened, pitying look.
"He must be one of the afflicted ones. Poor thing."
"What's an afflicted one?" Tas asked, except that due to the
gag the words came out all gruff and grumbly, sounding as if he
were speaking dwarven with a touch of gnome thrown in for
good measure. Consequently no one understood him, and no one
bothered to answer.
  Gerard and Lord Warren began to discuss the funeral. Lord
Warren spoke in such warm tones about Caramon that the lump
of sadness returned to Tas's throat with the result that he didn't
need the gag at all.
  "And now, Gerard, what can I do for you?" Lord Warren
asked, when the subject of the funeral was exhausted. He re-
garded the young Knight intently. "My aide said you had a ques-
tion about the Measure."
  "Yes, my lord. I require a ruling."
  "You, Gerard?" Lord Warren raised a graying eyebrow. "Since
when do you give a damn about the dictates of the Measure?"
  Gerard flushed, looked uncomfortable.
  Lord Warren smiled at the Knight's discomfiture. "I've heard
you express yourself quite clearly regarding what you consider to
be the 'old-fashioned, hidebound' way of doing things-"
  Gerard shifted in his chair. "Sir, I may have, on occasion, ex-
pressed my doubts about certain precepts of the Measure-"
  Lord Warren's eyebrow twitched even higher.
  Gerard considered that it was time to change the subject. "My
lord, an incident occurred yesterday. There were several civilians
present. There will be questions asked."
  Lord Warren looked grave. "Will this require a Knight's
Council?"
  "No, my lord. I hold you in the highest esteem, and I will
respect your decision concerning this matter. A task has been
given me, and I need to know whether or not I should pursue it
or if I may, in honor, refuse."
  "Who gave you this task? Another Knight?" Lord Warren ap-
peared uneasy. He knew of the rancor that existed between
Gerard and the rest of the Knights in the garrison. He had long
feared that some quarrel would break out perhaps resulting in
some foolish challenge on the field of honor.
  "No, sir," Gerard answered evenly. "The task was given to me
by a dying man."
  "Ah!" said Lord Warren. "Caramon Majere."
"Yes, my lord."
  " A last request?"
  "Not so much a request, my lord," said Gerard. "An assign-
ment. I would almost sayan order, but Majere was not of the
Knighthood."
  "Not by birth, perhaps," said Lord Warren gently, "but in
spirit there was no better Knight living."
  "Yes, my lord." Gerard was silent a moment, and Tas saw, for
the first time, that the young man was truly grieved at Caramon's
death.
  "The last wishes of the dying are sacred to the Measure, which
states such wishes must be fulfilled if it be mortally possible. The
Measure makes no distinction if the dying person be of the
Knighthood, if it be male or female, human, elf, dwarf, gnome, or
kender. You are honor bound to take this task, Gerard."
  "If it be mortally possible," Gerard countered.
  "Yes," said Lord Warren. "So reads the Measure. Son, I see
you are deeply troubled by this. If you break no confidence, tell
me the nature of Caramon's last wish."
  "I break no confidence, sir. I must tell you in any case, for if I
am to undertake it I will need your permission to be absent from
my post. Caramon Majere asked me to take this kender I have
here with me, a kender who claims to be Tasslehoff Burrfoot,
dead these thirty years, to Dalamar."
  "The wizard Dalamar?" Lord Warren was incredulous.
  "Yes, my lord. This is what happened. As he lay dying, Cara-
mon spoke of being reunited with his dead wife. Then he ap-
peared to be searching for someone in the crowd of people
gathered around him. He said, 'But where's Raistlin?'"
  "That would be his twin brother," Lord Warren interrupted.
  "Yes, sir. Caramon added, 'He said he would wait for me'-
meaning Raistlin had agreed to wait for him before leaving this
world for the next, or so Laura told me. Caramon often said that
since they were twins, one could not enter into the blessed realm
without the other."
  "I would not think that Raistlin Majere would be permitted to
enter a 'blessed realm' at all," Lord Warren said dryly.
  "True, sir." Gerard gave a wry smile. "If there is even a blessed
realm, which I doubt, then. . ."
  He paused, coughed in embarrassement. Lord Warren was
frowning and looking very stern. Gerard apparently decided to
skip the philosophical discussion and continue with his story.
  "Caramon added something to effect that 'Raistlin should be
here. With Tika. I don't understand. This is not right. Tas . . . What
Tas said. . . A different future. . . Dalamar will know. . . . Take
Tasslehoff to Dalamar.' He was very upset and it seemed to me
that he would not die in peace unless I promised to do as he
asked. So I promised."
  "The wizard Raistlin has been dead over fifty years!" Lord
Warren exclaimed.
  "Yes, sir. The so-called hero Burrfoot has been dead over
thirty years, so this cannot possibly be him. And the wizard Dala-
mar has disappeared. No one has seeK or heard of him since the
Tower of High Sorcery vanished. It is rumored that he has been
declared legally dead by the members of the Last Conclave."
  "The rumors are true. I had 1t as fact from Palin Majere. But
we have no proof of that and we have a man's dying wish to con-
sider. I am not certain how to rule."
  Gerard was silent. Tas would have spoken up but for the gag
and the realization that nothing he said could or would or should
make a difference. To be quite truthfuL Tasslehoff himself didn't
know what to do. He had been given strict orders by Fizban to go
to the funeral and to hurry right back. "Don't go gallivanting!"
had been the old wizard's exact words, and he'd looked very
fierce when he'd said them. Tas sat in the chair, chewing reflec-
tively on the gag and pondering the exact meaning of the word,
" gallivanting."
  "I have something to show you, my lord," Gerard said. "With
your permission. . ."
  Lifting the bundle, Gerard placed it on Lord Warren's desk
and began to untie the string at the top.
  In the interim, Tas managed to wriggle his hands free of their
bonds. He could remove the gag now, and he could go off to ex-
plore this truly interesting room, which had several very fine
swords hanging on the wall a shield, and a whole case of maps.
Tas looked longingly at the maps, and his feet very nearly carried
him that direction, but he was extremely curious to see what was
in the Knight's bundle.
  Gerard was taking a long time to open it; he seemed to be
having difficulty with the knots.
Tas would have offered to help but thus far every time he had
offered to be of help, Gerard had not seemed to appreciate it much.
Tas occupied himself by watching the grains of sand fall from the
top of an hourglass into the bottom and trying to count them as
they fell. This proved a challenge, for the sand grains fell quite rap-
idly and just when he had them sorted out, one after the other, two
or three would fall all in a heap and ruin his calculations.
  Tas was somewhere between five thousand seven hundred
and thirty-six and five thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight
when the sands ran out. Gerard was still fumbling with the knots.
Lord Warren reached over and turned the glass. Tas began to
count again. "One, two, threefourfive . . ."
  "Finally!" Gerard muttered and released the ties of the
bundle.
  Tas left off counting sand grains and sat up as straight as he
possibly could in order to get a good view.
 Gerard pressed the folds of the sack down around the object,
taking care- Tas saw-not to touch the object itself. Jewels
flashed and sparkled in the rays of the setting sun. Tas was so ex-
cited that he jumped out of his chair and tore the gag from his
mouth.
  "Hey!" he cried, reaching for the object. "That's just like mine!
Where did you get it? Say!" he said, taking a good, close look.
"That is mine!"
  Gerard closed his hand over the kender's hand that was just
inches away from the bejeweled object. Lord Warren stared at the
object, openmouthed.
  "I found this in the kender's pouch, sir," said Gerard. "Last
night, when we searched him before locking him up in our
prison. A prison that, I might add, is not as kender-proof as we
thought. I'm not certain-I am no mage, my lord-but the device
appears to be to be magical. Quite magical."
  "It is magical," Tasslehoff said proudly. "That's the way I
came here. It used to belong to Caramon, but he was always wor-
ried for fear someone would steal it and misuse it-1 can't imag-
ine who would do such a thing, myself. I offered to take care of it
for him, but Caramon said, no, he thought it should go some-
where where it would be truly safe, and Dalamar said he'd take
it, so Caramon gave it to him and he . .. ." Tas quit talking because
he didn't have an audience.
Lord Warren had withdrawn his hands from the desk. The
object was about the size of an egg, encrusted with jewels that
sparkled and glowed. Close examination revealed it to be made
up of a myriad small parts that looked as if they could be manip-
ulated, moved about. Lord Warren eyed it warily. Gerard kept
fast hold of the kender.
  The sun sank down toward the horizon and now shone
brightly through the window. The office was cool and shadowed.
The object glittered and gleamed, its own small sun.
  "I have never seen the like of it," said Lord Warren, awed.
  "Nor have I, sir," said Gerard. "But Laura has."
  Lord Warren looked up, startled.
  "She said that her father had an object like this. He kept it
locked in a secret place in a room in the Inn that is dedicated to the
memory of his twin brother Raistlin. She remembers well the day,
some months prior to the Chaos War, when he removed the object
from its secret hiding place and gave it to . . ." Gerard paused.
  "Dalamar?" said Lord Warren, astounded. He stared at the
device again. "Did her father say what it did? What magic it pos-
sessed ?"
  "He said that the object had been given to him by Par-Salian
and that he had traveled back in time by means of its magic."
  "He did, too," Tasslehoff offered. "I went with him. That's
how I knew how the device worked. You see, it occurred to me
that I might not outlive Caramon-"
  Lord Warren said a single word, said it with emphasis and
sincerity. Tas was impressed. Knights didn't usually say words
like that.
  "Do you think it's possible?" Lord Warren had shifted his
gaze. He began staring at Tas as if he'd sprouted two heads.
Obviously he's never seen a troll. These people should really
get out more, Tas thought.
  "Do you think this is the real Tasslehoff Burrfoot?"
  "Caramon Majere believed it was, my lord."
  Lord Warren looked back at the strange device. "It is obvi-
ously an ancient artifact. No wizard has the ability to make mag-
Ical objects like this these days. Even I can feel its power, and I'm
certainly no mage, for which I thank fate." He looked back at Tas.
"No, I don't believe it's possible. This kender stole it, and he has
 devised this outlandish tale to conceal his crime.
"We must return the artifact to the wizards, of course, though
not, I would say, to the wizard Dalamar." Lord Warren frowned.
" At the very least the device should be kept out of the hands of
the kender. Where is Palin Majere? It seems to me that he is the
one to consult." .
  "But you can't stop the device from coming back to my
hands," Tas pointed out. "It's meant to always come back to me,
and it will, sooner or later. Par-Salian-the great Par-Salian, I met
him once, you know. He was very respectful to kender. Very." Tas
fixed Gerard with a stern eye, hoping the Knight would take the
hint. "Anyhow, Par-Sa Ii an told Caramon that the device was
magically designed to always return to the person who used it.
That's a safety precaution, so that you don't end up stranded back
in time with no way of going back home. It's come in quite handy,
since I have a tendency to lose things. I once lost a woolly mam-
moth. The way it happened was-"
  "I agree, my lord," Gerard said loudly. "Be silent, kender.
Speak when you are spoken to." .
  "Excuse me," said Tas, beginning to be bored. "But if you're
not going to listen to me, may I go look at your maps? I'm very
fond of maps."
  Lord Warren waved his hand. Tas wandered off and was soon
absorbed in reading the maps, which were really lovely, but
which, the more he looked at them, he found very puzzling.
  Gerard dropped his voice so low that Tas had a difficult time
hearing him. "Unfortunately, my lord, Palin Majere is on a secret
mission to the elven kingdom of Qualinesti, to consult with the
elven sorcerers. Such meetings have been banned by the dragon
Beryl, and if his whereabouts became known to her, she would
exact terrible retribution."
  "Yet, it seems to me that he must know of this immediately!"
Lord Warren argued.
  "He must also know of his father's death. If you will grant me
leave, my lord, I will undertake to escort the kender and this
device to Qualinesti, there to put both of them in the hands of
Palin Majere and also to impart the sad news about his father. I
will relate to Palin his father's dying request and ask him to judge
whether or not it may undertaken. I have little doubt but that he
will absolve me of it."
  Lord Warren's troubled expression eased. "You are right. We
should put the matter into the hands of the son. If he declares his
father's last request impossible to fulfill, you may, with honor,
decline it. I wish you didn't have to go to Qualinesti, however.
Wouldn't it be more prudent to wait until the wizard returns?"
  "There is no telling when that will be, my lord. Especially now
that Beryl has closed the roads. I believe this matter to be of the
utmost urgency. Also" -Gerard lowered his voice- "we would
have difficulty keeping the kender here indefinitely."
  "Fizban told me to come right back to my own time," Tas in-
formed them. "I'm not to go gallivanting. But I would like to see
Palin and ask him why the funeral was all wrong. Do you think
that could be considered' gallivanting'?"
  "Qualinesti lies deep in Beryl's territory," Lord Warren was
saying. "The land is ruled by the Knights of Neraka, who would
be only too pleased to lay their hands on one of our order. And if
the Knights of Neraka don't seize you and execute you as a spy,
the elves will. An army of our Knights could not enter that realm
and survive."
  "I do not ask for an army, my lord. I do not ask for any escort,"
Gerard said firmly. "1 would prefer to travel on my own. Much
prefer it," he added with emphasis. "I ask you for leave from my
duties for a time, my lord."
"Granted, certainly." Lord Warren shook his head. "Though I
don't know what your father will say."
  "He will say that he is proud of his son, for you will tell him
that I am undertaking a mission of the utmost importance, that I
do it to fulfill the last request of a dying man."
  "You are putting yourself in danger," said Lord Warren. "He
would not like that at all. Arid as for your mother-" He frowned
ominously.
  Gerard stood straight and tall. "I have been ten years a
Knight, my lord, and all I have to show for it is the dust of a tomb
on my boots. I have earned this, my lord."
  Lord Warren rose to his feet. "Here is my ruling. The Measure
holds the final wishes of the dying to be sacred. We are bound in
honor to fulfill them if it be mortally possible. You will go to Qua-
linesti and consult with the sorcerer Palin. I have found him to be
a man of good judgment and common sense-for a mage, that is.
One must not expect too much. Still, I believe that you can rely on
him to help you determine what is right. Or, at the very least, to
take the kender and this stolen magical artifact off our hands."
  "Thank you, my lord." Gerard looked extremely happy.
  Of course he's happy, Tasslehoff thought. He gets to travel to
a land ruled by a dragon who's closed all the roads, and maybe
he'll be captured by Dark Knights who'll think he's a spy, and if
that doesn't work out he gets to go to the elven kingdom and see
Palin and Laurana and Gilthas.
  The pleasant tingle so well known to kender, a tingle to which
they are seriously addicted, began in the vicinity of Tasslehoff's
spine. The tingle burned its way right down to his feet, which
started to itch, shot through his arms into his fingers, which
started to wriggle, and up into his head. He could feel his hair be-
ginning to curl from the excitement.
  The tingle wound up in Tasslehoff's ears and, due to the
rushing of the blood in his head, he noticed that Fizban's ad-
monition to return soon was starting to get lost amidst thoughts
of Dark Knights and spies and, most important of all, The
Road. 
  Besides, Tas realized suddenly, Sir Gerard is counting on me
to go with him! I can't let a Knight down. And then there's Cara-
mono I can't let him down either, even if he did hit his head one
too many times on the stairs on the way down.
  "I'll go with you, Sir Gerard," Tas announced magnani-
mously. "I've thought it over quite seriously, and it doesn't seem
to me to be gallivanting. It seems to me to be a quest. And I'm
sure Fizban won't mind if I went on a little quest."
  "I will think of something to tell your father to placate him,"
Lord Warren was saying. "Is there any thing I can provide you for
this mission? How will you travel? You know that according to
the Measure you may not disguise your true identity."
  "I will travel as a Knight, my lord," Gerard replied with a
slight quirk of his eyebrow. "I give you my word on that."
  Lord Warren eyed him speculatively. "You're up to some-
thing. No, don't tell me. The less I know about this the better." He
glanced down at the device, glittering on the table, and heaved a
sigh. "Magic and kender. It seems to me to be a fatal combination.
My blessing go with you."
  Gerard wrapped the device carefully in the bundle. Lord
Warren left his desk to accompany Gerard to the door of the
office, collecting Tasslehoff on the way. Gerard removed several
of the smaller maps that had just happened to find their way
down the front of the kender's shirt.
  "I was taking them to be fixed," said Tas, looking at Lord
Warren accusingly. "You really hire very poor mapmakers.
They've made several serious mistakes. The Dark Knights aren't
in Palanthas any more. We drove them out two years after the
Chaos War. And why's that funny little circle like a bubble drawn
around Silvanesti?"
  The Knights were deep in a private discussion of their own, a
discussion that had something to do with Gerard's mission, and
they paid no attention. Tas pulled out another map that he had
managed somehow to stuff itself down his trousers and that was
at the moment pinching a sensitive portion of his anatomy. He
transferred the map from his pants to his pouch and, while doing
so, his knuckles brushed across something hard and sharp and
egg-shaped.
  The Device of Time Journeying. The device that would take
him back to his own time. The device had come back to him, as it
was bound to do. It was once more in his possession. Fizban's
stem command seemed to ring loudly in his ears.
  Tas looked at the device, thought about Fizban, and consid-
ered the promise he'd made to the old wizard. There was obvi-
ously only one thing to be done.
  Taking firm hold of the device, careful not to accidentally ac-
tivate it, Tasslehoff crept up behind Gerard, who was engrossed
in his conversation with Lord Warren, and by dint of working
loose a comer of the bundle, working nimbly and quietly as only
a kender can work, Tasslehoff slipped the device back inside.
  " And stay there!" he told it firmly.

                       CHAPTER SEVEN
                       BECKARD'S CUT

  Located on the shore of New Sea, Sanction was the major
port city for the northeastern part of Ansalon.
  The city was an ancient one, established long before the
Cataclysm. Nothing much is known for certain about its history
except that prior to the Cataclysm, Sanction had been a pleasant
place to live.
  Many have wondered how it came by its odd name. Legend
has it that there was once in the small village a human woman of
advanced years whose opinions were well-known and respected
far and wide. Disputes and disagreements over everything from
ownership of boats to marriage contracts were brought before the
old woman. She listened to all parties and then rendered her ver-
dict, verdicts noted for being fair and impartial, wise and judi-
cious. "The old 'un sanctioned it," was the response to her
judgments, and thus the small village in which she resided
became known as a place of authority and law.
  When the gods in their wrath hurled the fiery mountain at the
world, the mountain struck the continent of Ansalon and broke it
asunder. The water of the Sirrion Ocean poured into the newly
formed cracks and crevices creating a new sea, aptly named, by
the pragmatic, New Sea. The volcanoes of the Doom Range flared
into furious life, sending rivers of lava flowing into Sanction.
  Mankind being ever resilient, quick to turn disaster to advan-
tage, those who had once tilled the soil harvesting crops of beans
and barley turned from the plow to the net, harvested the fruit of
the sea. Sm~ fishing villages sprang up along the coast of New Sea.
  The people of Sanction moved to the beaches, where the off-
shore breeze blew away the fumes of the volcanoes. The town
prospered, but it did not grow significantly until the tall ships ar-
rived. Adventurous sailors out of Palanthas took their ships into
New Sea, hoping to find quick and easy passage to the other side
of the continent, avoiding the long and treacherous journey
through the Sirrion Sea to the north. The explorers' hopes were
dashed. No such passage existed. What they did discover, how-
ever, was a natural port in Sanction, an overland passage that was
not too difficult, and markets waiting for their goods on the other
side of the Khalkhist Mountains.
  The town began to thrive, to expand, and, like any growing
child, to dream. Sanction saw itself another Palanthas: famous,
staid, stolid, and wealthy. Those dreams did not materialize,
however. Solamnic Knights watched over Palanthas, guarded the
city, ruled it with the Oath and the Measure. Sanction belonged to
whoever had the might and the power to hold onto it. The city
grew up headstrong and spoiled, with no codes, no laws, and
plenty of money.
  Sanction was not choosy about its companions. The city wel-
comed the greedy, the rapacious, the unscrupulous. Thieves and
brigands, con men and whores, sell-swords and assassins called
Sanction home.
  The time came when Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, tried to
return to the world. She raised up armies to conquer Ansalon in
her name. Ariakas, general of these armies, recognized the strate-
gic value of Sanction to the Queen's holy city of Neraka and the
military outpost of Khur. Lord Ariakas marched his troops into
Sanction, conquered the city, which put up little resistance. He
built temples to his Queen in Sanction and made his headquarters
there.
  The Lords of Doom, the volcanoes that ringed Sanction, felt
the heat of the Queen's ambition stirring beneath them and came
again to life. Streams of lava flowed from the volcanoes, lighting
Sanction with a lurid glow by night. The ground shook and shiv-
ered from tremors. The inns of Sanction lost a fortune in broken
crockery and began to serve food on tin plates and drink in
wooden mugs. The air was poisonous, thick with sulphurous
fumes. Black-robed wizards worked constantly to keep the city fit
for habitation.
  Takhisis set out to conquer the world, but in the end she could
not overcome herself. Her generals quarreled, turned on each
other. Love and self-sacrifice, loyalty and honor won the day. The
stones of Neraka lay blasted and cursed in the shadowed valley
leading to Sanction.
  The Solamnic Knights marched on Sanction. They seized the
city after a pitched battle with its inhabitants. Recognizing Sanc-
tion's strategic as well as financial importance to this part of
Ansalon, the Knights established a strong garrison in the city.
They tore down the temples of evil, set fire to the slave markets,
razed the brothels. The Conclave of Wizards sent mages to con-
tinue to cleanse the poisonous air.
  When the Knights of Takhisis began to accumulate power,
some twenty years later, Sanction was high on the list of priori-
ties. The Knights might well have captured it. Years of peace had
made the Solamnic Knights sleepy and bored. They dozed at their
posts. But before the Dark Knights could attack Sanction, the
Chaos War diverted the attention of the Dark Knights and woke
up the Solamnics.
  The Chaos War ended. The gods departed. The residents of
Sanction came to realize that the gods were gone. Magic-as
they had known it-was gone. The people who had survived
the war now faced death by asphyxiation from the noxious
fumes. They fled the city, ran to the beaches to breathe the clean
sea air. And so for a time, Sanction returned to where it had
begun.
  A strange and mysterious wizard named Hogan Bight not
only restored Sanction to its former glory but helped the city sur-
pass itself. He did what no other wizard had been able to do: He
not only cleansed the air, he diverted the lava away from the city.
Water, cool and pure, flowed from the snowy mountain tops. A
person could actually step outside and take a deep breath and not
double over coughing and choking.
Older and wiser, Sanction became prosperous, wealthy, and
respectable. Under Bight's protection and encouragement, good
and honest merchants moved into the city. Both the Solamnic
Knights and the Knights of Neraka approached Bight, each side
offering to move into Sanction and provide protection from the
other.
  Bight trusted neither side, refused to allow either to enter.
Angry, the Knights of Neraka argued that Sanction was part of
the land given to them by the Council in return for their service
during the Chaos War. The Knights of Solamnia continued to try
to negotiate with Bight, who continued to refuse all their offers
of aid.
  Meanwhile the Dark Knights, now calling themselves Knights
of Neraka, were growing in strength, in wealth, and in power-
for it was they who collected the tribute due the dragons. They
watched Sanction as the cat watches the mouse hole. The Knights
of Neraka had long coveted the port that woulq allow them a
base of operations from which they could sail forth and gain a
firm hold on all the lands surrounding New Sea. Seeing that the
mice were busy biting and clawing each other, the cat pounced.
  The Knights of Neraka laid siege to Sanction. They expected
the siege to be a long one. As soon as the Dark Knights attacked
the city, its fractured elements would unite in its defense. The
Knights were patient, however. They could not starve the city
into submission; blockade runners continued to bring supplies
into Sanction. But the Knights of Neraka could shut down all
overland trade routes. Thus the Knights of Neraka effectively
strangled the merchants and brought Sanction's economy to ruin.
  Pressured by the demands of the citizens, Hogan Bight had
agreed within the last year to permit the Solamnic Knights to
send in a force to bolster the city's flagging defenses. At first, the
Knights were welcomed as saviors. The people of Sanction ex-
pected the Knights would put an immediate end to the siege. The
Solamnics replied that they had to study the situation. After
months of watching the Knights study, the people again urged
the Solamnics to break the siege. The Knights replied that their
numbers were too few. They needed reinforcements.
  Nightly the besiegers bombarded the city with boulders and
fiery bales of hay flung from catapults. The burning hay bales
started blazes, the boulders knocked holes in buildings. People
died, property was destroyed. No one could get a good night's
sleep. As the leadership of the Knights of Neraka had calcu-
lated, the excitement and fervor of Sanction's residents, which
had burned hot when first defending their city against the foe,
cooled as the siege dragged out month after month. They found
fault with the Solamnics, called them cowards. The Knights re-
torted that the citizens were hot-heads who would have them
all die for nothing. Hearing reports from their spies that the
unity was starting to crack, the Knights of Neraka began to
build up their forces for an all-out, major assault. Their leader-
ship waited only for a sign that the cracks had penetrated to the
enemy's heart.

  A large valley known as Zhakar Valley lay to the east of Sanc-
tion. Early in the siege, the Knights of Neraka had gained control
of this valley and all of the passes that led from Sanction into the
valley. Hidden in the foothills of the Zhakar Mountains, the
valley was being used by the ~ghts as a staging area for their
armIes.
  "The Zhakar Valley is our destination," Mina told her
Knights. But when asked why, what they would do there, she
would say nothing other than, "We are called."
Mina and her forces arrived at noon. The sun was high in a
cloudless sky, seeming to stare down upon all below with avid
expectation, an expectation that sucked up the wind, left the air
still and hot.
  Mina brought her small command to a halt at the entrance to
the valley. Directly opposite them, across the valley, was a pass
known as Beckard's Cut. Through the cut, the Knights could see
the besieged city, see a small portion of the wall that surrounded
Sanction. Between the Knights and Sanction lay their own army.
Another city had sprung up in the valley, a city of tents and camp-
fires, wagons and draft animals, soldiers and camp followers.
  Mina and her Knights had arrived at a propitious time, seem-
ingly. The camp of the Knights of Neraka rang with cheers. Trum-
pets blared, officers bellowed, companies formed on the road.
Already the lead forces were marching through the cut, heading
toward Sanction. Others were quickly following.
  "Good," said Mina. "We are in time."
  She galloped her horse down the steep road, her Knights
followed after. They heard in the trumpets the melody of the song
they had heard in their sleep. Hearts pounded, pulses quickened,
yet they had no idea why.
  "Find out what is going on," Mina instructed Galdar.
  The minotaur nabbed the first officer he could locate, ques-
tioned the man. Returning to Mina, the minotaur grinned and
rubbed his hands.
  "The cursed Solamnics have left the city!" he reported. "The
wizard who runs Sanction has thrown the Solamnic Knights out
on their ears. Kicked them in the ass. Sent them packing. If you
look" -Galdar turned, pointed through Beckard' s Cut-"you can
see their ships, those little black dots on the horizon."
  The Knights under Mina's command began to cheer. Mina
looked at the distant ships, but she did not smile. Foxfire stirred
restlessly, shook his mane and pawed the ground.
  "You brought us here in good time, Mina," Galdar continued
with enthusiasm. "They are preparing to launch the final assault.
This day, we'll drink Sanction's blood. This night, we'll drink
Sanction ale!"
  The men laughed. Mina said nothing, her expression indi-
cated neither elation nor joy. Her amber eyes roved the army
camp, seeking something and not finding what she wanted, ap-
parently, for a small frown line appeared between her brows. Her
lips pursed in displeasure. She continued her search and finally,
her expression cleared. She nodded to herself and patted Foxfire's
neck, calming him.
  "Galdar, do you see that company of archers over there?"
  Galdar looked, found them, indicated that he did.
  "They do not wear the livery of the Knights of Neraka."
  "They are a mercenary company," Galdar explained. "In our
pay, but they fight under their own officers."
  "Excellent. Bring their commander to me."
  "But, Mina, why-"
  "Do as I have ordered, Galdar," said Mina.
  Her Knights, gathered behind her, exchanged startled
glances, shrugging, wondering. Galdar was about to argue. He
was about to urge Mina to let him join in the final drive toward
victory instead of sending him off on some fool's errand. A jar-
ring, tingling sensation numbed his right arm, felt as if he'd
struck his "funny bone." For one terrifying moment, he could
not move his fingers. Nerves tingled and jangled. The feeling
went away in a moment, leaving him shaken. Probably nothing
more than a pinched nerve, but the tingling reminded him of
what he owed her. Galdar swallowed his arguments and de-
parted on his assignment.
  He returned with the archer company's commander, an older
human, in his forties, with the inordinately strong arms of a
bowman. The mercenary officer's expression was sullen, hostile.
He would not have come at all, but it is difficult to say no to a
minotaur who towers over you head, shoulders, and horns and
who is insistent upon your coming.
  Mina wore her helm with the visor raised. A wise move,
Galdar thought. The helm shadowed her youthful, girl's face,
kept it hidden.
  "What are you orders, Talon Leader?" Mina asked. Her voice
resonated from within the visor, cold and hard as the metal.
  The commander looked up at the Knight with a certain
amount of scorn, not the least intimidated.
  "I'm no blasted 'talon leader,' Sir Knight," he said and he laid
a nasty, sarcastic emphasis on the word 'sir.' "I hold my rank as
captain of my own command, and we don't take orders from
your kind. Just money. We do whatever we damn well please."
  "Speak politely to the talon leader," Galdar growled and gave
the officer a shove that staggered him.
  The man wheeled, glowered, reached for his short sword.
Galdar grasped his own sword. His fellow soldiers drew their
blades with a ringing sound. Mina did not move.
  "What are your orders, Captain?" she asked again.
  Seeing he was outnumbered, the officer slid his sword back
into its sheath, his movement slow and deliberate, to show that
he was still defiant, just not stupid.
  "To wait until the assault is launched and then to fire at the
guards on the walls. Sir," he said sulkily, adding in sullen tones,
"We'll be the last ones into the city, which means all the choice
pickings will already be gone."
  Mina regarded him speculatively. "You have little respect for
the Knights of Neraka or our cause."
  "What cause?" The office gave a brief, barking laugh. "To fill
your own coffers? That's all you care about. You and your foolish
visions." He spat on the ground.
"Yet you were once one of us, Captain Samuval. You were
once a Knight of Takhisis," Mina said. "You quit because the
cause for which you joined was gone. You quit because you no
longer believed."
  The captain's eyes widened, his face muscles went slack.
"How did-" He shapped his mouth shut. "What if I was?" he
growled. "I didn't desert if that's what you're thinking. I bought
my way out. I have my papers-"
  "lf you do not believe in our cause, why do you continue to
fight for us, Captain?" Mina asked.
  Samuval snorted. "Oh, I believe in your cause now, all right"
he said with a leer. "I believe in money, same as the rest of you."
  Mina sat her horse, who was still and calm beneath her hand,
and gazed through Beckard's Cut gazed at the city of Sanction.
Galdar had a sudden, strange impression that she could see
through the walls of the city, see through the armor of those de-
fending the city, see through their flesh and their bones to their
very hearts and minds, just as she had seen through him. Just as
she had seen through the captain.
  "No one will enter Sanction this day, Captain SamuvaL" said
Mina softly. "The carrion birds will be the ones who find choice
pickings. The ships that you see sailing away are not filled with
Solamnic Knights. The troops that line their decks are in reality
straw dummies wearing the armor of Solamnics Knights. It is a
trap."
  Galdar stared, aghast. He believed her. Believed as surely as if
he had seen inside the ships, seen inside the walls to the enemy
army hiding there, ready to spring.
  "How do you know this?" the captain demanded.
  "What if I gave you something to believe in, Captain Samu-
val?" she asked instead of answering. "What if I make you the
hero of this battle? Would you pledge your loyalty to me?" She
smiled slightly. "I have no money to offer you. I have only this
sure knowledge that I freely share with you-fight for me and on
this day you will come to know the one true god."
  Captain Samuval gazed up at her in wordless astonishment.
He looked dazed, lightning-struck.
  Mina held out her raw and bleeding hands, palms open. "You
are offered a choice, Captain Samuval. I hold death in one hand.
Glory in the other. Which will it be?"
Samuval scratched his beard. "You're a strange one, Talon
Leader. Not like any of your kind I've ever met before."
  He looked back through Beckard's Cut.
  "Rumor has spread among the men that the city is abandoned,"
Mina said. "They have heard it will open its gates in surrender.
They have become a mob. They run to their own destruction."
  She spoke truly. Ignoring the shouts of the officers, who were
vainly endeavoring to maintain some semblance of order, the foot
soldiers had broken ranks. Galdar watched the army disintegrate,
become in an instant an undisciplined horde rampaging through
the cut. Eager for the kill, eager for spoils. Captain Samuval spat
again in disgust. His expression dark, he looked back at Mina.
  "What would you have me do, Talon Leader?"
  "Take your company of archers and post them on that ridge
there. Do you see it?" Mina pointed to a foothill overlooking
Beckard's Cut.
  "I see it," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "And what do
we do once we're there?"
  "My Knights and 1 will take up our positions there. Once ar-
rived, you will await my orders," Mina replied. "When 1 give
those orders, you will obey my commands without question."
  She held out her hand, her blood-smeared hand. Was it the
hand that held death or the hand that held life? Galdar wondered.
  Perhaps Captain Samuval wondered as well, for he hesitated
before he finally took her hand into his own. His hand was large,
callused from the bowstring, brown and grimy. Her hand was
small, its touch light. Her palm was blistered, rimed with dried
blood. Yet it was the captain who winced slightly.
  He looked down at his hand when she released him, rubbed it
on his leather corselet, as if rubbing away the pain of sting or bum.
  "Make haste, Captain. We don't have much time," Mina or-
dered.
  " And just who are you, Sir Knight?" Captain Samuval asked.
He was still rubbing his hand.
  "I am Mina," she said.
  Grasping the reins, she pulled sharply. Foxfire wheeled. Mina
dug in her spurs, galloped straight for the ridge above Beckard's
Cut. Her Knights rode alongside her. Galdar ran at her stirrup,
legs pumping to keep up.
  "How do you know that Captain Samuval will obey you,
Mina ?" the minotaur roared over the pounding of horses' hooves.
  She looked down on him and smiled. Her amber eyes were
bright in the shadow of the helm.
  "He will obey," she said, "if for no other reason now than to
demonstrate his disdain for his superiors and their foolish com-
mands. But the captain is a man who hungers, Galdar. He yearns
for food. They have given him clay to fill his belly. I will give him
meat. Meat to nourish his soul."
  Mina leaned over her horse's head and urged the animal to
gallop even faster.

  Captain Samuval's Archer Company took up position on the
ridgeline overlooking Beckard's Cut. They were several hundred
strong, well-trained professional bowmen who had fought in
many of Neraka's wars before now. They used the elven long
bow, so highly prized among arfhers. Taking up their places, they
stood foot to foot, packed tightly together, with not much room to
maneuver, for the ridgeline was not long. The archers were in a
foul mood. Watching the army of the Knights of Neraka sweep
down on Sanction, the men muttered that there would be nothing
left for them-the finest women carried off, the richest houses
plundered. They might as well go home.
  Above them clouds thickened; roiling gray clouds that bub-
bled up over the Zhakar Mountains and began to slide down the
mountain's side.
  The army camp was empty, now, except for the tents and
supply wagons and a few wounded who had been unable to go
with their brethren and were cursing their ill luck. The clamor of
the battle moved away from them. The surrounding mountains
and the lowering clouds deflected the sounds of the attacking
army. The valley was eerily silent.
  The archers looked sullenly to their captain, who looked im-
patiently to Mina.
  "What are your orders, Talon Leader?" he asked.
  "Wait," she said.
  They waited. The army washed up against the walls of Sanc-
tion, pounded against the gate. The noise and commotion was far
away, a distant rumbling. Mina removed her helm, ran her hand
over her shorn head with its down of dark red hair. She sat
straight-backed upon her horse, her chin lifted. Her gaze was not
on Sanction but on the blue sky above them, blue sky that was
rapidly darkening.
  The archers stared, astounded at her youth, amazed at her
strange beauty. She did not heed their stares, did not hear their
coarse remarks that were swallowed by the silence welling up out
of the valley. The men felt something ominous about the silence.
Those who continued to make remarks did so out of bravado and
were almost immediately hushed by their uneasy comrades.
  An explosion rocked the ground around Sanction, shattered
the silence. The clouds boiled, the sunlight vanished. The Neraka
army's gloating roars of victory were abruptly cut off. Shouts of
triumph shrilled to screams of panic.
  "What is happening?" demanded the archers, their tongues
loosed. Everyone talked at once. "Can you see?"
  "Silence in the ranks!" Captain Samuval bellowed.
  One of the Knights, who had been posted as observer near the
cut, came galloping toward them.
  "It was a trap!" He began to yell when he was still some distance
away. "The gates of Sanction opened to our forces, but only to spew
forth the Solamnics! There must be a thousand of them. Sorcerers
ride at their head, dealing death with their cursed magicks!"
  The Knight reined in his excited horse. "You spoke truly,
Mina!" His voice was awed, reverent. "A huge blast of magical
power killed hundreds of our troops at the outset. Their bodies lie
smoldering on the field. Our soldiers are fleeing! They are run-
ning this way, ,retreating through the cut. It is a rout!"
  " All is lost, then," said Captain Samuval, though he looked at
Mina strangely. "The Solamnic forces will drive the army into the
valley. We will be caught between the anvil of the mountains and
the hammer of the Solamnics."
  His words proved true. Those in the rear echelons were al-
ready streaming back through Heckard's Cut. Many had no idea
where they were going, only that they wanted to be far away
from the blood and the death. A few of the less confused and
more calculating were making for the narrow road that ran
through the mountains to Khur.
  "A standard!" Mina said urgently. "Find me a standard!"
  Captain Samuval took hold of the grimy white scarf he wore
around his neck and handed it up to her. "Take this and welcome,
Mina."
Mina took the scarf in her hands, bowed her head. Whisper-
ing words no one could hear, she kissed the scarf and handed it
to Galdar. The white fabric was stained red with blood from the
raw blisters on her hand. One of Mina's Knights offered his lance.
Galdar tied the bloody scarf onto the lance, handed the lance back
to Mina.
  Wheeling Foxfire, she rode him up the rocks to a high
promontory and held the standard aloft.
  "To me, men!" she shouted. "To Mina!"
  The clouds parted. A mote of sunlight jabbed from the heav-
ens, touched only Mina as she sat astride her horse on the ridge-
line. Her black armor blazed as if dipped in flame, her amber eyes
gleamed, lit from behind with the light of battle. Her redound, a
clarion call, brought the fleeing soldiers to a halt. They looked to
see from whence the call came and saw Mina outlined in flame,
blazing like a beacon fire upon the hillside.
  The fleeing soldiers halted in their mad dash, looked up,
dazzled.
  "To me!" Mina yelled again. "Glory is ours this day!"
  The soldiers hesitated, then one ran toward her, scrambling,
slipping and sliding up the hillside. Another followed and an-
other, glad to have purpose and direction once again.
  "Bring those men over there to me," Mina ordered Galdar,
pointing to another group of soldiers in full retreat. "As ~any as
you can gather. See that they are armed. Draw them up in battle
formation there on the rocks below."
  Galdar did as he was commanded. He and the other Knights
blocked the path of the retreating soldiers, ordered them to join
their comrades who were starting to form a dark pool at Mina's
feet. More and more soldiers were pouring through the cut, the
Knights of Neraka riding among them, some of the officers
making valiant attempts to halt the retreat, others joining the foot-
men in a run for their lives. Behind them rode Solamnic Knights
in their gleaming silver armor, their white-feathered crests.
Deadly, silver light flashed, and everywhere that light appeared,
men withered and died in its magical heat. The Solamnic Knights
entered the cut, driving the forces of the Knights of Neraka like
cattle before them, driving them to slaughter.
  "Captain Samuval," cried Mina, riding her horse down the
hill, her standard streaming behind her. "Order your men to fire."
"The Solamnics are not in bow range," he said to her, shaking
his head at her foolishness. "Any fool can see that."
  "The Solamnics are not your target Captain," Mina returned
coolly. She pointed to the forces of the Knights of Neraka stream-
ing through the cut. "Those are your targets."
  "Our own men?" Captain Samuval stared at her. "You are
mad."
  "Look upon the field of battle, Captain," Mina said. "It is the
only way."
  Captain Samuvallooked. He wiped his face with his hand,
then he gave the command. "Bowmen, fire."
  "What target?" demanded one.
  "You heard Mina!" said the captain harshly. Grabbing a bow
from one of his men, he nocked an arrow and fired.
  The arrow pierced the throat of one of the fleeing Knights of
Neraka. He fell backward off his horse and was trampled in the
rush of his retreating comrades.
  Archer Company fired. Hundreds of arrows-each shot with
deliberate, careful aim at point-blank range-filled the air with a
deadly buzz. Most found their targets. Foot soldiers clutched
their chests and dropped. The feathered shafts struck through the
raised visors of the helmed Knights or took them in the throat.
  "Continue firing, Captain," Mina commanded.
  More arrows flew. More bodies fell. The panic-stricken sol-
diers realized that the arrows were coming from in front of them
now. They faltered, halted, trying to discover the location of this
new enemy. Their comrades crashed into them from behind,
driven mad by the approaching Solamnic Knights. The steep
walls of Beckard's Cut prevented any escape.
  "Fire!" Captain Samuval shouted wildly, caught up in the
fervor of death-dealing. "For Mina!"
  "For Mina!" cried the archers and fired.
  Arrows hummed with deadly accuracy, thunked into their
targets. Men screamed and fell. The dying were starting to pile up
like hideous cord wood in the cut forming a blood-soaked
barricade.
  An officer came raging toward them, his sword in his hand.
"You fool!" he screamed at Captain Samuval. "Who gave you
your orders? You're firing on your own men!"
  "I gave him the order," said Mina calmly.
Furious, the 'Knight accosted her. "Traitor!" He raised his
blade.
  Mina sat unmoving on her horse. She paid no attention to the
Knight, she was intent upon the carnage below. Galdar brought
down a crushing fist on the Knight's helm. The Knight, his neck
broken, went rolling and tumbling down the hillside. Galdar
sucked bruised knuckles and looked up at Mina.
  He was astounded to see tears flowing unchecked down her
cheeks. Her hand clasped the medallion around her neck. Her
lips moved, she might have been praying.
  Attacked from in front, attacked from behind, the soldiers
inside Beckard's Cut began milling about in confusion. Behind
them, their comrades faced a terrible choice. They could either be
speared in the back by the Solamnics or they could turn and fight.
They wheeled to face the enemy, battling with the ferocity of the
desperate, the cornered.
  The Solamnics continued to fight, but their charge was slowed
and, at length, ground to a halt.
  "Cease fire!" Mina ordered. She handed her standard to
Galdar. Drawing her morning star, she held it high over her head.
"Knights of Neraka! Our hour has come! We ride this day to
glory!"
  Foxfire gave a great leap and galloped down the hillside, car-
rying Mina straight at the vanguard of the Solamnic Knights. So
swift was Foxfire, so sudden Mina's move, that she left her own
Knights behind. They watched, open-mouthed, as Mina rode to
what must be her doom. Then Galdar raised the white standard.
  "Death is certain!" the minotaur thundered. "But so is glory!
For Mina!"
  "For Mina!" cried the Knights in grim, deep voices and they
rode their horses down the hill.
  "For Mina!" yelled Captain Samuval, dropping his bow and
drawing his short sword. He and the entire Archer Company
charged into the fray.
  "For Mina!" shouted the soldiers, who had gathered around
her standard. Rallying to her cause, they dashed after her, a dark
cascade of death rumbling down the hillside.
  Galdar raced down the hillside, desperate to catch up to Mina,
to protect and defend her. She had never been in a battle. She was
unskilled, untrained. She must surely die. Enemy faces loomed
up before him. Their swords slashed at him, their spears jabbed
at him, their arrows stung him. He struck their swords aside,
broke their spears, ignored their arrows. The enemy was an irri-
tant, keeping him from his goal. He lost her and then he found
her, found her completely surrounded by the enemy.
  Galdar saw one knight try to impale Mina on his sword. She
turned the blow, struck at him with the morning star. Her first
blow split open his helm. Her next blow split open his head. But
while she fought him, another was coming to attack her from
behind. Galdar bellowed a warning, though he knew with de-
spair that she could not hear him. He battled ferociously to reach
her, cutting down those who stood between him and his com-
mander, no longer seeing their faces, only the bloody streaks of
his slashing sword.
  He kept his gaze fixed on her, and his fury blazed, and his
heart stopped beating when he saw her pulled from her horse. He
fought more furiously than ever, frantic to save her. A blow struck
from behind stunned him. He fell to his knees. He tried to rise,
but blow after savage blow rained down on him, and he knew
nothing more.
  The battle ended sometime near twilight. The Knights of
Neraka held, the valley was secure. The Solamnics and soldiers of
Sanction were forced to retreat back into the walled city, a city
that was shocked and devastated by the crushing defeat. They
had felt the victory wreath upon their heads, and then the wreath
had been savagely snatched away, trampled in the mud. Devas-
tated, disheartened, the Solamnic Knights dressed their wounds
and burned the bodies of their dead. They had spent months
working on this plan, deemed it their only chance to break the
siege of Sanction. They wondered over and over how they could
have failed.
  One Solamnic Knight spoke of a warrior who had come upon
him, so he said, like the wrath of the departed gods. Another had
seen this warrior, too, and another and another after that. Some
claimed it was a youth, but others said that no, it was a girl, a girl
with a face for which a man might die. She had ridden in the
front of the charge, smote their ranks like a thunderclap, battling
without helm or shield, her weapon a morning star that dripped
with blood.
Pulled from her horse, she fought alone on foot.
  "She must be dead," said one angrily. "I saw her fall."
  "True, she fell, but her horse stood guard over her," said an-
other, "and struck out with lashing hooves at any who dared ap-
proach."
  But whether the beautiful destructor had perished or sur-
vived, none could tell. The tide of battle turned, came to meet her,
swept around her, and rolled over the heads of the Solamnic
Knights, carried them in a confused heap back into their city.

  "Mina!" Galdar called hoarsely. "Mina!"
  There came no answer.
  Desperate, despairing, Galdar searched on.
  The smoke from the fires of the funeral pyres hung over the
valley. Night had not yet fallen, the twilight was gray and thick
with smoke and orange cinders. The minotaur went to the tents
of the dark mystics, who were treating the wounded, and he
could not find her. He looked through the bodies that were being
lined up for the burning, an arduous task. Lifting one body, he
rolled it over, looked closely at the face, shook his head, and
moved on to the next.
  He did not find her among the dead, at least, not those who
had been brought back to camp thus far. The work of removing
the bodies from that blood-soaked cut would last all night and
into the morrow. Galdar's shoulders sagged. He was wounded,
exhausted, but he was determined to keep searching. He carried
with him, in his right hand, Mina' s standard. The white cloth was
white no longer. It was brownish red, stiff with dried blood.
  He blamed himself. He should have been at her side. Then at
least if he had not been able to protect her, he could have died
with her. He had failed, struck down from behind. When he had
finally regained consciousness, he found that the battle was over.
He was told that their side had won.
  Hurt and dizzy, Galdar staggered over to the place he had last
glimpsed her. Bodies of her foes lay heaped on the ground, but
she was nowhere to be found.
  She was not among the living. She was not among the dead.
Galdar was starting to think that he had dreamed her, created her
out of his own hunger to believe in someone or something when
he felt a touch upon his arm.
"Minotaur," said the man. "Sorry, I never did catch your
name."
  Galdar could not place the soldier for a moment-the face
was almost completely obscured by a bloody bandage. Then he
recognized the captain of Archer Company.
  "You're searching for her, aren't you?" Captain Samuval
asked. "For Mina?"
  For MinaI The cry echoed in his heart. Galdar nodded. He was
too tired, too dispirited to speak.
  "Come with me," said Samuval. "I have something to show
you." 
  The two trudged across the floor of the valley, heading for the
battlefield. Those soldiers who had escaped the battle uninjured
were busy rebuilding the camp, which had been wrecked during
the chaos of the retreat. The men worked with a fervor unusual to
see, worked without the incentive of the whip or the bullying
cries of the masters-at-arms. Galdar had seen these same men in
past battles crouched sullenly over their cooking fires, licking
their wounds, swilling dwarf spirits, and boasting and bragging
of their bravery in butchering the enemy's wounded.
  Now, as he passed the groups of men hammering in tent
stakes or pounding the dents out of breastplate and shield or
picking up spent arrows or tending to countless other chores, he
listened to them talk. Their talk was not of themselves, but of her,
the blessed, the charmed. Mina.
  Her name was on every soldier's lips, her deeds recounted
time and again. A new spirit infused the camp, as if the lightning
storm out of which Mina had walked had sent jolts of energy
flashing from man to man.
  Galdar listened and marveled but said nothing. He accompa-
nied Captain Samuval, who appeared disinclined to talk about
anything, refused to answer all Galdar's questions. In another
time, the frustrated minotaur might have smashed the human's
skull into his shoulders, but not now. They had shared in a
moment of triumph and exaltation, the likes of which neither had
ever before experienced in battle. They had both been carried out
of themselves, done deeds of bravery and heroism they had never
thought themselves capable of doing. They had fought for a cause,
fought together for a cause, and against all odds they had won.
  When Captain Samuval stumbled, Galdar reached out a
steadying arm. When Galdar slipped in a pool of blood, Captain
Samuval supported him. The two arrived at the edge of the
battlefield. Captain Samuval peered through the smoke that hung
over the valley. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains.
Its afterglow filled the sky with a smear of pale red.
  "There," said the captain, and he pointed.
  The wind had lifted with the setting of the sun, blowing the
smoke to rags that swirled and eddied like silken scarves. These
were suddenly whisked away to reveal a horse the color of blood
and a figure kneeling on the field of battle only a few feet away
from him.
  "Mina!" Galdar breathed. Relief weakened all the muscles in
his body. A burning stung his eyes, a burning he attributed to the
smoke, for minotaurs never wept, could not weep. He wiped his
eyes. "What is she doing?" he asked after a moment.
  "Praying," said Captain Samuval. "She is praying."
  Mina knelt beside the body of a soldier. The arrow that had
killed him had gone clean through his breast, pinned him to the
ground. Mina lifted the hand of the dead man, placed the hand to
her breast, bent her head. If she spoke, Galdar could not hear
what she said, but he knew Samuval was right. She was praying
to this god of hers, this one, true god. This god who had foreseen
the trap, this god who had led her here to turn defeat into glori-
ous victory. .
  Her prayers finished, Mina laid the man's hand atop the ter-
rible wound. Bending over him, she pressed her lips to the cold
forehead, kissed it, then rose to her feet.
  She had barely strength to walk. She was covered with blood,
some of it her own. She halted, her head droopedti,her body
sagged. Then she lifted her head to the heavens, where she
seemed to find strength, for she straightened her shoulders and
with strong step walked on.
  "Ever since the battle was assured, she has been going from
corpse to corpse," said Captain Samuval. "In particular, she
finds those who fell by our own arrows. She stops and kneels in
the blood-soaked mud and offers prayer. I have never seen the
like."
  "It is right that she honors them," Galdar said harshly. "Those
men bought us victory with their blood."
  "She bought us victory with their blood," Captain Samuval
returned with a quirk of the only eyebrow visible through the
bandage.
A sound rose behind Galdar. He was reminded of the
  Gamashinoch, the Song of Death. This song came from living
throats, however; starting low and quiet, sung by only a few.
More voices caught it up and began to carry it forward, as they
had caught up their dropped swords and run forward into battle.
  "Mina ...Mina..."
  The song swelled. Begun as a soft, reverent chant, it was now
a triumphal march, a celebratory paean accompanied by a tim-
pani of sword clashing against shield, of stomping feet and clap-
ping hands.
  "Mina! Mina! Mina!"
  Galdar turned to see the remnants of the army gathering at
the edge of the battlefield. The wounded who could not walk
under their own power were being supported by those who
could. Bloody, ragged, the soldiers chanted her name.
  Galdar lifted his voice in a thunderous shout and raised
Mina's standard. The chanting became a cheer that rolled among
the mountains like thunder and shook the ground mounded high
with the bodies of the dead.
  Mina had started to kneel down again. The song arrested her.
She paused, turned slowly to face the cheering throng. Her face
was pale as bone. Her amber eyes were ringed with ash-like
smudges of fatigue. Her lips were parched and cracked, stained
with the kisses of the dead. She gazed upon the hundreds of
living who were shouting, singing, chanting her name.
  Mina raised her hands.
  The voices ceased in an instant. Even the groans and screams
of the wounded hushed. The only sound was her name echoing
from the mountainside, and eventually that died away as silence
settled over the valley.
  Mina mounted her horse, so that all the multitude who had
gathered at the edge of the field of the battle, now being called
  "Mina's Glory," could better see and hear her.
  "You do wrong to honor me!" she told them. "I am only the
vessel. The honor and the glory of this day belong to the god who
guides me along the path I walk."
  "Mina's path is a path for us all!" shouted someone.
The cheering began again.
"Listen to me!" Mina shouted, her voice ringing with author-
ity and power. "The old gods are gone! They abandoned you.
They will never return! One god has come in their place. One god
to rule the world. One god only. To that one god, we owe our
allegiance!"
  "What is the name of this god?" one cried.
  "I may not pronounce it," Mina replied. "The name is too
holy, too powerful."
  "Mina!" said one. "Mina, Mina!"
  The crowd picked up the chant and, once started, they would
not be stopped.
  Mina looked exasperated for a moment, even angry. Lifting
her hand, she clasped her fingers over the medallion she wore
round her neck. Her face softened, cleared.
  "Go forth! Speak my name," she cried. "But know that you
speak it in the name of my god."
  The cheers were deafening, jarred rocks from the mountain
sides.
  His own pain forgotten, Galdar shouted lustily. He looked down
to see his companion grimly silent, his gaze turned elsewhere.
  "What?" Galdar bellowed over the tumult. "What's wrong?"
  "Look there," said Captain Samuval. "At the command tent."
  Not everyone in camp was cheering. A grquP of Knights of
Neraka were gathered around their leader, a Lord of the Skull.
They looked on with black gazes an~ scowls, arms crossed over
their chests.
  "Who is that?" Galdar asked.
  "Lord Milles," Samuval replied. "The one who ordered this
disaster. As you see, he came well out of the fray. Not a speck of
blood on his fine, shiny armor."
  Lord Milles was attempting to gain the soldiers' attention. He
waved his arms, shouted out words no one could hear. No one
paid him any heed. Eventually he gave it up as a bad job.
  Galdar grinned. "I wonder how this Milles likes seeing his
command pissing away down the privy hole."
  "Not well, I should imagine," said Samuval.
  "He and the other Knights consider themselves well rid of the
gods," Galdar said. "They ceased to speak of Takhisis's return
long ago. Two years past, Lord of the Night Targonne changed the
official name to Knights of Neraka. In times past, when a Knight
was granted the Vision, he was given to know his place in the god-
dess's grand plan. After Takhisis fled the world, the leadership
tried for some time to maintain the Vision through various mysti-
cal means. Knights still undergo the Vision, but now they can only
be certain of what Targonne and his ilk plant in their minds."
  "One reason I left," said Samuval. "Targonne and officers like
this Milles enjoy being the ones in charge for a change, and they
will not be pleased to hear that they are in danger of being
knocked off the top of the mountain. You may be certain Milles
will send news of this upstart to headquarters."
  Mina climbed down from her horse. Leading Foxfire by the
reins, she left the field of battle, walked into the camp. The men
cheered and shouted until she reached them, and then, as she
came near, moved by something they did not understand, they
ceased their clamor and dropped to their knees. Some reached
out their hands to touch her as she passed, others cried for her to
look upon them and grant them her blessing.
  Lord Milles watched this triumphant procession, his face
twisted in disgust. Turning on his heel, he reentered his com-
mand tent.
  "Bah! Let them skulk and plot!" Galdar said, elated. "She has
an army now. What can they do to her?"
  "Something treacherous and underhanded, you can be sure,"
said Samuval. He cast a glance heavenward. "It may be true that
there is One who watches over her from above. But she needs
friends to watch over her here below."
  "You speak wisely," said Galdar. "Are you with her then,
Captain?" 
  "To the end of my time or the world's, whichever comes first,"
said Samuval. "My men as well. And you?"
  "I have been with her always," said Galdar, and it truly
seemed to him that he had.
  Minotaur and human shook hands. Galdar proudly raised
Mina's standard and fell in beside her as she made her victory
march through the camp. Captain Samuval walked behind Mina,
his hand on his sword, guarding her back. Mina's Knights rode to
her standard. Everyone of those who had followed her from
Neraka had suffered some wound, but none had perished. Al-
ready, they were telling stories of miracles.
  " An arrow came straight toward me," said one. "I knew I was
dead. I spoke Mina's name, and the arrow dropped to the ground
at my feet."
  "One of the cursed Solamnics held his sword to my throat,"
said another. "I called upon Mina, and the enemy's blade broke in
twain."
  Soldiers offered her food. They brought her wine, brought her
water. Several soldiers seized the tent of one of Milles's officers,
turned him out, and prepared it for Mina. Snatching up burning
brands from the campfires, the soldiers held them aloft, lighting
Mina's progress through the darkness. As she passed, they spoke
her name as if it were an incantation that could work magic.
  "Mina," cried the men and the wind and the darkness.
"Mina!"

                     CHAPTER EIGHT
                    UNDER THE SHIELD
  The Silvanesti elves have always revered the night.
  The Qualinesti delight in the sunlight. Their ruler is the
Speaker of the Sun. They fill their homes with sunlight, all
business is conducted in the daylight hours, all important cere-
monies such as marriage are held in the day so that they may be
blessed by the light of the sun.
  The Silvanesti are in love with the star-lit night.
  The Silvanesti's leader is the Speaker of the Stars. Night had
once been a blessed time in Silvanost, the capital of the elven
state. Night brought the stars and sweet sleep and dreams of the
beauty of their beloved land. But then came the War of the Lance.
The wings of evil dragons blotted out the stars. One dragon in
particular, a green dragon known as Cyan Bloodbane, laid claim
to the realm of Silvanesti. He had long hated the elves and he
wanted to see them suffer. He could have slaughtered them by
the thousands, but he was cruel and clever. The dying suffer, that
is true, but the pain is fleeting and is soon forgotten as the dead
move from this reality to the next. Cyan wanted to inflict a pain
that nothing could ease, a pain that would endure for centuries.
The ruler of Silvanesti at the time was an elf highly skilled in
magic. Lorac Caladon foresaw the coming of evil to Ansalon. He
sent his people into exile, telling them he had the power to keep
their realm safe from the dragons. Unbeknownst to anyone,
Lorac had stolen one of the magical dragon orbs from the Tower
of High Sorcery. He had been warned that an attempt to use the
orb by one who was not strong enough to control its magic
could result in doom. In his arrogance, Lorac believed that he
was strong enough to wrest the orb to his will. He looked into
the orb and saw a dragon looking back. Lorac was caught and
held in thrall.
  Cyan Bloodbane had his chance. He found Lorac in the Tower
of the Stars, as he sat upon his throne, his hand held fast by the
orb. Cyan whispered into Lorac's ear a dream of Silvanesti, a ter-
rible dream in which lovely trees became hideous, deformed
monstrosities that attacked those who had once loved them. A
dream in which Lorac saw his people die, one by one, each death
painful and terrible to witness. A dream in which the Thon-
Thalas river ran red with blood.
  The War of the Lance ended. Queen Takhisis wa~ defeated.
Cyan Bloodbane was forced to flee Silvanesti, but he left smugly
satisified with the knowledge that he had accomplished his
goal. He had inflicted upon the Silvanesti a tortured dream from
which they would never awaken. When the elves returned to
their land after the war was over, they discovered to their shock
and horror that the nightmare was reality. Lorac's dream, given
to him by Cyan Bloodbane, had hideously altered their once
beautiful land.
  The Silvanesti fought the dream arid, under the leadership of
a Qualinesti general, Porthios, the elves eventually managed to
defeat it. The cost was dear, however. Many elves fell victim to
the dream, and even when it was finally cast out of the land, the
trees and plants and animals remained horribly deformed.
Slowly, the elves coaxed their forests back to beauty, using newly
discovered magicks to heal the wounds left by the dream, to
cover over the scars.
  Then came the need to forget. Porthios, who had risked his
life more than once to wrest their land from the clutches of the
dream, became a reminder of the dream. He was no longer a
savior. He was a stranger, an interloper, a threat to the Sil-
vanesti who wanted to return to their life of isolation and seclu-
sion. Porthios wanted to take the elves into the world, to make
them one with the world, to unify them with their cousins, the
Qualinesti. He had married Alhana Starbreeze, daughter of
Lorac, with this hope in mind. Thus if war came again, the elves
would not struggle alone. They would have allies to fight on
their side.
  The elves did not want allies. Allies who might decide to
gobble up Silvanesti land in return for their help. Allies who
might want to marry Silvanesti sons and daughters and dilute the
pure Silvanesti blood. These isolationists had declared Porthios
and his wife, Alhana, "dark elves" who could never, under
penalty of death, return to their homelands.
  Porthios was driven out. General Konnal took control of the
nation and placed it under martial law "until such time as a true
king can be found to rule the Silvanesti." The Silvanesti ignored
the pleas of their cousins, the Qualinesti, for help to free them
from the rule of the great dragon Beryl and the Knights of
Neraka. The Silvanesti ignored the pleas of those who fought the
great dragons and who begged the elves for their help. The Sil-
vanesti wanted no part of the world. Absorbed in their own af-
fairs, their eyes looked at the mirror of life and saw only
themselves. Thus it was that while they gazed with pride at their
own reflections, Cyan Bloodbane, the green dragon who had
been their bane, came back to the land he had once nearly de-
stroyed. Or so at least, it was reported by the kirath, who kept
watch on the borders.
  "Do not raise the shield!" the kirath warned. "You will trap us
inside with our worst enemy!"
  The elves did not listen. They did not believe the rumors.
Cyan Bloodbane was a figure out of the dark past. He had died in
the Dragon Purge. He must have died. If he had returned, why
had he not attacked them? So fearful were the elves of the world
outside that the Heads of House were unanimous in their ap-
proval of the magical shield. The people of Silvanesti could now
be said to have gained their dearest wish. Under the magical
shield, they were truly isolated, cut off from everyone. They were
safe, protected from the evil of the outside world.
  "And yet, it seems to me that we have not so much as shut the
evil out," Rolan said to Silvan, ''as that we have locked the evil in."
Night had come to Silvanesti. The darkness was welcome to
Silvan, even as it was a grief to him. They had traveled by day
through the forest, covering many miles until Rolan deemed they
were far enough from the ill effects of the shield to stop and rest.
The day had been a day of wonder to Silvanoshei.
  He had heard his mother speak with longing, regret, and
sorrow of the beauty of her homeland. He remembered as a child
when he and his exiled parents were hiding in some cave with
danger all about them, his mother would tell him tales of Sil-
vanesti to quiet his fears. He would close his eyes and see, not the
darkness, but the emerald, silver and gold of the forest. He would
hear not the howls of wolf or goblin but the melodious chime of
the bell flower or the sweetly sorrowful music of the flute tree.
  His imagination paled before the reality, however. He could
not believe that such beauty existed. He had spent the day as in
a waking dream, stumbling over rocks, tree roots, and his own
feet as wonders on every side brought tears to his eyes and joy to
his heart. .
  Trees whose bark was tipped with silver lifted their branches
to the sky in graceful arcs, their silver-edged leaves shining in
the sunlight. A profusion of broad-leafed bushes lined the path,
every bush ablaze with flame-colored flowers that scented the
air with sweetness. He had the impression he did not walk
through a forest so much as through a garden, for there were no
fallen branches, no straggling weeds, no thickets of brambles.
The Woodshapers permitted only the beautiful, the fruitful, and
the beneficial to grow in their forests. The Woodshapers' magi-
cal influence extended throughout the land, with the exception
of the borders, where the shield cast upon their handiwork a
killing frost.
  The darkness brought rest to Silvan's dazzled eyes. Yet the
night had its own heart-piercing beauty. The stars blazed with
fierce brilliance, as if defying the shield to try to shut them out.
Night flowers opened their petals to the starlight, scented the
warm darkness with exotic perfumes, while their luminescent
glow filled the forest with a soft silvery white light.
  "What do you mean?" Silvan asked. He could not equate evil
with the beauty he'd witnessed.
  "The cruel punishment we inflicted on your parents, for one,
Your Majesty," said Rolan. "Our way of thanking your father for
his aid was to try to stab him in the back. I was ashamed to be Sil-
vanesti when I heard of this. But there has come ~ reckoning. We
are bemg made to pay for our shame and our dIshonor, for cut-
ting ourselves off from the rest of the world, for living beneath the
shield, protected from the dragons while others suffer. We pay for
such protection with our lives."
  They had stopped to rest in a clearing near a swift-flowing
stream. Silvan was thankful for the respite. His injuries had
started to pain him once more, though he had not liked to say
anything. The excitement and shock of the sudden change in his
life had drained him, depleted his energy.
  Rolan found fruit and water with a sweetness like nectar for
their dinner. He tended to Silvan's wounds with a respectful, so-
licitous care that the young man found quite pleasant.
  Samar would have tossed me a rag and told me to make the
best of it, Silvanoshei thought.
  "Perhaps Your Majesty would like to sleep for a few hours,"
Rolan suggested after their supper.
  Silvan had thought he was dropping from fatigue but found
that he felt much better after eating, refreshed and renewed.
  "I would like to know more about my homeland," he said.
"My mother has told me some, but, of course, she could not know
what has been happening since she. . . she left. You spoke of the
shield." Silvan glanced about him. The beauty took his breath
away. "1 can understand why you would want to protect this"-
he gestured to the trees whose boles shone with an iridescent
light, to the star flowers that sparkled in the grass-"from the
ravages of our enemies."
  "Yes, Your Majesty," said Rolan and his tone softened. "There
are some who say that no price is too high to pay for such pro-
tection, not even the price of our own lives. But if all of us are
dead, who will be left to appreciate the beauty? And if we die, I
believe that eventually the forests will die, too, for the souls of the
elves are bound up in all things living."
  "Our people number as the stars," said Silvan, amused, think-
ing that Rolan was being overly dramatic.
Rolan glanced up at the heavens. "Erase half those stars, Your
Majesty, and you will find the light considerably diminished."
  "Half" Silvanoshei was shocked. "Surely not half!"
  "Half the population of Silvanost alone has perished from the
wasting sickness, Your Majesty." He paused a moment, then said,
"What I am about to tell you would be considered treason, for
which I would be severely punished."
  "By punished, you mean cast out?" Silvan was troubled.
"Exiled? Sent into darkness?"
  "No, we do not do that anymore, Your Majesty," Rolan
replied. "We cannot very well cast people out, for they could not
pass through the shield. Now people who speak against Gover-
nor General Konnal simply disappear. No one knows what hap-
pens to them."
  "If this is true, why don't the people rebel?" Silvan asked, be-
wildered. "Why don't they overthrow Konnal and demand that
the shield be brought down?"
  "Because only a few know the truth. And those of us who do
have no evidence. We could stand in the Tower of the Stars and
say that Konnal has gone mad, that he is so fearful of the world
outside that he would rather see us all dead than be a part of that
world. We could say all that, and then Konnal would stand up
and say, 'You lie! Lower the shield and the Dark Knights will
enter our beloved woods with their axes, the ogres will break and
maim the living trees, the Great Dragons will descend upon us
and devour us.' That is what he will say, and the people will cry,
Save us! Protect us, dear Governor General Konnal! We have no
one else to turn to!' and that will be that."
  "I see," said Silvan thoughtfully. He glanced at Rolan, who
was gazing intently into the darkness.
  "Now the people will have someone else to turn to, Your
Majesty," said Rolan. "The rightful heir to the Silvanesti throne.
But we must proceed carefully, cautiously." He smiled sadly.
"Else you, too, might 'disappear.' "
  The lovely song of the nightingale throbbed in the darkness.
Rolan pursed his lips and whistled back. Three elves material-
ized, emerging from the shadows. Silvan recognized them as the
three who had first accosted him near the shield this morning.
  This morning! Silvan marveled. Was it only this morning?
Days, months, years had go~e by since then.
  Rolan stood to greet the three, clasping the elves by the hand
and exchanging the ritual kiss on the cheek.
  The elves wore the same cloak as did Rolan, and even though
Silvan knew that they had entered the clearing, he was having a
difficult time seeing them, for they seemed to be wrapped in
darkness and starlight.
  Rolan questioned them about their patrol. They reported that
the border along the Shield was quiet, "deathly quiet" one said
with terrible irony. The three turned their attention back to
Silvan. 
  "So have you questioned him, Rolan?" asked one, turning a
stem gaze upon Silvanoshei. "Is he what he claims?"
  Silvan scrambled to his feet, feeling awkward and embar-
rassed. He started to bow politely to his elders, as he had been
taught, but then the thought came to him that he was king, after
all. It was they who should bow to him. He looked at Rolan in
some confusion.
  "I did not 'question' him," Rolan said sternly. "We discussed
certain things. And yes, I believe him to be Silvanoshei, the right-
ful Speaker of the Stars, son of Alhana and Porthios. Our king has
returned to us. The day for which we have been waiting has
arrived."
  The three elves looked at Silvan, studied him up and down,
then turned back to Rolan.
  "He could be an imposter," said one.
  "I am certain he is not" Rolan returned with firm conviction.
"I knew his mother when she was his age. I fought with his father
against the dreaming. He has the likeness of them both, though
he favors his father. You, Drinel. You fought with Porthios. Look
at this young man. You will see the father's image engraven on
the son's."
  The elf stared intently at Silvanoshei, who met his gaze and
held it.
  "See with your heart Drinel," Rolan urged. "Eyes can be
blinded. The heart cannot. You heard him when we followed him,
when he had no idea we were spying on him. You heard what he
said to us when he believed us to be soldiers of his mother's
army. He was not dissembling. I stake my life on it."
  "I grant you that he favors his father and that there is some-
thing of his mother in his eyes. By what miracle does the son of
our exiled queen walk beneath the shield?" Drinel asked.
  "I don't know how I came to be inside the shield," Silvan said,
embarrassed. "I must have fallen through it. I don't remember.
But when I sought to leave, the shield would not let me."
"He threw himself against the shield," Rolan said. "He tried
to go back, tried to leave Silvanesti. Would an imposter do that
when he had gone to so much trouble to enter? Would an im-
poster admit that he did not know how he came through the
shield? No, an imposter would have a tale to hand us, logical and
easy to believe."
  "You spoke of seeing with my heart," said Drinel. He glanced
back at the other elves. "We are agreed. We want to try the truth-
seek on him."
  "You disgrace us with your distrust!" Rolan said, highly dis-
pleased. "What will he think of us?"
  "That we are wise and prudent," Drinel answered dryly. "If
he has nothing to hide, he will not object."
  "It is up to Silvanoshei," Rolan replied. "Though I would
refuse, if I were him."
  "What is it?" Silvan looked from one to another, puzzled.
"What is this truth-seek?"
  "It is a magical spell, Your Majesty," Rolan answered and his
tone grew sad. "Once there was a time when the elves could trust
each other. Trust each other implicitly. Once there was a time
when no elf could possibly lie to another of our people. That time
came to an end during Lorac's dream. The dream created phan-
tasms of our people, false images of fellow elves that yet seemed
very real to those who looked on them and touched them and
spoke to them. These phantasms could lure those who believed in
them to ruin and destruction. A husband might see his wife beck-
oning to him and plunge headlong over a cliff in an effort to reach
her. A mother might see a child perishing in flames and rush into
the fire, only to find the child vanished.
  "We kirath developed the truth-seek to determine if these
phantasms were real or if they were a part of the dream. The
phantasms were empty inside, hollow. They had no memories, no
thoughts, no feelings. A touch of a hand upon the heart and we
would know if we dealt with living person or the dream.
  "When the dream ended, the need for the truth-seek ended,
as well," Rolan said. "Or so we hoped. A hope that proved for-
lorn. When the dream ended, the twisted, bleeding trees were
gone, the ugliness that perverted our land departed. But the
ugliness had entered the hearts of some of our people, turned
them as hollow as the hearts of those created by the dream.
Now elf can lie to elf and does so. New words have crept into
the elven vocabulary. Human words. Words like distrust, dis-
honest, dishonor. We use the truth-seek on each other now and
it seems to me that the more we use it, the more the need to use
it." He looked very darkly upon Drinel, who remained resolute,
defiant.
  "I have nothing to hide," said Silvan. "You may use this
truth-seek on me and welcome. Though it would grieve my
mother deeply to hear that her people have come to such a
pass. She would never think to question the loyalty of those
who follow her, as they would never think to question her care
of them."
  "You see, Drinel," said Rolan, flushing. "You see how you
shame us!"
  "Nevertheless, I will know the truth," Drinel said stubbornly.
  "Will you?" Rolan demanded. "What if the magic fails you
again?"
  Drinel's eyes flashed. He cast a dark glance at his fellow.
"Curb your tongue, Rolan. I remind you that as yet we know
nothing about this young man."
  Silvanoshei said nothing. It was not his place to interject.
himself into this dispute. But he stored up the words for future
thought. Perhaps the elf sorcerers of his mother's army were
not the only people who had found their magical power start-
ing to wane.
  Drinel approached Silvan, who stood stiffly, eyeing the elf
askance. Drinel reached out his left hand, his heart hand, for that
is the hand closest to the heart, and rested his hand upon Silvan's
breast. The elf's touch was light, yet Silvan could feel it strike
through to his soul, or so it seemed.
  Memory flowed from the font of his soul, good memories
and bad, bubbling up from beneath surface feelings and
thoughts and pouring into Drinel's hand. Memories of his father,
a stern and implacable figure who rarely smiled and never
laughed. Who never made any outward show of his affection,
never spoke approval of his son's actions, rarely seemed to
n?tice his son at all. Yet within that glittering flow of memory,
Sllvanoshei recalled one night, when he and his mother had nar-
rowly escaped death at the hands of someone or other. Porthios
had clasped them both in his arms, had held his small son close
to his breast, had whispered a prayer over them in elven, an an-
cient prayer to gods who were no longer there to hear it. Sil-
vanoshei remembered cold wet tears touching his cheek,
remembered thinking to himself that these tears were not his.
They were his father's.
  This memory and others Drinel came to hold in his mind, as
he might have held sparkling water in his cupped hands.
Drinel's expression altered. He looked at Silvan with new
regard, new respect.
  "Are you satisfied?! Silvan asked coldly. The memories had
opened a bleeding gash in his being.
  "I see his father in his face, his mother in his heart, "Drinel
replied. I pledge you my allegiance, Silvanoshei. I urge others to
do the same."
  Drinel bowed deeply, his hand over his breast. The other two
elves added their words of acceptance and allegiance. Silvan re-
turned gracious thanks, all the while wondering a bit cynically
just what all this kowtowing was truly worth to him. Elves had
pledged allegiance to his mother, as well, and Alhana Starbreeze
was little better than a bandit skulking in the woods.
  If being the rightful Speaker of the Stars meant more nights
hiding in burial mounds and more days dodging assassins,
Silvan could do without it. He was sick of that sort of life, sick to
death of it. He had never fully admitted that until now. For the
first time he admitted to himself that he was angry-hotly, bit-
terly angry-at his parents for having forced that sort of life
upon him.
  He was ashamed of his anger the next moment. He reminded
himself that perhaps his mother was either dead or captive, but,
irrationally, his grief and worry increased his anger. The conflict-
ing emotions, complicated further by guilt, confused and ex-
hausted him. He needed time to think, and he couldn't do that
with these elves staring at him like some sort of stuffed curiosity
in a mageware shop.
  The elves remained standing, and Silvan eventually realized
that they were waiting for him to sit down and rest themselves.
He had been raised in an elven court, albeit a rustic one, and he
Was experienced at courtly maneuverings. He urged the other
elves to be seated, saying that they must be weary, and he invited
them to eat some of the fruit and water. Then Silvan excused
himself from their company, explaining that he needed to make
his ablutions.
  He was surprised when Rolan warned him to be careful,
offered him the sword he wore.
  "Why?" Silvan was incredulous. "What is there to fear? I
thought the shield kept out all our enemies."
  "With one exception," Rolan answered dryly. "There are re-
ports that the great green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, was-by a
miscalculation' on the part of General Konnal-trapped inside
the shield."
  "Bah! That is nothing but a story Konnal puts about in order to
distract us," Drinel asserted. "Name me one person who has seen
this monster! No one. The dragon is rumored to be here. He is ru-
mored to be there. We go here and we go there and never find a
trace of him. I think it odd, Rolan, that this Cyan Bloodbane is
always sighted just when Konnal feels himself under pressure to
answer to the leaders of the Households about the state of his rule."
  "True, no one has seen Cyan Bloodbane," Rolan agreed. "Nev-
ertheless, I confess I believe that the dragon is in Silvanesti some-
where. I once saw tracks I found very difficult to explain
otherwise. Be careful, therefore, Your Majesty. And take my
sword. Just in case."
  Silvan refused the sword. Thinking back to how he had
almost skewered Samar, Silvan was ashamed to let the others
know he could not handle a weapon, ashamed to let them know
that he was completely untrained in its use. He assured Rolan
that he would keep careful watch and walked into the glittering
forest. His mother, he recalled, would have sent an armed guard
with him.
  For the first time in my life, Silvan thought suddenly, I am
free. Truly free.
  He washed his face and hands in a clear, cold stream, raked
his fingers through his long hair, and looked long at his reflection
in the rippling water. He could see nothing of his father in his
face, and he was always somewhat irritated by those who
claimed that they could. Silvan's memories of Porthios were of a
stem, steel-hard warrior who, if he had ever known how to smile,
had long since abandoned the practice. The only tenderness
Silvan ever saw in his father's eyes was when they turned their
gaze to his mother.
"You are king of the elves," Silvan said to his reflection. "You
have accomplished in a day what your parents could not accom-
plish in thirty years. Could not. . . or would not."
  He sat down on the bank. His reflection stirred and shim-
mered in the light of the newly risen moon. "The prize they
sought is within your grasp. You didn't particularly want it
before, but now that it is offered, why not take it?"
  Silvan's reflection rippled as a breath of wind passed over the
surface of the water. Then the wind stilled, the water smoothed,
and his reflection was clear and unwavering.
  "You must walk carefully. You must think before you speak,
think of the consequences of every word. You must consider your
actions. You must not be distracted by the least little thing.
  "My mother is dead," he said, and he waited for the pain.
  Tears welled up inside him, tears for his mother, tears for his
father, tears for himself, alone and bereft of their comfort and sup-
port. Yet, a tiny voice whispered deep inside, when did your par-
ents ever support you? When did they ever trust you to do
anything? They kept you wrapped in cotton wool, afraid you'd
break. Fate has offered you this chance to prove yourself. Take it!
  A bush grew near the stream, a bush with fragrant white flow-
ers shaped like tiny hearts. Silvan picked a cluster of flowers,
stripped the blossoms from the leafy stems. "Honor to my father,
who is dead," he said and scattered the blossoms in the stream.
They fell upon the reflection that broke apart in the spreading rip-
ples. "Honor to my mother, who is dead."
  He scattered the last of the blossoms. Then, feeling cleansed,
empty of tears and empty of emotion, he returned to the camp.
  The elves started to rise, but he asked them to remain seated
and not disturb themselves on his account. The elves appeared
pleased with his modesty.
  "I hope my long absence did not worry you," he said, know-
ing well that it had. He could tell they had been talking about
him. "These changes have all been so drastic, so sudden. I needed
time to think."
  The elves bowed in acquiescence.
  "We have been discussing how best to advance Your
Majesty's cause," said Rolan.
  "You have the full support of the kirath, Your Majesty," Drinel
added.
Silvan acknowledged this with a nod. He thought on where
he wanted this conversation to go and how best to take it there
and asked mildly, "What is the 'kirath'? My mother spoke of
many things in her homeland but not of this."
  "There is no reason why she should," Rolan replied. "Your
father created our order to fight the dream. We kirath were the
ones who entered the forest, searching for the parts that were still
held in thrall by the dream. The work took its toll on body and on
mind, for we had to enter the dream in order to defeat it.
  "Other kirath served to defend the Woodshapers and clerics
who came into the forest to heal it. For twenty years we fought
together to restore our homeland, and eventually we succeeded.
When the dream was defeated we were no longer needed, and so
we disbanded, returned to the lives we had led before the war.
But those of us in the kirath had forged a bond closer than broth-
ers and'sisters. We kept in touch, passing news and information.
  "Then the Dark Knights of Takhisis came to try to conquer the
continent of Ansalon, and after that came the Chaos War. It was
during this time that General Konnal took control of Silvanesti,
saying that only the military could save us from the forces of evil
at work in the world.
  "We won the Chaos War, but at a great cost. We lost the gods,
who, so it is said, matle the ultimate sacrifice-withdrawing from
the world so that Krynn and its people might continue on. With
them went the magic of Solinari and healing powers. We grieved
long for the gods, for Paladine and MishakaL but we had to go on
with our lives.
  "We worked to continue to rebuild Silvanesti. Magic came to
us again, a magic of the land, of living things. Though the war
was over, General Konnal did not relinquish control. He said that
now the threat came from Alhana and Porthios, dark elves who
wanted only to avenge themselves on their people."
  "Did you believe this?" Silvan asked indignantly.
  "Of course not. We knew Porthios. We knew the great sacri-
fices he had made for this land. We knew Alhana and how much
she loved her people. We did not believe him."
  " And so you supported my father and mother?" Silvan asked.
  "We did," Rolan replied.
  "Then why didn't you aid them?" Silvan demanded, his tone
sharpening. "You were armed and skilled in the use of arms. You
were, as you have said, in close contact with one another. My
mother and father waited on the borders, expecting confidently
that the Silvanesti people would rise up and protest the injustice
that had been done to them. They did not. You did nothing. My
parents waited in vain."
  "I could offer you many excuses, Your Majesty," Rolan said
quietly. "We were weary of fighting. We did not want to start a
civil war. We believed that over time this breach could all be
made right by peaceful means. In other words"-he smiled
faintly, sadly-"we pulled the blankets over our heads and went
back to sleep."
  "If it is any comfort to you, Your Majesty, we have paid for
our sins," Drinel added. "Paid most grievously. We realized
this when the magical shield was erected, but by that time it
was too late. We could not go out. Your parents could not come
within."
  Understanding came to Silvan in a flash, dazzling and shock-
ing as the lightning bolt that had struck right in front of him. All
had been darkness before and in the next thudding heartbeat all
was lit brighter than day, every detail clear cut and stark in the
white-hot light.
  His mother claimed to hate the shield. In truth the shield was
her excuse, keeping her from leading her army into Silvanesti.
She could have done so anytime during the years before the
shield was raised. She and her father could have marched an
army into Silvanesti, they would have found support among the
people. Why hadn't they?
  The spilling of elven blood. That was the excuse they gave
then. They did not want to see elf killing elf. The truth was that
Alhana had expected her people to come to her and lay the crown
of Silvanesti at her feet. They had not done so. As Rolan had said,
they wanted only to go back to sleep, wanted to forget Lorac's
nightmare in more pleasant dreams. Alhana had been the cat
yowling beneath the window, disturbing their rest.
  His mother had refused to admit this to herself and thus,
though she railed against the raising of the shield, in reality the
shield had been a relief to her: Oh, she had done all she could to
try to destroy it. She had done all she could to prove to herself
that she wanted desperately to penetrate the barrier. She had
thrown her armies against the shield, thrown herself against it.
But all the while, secretly, in her heart, she did not want to enter
and perhaps that was the reason the shield had been successful in
keeping her out.
  Drinel and Rolan and the rest of the elves were inside it for the
very same reason. The shield was in place, the shield existed, be-
cause the elves wanted it. The Silvanesti had always yearned to
be kept safe from the world, safe from the contamination of the
crude and undisciplined humans, safe from the dangers of ogre
and goblin and minotaur, safe from the dragons, safe amidst ease
and luxury and beauty. That was why his mother had wanted to
find a way inside-so that she too could finally sleep in warmth
and in safety, not in burial mounds.
  He said nothing, but he realized now what he had to do.
  "You pledge your allegiance to me. How do I know that when
the path grows dark you will not abandon me as you abandoned
my parents?"
  Rolan paled. Drinel's eyes flashed in anger. He started to
speak, but his friend laid a calming hand on his arm.
  "Silvanoshei is right to rebuke us, my friend. His Majesty is
right to ask this question of us." Rolan turned to face Silvan.
"Hand and heart, I pledge myself and my family to You.
Majesty's cause. May my soul be held in thrall on this plane of ex-
istence if I fail."
  Silvan nodded gravely. It was a terrible oath. He shifted his
gaze to Drinel and the other two members of the kirath. Drinel
was hesitant.
  "You are very young," he said harshly. "How old are you?
Thirty years? You are considered an adolescent among our
people."
  "But not among the Qualinesti," Silvanoshei returned. " And I
ask you to think of this," he added, knowing that the Silvanesti
were not likely to be impressed by comparisons with their more
worldly (and therefore more corrupt) cousins. "1 have not been
raised in a pampered, sheltered Silvanesti household. I have been
raised in caves, in shacks, in hovels-wherever my parents could
find safe shelter. I can count on my two hands the number of
nights I have slept in a room in a bed. I have been twice wounded
in battles. I bear the scars upon my body."
  Silvan did not add that he had not received his wounds while
fighting in those battles. He did not mention that he had been
injured while his body guards were hustling him off to a place of
safety. He would have fought, he thought to himself, if anyone
had given him a chance. He was prepared to fight now.
  "I make the same pledge to you that I ask of you," Silvan said
proudly. "Heart and hand, I pledge to do everything in my power
to regain the throne that is mine by right. I pledge to bring wealth,
peace, and prosperity back to our people. May my soul be held in
thrall on this plane of existence if I fail."
  Drinel's eyes sifted, searched that soul. The elder elf appeared
satisfied with he saw. "1 make my pledge to you, Silvanoshei, son
of Porthios and Alhana. By aiding the son, may we make restitu-
tion for our failures in regard to the parents."
  "And now," said Rolan. "We must make plans. We must find
a suitable hiding place for His Majesty-"
  "No," said Silvan firmly. "The time for hiding is past. I am the
rightful heir to the throne. I have a lawful claim. I have nothing to
fear. If I go sneaking and skulking about like a criminal, then I
will be perceived as a criminal. If I arrive in Silvanost as a king, I
will be perceived as a king."
  "Yet, the danger-" Rolan began.
  "His Majesty is right, my friend," Drinel said, regarding
Silvan with now marked respect. "He will be in less danger by
making a great stir than he would be if he were to go into
hiding. In order to placate those who question his rule, Konnal
has stated many times that he would gladly see the son of
Alhana take his rightful place upon the throne. He could make
such a promise easily enough, for he knew-or thought he
knew-that with the shield in place, the son could not possibly
enter.
  "If Your Majesty arrives triumphantly in the capital, with the
people cheering on all sides, Konnal will be forced to make some
show of keeping his promise. He will find it difficult to make the
rightful heir disappear, as have others in the past. The people
would not stand for it."
  "What you say has merit. Yet we must never underestimate
Konnal," said Rolan. "Some believe he is mad, but if so, his is a
cunning, calculating madness. He is dangerous."
  "So am I," said Silvan. "As he will soon discover."
  He sketched out his plan. The others listened, voiced their ap-
proval, offered changes he accepted, for they knew his people
best. He listened gravely to the discussion of  possible danger, but
in truth, he paid little heed.
  Silvanoshei was young,and the young know they will live
forever.

                    CHAPTER NINE
                    GALLIVANTING

  The same night that Silvanoshei accepted the rulership of
the Silvanesti, Tasslehoff Burrfoot slept soundly and
peacefully-much to his disappointment.
  The kender was deposited for safekeeping in a room inside
the Solamnic garrison in Solace. Tas had offered to return to
the wonderful kender-proof Solace jail, but his request was
firmly denied. The garrison room was clean and neat, with no
windows, no furniture except a stern-looking bed with iron
railings and a mattress so stiff and rigid that it could have
stood at attention with the best of the Knights. The door had
no lock at all, which might have provided some light after-
dinner amusement but was held in place by a wooden bar
across the outside.
  " All in all," Tas said to himself as he sat disconsolately on his
bed, kicking his feet against the iron railings and looking wist-
fully about, "this room is the single most boring place I've ever
been in my life with the possible exception of the Abyss."
  Gerard had even taken away his candle, leaving Tas alone in
the dark. There seemed nothing to do but go to sleep.
Tasslehoff had long thought that someone would do a very
good service to mankind by abolishing sleep. Tas had mentioned
this to Raistlin once, remarking that a wizard of his expertise
could probably find a way around sleep, which took up a good
portion of one's time with very little benefit that Tas could see.
Raistlin had replied that the kender should be thankful someone
had invented sleep for this meant that Tasslehoff was quiet and
comatose for eight hours out of a day and this was the sole reason
that Raistlin had not yet strangled him.
  Sleep had one benefit and that was dreams, but this benefit
was almost completely nullified by the fact that one woke from a
dream and was immediately faced with the crushing disappoint-
ment that it had been a dream, that the dragon chasing one with
the intent of biting off one's head was not a real dragon, that the
ogre trying to bash one into pulp with a club was not a real ogre.
Add to this the fact that one always woke up at the most interest-
ing and exciting part of the dream-when the dragon had one's
head in his mouth, for example, or the ogre had hold of the back
of one's collar. Sleep, as far as Tas was concerned, was a complete
waste of time. Every night saw him determined to fight sleep off,
and every morning found him waking up to discover that sleep
had sneaked up on him unaw.ares and run away with him.
  Tasslehoff didn't offer sleep much of a fight this night. Worn
out from the rigors of travel and the excitement and snuffles oc-
casioned by Caramon's funeral, Tas lost the battle without a
struggle. He woke to find that not only had sleep stolen in on him
but that Gerard had done the same. The Knight stood over him,
glaring down with his customary grim expression, which looked
considerably grimmer by lantern light.
  "Get up," said the Knight. "Put these on."
  Gerard handed Tas some clothes that were clean and well-
made, drab, dull and-the kender shuddered-serviceable.
  "Thank you," said Tas, rubbing his eyes. "I know you mean
well, but I have my own clothes-"
  "I won't travel with someone who looks as if he had been in a
fight with a Maypole and lost," Gerard countered. " A blind gully
dwarf could see you from six miles off. Put these on, and be quick
about it."
  A fight with a Maypole," Tas giggled. "I actually saw one of
those once. It was at this Mayday celebration in Solace. Caramon
put on a wig and petticoats and went out to dance with the young
virgins, only his wig slipped over his eye--"
  Gerard held up a stem finger. "Rule number one. No talking." 
  Tas opened his mouth to explain that he wasn't really talking,
not talking as in talking, but talking as in telling a story, which
was quite a different thing altogether. Before Tas was able to get a
word out, Gerard displayed the gag.
  Tasslehoff sighed. He enjoyed traveling, and he was truly
looking forward to this adventure, but he did feel that he might
have been granted a more congenial traveling companion. He
sadly relinquished his colorful clothes, laying them on the bed
with a fond pat, and dressed himself in the brown knickers, the
brown wool socks, the brown shirt, and brown vest Gerard had
laid out for him. Tas, looking down at himself, thought sadly that
he looked exactly like a tree stump. He started to put his hands in
his pockets when he discovered there weren't any.
  "No pouches, either," said Gerard, picking up Tasslehoff's
bags and pouches and preparing to add them to the pile of dis-
carded clothing.
  "Now, see here--" Tas began sternly.
  One of the pouches fell open. The light from the lantern glit-
tered merrily on the gleaming, winking jewels of the Device of
Time Journeying.
  "Oops," said Tasslehoff as innocently as ever he could and
indeed he was innocent, this time at least.
  "How did you get this away from me?" Gerard demanded. 
Tasslehoff shrugged and, pointing to his sealed lips, shook his head.
  "If I ask you a question, you may answer," Gerard stated,
glowering. "When did you steal this from me?"
  "I didn't steal it," Tas replied with dignity. "Stealing is ex-
tremely bad. I told you. The device keeps coming back to me. It's
not my fault. I don't want it. I had a stem talk with it last night,
in fact, but it doesn't seem to listen."
  Gerard glared, then, muttering beneath his breath-some-
thing to the effect that he didn't know why he bothered-he
thrust the magical device in a leather pouch he wore at his side.
"And it had better stay there," he said grimly.
  "Yes, you'd better do what the Knight says!" Tas added
loudly, shaking his finger at the device. He was rewarded for his
help by having the gag tied around his mouth.
The gag in place, Gerard snapped a pair of manacles over
Tas's wrists. Tas would have slipped right out of ordinary man-
acles, but these manacles were specially made for a kender's
slender wrists, or so it appeared. Tas worked and worked and
couldn't free himself. Gerard laid a heavy hand on the ken-
der's shoulder and marched him out of the room and down
the hall.
  The sun had not yet made an appearance. The garrison was
dark and quiet. Gerard allowed Tas time to wash his face and
hands-he had to wash around the gag-and do whatever else he
needed to do, keeping close watch on him all the time and not al-
lowing the kender a moment's privacy. He then escorted him out
of the building.
  Gerard wore a long, enveloping cloak over his armor. Tas
couldn't see the armor beneath the cloak, and he knew the Knight
was wearing armor only because he heard it clank and rattle:
Gerard did not wear a helm or carry a sword. He walked the
kender back to the Knights' quarters, where Gerard picked up a
large knapsack and what could have been a sword wrapped up
in a blanket tied with rope.
  Gerard then marched Tasslehoff, bound and gagged, to the
front of the garrison. The sun was a tiny sliver of light on the hori-
zon and then it was swallowed by a cloudbank, so that it seemed
as if the sun were starting to rise and had suddenly changed its
mind and gone back to bed.
  Gerard handed a paper to the Captain of the Guard. "As
you can see, sir, I have Lord Warren's permission to remove the
prisoner."
  The captain glanced at it and then at the kender. Gerard, Tas
noticed, was careful to keep out of the light of the flaring torches
mounted on the wooden posts on either side of the gate. Instantly
the idea came to Tas that Gerard was trying to hide something.
The kender's curiosity was aroused, an occurrence that often
proves fatal to the kender and also to those who happen to be a
kender's companions. Tas stared with all his might, trying to see
what was so interesting beneath the cloak.
  He was in luck. The morning breeze came up. The cloak flut-
tered slightly. Gerard caught it quickly, held it fastened in front of
him, but not before Tasslehoff had seen the torchlight shine on
armor that was gleaming black.
Under normal circumstances Tas would have demanded
loudly and excitedly to know why a Solarnnic Knight was wear-
ing black armor. The kender probably would have tugged on the
cloak in order to obtain a better view and pointed out this odd
and interesting fact to the captain of the guard. The gag pre-
vented Tas from saying any of this except in muffled and inco-
herent squeaks and "mfrts," which was all he could manage.
  On second thought-and it was due solely to the gag that
Tasslehoff actually had a second thought-the kender realized
that perhaps Gerard might not want anyone to know he was
wearing black armor. Thus, the cloak.
  Quite charmed by this new twist to the adventure, Tasslehoff
kept silent, merely letting Gerard know with several cunning
winks that he, the kender, was in on the secret.
  "Where are you taking the little weasel?1I the captain asked,
handing the paper back to Gerard. II And what's wrong with his
eye? He hasn't got pink eye, has he?1I
  "Not to my knowledge, sir. Begging the captain's pardon, but
I can't tell you where I'm ordered to deliver the kender, sir. That
information is secret," Gerard replied respectfully. Lowering his
voice, he added, IIHe's the one who was caught desecrating the
tomb, sir."
  The captain nodded in understanding. He glanced askance at
the bundles the Knight was carrying. "What's that?"
"Evidence, sir,lI Gerard replied.
The captain looked very grim. "Did a lot of damage, did he? I
trust they'll make an example of him."
  "I should think they might, sir," Gerard replied evenly.
  The captain waved Gerard and Tas through the gate, paid no
further attention to them. Gerard hustled the kender away from
the garrison and out onto the main road. Although the morning
itself wasn't quite awake yet, many people were. Farmers were
bringing in their goods to market. Wagons were rolling out to the
logging camps in the mountains. Anglers were heading for Crys-
talmir Lake. People cast a few curious glances at the cloaked
Knight-the morning was already quite warm. Busy with their
own cares, they passed by without comment. If he wanted to
swelter, that was his concern. None of them so much as looked
twice at Tasslehoff. The sight of a bound and gagged kender was
nothing new.
Gerard and Tas took the road south out of Solace, a road that
meandered alongside the Sentinel range of mountains and would
eventually deposit them in South Pass. The sun had finally de-
cided to crawl out of bed. Pink light spread in a colorful wash
across the sky. Gold gilded the tree leaves, and diamonds of dew
sparkled on the grass. A fine day for adventuring, and Tas would
have enjoyed himself immensely but for the fact that he was hus-
tled along and harried and not permitted to stop to look at any-
thing along the road.
  Although encumbered with the knapsack, which appeared
quite heavy, and the sword in a blanket, Gerard set a fast pace. He
carried both objects in one hand, keeping the other to prod Tassle-
hoff in the back if he started to slow down or to grab hold of his
collar if he started to wander off or jerk him backward if he made
a sudden dart across the road.
  One would not have guessed it from looking at him, but
Gerard, for all that he was of average height and medium build,
was extremely strong.
  The Knight was a grim and silent companion. He did not
return the cheerful "good mornings" of those heading into
Solace, and he coldly rebuffed a traveling tinker who was going
in their direction and offered them a seat on his wagon.
  He did at least remove the gag from the kender's mouth.
Tas was thankful. Not as young as he used to be-something
he would freely admit-he found that between the fast pace
set by the Knight and the constant prodding, tugging, and'
jerking, he was doing more breathing than his nose alone
could manage.
  Tas immediately asked all the questions he had been storing
up, starting with, "Why is your armor black? I've never seen
black armor before. Well, yes, I have but it wasn't on a Knight of
Solamnia," and ending with, "Are we going to walk all the way
to Qualinesti, and if we are would you mind not seizing hold of
my shirt collar in that very energetic way you have because it's
starting to rub off all my skin."
  Tas soon found out that he could ask all the questions he
liked, just so long as he didn't expect any answers. Sir Gerard
made no response except, "Keep moving."
  The Knight was young, after all. Tas felt compelled to point
out to him the mistake he was making.
"The very best part of questing," the kender said, "is seeing
the sights along the way. Taking time to enjoy the view and in-
vestigating all the interesting things you find along the road and
talking to all the peo.ple..lf you stop to think about it, the goal of
the quest, such as fightIng the dragon or rescuing the woolly
mammoth, take~ .up only? small bit of time, and although it's
always very excltmg, there s a whole lot more time stacked up in
front of it and behind it-the getting there and the coming back-
which can be very dull if you don't work at it."
  "I am not interested in excitement," said Gerard. "I want
simply to be done with this and to be done with you. The sooner
I am finished the sooner I can do something to achieve my goal."
  "And what's that?" Tas asked, delighted that the Knight was
finally talking to him.
  "To join the fighting in defense of Sanction," Gerard an-
swered, "and when that is done, to free Palanthas from the
scourge of the Knights of Neraka."
  "Who are they?" Tas asked, interested.
  "They used to be known as the Knights of Takhisis, but they
changed their name when it grew clear to them that Takhisis
wasn't coming back anymore."
  "What do you mean, not coming back. Where did she go?"
Tas asked.
  Gerard shrugged. "With the other gods, if you believe what
people say. Personally I think claiming that the bad times are a
result of the gods leaving us is just an excuse for our own failures."
  "The gods left!" Tas's jaw dropped. "When?"
  Gerard snorted. "I'm not playing games with you, kender."
  Tas pondered all that Gerard had told him.
  "Don't you have this whole Knight business backward?" Tas
asked finally. "Isn't Sanction being held by the Dark Knights and
Palanthas by your Knights?"
  "No, I do not have it backward. More's the pity," Gerard said.
  Tas sighed deeply. "I'm extremely confused."
  Gerard grunted and prodded the kender, who was slowing
down a bit, his legs not being as young as they used to be either.
"Hurry up," he said. "We don't have much farther."
  "We don't?" Task said meekly. "Did they move Qualinesti, too?"
  "If you must know, Kender, I have two mounts waiting for us
at the Solace bridge. And before you can ask yet another question,
the reason we walked from the garrison and did not ride is that the
horse I am using is not my customary mount. The animal would
have occasioned comment, would have required explanation."
  "I have a horse? A horse of my own! How thrilling! I haven't
ridden a horse in ever so long." Tasslehoff came to a halt, looked
up at the Knight. "I'm terribly sorry I misjudged you. I guess you
"do understand about adventuring, after all."
  "Keep ll"!-oving." Gerard gave him a shove.
  A thought occurred to the kender-a truly astonishing
thought that took away what little breath he had remaining. He
paused to find his breath again and then used it to ask the ques-
tion the thought had produced.
  "You don't like me, do you, Sir Gerard?" Tas said. He wasn't
angry or accusing, jus.t surprised.
  "No," said Gerard, "I do not." He took a drink of water from
a waterskin and handed the skin to Tas. "If it is any consolation,
there is nothing personal in my dislike. I feel this way about all
your kind."
  Tas considered this as he drank the water, which was quite
tepid and tasted of the waterskin. "Maybe I'm wrong, but it
seems to me that I'd much rather be disliked for being me than to
be disliked just because I'm a kender. I can do something about
me, you see, but I can't do much about being a kender because
my mother was a kender and so was my father and that seems to
have a lot to do with me being a kender.
  "I might have wanted to be a Knight," Tas continued, warm-
ing to his subject. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I probably did, but the
gods must have figured that my mother, being small, couldn't
very well give birth to someone as big as you, not without con-
siderable inconvenience to herself, and so I came out a kender.
Actually, no offense, but I take that back about being a Knight. I
think what I really wanted to be was a draconian-they are so
very fierce and scaly, and they have wings. I've always wanted
wings. But, of course, that would have been extremely difficult for
my mother to have managed."
  "Keep moving," was all Gerard said in reply.
  "I could help you carry that bundle if you'd take off these
manacles," Tas offered, thinking that if he made himself useful,
the Knight might come to like him.
  "No" Gerard returned, and that was that. Not even a thank you.
"Why don't you like kender?" Tas pursued. "Flint always
said he didn't like kender, but I know deep down he did. I don't
think Raistlin liked kender much. He tried to murder me once,
which gave me sort of a hint as to his true feelings. But I forgave
him for that, although I'll never forgive him for murdering poor
Gnimsh, but that's another story. I'll tell you that later. Where
was I? Oh, yes. I was about to add that Sturm Brightblade was a
Knight, and he liked kender, so I was just wondering what you
have against us."
  "Your people are frivolous and heedless," said Gerard, his
voice hard. "These are dark days. Life is serious business and
should be taken seriously. We do not have the luxury for joy and
merriment."
  "But if there's no joy and merriment, then of course the days
will be dark," Tas argued. "What else do you expect?"
  "How much joy did you feeL kender, when you heard the
news that hundreds of your people in Kendermore had been
slaughtered by the great dragon Malystrx?" Gerard asked grimly,
"and that those who survived were driven from their homes and
now seem to be under some sort of curse and are called afflicted
because they now know fear and they carry swords, not pouches.
Did you laugh when you heard that news, kender, and sing 'tra
la, how merry we are this day'?"
  Tasslehoff came to a stop and rounded so suddenly that the
Knight very nearly tripped over him.
  "Hundreds? Killed by a dragon?" Tas was aghast. "What do
you mean hundreds of kender died in Kendermore? I never
heard that. I never heard anything like that! It's not true. You're
lying. . . . No," he added miserably. "I take that back. You can't
lie. You're a Knight and while you may not like me you're honor'
bound not to lie to me."
  Gerard said nothing. Putting his hand on Tas's shoulder he
turned the kender around bodily and started him, once again, on
his way.
  Tas noticed a queer feeling in the vicinity of his heart a con-
stricting kind of feeling, as if he'd swallowed one of the more fe-
rocious constricting snakes. The feeling was uncomfortable and
not at all pleasant. Tas knew in that moment that the Knight had
indeed spoken truly. That hundreds of his people had died most
horribly and painfully. He did not know ,how this had happened,
but he knew it was true, as true as the grass growing along the
side of the road or the tree branches overhead or the sun gleam-
ing down through the green leaves.
  It was true in this world where Caramon's funeral had been
different from what he remembered. But it hadn't been true in
that other world, the world of Caramon's first funeral.
  "I feel sort of strange," Tas said in a small voice. "Kind of
dizzy. Like I might throw up. If you don't mind, I think I'm going
to be quiet for awhile."
  "Praise be," said the Knight, adding, with another shove.
"Keep walking."
  They walked in- silence and eventually, about mid-morning,
reached Solace Bridge. The bridge spanned Solace Stream, an
easy-going, meandering brook that wandered around the
foothills of the Sentinel Mountains and then tumbled blithely
through South Pass until it reached the White Rage River. The
bridge was wide in order to accommodate wagons and teams of
horses as well as foot traffic.
  In the old days, the bridge had been free for the use of the
traveler, but as traffic increased over the bridge, so did the main-
tenance and the upkeep of the span. The Solace city fathers grew
weary of spending tax money to keep the bridge in operation
and so they erected a tollgate and added a toll-taker. The fee re-
quired was modest. Solace Stream was shallow, you could walk
across it in places, and travelers could always cross at other fords
along the route. However, the banks through which the stream
ran were steep and slippery. More than one wagon load of valu-
able merchandise had ended up in the water. Most travelers
elected to pay the toll.
  The Knight and the kender were the only ones crossing this
time of day. The toll-taker was eating breakfast in his booth. Two
horses were tied up beneath a stand of cottonwood trees that
grew along the bank. A young lad who looked and smelled like a
stable hand dozed on the grass. One of the horses was glossy
black, his coat gleamed in the sunlight. He was restive, pawed the
ground and occasionally gave a jerk on the reins as a test to see if
he could free himself. The other mount was a small pony, dapple
gray, with a bright eye and twitching ears and nose. Her hooves
were almost completely covered by long strands of fur.
  The constricting snake around Tas's heart eased up a good
deal at the sight of the pony, who seemed to regard the kender
with a friendly, if somewhat mischievous, eye.
  "Is she mine!" Tas asked, thrilled beyond belief.
  "No," said Gerard. "The horses have been hired for the jour-
ney, that is all."
  He kicked at the stable hand, who woke up and, yawning and
scratching at himself, said that they owed him thirty steel for the
horses, saddles, and blankets, ten of which would be given back
to them upon the animals' safe return. Gerard took out his money
purse and counted out the coin. The stable hand-keeping as far
from Tasslehoff as possible-counted the money over again dis-
trustfully, deposited it in a sack and stuffed the sack in his straw-
covered shirt.
  "What's the pony's name?" asked Tasslehoff, delighted.
  "Little Gray," said the stable hand.
  Tas frowned. "That doesn't show much imagination. I think
you could have come up with something more original than that.
What's the black horse's name?"
  "Blackie," replied the stable hand, picking his teeth with a
straw.
  Tasslehoff sighed deeply.
  The tollbooth keeper emerged from his little house. Gerard
handed him the amount of the toll. The keeper raised the gate.
This done, he eyed the Knight and kender with intense curiosity
and seemed prepared to spend the rest of the morning discussing
where the two were headed and why.
  Gerard answered shortly, "yay" or "nay" as might be re-
quired. He hoisted Tasslehoff onto the pony, who swiveled her
head to look back at him and winked at him as if they shared
some wonderful secret. Gerard placed the mysterious bundle and
the sword wrapped in the blanket on the back of his own horse,
tied them securely. He took hold of the reins of Tas's pony and
mounted his own horse, then rode off, leaving the toll-taker
standing on the bridge talking to himself.
  The Knight rode in front, keeping hold of the pony's reins. Tas
rode behind, his manacled hands holding tight to the pommel of
the saddle. Blackie didn't seem to like the gray pony much better
than Gerard liked the kender. Perhaps Blackie was resentful of the
slow pace he was forced to set to accommodate the pony or per-
haps he was a horse of a stern and serious nature who took
umbrage at a certain friskiness exhibited by the pony. Whatever
the reason, if the black horse caught the gray pony doing a little
sideways shuffle for the sheer fun of it, or if he thought she might
be tempted to stop and nibble at some buttercups on the side of
the road, he would turn his head and regard her and her rider
with a cold eye.
  They had ridden about five miles when Gerard called a halt.
He stood in his saddle, looked up and down the road. They had
not met any travelers since they had left the bridge, and now the
road was completely empty. Dismounting, Gerard removed his
cloak and rolling it up, he stuffed it in his bedroll. He was wear-
ing the black breastplate decorated with skulls and the death lily
of a Dark Knight.
  "What a great disguise!" Tas exclaimed, charmed. "You told
Lord Warren you were going to be a Knight and you didn't lie.
You just didn't tell him what sort of Knight you were going to
become. Do I get to be disguised as a Dark Knight? I mean a
Neraka Knight? Oh, no, I get it! Don't tell me. I'm going to be
your prisoner!" Tasslehoff was quite proud of himself for having
figured this out. "This is going to be more fun- er, interesting-
than I'd expected."
  Gerard did not smile. "This is not a joy ride, kender," he said
and his voice was stern and grim. "You hold my life and your
own in your hands, as well as the fate of our mission. I must be a
fool, to trust something so important to one of your kind, but I
have no choice. We will soon be entering the territory controlled
by the Knights of Neraka. If you breathe a word about my being
a Solamnic Knight, I will be arrested and executed as a spy. But
first, before they kill me, they will torture me to find out what I
know. They use the rack to torture people. Have you ever seen a~
man stretched upon the rack, kender?"
  "No, but I saw Caramon do calisthenics once, and he said that
was torture. . . ."
  Gerard ignored him. "They tie your hands and feet to the rack
and then pull them in opposite directions. Your arms and legs,
wrists and elbows, knees and ankles are pulled from their sock-
ets. The pain is excruciating, but the beauty of the torture is that
though the victim suffers terribly, he doesn't die. They can keep a
man on the rack for days. The bones never return to their proper
place. When they take a man off the rack, he is a cripple. They
have to carry him to the scaffold, put him in a chair in order to
hang him. That will be my fate if you betray me, kender. Do you
understand ?"
  "Yes, Sir Gerard," said Tasslehoff. "And even though you
don't like me, which I have to tell you really hurts my feelings, I
wouldn't want to see you stretched on the rack. Maybe someone
else-because I never saw anyone's arm pulled out of its socket
before-but not you."
  Gerard did not appear impressed by this magnanimous offer.
"Keep a curb on your tongue for your sake as well as mine."
  "I promise," said Tas, putting his hand to his topknot and
giving it a painful yank that brought tears to his eyes. "I can keep
a secret, you know. I've kept any number of secrets-important
secrets, too. I'll keep this one. You can depend on me or my
name's not Tasslehoff Burrfoot."
  This appeared to impress Gerard even less. Looking very
dour, he returned to his horse, remounted and rode forward-a
Dark Knight leading his prisoner.
  "How long will it take us to reach Qualinesti?" Tas asked.
  " At this pace, four days," Gerard replied.
Four days. Gerard paid no more attention to the kender. The
Knight refused to answer a single question. He was deaf to
Tasslehoff's very best and most wonderful stories, and did not
bother to respond when Tas suggested that he knew a most excit-
ing short cut through Darken Wood.
  "Four days of this! I don't like to complain," Tas said, talking
to himself and the pony since the Knight wasn't listening, "but
this adventure is turning out to be dull and boring. Not really an
adventure at all, more of a drudge, if that is a word, which
whether it is or not certainly fits the situation."
  He and the pony plodded along, looking forward to four days
with no one to talk to, nothing to do, nothing to see except trees
and mountains, which would have been interesting if Tas could
have spent some time exploring them, but, as he couldn't, he'd
seen plenty of trees and mountains at a distance before. So bored
was the kender that the next time the magical device came back
to him, appearing suddenly in his manacled hands, Tasslehoff
was tempted to use it. Anything, even getting squished by a
giant, would be better than this.
  If it hadn't been for the pony ride, he would have.
At that moment, the black horse looked around to regard the
pony balefully and perhaps some sort of communication passed
between horse and rider for Gerard turned around too.
  Grinning sheepishly and shrugging, Tas held up the Device of
Time Journeying.
  His face fixed and cold as that of the skull on his black breast-
plate, Gerard halted, waited for the pony to plod up beside him.
He reached out his hand, snatched the magical device from Tas's
hands, and, without a word, thrust the device in a saddlebag.
  Tasslehoff sighed again. It was going to be a long four days.

                     CHAPTER TEN
                  LORD OF THE NIGHT

  The Order of the Knights of Takhisis was born in a dream of
darkness and founded upon a remote and secret island in
Krynn's far north, an island known as Storm's Keep. But
the island headquarters had been severely damaged during the
Chaos War. Boiling seas completely submerged the fortress-
some said due to the sea goddess Zeboim's grief at the death of
her son, the Knights' founder, Lord Ariakan. Although the waters
receded, no one ever returned to it. The fortress was now deemed
too remote to be of practical use to the Knights of Takhisis, who
had emerged from the Chaos War battered and bruised, bereft of
their Queen and her Vision, but with a sizeable force, a force to be
reckoned with.
  Thus it was that a Knight of the Skull, Mirielle Abrena, at-
tending the first Council of the Last Heroes, felt confident
enough to demand that the remnant of the Knighthood that re-
mained be granted land on the continent of Ansalon in return for
their heroic deeds during the war. The council allowed the
Knights to keep territory they had captured, mainly Qualinesti
(as usual, few humans cared much about the elves) and also the
land in the northeastern part of Ansalon that included Neraka
and its environs. The Dark Knights accepted this region, blasted
and cursed though parts of it were, and set about building up
their Order.
  Many on that first council hoped the Knights would suffocate
and perish in the sulphur-laden air of Neraka. The Dark Knights
not only surviv~d, but thrived. This was due in part to the lead-
ership of Abrena, Lord of the Night, who added to that military
title the political title of governor-general of Neraka. Abrena in-
stituted a new recruitment policy, a policy that was not so choosy
as the old policy, not so nice, not so restrictive. The Knights had
little problem filling their ranks. In the dark days following the
Chaos War, the people felt alone and abandoned. What might be
called the Ideal of the Great "I" arose on Ansalon. Its main pre-
cept: "No one else matters. Only I."
  Embracing this precept, the Dark Knights were clever in their
rule. They did not permit much in the way of personal freedoms,
but they did encourage trade and promote business. When Khel-
lendros, the great blue dragon, captured the city of Palanthas, he
placed the Dark Knights in charge. Terrified at the thought of
these cruel overlords ravishing their city, the people of Palanthas
were amazed to find that they actually prospered under the
rulership of the Dark Knights. And although the Palanthians
were taxed for the privilege, they were able to keep enough of
their profits to believe that life under the dictatorial rule of the
Dark Knights wasn't all that bad. The knights kept law and
order, they waged continuous war against the Thieves Guild,
and they sought to rid the city of the gully dwarves residing in
the sewers.
  The dragon purge that followed the arrival of the great drag-
ons at first appalled and angered the Knights of Takhisis, who lost
many of their own dragons in the slaughter. In vain the Knights
fought against the great Red, Malys, and her cousins. Many of the
Knights' order died, as did many of their chromatic dragons.
Mirielle's cunning leadership managed to turn even this near dis-
aster into a triumph. The Dark Knights made secret pacts with the
dragons, agreeing to work for them to collect tribute and main-
tain law and order in lands ruled by the dragons. In return, the
dragons would give the Dark Knights a free hand and cease prey-
ing upon their surviving dragons.
The people of Palanthas, Neraka, and Qualinesti knew noth-
ing of the pact made between the Knights and the Dragons. The
people saw only that once again the Dark Knights had defended
them against a terrible foe. The Knights of Solamnia and the mys-
tics of the Citadel of Light knew or guessed of these pacts but
could not prove anything.
  Although there were some within the ranks of the Dark
Knights who still held to the beliefs of honor and self-sacrifice ex-
pounded by the late Ariakan, they were mostly the older mem-
bers, who were considered out of touch with the ways of the
modem world. A new Vision had come to replace the old. This
new Vision was based on the mystical powers of the heart devel-
oped by Goldmoon in the Citadel of Light and stolen by several
Skull Knights, who disguised themselves and secretly entered the
Citadel to learn how to use these powers for their own ambitious
ends. The Dark Knight mystics came away with healing skills
and, more frightening, the ability to manipulate their followers'
thoughts.
  Armed with the ability to control not only the bodies of those
who entered the Knighthood but their minds as well, the Skull
Knights rose to prominence within the ranks of the Dark Knights.
Although the Dark Knights had long and loudly maintained that
Queen Takhisis was going to return, they had ceased to believe it.
They had ceased to believe in anything except their own power
and might, and this was reflected in the new Vision. The Skull
Knights who administered the new Vision were adept at probing
a candidate's mind, finding his most secret terrors and playing
upon those, while at the same time promising him his heart's
desire-all in return for strict obedience.
  So powerful did the Skull Knights grow through the use of the
new Vision that those closest to Mirielle Abrena began to look
upon the Skull Knights with distrust. In particular, they warned
Abrena against the leader, the Adjudicator, a man named
Morham Targonne.
  Abrena scoffed at these warnings. "Targonne is an able ad-
ministrator," she said. "1 grant him that much. But, when all is
said and done, what is an able administrator? Nothing more than
a glorified clerk. And that is Targonne. He would never challenge
me for leadership. The man grows queasy at the sight of blood!
He refuses to attend the jousts or tourneys but keeps himself
locked up in his dingy little cabinet, absorbed in his debits and his
credits. He has no stomach for battle."
  Abrena spoke truly. Targonne had no stomach for battle. He
would have never dreamed of challenging Abrena for the leader-
ship in honorable combat. The sight of blood really did make him
sick. And so he had her poisoned.
  As Lord of the Skull Knights, Targonne announced at
Abrena's funeral that he was the rightful successor. No one stood
to challenge him. Those who might have done so, friends and
supporters of Abrena's, kept their mouths shut, lest they ingest
the same "tainted meat" that had killed their leader. Eventually
Targonne killed them too, so that by now he was firmly en-
trenched in power. He and those Knights who were trained in
mentalism used their powers to delve into the minds of their fol-
lowers to ferret out traitors and malcontents.
  Targonne came from a wealthy family with extensive holdings
in Neraka. The family's roots were in Jelek, a city north of what
had formerly been the capital city of Neraka. The Targonne
family's motto was the Great "I," which could have been en-
twined with the Great "P" for profit. They had risen to wealth and
power with the rise of Queen Takhisis, first by supplying arms
and weapons to the leaders of her armies, then, when it appeared
that their side was losing, by supplying arms and weapons to the
armies of Takhisis's enemies. Using the wealth obtained from. the
sale of weapons, the Targonnes bought up land, particularly the
scarce and valuable agricultural land in Neraka.
  The scion of the Targonne family had even had the incredible
good fortune (he claimed it was foresight) to pull his money out
of the city of Neraka only days before the Temple exploded. After
the War of the Lance, during the days when Neraka was a de-
feated land, with roving bands of disenfranchised soldiers, gob-
lins, and draconians, he was in sole possession of the two things
people needed desperately: grain and steel.
  It had been Abrena's ambition to build a fortress for the Dark
Knights in southern Neraka, near the location of the old temple.
She had the plans drawn up and sent in crews to start building.
Such was the terror inspired by the accursed valley and its eerie
and haunting Song of Death that the crews immediately fled. The
capital city was shifted to the northern part of the Neraka valley,
a site still too close to the southern part for the comfort of some.
One of Targonne's first orders of business was to move the
capital city. The second was to change the name of the Knight-
hood. He established the headquarters of the Knights of Neraka
in Jelek, close to the family business. Much closer to the family
business than most of the Neraka Knights ever knew.
  Jelek was now a highly prosperous and bustling city located
at the intersection of the two major highways that ran through
Neraka. Either by great good fortune or crafty dealing the city
had escaped the ravages of the great dragons. Merchants from all
over Neraka, even as far south as Khur, hastened to Jelek to start
new businesses or to expand existing ones. So long as they made
certain to stop by to pay the requisite fees to the Knights of
Neraka and offer their respects to Lord of the Night and Gover-
nor-General Targonne, the merchants were welcome.
  If respect for Targonne had a cold, substantial feel to it and
made a fine clinking sound when deposited together with other
demonstrations of respect in the Lord of the Night's large money.
box, the merchants knew better than to complain. Those who did
complain or those who considered that verbal marks of respect
were sufficient found that their businesses suffered severe and
sudden reverses of fortune. If they persisted in their misguided
notions, they were generally found dead in the street, having ac-
cidentally slipped and fallen backward onto a dagger.
  Targonne personally designed the Neraka Knights' fortress
that loomed large over the city of Jelek. He had the fortress built
on the city's highest promontory with a commanding view of the
city and the surrounding valley.
  The fortress was practical in shape and design-innumerable
squares and rectangles stacked one on top of the other, with
squared-off towers. What windows there were-and there
weren't many-were arrow-slits. The exterior and interior walls
of the fortress were plain and unadorned. So stark and grim was
the fortress that it was often mistaken by visitors for either a
prison or a countinghouse. The sight of black-armored figures pa-
trolling the walls soon corrected their first impression, which
wasn't, after all, so very far wrong. The below-ground level of the
fortress housed an extensive dungeon and, two levels below that
and more heavily guarded, was the Knights' Treasury.
  Lord of the Night Targonne had his headquarters and his
living quarters in the fortress. Both were economical in design,
strictly functional, and if the fortress was mistaken for a count-
inghouse, its commander was often mistaken for a clerk. A visitor
to the Lord of the Night was led into a small, cramped office with
bare walls and a sparse scattering of furniture, there to wait while
a small, bald, bespectacled man dressed in somber, though well-
made clothes, completed his work of copying figures in a great
leather-bound ledger.
  Thinking that he was in the presence of some minor func-
tionary, who would eventually take him to the Lord of the Night,
the visitor would often roam restlessly about the room, his
thoughts wandering here and there. Those thoughts were
snagged in midair, like butterflies in a web, by the man behind
the desk. This man used his mentalist powers to delve into every
portion of the visitor's mind. After a suitable length of time had
passed, during which the spider had sucked his captive dry, the
man would raise his bald head, peer through his spectacles, and
acquaint the appalled visitor with the fact that he was in the pres-
ence of Lord of the Night Targonne.
  The visitor who sat in the lord's presence this day knew very
well that the mild looking man seated across from him was his
lord and governor. The visitor was second in command to Lord
Milles and, although Sir Roderick had not yet met Targonne, he
had seen him in attendance at certain formal functions of the
Knighthood. The Knight stood at attention, holding himself
straight and stiff until his presence should be acknowledged.
Having been warned about Targonne's mentalist capabilities, the
Knight attempted to keep his thoughts stiffly in line as well, with
less success. Before Sir Roderick even spoke, Lord Targonne knew
a great deal of what had happened at the siege of Sanction. He
never liked to exhibit his powers, however. He asked the Knight,
in a mild voice, to be seated.
  Sir Roderick, who was tall and brawny and could have lifted
Targonne off the floor by the coat collar with very little exertion,
took a seat in the only other chair in the office and sat on the
chair's edge, tense, rigid.
  Perhaps due to the fact that he had come to resemble what he
most loved, the eyes of Morham Targonne resembled nothing so
much as two steel coins-flat, shining, and cold. One looked into
those eyes and saw not a soul, but numbers and figures in the
ledger of Targonne's mind. Everything he looked upon was
reduced to debits and credits, profits and loss, all weighed in the
balance, counted to the penny, and chalked up into one column or
another.
  Sir Roderick saw himself reflected in the shining steel of those
cold eyes and felt himself being moved into a column of unnec-
essary expenditures. He wondered if it was true that the specta-
cles were artifacts salvaged from the ruins of Neraka and that
they gave the wearer the ability to see into one's brain. Roderick
began to sweat in his armor, though the fortress with its massive
stone and concrete walls was always cool, even during the
warmest months of the summer.
  "My aide tells me you have come from Sanction, Sir Roder-
ick," said Targonne, his voice the voice of a clerk, mild and pleas-
ant and unassuming. "How goes our siege of the city?"
  It should be noted here that the Targonne family had exten-
sive holdings in the city of Sanction, holdings they had lost when
the Knights of Neraka lost Sanction. Targonne had made the
taking of Sanction one of the top priorities for the Knighthood.
  Sir Roderick had rehearsed his speech on the two-day ride
from Sanction to Jelek and he was prepared with his answer.
  "Excellency, I am here to report that on the day after
Midyear Day, an attempt was made by the accursed Solamnics
to break the siege of Sanction and to try to drive off our armies.
The foul Knights endeavored to trick my commander, Lord
Milles, into attacking by making him think they had abandoned
the city. Lord Milles saw through their plot and he, in turn, led
them into a trap. By launching an attack against the city of
Sanction, Lord Milles lured the Knights out of hiding. He then
faked a retreat. The Knights took the bait and pursued our
forces. At Beckard's Cut, Lord Milles ordered our troops to turn
and make a stand. The Solamnics were summarily defeated,
many of their number killed or wounded. They were forced to
retreat back inside Sanction. Lord Milles is pleased to report,
Excellency, that the valley in which our armies are encamped
remains safe and secure."
  Sir Roderick's words went into Targonne's ears. Sir Roderick's
thoughts went into Targonne's mind. Sir Roderick was recalling
quite vividly fleeing for his life in front of the rampaging Solam-
nics, alongside Lord Milles who, commanding from the rear, had
been caught up in the retreating stampede. And elsewhere in the
mind of the Knight was a picture Targonne found very interest-
ing, also rather disturbing. That picture was that of a young
woman in black armor, exhausted and stained with blood, re-
ceiving the homage and accolades of Lord Milles's troops. Tar-
gonne heard her name resound in Roderick's mind: "Mina!
Mina!" 
  With the tip of his pen the Lord of the Night scratched the thin
mustache that covered his upper lip. "Indeed. It sounds a great
victory. Lord Milles is to be congratulated."
  "Yes, Excellency." Sir Roderick smiled, pleased. "Thank you,
Excellency."
  "It would have been a greater victory if Lord Milles had actu-
ally captured the city of Sanction as he has been ordered, but I
suppose he will attend to that little matter when he finds it con-
venient."
  Sir Roderick was no longer smiling. He started to speak,
coughed, and spent a moment clearing his throat. "In point of
fact, Excellency, we most likely would have been able to capture
Sanction were it not for the mutinous actions of one of our junior
officers. Completely contrary to Lord Milles's command, this of-
ficer pulled an entire company of archers from the fray, so that we
had no covering fire necessary for us to launch an attack upon
Sanction's walls. Not only that, but in her panic, this officer or-
dered the archers to shoot their arrows while our own soldiers
were yet in the line of fire. The casualties we sustained were due
completely to this officer's incompetence. Therefore Lord Milles
felt it would not be wise to proceed with the attack."
  "Dear, dear," Targonne murmured. "1 trust this young officer
has been dealt with summarily."
  Sir Roderick licked his lips. This was the tricky part. "Lord
Milles would have done so, Excellency, but he felt it would be
best to consult with you first. A situation has arisen that makes it
difficult for his lordship to know how to proceed. The young
woman exerts some sort of magical and uncanny influence over
the men, Excellency."
  "Indeed?" Targonne appeared surprised. He spoke somewhat
dryly. "The last I heard, the magical powers of our wizards were
failing. I did not know any of our mages were this talented."
  "She is not a magic-user, Excellency. Or at least, so she says.
She claims to be a messenger sent by a god-the One, True God."
"And what is the name of this god?" Targonne asked.
  "Ah, there she is quite clever, Excellency. She maintains that
the name of the god is too holy to pronounce."
  "Gods have come, and gods have gone," Targonne said im-
patiently. He was seeing a most astonishing and disquieting
sight in Sir Roderick's mind, and he wanted to hear it from
the man's lips. "Our soldiers would not be sucked in by such
claptrap."
  "Excellency, the woman does not make use of words alone.
She performs miracle&--miracles of healing the likes of which we
have not seen in recent years due to the weakening of our mys-
tics. This girl restores limbs that have been hacked off. She places
her hands upon a man's chest, and the gaping hole in it closes
over. She tells a man with a broken back that he can stand up, and
he stands up! The only miracle she does not perform is raising the
dead. Those she prays over."
  Sir Roderick heard the creaking of a chair, looked up to see
Targonne's steel eyes gleaming unpleasantly.
  "Of course"-Sir Roderick hastened to correct his mistake-
"Lord Milles knows that these are not miracles, Excellency. He
knows that she is a charlatan. It's just that we can't seem to figure
out how she does it," he added lamely. "And the men are quite
taken with her."
  Targonne understood with alarm that all of the foot soldiers
and most of the Knights had mutinied, were refusing to obey
Milles. They had transferred their allegiance to some shaven-
headed chit in black armor.
  "How old is this girl?" Targonne asked, frowning.
  "She is reputed to be no more than seventeen, Excellency," Sir
Roderick replied.
  "Seventeen!" Targonne was aghast. "Whatever induced
Milles to make her an officer in the first place?"
  "He did not, Excellency," said Sir Roderick. "She is not part of
our wing. None of us had ever seen her before her arrival in the
valley just prior to the battle."
  "Could she be a Solarnnic in disguise?" Targonne wondered.
  "I doubt that, Excellency. It was due to her that the Solarnnics
lost the battle," Sir Roderick replied, completely unconscious that
the truth he had just now spoken accorded ill with the fabrica-
tions he'd pronounced earlier.
Targonne noted the inconsistency but was too absorbed in the
clicking abacus of his mind to pay any attention to them, beyond
marking down that Milles was an incompetent bungler who
should be replaced as speedily as possible. Targonne rang a silver
bell that stood upon his desk. The door to the office opened, and
his aide entered.
  "Look through the rolls of the Knighthood," Targonne or-
dered. "Locate a- What is her name?" he asked Roderick,
though he could hear it echo in the Knight's mind.
  "Mina, Excellency."
  "Meenaa," Targonne repeated, holding the name in his mouth
as if he were tasting it. "Nothing else? No surname?"
  "Not to my knowledge, Excellency."
  The aide departed, dispatched several clerks to undertake the
task. The two Knights sat in silence while the search was being
conducted. Targonne took advantage of the time to continue to
sift through Roderick's mind, which affirmed his surmise that the
siege against Sanction was being handled by a nincompoop. If it
hadn't been for this girl, the siege might well have been broken,
the Dark Knights defeated, annihilated, the Solamnics in tri-
umphant and unhindered possession of Sanction.
  The aide returned. "We find no knight named 'Mina' on ~~e
rolls, Excellency. Nothing even close."
  Targonne made a dismissive gesture, and the aide departed.
  "Brilliant, Excellency!" Sir Roderick exclaimed. "She is an im-
poster. We can have her arrested and executed."
  "Hunh." Targonne grunted. "And just what do you think
your soldiers will do in that instance, Sir Roderick? Those she has
healed? Those she has led to victory against the detested foe? The
morale among Milles's troops was not that good to begin with."
Targonne flipped a hand at a stack of ledgers. "I've read the re-
ports. The desertion rate is five times higher among Milles's
troops than with any other commander in the army.
  "Tell me this"- Targonne eyed the other Knight shrewdly-
"are you capable of having this Mina girl arrested? Do you have
guards who will obey your order? Or will they most likely arrest
Lord Milles instead?"
  Sir Roderick opened his mouth and shut it again without re-
plying. He looked around the room, looked at the ceiling, looked
anywhere but into those steel eyes, horribly magnified by the
thick glass of the spectacles, but still he seemed to see them
boring into his skull.
  Targonne clicked the beads upon his mental abacus. The girl
was an imposter, masquerading as a Knight. She had arrived at
the moment she was most needed. In the face of terrible defeat,
she had achieved stunning victory. She performed "miracles" in
the name of a nameless god.
  Was she an asset or a liability?
  If liability, could she be turned into an asset?
  Targonne abhorred waste. An excellent administrator and a
shrewd bargainer, he knew where and how every steel coin was
spent. He was not a miser. He made certain that the Knighthood
had the best quality weapons and armor, he made certain that the
recruits and mercenaries were paid well. He was adamant that
his officers keep accurate records of monies paid out to them.
  The soldiers wanted to follow this Mina. Very well. Let them
follow her. Targonne had that very morning received a message
from the great dragon Malystrx wanting to know why he permit-
ted the Silvanesti elves to defy her edicts by maintaining a magi-'-
cal shield over their land and refusing to pay her tribute. Targonne
had prepared a letter to send in return explaining to the dragon
that attacking Silvanesti would be a waste of time and manpower
that could be used elsewhere to more profit. Scouts sent to inves-
tigate the magical shield had reported that the shield was impos-
sible to penetrate, that no weapon-be it steel or sorcery-had the
slightest effect on the shield. One might hurl an entire army at it-
so said his scouts-and one would achieve nothing.
  Add to this the fact that an army heading into Silvanesti must
first travel through Blade, the homeland of the ogres. Former
allies of the Dark Knights, the ogres had been infuriated when the
Knights of Neraka expanded southward, taking over the ogres'
best land and driving them into the mountains, killing hundreds
in the process. Reports indicated that the ogres were currently
hounding the dark elf Alhana Starbreeze and her forces some-
where near the shield. But if the Knights advanced into ogre
lands, the ogres would be quite happy to leave off attacking
elves-something they could do any time-to take vengeance on
the ally who had betrayed them.
  The letter was on his desk, awaiting his signature. It had been
on his desk for several days. Targonne was fully aware that this
letter of refusal would infuriate the dragon, but he was much
better prepared to face Malys's fury than throwaway valuable re-
sources in a hopeless cause. Reaching for the letter, Targonne
picked it up and slowly and thoughtfully tore it into small pieces.
  The only god Targonne believed in was a small, round god
that could stacked up in neat piles in his treasure room. He did
not believe for: a moment that this girl was a messenger from the
gods. He did not believe in her miracles of healing or in the mir-
acle of her generalship. Unlike the wretched and imbecilic Sir
Roderick, Targonne didn't feel a need to explain how she had
done what she had done. All he needed to know was that she was
doing it for the benefit of the Knights of Neraka-and that which
benefitted the Knights benefitted Morham Targonne.
  He would give her a chance to perform a "miracle." He
would send this imposter Knight and her addle-pated followers
to attack and capture Silvanesti. By making a small investment of
a handful of soldiers, Targonne would please the dragon, keep
Malys happy. The dangerous Mina girl and her forces would be
wiped out, but the loss would be offset by the gain. Let her die
in the wilderness somewhere, let some ogre munch on her bones
for his supper. That would be an end to the chit and her "name-
less" god.
  Targonne smiled upon Sir Roderick and even left his desk to
walk the Knight to the door. He watched until the black-armored
figure had marched down the echoing, empty hallways of the
fortress, then summoned his aide to his office.
  He dictated a letter to Malystrx, explaining his plan for the
capture of Silvanesti. He issued an order to the commander of the
Knights of Neraka in Khur to march his forces west to join the
siege of Sanction, take over command from Lord Milles. He
issued an order commanding Talon Leader Mina and a company
of hand-picked soldiers to march south, there to attack and cap-
ture the great elven nation of Silvanesti.
  "And what of Lord Milles, Excellency?" his aide asked. "Is he
to be reassigned? Where is he to be sent?"
Targonne considered the matter. He was in an excellent
humor, a feeling which normally came with the closing of an ex-
tremely good business deal.
  "Send Milles to report in person to Malystrx. He can tell her
the story of his great 'victory' over the Solamnics. I'm sure she
will be very interested to hear how he fell into an enemy trap and
in so doing came close to losing all that we have fought so hard
to gain.
  "Yes, Excellency." The aide gathered up his papers and pre-
pared to return to his desk to execute the documents. "Shall I take
Lord Milles off the rolls?" he asked, as an afterthought.
  Targonne had returned to his ledger. He adjusted the specta- 
cles carefully on his nose, picked up his pen, waved a negligent 
hand in acquiescence, and returned to his credits and debits, his 
additions and subtractions.

                     CHAPTER ELEVEN
                    THE SONG OF LORAC

  While Tasslehoff was near dying of boredom on the road to
Qualinesti and while Sir Roderick was returning to Sanc-
tion, blissfully unaware that he had just delivered his com-
mander into the jaws of the dragon, Silvanoshei and Rolan of the
kirath began their journey to place Silvanoshei upon the throne of
Silvanesti. Rolan's plan was to move close to the capital city ofSil-
vanost, but not to enter it until word spread through the city that
the true head of House Royal was returning to claim his rightful
place as Speaker of the Stars.
  "How long will that take?" Silvan asked with the impatience
and impetuosity of youth.
  "The news will travel faster than we will, Your Majesty,"
Rolan replied. "Drinel and the other kirath who were with us two
nights ago have already left to spread it. They will tell every other
kirath they meet and any of the Wildrunners they feel that they
can trust. Most of the soldiers are loyal to General Konnal, but
there are a few who are starting to doubt him. They do not openly
state their opposition yet, but Your Majesty's arrival should do
much to change that. The Wildrunners have always sworn
allegiance to House Royal. As Konnal himself will be obliged to
do--or at least make a show of doing."
  "How long will it take us to reach Silvanost, then?" Sil-
vanoshei asked.
  "We will leave the trail and travel the Thon- Tfalas ~y b.oat,"
Rolan responded. "1 plan to take you to my house, which IS lo-
cated on the outskirts of the city. We should arrive in two days
time. We 'will take a third day to rest and to receive the reports
that will be coming in by then. Four days from now, Your Majesty,
if all goes well, you will enter the capital in triumph."
  "Four days!" Silvan was skeptical. "Can so much be accom-
plished that fast?"
 "In the days when we fought the dream, we kirath could send
a message from the north of Silvanesti into the far reaches of the
south in a single day. I am not exaggerating, Your Majesty," Rolan
said, smiling at Silvanoshei's obvious skepticism. "We accom-
plished such a feat many times over. We were highly organized
then, and there were many more of us than there are now. But I
believe that Your Majesty will be impressed, nevertheless."
  "I am already impressed, Rolan," Silvanoshei replied. "I am
deeply indebted to you and the others of the kirath. I will find
some way of repaying you."
  "Free our people from this dreadful scourge, Your Majesty,"
Rolan answered, his eyes shadowed with sorrow, "and that will
be payment enough."
  Despite his praise, Silvanoshei still harbored doubts, though
he kept them to himself. His mother's army was well organized,
yet even she would make plans, only to see them go awry. Ill luck,
miscommunication, bad weather, anyone of these or a host of
other misfortunes could turn a day that had seemed meant for
victory into disaster.
  "No plan ever survives contact with the enemy," was one of
Samar's dictums, a dictum that had proven tragically true.
Silvan anticipated disasters, delays. If the boat Rolan prom-
ised even existed, it would have a hole in it or it would have been
burned to cinders. The river would be too low or too high, run too
swift or too slow. Winds would blow them upstream instead of
down or down when they wanted to travel up.
  Silvan was vastly astonished to find the small boat at the river
landing where Rolan had said it would be, perfectly sound and in
good re~air. Not only that, but the boat had bee? filled with food
packed ill waterproof sacks and stowed neatly ill the prow.
  "As you see, Your Majesty," Rolan said, "the kirath have been
here ahead of us."
T  he Thon- Thalas River was calm and meandering this time of
year. The boat, made of tree bark, was small and light and so well
balanced that one would have to actively work to tip it over. Well
knowing that Rolan would never think of asking the future
Speaker of the Stars to help row, Silvan volunteered his assis-
tance. Rolan at first demurred, but he could not argue with his
future ruler and so at last he agreed and handed Silvanoshei a
paddle. Silvan saw that he had earned the elder elf's respect by
this act, a pleasant change for the young man, who, it seemed,
had always earned Samar's disrespect.
  Silvan enjoyed the exercise that burned away some of his
pent-up energy. The river was placid, the forests through which
it flowed were green and verdant. The weather was fine, but
Silvan could not say that the day was beautiful. The sun shone
through the shield. He could see blue sky through the shield.
But the sun that shone on Silvanesti was not the same fiercely
burning orb of orange fire that shone on the rest of Ansalon. The
sun Silvan looked upon was a pale and sickly yellow, the yellow
of jaundiced skin, the yellow of an ugly bruise. It was as if he
were looking at a reflection of the sun, floating facedown,
drowned in a pool of stagnant, oily water. The yellow sun al-
tered the color of the sky from azure blue to a hard metallic
blue-green. Silvan did not look long at the sun but instead
shifted his gaze to the forest.
  "Do you know a song to ease our labors?" he called out to
Rolan who was seated in the front of the boat.
  The kirath paddled with quick, strong strokes, digging his
paddle deep into the water. The far-younger Silvan was hard
pressed to keep pace with his elder.
  Rolan hesitated, glanced back over his shoulder. "There is a
song that is a favorite of the kirath, but I fear it may displease His
Majesty. It is a song that tells the story of your honored grandfa-
ther, King Lorac."
  "Does it start out, 'The Age of Might it was, the Age of the
Kingpriest and his minions,'" Silvan asked, singing the melody
tentatively. He had only heard the song once before.
"That is the beginning, Your Majesty," Rolan replied.
  "Sing it for me," Silvan said. "My mother sang it once to me
on the day I turned thirty. That was the first time I had ever heard
the story of my grandfather. My mother never spoke of him
before, nor has she spoken of him since. To honor her, none of the
other elves speaks of him either."
  "I too, honor your mother, who gathered roses in the Garden
of Astarin when she was your age. And I understand her pain. We
share in that pain every time we sing this song, for as Lorac was
snared by his own hubris into betraying his country, so we who
took the easy way out, who fled our land and left him to do battle
alone, were also at fault.
  "If all our people had stayed to fight, if all our people-those
of House Royal to House Servitor, those of House Protector,
House Mystic, House Mason-if we had all joined together and
stood shoulder to shoulder, regardless of caste, against the Drag-
onarmies, then I believe that we could have saved our land.
  "But you shall hear the full tale in the song.

                     Song of Lorac

		The Age of Might it was,
		the Age of the Kingpriest and
		his minions.
		Jealous of the wizards, the Kingpriest
		said, "You will hand over your high Towers
		to me and you will fear me and obey me."
		The wizards gave over their high Towers, the last
		the Tower of Palanthas.

		Comes to the Tower Lorac Caladon, King of the Silvanesti,
		to take his Test in magic before the closing of the Tower.
		In his Test, one of the dragon orbs,
		fearful of falling into the hands
		of the Kingpriest and his minions,
		speaks to Lorac.
		"You must not leave me here in Istar.
		If you do, I will be lost and the world will perish."
		Lorac obeys the voice of the dragon orb,
		hides the orb away.
		carries it with him from the Tower,
		carries the orb back to Silvanesti,
		holds the orb in secret, hugging his secret to him,
		never telling anyone.

		Comes the Cataclysm. Comes Takhisis, Queen of Darkness,
		with her dragons, mighty and powerful.
		Comes war. War to Silvanesti.
		Lorac summons all his people, orders them to flee their
		   homelands
		Orders them away.
		Says to them,
		"I alone will be the savior of the people.1I
		"I alone will stop the Queen of Darkness.1I

		Away the people.
		Away the loved daughter, Alhana Starbreeze.
		Alone, Lorac hears the voice of the dragon orb,
		calling his name, calling to him to come to the darkness.
		Lorac heeds the call.
		Descends into darkness.
		Puts his hands upon the dragon orb and
		the dragon orb puts its hands upon Lorac.
		Comes the dream.
		Comes the dream to Silvanesti,
		dream of horror,
		dream of fear,
		dream of trees that bleed the blood of elvenkind,
		dream of tears forming rivers,
		dream of death.

		Comes a dragon,
		Cyan Bloodbane,
		minion of Takhisis,
		to hiss into Lorac's ear the terrors of the dream.
		To hiss the words, 1 alone have the power to save the people.
		I alone." To mock the words, "I alone have the power to save."
		The dream enters the land,
		kills the land,
		twists the trees, trees that bleed,
		fills the rivers with the tears of the people,
		the tears of Lorac,
		held in thrall by the orb and by Cyan Bloodbane,
		minion of Queen Takhisis,
		minion of evil,
		who alone has the power.

  "I can understand why my mother does not like to hear that
song," Silvan said when the last long-held, sweet, sad note
drifted over the water, to be echoed by a sparrow. "And why our
people do not like to remember it."
  "Yet, they should remember it," said Rolan. "The song would
be sung daily, if I had my way. Who knows but that the song of
our own days will be just as tragic, just as terrible? We have not
changed. Lorac Caladon believed that he was strong enough to
wield the dragon orb, though he had been warned against it by
all the wise. Thus he was snared, and thus he fell. Our people, in
their fear, chose to flee rather than to stand and fight. And thus in
fear today we cower under this shield, sacrificing the lives of
some of our people in order to save a dream."
  " A dream?" Silvan asked. He was thinking of Lorac's dream,
the dream of the song.
  "I do not refer to the whispers of the dragon," said Rolan.
"That dream is gone, but the sleeper refuses to wake and thus an-
other dream has come to take its place. A dream of the past. A
dream of the glories of days that have gone. I do not blame them,"
Rolan added, sighing. "I, too, love to think upon what has gone
and long to regain it. But those of us who fought alongside your
father know that the past can never be recovered, nor should it
be. The world has changed, and we must change with it. We must
become a part of it, else we will sicken and die in the prison house
in which we have locked ourselves."
  Rolan ceased paddling for a moment. He turned in the boat to
face Silvan. "Do you understand what I am saying, Your
Majesty?"
  "I think so," said 5ilvan cautiously. "I am of the world, so to
speak. I come from the outside. I am the one who'can lead our
people out into the world."
  "Yes, Your Majesty." Rolan smiled.
"S0 long as I avoid the sin of hubris," Silvan. said, ceasing his
paddling, thankful for the rest. He grinned when he said it for he
meant it teasingly, but on reflection, he became more serious.
"Pride, the family failing," Silvan said, half to himself. "I am fore-
warned, and that is forearmed, they say."
  Picking up his paddle, he fell to work with a will.
  The pallid sun sank down behind the trees. Day languished,
as if it too was one of the victims of the wasting sickness. Rolan
watched the bank, searching for a suitable site to moor for the
night. Silvan watched the opposite shore and so he saw first what
the kirath missed.
  "Rolan!" Silvan whispered urgently. "Pull for the western
shore! Quickly!"
  "What is it, Your Majesty?" Rolan was quick to take alarm.
"What do you see?"
  "There! on the eastern bank! Don't you see them? Hurry! We
are nearly within arrow range!"
  Rolan halted his rapid stroking. He turned around to smile
sympathetically at Silvan. "You are no longer among the hunted,
Your Majesty. Those people you see gathered on that bank are
your own. They have come to look upon you and do you honor."
  Silvan was astonished. "But. . . how do they know?"
  "The kirath have been here, Your Majesty."
  "So soon?"
  "I told Your Majesty that we would spread the word rapidly."
  Silvan blushed. "I am sorry, Rolan. I did not mean to doubt you.
It's just that. . . My mother uses runners. They travel in secret, car-
rying messages between my mother and her sister by marriage,
Laurana, in Qualinesti. Thus we are kept apprised of what is hap-
pening with our people in that realm. But it would take them many
days to cover the same number of miles. . . . I had thought-"
  "You thought I was exaggerating. You need make no apology
for that, Your Majesty. You are accustomed to the world beyond
the shield, a world that is large and filled with dangers that wax
and wane daily, like the moon. Here in Silvanesti, we kirath know
every path, every tree that stands on that path, every flower that
grows beside it, ever squirrel that crosses it, every bird that sings
in every branch, so many times have we run them. If that bird
sings one false note, if that squirrel twitches its ears in alarm, we
are aware of it. Nothing can surprise us. Nothing can stop us."
  Rolan frowned. "That is why we of the kirath find it troubling
that the dragon Cyan Bloodbane has so long eluded us. It is not
possible that he should. And yet it is possible that he has."
  The river carried them within sight of the elves standing on the
western shoreline. Their houses were in the trees, houses a human
would have probably never seen, for they were made of the living
tree, whose branches had been lovingly coaxed into forming walls
and roofs. Their nets were spread out upon the ground to dry,
their boats pulled up onto the shore. There were not many elves,
this was only a small fishing village, and yet it was apparent that
the entire population had turned out. The sick had even been car-
ried to the river's edge, where they lay wrapped in blankets and
propped up with pillows.
  Self-conscious, Silvan ceased paddling and rested his oar at
the bottom of the boat.
  "What do I do, Rolan?" he asked nervously.
  Rolan looked back, smiled reassuringly. "You need only be
yourself, Your Majesty. That'is what they expect."
  Rolan steered closer to the bank. The river seemed to run
faster here, rushed Silvan toward the people before he was quite
ready. He had ridden on parade with his mother to review the
troops and had experienced the same uneasiness and sense of un-
worthiness that assailed him now.
  The river brought him level with his people. He looked at
them and nodded slightly and raised his hand in a shy wave. No
one waved back. No one cheered, as he had been half-expecting.
They watched him float upon the river in silence, a silence that
was poignant and touched Silvan more deeply than the wildest
cheering. He saw in their eyes, he heard in their silence, a wistful
hopefulness, a hope in which they did not want to believe, for
they had felt hope before and been betrayed.
  Profoundly moved, Silvan ceased his waving and stretched
out his hand to them, as if he saw them sinking and he could keep
them above the water. The river bore him away from them, took
him around a hill, and they were lost to his sight.
  Humbled, he huddled in the stem and did not move nor
speak. For the first time, he came to the full realization of the
crushing burden he had taken upon himself. What could he do to
help them? What did they expect of him? Too much, perhaps.
Much too much.
  Rolan glanced back every now and again in concern, but he
said nothing, made no comment. He continued to paddle alone
until he found a suitable place to beach the boat. Silvan roused
himself and jumped into the water, helped to drag the boat up
onto the bank. The water was icy cold and came as a pleasant
shock. He submerged his worries and fears of his own inadequa-
cies in the Thon- Thalas, was glad to have something to do to keep
himself busy.
  Accustomed to living out of doors, Silvan knew what needed
to be done to set up camp. He unloaded the supplies, spread out
the bedrolls, and began to prepare their light supper of fruit and
flatbread, while Rolan secured the boat. They ate for the most
part in silence, Silvan still subdued by the enormity of the re-
sponsibility he had accepted so blithely just two nights before
and Rolan respecting his ruler's wish for quiet. The two made an
early night of it. Wrapping themselves in their blankets, they left
the woodland animals and night birds to stand watch over their
slumbers.
  Silvan fell asleep much sooner than he'd anticipated. He was
wakened in the night by the hooting of an owl and sat up in fear,
but Rolan, stirring, said the owl was merely calling to a neighbor,
sharing the gossip of the darkness.
Silvan lay awake, listening to the mournful, haunting call and
its answer, a solemn echo in some distant part of the forest. He lay
awake, long, staring up at the stars that shimmered uneasily
above the shield, the Song of Lorac running swift like the river
water through his mind.

		The tears of Lorac,
		held in thrall by the orb and by Cyan Bloodbane,
		minion of Queen Takhisis,
		minion of evil,
		who alone has the power.

  The words and melody of the song were at this moment being
echoed by a minstrel singing to entertain guests at a party in the
captial city of Silvanost.
  The party was being held in the Garden of Astarin on the
grounds of the Tower of the Stars, where the Speaker of the Stars
would live had there been a Speaker. The setting was beautiful. The
Tower of the Stars was magically shaped of marble, for the elves
will not cut or otherwise harm any part of the land, and thus the
Tower had a fluid, organic feel to it, looking almost as if someone
had formed it of melted wax. During Lorac's dream, the Tower had
been hideously transformed, as were all the other structures in Sil-
vanost. BIven mages worked long years to reshape the dwelling.
They replaced the myriad jewels in the walls of the tall building,
jewels which had once captured the light of the silver moon, Soli-
nari, and the red moon, Lunitari, and used their blessed moonlight
to illuminate the Tower's interior so that it seemed bathed in silver
and in flame. The moons were gone now. A single moon only
shone on Krynn and for some reason that the wise among the elves
could not explain, the pale light of this single moon glittered in
each jewellike a staring eye, bringing no light at all to the Tower,
so that the elves were forced to resort to candles and torches.
  Chairs had been placed among the plants in the Garden of As-
tarin. The plants appeared to be flourishing. They filled the air
with their fragrance. Only Konnal and his gardeners knew that
the plants in the garden had not grown there but had been carried
there by the Woodshapers from their own private gardens, for no
plants lived long now in the Garden of Astarin. No plants except
one, a tree. A tree surrounded by a magical shield. A tree known
as the Shield Tree, for from its root was said to have sprung the
magical shield that protected Silvanesti.
  The minstrel was singing the Song of Lorac in answer to a re-
quest from a guest at the party. The minstrel finished, ending
the song on its sad note, her hand brushing lightly the strings of
her lute.
  "Bravo! Well sung! Let the song be sung again," came a lilting
voice from the back row of seats.
  The minstrel looked uncertainly at her host. The elven audi-
ence was much too polite and too well bred to indicate overt
shock at the request, but a performer comes to know the mood of
the audience by various subtle signs. The minstrel noted faintly
flushed cheeks and sidelong embarrassed glances cast at their
host. Once around for this song was quite enough.
  "Who said that?" General Reyl Konnal, military governor of
Silvanesti, twisted in his seat.
  "Whom do you suppose, Uncle?" his nephew replied with a
dark glance for the seats behind them. "The person who
requested it be sung in the first place. Your friend, Glaucous."
General Konnal rose abruptly to his feet, a move that ended the
evening's musical entertainment. The minstrel bowed, thankful to
be spared so arduous a task as singing that song again. The audi-
ence applauded politely but without enthusiasm. A sigh that might
have been expressive of relief joined the night breeze in rustling the
trees whose intertwined branches formed a barren canopy above
them, for many of the leaves had dropped off. Lanterns of silver fil-
igree hung from the boughs, lighting the night. The ~ests left the
small amphitheater, moved to a table that had been set up beside a
reflecting pool, there to dine on sugared fruits and buttery short-
breads and to drink chilled wine.
  Konnal invited the minstrel to partake of a late night morsel
and personally escorted the woman to the table. The elf named
Glaucous who had requested the song was already there, a cup of
wine in his hand. Raising a toast to the minstrel, he was lavish in
her praise.
  " A pity you were not permitted to sing the song again," he
said, glancing in the general's direction. "I never tire of that par-
ticular melody. And the poetry! My favorite part is when-"
  "Might I offer you food and drink, Madame?" the nephew
asked, responding to a nudge from his uncle.
  The minstrel cast him a grateful glance and accepted his invi-
tation. He led her to the table, where she was graciously received
by the other ~ests. The grassy area on which Glaucous and the
general stood was soon empty. Although many of the guests
would have been pleased to bask in the the presence of the charm-
ing and attractive Glaucous and pay their share of flattery to Gen-
eral Konnal, they could tell at a glance that the general was angry.
  "I don't know why I invite you to these parties, Glaucous,"
Konnal said, seething. "You always do something to embarrass
me. It was bad enough you requested she sing that piece, and
then to ask for it a second time!"
  "Considered in light of the rumors I heard today," Glaucous
returned lan~idly, "I thought the song of Lorac Caladon most
appropriate."
  Konnal shot his friend a sharp glance from beneath lowered
brows. "I heard. . ." He paused, glanced at his guests. "Come,
walk with me around the pond."
  The two moved away from the other ~ests. Now free of the
constraint of the general's presence, the elves gathered in small
groups, their voices sibilant with suppressed excitement, eager to
discuss the rumors that were the talk of the capital..
  "We need not have left," Glaucous observed, looking back
upon the refreshment table. "Everyone has heard the same thing."
  "Yes, but they speak of it as rumor. I have confirmation,"
Konnal said grimly.
Glaucous halted. "You know this for a fact?"
  "I have my sources among the kirath. The man saw him,
spoke to him. The young man is said to be the image of his father.
He is Silvanoshei Caladon, son of Alhana Starbreeze, grandson of
the late and unlamented King Lorac."
  "But that is impossible!" Glaucous stated. "The last we heard
of the whereabouts of that accursed witch, his mother, she was
lurking about outside the shield and her son was with her. He
could not have come through the shield. Nothing and no one can
penetrate the shield." Glaucous was quite firm on that point.
  "Then his arrival must be a miracle, as they are claiming,"
Konnal said dryly, with a wave of his hand at his whispering guests.
  "Bah! It is some imposter. You shake your head." Glaucous
regarded the governor in disbelief. "You have actually swal-
lowed this!"
  "My source is Drinel. As you know, he has the skill of truth-
seek," Konnal replied. "There can be no doubt. The young man
passed the test. Drinel saw into his heart. He knows more about
what happened to him than the young man does, apparently."
  "S0 what did happen to him?" Glaucous asked with a slight
lift of a delicate eyebrow.
  "The night of that terrible storm, Alhana and her rebels were
preparing to launch an all-out assault on the shield when their
camp was overrun by ogres. The young man went running to the
Legion of Steel to beg the help of the humans-witness how low
this woman has sunk-when he was dazzled by a lightning bolt.
He slipped and fell down an embankment. He lost consciousness.
Apparently, when he awoke, he was inside the shield."
  Glaucous stroked his chin with his hand. The chin was well-
formed, the face handsome. His almond eyes were large and pen-
etrating. He could make no move that was not graceful. His
complexion was flawless, his skin smooth and pale. His features
were perfectly molded.
  To human eyes, all elves are beautiful. The wise say this
accounts for the animosity between the two races. Humans-
even the most beautiful among them--cannot help but feel that
they are ugly by comparison. The elves, who worship beauty, see
gradations of beauty among their own kind, but they always see
beauty. In a land of beauty, Glaucous was the most beautiful.
  At this moment, Glaucous's beauty, his perfection, irritated
Konnal beyond measure.
  The general shifted his gaze to his pond. Two new swans
glided over its mirrorlike surface. He wondered how long these
two would live, hoped it would be longer than the last pair. He
was spending a fortune in swans, but the pond was bleak and
empty without them.
  Glaucous was a favorite at court, which was odd considering
that he was responsible for many members of the elven court
losing their positions, influence, and power. But then, no one ever
blamed Glaucous. They blamed Konnal, the one responsible for
their dismissal.
  Yet, what choice do I have? Konnal would ask himself. These
people were untrustworthy. Some of them even plotting against
me! If it hadn't been for Glaucous, I might have never known.
  Upon first being introduced into the general's retinue, Glau-
cous had ferreted out something bad about every person Konnal
had ever trusted. One minister had been heard defending Por-
thios. Another was said to have once, when she was a youth, been
in love with Dalamar the Dark. Still another was called to account
because he had disagreed with Konnal over a matter of taxation.
  Then came the day when Konnal woke to the realization that he
had only one advisor left and that advisor was Glaucous.
The exception was Konnal's nephew Kiryn. Glaucous made
no secret of his affection for Kiryn. Glaucous flattered the young
man, brought him little gifts, laughed heartily at his jokes, and
was effusive in his attention to him. Courtiers who courted
Glaucous's favor were intensely jealous of the young man.
Kiryn himself would have much preferred Glaucous's dislike.
 Kiryn distrusted Glaucous, though the young man could give
no reason why.
   Kiryn dared say no word against Glaucous, however. No one
dared say anything against him. Glaucous was a powerful
wizard, the most powerful wizard the Silvanesti had ever known
among their kind, even counting the dark elf Dalamar.
Glaucous had arrived in Silvanost one day shortly after the
dragon purge began. He was, he said, a representative of those
elves who served in the Tower of Shalost, a monument in western
Silvanesti, where lay the body of the druid Waylorn Wyverns-
bane. Although the gods of magic had departed, the enchantment
remained around the crystal bier on which the hero of the elves
lay enshrined. Careful not to disturb the rest of the dead, the
elven sorcerers, desperate to regain their magic, had attempted to
capture and use some of the enchantment.
  "We succeeded," Glaucous had reported to the general. "That
is," he had added with becoming modesty, "I succeeded."
  Fearing the great dragons that were decimating the rest of
Ansalon, Glaucous had worked with the Woodshapers to devise
a means by which Silvanesti could be protected from the ravages
of the dragons. The Woodshapers, acting under Glaucous's direc-
tion, had grown the tree now known as the Shield Tree. Sur-
rounded by its own magical barrier through which nothing could
penetrate to do it harm, the tree was planted in the Garden of As-
tarin and was much admired.
  When Glaucous had proposed to the governor-general that he
could raise a magical shield over all of Silvanesti, Konnal had expe-
rienced an overwhelming sense of thankfulness and relief. He had
felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. Silvanesti would be safe,
truly safe. Safe from dragons, safe from ogres, safe from humans,
dark elves, safe from the rest of the world. He had put the matter to
a vote by the Heads of House. The vote had been unanimous.
  Glaucous had raised the shield and become the hero of the
elves, some of whom were already talking about building him his
own monument. Then plants in the Garden of Astarin began to
die. Reports came that trees and plants and animals that lived
within the borders touched by the magical shield were also
dying. People in Silvanost and other elven villages started to die
of a strange wasting sickness. The kirath and other rebels said it
was the shield. Glaucous said it was a plague brought to their
land by humans before the raising of the shield and that only the
shield kept the rest of the populace from dying.
  Konnal could not do without Glaucous now. Glaucous was
his friend, his trusted adviser, his only trusted adviser. Glaucous's
magic was responsible for placing the shield over Silvanesti and
Glaucous could use his magic to remove the shield anytime he
wanted. Remove the shield and leave the Silvanesti open to the
terrors of the world beyond.
  "Mmmm? I beg your pardon? What were you saying?" Gen-
eral Konnal tore his attention from his swans, returned it to Glau-
cous, who had been speaking all this time.
  "I said, 'You are not listening to me:" Glaucous repeated with
a sweet smile.
  "No, I am sorry. There is one thing I want to know, Glaucous.
How did this young man come through the shield?" He lowered
his voice to a whisper, though there was no one within earshot.
"Is the shield's magic failing, too?"
  Glaucous's expression darkened. "No," he replied.
  "How can you be certain?" Konnal demanded. "Tell me hon-
estly-have you not felt a weakening of your power over the past
year? All other wizards have."
  "That may be. I have not," Glaucous said coldly.
  Konnal gazed at his friend intently. Glaucous refused to meet
his gaze and Konnal guessed that the wizard was lying.
  "Then what explanation do we have for this phenomenon?"
  "A very simple one," Glacous returned, unperturbed. "I
brought him through."
  "You?" Konnal was so shocked he shouted the word. Many in
the crowd halted their conversations to turn and stare.
  Glaucous smiled at them reassuringly and took hold of his
friend's arm, led him to a more secluded area of the garden.
  "Why would you do this? What do you plan to do with this
young man, Glaucous?" Konnal demanded.
  "I will do what you should have done," Glaucous said,
smoothing back the flowing sleeves of his white robes. "I will put
a Caladon on the throne. I remind you, my friend, that if you had
proclaimed your nephew Speaker as I recommended there would
be no problem with Silvanoshei."
  "You know perfectly well that Kiryn refused to accept the po-
sition," Konnal returned.
  "Due to misguided loyalty to his Aunt Alhana." Glaucous
sighed. "I have tried to counsel him on this matter. He refuses to
listen to me."
  "He will not listen to me, either, if that is what you are imply-
ing, my friend," Konnal said. "And might I point out that it is
your insistence on maintaining the right of the Caladon family to
rule Silvanesti that has landed us in this stew. I am of House
Royal myself-"
  "You are not a Caladon, Reyl," Glaucous murmured.
  "I can trace my lineage back beyond the Caladons!" Konnal
said indignantly. "Back to Quinari, wife of Silvanos! I have as
muCh right to rule as the Caladons. Perhaps more."
  "I know that, my dear friend," said Glaucous softly, placing a
soothing hand upon Konnal's arm. "But you would have a diffi-
cult time persuading the Heads of House."
  "Lorac Caladon plunged this nation into ruin," Konnal con-
tinued bitterly. "His daughter Alhana Starbreeze took us from ru-
ination to near destruction with her marriage to Porthios, a
Qualinesti. If we had not acted quickly to rid ourselves of both
these vipers, we would have found Silvanesti under the heel of
that half-breed, dim-witted Speaker of Suns Gilthas, son of Tanis.
Yet the people continue to argue that a Caladon should sit upon
the throne! I do not understand it!"
  "My friend," Glaucous said gently, "that bloodline has ruled
Silvanesti for hundreds of years. The people would be content to
accept another Caladon as ruler without a murmur. But if you put
yourself forward as a ruler, there would be months or even years
of endless arguments and jealousies, researchings of family histo-
ries, perhaps even rival claims to the throne. Who knows but that
some powerful figure might arise who would oust you and seize
control for himself? No, no. This is the best possible solution. I
remind you again that your nephew is a Caladon and that he
would be the perfect choice. The people would be quite willing to
see your nephew take the position. His mother, your sister, mar-
ried into the Caladon family. It is a compromise the Heads of
House would accept.
  "But this is all water beneath the bridge. In two days time, Sil-
vanoshei Caladon will be in Silvanost. You have proclaimed pub-
licly that you would support a member of the Caladon family as
Speaker of the Stars."
  "Because you advised that I do so!" Konnal returned.
"I have my reasons," Glaucous said. He glanced at the guests,
who continued to talk, their voices rising in their excitement. The
name "Silvanoshei" could be heard now, coming to them through
the starlit darkness. "Reasons that will become clear to you
someday, my friend. You must trust me."
"Very well, what do you recommend that I do about
Silvanoshei ?"
  "You will make him Speaker of the Stars."
  "What are you saying?" Konnal was thunderstruck. "This. . .
this son of dark elves. . . Speaker of the Stars. . ."
"Calm yourself, my dear friend," Glaucous admonished in
placating tones. "We will borrow a leaf out of the book of the
Qualinesti. Silvanoshei will rule in name only. You will remain
the general of the Wildrunners. You will retain control over all the
military. You will be the true ruler of Silvanesti. And in the in-
terim, Silvanesti will have a Speaker of the Stars. The people will
be joyful. Silvanoshei's ascension to the throne will put a stop to
the unrest that has developed of late. Once their goal is achieved,
the militant factions among our people-most notably the
kirath-will cease to cause trouble."
  "I cannot believe you are serious, Glaucous." Konnal was
shaking his head.
  "Never more serious in my life, dear friend. The people will
bring their cares and woes to the king now instead of you. You
will be free to accomplish the real work of ruling Silvanesti.
Someone must be proclaimed regent, of course. Silvanoshei is
young, very young for such a vast responsibility."
  " Ah!" Konnallooked quite knowing. "I begin to see what you
have in mind. I suppose that I-"
  He stopped. Glaucous was shaking his head.
  "You cannot be regent and general of the WIldrunners," he said.
  " And whom do you suggest?" Konnal asked.
  Glaucous bowed with graceful humility. "I offer myself. I will
undertake to counsel the young king. You have found my advice
useful from time to time, I believe."
  "But you have no qualifications!" Konnal protested. "You are
not of House Royal. You have not served in the Senate. Before this
you were a wizard serving in the Tower of Shalost," he stated
brusquely.
  "Oh, but you yourself will recommend me," said Glaucous,
resting his hand on Konnal's arm.
  " And what am I to say by way of recommendation?"
  "Only this-you will remind them that the Shield Tree grows
in the Garden of Astarin, a garden that I oversee. You will remind
them that I am the one who helped plant the Shield Tree. You will
remind them that I am the one currently responsible for keeping
the shield in place."
  " A threat?" Konnal glowered.
  Glaucous gazed long at the general, who began to feel un-
comfortable. "It is my fate never to be trusted," Glaucous said at
last. "To have my motives questioned. I accept that, a sacrifice I
make to serve my people."
  "I am sorry," Konnal said gruffly. "It's just that-"
  "Apology accepted. And now," Glaucous continued, "we
should make preparations to welcome the young king to Sil-
vanost. You will declare a national holiday. We will spare no ex-
pense. The people need something to celebrate. We will have that
minstrel who sang tonight sing something in honor of our new
Speaker. What a lovely voice she has."
  "Yes," Konnal agreed absently, abstracted. He was beginning
to think that this plan of Glaucous's wasn't a bad plan after all.
  " Ah, how very sad, my friend," Glaucous said, pointing to the
pond. "One of your swans is dying."

                    CHAPTER TWELVE
                   MARCHING ORDERS

The first day after the siege of Sanction, Mina tried to leave
her tent to go stand in line with the other soldiers waiting
for food. She was mobbed, surrounded by soldiers and
camp followers who wanted to touch her for luck or who wanted
her to touch them. The soldiers were respectful, awed in her
presence. Mina spoke to each one, always in the name of the
One, True God. But the press of men, women and children was
overwhelming. Seeing that Mina was about to drop from ex-
haustion, her Knights, led by Galdar, drove the people away.
Mina returned to her tent. Her Knights stood guard over her rest.
Galdar brought her food and drink.
  The next day, Mina held a formal audience. Galdar ordered
the soldiers to form ranks. She passed among them, speaking to
many by name, recalling their bravery in battle. They left her
presence dazzled, her name upon their lips.
  After the review, she visited the tents of the dark mystics. Her
Knights had spread the story of how Mina had restored Galdar's
arm. Miracles of healing such as this had once been common in
the Fourth Age, but not anymore.
The mystic healers of the Knights of Neraka, healers who had
stolen the means of healing from the Citadel of Light, had in years
past been able to perform healing miracles that rivaled those the
gods themselves had granted in the Fourth Age. But recently, the
healers had noticed that they were losing some of their mystical
powers. They could still heal, but even simple spells drained
them of energy to the point where they found themselves near
collapse.
  No one could explain this strange and dire occurrence. At
first, the healers blamed the mystics of the Citadel of Light,
saying that they had found a way to prevent the Knights of
Neraka from healing their soldiers. But they soon heard reports
from their spies within the Citadel that the mystics on Schallsea
and in other locations throughout Ansalon were encountering the
very same phenonmena. They, too, sought answers, but thus far,
in vain.
  Overwhelmed by the number of casualties, forced to conserve
their energy, the healers had aided Lord Milles and his staff first,
for the army needed its commanders. Even then, they could do
nothing for critical wounds. They could not restore hacked off
limbs, they could not stop internal bleeding, they could not mend
a cracked skull.
  The eyes of the wounded fixed on Mina the moment she en-
tered the healers' tent. Even those who had been blinded, whose
eyes were covered with bloody bandages, turned their sightless
gaze instinctively in her direction, as a plant languishing in
shadow seeks the sunlight.
  The healers continued their work, pretending not to notice
Mina's entry. One did pause, however, to look up. He seemed
about to order her out, then saw Galdar, who stood behind her
and who had placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
  "We are busy. What do you want?" the healer demanded
churlishly.
  "To help," Mina replied. Her amber-eyed gaze roved swiftly
about the tent. "What is that area back there? The place you have
screened off?"
  The healer cast a glance in that direction. Groans and moan-
ing sounds came from behind the blanket which had been hastily
strung up in the back end of the large hospital tent.
  "The dying," he said, cold, casual. "We can do nothing for them."
"You do not give them anything for the pain?" Mina asked.
  The healer shrugged. "They are of no more use to us. Our sup-
plies are limited and must go to help those who have a chance to
return to the battle."
  "You will not mind, then, if I give them my prayers?"
  The healer sniffed. "By all means, go 'pray' over them. I'm
sure they'll appreciate it."
  "I'm sure they wilL" she said gravely.
  She walked to the back of the tent, passing along the rows of
cots where lay the wounded. Many stretched out their hands to
her or called out her name, begging her to notice them. She
smiled upon them and promised to return. Reaching the blankets
behind which lay the dying, Mina reached out her hand, parted
the blankets and let them fall behind her.
Galdar took his place in front of the blankets, turned, hand on
his sword, to keep an eye on the healers. They made a fine show
of paying no attention, but they cast sidelong glances in the di-
rection of the blankets and then exchanged those glances with
each other.
  Galdar listened to what was happening behind him. He could
smell the stench of death. A look cast back through the curtain
showed him seven men and two women. Some lay on cots, but
others lay on the crude stretchers, which had been used to carry
them from the battle field. Their wounds were horrendous, at
least so Galdar perceived in that quick glance. Flesh cleaved
open, organs and bone exposed. Blood dripped on the floor,
forming gruesome pools. One man's intentestines spewed out of
him like a string of grotesque sausages. A woman Knight was
missing half her face, the eyeball dangling hideously from be-
neath a blood-soaked bandage.
  Mina came to the first of the dying, the woman who had lost
her face. Her one good eye was closed. Her breathing was la-
bored. She seemed to have already started on her long journey.
Mina rested her hand on the horrible wound.
  "I saw you fight in the battle, Durya," Mina said softly. "You
fought bravely, held your ground though those around you pan-
icked and retreated. You must stay your journey, Durya. The One
God has need of you."
  The woman breathed easier. Her mangled face moved slowly
toward Mina, who bent and kissed her.
Galdar heard murmuring behind him, turned back quickly.
The healer's tent had grown quiet. All had heard Mina's words.
The healers made no more pretense of working. Everyone was
watching, waiting.
  Galdar felt a hand touch him on the shoulder. Thinking it was
Mina, he turned. He saw instead the woman, Durya, who had
lain dying. Her face was covered with blood, she would always
bear a hideous scar, but the flesh was whole, the eye back in its
place. She walked, she smiled, she drew a tremulous breath.
  "Mina brought me back," Durya said, her tone awed, won-
dering. "She brought me back to serve her. And I will. I will serve
her all her days."
  Exalted, her face radiant, Durya left the tent. The wounded
cheered and began to chant, "Mina, Mina!" The healers started
after Durya in shocked disbelief.
  "What is she doing in there?" demanded one, seeking to enter.
  "Praying," Galdar said gruffly, blocking the way. "You gave
her permission, remember?"
  The healer glowered and swiftly departed. Galdar saw the
man hot-footing his way to Lord Milles's tent.
  "Yes, you tell Lord Milles what you've witnessed," Galdar ad-
vised the man silently, gleefully. "Tell him and add yet another
twist of the knife that rankles in his chest."
  Mina healed them all, healed everyone of the dying. She
healed a Talon commander who had taken a Solamnic spear in his
gut. She healed a foot soldier who had been trampled by the
slashing hooves of a battle horse. One by one, the dying rose from
their beds and walked out to cheers from the other wounded.
They thanked her and praised her, but Mina turned all their grat-
itude aside.
  "Offer your thanks and your loyalty to the One True God,"
she told them. "It is by the god's power that you are restored."
  Indeed, it seemed that she was given divine assistance, for
she did not grow weary or faint, no matter how many of the in-
jured she treated. And that was many. When she came from help-
ing the dying, she moved from one of the wounded to another,
laying her hands upon them, kissing them, praising their deeds
in battle.
  "The power of healing does not come from me," she told
them. "It comes from the God who has returned to care for you."
By midnight, the healer's tent was empty.
  Under orders from Lord Milles, the dark mystics kept close
watch on Mina, trying to figure out her secret so as to discredit
her, denounce her as a charlatan. They said that she must be re-
sorting to tricks or sleight-of-hand. They poked pins into limbs
she had restored, trying to prove they were illusion, only to see
real blood flow. They sent patients to her suffering from horrible
contagious diseases, patients the healers themselves feared to ap-
proach. Mina sat beside these sufferers, laid her hands upon their
open sores and oozing pustules and bid them be well in the name
of the One God.
  The grizzled veterans whispered that she was like the clerics
of old, who were given wondrous powers by the gods. Such cler-
ics, they said, had once been able to raise the dead. But that mir-
acle, Mina either would not or could not perform. The dead
received special attention from her, but she did not restore them
to life, though she was often begged to do so.
  "We are brought into this world to serve the One True God,"
Mina said. "As we serve the True God in this world, the dead do
important service in the next. It would be wrong to bring them
back."
  By her command, the soldiers had carried all the bodies from
the field-bodies of friend and foe alike-and arranged them in
long rows on the bloodstained grass. Mina knelt beside each
corpse, prayed over each no matter which side the person had
fought on, commended the spirit of each to the nameless god.
Then she ordered them to be buried in a mass grave.
  At Galdar's insistence, the third day after the siege Mina held
counsel with the Neraka Knights' commanders. They now in-
cluded almost all the officers who had formerly reported to Lord
Milles, and to a man these officers urged Mina to take up the siege
of Sanction, to lead them to what must be a resounding victory
over the Solamnics.
  Mina refused their entreaties.
  "Why?" Galdar demanded this morning, the morning of
the fifth day, when he and Mina were alone. He was frustrated
at her refusal. "Why will you not launch an attack? If you con-
quer Sanction, Lord Targonne will not be able to touch you! He
will be forced to recognize you as one of his most valued
Knights!"
Mina was seated at a large table she had ordered be brought
into her tent. Maps of Ansalon were spread out upon it. She had
studied the maps every day, moving her lips as she went over
them, speaking silently the names of the towns and cities and vil-
lages to herself, memorizing their locations. Ceasing her work,
she looked up at the minotaur.
  "What do you fear, Galdar?" she asked mildly.
  The minotaur scowled, the skin between his eyes, above his
snout, creased into folds. "My fear is for you, Mina. Those who
are deemed a threat to Targonne disappear from time to time. No
one is safe from him. Not even our former leader, Mirelle Abrena.
It was put about that she died after eating spoiled meat, but
everyone knows the truth."
  "And that truth is?" Mina asked in abstracted tones. She was
looking again at the map.
  "He had her poisoned, of course," Galdar returned. "Ask him
yourself if you ever chance to meet him. He will not deny it."
  Mina sighed. "Mirielle is fortunate. She is with her God.
Though the Vision she proclaimed was false, she now knows the
truth. She has been punished for her presumption and is now per-
forming great deeds in the name of the One who shall be name-
less. As for Targonne"-Mina lifted her gaze again-"he serves
the One True God in this world, and so he will be permitted to
remain for the time being."
  "Targonne?" Galdar gave a tremendous snort. "He serves a
god all right, the god of currency."
  Mina smiled a secret, inward smile. "I did not say that Tar-
gonne knows he is serving the One, Galdar. But serve he does.
That is why I will not attack Sanction. Others will fight that battle.
Sanction is not our concern. We are called to greater glory."
  "Greater glory?" Galdar was astonished. "You do not know
what you are saying, Mina! What could be greater than seizing
Sanction? Then the people would see that the Knights of Neraka
are once again a powerful force in this world!"
  Mina traced a line on the map with her finger, a line that came
to rest near the southern portion of the map. "What about the
conquering of the great elven kingdom of Silvanesti?"
  "Hah! Hah!" Galdar roared his laughter. "You have me
there, Mina. I concede. Yes, that would be a magnificent victory.
And it would be magnificent to see the moon drop out of the
sky and land on my breakfast plate, which is just about as likely
to happen."
  "You will see, Galdar," Mina said quietly. "Bring me word the
moment the messenger arrives. Oh, and Galdar . . ."
  "Yes, Mina?" The minotaur had turned to go.
  "Take care," she said to him, her amber eyes piercing him
through, as if they had been sharpened to arrow points. "Your
mockery offends the God. Do not make that mistake again."
Galdar felt a throbbing pain in his sword arm. The fingers
went numb.
  "Yes, Mina," he mumbled. Massaging the arm, he ducked out
of the tent, leaving Mina to study her map.
  Galdar calculated it would take two days for one of Lord
Milles's flunkies to ride to the Knights' headquarters in Jelek, a
day to report to Lord of the Night Targonne, two days to ride
back. They should hear something today. After he left Mina's tent,
the minotaur roamed about the outskirts of camp, watching the
road for riders.
  He was not alone. Captain Samuval and his Archer Com-
pany were there, as well as many of the soldiers of Milles's
command. They stood with weapons ready. They had sworn
among themselves that they would stop anyone who tried to
take Mina from them.
  All eyes were on the road. The pickets who were supposed
to be watching Sanction kept looking behind them, instead of
ahead at the besieged city. Lord Milles, who had made one ex-
perimental foray out of his tent following the siege and who
had been harried back inside by a barrage of horse turds, cat-
calls and jeers, parted the tent flaps to glare impatiently up that
road, never doubting but that Targonne would come to his
commander's aide by sending troops to help him put down the
mutiny.
  The only eyes in camp who did not turn. to the road were
Mina's. She remained in her tent, absorbed in studying her
maps.
  "And that is the reason she gave for not attacking Sanction?
That we are going to attack Silvanesti?" Captain Samuval said to
Galdar as the two stood in the road, awaiting the arrival of the
messenger. The captain frowned. "What nonsense! You don't
suppose she could be afraid, do you?"
Galdar glowered. Placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, he
drew it halfway from its sheath. "1 should cut out your tongue for
saying such a thing! You saw her ride alone into the front ranks of
the enemy! Where was her fear then?"
  "Peace, Minotaur," Samuval said. "Put away your sword. I
meant no disrespect. You know as well as I that when the blood
burns hot in battle, a man thinks himself invincible and he does
deeds he would never dream of doing in cold blood. It is only
natural she should be a little frightened now that she has taken
a good long look at the situation and realized the enormity of
the task."
  "There is no fear in her," Galdar growled, sheathing his
blade. "How can there be fear in one who speaks of death with a
wistful, impatient look in her eyes, as if she would rush to em-
brace it if she could and is constrained to continue living against
her will."
  "A man may fear many things besides death," Samuval
argued. "Failure, for one. Perhaps she fears that if she leads these
worshipers of hers into battle and fails, they will turn against her
as they did against Lord Milles."
  Galdar twisted his horned head, looked back over his shoul~
der, back to where Mina's tent stood by itself upon a small rise,
the bloody standard hanging before it. The tent was surrounded
by people standing silent vigil, waiting, watching, hoping to
catch a glimpse of her or hear her voice.
  "Would you leave her now, Captain?" Galdar asked.
  Captain Samuval followed the minotaur's gaze. "No, I
would not," he said at last. "I don't know why. Perhaps she ha~
bewitched me."
  "I'll tell you why," Galdar said. "It's because she offers us
something to believe in. Something besides ourselves. I mocked
that something just now," he added humbly, rubbing his arm,
which still tingled unpleasantly. "And I am sorry I did so."
  A trumpet call rang out. The pickets placed at the entrance to
the valley were letting those in camp know that the expected mes-
senger approached. Every person in camp stopped what they
were doing and looked up, ears pricked to hear, necks craned to
see. A large crowd blocked the road. They parted to let the mes-
senger on his steaming horse gallop past. Galdar hastened to take
the news to Mina.
Lord Milles emerged from his command tent at precisely the
same moment Mina left hers. Confident that the messenger was
here to bring word of Targonne's anger and the promise of a force
of armed Knights to seize and execute the imposter, Lord Milles
glared triumphantly at Mina. He felt certain that her downfall
was imminent.
  She did not so much as glance at him. She stood outside her
tent, awaiting developments with calm detachment, as if she al-
ready knew the outcome.
  The messenger slid down from his horse. He looked in some
astonishment at the crowd of people gathered around Mina's
tent, was alarmed to see them regarding him with a baleful and
threatening air. The messenger kept glancing backward at them
over his shoulder as he went to deliver a scroll case to Lord
Milles. Mina's followers did not take their eyes from him, nor did
they take their hands from the hilts of their swords.
  Lord Milles snatched the scroll case from the messenger's
hand. So certain was he of its contents that he did not bother to
retreat to the privacy of his tent to read it. He opened the plain
and unadorned leather-bound case, removed the scroll, broke the
seal and unfurled it with a snap. He had even filled his lungs to
make the announcement that would cause the upstart female to
be arrested.
  The breath whistled from him as from a deflated pig's bladder.
His complexion went sallow, then livid. Sweat beaded his fore-
head, his tongue passed several times over his lips. He crumpled
the missive in his hand and, stumbling as one blind, he fumbled
at the tent flaps, trying vainly to open them. An aide stepped for-
ward. Lord Milles shoved the man aside with a savage snarl and
entered the tent, closing the flaps behind him and tying them shut.
The messenger turned to face the crowd.
  "I seek a Talon leader named 'Mina,' " he said, his voice loud
and carrying.
  "What is your business with her?" roared a gigantic minotaur,
who stepped out of the crowd and confronted the messenger.
  "I bear orders for her from Lord of the Night Targonne," the
messenger replied.
  "Let him come forward," called Mina.
  The minotaur acted as escort. The crowd that had barred the mes-
senger's way cleared a path leading from Lord Milles's tent to Mina's. 
The messenger walked along the path that was bounded by
soldiers, all keeping their weapons to hand, regarding him with
not very friendly looks. He kept his gaze forward, though that
was not very comfortable for him since he stared squarely at the
back, shoulders, and bull neck of the enormous minotaur. The
messenger continued on his way, mindful of his duty.
  "I am sent to find a knight officer called 'Mina," the messenger
repeated laying emphasis on the words. He stared at the young
girl who confronted him in some confusion. "You are nothing but
a child!"
"A child of battle. A child of war. A child of death. I am Mina,"
said the girl, and there was no doubting her air of authority, the
calm consciousness of command.
  The messenger bowed and handed over a second scroll case.
This one was bound in elegant black leather, the seal of a skull
and lily graven upon it in silver. Mina opened the case and drew
forth the scroll. The crowd hushed, seemed to have stopped
breathing. The messenger looked about, his astonishment grow-
ing. He would later report to Targonne that he felt as if he were in
a temple, not a military camp.
  Mina read the missive, her face expressionless. When she fin-
ished, she handed it to Galdar. He read it. His jaw dropped so that
his sharp teeth glistened in the sun, his tongue lolled. He read
and reread the message, turned his amazed gaze upon Mina.
  "Forgive me, Mina," he said softly, handing the piece of
parchment back to her.
  "Do not ask my forgiveness, Galdar," she said. "I am not the
one you doubted."
  "What does the message say, Galdar?" Captain Samuval de-
manded impatiently, and his question was echoed by the crowd.
  Mina raised her hand and the soldiers obeyed her unspoken
command instantly. The templelike hush fell over them again.
  "My orders are to march south, invade, seize, and hold the
elven land of Silvanesti."
  A low and angry rumble, like the rumble of thunder from an
approaching storm, sounded in the throats of the soldiers.
"No!" several shouted, incensed. "They can't do this! Come
with us, Mina! To the Abyss with Targonne! We'll march on Jelek!
Yes, that's what we'll do! We'll march on Jelek!"
  "Hear me!" Mina shouted above the clamor. "These orders do
not come from General Targonne! His is but the hand that writes
them. The orders come from the One God. It is our God's will that
we attack Silvanesti in or.cier to prove the God's return to all the
world. We will march on Silvanesti!" Mina's voice raised in a stir-
ring cry. "And we will be victorious!"
  "Hurrah!" The soldiers cheered and began to chant, "Mina!
Mina! Mina!"
  The messenger stared about him in dazed astoundment. The
entire camp, a thousand voices, were chanting this girl's name.
The chant echoed off the mountains and thundered to the heav-
ens. The chant was heard in the town of Sanction, whose resi-
dents trembled and whose Knights grimly gripped their
weapons, thinking this portended some terrible doom for their
besieged city.
  A horrible, bubbling cry rose above the chanting, halting some
of it, though those on the outskirts of the crowd continued on, un-
hearing. The cry came from the tent of Lord Milles. So awful was
that cry that those standing near the tent backed away, regarded
it in alarm.
  "Go and see what has happened," Mina ordered.
  Galdar did as commanded. The messenger accompanied him,
knowing that Targonne would be interested in the outcome. Draw-
ing his sword, Galdar sliced through the leather strings that held
the flap shut. He went inside and came back out a instant later.
  "His lordship is dead," he reported, "by his own hand."
  The soldiers began to cheer again, and many jeered and
laughed.
  Mina rounded upon those near her in anger that lit the amber
eyes with a pale fire. The soldiers ceased their cheering, quailed
before her. Mina said no word but walked past them, her chin set,
her back rigid. She came to the entrance of the tent.
  "Mina," said Galdar, holding up the bloodstained message.
"This wretch tried to have you hanged. The proof is here in Tar-
gonne's response."
  "Lord Milles stands before the One God, now, Galdar,"
Mina said, "where we will all stand one day. It is not for us to
judge him."
  She took the bloody bit of paper, tucked it into her belt, and
walked inside the tent. When Galdar started to go with her, she
ordered him away, closed the tent flaps behind her.
Galdar put an eye to the flap. Shaking his head, he turned and
mounted guard upon the entrance.
  "Go about your business," the minotaur commanded the sol-
diers who were milling about in front of the tent. "There's work
to be done if we're marching to Silvanesti."
  "What is she doing in there?" asked the messenger.
  "Praying," Galdar said shortly.
  "Praying!" the messenger repeated to himself in wonder.
Mounting his horse, he rode off, anxious not to lose a moment in
reporting the day's astonishing events to the Lord of the Night.
  "So what happened?" Captain Samuval asked, coming to
stand next to Galdar.
  "To Milles?" Galdar grunted. "He fell on his sword." He
handed over the message. "1 found this in his hand. As we guessed
he would, he sent a pack of lies to Targonne, all about how Mina
nearly lost the battle and Milles saved it. Targonne may be a mur-
dering, conniving bastard, but he's not stupid." GaIdar spoke with
grudging admiration. "He saw through Milles's lies and ordered
him to report word of his 'victory' directly to the great dragon
Malystrx."
  "No wonder he chose this way out," SamuvaI commented. "But
why send Mina south to Silvanesti? What happens to Sanction?"
  "Targonne has ordered General Dogah to leave Khur. He will
take over the siege of Sanction. As I said, Targonne's not stupid.
He knows that Mina and her talk of One True God is a threat to
him and the phony 'Visions' he's been handing out. But he also
knows that he will start a rebellion among the troops if he tries to
have her arrested. The great dragon Malystrx has long been an-
noyed by Silvanesti and the fact that the elves have found a way
to thwart her by hiding beneath their magical shield. Targonne
can placate Malystrx on the one hand by telling her he has sent a
force to attack Silvanesti, and he can rid himself of a dangerous
threat to his authority at the same time."
  "Does Mina know that in order to reach Silvanesti we must
march through Blode?" Captain Samuval demanded. "A realm
held by the ogres? They are already angry that we have taken
some of their land. They will resent any further incursion into
their territory." Samuval shook his head. "This is suicidal! We will
never even see Silvanesti. We must try to talk her out of this act of
folly, Galdar."
"It is not my place to question her," said the minotaur. "She
knew we were going to Silvanost this morning before the
messenger arrived. Remember, Captain? I told you of it myself."
  "Did you?" Captain Samuval mused. "In all the excitement I
had forgotten. I wonder how she found out?"
  Mina emerged from Milles's tent. She was very pale.
  "His crimes have been forgiven. His soul has been accepted."
She sighed, glanced about appeared disappointed to find herself
back among mortals. "How I envy him!"
  "Mina, what are your orders?" Galdar asked.
Mina looked at him without recognition for a moment the
amber still seeing wondrous sights not given to other mortals.
Then she smiled bleakly, sighed again, and came back to her
surroundings.
  "Assemble the troops. Captain SamuvaL you will address
them. You will tell them truthfully that the assignment is danger-
ous one. Some might say 'suicidal.' " She smiled at Samuval. "I
will order no man to make this march. Any who come do so of
their own free will."
  "They will all come, Mina," said Galdar softly.
  Mina gazed at him, her eyes luminous, radiant. "If that be
true, then the force will be too large, too unwieldy. We must move
fast and we must keep our movement secret. My own Knights
will accompany me, of course. You will select five hundred of the
best of the foot soldiers, Galdar. The remainder will stay behind
with my blessing. They must continue to besiege Sanction."
Galdar blinked. "But Mina, didn't you hear? Targonne has
given orders that General Dogah is to take over the siege of
Sanction."
  Mina smiled. "General Dogah will receive new orders telling
him that he is to turn his forces south and march with all possible
haste upon Silvanesti."
  "But. . . where will these orders come from?" Galdar asked,
gaping. "Not Targonne. He is ordering us to Silvanesti simply to
get rid of us, Mina!"
  "As I told you, Galdar, Targonne acts for the One God,
whether he knows it or not." Mina reached into her belt where
she had tucked the orders Milles had received from Targonne.
She held the parchment to the sunlight. Targonne's name loomed
large and black at the bottom, his seal gleamed red. Mina pointed
"It is not my place to question her," said the minotaur. "She
knew we were going to Silvanost this morning before the
messenger arrived. Remember, Captain? I told you of it myself."
  "Did you?" Captain Samuval mused. "In all the excitement I
had forgotten. I wonder how she found out?"
  Mina emerged from Milles's tent. She was very pale.
  "His crimes have been forgiven. His soul has been accepted."
She sighed, glanced about appeared disappointed to find herself
back among mortals. "How I envy him!"
  "Mina, what are your orders?" Galdar asked.
Mina looked at him without recognition for a moment the
amber still seeing wondrous sights not given to other mortals.
Then she smiled bleakly, sighed again, and came back to her
surroundings.
  "Assemble the troops. Captain SamuvaL you will address
them. You will tell them truthfully that the assignment is danger-
ous one. Some might say 'suicidal.' " She smiled at Samuval. "I
will order no man to make this march. Any who come do so of
their own free will."
  "They will all come, Mina," said Galdar softly.
  Mina gazed at him, her eyes luminous, radiant. "If that be
true, then the force will be too large, too unwieldy. We must move
fast and we must keep our movement secret. My own Knights
will accompany me, of course. You will select five hundred of the
best of the foot soldiers, Galdar. The remainder will stay behind
with my blessing. They must continue to besiege Sanction."
Galdar blinked. "But Mina, didn't you hear? Targonne has
given orders that General Dogah is to take over the siege of
Sanction."
  Mina smiled. "General Dogah will receive new orders telling
him that he is to turn his forces south and march with all possible
haste upon Silvanesti."
  "But. . . where will these orders come from?" Galdar asked,
gaping. "Not Targonne. He is ordering us to Silvanesti simply to
get rid of us, Mina!"
  "As I told you, Galdar, Targonne acts for the One God,
whether he knows it or not." Mina reached into her belt where
she had tucked the orders Milles had received from Targonne.
She held the parchment to the sunlight. Targonne's name loomed
large and black at the bottom, his seal gleamed red. Mina pointed
"You will meet us here," she said, indicating a place on the
map marked with a pebble. "I calculate that it will take you two
days to meet up with General Dogah and another three days to
rejoin us. The One God speed you, Galdar."
  "The One God be with you until we meet again, Mina," said
Galdar.
  He meant to leave. He could yet cover many miles before
daylight waned. But he found the leaving difficult. He could
not imagine a day going by without seeing her amber eyes,
hearing her voice. He felt as bereft as if he were suddenly shorn
of all his fur, left in the world shivering and weak as a new-
born calf.
  Mina laid her hand upon his, upon the hand she had given
him. "I will be with you wherever you go, Galdar," she said.
  He fell to one knee, pressed her hand to his forehead. Keeping
the memory of her touch an amulet in his mind, he turned and
ran from the tent.
  Captain Samuval entered next, coming to report that, as he
had foreseen, every single soldier in the camp had volunteered to
come. He had chosen the five hundred he considered the best.
These soldiers were now the envy of the rest.
  "I fear that those left behind may desert to follow you, Mina,"
Captain Samuval said.
  "I will speak to them," she said. "I will explain to them that
they must continue to hold Sanction without any expectation of
reinforcements. I will explain to them how it can be done. They
will see their duty."
  She continued to put the small stones upon the map.
  "What is that?" Samuval asked curiously.
  "The location of the ogre forces," Mina replied. "Look, Cap-
tain, if we march this way, directly east out of the Khalkist Moun-
tains, we can make much better time heading southward across
the Plains of Khur. We will avoid the largest concentration of their
troops, which are down here in the southern end of the mountain
range, fighting the Legion of Steel and the forces of the elf-witch,
Alhana Starbreeze. We will attempt to steal a march on them by
traveling along this route, the Thon- Thalas River. I fear that at
some point we must fight the ogres, but if my plan works, we will
fight only a diminished force. With the God's blessing, most of us
will reach our destination."
And what happened when that destination was reached?
How did she intend to break through a magical shield that had
thus far baffled all attempts to enter it? Samuval did not ask her.
Nor did he ask how she knew the position of the ogre forces or
how she knew they were fighting the Legion of Steel and the
dark elves. The Knights of Neraka had sent scouts into ogre
lands but none had ever returned alive to tell what they saw.
Captain Samuval did not ask Mina how she intended to hold Sil-
vanesti with such a small force, a force that would be decimated
by the time they reached their destination. Samuval asked her
none of this.
  He had faith. If not necessarily in this One God, he had faith
in Mina.

                     CHAPTER THIRTEEN
                  THE SCOURGE OF ANSALON

  The odd occurrence that befell Tasslehoff Burrfoot on the
fifth night of his journey to Qualinesti in the custody of Sir
Gerard can best be explained by the fact that although the
days had been sunny and warm and fine for traveling, the nights
had been cloudy and overcast, with a drizzly rain. Up until this
night. This night the sky was clear, the air was soft and warm and
alive with the sounds of the forest, crickets and owls and the oc-
casional wolf howling.
  Far north, near Sanction, the minotaur Galdar ran along the
road that led to Khur. Far south, in Silvanesti, Silvanoshei entered
Silvanost as he had planned, in triumph and with fanfare. The
entire population of Silvanost came out to welcome him and stare
at him and marvel over him. Silvanoshei was shocked and trou-
bled by how few elves remained in the city. He said nothing to
anyone however and was greeted with appropriate ceremony by
General Konnal and a white-robed elven wizard whose charming
manners endeared him to Silvanoshei at once.
  While Silvanoshei dined on elven delicaces off plates of gold
and drank sparkling wine from goblets of crystal, and while
Galdar munched on dried peas as he marched, Tas and Gerard ate
their customary boring and tasteless meal of flatbread and dried
beef washed down with nothing more interesting than plain, or-
dinary water. They had ridden south as far as Gateway, where
they passed several inns, whose innkeepers were standing in the
doors with pinched faces. These innkeepers would have barred
the door against a kender before the roads were closed by the
dragon. Now they had come running out to offer them lodging
and a meal for the unheard-of price of a single steel.
  Sir Gerard had paid no attention to them. He had ridden past
without a glance. Tasslehoff had sighed deeply and looked back
longingly at the inns dwindling in the distance. When he had
hinted that a mug of cold ale and a plate of hot food would be a
welcome change, Gerard had said no, the less attention they
called to themselves the better for all concerned.
  So they continued on south, traveling along a new road that
ran near the river, a road Gerard said had been built by the
Knights of Neraka to maintain their supply lines into Qualinesti.
Tas wondered at the time why the Knights of Neraka were in-
terested in supplying the elves of Qualinesti, but he assumed
that this must be some new project the elven king Gilthas had
instituted.
  Tas and Gerard had slept outdoors in a drizzling rain for the
last four nights. This fifth night was fine. As usual, sleep
sneaked up on the kender before he was quite ready for it. He
woke up in the night, jolted from his slumbers by a light shining
in his eyes.
  "Hey! What's that?" he demanded in a loud voice. Throwing
off his blanket, he leaped to his feet and grabbed Gerard by the
shoulder, shaking him and pummeling him.
  "Sir Gerard! Wake up!" Tasslehoff shouted. "Sir Gerard!"
  The Knight was up and awake in an instant, his sword in his
hand. "What?" He stared around, alert for danger. "What is it?
Did you hear something? See something? What?"
  "That! That right there!" Tasslehoff clutched the Knight's shirt
and pointed.
  Sir Gerard regarded the kender with an extremely grim look.
"Is this your idea of a joke?"
  "Oh, no," Tas stated. "My idea of a joke is this. I say, 'Knock,
knock,' and you say, 'Who's there?' and I say, 'Minotaur,' and you
say 'Minotaur who,' and I say, 'so that's what you stepped in.'
That's my idea of a joke. This has to do with that strange light in
the sky."
  "That's the moon," said Sir Gerard through gritted teeth.
  "No!" Tasslehoff was astonished. "Really? The moon?"
  He looked back at it. The thing did appear to have certain
moonlike qualities: it was orb-shaped, and it was in the sky
alongside the stars, and it glowed. But that was where the resem-
blance ended.
  "If that's Solinari," Tas said, eyeing the moon skeptically.
"Then what happened to him? Is he sick?"
  Sir Gerard did not answer. He lay back down on his blanket,
placed his sword within hand's reach, and, grabbing hold of a
comer of his blanket rolled himself up in it. "Go to sleep," he said
coldly, "and stay that way until moming."
  "But I want to know about the moon!" Tas persisted, hun-
kering down beside the Knight nothing daunted by the fact that
Gerard's back was turned and his head covered up by the blan-
ket and that he was still obviously extremely irate at having
been violently wakened for nothing. Even his back looked
angry. "What happened to make Solinari look so pale and
sickly? And where's lovely red Lunitari? I guess I'd wonder
where Nuitari was if I'd been able to see the black moon in the
first place, which I couldn't, so it might be there and I just
wouldn't know it-"
  Sir Gerard flipped over quite suddenly. His head emerged
from the bl~nket, revealing a stem and unfriendly eye. "You
know perfectly well that Solinari has not been seen in the skies
these past thirty-odd years, ever since the end of the Chaos War.
Lunitari either. So you can stop this ridiculous nonsense. I am
now going to sleep. I am to be awakened for nothing less than an
invasion of hobgoblins. Is that clear?"
  "But the moon!" Tas argued. "I remember when I came to
Caramon's first funeral Solinari shown so very brightly that it
was like day only it was night. Palin said this was Solinari's way
of honoring his father and-"
  Gerard flipped over again and covered his head.
  Tas continued talking ootil he heard the Knight start to snore.
Tas gave the Knight an experimental poke. in the shoulder, to no
avail. The kender thought that he might try prying open one of
Gerard's eyelids to see if he was really asleep or just shamming,
a trick which had never been known to fail with Flint, although it
usually ended with the irate dwarf chasing the kender around the
room with the poker.
  Tas had other things to think about, however, and so he left
the Knight alone and returned to his own blanket. Lying down,
he put his hands beneath his head and gazed at the strange moon,
which gazed back at him without the slightest hint of recognition.
This gave Tas an idea. Abandoning the moon, he shifted his gaze
to the stars, searched for his favorite constellations.
  They were gone, as well. The stars he looked at now were cold
and distant and unfamiliar. The only understanding star in the
night sky was a single red star burning brightly not far from the
strange moon. The star had a warm and comforting glow about
it, which made up for the empty cold feeling in the pit of Tas's
stomach, a feeling he had once thought, when he was a young
kender, meant he needed something to eat but that he now knew,
after years of adventuring, was his inside's way of telling him
that something was wrong. In fact, he'd felt pretty much this
same way just about the time the giant's foot had been poised
over his head.
  Tas kept his gaze on the red star, and after awhile the cold,
empty feeling didn't hurt so much anymore. Just when he was
feeling more comfortable and had put the thoughts of the strange
moon and the unfriendly stars and the looming giant out of his
mind, and just when he was starting to enjoy the night, sleep
crept up and nabbed him again.

  The kender wanted to discuss the moon the next day, and dis-
cuss it he did, but only with himself. Sir Gerard never responded
to any of Tasslehoff's innumerable questions, never turned
around, just rode along at a slow pace, the reins of Tas's pony in
his hands.
  The Knight rode in silence, though he was watchful and
alert, constantly scanning the horizon. The entire world seemed
to be riding in silence today, as well, once Tasslehoff quit talk-
ing, which he did after a couple of hours. It wasn't so much that
he was bored with talking to himself, it was the answering him-
self that grew old fast. They met no one on the road, and now
even the sounds of other living creatures came to an end. No
bird sang. No squirrel scampered across the path. No deer
walked among the shadows or ran from them, white tail flash-
ing an alarm.
  "Where are the animals?" Tas asked Gerard.
  "They are in hiding," the Knight answered, the first words
he'd spoken all morning. "They are afraid."
The air was hushed and still, as if the world held its breath,
fearful of being heard. Not even the trees rustled and Tas had the
feeling that if they had been able to make the choice, they would
have dragged their roots out of the ground and run away.
  "What are they afraid of?" Tasslehoff asked with interest,
looking around in excitement, hoping for a haunted castle or a
crumbling manor or, at the very least, a spooky cave.
  "They fear the great green dragon. Beryl. We are in the West
Plains now. We have crossed over into her realm."
  "You keep talking about this green dragon. I've never heard
of her. The only green dragon I knew was na~ed Cyan Blood-
bane. Who is Beryl? Where did she come from?"
  "Who knows?" Gerard said impatiently. "From across the sea,
I suppose, along with the great red dragon Malystryx and others
of their foul kind."
  "Well, if she isn't from around these parts, why doesn't some
hero just go stick a lance into her?" Tas asked cheerfully.
Gerard halted his horse. He tugged on the reins of Tasslehoff's
pony, who had been trudging behind, her head down, every bit
as bored as the kender. She came plodding up level with the
black, shaking her mane and eyeing a patch of grass hopefully.
  "Keep your voice down!" Gerard said in a low voice. He
looked as grim and stern as the kender had ever seen him.
"Beryl's spies are everywhere, though we do not see them. Noth-
ing moves in her realm but she is aware of it. Nothing moves here
without her permission. We crossed into her realm an hour ago,"
he added. "1 will be very surprised if someone doesn't come to
take a look at us- Ah, there. What did I tell you?"
  He had shifted in his saddle, to gaze intently to the east. A
large speck of black in the sky was growing steadily larger and
larger and larger with every passing moment. As Tas watched, he
saw the speck develop wings and a long tail, saw a massive
body--a massive green body.
  Tasslehoff had seen dragons before, he'd ridden dragons
before, he'd fought dragons before. But he had never seen or
hoped to see a dragon this immense. Her tail seemed as long as
the road they traveled; her teeth, set in slavering jaws, could have
served as the high, crenellated walls of a formidable fortress. Her
wicked red eyes burned with a hotter fire than the sun and
seemed to illuminate all they looked upon with a glaring light.
  "As you have any regard for your life or mine, kender,"
Gerard said in a fierce whisper, "do or say nothing!"
  The dragon flew directly over them, her head swiveling to
study them from all angles. The dragonfear slid over them like
the dragon's shadow, blotting out the sunshine, blotting out
reason and hope and sanity. The pony shook and whimpered.
The black whinnied in terror and kicked and plunged. Gerard
clung to the bucking horse's back, unable to calm the animal, prey
to the same fear himself. Tasslehoff stared upward in open-
mouthed astonishment. He felt a most unpleasant sensation come
over him, a stomach-shriveling, spine-watering, knee-buckling,
hand-sweating sort of feeling. As feelings went, he didn't much
like it. For making a person miserable, it ranked right up there
with a bad, sniffly cold in the head.
  Beryl circled them twice and, seeing nothing more interesting
than one of her own Knight allies with a kender prisoner in tow,
she left them alone, flying lazily and unhurriedly back to her lair,
her sharp eyes taking note of everything that moved upon her
ground.
  Gerard slid off his horse. He stood next to the shivering
animal, leaned his head against its heaving flanks. He was ex-
ceedingly pale and sweating, a tremor shook his body. He opened
and shut his mouth several times and at one point looked as if he
might be sick, but he recovered himself. At length his breathing
evened out.
  "I have shamed myself," he said. "I did not know I could
experience fear like that."
  "I wasn't afraid," Tas announced in voice that seemed to
have developed the same shakiness as his body. "I wasn't afraid
one bit."
  "If you had any sense, you would have been," Gerard said
dourly.
  "It's just that while I've seen some hideous dragons in my
time I've never seen one quite that. . ."
Tasslehoff's words shriveled under Gerard's baleful stare.
  "That. . . imposing," the kender said loudly, just in case any
of the dragon's spies were listening. "lmposing," he whispered to
Gerard. "That's a sort of compliment, isn't it?"
  The Knight did not reply. Having calmed himself and his
horse, he retrieved the reins to Tasslehoff's pony and, holding
them in his hand, remounted the black. He did not set off imme-
diately, but continued to sit some time in the middle of the road,
gazing out to the west.
  "I had never seen one of the great dragons before," he said
qurietly. "1 did not think it would be that bad."
  He sat quite still for several more moments, then, with a set
jaw and pale face, he rode forward.
  Tasslehoff followed along behind because he couldn't do any-
thing else except follow along behind, what with the Knight hold-
ing onto the pony's reins.
  "Was that the same dragon who killed all the kender?" Tassle-
hoff asked in a small voice.
  "No," Gerard replied. "That was an even bigger dragon. A red
dragon named Malys."
  "Oh," said Tas. "Oh, my."
  An even bigger dragon. He couldn't imagine it, and he very
nearly said that he would like to see an even bigger dragon when
it came to him quite forcibly that, in all honesty, he wouldn't.
  "What is the matter with me?" Tasslehoff wailed in dismay. "I
must be coming down with something. I'm not curious! I don't
want to see a red dragon that might be bigger than Palanthas. This
is just not like me."
  Which led to an astounding thought, a thought so astounding
Tas almost tumbled off the pony.
  "Maybe I'm not me!"
  Tasslehoff considered this. After all, no one else believed he
was him except Caramon, and he was pretty old and almost dead
at the time so perhaps he didn't count. Laura had said that she
thought Tasslehoff was Tasslehoff but she was probably only
being polite, so he couldn't count on that either. Sir Gerard had
said that he couldn't possibly be Tasslehoff Burrfoot and Lord
Warren had said the same thing, and they were Solamnic Knights,
which meant that they were smart and most likely knew what
they were talking about.
"That would explain everything," said Tasslehoff to himselt
growing cheerier the more he thought about it. "That would ex-
plain why nothing that happened to me the first time I went to
Caramon's funeral happened the second time, because it wasn't
me it was happening to. It was someone else entirely. But if that's
the case," he added, b~coming rather muddled, "if I'm not me, I
wonder who I am?"
  He pondered on this for a good half-mile.
  "One thing is certain," he said. "I can't keep calling myself
Tasslehoff Burrfoot. If I meet the real one, he would be highly an-
noyed that I'd taken his name. Just the way I felt when I found
out that there were thirty-seven other Tasslehoff Burrfoots in
Solace-thirty-nine counting the dogs. I suppose I'll have to give
him back the Device of Time Journeying, too. I wonder how I
came to have it? Ah, of course. He must have dropped it."
  Tas kicked his pony in the flanks. The pony perked up and
trotted forward until Tas had caught up with the knight.
  "Excuse me, Sir Gerard," Tas said.
  The Knight glanced at him and frowned. "What?" he asked
coldly.
  "I just wanted to tell you that I made a mistake," Tas said
meekly. "I'm not the person I said was."
  "Ah, now there's a surprise!" Gerard grunted. "You mean
you're not Tasslehoff Burrfoot, who's been dead for over thirty
years?"
  "I thought I was," Tas said wistfully. He found the notion
more difficult to give up than he'd imagined. "But I can't be.
You see, Tasslehoff Burrfoot was a hero. He wasn't afraid of any-
thing; And I don't think he would have felt all strange the way
I felt when that dragon flew over us. But I know what's wrong
with me."
  He waited for the Knight to ask politely but the Knight didn't.
Tas volunteered the information.
  "I have magnesia," he said solemnly.
  This time Gerard said, "What?" only he didn't say it very
politely.
  Tas put his hand to his forehead, to see if he could feel it.
"Magnesia. I'm not sure how a person gets magnesia. I think it
has something to do with milk. But I remember that Raistlin
said he knew someone with it once and that person couldn't
remember who he was or why he was or where he'd left his
spectacles or anything. So I must have magnesia, because that's
my situation entirely."
  This solved, Tasslehoff-or rather, the kender who used to
think he was Tasslehoff-felt extremely proud to know he had
come down with something so important.
  "Of course," he added with a sigh, "a lot of people like you
who expect me to be Tasslehoff are going to be in for a sad disap-
pointment when they find out I'm not. But they'll just have to
come to grips with it."
  "I'll try to bear up," Gerard said dryly. "Now why don't you
think really hard and see if you can 'remember' the truth about
who you are."
  "I wouldn't mind remembering the truth," Tas said. "I have
the feeling that the truth doesn't want to remember me."
The two rode on in silence through a silent world until at last,
to Tasslehoff's relief, he heard a sound, the sound of water, angry
water of a river that foamed and seethed as if it resented being
held prisoner within its rocky banks. Humans named the river
the White-rage River. It marked the northern border of the elven
land of Qualinesti.
  Gerard slowed his horse. Rounding a bend in the road, they
came within sight of the river, a broad expanse of white foaming
water falling over and around glistening black rocks.
  They had arrived at the end of the day. The forest was shad-
owed with the coming of darkness. The river held the light still,
the water shining in the afterglow, and by that light they could
see in the distance a narrow bridge spanning the river. The bridge
was guarded by a lowered gate and guards wearing the same
black armor as Gerard.
  "Those are Dark Knights," said Tasslehoff in astonishment.
  "Keep your voice down!" Gerard ordered sternly. Dismount-
ing, he removed the gag from his belt and approached the kender.
"Remember, the only way we're going to be able to see your al-
leged friend Palin Majere is if they let us past."
  "But why are there Dark Knights here in Qualinesti?" Tas asked,
talking quickly before Gerard had time to put the gag in place.
  "The dragon Beryl rules the realm. These Knights are her
overseers. They enforce her laws, collect the taxes and the tribute
the elves pay to stay alive."
"Oh, no," said Tas, shaking his head. "There must be some
mistake. The Dark Knights were driven out by the combined
forces of Porthios and Gilthas in the year- VIp!"
Gerard stuffed the gag in the kender's mouth, fastened it se-
curely in a knot at the back of his head. "Keep saying things like
that and I won't have to gag you. Everyone will just think you're
crazy."
  "If you'd tell me what has happened," Tas said, pulling the
gag from his mouth and peering around at Gerard, "then I
wouldn't have to ask questions."
  Gerard, exasperated, put the gag back in place. "Very well,"
he said crossly. "The Knights of Neraka took Qualinesti during
the Chaos War and they have never relinquished their hold on it,"
he said as he tied the knot. "They were prepared to go to war
against the dragon, when she demanded that they cede the land
to her. Beryl was clever enough to realize that she didn't need to
fight. The Knights could be of use to her. She formed an alliance
with them. The elves pay tribute, the Knights collect it and turn
over a percentage-a large percentage--to the dragon. The
Knights keep the rest. They prosper. The dragon prospers. It's the
elves who are out of luck."
  "I guess that must have happened when I had magnesia," Tas
said, tugging one comer of the gag loose.
  Gerard fastened the knot even tighter and added, irritably,
"The word is 'amnesia,' damn it. And just keep quiet!"
  He remounted his horse, and the two rode toward the gate.
The guards were alert and had probably been on the watch for
them, warned of their coming by the dragon, for they did not
appear surprised to see the two emerge from the shadows.
Knights armed with halberds stood guard at the gate, but it was
an elf, clad all in green cloth and glittering chain mail, who
walked up to question them. He was followed by an officer of the
Knights of Neraka, who stood behind the elf, observing.
  The elf regarded the two, particularly the kender, with dis-
dain.
  "The elven realm of Qualinesti is closed to all travelers by
orders of Gilthas, Speaker of the Sun," said the elf, speaking
Common. "What is your business here?"
  Gerard smiled to indicate that he appreciated the joke. "I have
urgent news for Marshal Medan," he said, and reaching into his
black leather gauntlet he brought out a well-worn paper which he
handed over with bored air of one who has done this many times
before.
  The elf did not even glance at the paper, but passed it to the
officer of the Neraka Knights. The officer paid more attention to
it. He studied it closely and then studied Gerard. The officer re-
turned the paper to Gerard, who retrieved it and placed it back
inside his glove.
  "What business have you with Marshal Medan, Captain?" the
officer inquired.
  "I have something he wants, sir," Gerard replied. He jerked a
thumb. "This kender."
  The officer raised his eyebrows. "What does Marshal Medan
want with a kender?"
  "There is a warrant for the little thief, sir. He stole an impor-
tant artifact from the Knights of the Thorn. A magical artifact that
once purportedly belonged to Raistlin Majere."
The elf's eyes flickered at this. He regarded them with more
interest.
  "I've heard nothing of any bounty," the officer stated, frown-
ing. "Or any robbery, for that matter."
  "That is not surprising, sir, considering the Gray Robes,"
Gerard said with a wry smile and a covert glance around.
  The officer nodded and twitched an eyebrow. The Gray Robes
were sorcerers. They worked in secret, reporting to their own of-
ficers, working to forward their own goals and ambitions, which
might or might not coincide with the rest of the Knighthood. As
such, they were widely distrusted by the warrior Knights, who
viewed the Knights of the Thorn with the same suspicion that
men of the sword have viewed men of the staff for centuries.
  "Tell me of this crime," the officer said. "When and where was
it committed?"
  "As you know, the Gray Robes have been combing the Forest
of Wayreth, searching for the magical and elusive Tower of High
Sorcery. It was during this search that they uncovered this arti-
fact. I do not know how or where, sir. That information was not
provided to me. The Gray Robes were transporting the artifact to
Palanthas for further study, when they stopped at an inn for some
refreshment along the way. It was there the artifact was stolen.
The Gray Robes missed it the next morning when they awoke,"
Gerard added with a meaningful roll of his eyes. "This kender
had stolen it."
  "So that's how I got it!" Tas said to himself, fascinated. "What
a perfectly wonderful adventure. Too bad I can't remember it."
  The officer nodded his head. "Damn Gray Robes. Dead
drunk, no doubt. Carrying a valuable artifact. Just like their
arrogance.
  "Yes, sir. The criminal fled with his booty to Palanthas. We
were told to be on the lookout for a kender who might try to fence
stolen artifacts. We watched the mageware shops, and that was
how we caught him. And a weary journey I've had of it to bring
him back here, guarding the little fiend day and night."
  Tas attempted to look quite fierce.
  "I can imagine." The officer was sympathetic. "Was the arti-
fact recovered?"
  "I am afraid not, sir. He claims to have 'lost' it, but the fact that
he was discovered in the mageware shop led us to believe that he
has stashed it somewhere with the intent to produce it when he
had closed a bargain. The Thorn Knights plan to question him re-
garding its whereabouts. Otherwise, of course"-Gerard
shrugged-"we could have spared ourselves the trouble. We
would have simply hung the thieving nit."
  "The headquarters for the Thoms is down south. They're still
looking for that damned tower. A waste of time, if you ask me.
Magic is gone from the world again and I say good riddance."
  "Yes, sir," Gerard replied. "I was instructed to report to Mar-
shal Medan first, this being under his jurisdiction, but if you think
I should proceed directly-"
  "Report to Medan, by all means. If nothing else, he will get a
good laugh out of the story. Do you need help with the kender? I
have a man I could spare-"
  "Thank you, sir. As you can see, he is well-secured. I antici-
pate no trouble."
  "Ride on, then, Captain," said the officer, indicating with a
wave of his hand that the gate was to be lifted. "Once you've de-
livered the vermin, ride back this way. We'll open a bottle of
dwarf spirits, and you will tell me of the news from Palanthas."
  "I will do that, sir," said Gerard, saluting.
  He rode through the gate. Tasslehoff, bound and gagged,
followed. The kender would have waved his manacled hands in
a friendly good-bye, but he considered that this might not be in
keeping with his new identity-Highwayman, Stealer of Valu-
able Magical Artifacts. He quite liked this new persona and de-
cided he should try to be worthy of it. Therefore, instead of
waving, he scowled defiantly at the knight as they rode past.
  The elf had been standing in the road all this time, maintaining
a deferential and bored silence. He did not even wait until the gate
was lowered to go back to the gatehouse. The twilight had deep-
ened to night and torches were being lit. Tasslehoff, peering over
his shoulder as the pony clattered across the wooden bridge, saw
the elf squat down beneath a torch and draw out a leather bag. A
couple of the Knights knelt down in the dirt and they began a
game of dice. The last Tas saw of them, the officer had joined them,
bringing with him a bottle. Few travelers passed this way since the
dragon now patrolled the roads. Their watch was a lonely one.
  Tasslehoff indicated by various grunts and squeaks that he
would be interested in talking about their successful adventure at
the gate--in particular he wanted to hear more details about his
daring theft-but Gerard paid no attention to the kender. He did
not ride off at a gallop, but, once he was out of sight of the bridge
he urged Blackie to increase his pace markedly.
  Tasslehoff assumed that they would ride all night. They were
not far from Qualinost, or at least so he remembered from his pre-
vious journeys to the elven capital. A couple of hours would find
them in the city. Tas was eager to see his friends once again, eager
to ask them if they had any idea who he was, if he wasn't himself.
If anyone could cure magnesia, it would be Palin. Tasslehoff was
extremely surprised when Gerard suddenly reined in his horse
and, professing himself exhausted by the long day, announced
that they would spend the night in the forest.
  They made camp, building a fire, much to the kender's aston-
ishment, for the Knight had refused to build a fire prior to this,
saying that it was too dangerous.
"I guess he figures we're safe now that we're inside the bor-
ders of Qualinesti." Tasslehoff spoke to himself, for he was still
wearing the gag. "I wonder why we stopped though? Maybe he
doesn't know how close we are."
  The Knight fried some salt pork. The aroma spread through-
out the forest. He removed Tasslehoff's gag so that the kender
could eat and was instantly sorry he'd done so.
"How did I steal the artifact?" Tas asked eagerly. "That's so
exciting. I've never stolen anything before, you know. Stealing is
extremely wrong. But I guess in this case it would be all right,
since the Dark Knights are bad people. What inn was it? There are
quite a few on the road to Palanthas. Was it the Dirty Duck?
That's a great place. Everyone stops there. Or maybe the Fox and
the Unicorn? They don't much like kender, so probably not."
  Tasslehoff talked on, but he couldn't induce the Knight to tell
him anything. That didn't really matter much to Tas, who was
perfectly capable of making up the entire incident himself. By the
time they had finished eating and Gerard had gone to wash the
pan and the wooden bowls in a nearby stream, the bold kender
had stolen not one but a host of wondrous magical artifacts,
snatching them out from under the very noses of six Thorn
Knights, who had threatened him with six powerful magicks, but
who had, all six, been dispatched by a skilled blow from the
kender's hoopak.
  " And that must have been how I came down with magnesia!"
Tas concluded. "One of the Thorn Knights struck me severely on
the headbone! I was unconscious for several days. But, no," he
added in disappointment. "That couldn't be true for otherwise I
wouldn't have escaped." He pondered on this for a considerable
time. "I have it," he said at last, looking with triumph at Gerard.
"You hit me on the head when you arrested me!"
  "Don't tempt me," Gerard said. "Now shut up and get some
sleep." He spread out his blanket near the fire, which had been re-
duced to a pile of glowing embers. Pulling the blanket over him-
self, he turned his back to the kender.
  Tasslehoff relaxed on his blanket, gazed up at the stars. Sleep
wasn't going to catch him tonight. He was much too busy reliv-
ing his life as the Scourge of Ansalon, the Menace of Morgash,
the Thug of Thorbardin. He was quite a wicked fellow. Women
would faint and strong men would blanch at the mere sound of
his name. He wasn't certain exactly what blanching entailed,
but he had heard that strong men were subject to it when faced
with a terrible foe, so it seemed suitable in this instance. He was
just picturing his arrival in a town to find all the woman passed
out in their laundry tubs and the strong men blanching left and
right when he heard a noise. A small noise, a twig snapping,
nothing more.
Tas would not have noticed it except that he was used to not
hearing any noises at all from the forest. He reached out his hand
and tugged on the sleeve of Gerard's shirt.
  "Gerard!" Tas said in a loud whisper. "1 think someone's out
there!"
  Gerard snuffled and snorted, but didn't wake up. He hunched
down deeper in his blanket.
  Tasslehoff lay quite still, his ears stretched. He couldn't
hear anything for a moment, then he heard another sound, a
sound that might have been made by a boot slipping on a
loose rock.
  "Gerard!" said Tasslehoff. "1 don't think it's the moon this
time." He wished he had his hoopak.
Gerard rolled over at that moment and faced Tasslehoff, who
was quite amazed to see by the dying fire that the Knight was not
asleep. He was only playing possum.
  "Keep quiet!" Gerard said in a hissing whisper. "Pretend
you're asleep!" He shut his eyes.
  Tasslehoff obediently shut his eyes, though he opened them
again the next instant so as to be sure not to miss anything. Which
was good, otherwise he would have never seen the elves creep-
ing up on them from the darkness.
  "Gerard, look out!" Tas started to shout, but a hand clapped
down over his mouth and cold steel poked him in the neck before
he could stammer out more than "Ger-"
  "What?" Gerard mumbled sleepily. "What's-"
  He was wide awake the next moment, trying to grab the
sword that lay nearby.
  One elf stomped down hard on Gerard's hand- Tas could
hear bones crunch and he winced in sympathy. A second elf
picked up the sword and moved it out of the Knight's reach.
Gerard tried to stand up, but the elf who had stomped on his
hand now kicked him viciously in the head. Gerard groaned and
rolled over on his back, unconscious.
  "We have them both, Master," said one of the elves, speaking
to the shadows. "What are your orders?"
  "Don't kill the kender, Kalindas," said a voice from the dark-
ness, a human's voice, a man's voice, muffled, as if he were
speaking from the depths of a hood. "1 need him alive. He must
tell us what he knows."
The human was not very woods-crafty apparently. Although
Tas couldn't see him-the human had remained in the shadows-
Tas could hear his booted feet mashing dry leaves and breaking
sticks. The elves, by contrast, were as quiet as the night air.
  "What about the Dark Knight?" the elf asked.
  "Slay him:' said the human indifferently.
  The elf placed a knife at the Knight's throat.
  "No!" Tas squeaked and wriggled. "You can't! He's not really
a Dark- ulp!"
  "Keep silent kender," said the elf, who held onto Tas. He
shifted the point of his knife from the kender's throat to his head.
"Make another sound and I will cut off your ears. That will not
affect your usefulness to us."
  "I wish you wouldn't cut off my ears," said Tas, talking des-
perately, despite feeling the knife blade nick his skin. "They keep
my hair from falling off my head. But if you have to, you have to,
I guess. It's just that you're about to make a terrible mistake.
We've come from Solace, Gerard's not a Dark Knight you see.
He's a Solamnic-"
  "Gerard?" said the human suddenly from the darkness.
"Hold your hand, Kellevandros! Don't kill him yet. I know a So-
lamnic named Gerard from Solace. Let me take a look."
  The strange moon had risen again. Its light was intermittent
coming and going as dark clouds glided across its empty, vacu-
ous face. Tas tried to catch a glimpse of the human, who was ap-
parently in charge of this operation, for the elves deferred to
him in all that was done. The kender was curious to see him, be-
cause he had a feeling he'd heard that voice before, although he
couldn't quite place it.
  Tas was doomed to disappointment. The human was heavily
cloaked and hooded. He knelt beside Gerard. The Knight's head
lolled to one side. Blood covered his face. His breathing was
raspy. The human studied his face.
  "Bring him along," he ordered.
  "But, Master-" The elf called Kellevandros started to protest.
  "You can always kill him late4" said the human. Rising, he
turned on his heel and walked back into the forest.
  One of the elves doused the fire. Another elf went to calm the
horses, particularly the black, who had reared in alarm at the sight
of the intruders. A third elf put a gag in Tas's mouth, pricking Tas's
right ear with the tip of the knife the moment the kender even
looked as if he might protest.
  The elves handled the Knight with efficiency and dispatch.
They tied his hands and feet with leather cord, thrust a gag into
his mouth, and fixed a blindfold around his eyes. Lifting the com-
atose Knight from the ground, they carried him to his horse and
threw him over the saddle. Blackie had been alarmed by the
sudden invasion of the camp, but he now stood quite calm and
placid under an elf's soothing hand, his head over the elf's shoul-
der, nuzzling his ear. The elves tied Gerard's hands to his feet,
passing the rope underneath the horse's belly, securing the
Knight firmly to the saddle.
  The human looked at the kender, but Tas couldn't get a
glimpse of his face because at that moment an elf popped a gunny
sack over his head and he couldn't see anything except gunny
sack. The elves bound his feet together. Strong hands lifted him,
tossed him headfirst over the saddle, and the Scourge of Ansalon,
his head in a sack, was carried off into the night.

                  CHAPTER FOURTEEN
                   THE MASQUERABE

  As the Scourge of Ansalon was being hauled off in ignominy
and a sack, only a few miles away in Qualinost the Speaker
of the Sun, ruler of the Qualinesti people, was hosting a
masquerade ball. The masquerade was something relatively new
to the elves-a human custom, brought to them by their Sp~aker,
who had some share of human blood in rum, a curse passed on by
his father, Tanis Half-Elven. The elves generally disdained human
customs as they disdained humans, but they had taken to the
masquerade, which had been introduced by Gilthas in the year 21
to celebrate his ascension to the throne twenty years previously.
Each year on this date he had given a masquerade, and it was
now the social highlight of the season.
  Invitations to this important event were coveted. The mem-
bers of House Royal, the Heads of Household, the Thalas-
Enthia-the elven Senate-were invited, as well as the top
ranking leaders of the Dark Knights, Qualinesti's true rulers. In
addition, twenty elf maidens were chosen to attend, handpicked
by Prefect Palthainon, a former member of the elven Senate and
now the chief magistrate newly appointed by the Knights of
Neraka to oversee Qualinesti. Palthainon was nominally Gilthas's
advisor and counselor. Around the capital he was jocularly re-
ferred to as the "Puppeteer."
  The young ruler Gilthas was not yet married. There was no
heir to the throne nor any prospect of one. Gilthas had no partic-
ular aversion to being married, but he simply could not quite
make up his mind to go through with it. Marriage was an im-
mense decision, he told his courtiers, and should not be entered
into without due consideration. What if he made a mistake and
chose the wrong person? His entire life could be ruined, as well
as the life of the unfortunate woman. Nothing was ever said of
love. It was not expected that the king should be in love with his
wife. His marriage would be for political purposes only; this had
been determined by Prefect Palthainon, who had chosen several
eligible candidates from among the most prominent (and the
most wealthy) elven families in Qualinesti.
  Every year for the past five years, Palthainon had gathered to-
gether twenty of these hand-chosen elven women and presented
them to the Speaker of the Sun for his approbation. Gilthas
danced with them all, professed to like them all, saw good quali-
ties in them all, but could not make up his mind. The prefect con-
trolled much of the life of the Speaker-disparagingly ter~ed
"the puppet king" by his subjects-but Palthainon could not
force his majesty to take a wife.
  Now the time was an hour past midnight. The Speaker of the
Sun had danced with each of the twenty in deference to the pre-
fect, but Gilthas had not danced with anyone of the elven maid-
ens more than once-for a second dance would be seen as
making a choice. After the close of every dance, the king retired
to his chair and sat looking upon the festivities with a brooding
air, as if the decision over which of the lovely women to dance
with next was a weight upon him that was completely destroying
his pleasure in the party.
  The twenty maidens glanced at him out of the corners of their
eyes, each hoping for some sign that he favored her above all the
others. Gilthas was handsome to look upon. The human blood
was not much apparent in his features, except, as he had ma-
tured, to give him a squareness of jaw and chin not usually seen
in the male elf. His hair, of which he was said to be vain, was
shoulder-length and honey-colored. His eyes were large and
almond-shaped. His face was pale; it was known that he was in
ill health much of the time. He rarely smiled and no one could
fault him for that for everyone knew that the life he led was that
of a caged bird. He was taught words to speak, was told when to
speak them. His cage was covered up with a cloth when the bird
was to be silent.
  Small wonder then that Gilthas was known to be indecisive,
vacillating, fond of solitude and of reading and writing poetry, an
art he had taken up about three years previous and in which he
showed undeniable talent. Seated on his throne, a chair of ancient
make and design, the back of which was carved into the image of
a sun and gilded with gold, Gilthas watched the dancers with a
restive air and looked as if he could not wait to escape back to the
privacy of his quarters and the happiness of his rhymes.
  "His Majesty seems in unusually high spirits tonight," ob-
served Prefect Palthainon. "Did you notice the way he favored
the eldest daughter of the guildmaster of the Silversmiths?"
  "Not particularly," returned Marshal Medan, leader of the oc-
cupation forces of the Knights of Neraka.
  "Yes, I assure you, it is so," Palthainon argued testily. "See
how he follows her with his eyes."
  "His Majesty appears to me to me to be staring either at the
floor or his shoes," Medan remarked. "If you are going to ever see
an heir to the throne, Palthainon, you will have to make the mar-
riage yourself."
  "I would," Palthainon said, grumbling, "but elven law dic-
tates that only the family may arrange a marriage, and his mother
adamantly refuses to become involved unless and until the king
makes up his mind."
  "Then you had better hope His Majesty lives a long, long
time," said Medan. "1 should think he would, since you watch
over him so closely and attend to his needs so assiduously. You
can't really fault the king, Palthainon," the marshal added, "His
Majesty is, after all, exactly what you and the late Senator Rashas
have made him-a young man who dares not even take a piss
without looking to you for permission."
  "His Majesty's health is fragile," Palthainon returned stiffly.
"It is my duty to remove from him from the burden of the cares
and responsibilities of the ruler of the elven nation. Poor young
man. He can't help dithering. The human blood, you know,
Marshal. Notoriously weak. And now, if you will excuse me, I
will go pay my respects to His Majesty."
  The marshal, who was human, bowed wordlessly as the pre-
fect, whose mask was, most appropriately, that of a stylized bird
of prey, went over to peck at the young king. Politically, Medan
found Prefect Palthainon extremely useful. Personally, Medan
thought Palthainon utterly detestable.
  Marshal Alexius Medan was fifty-five years old. He had
joined the Knights of Takhisis under the leadership of Lord Ari-
akan prior to the Chaos War that had ended the Fourth Age of
Krynn and brought in the Fifth. Medan had been the commander
responsible for attacking Qualinesti over thirty years ago. He had
been the one to accept the surrender of the Qualinesti people and
had remained in charge ever since. Medan's rule was strict, harsh
where it needed to be harsh, but he was not wantonly cruel. True,
the elves had few personal freedoms anymore, but Medan did not
view this lack as a hardship. To his mind, freedom was a danger-
ous notion, one that led to chaos, anarchy, the disruption of
society.
  Discipline, order, and honor-these were Medan's gods, now
that Takhisis, with a complete lack of discipline and of honor, had
tumt;d traitor and run away, leaving her loyal Knights looking
like utter fools. Medan imposed discipline and order on the Qua-
linesti. He imposed discipline and order on his Knights. Above
all, he imposed these qualities on himself.
Medan watched with disgust as Palthainon bowed before the
king. Well knowing that Palthainon's humility was all for show,
Medan turned away. He could almost pity the young man
Gilthas.
  The dancers swirled about the marshal, elves dressed as
swans and bears and every other variety of bird or woodland
creature. Jesters and clowns clad in gay motley were in abun-
dance. Medan attended the masquerade because protocol re-
quired it, but he refused to wear a mask or a costume. Years ago,
the marshal had adopted the elven dress of loose flowing robes
draped gracefully over the body as being most comfortable and
practicable in the warm and temperate climate of Qualinesti.
Since he was the only person in elven dress attending the mas-
querade, the human had the odd distinction of looking more like
an elf than any other elf in the room.
The marshal left the hot and noisy dance floor and escaped,
with relief, into the garden. He brought no body guards with him.
Medan disliked being trailed about by Knights in clanking armor.
He was not overly fearful for his safety. The Qualinesti had no
love for him, but he had outlived a score of assassination at-
tempts. He could take care of himself, probably better care than
any of his Knights. Medan had no use for the men being taken
into the Knighthood these days, considering them to be an undis-
ciplined and surly lot of thieves, killers, and thugs. In truth,
Medan trusted elves at his back far more than his own men.
  The night air was soft and perfumed with the scents of roses
and gardenias and orange blossoms. Nightingales sang in the
trees, their melodies blending with the music of harp and lute. He
recognized the music. Behind him, in the Hall of the Sky, lovely
elf maidens were performing a traditional dance. He paused and
half-turned, tempted to go back by the beauty of the music. The
maidens were performing the Quanisho, the Awakening Prome-
nade, a dance said to drive elf men wild with passion. He won-
dered if it would have any effect on the king. Perhaps he might be
moved to a write a poem.
  "Marshal Medan," said a voice at his elbow.
  Medan turned. "Honored Mother of our Speaker," he said
and bowed.
  Laurana extended her hand, a hand that was white and soft
and fragrant as the flower of the camellia. Medan took her hand, .
brought the hand to his lips.
  "Come now," she said to him, "we are by ourselves. Such
formal titles need not be observed between those of us who are-
how should I describe us? 'Old enemies'?" 
  "Respected opponents," said Medan, smiling. He relin-
quished her hand, not without some reluctance.
  Marshal Medan was not married, except to his duty. He did
not believe in love, considered love a flaw in a man's armor, a
flaw that left him vulnerable, open to attack. Medan admired
Laurana and respected her. He thought her beautiful, as he
thought his garden beautiful. He found her useful in assisting
him to find his way through the sticky mass of fine-spun cobweb
that was the elven version of government. He used her and he
was well aware that in return she used him. A satisfactory and
natural arrangement.
"Believe me, madam," he said quietly, "I find your dislike of
me much preferable to other people's friendship."
  He glanced meaningfully back into the palace, where
Palthainon was standing at the young king's side, whispering
into his ear.
  Laurana followed his gaze. "I understand you, Marshal," she
replied. "You are a representative of an organization I believe to
be wholly given over to evil. You are the conqueror of my people,
our subjugator. You are allied with our worst enemy, a dragon
who is intent upon our total destruction. Yet, I trust you far more
than I trust that man."
  She turned away abruptly. "I do not like this view, sir. Would
you mind if we walked to the arboretum?"
  Medan was quite willing to spend a lovely moonlit night in
the most enchanting land on Ansalon in company with the land's
most enchanting woman. They walked side by side in compan-
ionable silence along a walkway of crushed marble that glittered
and sparkled as if it would mimic the stars. The scent of orchids
was intoxicating.
  The Royal Arboretum was a house made of crystal, filled with
plants whose fragile and delicate natures could not survive even
the relatively mild winters of Qualinesti. The arboretum was
some distance from the palace. Laurana did not speak during
their long walk. Medan did not feel that it was his place to break
this peaceful silence, and so he said nothing. In silence, the two
approached the crystal building, its many facets reflecting the
moon so that it seemed there must be a hundred moons in the sky
instead of just one.
  They entered through a crystal door. The air was heavy with
the brfath of the plants, which stirred and rustled as if in welcome.
 The sound of the music and the laughter was completely shut
Out "Laurana sighed deeply, breathed deeply of the perfume that
scented the warm, moist air.
  She placed her hand upon an orchid, turning it to the moonlight.
  "Exquisite," said Medan, admiring the plant. "My orchids
thrive-especially those you have given me-but I cannot pro-
duce such magnificent blossoms."
  "Time and patience," Laurana said. "As in all things. To con-
tinue our earlier conversation, Marshal, I will tell you why I re-
spect you more than Palthainon. Though your words are not easy
for me to hear sometimes I know that when you speak, you speak
from your heart. You have never lied to me, even when a lie
might have served your purpose better than the truth.
Palthainon's words slide out of his mouth and fall to the ground,
then slither away into the darkness."
  Medan bowed to acknowledge the compliment, but he would
not enter into further disparagement of the man who helped him
keep Qualinesti under control. He changed the subject.
  "You have left the revelries at an early hour, madam. I hope
you are not unwell," he said politely.
  "The heat and the noise were too much to bear," Laurana
replied. "I came out into the garden for some quiet."
  "Have you dined?" the marshal asked. "Could I send the ser-
vants for food or wine?"
  "No, thank you, Marshal. I find I have very little appetite
these days. You can serve me best by keeping me company for a
while, if your duties do not call you away."
  "With such a charming companion, I do not think that death
himself could call me away," the Marshal returned.
  Laurana glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes, smiled
slightly. "Humans are not generally given to such pretty
speeches. You have been around elves much too long, Marshal. In
fact, I believe you are more elf than human now. You wear our
clothes, you speak our language flawlessly, you enjoy our music
and our poetry. You have issued laws that protect our woodlands,
laws stronger than those we might have passed ourselves. Per-
haps I was wrong," she added lightly. "Perhaps you are the con-
quered and we are, in truth, your conquerors."
  "You make sport of me, madam," Medan returned, "and you
will probably laugh when I say that you are not far wrong. I was
blind to nature before I came to Qualinesti. A tree was a thing I
used to build a wall for a fortress or a handle for my battle-axe.
The only music I enjoyed was the martial beating of the war
drum. The only reading in which I took pleasure were dispatches
from headquarters. I freely admit that I laughed when I first en-
tered this land to see an elf speaking respectfully to a tree or talk-
ing gently to a flower. And then, one spring, after I had been
living here about seven years, I was amazed to find myself ea-
gerly awaiting the return of the flowers to my garden, wondering
which would blossom first, wondering if the new rosebush the
gardener had planted last year would bloom. At about the same
time, I discovered the songs of the harpist running through my
mind. I began to study the poetry to learn the words.
  "In truth, Madam Lauralanthalasa, I do love your land. That
is why," Medan added, his expression darkening, "1 do my best
to keep this land safe from the wrath of the dragon. That is why I
must harshly punish those of your people who rebel against my
authority. Beryl wants only an excuse to destroy you and your
land. By persisting in resistance, by committing acts of terror and
sabotage against my forces, the misguided rebels among your
people threaten to bring destruction down upon you all."
  Medan had no idea how old Laurana must be. Hundreds of
years, perhaps. Yet she was as beautiful and youthful as the days
when she had been the Golden General, leading the armies of
light against the forces of Queen Takhisis during the War of the
Lance. He had met old soldiers who spoke still of her courage in
battle, her spirit that rallied the flagging spirits of the crumbling
armies and led them to victory. He wished he could have known
her then, though they would have been on opposite sides. He
wished he could have seen her riding to battle on the back of her
dragon, her golden hair a shining banner for her troops to follow.
  "You say that you trust in my honor, madam," he continued
and he took hold of her hand in his earnestness. "Then you must
believe me when I tell you that I am working day and night to try
to save Qualinesti. These rebels do not make my task easy. The
dragon hears of their attacks and their defiance and grows ex-
tremely angry. She wonders aloud why she wastes her time and
money ruling over such troublesome subjects. I do my best to pla-
cate her, but she is fast losing patience."
  "Why do you tell me this, Marshal Medan?" Laurana asked.
"What has this to do with me?"
  "Madam, if you have any influence over these rebels, please
stop them. Tell them that while their acts of terror may do some
harm to myself and my troops, in the long run, the rebels are
harming only their own people."
  "And what makes you think that I, the Queen Mother, have
anything to do with rebels?" Laurana asked. A flush came to her
cheeks. Her eyes glittered.
  Medan regarded her in silent admiration for a moment, then
replied, "Let us say that I f
who fought the Dark Queen and her minions so tenaciously over
fifty years ago during the War of the Lance has ceased to do
battle."
  "You are wrong, Marshal," Laurana protested. "1 am old, too
old for such matters. No, Sir"-she forestalled his speaking-"I
know what you are going to say. You are going to say that I look
as young as a maiden at her first dance. Save your pretty compli-
ments for those who desire to hear them. I do not. I have no heart
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
saddle. The blood pounded in his temples, his breastplate
jabbed into his stomach and constricted his breathing, leather
cords cut into his flesh, and he had lost all feeling in his feet. He
did not know his captors, he'd been unable to see them in the
darkness, and now, blindfolded, he could see nothing at all.
They had very nearly killed him. He had the kender to thank for
keeping him alive.
  Yes, things were going as planned.
  They traveled for a considerable distance. The journey
seemed endless to Gerard, who began to think after awhile that
they had been riding for decades, long enough to have circum-
navigated Krynn itself at least six times. He had no idea how the
kender was faring, but judging by the occasional indignant
squeaks emanating from somewhere behind him Gerard assumed
that Tasslehoff was relatively intact. Gerard must have dozed,
either that or he'd passed out, for he woke suddenly when the
horse came to a halt.
  The human was speaking, the human whom Gerard took to
be the leader. He was speaking in Elvish, a language Gerard did
not understand. But it seemed that they had reached their desti-
nation for the elves were cutting loose the bindings holding him
on the saddle. One of ~e elves grabbed him by the back of the
breastplate, pulled him off the horse's back and dumped him on
the ground.
  "Get up, swine!" the elf said harshly in Common. "We are not
going to carry you." The elf removed the Knight's blindfold.
"Into that cave over there. March."
  They had traveled through the night. The sky was pink with
the coming of dawn. Gerard saw no cave, only thick and impen-
etrable forest, until one of the elves picked up what appeared to
be a stand of young trees and moved it. A dark cavern in the side
of a rock wall came into view. The elf placed the screen of trees to
one side.
  Staggering to his feet, Gerard limped forward. The sky was
growing brighter, now fiery orange and sea-blue. He looked
about for his companion, saw the kender's feet sticking out of a
sack that was a bulky shape on the pony's back. The human
leader stood near the cave entrance, keeping watch. He was
cloaked and hooded, but Gerard caught a glimpse of dark robes
beneath the cloak, robes such as a magic-user might wear. The
Knight was becoming more and more certain that his plan had
worked. Now he just had to hope that the elves would not kill
him before he had a chance to explain himself.
  The cave was set in a small hill in a heavily forested area.
Gerard had the impression that they were not in some isolated
patch of wilderness but close to a community. He could hear on
the distant breeze the sound of the bell flowers elves liked to
plant around the windows of their dwellings, flowers whose
blossoms rang musically when the wind's breath touched them.
He could also smell the scent of fresh-baked bread. Glancing in
the direction of the rising sun, he confirmed that they had trav-
eled due west during the night. If he was not actually in the city
of Qualinost, he must be very close by.
  The human entered the cavern. Two of the elves followed, one
of them carrying the squirming kender trussed up in his sack, the
other walking behind Gerard, prodding him in the back with a
sword. The other elves whQ had accompanied them did not enter
the cave but vanished into the woods, taking the pony and the
Knight's horse with them. Gerard hesitated a moment before
stepping into the cave. The elf shoved him in the back and he
stumbled forward.
  A dark, narrow passage opened up into a smallish chamber lit
by a flame floating on a bowl of sweet-smelling oil. The elf carrying
the kender dropped the sack to the floor, where the kender began to
squeak and squeal and wriggle inside the sack. The elf gave the sack
a nudge with his foot, told the kender to be silent; they would let
him out in good time, and then only if he behaved himself. The elf
guarding Gerard prodded him again in the back.
  "On your knees, swine," said the elf.
  Gerard. sank to his knees and lifted his head. Now he had a
good view of the human's face, for he could look up into it. The
man in the cloak looked down grimly at Gerard.
  "Palin Majere," said Gerard with a sigh of relief. "I have come
a long way in search of you."
  Palin brought the torch close. "Gerard uth Mondar. I thought
that was you. But since when did you become a Knight of
Neraka? You had best explain and quickly." He frowned. "As you
know, I have no love for that accursed Knighthood."
  "Yes, sir." Gerard glanced uncertainly at the elves. "Do they
speak the human language, sir?"
  "And Dwarvish and Common," Palin answered. "I can order
them to kill you in any number of languages. I say again, explain
yourself. You have one minute."
  "Very well, sir," Gerard replied. "I wear this armor of neces-
sity, not by choice. I bear important news for you and, finding out
from your sister Laura that you were in Qualinesti, I disguised
myself as one of the enemy so that I could safely reach you."
  "What news?" Palin asked. He had not removed the dark
hood, but spoke from its shadowy depths. Gerard could not see
his face. His voice was deep and stem and cold.
  Gerard thought of what people in Solace were saying about
Palin Majere these days. He was changed since the Academy had
been destroyed. He had changed and not for the better. He had
veered off the sunlit road to walk a dark path, a path his uncle
Raistlin had walked before him.
"Sir," said Gerard, "your honored father is dead."
  Palin said nothing. His expression did not alter.
  "He did not suffer," the Knight hastened to assure Palin.
"Death took your father swiftly. He walked out the door of the
Inn, looked into the sunset, spoke your mother's name, pressed
his hand over his heart, and fell. I was with him when he died. He
was at peace, in no pain. We held his funeral the next day. He was
laid to rest at your mother's side."
  "Did he say anything?" Palin asked at last.
  "He made a request of me, which I will tell you about in due
time."
  Palin regarded Gerard in silence for long moments. Then he
said, "And how is everything else in Solace?"
  "Sir?" Gerard was astonished, appalled.
  The kender in the sack gave a wail, but no one paid any at-
tention.
  "Did you not hear-?" Gerard began.
  "My father is dead. I heard," Palin replied. He threw back his
cowl, regarded Gerard with an unwavering gaze. "He was an old
man. He missed my mother. Death is a part of life. Some might
say"-his voice hardened-,'the best part."
  Gerard stared. He had last seen Palin Majere a few months ago,
when he had attended the funeral of his mother, Tika. Palin had not
remained in Solace long. He had left almost immediately on yet an-
other search for ancient magical artifacts. With the Academy de-
stroyed, Solace held nothing for Palin anymore. And with rumors
running rife that wizards all over the world were losing their mag-
ical powers, people guessed that Palin was no different. It seemed,
so they whispered, that life held nothing more for him. His mar-
riage was not the happiest. He had grown careless, reckless of his
safety, especially if the slightest chance offered of obtaining a mag-
ical artifact from the Fourth Age. For these artifacts had not lost
their power and such power could be leeched by a skilled wizard.
  Gerard had thought Palin looked unwell at the funeral. This
trip had done nothing to improve the mage's health. If anything,
he was more gaunt, more pallid, his manner more restive, his
gaze furtive, distrustful.
  Gerard knew a great deal about Palin. Caramon had been
fond of talking about his only surviving son, and he had been a
topic of conversation at almost every breakfast.
Palin Majere, the youngest son of Caramon and Tika, had
been a promising young mage when the gods left Krynn, taking
magic with them. Although he grieved the loss of the godly
magic, Palin had not given up, as did so many wizards of his gen-
eration. He had brought together mages from allover Ansalon in
an effort to learn to use the magic he believed remained in the
world, wild magic that was of the world itself. Such magic had
been part of the world before the coming of the gods, and, so he
had supposed, would remain in the world even after the depar-
ture of the gods. His efforts had been successful. He had estab-
lished the Academy of Sorcery in Solace, a center of learning for
magic. The Academy had grown and prospered. He had used his
skills to fight the great dragons and was renowed throughout
Abanasinia as a hero.
  Then the tapestry of his life had begun to unravel.
  Extraordinarily sensitive to the wild magic, he had been
among the first, two years ago, to notice that its powers were
starting to weaken. At first, Palin thought this might be nothing
more than a symptom of advancing age. He was past fifty, after
all. But then his students began to report similar problems. Even
the young were finding spell-casting more difficult. Obviously
age was not a factor.
  The spells would work, but they required more and more
effort on the part of the magic-user to cast them. Palin compared
it once to putting a jar over a lighted candle. The flame will bum
only so long as there is air trapped within the jar. When the air is
gone, the flame will falter, flicker, and die.
  Was magic finite, as some were saying? Could it dry up like a
pond in the desert? Palin didn't think so. The magic was there. He
could feel it, see it. But it was as if the desert pond was being
drunk dry by a vast multitude.
  Who or what was draining the magic? Palin suspected the
great dragons. He was forced to change his mind when the great
green dragon Beryl grew more threatening, became more ag-
gressive, sent her armies to seize more territory. Qualinesti spies
reported that this was happening because the dragon was feel-
ing her own magical powers on the decrease. Beryl had long
sought to find the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The mag-
ical forest had kept the Tower hidden from her and from the
Knights of the Thorn who had been searching for it. Her need
for the Tower and its magic became more urgent. Angry and
uneasy, she began to extend her reach over as much of 
Abanasinia as was possible without drawing down on herself 
the wrath of her cousin Malys. 
  The Knights of the Thorn, the magic-wielding arm of the 
Knights of Neraka, were also feeling their magical powers on the 
wane. They blamed Palin and his mages of the Academy of Sor- 
cery. In a daring raid on the Academy, they kidnapped Palin, 
while Beryl's dragon minions destroyed it.
  After months of "questioning," the Gray Robes had released
Palin. Caramon had not wanted to go into details about the tor-
ment his son had endured, and Gerard had not pressed him. The
residents of Solace discussed the matter at length, however. In
their opinion, the enemy had not only twisted Palin's Majere's
fingers, they had twisted his soul as well.
  Palin's face was haggard, hollow-cheeked, with dark
splotches beneath the eyes as if he slept little. He had few wrin-
kles; the skin was pulled taut, stretched over the fine bones. The
deep lines around his mouth, which had marked the track of
smiles, were beginning to fade away from disuse. His auburn hair
had gone completely gray. The fingers of his hands, once supple
and slender, were now twisted, cruelly deformed.
  "Cut his bindings," Palin ordered the elves. "He is a Solamnic
Knight, as he claims."
  The two elves were dubipus, but they did as they were told,
though they continued to keep a close watch on him. Gerard rose
to his feet, flexed his arms, and stretched his aching muscles. 
  "So you came all this way, disguised, risking your life to bring
me this news," said Palin. "I must confess that I fail to see the!
need for the kender. Unless the story I heard is true, that this 
kender really did steal a powerful magical artifact. Let us have a 
look at him." 
  Palin knelt down beside the sack where the kender wriggled. 
He stretched out his hand, started to try to untie the knots, but his
deformed fingers could not manage. Gerard looked at the
wizard's fingers, looked quickly away, not wanting to seem to 
pity him.
  "Does the sight distress you?" Palin asked with a sneer. Stand-
ing up, he covered his hands with the sleeves of his robes. 
take care not to trouble you."
"It does distress me, sir," Gerard said quietly. "It distresses me
to see any good man suffer as you have suffered."
  "Suffered, yes! I was a prisoner of the Thorn Knights for three
months. Three months! And not a day passed when they did not
torment me in some way. Do you know why? Do you know what
they wanted? They wanted to know why their magical power
was waning! They thought I had something to do with it!" Palin
gave a bitter laugh. "And do you want to know why they let me
go? Because they realized I was not a threat! Just a broken old
man who could do nothing to harm them or hinder them."
  "They might have killed you, sir," Gerard said.
  "It would have been better if they had," Palin returned.
  The two were silent. Gerard looked do~n at the floor. Even
the kender was quiet, subdued. He had quit wrigglng.
  Palin gave a soft sigh. Reaching out his broken hand, he
touched Gerard's arm.
  "Forgive me, Sir Knight," he said in a quieter tone. "Pay no
heed to what I said. I am quick to take offense these days. And I
have not yet even thanked you for bringing me news of my
father. I do thank you. I am sorry for his death, but I cannot grieve
for him. As I said, he has gone to a better place.
  "And now," Palin added with a shrewd look at the young
Knight, "1 am beginning to think that this sad news alone has not
brought you all this way. Wearing this disguise puts you in great
danger, Gerard. If the Dark Knights were to discover the truth,
you would endure torment far worse than what I suffered, and
then you would be executed."
  Palin's thin lips formed a bitter smile. "What other news do
you have for me? It can't be good. No one would risk his life to
bring me good news. And how could you know that you would
find me?"
  "I did not find you, si4" Gerard said. "You found me."
Palin looked puzzled, at first then he nodded. "Ah, I under-
stand. The mention of the artifact that once belonged to my Uncle
Raistlin. You knew that would pique my interest."
  "I hoped it would do so, si4" said Gerard. "My guess was that
either the elf posted at the bridge would be part of the resistance
movement or the bridge itself would be under observation. I
trusted that the mention of an artifact coupled with the name
Majere would be carried to you."
"You ran a great risk in trusting yourself to the elves. As you
found out there are those who would have no compunction in
slaying one of your kind."
  Gerard glanced at the two elves, Kalindas and Kelevandros, if
he had heard the names right. They had not shifted their eyes
from him once, kept their hands on the hilts of their swords.
  "I am aware of that, sir," said Gerard. "But this seemed the
only way to reach you."
  "So I take it there is no artifact?" Palin said, adding in a tone
of bitter disappointment. "It was all a ruse."
  "On the contrary, sir, there is an artifact. That is part of the
reason I came."
  At this, the kender's squeaks started up again, louder and
more insistent. He began to drum his feet on the floor, and he 
rolled about wildly in his sack. ;,
  "For mercy's sake, shut him up," Palin ordered irritably. "His
screeching will summon every Dark Knight in Qualinesti. Carry
him inside."
  "We should leave him in the sack, Master," said Kalindas. "We
do not want him finding his way back here."
  "Very well," Palin agreed.
  One of the elves picked up the kender, sack and all. The other
elf glared sternly at Gerard and asked a question.
  "No," Palin answered. "We do not need to blindfold him. He
belongs to the old school of Knights: those who still believe in
honor."
  The elf carrying the kender walked toward the back of the
cave and, to Gerard's intense astonishment, continued right
through solid stone. Palin followed, placing his hand on
Gerard's arm and propelling the Knight forward. The illusion of
stone was so convincing that it was all Gerard could do to keep
from wincing ashe walked into what looked like a wall of sharp
and jagged rocks.
  "Some magic still works apparently," Gerard said, impressed.
  "Some," Palin said. "But it is erratic. The spell can fail at any
moment and must be constantly renewed." 
  Gerard emerged from the wall to find himself in a garden of 
wondrous beauty, shaded by trees whose branches and thick)
leaves formed a solid curtain above and around them. Kalindas 
carried the bagged kender through the wall, deposited him on the 
flagstone walk of the garden. Chairs made of bent willow
branches and a table made of crystal stood beside a shining pool
of clear water.
  Palin said something to Kelevandros. Gerard caught the
name, "Laurana." The elf departed, running lightly through the
garden.
  "You have loyal guardians, sir," said Gerard, looking after
the elf.
  "They belong to the household of the Queen Mother," Palin
replied. "They have been in Laurana's service for years, ever
since her husband died. Sit down."
  He made a motion with his crooked hands and a fall of water
began, streaming down in front of the illusionary wall to splash
into the pool below.
  "I have sent to inform the Queen Mo~er of your arrival.
You are now a guest in her house. Or rather, ~ne of the gardens
in her house. Here, you are safe, as safe as anyone is in these
dark times."
  Thankfully, Gerard removed the heavy breastplate and
rubbed his bruised ribs. He laved his face with the cool water and
drank deeply.
  "Let the kender out now," Palin ordered.
  Kalindas untied the sack and the kender emerged, flushed
and indignant, his long hair covering his face. He sucked in a
huge breath and wiped his forehead.
  "Whew! I was getting really sick of smelling nothing but sack."
  Flipping his topknot back over his head, the kender looked
around with interest.
  "My," he said. "This garden is pretty. Are there fish in that
pool? Could I catch one, do you think? It was certainly stuffy in
that sack, and I much prefer riding a horse sitting up on the
saddle instead of lying down. I have a sort of pain here in my side
where something poked me. I would introduce myself," he said
contritely, apparently realizing that he wasn't conforming to the
mores of polite society, "but I'm suffering from"-he caught
Gerard's eye and said, with emphasis, "I am suffering from a
severe bump on the head and I'm not quite certain who I am. You
look awfully familiar to me. Have we met?"
  Palin Majere had said nothing through this diatribe. His face
had gone livid. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Sir." Gerard reached out a supporting hand. "Sir, you should
sit down. You don't look well."
  "I have no need of your support," Palin snapped, shoving
aside Gerard's hand. He stared at the kender.
  "Quit the nonsense," he said coldly. "Who are you?"
  "Who do you think I am?" the kender parried.
  Palin seemed about to make an angry rejoinder, but he closed
his lips over the words and,' after drawing in a deep breath, he
said tightly, "You look like a kender I once knew named Tassle-
hoff Burrfoot."
  "And you look sort of like a friend of mine named Palin
Majere." The kender was gazing at Palin with interest.
  "I am Palin Majere. Who are-"
  "Really?" The kender's eyes opened wide. "You'r~ Palin?
What happened to you? You look terrible! Have you been sick? And
your poor hands. Let me see them. You said the Dark Knights did
that to you? How? Did they smash your finger bones with a
hammer, 'cause that's what it looks like-"
Palin drew his sleeves over his hands, moved away from the
kender. "You say you know me, kender? How?"
  "I just saw you at Caramon's first funeral. You and I had a nice
long chat, all about the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth and
you being he~d of the White Robes, and Dalamar was there, and
he was Head ot~he Conclave, and his girl friend Jenna was Head
of the Red Robes~'and-"
  Palin frowned, looked at Gerard. "What is he talking about?"
  "Don't pay any attention to him, sir. He's been acting crazy
ever since I found him." Gerard looked strangely at Palin. "You
said he resembled 'Tasslehoff.' That's who he claimed to be, until
he started all this nonsense about having amnesia. I know it
sounds odd, but your father also thought he was Tasslehoff."
  "My father was an old man," Palin said, "and like many old
men, he was probably reliving the days of his youth. And yet," he
added softly, almost to himself, "he certainly does look like
Tasslehoff! "
  "Palin?" A voice called to him from the far end of the garden.
"What is this Kelevandros tells me?"
  Gerard turned to see an elven woman, beautiful as a winter's
twilight, walking toward them along the flagstones. Her hair was
long and the color of honey mingled with sunlight. She was
dressed in robes of a pearly diaphanous material, so that she
seemed to be clothed in mist. Catching sight of Gerard, she re-
garded him in disbelief, too outraged at first to pay any attention
to the kender, who was jumping up and down and waving his
hand in excitement.
  Gerard, confused and awe-struck, made an awkward bow.
  "You have brought a Dark Knight here, Palin!" Laurana
turned on him in anger. "To our hidden garden! What is the
reason for this?"
  "He is not a Dark Knight, Laurana," Palin explained tersely,
"as I told Kelevandros. Apparently, he doubts me. This man is
Gerard uth Mondar, Knight of Solamnia, a friend of my father's
from Solace."
  Laurana looked at Gerard skeptically. "Are you certain, Palin?
Then why is he wearing that foul armor?"
  "I wear the armor for disguise only, my lady," Gerard said.
  " And, as you see, I have taken the first opportunity I could to cast
it aside."
  "This was the only way he could enter Qualinesti," Palin added.
  "I beg your pardon, Sir Knight," Laurana said, extending a
hand that was white and delicate. Yet, when he took it, he felt the
calluses on her palm from her days when she had carried a shield
and wielded a sword, the days when she had been the Golden
General. "Forgive me. Welcome to my home."
  Gerard bowed again in profound respect. He wanted to say
something graceful and correct, but his tongue felt too big for his
mouth, just as his hands and feet felt big and clumsy. He flushed
deeply and stammered something that died away in a muddle.
  "Me, Laurana! Look at me!" The kender called out.
  Laurana turned now to take a good look at the kender and ap-
peared astonish~d at what she saw. Her lips parted, her jaw went
slack. Putting her hand to her heart, she fell back a step, staring
all the while at the kender.
  "Alshana, Quenesti-Pah!" she whispered. "It cannot be!"
Palin was watching her closely. "You recognize him, as well."
  "Why, yes! It's Tasslehoff!" Laurana cried dazedly. "But
how- Where-"
  "I am Tasslehoff?" The kender looked anxious. "Are you
certain?"
  "What makes you think you're not?" Laurana asked.
"I always thought I was," Tas said solemnly. "But no one else
did, and so I thought perhaps I'd made a mistake. But if you say
I am Tasslehoff, Laurana, I suppose that settles it. You of all
people wouldn't be likely to make a mistake. Would you mind if
I gave you a hug?"
  Tas flung his arms around Laurana's waist. She looked con-
fusedly over his head from ~alin back to Gerard, asking silently
for an explanation.
  "Are you in earnest?" Gerard demanded. "Begging your
pardon, my lady," he added, flushing, realizing he'd come close
to calling the Queen Mother a liar, "but Tasslehoff Burrfoot has
been dead for over thirty years. How could this be possible?
Unless-"
  "Unless what?" Palin asked sharply.
  "Unless his wl)ole wild tale is somehow true." Gerard fell
silent, pondering tHis unforeseen development.
  "But, Tas, where ~ave you been?" Laurana asked, removing one
of her rings from his Rand just as the ring was disappearing down
his shirt front. "As Sir Gerard said, we thought you were dead!"
  "I know. I saw the tomb. Very nice." Tas nodded. "That's
where I met Sir Gerard. I do think you ~ght work to keep the
grounds cleaner-all the dogs you know~and the tomb itself is
not in good repair. It was hit by lightning when I was inside it. I
heard the most tremendous boom, and some of the marble fell off.
And it was awfully dark inside. A few windows would sort of
brighten the place-"
  "We should go somewhere to talk, Palin," Gerard interrupted
urgently. "Some place private."
  "I agree. Laurana, the Knight has brought other sad news. My
father is dead."
  "Oh!" Laurana put her hand to her mouth. Tears filled her
eyes. "Oh, I am sorry, Palin. My heart grieves for him, yet grief
seems wrong. He is happy now," she added in wistful envy. "He
and Tika are together. Come inside," she added, glancing about
the garden where Tasslehoff was now wading in the ornamental
pond, displacing the water lilies and terrorizing the fish. "We
should not discuss this out here." She sighed. "I fear that even my
garden is not safe anymore."
  "What happened, Laurana?" Palin demanded. "What do you
mean the garden is not safe?"
Laurana sighed, a line marred her smooth forehead: "I spoke
to Marshal Medan at the masquerade last night. He suspects me
of having dealings with the rebels. He urged me to use my influ-
ence to make them cease their acts of terror and disruption. The
dragon Beryl is grown paranoid lately. She threatenes to send her
armies to attack us. We are not yet prepared if she should."
  "Pay no heed to Medan, Laurana. He is concerned only with
saving his own precious skin," said Palin.
  "I believe that he means well, Palin," Laurana returned.
"Medan has no love for the dragon."
  "He has no love for anyone except himself. Don't be fooled
by his show of concern. Medan avoids trouble for Medan, that
is all. He is caught in a quandary. If the attacks and sabotage
continue, his superiors will relieve him of his command, and
from what I've heard of their new Lord of the Night Targonne,
Medan might well be relieved of his head. Now, if you will
excuse me, I will go divest myself of this heavy cloak. I will meet
you in the atrium."
  Palin departed, the folds of his black traveling cloak sweeping
behind him. His stance was straight, his walk quick and firm.
Laurana looked after him, troubled.
  "Madam," said Gerard, finding his tongue at last. "1 agree
with Palin. You must not trust this Marshal Medan. He is a Dark
Knight, and although they speak of honor and sacrifice their
words are empty and hollow as their souls."
  "I know you are right," Laurana said. "Still, I have seen the
seed of good fall in the darkest swamp to grow strong and beau-
tiful though it was poisoned by the most noxious miasma. And I
have seen the same seed, nurtured by the softest rains and the
brightest sunshine, grow twisted and ugly, to bear a bitter fruit."
  She continued to gaze after Palin. Sighing, she shook her head
and turned around. "Come along, Tas. I would like you and
Gerard to see the rest of the wonders I have in my house."
  Cheerfully dripping, Tasslehoff climbed out of the pond. "You
go ahead, Gerard. I want to talk to Laurana alone for a moment.
It's a secret," he added.
  Laurana smiled at the k;ender. "Very well, Tas. Tell me your
secret. Kalindas," she said to the elf who had been waiting
silently all this time, "escort Gerard to the house. Show him to
one of the guest rooms."
Kalindas did as commanded. As he showed Gerard the way
to the house, the elf's tone was gracious, but he kept his hand on
the hilt of his sword.
  When they were alone, Laurana turned to the kender.
  "Yes, Tas," she said. "What is it?"
  Tas looked extremely anxious. "This is very important, Lau-
rana. Are you sure I'm Tasslehoff? Are you extremely sure?"
  "Yes, Tas, I'm sure," Laurana said, smiling indulgently. "1 don't
know how or why, but I am quite certain you are Tasslehoff."
  "It's just that I don't feel like Tasslehoff," Tas continued
earnestly.
  "You don't seem yourself, Tas, that is true," Laurana replied.
"You are not ~s joyful as I remember you to be. Perhaps you are
grieving for ~ramon. He led a full life, Tas, a life of love and
wonder and joy~e had his share of sorrow and trouble, but the
dark days only made the days of light shine brighter. You were
his good friend. He loved you. Don't be sad. He wouldn't want
you to be unhappy."
  "That's not what's making me unhappy," Tas protested.
"That is, I was unhappy when Caramon died because it was so
unexpected, even though I was expecting it. And I still some-
times have a lump of unhappiness right here in my tluoat when
I think about him being gone, but I can manage a lump. It's the
other feeling I can't manage, because I never felt anything like it
before."
  "I see. Perhaps we could talk about this later, Tas," Laurana
said and started toward the house.
  Tas caught hold of her sleeve, hung on for dear life. "It's the
feeling that came to me when I saw the dragon!"
  "What dragon?" Laurana stopped, turned back. "When did
you see a dragon?"
  "While Gerard and I were riding into Qualinesti. The dragon
came around to take a look at us. I was. . ." Tas paused, then
said in a awful whisper, "1 think I was. . . scared." He gazed at
Laurana with round eyes, expecting to see her reel backward
into the pond, stunned with the shock and horror of this unnat-
ural occurrence.
  "You were wise to be scared, Tas," Laurana replied, taking the
terrible news quite calmly. "The dragon Beryl is a loathsome,
fearsome beast. Her claws are stained with blood. She is a cruel
tyrant, and you are not the first to be afraid in her presence. Now,
we should not keep the others waiting."
  "But it's me, Laurana! Tasslehoff Burrfoot! Hero of the Lance!"
Tas pounded himself frantically on his chest. "I'm not afraid of
anything. There's a giant in the other time who's about to step on
me and probably squash me flat, and that gives me a sort of
squirmy feeling in my stomach when I think about it, but this is
different. "He sighed deeply. "You must be mistaken. I can't be
Tasslehoff and be afraid."
  The kender was truly upset, that much was obvious. Laurana
regarded him thoughtfully. "Yes, this is different. This is very
strange. You have been around dragons before, Tas."
  "All sorts of dragons, "Tas said proudly. "Blues and reds and
greens and blacks, bronze and copper and silver and gold. I even
flew on the back of one. It was glorious. "
And you never felt dragonfear?"
  " I remember thinking that dragons were beautiful in an awful
kind of way. And I felt afraid, but that was for my friends, never
for myself. Much."
  "This must have been true of the other kender, as well,"Lau-
rana mused, lithe kender we now call 'afflicted.' Some of them
must have experienced dragonfear years ago, during the War of
the Lance and after. Why would these experiences be different? I
never thought about it."
  "Lots of times people don't think about us," Tas said in an un-
derstanding tone. "Don't feel bad"
  "But I do feel badly, "Laurana sighed. "We should have done
something to help the kender. It's just that there's been so much
happening that was more important. Or at least it seemed more
important. If this fear is different from dragonfear, I wonder what
it could be? A spell, perhaps?"
  "That's it!" Tas shouted. "A spell! A curse!1I He was thrilled.
"I'm under a curse from the dragon. Do you truly think SO?"
  "I really don't know-" Laurana began, but the kender was
no longer listening.
  "A curse! I'm cursed!" Tasslehoff gave a blissful sigh. "Drag-
ons have done lots of things to me but I've never before had one
curse me! This is almost as good as the time Raistlin magicked me
into a duck pond. Thank you, Laurana," he said, fervently shak-
ing her hand and accidently removing the last of her rings. "You
have no idea what a weight you have taken off my mind. I can be
Tasslehoff now. A cursed Tasslehoff! Let's go tell Palin!
  "Say, speaking of Palin," Tas added in a piercing whisper,
"when did he become a Black Robe? The last I saw him, he was
Head of the Order of White Robes! What made him change? Was
it like Raistlin? Is someone else inhabit- habitat-habitating
Palin's body?"
  "Black robes, white robes, red robes, the distinction between
one and the other is now gone, Tas," Laurana said. "Palin wore
black robes because he wanted to blend in with the night." She
looked at the kender oddly. "Palin was never Head of the Order
of White Robes. What made you think that?"
  "I'm beginning to wonder," Tasslehoff said. "I don't mind
telling you, Laurana, but I'm extremely confused. Maybe someone's
inhabitating my body," he added, but without much hope.
  With all the strange feelings and lumps, there just didn't seem
to be room for anyone else in there.

                   CHAPTER SIXTEEN
                  TASSLEHOFF'S TALE

  The Queen Mother's house was built on the side'of a cliff
overlooking Qualinesti. Like all elven structures, the
house blended with nature, seemed a part of the land-
scape, as, indeed, much of it was. The elven builders had con-
structed the house so as to utilize the cliff-face in the design. Seen
from a distance, the house appeared to be a grove of trees grow-
ing on a broad ledge that jutted out from the cliff. Only when one
drew closer, did one see the path leading up to the house and
then one could tell that the trees were in reality walls, their
branches the roof and that cliff was also used for many of the
walls of the house.
  The north wall of the atrium was made of the rocky slope of
the cliff face. Flowers and small trees blossomed, birds sang in the
trees. A stream of water ran down the cliff, splashing into many
small pools along the way. As each pool varied in depth, the
sound of the falling water differed from pool to pool, producing
a wondrous harmony of musical sound.
  Tasslehoff was quite enchanted with the fact that there was a
real waterfall inside the house and he climbed upon the rocks,
slipping perilously on the slippery surface. He loudly exclaimed
over the wonder of every bird's nest, uprooted a rare plant
while trying to pick its flower and was forcibly removed by
Kalindas when the kender insisted on trying to climb clear up to
the ceiling.
  This was Tasslehoff. The more Palin watched, the more he re-
membered and the more he became convinced that this kender
was the kender he had known well over thirty years ago. He
noted that Laurana watched Tas, as well. She watched him with a
bewilderment tinged with wonder. Palin supposed it was per-
fectly plausible that Tasslefhoff could have been wandering the
world for thirty-eight years and had finally taken it into his head
to drop by for a chat with Caramon.
  Palin discarded the notion. Another kender might have done
so, but not Tasslehoff. He was a unique kender, as Caramon liked
to say. Or perhaps, not so unique as all that. Perhaps if they had
taken time to come to know another kender, they might have dis-
covered that they were all loyal and compassionate friends. But if
Tas had not been roaming the world for.~lmost forty years, than
where had he been?
  Palin listened attentively to the Knight's story of Tas's ap-
pearance in the tomb the night of the., storm (most remarkable,
Palin made a mental note of this occurrence), Caramon's recogni-
tion, his subsequent death and his last words to Sir Gerard.
  "Your father was upset that he could not find his brother
Raistlin. He said that Raistlin had promised to wait for him. And
then came your father's dying request, sir," said Gerard in con-
clusion. "He asked me to take Tasslehoff to Dalamar. I would
have to assume that to be the wizard, Dalamar, of infamous
repute?"
  "I suppose so," said Palin evasively, determined to betray
nothing of his thoughts.
  "According to the Measure, sir, I am honor bound to fulfill a
request made by the dying. But since the wizard Dalamar has dis-
appeared and no one has heard from him in many years, I'm not
Iquite certain what to do." 
  "Nor am I," Palin said.
  His father's final words intrigued Palin. He was well aware of
his father's firmly held belief that Raistlin would not depart this
mortal plane until his twin had joined him. 
"We're twins, Raist and I," Caramon would say. " And because
we're twins, one of us can't leave this world and move on to the
next without the other. The gods granted Raist peace in sleep, but
then they woke him up during the Chaos War and it was then
that he told me he would wait for me."
  Raistlin had indeed returned from the dead during the Chaos
War. He had gone to the Inn of the Last Home and had spent
some time with Caramon. During that time, Raistlin had, accord-
ing to Caramon, sought his brother's forgiveness. Palin had never
questioned his father's faith in his faithless brother, though he
had privately thought that Caramon was indulging ~ wishful
thinking.
  Still Palin did not feel he had the right to try to dissuade Cara-
mon of his belief. After all, none could say for certain what hap-
pened to the souls of those who died.
  "The kender maintains that he traveled forward in time and
that he came here with the help of the magical device." Gerard
shook his head, smiled. "At least it's the most original excuse I've
heard from one of the little thieves."
  "It's not an excuse," Tas said loudly. He had attempted to in-
terrupt Gerard at several key points in the story, until finally the
knight had threatened to gag him again if he wasn't quiet. "I
didn't steal the device. Fizban gave it to me. And I did travel for-
ward in time. Twice. The first time I was late and the second time
I . . . don't know what happened."
  "Let me see the magical artifact, Sir Gerard," Palin said. "Per-
haps that will help us arrive at an answer."
  "I'll show you!" Tas offered eagerly. He fumbled about in his
pockets, looked down his shirtfront, felt all about his pant legs. "I
know it's here somewhere. . ."
  Palin looked accusingly at the knight. "If this artifact is as
valuable as you describe, sir, why did you allow it to remain in
the kender's possession? If it is still in his possession-"
  "I didn't, sir," Gerard said defensively. "I've taken it away
from him I don't know how many times. The artifact keeps going
back to him. He says that's how it works."
  Palin's heartbeat quickened. His blood warmed. His hands,
that seemed always cold and numb, tingled with life. Laurana
had risen involuntarily to her feet.
  "Palin! You don't suppose. . ." she began.
"I found it!" Tas announced in triumph. He dTagged the arti-
fact out of his boot. "Would you like to hold it, Palin? It won't
hurt you or anything."
  The artifact had been small enough to fit inside the kender's
small boot. Yet as Tas held it out, the kender had to hold the
device with both hands. Yet Palin had not seen it change shape or
enlarge. It was as if it was always the shape and size it was meant
to be, no matter what the circumstances. If anything changed, it
was the viewer's perception of the artifact, not the artifact itself.
  Jewels of antiquity-rubies, sapphires, diamonds and emer-
ald&-Sparkled and glittered in the sunlight, catching the sun-
beams and transforming them into smears of rainbow light
splashed on the walls and the floor and shining up from the
kender's cupped hands.
  Palin started to reach out his own crippled hands to hold the
device, then he hesitated. He was suddenly afraid. He did not
fear that the artifact might do him some harm. He knew perfectly
well it wouldn't. He had seen the artifact when he was a boy. His
father had shown it off proudly to his children. In addition, Palin
recognized the device from his studies when he was a youth. He
had seen drawings of it in the books in the Tower of High Sorcery.
This was the Device of Time Journeying, one of the greatest and
most powerful of all the artifacts ever created by the masters of
the Towers. It would not harm him, yet it would do him terrible,
irrevocable damage.
  Palin knew from experience the pleasure he would feel when
he touched the artifact: he would sense the old magic, the pure
magic, the loved magic, the magic that came to him untainted,
freely given, a gift of faith, a blessing from the gods. He would
sense the magic, but only faintly, as one senses the smell of rose
leaves, pressed between the pages of a book, their sweet fragrance
only a memory. And because it was only a memory, after the pleas-
ure would come the pain-the aching, searing pain of loss.
  But he could not help himself. He said to himself, "Perhaps
this time I will be able to hold onto it. Perhaps this time with this
artifact, the magic will come back to me."
  Palin touched the artifact with trembling, twisted fingers.
  Glory. . . brilliance. . . surrender. . .
  Palin cried out, his broken fingers clenched over the artifact.
The jewels cut into the flesh of his hand.
Truth. . . beauty. . . art. . . life. . .
  Tears burned his eyelids, slid down his cheeks.
  Death. . . loss. . . emptiness. . .
  Palin sobbed harshly, bitterly for what was lost. He wept
for his father's death, wept for the three moons that had van-
ished from the sky, wept for his broken hands, wept for his
own betrayal of all that he had believed in, wept for his own
inconstancy, his own desperate need to try to find the ecstasy
again.
  "He is ill. Should we do something?" Gerard asked uneasily.
  "No, Sir Knight. Leave him be," Laurana admonished gently.
"There is nothing we can do for him. There is nothing we should
do formm. This is necessary to him. Though he suffers now, he
will be better for this release." -
  "I'm sorry, Palin," Tasslehoff cried remorsefully. "I didn't
think it would hurt you. Honestly, I didn't! It never hurt me."
  "Of course it would not hurt you, wretched kender!" Palin re-
turned, the pain a living thing inside him, twisting and coiling
around his heart so that it fluttered in his chest like a frantic bird
caught by the snake. "To you it is nothing but a pretty toy! To me
it is an opiate that brings blissful, wondrous dreams." His voice
cracked. "Until the effect wears off. The dreams end and I must
wake again to drudgery and despair, wake to the bitter, mundane
reality."
   He clenched his hand over the device, quenched the light of
its jewels. "Once," he said, his voice tight, "I might have crafted a
marvelous and powerful artifact such as this. Once I might have
been what you claim I was--Head of the Order of White Robes.
Once I might have had the future my uncle foresaw for me. Once
I might have been a wizard, gifted, puissant, powerful. I look at
this device and that is what I see. But I look into a mirror and I see
something far different."
  He opened his hand. He could not see the device for his bitter
tears. He could see only the light of its magic, glinting and wink-
ing, mocking. "My magic dwindles, my powers grow weaker
I, every day. Without the magic, there is one hope left for us--to
hope that death is better thaJ1 this dismal life!"
  "Palin, you must not speak like that!" Laurana said sternly.
"So we thought in the dark days before the War of the Lance. I re-
member Raistlin saying something to the effect that hope was the
carrot dangled before the nose of the cart horse to fool him into
plodding forward. Yet we did plod forward and, in the end, we
were rewarded."
  "We were," said Tas. "I ate the carrot."
  "We were rewarded all right," Palin said, sneering. "With this
wretched world in which we find ourselves!"
The artifact was painful to his touch-indeed, he had clutched
so tightly that the sharp-edged jewels had cut him. But still he
held it fast, carressing it covetously. The pain was so much
preferable to the feeling of numbness.
  Gerard cleared his throat, looked embarrassed.
  "I take it, sir, that I was right," he said diffidently. "This is a
powerful artifact of the Fourth Age?"
  "It is," Palin answered.
  They waited for him to say more, but he refused to indulge
them. He wanted them to leave. He wanted to be alone. He
wanted to sort out his thoughts that were running hither and yon
like rats in a cave when someone lights a torch. Scuttling down
dark holes, crawling into crevices and some staring with glitter-
ing, fascinated eyes at the blazing fire. He had to endure them,
their foolishiness, their inane questions. He had to hear the rest of
Tasslehoff's tale.
  "Tell me what happened, Tas," Palin said. "None of your
woolly mammoth stories. This is very important."
  "I understand," Tas said, impressed. "1'11 tell the truth. I
promise. It all started one day when I was attending the fu-
neral of an extremely good kender friend I'd met the day
before. She'd had an unfortunate encounter with a bugbear.
What happened was. . . er . . ."- Tas caught sight of Palin's
brows constricting-"never mind, as the gnomes say. I'll tell
you that story later. Anyhow during her funeral, it occurred to
me that very few kender ever live long enough to be what you
might call old. I've already lived a lot longer than most kender
I know and I suddenly realized that Caramon was likely to
live a lot longer than I was. The one thing I really, really
wanted to do before I was dead was to tell everyone what a
good friend Caramon had been to me. It seemed to me that the
best time to do this would be at his funeral. But if Caramon
outlived me, then me going to his funeral would be something
of a problem.
"Anyway, I was talking to Fizban one day and I explained this
and he said that he thought what I wanted to do was a fine and
noble thing and he could fix it up. I could speak at Caramon's fu-
neral by traveling to the time when the funeral was taking place.
And he gave me this device and told me how it worked and gave
me strict instructions to just jump ahead, talk at the funeral, and
come straight back. 'No gallivanting,' he said. By the way," Tas
asked anxiously, "you don't think he'd consider this trip 'galli-
vanting,' do you? Because I'm finding that I really am enjoying
seeing all my friends again. It's much more fun than being
stepped on by a giant."
  "Go on with the story, Tas," Palin said tersely. "We'll discuss
that later."
  "Yes, right. So I used the device and I jumped forward in time,
but, well, you know that Fizban gets things a bit muddled now
and then. He's always forgetting his name or where his hat is
when it's right on his head or forgetting how to cast a fireball
spell and so I guess he just miscalculated. Because when I jumped
forward in time the first time, Caramon's funeral was over. I'd
missed it. I arrived just in time for refreshments. And while I did
have a nice visit visiting with everyone and the cream cheese
puffs Jenna made were truly scrumptious, I wasn't able to do
what I'd meant to do all along. Remembering that I'd promised
Fizban no gallivanting, I went back.
  "And, to be honest"- Tas hung his head and shuffled his
foot-"after that, I forgot all about speaking at Caramon's fu-
neral. I had a really good reason. The Chaos war came and we
were fighting shadow wights and I met Dougan and Usha, your
wife, you know, Palin. It was all immensely interesting and excit-
ing. And now the world is about to come to an end and there's
this horrible giant about to smash me flat and it was at that pre-
cise moment that I remembered that I hadn't spoken at Cara-
mon's funeral. So I activated the device really quickly and came
here to say what a good friend Caramon was before the giant
steps on me." .
  Gerard was shaking his head. "This is ridiculous."
  "Excuse me," said Tas, stem in his turn. "It's not polite to in-
terrupt. So anyway I came here and ended up in the Tomb and
Gerard found me and took me to see Caramon. And I was able to
tell him what I was going to say about him at the funeral, which
he enjoyed immensely, only nothing was like I remembered it the
first time. I told that to Caramon, too, and he seemed really wor-
ried, but he dropped dead before he had time to do anything
about it. And then he couldn't find Raistlin when he knew that
Raistlin would never go on to the next life without his twin.
Which is why I think he said I was to talk to Dalamar.1I Tas drew
in a deep breath, having expended most of his air on his tale.
"And that's why I'm here."
  "Do you believe this, my lady?" Gerard demanded.
  "I don't know what to believe," Laurana said softly. She
glanced at Palin, but he carefully avoided her gaze, pretended to
be absorbed in examining the device, almost as if he expected to
find the answers engraved upon the shining metal.
  "Tas," he said mildly, not wanting to reveal the direction of his
thoughts," tell me everything you remember about the first time
you came to my father's funeral."
  Tasslehoff did so, talking about how Dalamar attended
and Lady Crysania and Riverwind and Goldmoon, how the
Solamnic Knights sent a representative who traveled all the
way from the High Clerist's Tower and Gilthas came from the
elven kingdom of Qualinesti and Silvanoshei from his king-
dom of Silvanesti and Porthios and Alhana came and she was
as beautiful as ever. "And you were there, Laurana, and you
were so happy because you said you'd lived to see your dear-
est dream come true, the elven kingdoms united in peace and
brotherhood."
  "It's just a story he's made Up," Gerard said impatiently. "One
of those tales of 'what might have been."
  "What might have been," Palin said, watching the sunlight
sparkle on the jewels. liMy father had a story of what might have
been. " He looked at Tas. "You and my father traveled forward in
time together once, didn't you?"
  "It wasn't my fault," Tas said quickly. "We overshot our mark.
You see, we were trying to go back to our own time which was
356 but due to a miscalculation we ended up in 358. Not the 358
which was 358, but a really horrible 358 where we found Tika's
tomb and poor Bupu dead in the dust and Caramon's corpse, a
358 which thank goodness never happened because Caramon
and I went back in time to make sure that Raistlin didn't become
a god."
"Caramon once told me that story," Gerard said. "I thought-
Well, he was getting on in years and he did like to tell tales, so I
never really took him seriously."
  "My father believed that it happened," Palin said and that
was all he said.
  "Do you believe it, Palin?" Laurana asked insistently. "More
important, do you believe that Tas's story is true. That he really
did travel through time? Is that what you are thinking?"
  "What I am thinking is that I need to know much more about
this device," he replied. "Which is, of course, why my father
urged that the device be taken to Dalamar. He is the only person
in this world who was actually present during the time my father
worked the magic of the device."
  "I was there!" Tas reminded them. "And now I'm here."
  "Yes," said Palin with a cool, appraising glance. "So you are."
  In his mind, an idea was forming. It was only a spark, a tiny
flash of flame in a vast and empty darkness. Yet it had been
enough to send the rats scurrying.
  "You cannot ask Dalamar," Laurana said practically. "No
one's seen him since his return from the Chaos war."
  "No, Laurana, you are wrong," Palin said. "One person saw
him before his mysterious disappearance-his lover, Jenna. She
always claimed that she had no idea where he went, but I never
believed her. And she would be the one person who might know
something about this artifact."
  "Where does this Jenna live?" Gerard asked. "Your father
gave me the task of taking the kender and the device to Dalamar.
I may not be able to do that, but I could at least escort you, sir, and
the kender-"
  Palin was shaking his head. "That will not be possible, Sir
Knight. Mistress Jenna lives in Palanthas, a city under the control
of the Dark Knights."
  "So is Qualinesti, sir," Gerard pointed out, with a slight smile.
  "Slipping unnoticed across the h~avily wooded borders of
Qualinesti is one thing," Palin observed. "Entering the walled
and heavily guarded city of Palanthas is quite another. Besides
the journey would take far too long. It would be easier to meet
Jenna half way. Perhaps in Solace."
  "But can Jenna leave Palanthas?" Laurana asked. "I thought the
Dark Knights had restricted travel out of the city as well as into it."
"Such restrictions may apply to ordinary people," Palin said
drily. IINot to Mistress Jenna. She made it her business to get on
well with the knights when they took over the city. Very welL if
you take my meaning. Youth is lost to her, but she is still an at-
tractive woman. She is also the wealthiest woman in Solamnia
and one of the most powerful mages. No, Laurana, Jenna will
have no difficulty traveling to Solace. "He rose to his feet. He
needed to be alone, to think.
  "But aren't her powers abating like yours, Palin?" Laurana
asked.
  He pressed his lips together in displeasure. He did not like
speaking of his loss, as another might not like speaking of a can-
cerous growth. jenna has certain artifacts which continue to
work for her, as I have some which continue to work for me. It is
not much, "he added caustically, "but we make do."
  "Perhaps this is the best plan," Laurana agreed. "But how will
you return to Solace? The roads are closed-"
Palin bit his lip, bit back bitter words. Would they never quit
yammering at him?
  "Not to one of the Dark Knights," Gerard was saying. "I'll offer
myself as escort, sir. I came here with a kender prisoner. I will
leave with a human one."
  "Yes, yes, a good plan, Sir Knight," Palin said impatiently.
"You work out the details. "He started to walk off, eager to escape
to the silence of his room, but he thought of one more important
question. Pausing, he turned to ask it. "Does anyone else know of
the discovery of this artifact?" 
  "Probably half of Solace by now, sir," Gerard answered
dourly. "The kender was not very secretive."
  "Then we must not waste time, "Palin said tersely. I will con-
tact Jenna."
  "How will you do that?" Laurana asked him.
  "I have my ways," he said, adding, with a curl of his lip, "Not
much, but I make do."
  He left the room, left abruptly, without looking back. He had
no need. He could feel her hurt and her sorrow accompany him
like a gentle spirit. He was momentarily ashamed, half-turned to
go back to apologize. He was her guest, after all. She was putting
her very life in danger to host him. He hesitated, and then he kept
walking.
No, he thought grimly. Laurana can't understand. Usha
doesn't understand. That brash and arrogant knight doesn't un-
derstand. They can't any of them understand. They don't know
what I've been through, what I've suffered. They don't know
my loss.
  Once, he cried in silent anguish, once I touched the minds of
gods!
  He paused, listening in the stillness, to see if he could by
chance hear a faint voice answering his grieving cry.
  He heard, as he always heard, only the empty echo.
  They think I've been freed from prison. They think my tor-
ment is ended.
  They are wrong.
  My confinement endures day after dreary day. The torture
goes on indefintely. Gray walls surround me. I squat in my own
filth. The bones of my spirit are cracked and splintered. My
hunger is so great that I devour myself. My thirst so great that I
drink my own waste. This is what I've become.
  Reaching the sanctuary of his room, he shut the door and then
dragged a chair across to lean against it. No elf would dream of
disturbing the privacy of one who has shut himself away, but
Palin didn't trust them. He didn't trust any of them.
  He sat down at a writing desk, but he did not write to Jenna.
He placed his hand on a small silver earring he wore in his ear
lobe. He spoke the words to the spell, words that perhaps didn't
matter anymore, for there was no one to hear them. Sometimes
artifacts worked without the ritual words, sometimes they only
worked with the words, sometimes they didn't work at all under
any circumstances. That was happening more and more often
these days.
  He repeated the words and added "Jenna" to them.
  A hungry wizard had sold her the six silver earrings. He was
evasive about where he had found them, mumbled something to
the effect that they had been left to him by a dead uncle.
  Jenna had told Palin, "Certainly, the dead once owned these
earrings. But they were not willed to him. He stole them."
  She did not pursue the matter. Many once respectable wiz-
ard&--including Palin himself-had turned to grave robbery in
their desperate search for magic. The wizard had described what
the earrings did, said he would not have sold them but that dire
necessity drove him to it. She had paid him a handsome sum and, 
instead of placing the earrings in her shop, she had given one to 
Palin and one to Ulin, his son. She had not told Palin who wore
the others. ..
  He had not asked. Once there had been a time when the 
mages of the Conclave had trusted each other. In these dark days, 
with the magic dwindling, each now looked sidelong at the 
others wondering, "Does he have more than I do? Has he found 
something I have not? Has the power been given to him and not 
to me?" 
  Palin heard no response. Sighing, he repeated the words and
rubbed the metal with his finger. When he was first given the ear- ff
rings, the spell had worked immediately. Now it would take him 
three or four tries and there was always the nagging fear that this
might be the time it would fail altogether.
  "Jenna!" he whispered urgently.
  Something wispy and delicate brushed across his face, like the
touch of a fly's wings. Annoyed, he waved it away hurriedly, his
concentration broken. He looked for the insect, to shoo it off, but
couldn't find it. He was settling down to try the magic once again,
when Jenna's thoughts answered his. 
  "Palin. . ." 
  He focused his thoughts, keeping the message short, in case 
the magIc faIled midway. "Urgent need. Meet me m Solace. Im- 
medIately." 
  I will come at once." Jenna said nothing more did not waste 
time or the her own magic with questions. She trusted him. He 
would not send for her unless he had good reason. 
  Palin looked down at the device that he cherished in his 
broken hands. 
  Is this the key to my cell? he asked himself. Or nothing but an- 
other lash of the whip

  "He is very changed," said Gerard, after Palin had left the
atrium. "I would not have recognized him. And the way he spoke
of his father. . ." He shook his head.
  "Wherever Caramon is, I am certain he understands," Lau-
rana said. "Palin is changed, yes, but then who would not be 
changed after such a terrible experience. I don't think any of us
will ever know what torment he endured at the hands of the Gray 

Robes. Speaking of them, how do you plan to travel to Solace?"
she asked, skillfully turning the subject away from Palin to more
practical considerations.
  "I have my horse, the black one. I thought that perhaps Palin
could ride the smaller horse I brought for the kender."
  "And then I could ride the black horse with you!" Tas an-
nounced, pleased. "Although I'm not sure Little Gray will really
like Palin, but perhaps if I talk to her-"
  "You are not going," Gerard said flatly.
  "Not going!" Tas repeated, stunned. "But you need me!" '"
Gerard ignored this statement, which, of all statements ever
made in the course of history, could be ranked as most likely to be
ignored. "The journey will take many days, but that can't be
helped. It seems the only course--"
  "I have another suggestion," Laurana said. "Griffons could
fly you to Solace. They brought Palin here and they will carry
him back and you along with them. My falcon Brightwing will
take a message to them. The griffons could be here the day
after tomorrow. You and Palin will be in Solace by that
evening."
  Gerard had a brief, vivid. image of flying on griffon back or
perhaps it would be more accurate to say he had a brief vivid
image of falling off a griffon's back and smashing headfirst into
the ground. He flushed and fumbled for an answer that didn't
make him out to be a craven coward.
  "I couldn't possibly impose. . . We should leave at once. . ." 
  "Nonsense. The rest will do you good," Laurana replied, smil-
ing as if she understood the real reason behind his reluctance.
  "This will save you over a week's time and, as Palin said, we
must move swiftly before Beryl discovers such a valuable magi-
cal device is in her lands. Tomorrow night, after dark, Kalindas
will guide you to the meeting place."
  "I've never ridden a griffon," Tas said, hinting. "At least, not
that I can remember. Uncle Trapspringer did once. He said. . ."
  "No," Gerard cut in firmly. "Absolutely not. You will stay
with the Queen Mother, if she'll have you. This is already dan-
gerous enough without-" His words died away.
  The magical device was once again in the kender's posses-
Ision. Tasslehoff was, even now, stuffing the device down the front
of his shirt.
Far from Qualinesti, but not so far that she couldn't keep an
eye watching and an ear listening, the great green dragon Beryl
lay in her tangled, overgrown, vine-ridden bower and chafed at
the wrongs which had been done to her. Wrongs which itched
and stung her like a parasitic infestation and, like a parasite, she
could scratch here and scratch there, but the itch seemed to move
so that she was never quite rid of it.
  At the heart of all her trouble was a great red dragon, a mon-
strous wrym that Beryl feared more than anything else in this
world, though she would have allowed her green wings to be
pulled off and her enormous green tail to be tied up in knots
before she admitted it. This fear was the main reason Beryl had
agreed to the pact three years ago. She had seen in her mind her
own skull adorning Malys's totem. Besides the fact that she
wanted to keep her skull, Beryl had resolved that she would
never give her bloated red cousin that satisfaction.
  The pact of peace between the di-agons had seemed a good idea
at the time. It ended the bloody dragon purge, during which the
dragons had fought and killed not only mortals, but each other, as
well. The dragons who had emerged alive and powerful divided
up parts of Ansalon, each claiming a portion to rule and leaving
some previously disputed lands, such as Abanasinia, untouched.
  The peace had lasted about a year before it started to crumble.
When Beryl felt her magical powers start to seep away, she
blamed the elves, she blamed the humans, but in her heart she
knew full well where the real blame lay. Malys was stealing her
magic. No wonder her red cousin had no more need to kill her
own kind! She had found some way to drain the other dragons of
their power. Beryl's magic had been a major defense against her
stronger cousin. Without that magic, the green dragon would be
as helpless as a gully dwarf.
  Night fell while Beryl was musing. Darkness wrapped around
her bower like another, larger vine. She fell asleep, lulled by the
lullabye of her scheming and plotting. She was dreaming that she
had found at last the legendary Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth.
She wrapped her huge body around the tower and felt the magic
flow into her, warm and sweet as the blood of a gold dragon. . . .
  "Exalted One!" A hissing voice woke her from her pleasant
dream.
Beryl blinked and snorted, sending fumes of poisonous gas
roiling among the leaves. "Yes, what is it?" she demanded, focus-
ing her eyes on the source of the hiss. She could see quite well in
the darkness, had no need of light.
  "A messenger from Qualinost," said her draconian servant.
"He claims his news is urgent, else I would not have disturbed
you.
  "Send him in."
  The draconian bowed and departed. Another draconian ap-
peared in his place. A Baaz named Groul, he was one of Beryl's
favorites, a trusted messenger who traveled between her lair and
Qualinesti. Draconians were created during the War of the Lance
when black robed wizards and evil clerics loyal to Takhisis stole
the eggs of good dragons and gave them hideous life in the form
of these winged lizard-men. Like all his kind, the Baaz walked
upright on two powerful legs, but he could run on all fours, using
his wings to increase his movement over the ground. His body
was covered with scales that had a dull metallic sheen. He wore
little in the way of clothing, which would have hampered his
movements. He was a messenger and so he was armed only
lightly, with a short sword that he wore strapped to his back, in
between his wings.
  Beryl wakened more fully. Normally a laconic creature, who
rarely evinced any type of emotion, Groul appeared quite pleased
with himself this night. His lizard eyes glittered with excitement,
his fangs were prominent in a wide grin. The tip of his flickered
in his mouth.
Beryl shifted and rolled her huge body, wallowing deeper in
the muck to increase her comfort, gathering her vines around her
like a writhing blanket.
  "News from Qualinost?" Beryl asked casually. She did not
want to seem too eager.
  "Yes, Exalted One," said Groul, moving forward to stand near
one of the gigantic claws of her front foot. "Most interesting news
involving the Queen Mother, Laurana."
  "Indeed? Is that fool knight Medan still enamored of her?"
  "Of course." Groul dismissed this as old news. "According to
our spy, he shields and protects her. But that is not such a bad
thing, Mistress. The Queen Mother believes herself to be invulner-
able and thus we are able to discover what the elves are plotting."
"True," Beryl agreed. "So long as Medan remembers where
his true loyalities lie, I permit his little flirtation. He has served
me well thus far and he is easily removed. What else? There is
something else, I believe. . ."
  Beryl rested her head on the ground, to put herself level with
the draconian, gazed intently at him. His excitement was catch-
ing. She could feel it quiver through her. Her tail twitched, her
claws dug deep into the oozing mud.
  Groul drew closer still. "I reported to you several days ago
that the human mage, Palin Majere, was hiding out in the Queen
Mother's house. We wondered at the reason for this visit. You
suspected he was there searching for magical artifacts."
  "Yes," Beryl said. "Go on."
  "I am pleased to report, Exalted One, that he found one."
  "Indeed?" Beryl's eyes gleamed, casting an eerie green light
over the draconian. "And what is the artifact he found? What
does it do?"
  " According to our elven spy, the artifact may have something
to do with traveling through time. The artifact is in the possession
of a kender, who claims that he came from another time, a time
prior to the Chaos War."
  Beryl snorted, filling her lair with noxious fumes. The dra-
conian choked and coughed.
  "Those vermin will say anything. If this is all-"
  "No, no, Exalted One," Groul hastened to add when he could
speak. "The elven spy reports that Palin Majere was tremen-
dously excited over this find. So excited that he has made
arrangements to leave Qualinost with the artifact immediately, in
order to study it."
  "Is that so?" Beryl relaxed, settled herself more comfortably.
"He was excited by it. The artifact must be powerful, then. He
has a nose for these things, as I said to the Gray Robes when
they would have slain him. 'Let him go,' I told them. 'He will
lead us to magic as a pig to truffles.' How may we acquire
this?"
  "The day after this day, Exalted One, the mage and the kender
will depart Qualinesti. They will be met by a griffon who will fly
them from there to Solace. That would be the best time to capture
them."
  "Return to Qualinost. Inform Medan--"
"Pardon me, Exalted One. I am not permitted into the
marshal's presence. He finds me and my kind distasteful."
  "He is becoming more like an elf every day," Beryl growled.
"Some morning he will wake with pointed ears."
  "I can send my spy to report to him. That is the way I usually
operate. Thus my spy keeps me informed of what is going on in
Medan's household as well."
  "Very well. Here are my orders. Have your spy tell Marshal
Medan that I want this mage captured and delivered alive. He is
to be brought to me, mind you. Not those worthless Gray Robes."
  "Yes, Exalted One." Groul started to leave, then turned back.
"Do you trust the marshal with a matter of this importance?"
  "Certainly not" Beryl said disdainfully. "But I will make my
own arrangements. Now go!"

   Marshal Medan was taking his breakfast in his garden, where
he liked to watch the sun rise. He had placed his table and chair
on a rock ledge beside a pond so covered with water lilies that he
could barely see the water. A nearby snowfall bush filled the air
with tiny white blossoms. Having finished his meaL he read the
morning dispatches, which had just arrived, and wrote out his
orders for the day. Every so often he paused in his work to toss
bread crumbs to the fish who were so accustomed to his routine
that every morning at this time they came to the surface in antic-
ipation of his arrival.
  "Sir." Medan's aide approached, irritably brushing the falling
blossoms from his black tunic. "An elf to see you, sir. From the
household of the Queen Mother."
  "Our traitor?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Bring him to me at once."
  The aide sneezed, gave a sullen response and departed.
  Medan drew his knife from the sheath he wore on a belt
around his waist placed the knife on the table, and sipped at his
wine. He would not ordinarily have taken such precautions.
There had been one assassination attempt against him long ago,
when he had first arrived to take charge of Qualinesti. Nothing
had come of it. The perpetrators had been caught and hanged,
drawn and quartered; the pieces of their bodies fed to the car-
rion birds.
Recently, however, the rebel groups were becoming bolder,
more desperate. He was concerned about one in particular, a
female warrior whose personal beauty, courage in battle and
daring exploits were making her a heroine to the subjugated
elves. They called her "Lioness," for her mane of shining hair. She
and her band of rebels attacked supply trains, harried patrols,
ambushed messengers and generally made Medan's formerly
quiet and peaceful life among the Qualinesti elves increasingly
difficult.
  Someone was feeding the rebels information on troop
movements, the timing of patrols, the locations of baggage
trains. Medan had clamped down tightly on security, remov-
ing all elves (except his gardener) from his staff and urging
Prefect Palthainon and the other elven officials who were
known to collaborate with the knights to watch what they said
and where they said it. But security was difficult in a land
where a squirrel sitting eating nuts on your windowsill might
be taking a look at your maps, noting down the disposition of
your forces.
  Medan's aide returned, still sneezing, with the elf following
along behind, bearing a slip of a branch in his hand.
  Medan dismissed his aide with a recommendation that he
drink some catnip tea to help his cold. The Marshal sipped his
morning wine slowly, enjoying it. He loved the flavor of elven
wine, could taste the flowers and the honey from which it was
made.
  "Marshal Medan, my mistress sends this lilac cutting to you
for your garden. She says that your gardener will know how to
plant it."
  "Put it here," said Medan, indicating the table. He did not
look at the elf, but continued to toss crumbs to the fish. If that is
all, you have leave to go."
  The elf coUghed, cleared his throat.
 "Something more?" Medan asked casually.
  The elf cast a furtive glance all around the garden.
  Speak. We are alone," Medan said.
  Sir, I have been ordered to relay information to you. I told
you previously that the mage, Palin Majere, was visiting my
mistress."
  Medan nodded. "Yes, you were assigned to keep watch on
him and report to me what he does. I must assume from the fact
that you are here that he has done something."
  "Palin Majere has recently come into possession of an
extremely valuable artifact, a magical artifact from the Fourth
Age. He is going to transport that artifact out of Qualinost. His
plan is to take it to Solace."
  " And you reported the discovery of this artifact to Groul who
reported it to the dragon," said Medan with an inward sigh. More
trouble. "And, of course, Beryl wants it."
  "Majere will be traveling by griffon. He is to meet the griffin
tomorrow morning at dawn in a clearing located about twenty
miles north of Qualinost. He travels in company with a kender
and a Solarnnic Knight-"
  "A Solarnnic Knight?" Medan was amazed, more interested in
the knight than in the magic-user. "How did a Solarnnic Knight
manage to enter Qualinesti without being discovered?"
  "He disguised himself as one of your knights, my lord. He
pretended that the kender was his prisoner, that he had stolen a
magical artifact and that he was taking the prisoner to the Gray
Robes. Word reached Majere of the artifact and he waylaid the
knight and the kender, as the Knight had planned, and brought
them to the home of the queen mother."
  "Intelligent, courageous, resourceful." Medan threw crumbs
to the fish. "1 look forward to meeting this paragon."
  "Yes, my lord. As I said, the Knight will be with Majere in
the forest, along with the kender. I can provide you with a
map-"
  "I am certain you can," said Medan. He made a dismissive
gesture. "Give the details to my aide. And remove your treacher-
ous carcass from my garden. You poison the air."
  "Excuse me, sir," the elf said boldly. "But there is the matter
of payment. According to Groul, the dragon was extremely
pleased with the information. That makes it worth a consider-
able amount. More than usual. Shall we say, double what I usu-
ally receive?"
  Medan cast the elf a contemptuous glance, then reached for
quill and paper.
  "Give this to my aide. He will see that you are paid." Medan
wrote slowly and deliberately, taking his time. He hated this busi-
ness, considered the use of spies sordid and demeaning. "What
are you doing with all this money we have paid you to betray
your mistress, Elf?" He would not dignify the wretch with a
name. "Do you plan to enter the Senate? Perhaps take over from
Prefect Palthainon, that other monument to treachery."
  The elf hovered near, his eyes on the paper and the figures the
Marshal was writing, his hand waiting to pluck it away. "It is easy
for you to talk, Human," the elf said bitterly. "You were not born
a servant as I was, given no chance to better myself. 'You should
be honored with your lot in life,' they tell me. 'After all, your
father was a servant to the House Royal. Your grandfather was a
servant in that household as was his grandfather before him.
House Servitor is the house to which you are born. If you try to
leave or raise yourself, you will bring about the downfall of elven
society!' Hah!
  "Let my brother demean himself. Let him bow and scrape and
grovel to the mistress. Let him fetch and carry for her. Let him
wait to die with her on the day the dragon attacks and destroys
them all. I mean to do something better with my life. As soon as
I have saved money enough, I will leave this place and make my
own way in the world."
  Medan signed the note, dripped melted wax beneath his sig-
nature, and pressed his seal ring into the wax. "Here, take this. I
am pleased to be able to contribute to your departure."
  The elf snatched the note, read the amount, smiled and,
bowing, departed in haste.
  Medan tossed the remainder of the bread into the pond and
rose to his feet. His enjoyment of the day had been ruined by that
contemptible creature, who, out of greed, was now informing on
the woman he served, a woman who trusted him.
  At least, Medan thought, I will capture this Palin Majere out-
side of Qualinost. There will be no need to bring Laurana into it.
Had I been forced to apprehend Majere in the queen mother's
house, I would have had to arrest the queen mother for harboring
a fugitive.
  He could imagine the uproar over such an arrest. The queen
mother was immensely popular; her people having apparently
forgiven her for marrying a half-human and for having a brother
who was in exile, termed a "dark elf," one who is cast from the
light. The Senate would be in a clamor. The population, already
in an excited state, would be incensed. There was even the remote
possibility that news of his mother's arrest would cause her
worthless son to grow a backbone.
  Much better this way. Medan had been waiting for just such
an opportunity. He would turn Majere and his artifact over to
Beryl and be done with it.
  The marshal left the garden to put his lilac slip into water, so
that it would not dry out.

                  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
               GILTHAS AND THE LIONESS

  Gilthas, Laurana's "worthless son," was at that moment
resting his quite adequate backbone against a chair in an
underground room of a tavern owned and run by gully
dwarves. The tavern was called the Gulp and Belch.:.--this being,
as near as the gully dwarves could ascertain, the only thing
humans did in a tavern.
  The Gulp and Belch was located in a small habitation of gully
dwarves (one could not dignify it by terming it a "village") lo-
cated near the fortress of Pax Tharkas. The tavern was the only
building in the habitation. The gully dwarves who ran the tavern
lived in caves in the hills behind the tavern, caves that could be
reached only by tunnels located beneath the tavern.
  The gully dwarf community was located some eighty miles
straight as the griffon flies from Qualinost, longer-far longer-if
one traveled by road. Gilthas had flown here on the back of a grif-
fon, one whose family was in the service of House Royal. The
beast had landed the king and his guide in the forest and was
now awaiting their return with less impatience than might have
been expected. Kerian had made certain to provide the griffon
with a freshly killed deer to make the long hours of waiting pass
pleasantly and to ensure that the beast didn't dine on any of their
hosts.
  The Gulp and Belch was surprisingly popular. Or perhaps not
surprising, considering that the prices were the lowest in Ansa-
Ion. Two coppers could buy anything. The business had been
started by the same gully dwarf who had been a cook in the
household of the late Dragon Highlord, Verminaard.
  People who know gully dwarves, but who have never tasted
gully dwarf cooking, find it impossible to even imagine eating
anything a gully dwarf might prepare. Considering that a fa-
vorite delicacy of gully dwarf is rat meat, some equate the idea of
having a gully dwarf for a cook with a death wish.
  Gully dwarves are the outcasts of dwarfdom. Although they
are dwarves, the dwarves do not claim them and will go to great
lengths to explain why gully dwarves are dwarves in name only.
Gully dwarves are extremely stupid, or so most people believe.
Gully dwarves cannot count past two, their system of numbering
being "one", "two." The very smartest gully dwarf, a legend
among gully dwarves, whose name was Bupu, actually once
counted past two, coming up with the ter}:n "a whole bunch."
  Gully dwarves are not noted for their interest in higher
mathematics. They are noted for their cowardice, for their filth,
their love of squalor and-oddly enough-their cooking. Gully
dwarves make extremely good cooks, so long as the diner sets
down rules about what may and may not be served at the table
and refrains from entering the kitchen to see how the food is
prepared.
  The Gulp and Belch served up an excellent roast haunch of
venison smothered in onions and swimming in rich brown
gravy. The ale was adequate-not as good as in many establish-
ments, but the price was right. The dwarf spirits made the
tavern's reputation. They were truly remarkable. The gully
dwarves distilled their own from mushrooms cultivated in their
bedrooms. Those drinking the brew are advised not to dwell on
that fact for too long.
  The tavern was frequented mainly by humans who could
afford no better, by kender who were glad to find a tavernkeeper
who did not immediately toss them out into the street, and by the
lawless, who were quick to discover that the Knights of Neraka
rarely patrolled the wagon ruts termed a road leading to the
tavern.
  The Gulp and Belch was also the hideout and headquarters
for the warrior known as the Lioness, a woman who was also,
had anyone known it, queen of Qualinesti, secret wife of the
Speaker of the Sun, Gilthas.
  The elven king sat in the chair in the semidarkness of the
tavern's back room, trying to curb his impatience. Elves are never
impatient. Elves, who live for hundreds of years, know that the
water will boil, the bread will rise, the acorn will sprout, the oak
will grow and that all the fuming and watching and attempts to
hurry it make only for an upset stomach. Gilthas had inherited
impatience from his half-human father, and although he did his
best to hide it, his fingers drummed on the table and his foot
tapped the floor.
  Kerian glanced over at him, smiled. A single candle stood on
the table between them. The candle's flame was reflected in her
brown eyes, shone warmly on smooth, brown skin, glinted in the
burnished gold of her mane of hair. Kerian was a Kagonesti, a
Wilder elf, a race of elves who, unlike their city-dwelling cousins,
the Qualinesti and the Silvanesti, live with nature. Since they do
not try to alter nature or shape it, the Wilder elves are looked
upon as barbarians by their more sophisticated cousins, who
have also gone so far as to enslave the Kagonesti and force them
to serve in wealthy elven households-all for the Kagonesti's
own good, of course.
  Kerian had been a slave in the household of Senator Rashas.
She had been present when Gilthas was first brought to that
house, ostensibly as a guest, in reality a prisoner. The two had
fallen in love the first moment they had seen each other, although
it was months, even years, before they actually spoke of their feel-
ings, exchanged their secret vows. .
  Only two other people, Planchet and Gilthas's mother, Lau-
rana, knew of the king's marriage to the girl who had once been
a slave and who was now known as the Lioness, fearless leader
of the Khansari, the Night People.
  Catching Kerian's eye, Gilthas realized immediately what he
was doing. He clenched the tapping fingers to a fist and crossed
his booted feet to keep them quiet. "There," he said ruefully. "Is
that better?"
"You will fret yourself into a sickness if you're not carefuL"
Kerian scolded, smiling. "The dwarf will come. He gave his
word."
  "So much depends on this," said Gilthas. He stretched out his
legs to ease the kinks of the unaccustomed exercise "Perhaps our
very survival as a-" He halted, stared down at the floor. "Did
you feel that?"
  "The shaking? Yes. I've felt it the last couple of hours. It's
probably just the gully dwarves adding to their tunnels. They
love to dig in the dirt. As to what you were saying, there is no
'perhaps' about our ultimate destruction," Kerian returned
crisply.
  Her voice with its accent that civilized elves considered un-
couth was like the song of the sparrow, of piercing sweetness
with a note of melancholy.
  "The Qualinesti have given the dragon everything she has de-
manded. They have sacrificed their freedom, their pride, their
honor. They have, in some instances, even sacrificed their
own-all in return for the dragon's permission to live. But the
time will come when Beryl will make a demand your people will
find impossible to fulfill. When that day comes and she finds her
will thwarted, she will destroy the Qualinesti."
  "Sometimes I wonder why you care," Gilthas said, looking
gravely at his wife. "The Qualinesti enslaved you, took you from
your family. You have every right to feel vengeful. You have every
right to steal away into the wilderness and leave those who hurt
you to the fate they so richly deserve. Yet you do not. You risk
your life on a daily basis fighting to force our people to look at the
truth, no matter how ugly, to hear it no matter how unpleasant."
  "That is the problem," she returned. "We must stop thinking
of the elven people as 'yours' and 'mine.' Such division and iso-
lation is what has brought us to this pass. Such division gives
strength to our enemies."
  "I don't see it changing," Gilthas said grimly. "Not unless
some great calamity befalls us and forces us to change, and per-
haps not even then. The Chaos War, which might have brought us
closer, did nothing but further fragment our people. Not a day
goes by but that some senator makes a speech telling of how our
cousins the Silvanesti have shut us out of their safe haven beneath
the shield, how they want us all to die so that they can take over
our lands. Or someone starts a tirade against the Kagonesti, how
their barbaric ways will bring down all that we have worked over
the centuries to build. There are actually those who approve of
the fact that the dragon has closed the roads. We will do better
without contact with the humans, they say. The Knights of
Neraka urge them on, of course. They love such rantings. It
makes their task far easier."
  "From the rumors I hear, the Silvanesti may be finding that
their vaunted magical shield is in reality a tomb."
Gilthas looked startled, sat upright. "Where did you hear
this? You have not told me."
  "I have not seen you in a month," Kerian replied with a touch
of bitterness. "I only heard this a few days ago, from the runner
Kelevandros your mother sends regularly to keep in touch with
your aunt Alhana Starbreeze. Alhana and her forces have settled
on the border of Silvanesti, near the shield. They are allied with
the humans who belong to the Legion of Steel. Alhana reports
that the land around the shield is barren, trees sicken and die. A
horrible gray dust settles over everything. She fears that this same
malaise may be infecting all of Silvanesti."
  "Then why do our cousins maintain the shield?" Gilthas
wondered.
"They are afraid of the world beyond. Unfortunately, they are
right in some instances. Alhana and her forces fought a pitched
battle with ogres only a short time ago, the night of that terrible
thunderstorm. The Legion of Steel came to their rescue or they
would have been wiped out. As it was, Alhana's son Silvanoshei
was captured by ogres, or so she believes. She could find no trace
of him when the battle was ended. Alhana grieves for him as for
the dead."
  "My mother has said nothing of this to me," Gilthas stated,
frowning.
  "According to Kelevandros, Laurana fears Marshal Medan's
heightened watchfulness. She trusts only those in her household.
She dare not trust anyone outside it. Whenever the two of you are
together, she is certain that you are spied upon. She does not want
the Dark Knights to find out that she is in constant contact with
Alhana."
  "Mother is probably right," Gilthas admitted. "My servant
Planchet is the only person I trust and that is because he has
proven his loyalty to me time and again. So Silvanoshei is dead,
killed by ogres. Poor young man. His death must have been a
cruel one. Let us hope he passed swiftly."
  "Did you ever meet him?"
  Gilthas shook his head. "He was born in the Inn of the Last
Home in Solace during the time Alhana was exiled. I never saw
her after that. My mother told me that the boy favored my Uncle
Porthios in looks."
  "His death makes you heir to both kingdoms," Kerian ob-
served. "The Speaker of the Sun and Stars."
  "Which Senator Rashas always wanted," Gilthas said causti-
cally. "In reality, it seems I will be nothing more than the Speaker
of the Dead."
  "Speak no words of ill omen!" Kerian said and made the sign
against evil with her hand, drawing a circle in the air to encom-
pass the words and keep them trapped. "You- Yes, what is it,
Silverwing?"
  She turned to speak to an elf who had entered the secret room.
The elf started to say something but was interrupted by a gully
dwarf, who appeared to be in a state of extreme excitement, to
judge by the smell.
  "Me tel1!" the gully dwarf cried indignantly, jostling the elf.
"Me lookout! Her say so!" He pointed at Kerian.
  "Your Majesty." The elf made a hurried bow to Gilthas, before
he turned to Kerian, his commander, with his information. "The
high king of Thorbardin has arrived."
  "Him here," the gully dwarf announced loudly. Although he
did not speak elven, he could guess at what was being said. "Me
bring in?"
  "Thank you, Ponce." Kerian rose to her feet, adjusted the
sword she wore at her waist. "I will come to meet him. It would
be better if you remained here, Your Majesty," she added. Their
marriage was a secret, even from the elves under Kerian's
command.
  "Big muckity-muck dwarf. Him wear hat!" Ponce was im-
pressed. "Him wear shoes!" The gully dwarf was doubly im-
pressed. "Me never see dwarf wear shoes."
  "The high king has brought four guards with him," the elf
told Kerian. "As you ordered, we have watched their movements
ever since they left Thorbardin."
"For their safety, as well as ours, Your Majesty," Kerian was
quick to add, seeing Gilthas's expression darken.
  "They met with no one," the elf continued, "and they were
not followed-"
  "Except by us," Gilthas said sardonically.
  "It never hurts to be cautious, Your Majesty," Kerian said.
"Tam Bellowgranite is the new high king of the clans of Thor-
bardin. His rule is secure among his people, but dwarves have
traitors living among them, as do we elves."
  Gilthas sighed deeply. "I wish the day would come when this
was not so. I trust the dwarves did not notice that we were dog-
ging them?"
  "They saw the starlight, Your Majesty," said the elf proudly.
"They heard the wind in the trees. They did not see'or hear us."
  "Him say he like our dwarf spirits," Ponce said importantly,
his face shining, though this might have been due to the fact that
it was smeared with grease from the goose he had been basting.
"Him say we make fine dwarf spirits. You want try?" he asked
Gilthas. "Put hair up your nose."
  Kerian and the elf departed, taking the gully dwarf with
them. Gilthas sat watching the candle flame flicker with the stir-
ring of the air. Beneath his feet came that strange shivering in the
ground, as if the very world trembled. All around him was dark-
ness. The candle's flame was the only light, and it could be extin-
guished in a breath. So much could go wrong. Even now, Marshal
Medan might be entering Gilthas's bedroom. The Marshal might
be ripping up the pillows from the bed, arresting Planchet, de-
manding to know the whereabouts of the king.
  Gilthas was suddenly very tired. He was tired of this duplici-
tous life, tired of the lies and the deceptions, tired of the fact that
he was constantly performing. He was always on stage, never al-
lowed a moment to rest in the wings. He could not even sleep
well at night, for he was afraid he might say something in his
sleep that would bring about his downfall.
  Not that he would be the one to suffer. Prefect Palthainon
would see to that. So would Medan. They needed Gilthas on the
throne, jerking and twitching to the strings they pulled. If they
found out that he'd cut those strings, they would simply reattach
them. He would remain on the throne. He would remain alive.
Planchet would die, tortured until he was forced to reveal all he
knew. Laurana might not be executed but she would certainly be
exiled, deemed a dark elf like her brother. Kerian might well be
captured, and Medan had proclaimed publicly the terrible death
the Lioness would suffer should she ever fall into his hands.
  Gilthas would not suffer, except that he would be forced to
watch those he loved most in the world suffer and know he was
powerless to help them. That would be, perhaps, the greatest tor-
ment of all. 
  Out of the darkness crept his old companions: fear, self-doubt,
self-hatred, self-loathing. He felt them lay their cold hands upon
him and reach inside and twist his gut and wring the icy sweat
from his shivering body. He heard their wailing voices cry to him
warnings of doom, shout prophecies of death and destruction. He
was not equal to this task. He dared not continue this course of
action. It was foolhardy. He was putting his people at risk. He
was certain they had been discovered. Medan knew everything.
Perhaps if Gilthas went back now, he could make it all right. He
would crawl into his bed and they would never know he had
been gone. . . .
  "Gilthas," said a stem voice.
  Gilthas started. He looked wildly into a face he did not know.
  "My husband, II Kerian said gently.
  Gilthas shut his eyes, a shudder passed through his body.
Slowly he unclenched the hands that had tightened to fists. He
made himself relax, forced the tension to ease from his body,
forced himself to quit shaking. The darkness that had momentar-
ily blinded him retreated. The candle's flame that was Kerian
burned brightly, steadily. He drew in a deep, shivering breath.
  "I am well, now," he said.
  "Are you certain?1I Kerian asked." The thane waits in the ad-
jacent room. Should I stall him?"
  "No, the attack has passed," Gilthas said, swallowing to rid
his mouth of the taste of bile. "You drove away the demons. Give
me a moment to make myself presentable. How do I look?"
  "As if you had seen a wraith," said Kerian. "But the dwarf
will not notice anything amiss. All elves seem pasty-faced to
them."
  Gilthas caught hold of his wife, held her close.
  "Stop it!" she protested, half-laughing and half in earnest.
"There's no time for this now. What if someone saw us?"
"Let them," he said, casting caution aside. "I am tired of lying
to the world. You are my strength, my salvation. You saved my
life, my sanity. When I think back to what I was, a prisoner to
those same demons, I wonder how you ever came to love me."
  "I looked through the cell bars and saw the man locked
inside," Kerian replied, relaxing in her husband's arms, if only for
a moment. "I saw his love for his people. I saw how he suffered
because they suffered and he felt helpless to prevent their pain.
Love was the key. All I did was put it into the door and turn the
lock. You have done all the rest."
She slid out of his embrace and was, once again, the warrior
queen. "Are you ready? We should not keep the high king wait-
ing longer."
  "I am ready," Gilthas said.
  He took in another deep breath, shook back his hair and,
walking straight and tall, entered the room.
  "His Majesty, Speaker of the Sun, Gilthas of the House of
Solostaran," Kerian announced formally.
  The dwar£ who was enjoying a mug of dwarf spirits, placed
the mug on a table and lowered his head in a gesture of respect.
He was tall for a dwarf and looked far older than his true age, for
his hair had gone prematurely gray, his beard was gray streaked
with white. His eyes were bright and clear and youthfuL his gaze
sharp and penetrating. He kept his gaze fixed on Gilthas, seemed
to bore through the elf's breastbone as if he would see straight
into his heart.
  "He has heard rumors of me," Gilthas said to himself. "He
wonders what to believe. Am I a weak dish rag to be wrung out
by every hand? Or am I truly the ruler of my people as he is the
ruler of his?"
  "The High King of the Eight Clans," said Kerian, "Tam Bel-
lowgranite."
  The dwarf was himself a half-breed. Much as Gilthas, who
had human blood in his veins, Tam was a product of a liaison
between a Hylar dwarf-the nobles of dwarfdom-and a Daer-
gar, the dark dwarves. After the Chaos War, the Thorbardin
dwarves had worked with humans to rebuild the fortress of Pax
Tharkas. It seemed that the Thorbardin dwarves might actually
once more begin to interact with the other races, including their
brethren, the hill dwarves, who, due to a feud that dated back to
the Cataclysm, had long been shut out of the great dwarven
kingdom beneath the mountain.
  But with the coming of the great dragons and the death and
destruction they brought, the dwarves had gone back under-
ground. They had sealed up the gates of Thorbardin once again,
and the world had lost contact with them. The Daergar had taken
advantage of the turmoil to try to seize the rulership of Thor-
bardin, plunging that nation into a bloody civil war. Tam Bellow-
granite was a hero of the war, and when it came time to pick up
the pieces, the thanes had turned to him for leadership. He had
found a people divided, a kingdom tottering on the edge of ruin
when he came to his rule. He had placed that kingdom upon a
firm foundation. He had united the warring clans behind his lead-
ership. Now he was about to contemplate another step that would
be something new in the annals of the dwarves of Thorbardin.
  Gilthas stepped forward and bowed deeply, with sincere re-
spect. "High King," he said speaking flawless Dwarvish, a lan-
guage he had learned from his father. "1 am honored to meet you
at last. I know you do not like to leave your home beneath the
mountain. Your journey was a long one and perilous, as are all
journeys made in the world during these dark times. I thank you
for making the journey, for undertaking to meet me here this day
to close and formally seal our agreement."
  The high king nodded his head, tugging on his beard, a sign
that he was pleased with the words. The fact that the elf spoke
Dwarvish had already impressed Tam. Gilthas had been right.
The dwarf king had heard stories of the elf king's weak and in-
decisive nature. But Tam had learned over the years that it was
never wise to judge a man until, as the dwarves would say, you
had seen the color of his beard.
  "The journey was pleasant. It is good to breathe the air above
the ground for a change," Tam replied. "And now, let us get
down to business." He looked at Gilthas shrewdly. "I know how
you elves love to palaver. I believe that we can dispense with the
niceties."
  "I am part human," Gilthas replied with a smile. "The impa-
tient part, or so they tell me. I must be back in Qualinost before
tomorrow's dawning. Therefore I will begin. This matter has been
under negotiation for a month. We know where we stand, I
believe? Nothing has changed?"
"Nothing has changed with us," said Tarn. "Has anything
changed with you?"
  "No, it has not. We are in agreement then." Gilthas dropped
the formal tone. "You have refused to accept any payment, sir. I
would not permit this, but that I know there is not wealth
enough in all of Qualinesti to compensate you and your people
for what you are doing. I know the risks that you run. I know
that this agreement has caused controversy among your people.
I guess that it has even threatened your rule. And I can give you
nothing in return except for our thanks-our eternal and undy-
ing thanks."
  "Nay, lad," said Tam, flushing in embarrassment. Dwarves
dislike being praised. "What I do will bring good to my people as
well as yours. Not all of them can see that at this point, but they
will. Too long we have lived hidden away from the world be-
neath the mountain. The notion came to me when civil war
erupted in Thorbardin, that we dwarves might well kill each
other off and who would ever know? Who would grieve for us?
None in this world. The caverns of Thorbardin might fall silent in
death, darkness overtake us, and there would be none to speak a
word to fill that silence, none to light a lamp. The shadows would
close over us, and we would be forgotten.
  "I determined I would not allow that to happen. We dwarves
would return to the world. The world would enter Thorbardin.
Of course," Tam said, with a wink and sip of dwarf spirits, "I .
could not thrust such change upon my people overnight. It has
taken me long years to bring them around to my way of thinking,
and even then many are still wagging their beards and stamping
their feet over it. But we are doing the right thing. Of that I am
convinced. We have already started work on the tunnels," he
added complacently.
  "Have you? Before the papers were signed?" Gilthas asked
amazed.
  Tarn took a long gulp, belched contentedly, and grinned.
"Bah! What are papers? What are signatures? Give me your hand,
King Gilthas. That will seal our bargain."
  "I give you my hand, King Tam, and I am honored to do so,"
Gilthas replied, deeply touched. "Is there any point on which I
can reassure you? Do you have any questions to ask of me?"
  "Just one, lad," said Tam, putting down his mug and wiping
his chin with his sleeve. "Some of the thanes, most notably the
Neidar-a suspicious lot if I do say so--have said repeatedly that
if we allow elves to enter Thorbardin, they will turn on us and
seize our realm and make it their new home. You and I know that
will not happen," Tarn added, raising his hand to forestall
Gilthas's quick protest, "but what would you say to my people to
convince them that this tragedy would not come about?"
  "I would ask the thanes of the Neidar," said Gilthas, smiling,
"if they would build their homes in trees. What would be their
answer, do you think, sir?"
  "Hah, hah! They would as soon think of hanging themselves
by their beards," Tam said, chuckling.
  "Then, by the same token, we elves would as soon think of
hanging ourselves by our ears as to live in a hole in the ground.
No insult to Thorbardin intended," Gilthas added politely.
  "None taken, lad. I will tell the Neidar exactly what you have
said. That should blow the foam off their ale!" Tam continued to
chuckle.
  "To speak more clearly, I vow on my honor and my life that
the Qualinesti. will use the tunnels only for the purpose of re-
moving those in peril from the dragon's wrath. We have made
arrangements with the Plains people to shelter the refugees until
such time as we can welcome them back to their own homeland."
  "May that day be quick to dawn," said Tam gravely, no longer
laughing. He regarded Gilthas intently. "1 would ask why you do
not send your refugees to the land of your cousins, the realm of
Silvanesti, but I hear that it is closed and barred to you. The elves
there have placed some sort of magical fortress around it."
  "The forces of Alhana Starbreeze continue to try to find some
way to enter the shield," Gilthas said. "We must hope that they
will eventually find a way, not only for our sakes, but for the sake
of our cousins, as well. How long do you believe the work will
take for the tunnel to reach Qualinost?"
  " A fortnight, not more," said Tam easily.
  " A fortnight, sir! To dig a tunnel over sixty-five miles through
solid rock? I know the dwarves are master stonecutters," Gilthas
said, "but I must confess that this astounds me."
  "As I said, we had already started working. And we have
help," said Tam. "Have you ever heard of the Urkhan? No? I'm
not surprised. Few outsiders know anything about them. The
Urkhan are gigantic worms that eat rock. We harness them up,
and they gnaw through granite as if it were fresh-baked bread.
Who do you think built the thousands of miles of tunnels in Thor-
bardin?" Tam grinned. "The Urkhan, of course. The worm does
all the work, and we dwarves take all the credit!"
  Gilthas expressed his admiration for the remarkable worms
and listened politely to a discussion of the Urkhan's habits, its
docile nature, and what happened to the rock after it passed
through the worm's system.
  "But enough of this. Would you like to see them in action?"
Tam asked suddenly.
  "I would, sir," Gilthas said, "but perhaps some other time. As
I mentioned earlier, I must return to Qualinost by morning
light-"
  "You shall, lad, you shall," the dwarf replied, grinning hugely.
"Watch this." He stomped his booted foot twice on the floor.
  A momentary pause and then two thumps resonated loudly,
coming from the ground.
  Gilthas looked at Kerian, who was looking angered and
alarmed. Angry that she had not thought to investigate the
strange rumblings, alarmed because, if this was a trap, they had
just fallen neatly into it.
  Tam laughed loudly at their discomfiture.
  "The Urkhan!" he said by way of explanation. "They're right
beneath us!"
  "Here? Is that true?" Gilthas gasped. "They have come so far?
I know that I felt the ground shake-"
  Tarn was nodding his head, his beard wagging. "And we
have gone farther. Would you come below?"
Gilthas looked at his wife. "In all the rest of Qualinesti I am
king, but the Lioness is in charge here," he said, smiling. "What
do you say, madam? Shall we go see these wonderful worms?"
  Kerian made no objection, although this unforeseen turn of
events had made her wary. She said nothing outright that
might offend the dwarves, but Gilthas noted that every time
she encountered one of her Wilder elves, she gave him a signal
with either a look, a tilt of the head, or a slight gesture of her
hand. The elves disappeared, but Gilthas guessed that they had
not gone far, were watching and waiting, their hands on their
weapons.
They left the Gulp and Belch, some of Tam's escort departing
with every show of reluctance, wiping their lips and heaving
sighs laced with the pungent smell of dwarf spirits. Tam walked
no trail but shouldered and trampled his way through the brush,
thrusting or pushing aside anything that happened to be in his
path. Gilthas, looking back, saw the dwarves had cut a large
swath through the woods, a trail of broken limbs, trampled grass,
dangling vines, and crushed grass.
  Kerian cast a glance at Gilthas and rolled her eyes. He knew
exactly what she was thinking. No need to worry about the
dwarves hearing some trace of sound from shadowing elves. The
dwarves would have been hard put to hear a thunderclap over
their stomping and crashing. Tam slowed his pace. He appeared
to be searching for something. He said something in Dwarvish to
his companions, who also began to search. -
  "He's looking for the tunnel entrance," Gilthas said softly to
Kerian. "He says that his people were supposed to have left one
here, but he can't find it.
  "He won't, either," Kerian stated grimly. She was still irritated
over being hoodwinked by the dwarves. "I know this land. Every
inch of it. If the:re had been any sort of-"
  "She stopped, stared.
  "Tunnel entrance," Gilthas finished, teasing. "You would
have discovered it?"
  They had come to a large outcropping of granite some thirty
feet high jutting up through the forest floor. The striations on the
rock ran sideways. Small trees and patches of wild flowers and
grass grew between the layers. A large mass of boulders, parts of
the outcropping that had broken off and tumbled down the side,
lay at the foot of the outcropping. The boulders were huge, some
came to Gilthas's waist, many were larger than the dwarves. He
watched in astonishment as Tam walked up to one of these boul-
ders, placed his hand on it, and give it a shove. The boulder rolled
aside as if it were hollow.
  Which, in fact, it was.
  Tarn and his fellows cleared the boulder fall, revealing a large
and gaping hole in the outcropping.
  "This way!" Tam bellowed, waving his hand.
  Gilthas looked at Kerian, who simply shook her head and
gave a wry smile. She stopped to investigate the boulder, the
inside of which had been hollowed out like a melon at a feast.
  "The worms did this?" she asked, awed.
  "The Urkhan," said Tarn proudly, gesturing with his hand.
"The little ones," he added. "They nibble. The bigger ones would
have gulped down the boulder whole. They're not very bright,
I'm afraid. And they're always very hungry."
  "Look at it this way, my dea4" said Gilthas to Kerian as the
passed from the moonlit night into the coolness of the dwarf-
made cavern. "If the dwarves managed to hide the tunnel en-
trance from you and your people, they will have no trouble at all
hiding it from the cursed Knights."
  "True," Kerian admitted.
  Inside the cavern, Tarn stomped twice again on what ap-
peared to be nothing but a dirt floor. Two knocks greeted him
from below. Cracks formed in the dirt, and a trapdoor, cunningly
hidden, popped open. The head of dwarf poked out. Light
streamed upward.
  "Visitors," said Tarn in Dwarvish.
  The dwarf nodded, and his head vanished. They could hear
his thick boots clumping down the rungs of a ladder.
  "Your Majesty," said Tarn, gesturing politely.
  Gilthas went immediately. To hesitate would imply that he
did not trust the high thane and Gilthas had no intention of alien-
ating this new ally. He climbed nimbly down the sturdy ladder,
descending about fifteen feet and coming to rest on a smooth sur-
face. The tunnel was well-lit by what Gilthas first took to be
lanterns.
  Strange lanterns, though, he thought, drawing close to one.
They gave off no heat. He looked closer and saw to his amaze-
ment that the light came not from burning oil but from the body
of what appeared to be a large insect larvae. The larva lay curled
up in a ball at the bottom of an iron cage that hung from a hook
on the tunnel wall. A cage hung every few feet. The glow from the
body of the slumbering larva lit the tunnels as bright as day.
  "Even the offspring of the Urkhan work for us," Tarn said, ar-
riving at the bottom of the ladder. "The larva glow like this for a
month, and then they go dark. By that time, they are too big to fit
into the cages anyway, and so we replace them. Fortunately, there
is always a new crop of Urkhan to be harvested. But you must see
them. This way. This way."
He led them along the tunnels. Rounding a bend, they came
upon an astonishing sight. An enormous, undulating, slime-cov-
ered body, reddish brown in color, took up about half the tunnel.
Dwarven handlers walked alongside the worm, guiding it by
reins attached to straps wrapped around its body, slapping it with
their hands or with sticks if the body of the worm started to veer
off course or perhaps rollover and crush the handlers. Half the
tunnel had been cleared already by a worm up ahead, so Tam
told them. This second worm came behind, widening what had
already been built.
  The huge worm moved incredibly fast. Gilthas and Kerian
marveled at its size. The worm's body was as big around as
Gilthas was tall and, according to Tam, this worm was thirty feet
in length. Piles of chewed and half-digested rock littered the floor
behind the worm. Dwarves came along to shovel it to one side,
keeping a sharp eye out for gold nuggets or unrefined gemstones
as they cleared the rubble.
  Gilthas walked the worm's length, finally reaching its head. It
had no eyes, for it had no need of eyes, spending its life burrow-
ing beneath the ground. Two horns protruded from the top of its
head. The dwarves had placed a leather harness over these horns.
Reins extended from the harness back to a dwarf who sat in a
large basket strapped to the worm's body. The dwarf guided the
worm from the basket, pulling the head in the direction he
wanted to go.
  The worm seemed not to even know the dwarf was there. Its
one thought was to eat. It spewed liquid onto the solid rock in
front of it, liquid that must have been some sort of acid, for it
hissed when it hit the rock, which immediately started to bubble
and sizzle. Several large chunks of rock split apart. The worm's
maw opened, seized a chunk, and gulped it down.
  "Most impressive!" Gilthas said with such utter sincerity that
the high thane was immensely pleased, while the other dwarves
looked gratified.
  There was only one drawback. As the worm gnawed its way
through the rock, its body heaved and undulated, causing the
ground to shake. Being accustomed to it, the dwarves paid no at-
tention to the motion but walked with the ease of sailors on a
canting deck. Gilthas and Kerian had slightly more difficulty,
stumbling into each other or falling against the wall.
"The Dark Knights will notice this!" Kenan observed, shout-
ing to be heard over the worm's rending of the rock and the
dwarven handlers' yelling and cursing. "When Medan's bed
starts to bounce across the room and he hears shouts coming from
beneath his floor, he's going to be suspicious."
  "Tarn, this shaking and rumbling," Gilthas said, speaking di-
rectly into the dwarf's ear. "Can anything be done to quiet it? The
Dark Knights are sure to hear it or at least feel it."
  Tarn shook his head. "Impossible!" he bellowed. "Look at it
this way, lad, the worms are far quieter than a work force of
dwarves going at it with hammer and pick."
  Gilthas looked dubious. Tam motioned, and they followed
him back down the tunneL leaving the worms and the worst of
the commotion behind. Climbing the ladder, they emerged out
into a night that was far less dark than it had been when they
went underground. Dawn was coming. Gilthas would have to
leave soon.
  "My thought was that we would not tunnel under Qualinost
itselL" Tam explained, as they walked back to the Gulp and
Belch. "We're about forty miles away now. We will run our tun-
nels to within five miles of the city limits. That should be far
enough so that the Neraka Knights have no idea what we are
about. Also they'll be less likely to discover the entrances.."
  "What would happen if they did discover it?" Gilthas asked.
"They could use the tunnels to invade Thorbardin."
  "We'd collapse it first," Tam said bluntly. "Bring it down on
top of them and, likely, on top of a few of us, too."
"More and more I understand the risks you run for us,"
Gilthas said. "There is no way to thank you."
  Tarn Bellowgranite waved aside the words, looked uncom-
fortable and embarrassed. Gilthas thought it best to change the
subject.
  "How many tunnels will there be altogether, sir?"
  "Given time enough, we can build three fine ones," the dwarf
replied. "As it is, we have one this far. You can begin to evacuate
some of your people soon. Not many, for the walls are not com-
pletely shored up yet, but we can manage a few. As for the other
two tunnels, we will need at least two months."
  "Let us hope we have that long," Gilthas said quietly. "In the
meanwhile, there are people in Qualinost who have run afoul of
the Neraka Knights. The punishment of the Knights for law-
breakers is swift and cruel. The smallest infraction of one of
their many laws can result in imprisonment or death. With this
tunnel, we will be able to save some who otherwise would have
perished.
  "Tell me, Thane," Gilthas asked; knowing the answer, but
needing to hear it for himself, "would it be possible to evacuate
the entire city of Qualinost through that one tunnel?"
  "Yes, I think so," said the High Thane, "given a fortnight to
do it."
  A fortnight. If the dragon and the Neraka Knights attacked,
they would have hours at most to evacuate the people. At the end
of a fortnight, there would be no one left alive to evacuate. Glithas
sighed deeply.
  Kenan drew closer, put her hand on his arm. Her fingers were
strong and cool, and their touch reassured him. He had been
granted more than he had ever expected. He was not a baby, to
cry for the stars when he had been given the moon.
  He looked meaningfully at Kerian. "We will have to lay low
and not antagonize the dragon for at least a month."
  "My warriors will not rollover and play dead!" Kerian re-
turned sharply, "if that is what you have in mind. Besides, if we
suddenly ceased all our attacks, the Knights would grow suspi-
cious that we were up to something, and they would start search-
ing for it. This way, we will keep them distracted."
  "A month," Gilthas said softly, silently, praying to whatever
was out there, if anything was out there. "Just give me a month.
Give my people a month."

                   CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
              DAWN IN A TIME OF DARKNESS

Morning came to Ansalon, t~o.fast for som~, too slow for
others. The sun was a red slIt ill the sky, as if someone had
drawn a knife across the throat of the darkness. Gilthas
slipped hurriedly through the shadowy garden that surrounded
his prison palace, returning somewhat late to take up the danger-
ous role he must continue to play.
  Planchet was lurking upon the balcony, watching anxiously
for the young king, when a knock on the door announced Prefect
Palthainon, come for his morning string-jerking. Planchet could
not plead His Majesty's indisposition this day as he had the last.
Palthainon, an early riser, was here to bully the king, exercise his
power over the young man, make a show of his puppeteering to
the rest of the court.
  "Just a moment, Prefect!" Planchet shouted. "His Majesty is
using the chamber pot." The elf caught sight of movement in the
garden. "Your Majesty!" he hissed as loudly as he dared. "Make
haste!"
  Gilthas stood under the balcony. Planchet lowered the rope.
The king grasped it, climbed up nimbly, hand over hand.
The knocking resumed, louder and more impatient.
  "I insist upon seeing His Majesty!" Palthainon demanded.
  Gilthas clambered over the balcony. He made a dive for his
bed, climbed in between the sheets fully dressed. Planchet tossed
the blankets over the king's head and answered the door with his
finger on his lips.
  "His Majesty was ill all night. This morning he is unable to
keep down so much as a bit of dry toast," Planchet whispered. "I
had to help him back to bed."
  The prefect peered over Planchet's shoulder. He saw the king
raise his head, peering at the senator with bleary eyes.
  "I am sorry His Majesty has been ill," said the prefect, frown-
ing, "but he would be better up and doing instead of lying about
feeling sorry himself. I will be back in an hour. I trust His Majesty
will be dressed to receive me."
  Palthainon departed. Planchet closed the door. Gilthas smiled,
stretched his arms over his head, and sighed. His parting from
Kerian had been wrenching. He could still smell the scent of the
wood smoke that clung to her clothing, the rose oil she rubbed on
her skin. He could smell the crushed grass on which they had
lain, wrapped in each others arms, loathe to say good-bye. He
sighed again and then climbed out of bed, going to his bath, re-
luctantly washing away all traces of his clandestine meeting with
his wife.
  When the prefect entered an hour later, he found the king
busy writing a poem, a poem-if one could believe it-about a
dwarf. Palthainon sniffed and told the young man to leave off
such foolishness and return to business.
  Clouds rolled in over Qualinesti, blotting out the sun. A light
drizzle began to fall.

  The same morning sunshine that had gleamed down upon
Gilthas shone on his cousin, Silvanoshei, who had also been
awake all night. He was not dreading the morning, as was
Gilthas. Silvanoshei waited for the morning with an impatience
and a joy that still left him dazed and disbelieving.
  This day, Silvanoshei was to be crowned Speaker of the
Stars. This day, beyond all hope, beyond all expectation, he was
to be proclaimed ruler of his people. He would succeed in
doing what his mother and his father had tried to do and failed.
Events had happened so fast, Silvanoshei was still dazed by it
all. Closing his eyes, he relived it all again.
  He and Rolan, arriving yesterday on the outskirts of Silvanost,
were confronted by a group of elf soldiers.
  "So much for my kingship," Silvanoshei thought, more disap-
pointed than afraid. When the elf soldiers drew their swords,
Silvan expected to die. He waited, braced, weaponless. At least he
would meet his end with dignity. He would not fight his people.
He would be true to what his mother wanted from him.
  To Silvan's amazement, the elf soldiers lifted their swords to
the sunlight and began to cheer, proclaiming him Speaker of the
Stars, proclaiming him king. This was not an execution squad,
Silvan realized. It was an honor guard.
  They brought him a horse to ride, a beautiful white stallion.
He mounted and rode into Silvanost in triumph. Elves lined the
streets, cheering and throwing flowers so that the street was cov-
ered with them. Their perfume scented the air.
  The soldiers marched on either side, keeping the crowd back.
Silvan waved graciously. He thought of his mother and father.
Alhana had wanted this more than anything in the world. She
had been willing to give her life to attain it. Perhaps she was
watching from wherever the dead go, perhaps she was smiling to
see her son fulfill her dearest dream. He hoped so. He was no
longer angry at his mother. He had forgiven her, and he hoped
that she had forgiven him.
  The parade ended at the Tower of the Stars. Here a tall and
stem-looking elf with graying hair met them. He introduced him-
self as General Konnal. He introduced his nephew, Kiryn, who-
Silvan was delighted to discover-was a cousin. Konnal then
introduced the Heads of House, who would have to determine if
Silvanoshei was indeed the grandson of Lorac Caladon (his
mother's name was not mentioned) and therefore rightful heir to
the Silvanesti throne. This, Konnal assured Silvanoshei in an
aside, was a mere formality.
  "The people want a king," Konnal said. "The Heads of House
are quite ready to believe you are a Caladon, as you claim to be."
  "I am a Caladon," Silvanoshei said, offended by the implica-
tion that whether he was or he wasn't, the Heads would approve
him anyhow. "I am the grandson of Lorac Caladon and the son of
Alhana Starbreeze." He spoke her name loudly, knowing quite
well that he wasn't supposed to speak the name of one deemed a
dark elf.
  And then an elf had walked up to him, one of the most beau-
  tiful of his people that Silvanoshei had ever seen. This elf, who
  was dressed in white robes, stood looking at him intently.
  "I knew Lorac," the elf said at last. His voice was gentle and
musical. "This is indeed his grandson. There can be no doubt."
Leaning forward, he kissed Silvanoshei on both cheeks. He
looked at General Konnal and said again, "There can be no
doubt." 
  "Who are you, sir?" Silvan asked, dazzled.
  "My name is Glaucous," said the elf, bowing low. "I have
been named regent to aid you in the coming days. If General
Konnal approves, I will make arrangements for your coronation
to be held tomorrow. The people have waited long years for this
joyful day. We will not make them wait longer."
 
   Silvan lay in bed, a bed that had once belonged to his gr.and-
father, Lorac. The bedposts were made of gold and of slIver
twined together to resemble vines, decorated with flowers
formed of sparkling jewels. Fine sheets scented with lavender
covered the mattress that was stuffed with swan's down. A silken
coverlet of scarlet kept the night's chill from him. The ceiling
above him was crystal. He could lie in his bed and give audience
every night to the moon and the stars, come to pay homage.
  Silvanoshei laughed softly to himself for the delight of it all.
He thought that he should pinch his flesh to wake himself from
this wonderful dream, but he decided not to risk it. If he were
dreamin let him never wake. Let him never wake to find him-
self shivering in some dank cave, eating dried berries and way-
bread, drinking brackish water. Let him never wake to see elf
warriors drop dead at his feet, pierced by ogre arrows. Let him
never wake. Let this dream last the remainder of his life.
  He was hungry, wonderfully hungry, a hunger he could enjoy
because he knew it would be satiated. He imagined what he
would order for breakfast. Honeyed cakes, perhaps. Sugared rose
petals. Cream laced with nutmeg and cinnamon. He could have
anything he wanted, and if he didn't like it, he would send it
away and ask for something else.
  Reaching out his hand lazily for the silver bell that stood on
an ornate gold and silver nightstand, Silvanoshei rang for his
servants. He lay back to await the deluge of elf attendants to flood
the room, wash him out of his bed to be bathed and dressed and
combed and brushed and perfumed and bejeweled, made ready
for his coronation.
  The face of Alhana Starbreeze, his mother's face, came to
Silvan's mind. He wished her well, but this was his dream, a
dream in which she had no part. He had succeeded where she
had failed. He would make whole what she had broken.
  "Your Majesty. Your Majesty. Your Majesty."
  The elves of House Servitor bowed low before him. He ac-
knowledged them with a charming smile, allowed them to
fluff up his pillows and smooth the coverlet. He sat up in bed
and waited languidly to see what they would bring him for
breakfast.
  
  "Your Majesty," said an elf who had been chosen by the
Regent Glaucous to serve in the capacity of chamberlain, "Prince
Kiryn waits without to pay you honor on this day."
  Silvanoshei turned from the mirror in which he'd been ad-
miring his new finery. Seamstresses had worked all yesterday
and all today in a frantic hurry to stitch the you:ng king's robes
and cape he would wear for the ceremony.
  "My cousin! Please, let him enter without delay."
  "Your Majesty should never say, 'Please,' the chamberlain
chided with a smile. "When Your Majesty wants something done,
speak it and it will be done."
  "Yes, I will. Thank you." Silvan saw his second mistake and
flushed. "1 guess I'm not supposed to say, 'Thank you' either,
am I?"
  The chamberlain shook his head and departed. He returned
with an elf youth, several years older than Silvan. They had met
only briefly the day before. This was the first time they had been
alone together. Both young men regarded each other intently,
searching for some sign of relationship and, pleasing to both,
finding it.
  "How do you like all this, Cousin?" Kiryn asked, after the
many niceties and polite nothings had been given and received.
"Excuse me. I meant to say, 'Your Majesty.'" He bowed.
  "Please, call me 'cousin,'" Silvan said warmly. "1 never had a
cousin before. That is, I never knew my cousin. He is the king of
Qualinesti, you know. At least, that's what they call him."
  "Your cousin Gilthas. The son of Lauralanthalasa and the half-
human, Tanis. I know of him. Porthios spoke of him. He said that
Speaker Gilthas was in poor health."
  "You needn't be polite, Cousin. All of us know that he is
melancholy mad. Not his fault, but there you have it. Is it proper
for me to call you 'cousin'?"
  "Perhaps not in public, Your Majesty," Kiryn replied with a
smile. " As you may have noted, we in Silvanesti love formalities.
But in private, I would be honored." He paused a moment, then
added quietly, "I heard of the deaths of your father and mother. I
want to say how deeply grieved I am. I admired both of them
very much."
  "Thank you," Silvan said and, after a decent interval, he
changed the subject. "To answer your earlier question, I must
admit that I find all this rather daunting. Wond~rful, but daunt-
ing. A month ago I was living in a cave and sleeping on the
ground. Now I have this bed, this beautiful bed, a bed in which
my grandfather slept. The Regent Glaucous arranged for the bed
to be brought to this chamber, thinking it would please me. I have
these clothes. I have whatever I want to eat and drink. It all seems
a dream."
  Silvan turned back to regarding himself again in the mirror. He
was enchanted with his new clothing, his new appearance. He was
clean, his hair perfumed and brushed, his fingers adorned with
jewels. He was not flea bitten, he was not stiff from sleeping with a
rock for a pillow. He vowed, in his heart, never again. He did not
notice that Kiryn appeared grave when Silvan spoke of the regent.
  His cousin's gravity deepened as Silvan continued speaking.
"Talking of Glaucous, what an estimable man he is! I am quite
pleased with him as regent. So polite and condescending. Asking
my opinion about everything. At first, I don't mind telling you,
Cousin, I was a little put out at General Konnal for suggesting to
the Heads of House that a regent be appointed to guide me until
I am of age. I am already considered of age by Qualinesti stan-
dards, you see."
  Silvan's expression hardened. "And I am determined not to
be a puppet king like my poor cousin Gilthas. However, the
Regent Glaucous gave me to understand that he will not be the
ruler. He will be the person to smooth the way so that my wishes
and commands are carried out."
  Kiryn was silent, made no answer. He looked around the
room as if making up his mind to something. Drawing a step
nearer Silvan, he said, in a low voice, "May I suggest that Your
Majesty dismiss the servants?"
  Silvan regarded Kiryn in troubled astonishment, suddenly
wary, suspicious. Glaucous had told him that Kiryn himself had
designs upon the throne. What if this were a ploy to catch him
alone and helpless. . . .
  Silvan looked at Kiryn, who was slender and delicate of build,
with the soft, smooth hands of the scholar. Silvan compared his
cousin to himself, whose body was hardened, well-muscled.
Kiryn was unarmed. He could hardly represent a threat.
  "Very well," Silvan said and sent away the servants, who had
been tidying the room and laying out the clothes he would wear
at the formal dance given in his honor this evening.
  "There, Cousin. We are alone. What is it you have to say to
me?" Silvan's voice and manner were cool.
  "Your Majesty, Cousin," Kiryn spoke earnestly, keeping his
voice low, despite the fact that the two of them were alone in the
large and echoing room, "I came here today with one fixed pur-
pose and that is to warn you against this Glaucous."
  " Ah," said Silvan, with a knowing air. "I see."
  "You don't seem surprised, Your Majesty."
  "I am not, Cousin. Disappointed, I confess, but not surprised.
Glaucous himself warned me that you might be jealous of both
him and of me. He told me quite candidly that you seemed to dis-
like him. The feeling is not mutual. Glaucous speaks of you with
the highest regard and is deeply saddened that the two of you
cannot be friends."
  "I am afraid I cannot return the compliment," Kiryn said.
"The man is not worthy to be regent, Your Majesty. He is not of
House Royal. He is . . . or was. . . a wizard who tended the Tower
of Shalost. I know that my Uncle Konnal suggested him, but. . ."
  He stopped talking, as if he found it difficult to proceed. "I tell
you what I have never told anyone else, Your Majesty. I believe
that Glaucous has some sort of strange hold upon my uncle.
  "My uncle is a good man, Your Majesty. He fought bravely
during the War of the Lance. He fought the dream alongside
Porthios, your father. What he saw during those awful times has
caused him to live in constant fear, unreasoning fear. He is terri-
fied of the evil days returning. He believes that this shield will
save the Silvanesti from the coming darkness. Glaucous controls
the magic of the shield and through threats of lowering it, he con-
trols my uncle. I would not want to see Glaucous control you in
the same way.
  "Perhaps you think, Cousin, that I am already under his con-
trol. Perhaps you think that you would be a better Speaker of
Stars?" Silvan asked with mounting anger.
  "I could have been Speaker, Cousin," Kiryn said with quiet
dignity. "Glaucous sought to make me Speaker. I refused. I knew
your mother and your father. I loved them both. The throne is
yours by right. I would not usurp it."
  Silvan felt he deserved the rebuke. "Forgive me, Cousin. I
spoke before my brain had time to guide my tongue. But I believe
that you are mistaken about Glaucous. He has only the best in-
terests of the Silvanesti at heart. The fact that he has risen to his
high estate from a low one is to his credit and to the credit of your
uncle for seeing his true worth and not being blinded by class as
we elves have been in the past. My mother said often that we
have harmed ourselves by keeping people of talent from fulfilling
their true potential by judging a person only by birth and not by
ability. One of my mother's most trusted advisers was Samar,
who began life as a soldier in the ranks."
  "If Glaucous had come to us with expertise in the governing
of our people, I would be the first to support him, no matter what
his background. But all he has done is to plant a magical tree,"
Kiryn said wryly, "and cause a shield to be raised over us."
  "The shield is for our protection," Silvanoshei argued.
  "Just as prisoners in their jail cells are protected," Kiryn
returned.
  Silvan was thoughtful. He could not doubt his cousin's sin-
cerity and his earnestness. Silvan did not want to hear anything
against the regent. Quite honestly, Silvan was overwhelmed by
the new responsibilities that had been thrust so suddenly upon
him. He found it comforting to think that someone like Glaucous
was there to advise and counsel him. Someone as formal and
polite and charming as Glaucous.
  "Let us not quarrel over this, Cousin," Silvan said. "1 will
consider your words, and I thank you for speaking from your
heart, for I know that this cannot have been an easy task for you."
He extended his hand.
  Kiryn took his cousin's hand with true goodwill and pressed
it warmly. The two talked of other matters, of the ceremonies of
the forthcoming coronation, of the current fashions in elven danc-
ing. Kiryn then took his leave, promising to return to escort his
cousin to his crowning.
  "I will be wearing the crown that last graced the head of my
grandfather," said Silvan.
  "May it bring you better fortune than it brought him, Your
Majesty," said Kiryn. With a grave expression, he took his
departure.
Silvan was sorry to see his cousin leave, for he was very pleased
with Kiryn's warm friendliness and lively nature, even though he
felt rather resentful at Kiryn for spoiling the morning. On this day
of all days, a new king should experience nothing but joy.
  "He is just envious," Silvan said to himself. "Perfectly natural.
I am sure I would feel the same."
  "Your Majesty," said one of his servants, "I grieve to report
that it is starting to rain."

  "Well, and what do you think of our new king?" General
Konnal asked his companion as they ascended the stairs of the
royal palace to pay homage to His Majesty on the morning of his
coronation. The rain was steady and heavy now, had drawn a
curtain of gray over the sun.
  "I find him to be intelligent, modest, unaffected," Glaucous
replied, smiling. "1 am extremely pleased with him. You?" ,
  "He is an adolescent puppy," said Konnal, shrugging. "He will
give us no trouble." His tone softened. "Your advice was right, my
friend. We did well to place him on the throne. The people adore
him. I have not seen them so happy in a long time. The entire city
has turned out to celebrate. The streets are decked with flowers,
everyone is dressed in his or her finest clothes. There will be par-
ties that last for days. They are calling his coming a miracle. It is
being said that those afflicted with the wasting sickness feel life re-
stored to their limbs. There will be no more talk of lifting the
shield. No reason to do so now."
  "Yes, we have uprooted the weed of rebellion the kirath were
attempting to plant in our lovely garden," Glaucous replied. "The
kirath imagine they have defeated you by placing Lorac's grand-
son on the throne. Do nothing to disillusion them. Let them cele-
brate. They have their king. They will trouble us no more."
  "And if by some unfortunate chance the shield should fail
us," Konnal stated with a meaningful look at the wizard, "we
have settled his mother, as well. She will rush in with her troops,
armed to the teeth, to save her country and find it in the hands of
her very own son. It would almost be worth it just to see the ex-
pression on her face."
  "Yes, well, perhaps." Glaucous did not seem to find this idea
all that amusing. "1, for one, can do very well without ever seeing
the witch's face again. I do not believe for a moment that she
would let her son remain on the throne. She wants that prize for
herself. Fortunately," he said smiling, his good humor restored,
"she is unlikely to ever find her way inside. The shield will keep
her out."
  "Yet the shield admitted her son," said Konnal.
  "Because I wanted it to do so," Glaucous reminded the
general.
  "So you say."
  "Do you doubt me, my friend?" ,
  Glaucous halted, turned to face the general. The wizard's
white robes rippled around him.
  "Yes," Konnal replied evenly. "Because I sense that you doubt
yourself."
  Glaucous started to reply, closed his mouth on his words.
Clasping his hands behind him, he walked on.
  "I am sorry," Konnal began.
  "No, my friend." Glaucous halted, turned. "I am not angry. I
am hurt, that is all. Saddened."
  "It's just that-"
  "I will explain myself. Perhaps then you will believe me."
  Konnal sighed. "You purposefully misunderstand me. But,
very well, I will hear your explanation."
  "I will tell you how it came about. But not here. Too many
people." Glaucous indicated a servant carrying a large wreath
of laurel leaves. "Come into the library where we may talk
privately."
  A large room lined with shelves of dark, polished wood filled
with books and scrolls, the library was quiet, the books seeming
to absorb the sounds of anyone who spoke, as if noting them
down for future reference.
  "When I said that the shield acted according to my wishes,"
Glaucous explained, "I did not mean that I gave the shield a spe-
cific command to admit this young man. The magic of the shield
emanates from the tree in the Garden of Astarin. Acting on my di-
rection, the Woodshapers planted and nurtured the Shield Tree. I
instructed them in the magic that caused the tree to grow. The
magic is very much a part of me. I devote an immense amount of
my strength and energy to maintaining the magic and keeping
the shield in place. I feel sometimes," Glaucous added softly,"as
if I am the shield. The shield that keeps our people safe."
  Konnal said nothing, waited to hear more.
  "I have suspected before now that the shield has been react-
ing to my unspoken wishes," Glaucous continued, "wishes I did
not even know I was making. I have long wanted a king to sit
upon the throne. The shield knew that unconscious desire of
mine. Thus when Silvanoshei happened to be near it, the shield
embraced him."
  The general wanted to believe this, but his doubts lingered.
Why has Glaucous said nothing of this before? Konnal wondered.
Why do his eyes avoid mine when he speaks of it? He knows
something. He is keeping something from me.
  Konnal turned to Glaucous. "Can you assure me that no one
else will enter the shield?"
  "I can assure you of that my dear General," Glaucous an-
swered. "I stake my life upon it."

                    CHAPTER NINETEEN
                    THE BLIND BEGGAR

  Mina's troops left Sanction in good spirits, roaring out songs
to keep the cadence of the march and speaking of the bold
deeds they would do in Silvanesti in the name of their
idolized commander. Whenever Mina came in sight, riding her
blood-red horse, the soldiers cheered wildly, often breaking ranks
(braving the ire of their commanding officers) to cluster round
her and touch her for luck.
  Galdar was gone. He had left several days earlier for Khur,
bearing Mina' s orders to General Dogah. Captain Samuval was in
command in the minotaur's absence. His command was easy at
this point. The sun shone. The summer days were warm. The
marching at this stage was safe and easy, for the Knights were
only a few days out of Sanction and still in friendly territory. Soon
they would enter the land of the ogres-once allies and now
bitter enemies. The thought of fighting even those savage mon-
sters could not cloud their spirits. Mina lit their shadows like a
cold, pale sun.
  A veteran campaigner, Samuval knew that when the
weather broke and the rain set in, when the road narrowed,
the wind howled and the enemy nipped at their heels, the sol-
diers would begin to have second thoughts about this ven-
ture. They would start to grouse and grumble, and a few
might take it into their heads to start trouble. But, for now, his
duties were light. He marched at Mina's side-the envy of all
in the column. He stood next to her as she sat on her horse re-
viewing the troops as they passed by. He was in her tent every
night, studying the map and marking out the next day's route.
He slept near her tent, wrapped in his cloak, his hand on his
sword hilt, ready to rush to her defense should she have need
of him.
  He did not fear any of the men would try to harm her. Lying
on his cloak one night, he stared into the stars in the clear sky and
wondered about that. She was a young woman-a very attractive
young woman. He was a man who loved women, all kinds of
women. He could not begin to count the number he had bedded.
Usually the sight of a young slip of a maid as pretty as Mina
would have had his blood bubbling, his loins aching. But he felt
no twinge of desire in Mina' s presence and, listening to the talk
around the campfires, he knew the other men in the ranks felt the
same. They loved her, they adored her. They were awestruck, rev-
erent. But he did not want her and he could not name anyone
who did.
  The next morning's march began the same as those before it.
Samuval calculated that if all went well with Galdar's business in
Khur, the minotaur would catch up to them in another two days.
Prior to this, Samuval had never had much use for minotaurs, but
he was actually looking forward to seeing Galdar again. . . .
  "Sir! Stop the men!" a scout shouted.
  Samuval halted the column's march and walked forward to
meet the scout.
  "What is it?" the captain demanded. "Ogres?"
  "No, sir." The scout saluted. "There's a blind beggar on the
path ahead, sir."
Samuval was irate. "You called a halt for a blasted beggar?"
  "Weii sir"-the scout was discomfited-"he's blocking the
path."
  "Shove him out of the way then!" Samuval said, infuriated.
  "There's something strange about him, sir." The scout was
uneasy. "He's no ordinary beggar. I think you should come talk to
him, sir. He said ... he said he is waiting for Mina." The soldier's
eyes were round.
  Samuval rubbed his chin. He was not surprised to hear that
word of Mina had spread abroad, but he was considerably sur-
prised and not particularly pleased to hear that knowledge of
their march and the route they were taking had also apparently
traveled ahead of them.
  "I'll see to this," he said and started to leave with the scout.
Samuval planned to question this beggar to find out what else he
knew and how he knew it. Hopefully, he would be able to deal
with the man before Mina heard about it.
  He had taken about three steps when he heard Mina's voice
behind him.
  "Captain Samuval," she said, riding up on Foxfire, "what is
the problem? Why have we stopped?"
  Samuval was about to say that the road ahead was blocked
by a boulder, but, before he could open his mouth, the scout
had blurted out the truth in a loud voice that could be heard
up and down the column.
  "Mina! There's a blind beggar up ahead. He says he's waiting
for you."
  The men were pleased, nodding and thinking it only natural
that Mina should rate such attention. Fools! One would think
they were parading through the streets of Jelek!
  Samuval could envision the road ahead lined with the poxed
and the lame from every measly village on their route, begging
Mina to cure them.
  "Captain," said Mina, "bring the man to me."
  Samuval went to stand by her stirrup. "Listen a moment,
Mina," he argued. "1 know you mean well, but if you stop to
heal every wretched cripple between here and Silvanost,
we'll arrive in the elf kingdom in time to celebrate Yule with
'em. That is if we arrive at all. Every moment we waste is an-
other moment the ogres have to gather their forces to come
meet us."
  "The man asks for me. I will see him," Mina said and slid
down off her horse. "We have marched long. The men could do
with a rest. Where he is, Rolof?"
  "He's right up ahead," said the scout, pointing. "About half a
mile. At the top of the hill."
"Samuval, come with me," Mina said. "The rest of you, wait
here."
  Samuval saw the man before they reached him. The road they
were following led up and down small hillocks and, as the scout
had said, the beggar was waiting for them at the top of one of
these. He sat on the ground, his back against a boulder; a long,
stout staff in his hand. Hearing their approach, he rose to his feet
and turned slowly and sightlessly to face them.
  The man was younger than the captain had expected. Long
hair that shimmered with a silver sheen in the morning sun-
shine fell over his shoulders. His face was smooth and youth-
ful. Once it might have been handsome. He was dressed in
robes that were pearl gray in color, travel-worn and frayed at
the hem, but clean. All this, Samuval noted later. For now, all he
could do was stare at the hideous scar that disfigured the man's
face.
  The scar looked to be a burn mark. The hair on the right
side of the man's head had been singed off. The scar slanted
across the man's face from the right side of his head to below
the left side of his chin. He wore a rag tied around his right eye
socket. Samuval wondered with morbid curiosity if the eye
was still there or if it was destroyed, melted in the terrible heat
that had seared the flesh and burned away the hair to the
roots. The left eye remained, but it was useless seemingly, for
it held no light. The horrible wound was fresh, not a month
old. The man must be in pain from the injury, but if so he did
not reveal it. He stood waiting for them silently and, though he
could not see her, his face turned toward Mina. He must have
picked out the sound of her lighter steps from Samuval's heav-
ier footfalls.
  Mina paused, just a moment, and Samuval saw her stiffen, as
if she were taken by surprise. Then, shrugging, she continued to
walk toward the beggar. Samuval came behind, his hand on his
sword hilt. Despite the fact that the man was blind, Samuval
sensed him to be a threat. As the scout had said, there was some-
thing strange about this blind beggar.
  "You know me, then," the man said, his sightless eye gazing
over her head.
  "Yes, I know you," she replied.
Samuval found it hard to look at the beggar's horrid wounds.
Yellow puss oozed from beneath the rag. The skin around the
burn was fiery red, swollen and inflamed. The captain could
smell the stink of putrefying flesh.
  "When did this happen to you?" Mina asked.
  "The night of the storm," he replied.
  She nodded gravely, as if she had expected that answer. "Why
did you venture out into the storm?"
  "I heard a voice," he replied. "I wanted to investigate."
 "The voice of the One God," Mina said.
  The beggar shook his head, disbelieving. "I could hear the
voice over the roaring of the wind and the crashing thunder, but
I could not hear the words it spoke. I traveled far through rain
and the hail in search of the voice, and I was near the source, I
think. I was almost in Neraka when a lightning bolt struck me. I
remember nothing after that."
  "You take this human form," she said abruptly. "Why?"
  "Can you blame me, Mina?" he asked, his tone rueful. "I am
forced to walk through the land of my enemies." He gestured
with his staff. "This is the only way I am able to travel now-on
two feet, with my stick to guide me."
  "Mina"-Samuval spoke to her, but he kept his eyes on the
blind man-"we have many more miles to march this day. Say the
word and I will rid both the path and the world of this fellow."
  "Easy, Captain," Mina said quietly, resting her hand on his
arm. "This is an old acquaintance. I will be only a moment longer.
How did you find me?" she asked the blind man.
  "I have heard the stories of your deeds everywhere I go," the
beggar answered. "I knew the name, and I recognized the de-
scription. Could there be another Mina with eyes the color of
amber? No, I said to myself. Only one-the orphan girl who,
years ago, washed up on the shores of Schallsea. The orphan girl
who was taken in by Goldmoon and who won the First Master's
heart. She grieves for you, Mina. Grieves for you these three years
as for one dead. Why did you run away from her and the rest of
us who loved you?"
  "Because she could not answer my questions," Mina replied.
"None of you could."
  "And have you found the answer, Mina?" the man asked and
ms voice was stem.
  "I have," she said steadily. .
The beggar shook his head. He did not seem angry, only
sorrowful.
  "I could heal you," Mina offered, and she took a step toward
him, her hand outstretched.
  Swiftly the beggar stepped backward. In the same movement,
he shifted the staff from one hand to two and held it out in front
of his body, barring her way. "No!" he cried. "As much as my
wound pains me now, that pain is physical. It does not strike to
my soul as would the pain of your so-called healing touch. And
though I walk in darkness, my darkness is not so deep as the
darkness in which you now walk, Mina."
  She smiled at him, her smile calm, radiant.
  "You heard the voice, Solomirathnius," she said. "You hear it
still. Don't you?"
  He did not reply. He lowered his staff slowly, stared at her
long moments. He stared so long that Samuval wondered suspi-
ciously if the man could see out of that one milky white eye.
  "Don't you?" she pressed him.
  Abruptly, angrily, the man turned away from her. Tapping the
ground with his staff, he left the path and entered the woods. The
end of his staff knocked brutally against the boles of trees and
thrust savagely into bushes. His hand groped to feel his way.
  "I don't trust him," Samuval said. "He has the stink of a So-
lamnic about him. Let me skewer him."
  Mina turned away. "You could do him no harm, Captain. He
may look feeble, but he is not."
  "What is he then? A wizard?" Samuval asked with a slight
sneer.
  "No, he is much more powerful than any wizard," Mina
replied. "In his true form, he is the silver dragon known to most
as Mirror. He is the Guardian of the Citadel of Light."
  "A dragon!" Samuval stopped dead in the path, stared back
into the brush. He could no longer see the blind beggar, and that
worried him more now than ever. "Mina," he said urgently, "let
me take a squadron of men after him! He will surely try to kill
us all!"
  Mina smiled slightly at Samuval's fears. "We are safe, Cap-
tain. Order the men to resume the march. The path ahead is clear.
Mirror will not trouble us."
  "Why not?" Samuval was frowning, doubtful.
  "Because once, many years ago, every night, Goldmoon, the
First Master of the Citadel of Light, brushed my hair," Mina said
softly.
  Reaching up her hand, she touched, very lightly, her shaven
head.

                   CHAPTER TWENTY
                      BETRAYED

  The days of waiting had passed pleasantly for Gerard. The
queen mother's house was a sanctuary of peace and seren-
ity. Every room was a bower of green and growing plants
and flowers. The sounds of falling water soothed and relaxed. He
was not in possession of the supposed time travel device, yet he
had the feeling that here time was suspended. The sunlit hours
melted into dusk that melted into night and back to sunlight again
with no one seeming to notice the change of one day to next. No
hourglass dropped its sands into elven lives, or so Gerard imag-
ined. He was jolted back into harsh reality when, on the afternoon
of the day they were to leave, he walked in the garden and saw,
quite by chance, sunlight flash off shining black armor.
  The Neraka Knight was distant, but he was plainly keeping
watch on the house. Gerard ducked back into the doorway, his
idyll of peace shattered. He waited tensely for the Neraka
Knights to come beating on the door, but hours passed and no
one disturbed them. He trusted, at last, that he had not been seen.
He took care not to venture outside after that, not until nightfall,
when they were ready to depart.
Gerard had seen little of Palin Majere, for which he was not
sorry. He deplored the mage's rudeness to everyone in the
household, but most particularly to Laurana. Gerard tried to
make allowances. Palin Majere had suffered a great deal, the
Knight reminded himself. But the mage's dark moods cast a j
shadow that dimmed the brightest sunlight. Even tne two ser-
vant elves tiptoed around, afraid of making a sound that would
bring down on them the mage's irrational anger. When Gerard
mentioned this to Laurana, making some comment on what he
considered boorish human behavior, she smiled and urged him
to be patient.
  "I was a prisoner once," she said, her eyes dark with
memory, "a prisoner of the Dark Queen. Unless you have been
a prisoner, Sir Knight; until you have been shut away in
darkness, alone in pain and in fear, I don't believe you can
understand."
  Gerard accepted the gentle rebuke and said nothing more.
  He had seen little of the kender, as well, for which the Knight
was extremely grateful. Palin Majere kept Tasslehoff closeted
away for hours at a time, having the kender relate in detail his
ridiculous stories over and over. No torture devised by the cru-
elest Neraka Knight could match being forced to endure the
kender's shrill voice for hours on end.
  The night they were to leave Qualinesti came-all too soon. The
world beyond, the world of humans, seemed a hurried, grasping,
sordid sort of place. Gerard was sorry to be returning to it. He
had come to understand why the elves were loathe to travel out-
side their beautiful, serene realm.
  Their elven guide stood waiting. Laurana kissed Tas, who,
feeling a snuffle coming on, was quiet for all of three minutes. She
thanked Gerard graciously for his help and gave him her hand to
kiss, which he did with respect and admiration and a true feeling
of loss. She spoke last to Palin, who had remained aloof, off to one
side. He was obviously impatient to be gone.
  "My friend," she said to him, placing her hand on his arm, "I
believe that I know something of what you are thinking."
  He frowned at this and shook his head slightly.
  Laurana continued, "Be careful, Palin. Think long and well
before you act."
  He made no answer but kissed her as was the elven custom
between old friends and told her, rather curtly, not to worry. He
knew what he was about.
  As he followed their elven guide into the night, Gerard looked
back at the house on the cliff. Its lights shone brilliant as stars, but,
like the stars, they were too small to bring day to night.
  "Yet without the darkness," said Palin suddenly, "we would
never be aware that the stars exist."
  So that's how you rationalize evil, Gerard thought. He made
no comment, and Palin did not speak again. The mage's morose
silence was more than made up for by Tasslehoff.
  "One would think that a cursed kender would talk less,"
Gerard grumbled.
  "The curse isn't on my tongue," Tasslehoff pointed out. "It's
on my insides. It made them go all squirmy. Have you ever been
cursed like that?"
  "Yes, the moment I set eyes on you," Gerard retorted.
  "You are all making noise enough to wake a drunken gully
dwarf!" their elven guide said irritably, speaking Common.
Gerard had no idea if this was Kalindas or Kelevandros. He could
never keep the two brothers straight. They were as alike as twins,
although one was older than the other, or so he had been told.
Their elven names, both beginning with K, blurred in his mind.
He might have asked Palin, but the mage was disinclined to talk,
appeared absorbed in his own dark thoughts.
  "The kender's chatter is like the twittering of birds compared
to the rattle and clank of your armor, Sir Knight," the elf added.
"Not that it would be much different if you were naked. You
humans cannot even draw a breath without making noise. I could
hear the huffing and bellowing of your breathing a mile distant."
  "We've been on the move through this forest for hours,"
Gerard countered. "Are we anywhere near our destination?"
  "Quite near," the elf replied. "The clearing where you will
meet the griffon is straight ahead at the end of this trail. If you
had elven sight you could see it from here. In fact, this would be
a good place to halt, if you would like to rest. We should keep
under cover until the last possible moment."
  "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere," Gerard said grate-
fully. Dropping his pack, he sank down at the base of a tall aspen
tree, leaned his back against it, closed his eyes and stretched his
legs. "How long until morning?"
"An hour. And now I must leave you for a while to go hunt-
ing. We should be prepared to offer the griffons fresh meat. They
will be hungry from their long flight and will appreciate the cour-
tesy. You should be safe here, provided none of you wander off."
The elf looked at the kender as he spoke.
  "We will be fine," Palin said the first words he had spoken in
hours. He did not sit down, but paced beneath the trees, restless
and impatient. "No, Tas. You stay here with us. Where is the
device? You still have it, don't you? No, don't bring it out. I just
want to know it's safe."
  "Oh, it's safe," the kender said. "It couldn't be unsafe, if you
know what I mean."
  "Damn funny time to go hunting," Gerard observed, watch-
ing the elf slip off into the darkness.
  "He leaves on my orders," Palin said. "The griffons will be in
a much better humor when they have eaten, and we will have a
safer ride. I was once on the back of a griffon who decided that
her empty belly was more important than her rider. Spying a deer
on the ground, she swooped down upon it. I could do nothing
but cling to her in terror. Fortunately we all came out of it alive,
including the deer, who heard my cries to the griffon to stop and
dashed off into the forest. The griffon ~as in a foul mood, how-
ever, and refused to carry me farther. Smce then, I have always
made certain that I brought a gift of food."
  "Then why didn't the elf do that before we left instead of
waiting to go hunting now?"
  "Probably because he did not want to walk for miles lugging
a deer carcass over his shoulder," Palin said sardonically. "You
must take into account the fact that the smell of fresh-killed meat
makes many elves sick to their stomachs."
  Gerard said nothing, fearing to say too much. By the mage's
tone, Palin took the Knight for an idiot. Perhaps he had not meant
it that way, but that was how Gerard understood it.
  "By the way, Sir Gerard," Palin said stiffly, "I want you to
know that I consider that you have done your part in fulfilling my
father's dying request. I will take up the matter from here. You
need no longer concern yourself with it."
  "As you wish, sir," Gerard returned.
  "I want to thank you for what you have done," Palin added
after a pause during which the chill in the air could have caused
snow to start falling in midsummer. "You have performed a great
service at the risk of your own life. A great service," he repeated
softly. "I will recommend to Lord Warren that you be given a
commendation."
  "Thank you, sir," Gerard said. "But I'm only doing my duty
by your father, a man I much admired."
  "As opposed to his son, is- that it?" Palin asked. He turned and
walked off a few paces, his head bowed, his arms folded in the
sleeves of his dark-colored robes. He obviously considered their
conversation at an end.
  Tasslehoff settled himself down beside Gerard, and because a
kender's hands must always be busy doing something, he turned
out all the pockets in the new shirt he'd persuaded Laurana to
sew for him. The shirt was a riot of color and gave Gerard eye-
strain just to look it. By the lambent light of a half-moon and
many thousand stars, Tas sorted through the interesting things
he'd picked up while in Laurana's house.
  No doubt about it. Gerard would be extremely glad to deposit
the mage and the kender in Solace and be done with them both.
  The sky above them gradually grew lighter, the stars faded
away, the moon paled, but the elf did not return.

  Marshal Medan and his escort reached the rendezvous ap-
pointed by the elf about an hour before dawn. He and the two
Knights with him reined in their horses.. Medan did not dis-
mount. Rebel elves were known to inhabit this part of the
forest. He looked intently into the shadows and the swirling
mists and thought that this would make an excellent place for
an ambush.
  "Subcommander," Medan said. "Go see if you can find our
traitor. He said he would be waiting by those three white rocks
over there."
  The subcommander dismounted. Keeping his hand on his
sword, half-drawing it from its scabbard, he moved slowly for-
ward, making as little noise as possible. He wore only his breast-
plate, no other metal armor.
  The marshal's horse was restive. The animal snorted and blew
and pricked his ears. Medan patted the horse on the neck. "What
is it, boy?" he asked softly. "What's out there?"
  The subcommander disappeared in the shadows, reappeared
again as a shadowy silhouette against the backdrop of the three
large white boulders. Medan could hear the man's harsh whisper.
He could not hear if there was a reply but assumed there must
have been, for the sub commander nodded and returned to make
his report.
  "The traitor says the three are not far from here, near a clear-
ing, where they are to meet the griffon. He will lead us there. We
should walk, he says. The horses make too much noise."
The marshal dismounted and dropped the reins with a single
spoken word of command. The horse would remain where it was,
would not move from the spot until ordered. The other Knight
dismounted, taking from his saddle a short bow and a quiver of
arrows.
  Medan and his escorts crept through the forest.
  "And this is what I've been reduced to," Medan muttered
to himself, shoving aside tree branches, stepping carefully
through the undergrowth. He could barely see the man in front
of him. Only the three white rocks showed up clearly and they
were sometimes obscured by the dank mists. "Skulking about
the woods at night like a blasted thief. Relying on the word of
an elf who thinks nothing of betraying his mistress for a hand-
ful of steel. And all for what? To ambush some wretch of a
wizard!"
  "Did you say something, sir?" the subcommander whispered.
  "Yes," Medan returned. "1 said I would rather be on the field
of honorable battle lying dead with a spear through my heart
than here at this moment. What about you, Subcommander?"
  "Sir?" The subcommander stared at him. The man had no clue
what his marshal was talking about.
  "Never mind," Medan grated. "Just keep going." He waved
his hand.
  The traitor elf appeared, a glimmer of a pale face in the dark-
ness. He raised a pallid hand, motioned for Medan to join him.
The marshal drew forward, eyed the elf grimly.
  "Well? Where are they?" Medan did not use the elf's name. In
Medan's mind, the elf was not worthy of a name.
  "There!" The elf pointed. "Beneath that tree. You cannot see it
from here, but there is a clearing a hundred paces beyond. They
plan to meet the griffon there."
  The sky was graying with the dawn. Medan could see nothing
at first and then the mists swirled apart, revealing three shadowy
figures. One appeared to be wearing dark armor, for though
Medan could not see it clearly, he could hear it rattle and clank.
  "Sir," said the traitor, sounding nervous, "have you further
need of me? If not, I should be going. My absence may be noted."
  "Leave, by all means," said Medan.
  The elf slipped away into 'the woods.
  The marshal motioned for the knight with the bow to come
forward.
  "Remember, the dragon wants them alive," Medan said.
"Aim high. Shoot to cripple. Fire on my order. Not before."
  The Knight nodded and took his place in the brush. He fit an
arrow to his bow string and looked to the marshal.
  Medan watched and waited.

  Gerard heard a flapping sound, as of immense wings. He'd
never before seen a griffon, but this sounded like what he ex-
pected a griffon would sound like. He jumped to his feet.
  "What is it?" Palin lifted his head, startled by the Knight's
sudden movement.
  "I think I hear the griffon, sir," Gerard replied.
  Palin drew back his hood to hear better, looked toward the
clearing. They could not see the griffon yet. The beast was still
among the treetops, but the wind from its wings was starting to
scatter dead leaves and kick up dust.
  "Where? Where?" Tasslehoff cried, hastily gathering up all his
valuables and stuffing them into whatever location presented
itself.
  The griffon came into view, huge wings stilled now, floating
on the air currents to a smooth landing. Gerard forgot his irrita-
tion with the mage and his annoyance at the kender in wonder at
the sight of the strange beast. Elves ride griffons as humans ride
horses, but few humans did. Griffons have always had a distrust
of humans, who were known to hunt and kill them.
  Gerard had tried not to dwell on the fact that he would soon
be trusting his life to a beast that had little reason to love him, but
now he was forced to confront the idea of actually riding on the
back of one of these creatures, riding it not over a road but into
the air. High in the air, so that any mischance would send him
plummeting to a horrible death.
Gerard steeled himself, faced this as he faced any other
daunting task. He noted the proud eagle head with its white
feathers, the shining black eyes, and the hooked beak that could,
or so he'd heard, snap a man's spine in two or rip his head from
his neck. The front legs were those of an eagle, with rending
talons; the back legs and body were those of a lion, covered in a
soft brown fur. The wings were large and snow white under-
neath, brown on top. The griffon was taller than Gerard by at
least head and shoulders.
  "There is only one of them," Gerard reported coolly, as if
meeting one were an everyday occurrence with him. "At least so
far. And no sign of the elf."
  "Strange," Palin said, glancing about. "1 wonder where he
went? This is not like him."
  The griffon flapped its wings and turned its head, searching
for its riders. The wind of the enormous wings whipped up a gale
that sent wisps of morning fog swirling and lashed the tree
branches. They waited another few moments, but no other griffon
appeared.
  "It seems there is to be only one, sir," Gerard said, trying not
to sound relieved. "You and the kender go ahead. I'll see you off
safely. Don't worry about me. I'll find my own way out of Qua-
linesti. I have my horse. . . ."
  "Nonsense," said Palin crisply, displeased at any change in
plans. "The griffon can carryall three of us. The kender counts as
nothing."
  "I do, too, count for something!" Tasslehoff stated, offended.
  "Sir, I really don't mind," Gerard began.
  An arrow thunked into the tree beside him. Another arrow
whizzed over his head. Gerard dropped to the ground, grabbing
hold of the kender on the way down.
  "Sir! Take cover!" he yelled at Palin.
  "Rebel elves," Palin said, peering through the shadows.
"They have seen your armor. We are friends!" he called out in
elven and lifted his hand to wave.
  An arrow tore through the sleeve of his robe. He stared at
the hole in angry astonishment. Gerard leaped to his feet,
caught hold of the mage and pulled him to cover behind a large
oak tree.
  "They're not elves, sir!" he said and he pointed grimly to one
of the arrows. The tip was steel and the arrow was fletched in
black feathers. "They're Knights of Neraka." .
  "But so are you," said Palin, eyeing Gerard's breastplate,
adorned with the skull and the death lily. "At least for all they
know.
  "Oh, they know all right," Gerard answered grimly. "You
notice the elf never returned. I think we've been betrayed."
  "It's not possible-" Palin began.
  "I see them!" Tasslehoff cried, pointing. "Over there in those
bushes. Three of them. They're wearing black armor."
  "You have sharp eyes, kender," Gerard conceded. He couldn't
see a thing in the shadows and mists of early dawn.
  "We cannot stay here. We must make a run for the griffon!"
Palin said, and started to stand up.
  Gerard pulled the mage back down.
  "Those archers rarely miss, sir. You'll never make it alive!"
  "True, they don't miss," Palin retorted. "And yet they have
fired three arrows at us and we live. If we have been betrayed,
they know we carry the artifact! That's what they want. They
mean to capture us alive and interrogate us." He gripped
Gerard's arm hard, his cruelly deformed fingers driving the chain
mail painfully into the knight's flesh. "I won't give up the device.
And I won't be taken alive! Not again! Do you hear me? I won't!"
  Two more arrows thudded into the tree, causing the kender,
who had poked his head up to see, to duck back down.
  "Whew!" he said, feeling his top-knot anxiously. "That was
close! Do I still have my hair?"
  Gerard looked at Palin. The mage's face was pale, his lips a
thin, tight line. Laurana's words came back to Gerard. Until you
have been a prisoner, you cannot understand.
  "You go on, sir. You and the kender."
  "Don't be a fool," said Palin. "We leave together. They want
me alive. They have a use for me. They don't need you at all. You
will be tortured and killed."
  Behind them, the griffon's harsh cry sounded loud and rau-
cous and impatient.
  "I am not the fool, sir," Gerard said, looking the mage in the
eye. "You are, if you don't listen to me. I can distract them, and I
can defend myself properly. You cannot, unless you have some
magical spell at your fingertips?"
He knew by Majere's pale, pinched face that he did not.
  "Very well" said Gerard. "Take the kender and your precious
magical artifact and get out of here!"
  Palin hesitated a moment, staring at the direction of the
enemy. His face was set, rigid, corpselike. Slowly, he withdrew
his hand from Gerard's arm. "This is what I have become," he
said. "Useless. Wretched. Forced to run instead of facing my
enemIes. . .
  "Sir, if you're going, go now," Gerard said, drawing his sword
with a ringing sound. "Keep low and use the trees for cover.
Fast!"
  He rose from his hiding position. Brandishing his sword, he
charged unhesitatingly at the Knights crouched in the brush,
shouting his battle challenge, drawing their fire.
Palin rose to his feet. Crouching low, he grabbed hold of
Tasslehoff's shirt collar, jerked the kender to a standing position.
"You're coming with me," he ordered.
  "But what about Gerard?" Tas hung back.
  "You heard him," Palin said, dragging the kender forward.
"He can take care of himself. Besides, the Knights must not cap-
ture the artifact!"
  "But they can't take the device away from me!" Tas protested,
tugging at his shirt to free it from Palin's grasp. "It will always
come back to me!"
  "Not if you're dead," Palin said harshly, biting the words.
  Tas stopped suddenly and turned around. His eyes went
wide.
  "Do. . . do you see a dragon anywhere?" he asked nervously.
  "Quit stalling!" Palin seized hold of the kender by the arm
this time and, using strength borne of adrenaline, hauled Tassle-
hoff bodily through the trees toward the griffon.
  "I'm not stalling. I feel sick," Tas asserted. "I think the curse is
working on me again."
  Palin paid no attention to the kender's whining. He could
hear Gerard yelling, shouting challenges to his enemies. Another
arrow whistled past, but it fell spent about a yard away from
Palin. His dark robes blended into the forest, he was a running
target moving through the mists and dim light keeping low, as
Gerard had recommended, and putting the trunks of the trees be-
tween him and the enemy whenever possible.
Behind him, Palin heard steel clash against steel. The arrows
ceased. Gerard was fighting the Knights. Alone.
  Palin plunged grimly ahead, dragging the protesting kender
along with him. The mage was not proud of himself. His fear and
his shame rankled in him, more painful than one of the arrows if
it had happened to hit. He risked a glance backward but could see
nothing for the shadows and. the fog.
  He was near the griffon. He was near escape. His steps
slowed. He hesitated, half-turned. . .
  A blackness came over him. He was once again in the prison
cell in the Gray Robes' encampment on the border of Qualinesti.
He crouched at the bottom of a deep, narrow pit dug into the
ground. The walls of the pit were smooth. He could not climb up
them. An iron grating was placed over the top. A few holes in the
grate permitted the air to filter down into the pit, along with the
rain that dripped monotonously and filled the bottom of the pit
with water.
  He was alone, forced to live in his own filth. Forced to eat
whatever scraps they tossed down to him. No one spoke to
him. He had no guards. None were necessary. He was trapped,
and they knew it. He rarely even heard the sound of a human
voice for days on end. He almost came to welcome those times
when his captors threw down a ladder and brought him up for
" questioning."
  Almost.
  The bright blazing pain seared through him again. Breaking
his fingers, slowly, one by one. Ripping out his fingernails. Flail-
ing his back with leather cords that cut through his flesh to the
bone.
  A shudder ran through him. He bit his tongue, tasted blood
and bile that surged up from his clenching stomach. Sweat trick-
led down his face.
  "I'm sorry, Gerard!" he gasped. "I'm sorry!"
  Catching hold of Tasslehoff by the scruff of his neck, Palin
lifted the kender and tossed him bodily onto the griffon's back.
  "Hold on tightly!" he ordered the kender.
"I think I'm going to throw up," Tas cried, squirming. "Let's
wait for Gerard!"
  Palin had no time for any kender ploys. "Leave at once!" he
ordered the griffon. Palin pulled himself into the saddle that was
strapped onto the griffon's back, between the feathery wings.
"The Knights of Neraka surround us. Our guard is holding them
off, but I doubt he can last for long."
  The griffon glared back at the mage with bright, black eyes.
  "Do we leave him behind, then?" the griffon asked.
  "Yes," said Palin evenly. "We leave him behind."
  The griffon did not argue. He had his orders. The strange
habits of humans were not his concern. The beast lifted his great
wings and leaped into the air, his powerful lion legs driving into
the ground. He circled the clearing, striving to gain altitude and
avoid the trees. Palin peered down, trying to find Gerard. The sun
had cleared the horizon, was burning away the mists and lighting
the shadows. Palin could see flashes of steel and hear ringing
blows.
  Miraculously, the Knight was still alive.
  Palin turned away. He faced into the rushing wind. The sun
vanished suddenly, overtaken by huge, rolling gray storm clouds
that boiled up over the horizon. Lightning flickered amid the
churning clouds. Thunder rumbled. A chill wind, blowing from
the storm,! cooled the sweat that had drenched his robes and left
his hair wringing wet. He shivered slightly and drew his dark
cloak close around him. He did not look back again.
  The griffon rose high above the trees. Feeling the air currents
beneath his wings, the beast soared into the blue sky.
  "Palin!" Tasslehoff cried, tugging urgently on the back of his
robes. "There's something flying behind us!"
Palin twisted to look.
  The green dragon was distant, but it was moving at great
speed, its wings slicing the air, its clawed feet pressed up against
its body, its green tail streaming out behind. It was not Beryl. One
of her minions, out doing her bidding.
  Of course. She would not trust the Knights of Neraka to bring
her this prize. She would send one of her own kind to fetch it. He
leaned over the griffon's shoulder.
  "A dragon!" he shouted. "East of us!"
  "I see it!" the griffon snarled.
  Palin shaded his eyes to view the dragon, trying not to blink
in case he should miss a single beat of the immense wings.
  "The dragon has spotted us," he reported. "It is coming
straight for us."
"Hang on!" The griffon veered sharply, made a steep, banking
rom. "I'm going to fly into the storm. The ride will be rough!"
  Tall, spiring clouds formed a wall of gray and purple-black on
the horizon. The clouds had the look of a fortress, massive and
impenetrable. Lightning flared from breaks in the clouds, like
torchlight through windows. Thunder rolled and boomed.
  "I do not like the looks of that storm!" Palin cried out to the
griffon.
  "Do you like the insides of the dragon's belly better?" the grif-
fon demanded. "The beast gains on us. We cannot outfly it."
  Palin looked back, hoping that the griffon might have mis-
judged. Huge wings beat the air, the dragon's jaws parted. Palin
met the dragon's eyes, saw the single-minded purpose in them,
saw them intent on him.
  Grasping the reins with one hand and taking firm hold of a
shouting Tas with the other, Palin bent low over the griffon's
neck, keeping his head and body down so that the rushing wind
did not blow him off the griffon's back. The first few drops of rain
pelted his face, stinging.
  The clouds rose to immense heights, towering spires of light-
ning-shot gray-black, taller than the mighty fortress of Pax
Tharkas. Palin looked up in awe, his head bent so that his neck
ached and still he could not see the top. The griffon swooped
nearer. Tasslehoff was still shouting something, but the wind took
his words and whipped them away behind him, as it whipped his
topknot.
  Palin looked back. The dragon was almost on them. The claws
of the dragon twitched now in anticipation of the capture. She
would breathe her lethal gas on them, then seize them all three in
one of her huge clawed feet and hurl them to the ground. With
luck, the fall would kill them. The dragon would devour the grif-
fon and then, at her leisure, she would rip their bodies apart,
searching for the device.
  Palin averted his eyes, stared ahead into the storm and urged
the griffon to fly faster.
  The cloud fortress rose before them. A flash of lightning
blinded him. Thunder rolled, sounding like enormous cables
turning a gigantic cog wheel. A solid bank of clouds suddenly
parted, revealing a dark, lightning-lit hallway curtained by driv-
ing rain.
The griffon plunged into the cloud bank. Rain lashed at them
in stinging torrents, deluged them. Wiping the water from his
eyes, Palin stared in awe. Row after row of columns of gray cloud
rose from a mottled gray floor to support a ceiling of boiling
black.
  Clouds shrouded them, wrapped around them. Palin could
see nothing for the woolly grayness. He could not even see the
griffon's head. Lightning sizzled near him. He could smell the
brimstone, thunder crashed, nearly stopping his heart.
  The griffon flew a zigzag course among the columns, soaring
up and diving down, rounding and circling, then doubling back.
Sheets of rain hung like silver tapestries, drenching them as they
flew beneath. Palin could not see the dragon, though he could
hear the discordant horn blast of its frustration as it tried desper-
ately to find them.
  The griffon left the cavernous halls of the fortress of storm
clouds and flew out into the sunshine. Palin looked back, waited
tensely)for the dragon to appear. The griffon chortled, pleased.
The dragon was lost somewhere in the storm clouds.
  Palin told himself that he'd had no choice in the matter, he
had acted logically in escaping. He had to protect the magical
artifact. Gerard had practically ordered the mage to leave. If he
had stayed, he could have accomplished nothing. They would
have all died, and the artifact would have been in Beryl's pos-
session.
  The artifact was safe. Gerard was either dead or a prisoner.
There was nothing that could be done to save him now.
  "Best to forget it," Palin said to himself. "Put it out of my
mind. What's done is done and can't be undone."
  He dropped remorse and guilt into a dark pit, a deep pit in his
soul and covered them with the iron grating of necessity.

  Sir," reported Meda~'s subcommander, "the Knight is. at-
tackig-alone. The magIc-user and the kender are escapmg.
What are your orders?"
  Attacking alone. So he is," Medan replied, astonished.
  The Solamnic came crashing through the underbrush, bran-
dishing his sword and shouting the Solamnic battle-cry, a cry
Marshal Medan had not heard in many years. The sight took the
marshal back to the days when knights in shining silver and
gleaming black clashed headlong on the field of battle; when
champions came forward to duel to the death while armies
looked on, their fates in the hands of heroes; when combatants
saluted each other with honor before commencing with the
deadly business at hand.
  Here was Medan, crouched in a bush, safely ensconced
behind a large tree stump, taking potshots at a washed-up mage
and a kender.
  "Can I sink any lower?" he muttered to himself.
  The archer was drawing his bow. Having lost sight of the
mage, he shifted his aim to the Knight, going for the legs, hoping
for a crippling shot.
  "Belay that," Medan snapped, resting his hand on the
bowman's arm.
  The subcommander looked around. "Sir? Your orders?"
  The Solamnic was closing in. The magic-user and the kender
were out of range, lost in the trees and the mists.
  "Sir, should we pursue them?" the subcommander asked.
  "No," Medan answered and saw a look of amazement cross
the man's face.
   "But our orders," he ventured.
  "I know our orders," Medan snapped. "Do you want to be re-
membered in song as the Knight who slew a kender and a
broken-down old mage, or as a Knight who fought a battle with
an equal?"
  The sub commander evidently did not want to be remembered
in song. "But our orders," he persisted.
  Damn the man for a thick-headed lout! Medan glowered at
him.
  "You have your orders, Subcommander. Don't make me repeat
them."
  The forest grew dark again. The sun had risen only to have
its warmth and light cut off by storm clouds. Thunder rumbled
in the distance, a few drops of rain pelted down. The kender
and the mage had disappeared. They were on the back of the
griffon and heading away from Qualinesti. Away from Lau-
rana. Now, with luck, he could shield her from any involve-
ment with the mage.
  "Go meet the Knight," Medan said, waving his hand. "He
challenges you to combat. Fight him."
The subcommander rose from his place, sword drawn. The
archer dropped his bow. He held a dagger in his hand, ready to
strike from behind while the subcommander attacked from the
front.
  "Single combat," Medan added, holding the bowman back.
"Face him one on one, Subcommander."
  "Sir?" The man was incredulous. He looked back to see if the
marshal was joking.
  What had the subcommander been before he became a'
Knight? Sell-sword? Thief? Thug? Well, this day, he would have a
lesson in honor.
  "You heard me," Medan said.
  The subcommander exchanged dour glances with his fellow,
then walked forward without enthusiasm to meet the Solamnic's
crashing charge. Medan rose to his feet. Crossing his arms over
his chest, he leaned back against one of the white boulders to
watch the encounter.
  The sub commander was a powerfully built man with a bull
neck, thick shoulders and muscular arms. He was accustomed to
relying on his strength and low cunning in battle, hacking and
slashing at his opponent until either a lucky cut or sheer brute
force wore the enemy down.
  The sub commander charged head-on like a snorting bison,
swinging his sword with murderous strength. The Solamnic
parried the blow, met it with such force that sparks glittered on
the steel blades. The subcommander held on, swords locked,
trying to drive his opponent into the ground. The Solamnic
was no match for such strength. He recognized this and
changed tactics. He st~ggered backward, leaving himself
temptingly open.
  The sub commander fell for the ruse. He leaped to the attack,
slashing with his blade, thinking to make a quick kill. He man-
aged to wound the knight in the left upper arm, cutting through
the leather armor to open a great bleeding gash.
  The Solamnic took the blow and never winced. He held his
ground, watched for his opportunity and coolly drove his sword
into the subcommander's belly.
  The subcommander dropped his sword and doubled over
with a horrible, gurgling cry, clutching himself, trying to hold his
insides in. The Solamnic yanked his sword free. Blood gushed
from the man's mouth. He toppled over.
  Before Medan could stop him, the bowman had lifted his
bow, shot an arrow at the Solamnic. The arrow plunged deep
into the Knight's thigh. He cried out in agony, stumbled,
off-balance.
  "You cowardly bastard!" Medan swore. Snatching the bow, he
slammed it against the rock, smashing it.
  The archer then drew his sword and ran to engage the
wounded Solamnic. Medan considered halting the battle, but he
was interested to see how the Solamnic handled this new chal-
lenge. He watched dispassionately, glorying in a battle-to-the-
death contest such as he had not witnessed in years.
  The archer was a shorter, lighter man, a cagier fighter than the
subcommander. He took his time, testing his opponent with jab-
bing strikes of his short sword, searching for weaknesses, wear-
ing him down. He caught the Solamnic a glancing blow to the
face beneath the raised visor. The wound was not serious, but
blood poured from it, running into the Solamnic's eye, partially
blinding him. The Solamnic blinked the blood out of his eye and
fought on. Crippled and bleeding, he grimaced every time he was
forced to put weight on his leg. The arrow remained lodged in his
thigh. He had not had time to yank it out. Now he was on the of-
fensive. He had to end this fight soori, or he would not have any
strength to pursue it.
  Lightning flashed. The rain fell harder. The men struggled to-
gether over the cbrpse of the subcommander. The Solamnic
jabbed and slashed, his sword seeming to be everywhere like a
striking snake. Now it was the archer who was hard-pressed. He
had all he could do to keep that snake's fang from biting.
  "Well struck, Solamnic," Medan said softly more than once,
watching with pleasure the sight of such skill, such excellent
training.
  The archer slipped in the rain-wet grass. The Solamnic lunged
forward on his wounded leg and drove his sword into the man's
breast. The archer fell, and so did the Solamnic, collapsing on his
knees onto the forest floor, gasping for breath.
  Medan left his boulder, walked out into the open. The So-
lamnic, hearing him coming, staggered to his feet with a wrench-
ing cry of pain. His wounded leg gave out beneath him.
Limping, the Solamnic placed his back against a tree trunk to
provide stability and raised his sword. He looked at death. He
knew he could not win this last battle, but at least he would die
upright, not on his knees.
  "I thought the flame had gone out in the hearts of the Knight-
hood, but it lives on in one man seemingly," said Medan, facing
the Solamnic. The marshal rested his hand on the hilt of his
sword, but he did not draw it.
  The Solamnic's face was a mask of blood. Eyes of a startling,
arresting blue color regarded Medan without hope, but without
fear.
  He waited for Medan to strike.
  The marshal stood in the mud and the rain, straddling the
bodies of his two dead subordinates, and waited.
  The Solamnic's defiance began to waver. He realized sud-
denly)what Medan was doing, realized that he was waiting for
the Solamnic to collapse, waiting to capture him alive.
  "Fight, damn you!" The Solamnic lurched forward, lashed out
with his sword.
  Medan stepped to one side.
  The Solamnic forgot, put his weight on his bad leg. The leg
gave way. He lost his balance, fell to the forest floor. Even then, he
made one last opportunity to try to struggle to his feet, but he was
too weak. He had lost too much blood. His eyes closed. He lay
face down in the muck alongside the bodies of his foes.
  Medan rolled the Knight over. Placing his hand on the
Knight's thigh for leverage, the marshal took hold of the arrow
and yanked it out. The Knight groaned with the pain, but did not
regain consciousness. Medan took off his cloak, cut the material
into strips with his sword, and made a battlefield tourniquet to
staunch the bleeding. He then wrapped the Knight warmly in
what remained of the cloak.
  "You have lost a lot of blood," Medan said, returning his
sword to its sheath, "but you are young and strong. We will see
what the healers can do for you."
  Rounding up the two horses of his subordinates, Medan
threw the bodies unceremoniously over their saddles, tied them
securely. Then the marshal whistled to his own horse. The animal
came trotting over in response to his master's summons to stand
quietly at Medan's side.
  Medan lifted the Solamnic in his arms, eased the wounded
Knight into the saddle. He examined the wound, was pleased to
see that the tourniquet had stopped the flow of blood. He relaxed
the tourniquet a notch, not wanting to cut off the blood flow to
the leg completely, then climbed into the saddle. Seating himself
behind the injured Knight, Medan put his arm around the man
and held him gently but firmly in the saddle. He took hold of the
reins of the other two horses and, leading them behind, began the
long ride back to Qualinost.

                  CHAPTER TWENTYONE
            THE DEVICE OF TIME JOURNEYING

  The wild and terrif~ing flight. from the dragon ended in
blue sky and sunshine. The flIght took longer than usual,
for the griffon had been blown off course by the storm. The
beast made landfall somewhere in the wilds of the Kharolis
Mountains to feed on a deer, a delay Palin chafed at, but all his
pleas for haste went unheeded. After dining, the griffon took a
nap, while Palin paced back and forth, keeping a firm grip on
Tasslehoff. When night fell, the creature stated that it would not
fly after dark. The griffon and Tasslehoff slept. Palin sat fuming
and waiting for the sun to rise.
  They continued their journey the next day. The griffon landed
Palin and Tasslehoff at midmorning in an empty field not far from
what had once been the Academy of Sorcery. The stone walls of
the academy still stood, but they were black and crumbling. The
roof was a skeleton of charred beams. The tower that had once
been a symbol of hope to the world, hope that magic had re-
turned, was nothing but a pile of rubble, demolished by the blast
that had tom out its heart.
  Palin had once planned to rebuild the academy, if for no
other reason than to show his defiance for Beryl. When he
began to lose the magic, began to feel it slip away from him
like water falling from cupped palms, he discarded the idea. It
was a waste of time and effort. Better far to spend his energies
searching for artifacts of the Fourth Age, artifacts that still
held the magic inside and could still be used by those who
knew how.
  "What is that place?" Tasslehoff asked, sliding down from
the griffon's back. He stared with interest at the destroyed
walls with their gaping, empty windows. "And what happened
to it?"
  "Nothing. Never mind," Palin said, not wanting to enter into
long ,xplanations involving the death of a dream. "Come along.
We have no time to was-"
  "Look!" Tas cried, pointing. "Someone's walking around
there. I'm going to go look!"
  He was off, his bright shirt tail fluttering behind him, his top-
knot bouncing with glee.
  "Come back-" Palin began and then realized he might as
well save his breath.
  Tas was right. Someone was indeed walking around the ruins
of the academy and Palin wondered who it might be. The resi-
dents of Solace considered the place cursed and never went there
for any reason. The person was wearing long robes; Palin caught
a glimpse of crimson fabric beneath a gold-trimmed beige cloak.
This could, of course, be some former student, come back to gaze
in nostalgia at his wrecked place of learning, but Palin doubted
it. By the graceful walk and the rich dress, he realized that this
was Jenna.
  Mistress Jenna of Palanthas had been a powerful red-robed
wizardess in the days before the Chaos War. An extraordinarily
beautiful woman, she was reputed to have been the lover of
Dalamar the Dark, pupil of Raistlin Majere and once Master of
the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas. Jenna had earned her
living by running a mageware shop in Palanthas. Her shop had
done moderately well during the Fourth Age, when magic had
been a gift granted to people by the three gods, Solinari, Luni-
tari, and Nuitari. She carried the usual assorted spell compo-
nents: bat guano, butterfly wings, sulphur, rose leaves (whole
and crushed), spider eggs, and so forth. She had a good supply
of potions and was known to have the best collection of spell
scrolls and books outside the Tower of Wayreth, all to be had for
a price. She was particularly renowned for her collection of
magical artifacts: rings, bracers, daggers, swords, pendants,
charms, amulets. These were the artifacts on display. She had
other, more potent, more dangerous, more powerful artifacts,
which she kept hidden away, to be shown only to serious cus-
tomers and that by appointment.
  When the Chaos War came, Jenna had joined Dalamar and a
white-robed mage on a perilous mission to help defeat the ram-
paging Father of the Gods. She never spoke of what befell them
on that terrible journey. All Palin knew was that on their return
Dalamar had been critically wounded. He had lain near death in
his tower for many long weeks.
  Jenna had been his constant companion and nurse until the
day when she walked out of the tower, never to return. For on
that night, the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas was de~troyed
in a magical blast. No one ever saw Dalamar again. After many
years had passed and he had not returned, the Conclave pro-
nounced him officially dead. Mistress Jenna reopened her mage-
ware shop and discovered that she was sitting on a treasure
trove.
  With the magic of the gods vanished, desperate mages had
sought ways to hold onto their power. They discovered that
magical artifacts crafted in the Fourth Age retained their power.
The only drawback was that sometimes this power was erratic,
did not act as expected. A magical sword, once an artifact of
good, suddenly began to slay those it was meant to protect. A
ring of invisibility failed its owner at a critical moment, landing
the thief five years in a Sanction dungeon. No one knew the
reason. Some said the unreliability was due to the fact that the
gods no longer had influence over them, others said that it had
nothing to do with the gods. Artifacts were always known to be
tricky objects to handle.
  Buyers were more than willing to take the risk, however, and
the demand for Fourth Age artifacts soared higher than a
gnomish steam-driven mechanical flapjack-flipping device. Mis-
tress Jenna's prices rose to match. She was now, at the age of
sixty-something, one of the wealthiest women in Ansalon. Still
beautiful, though her beauty had ripened, she had retained her
influence and power even under the rule of the Knights of
Neraka, whose commanders found her charming, fascinating,
mysterious, and accommodating. She paid no attention to those
who termed her "collaborator." Jenna had long been accustomed
to playing both ends against the middle, knew how to fool the
middle and the ends into thinking each was getting the best of
the bargain.
  Mistress Jenna was also the acknowledged expert in Ansalon
on Fourth Age magical artifacts.
  Palin could not go immediately to greet her. The griffon com-
plained again of hunger. The beast was, in fact, eyeing the kender
avariciously, obviously considering Tas a toothsome morsel. Palin
pro~ed he would send back a haunch of venison. This satisfied
the griffon, who began to preen herself, pleased at having
reached her destination.
  Palin went off in pursuit of Tasslehoff, who was happily pick-
ing his way through the rubble, turning over rocks to see what
was underneath and exclaiming over every find.
Jenna had been strolling around the grounds of the ruined
academy. Curious herself to see what the kender had discovered,
she walked over to look.
  Tas lifted his head, stared at the mage for long moments and
then, with a glad cry, he jumped up and ran straight for her with
arms outstretched.
  Jenna quickly extended both hands, palms outward. Light
flashed from one of several rings she wore, and Tas stumbled
backward as if he'd run headlong into a brick wall.
  "Keep your distance, Kender," she said calmly.
  "But, Jenna!" Tas cried, rubbing his nose and eyeing the
rings with interest, "don't you recognize me? It's Tasslehoff!
Tasslehoff Burrfoot. We met in Palanthas during the ~haos War,
only a few days ago for me, but I guess for you its been years
and years Icause you're a lot older now. A lot older," he added
with emphasis. 1'1 came to your mageware shop and. . ." Tas
prattled on.
  Jenna kept her hands stretched outward, regarding the kender
with amusement-a pleasant distraction. She obviously did not
believe a word he was saying.
  Hearing footsteps crunch on rock, Jenna turned her i\ead
quickly. I'Palin!" She smiled to see him. ~
"Jenna." He bowed in respect. "I am pleased you could find
the time to come."
  "My dear, if what you intimated to me is true, I would not
have missed this for all the treasure in Istar. You will excuse me if
I do not shake hands, but I am keeping this kender at bay."
  "How was your journey?"
  "Long." She rolled her eyes. "My ring of teleportation"-she
indicated a large ring of sparkling amethyst set in silver that she
wore on her thumb-"used to take me from one end of the conti-
nent to another in a flash. Now it takes me two days to travel
from Palanthas to Solace."
  " And what are you doing here at the academy?" Palin asked,
glancing around. "If you're looking for artifacts, don't bother. We
salvaged what we could."
  Jenna shook her head. "No, I was just taking a walk. I stopped
by your house," she added with an arch glance. "Your wife was
there, and she was not overly pleased to see me. Finding the re-
ception a bit chilly indoors, I decided I would prefer a walk in the
sunshine." She looked around in her turn, shook her head sadly.
  "I had not been here since the destruction. They did a thorough
job. You're not going to rebuild?"
  "Why should I?" Palin shrugged. His tone was bitter. "What
use does anyone have for an Academy of Sorcery if there is no
more sorcery? Tas," he said abruptly, "Usha is at home. Why
don't you go surprise her?" Turning, he pointed to a large house
which could barely be seen for the tall trees surrounding it.
"There is our house-"
  "I know!" Tasslehoff said excitedly. "I was there the first time
I went to Caramon's funeral. Does Usha paint wonderful pictures
like she did then?"
  "Why don't you go ask her yourself?" Palin said irritably.
  Tas glanced at the rubble and appeared undecided.
  "Usha would be very hurt if you didn't go to see her," Palin
added.
  "Yes, you're right," Tas replied, making up his mind. "I
wouldn't do anything to hurt her. We are great friends. Besides,
I can always come back here later. Good-bye, Jenna!" He started
to extend his hand, thought better of it. "And thanks for mag-
icking me. That hasn't happened to me in a long time. I really
enjoyed it."
"Odd little fellow," remarked Jenna, gazing after Tas, who
was running pell-mell down the hillside. "He looks and talks
very much like the kender I knew as Tasslehoff Burrfoot. One
would almost think he is Tasslehoff."
  "He is," said Palin.
  Jenna shifted her gaze to him. "Oh, come now." She scruti-
nized him more closely. "By the lost gods, I believe that you are
serious. Tasslehoff Burrfoot died-"
  "I know!" Palin said impatiently. "Thirty-odd years ago. Or
thereabouts. I'm sorry, Jenna." He sighed. "It's been a long
night. Beryl found out about the artifact. We were ambushed by
Neraka Knights. The kender and I barely escaped with our lives,
andJhe Solamnic who brought Tas to me didn't escape at all.
Then we were attacked in the air by one of Beryl's greens. We es-
caped the dragon only by making a harrowing flight into a
thunderstorm."
  "You should get some sleep," Jenna advised, regarding him
with concern.
  "I can't sleep," Palin returned, rubbing his eyes, which were
red-rimmed and burning. "My thoughts are in turmoil, they give
me no rest. We need to talk!" he added in a kind of frantic des-
peration.
  "That's why I am here, my friend," Jenna said. "But you
should at least eat something. Let us go to your house and drink
a glass of wine. Say hello to your wife, who has just returned her-
self from what I gather was a very harrowing journey herself."
  Palin grew calmer. He smiled at her wanly. "Yes, you are
right, as usual. It's just. . ." He paused, thinking what to say and
how to say it. "That is the real Tasslehoff, Jenna. I'm convinced of
it. And he has been to a future that is not ours, a future in which
the great dragops do not exist. A future where the world is at
peace. He has brought with him the device he used to travel to
that future."
  Jenna gazed at him searchingly and intently. Seeing that he
was in earnest, utterly serious, her eyes darkened, narrowed with
interest.
  "Yes," she said at last. "We do need to talk." She took his arm,
they walked side by side.
  "Tell me everything, Palin," she said. ~
The Majeres' house was a large structure that had once be- (!,~
longed to a Master Theobald, the man who had taught Raistlin
Majere magic. Caramon had purchased the house at the master's
death, in memory of his brother, and had given the house as gift
to Palin and Usha when they were married. Here their children
had been born and grown up, going off on adventures of their
own. Palin had transformed the classroom where the young
Raistlin had once droned through his lessons into a studio for his
wife, a portrait painter of some renown throughout Solamnia and
Abanasinia. He continued to use the master's old laboratory for
his studies.
  Tasslehoff had spoken truly when he told Palin that he
remembered the house from Caramon's first funeral. He did
remember the house-it hadn't changed. But Palin certainly
had.
  "I suppose having your fingers all mangled would give you
a mangled view of life," Tas was saying to Usha as he sat with
her in the kitchen, eating a large bowl of oatmeal. "That must be
the reason, because at Caramon's first funeral, Palin's fingers
were just fine and so was he. He was cheerful and happy. Well,
maybe not happy, because poor Caramon had just died and no
one could feel truly happy. But Palin was happy underneath. So
that when he was over being sad, I knew he would be happy
again. But now he's terribly unhappy, so unhappy that he can't
even be sad."
  "I . . . I suppose so," Usha murmured.
  The kitchen was a large one with a high, beamed ceiling and
an enormous stone fireplace, charred and blackened with years of
use. A pot hung from a black chain in the center of the fireplace.
Usha sat across from the kender at a large, butcher-block table
used for chopping the heads off chickens and such, or so Tas sup-
posed. Right now it was washed clean, no headless chickens lying
about. But then it was only midmoming. Dinnertime was a long
way off.
  Usha was staring at him just like all the rest of them-as if
he'd grown two heads or maybe was headless altogether, like the
chickens. She had been staring at him that way ever since his
arrival, when he had thrown open the front door (remembering
to knock afterward), and cried out, "Usha! It's me, Tas! I haven't
been stepped on by the giant yet!"
Usha Majere had been a lovely young woman. Age had en-
hanced her good looks, although, Tas thought, she doesn't have
quite the same prettiness she had when I came back here for
Caramon's funeral the first time. Her hair shone with the same
silver sheen, her eyes glinted with the same gold, but the gold
lacked warmth, the silver was dull and tarnished. She looked
faded and tired.
  She's unhappy, too, Tas realized suddenly. It must be catching.
Like measles.
  "That will be Palin now!" Usha said, hearing the front door
open and close. She sounded relieved.
  " And Jenna," Tas mumbled, his mouth full.
  "Yes. Jenna," Usha repeated, her voice cool. "You can stay
here, if you like, er . . . Tas. Finish your oatmeal. There's more in
the pot."
  She rose to her feet and left the kitchen. The door swung shut
behind her. Tas ate his oatmeal and eavesdropped with interest
on the conversation being held in the entry hall. Ordinarily he
would not have listened in on someone else's conversation, be-
cause that wasn't polite, but they were talking about him when he
wasn't there, which wasn't polite, either, and so he felt justified.
  Besides, Tas was starting not to like Palin very much. The
kender felt badly about this, but he couldn't help the feeling.
He'd spent a considerable amount of time with the mage when
they were at Laurana's, relating over and over everything he
could remember about Caramon's first funeral. The kender
added the usual embellishments, of course, without which no
kender tale is considered complete. Unfortunately, instead of en-
tertaining Palin, these embellishments-which shifted from story
to story-appeared to irritate him to no end. Palin had a way of
looking at him- Tas-not as if he had two heads, but more as if
the mage would like to rip off the kender's single head and open
it up to see what was inside.
  "Not even Raistlin looked at me like that," Tas said to him-
self, scraping the oatmeal out of the bowl with his finger. "He
looked at me as if he'd like to kill me sometimes, but never like)
he wanted to turn me inside out first." I
  Usha's voice came floating through the door ". . . claims he's
Tasslehoff . . ."
  "He is Tasslehoff, my dear," Palin returned. "You know Mis-
tress Jenna, I believe, Usha? Mistress Jenna will be spending a few
days with us. Will you make up the guest room?"
  There was a silence that sounded as if it had been mashed
through a sieve, then Usha's voice, cold as the oatmeal had grown
by now. "Palin, may I see you in the kitchen?"
  Palin's voice, colder than the oatmeal. "Please excuse us, Mis-
tress Jenna."
  Tasslehoff sighed and, thinking he should look as if he
hadn't been listening, began to hum loudly to himself and
started to rummage through the pantry, searching for something
else to eat.
  Fortunately, neither Palin nor Usha paid any attention to the
kender at all, except for Palin to snap at him to stop that infernal
racket.
  "What is she doing here?" Usha demanded, her hands on her
hips.
  "We have important matters to discuss," Palin answered eva-
sively.
  Usha fixed him with a look. "Palin, you promised me! This
trip to Qualinesti would be your last! You know how dangerous
this search for artifacts has become-"
  "Yes, my dear, I do know," Palin interrupted, his tone cool.
"That is why I think it would be best if you left Solace."
  "Left!" Usha repeated, astonished. "I've just come back home
after being away for three months! Your sister and I were virtual
prisoners in Haven. Did you know that?"
  "Yes, I knew-"
  "You knew! And you didn't say anything? You weren't wor-
ried? You didn't ask how we escaped-"
  "My dear, I haven't had time-"
  "We couldn't even come back for your father's funeral!" Usha
continued. "We were permitted to leave only because I agreed to
paint a portrait of the magistrate's wife. She has a face that would
have been ugly on a hobgoblin. Now you want me to leave again."
  "It's for your own safety."
  "What about your safety?" she demanded.
  "I can take care of myself."
  "Can you, Palin?" Usha asked. Her voice was suddenly
gentle. She reached out, tried to take hold of his hands in her
own.
"Yes," he snapped and snatched his crippled hands away,
folded them in the sleeves of his robes.
  Tasslehoff, feeling extremely uncomfortable, wished he could
crawl inside the pantry and shut the door. Unfortunately, there
was no room, not even after he'd cleared out a space by stashing
several interesting-looking objects in his pockets.
  "Very well, if that's how you feel. I'm not to touch you appar-
ently"-Usha folded her arms across her chest-"but I do think
you owe me an explanation. What is going on? Why did you send
this kender here claiming to be Tas! What are you up to?"
  "We're keeping Mistress Jenna waiting-"
  "I'm sure she won't mind. I am your wife, in case you've for-
gotten!" Usha tossed her silver hair. "I wouldn't be surprised if
you had. We never see each other anymore."
  "Don't start that again!" he shouted angrily and turned away
toward the door.
  "Palin!" Usha reached out her hand impulsively. "I love you!
I want to help you!"
  "You can't help me!" he cried, rounding on her. "No one
can." He lifted his hands, held them to the light, the fingers
crooked and turned inward like the claws of a bird. "No one
can," he repeated.
  More silence. Tas recalled the time he'd been a prisoner in the
Abyss. He had felt very alone then, desolate and unhappy.
Strangely, he was feeling the same now sitting in his friends'
kitchen. He lacked the spirit to even give the lock on the silver
cabinet a second glance.
  "I am sorry, Usha," Palin said stiffly. "You are right. You de-
serve an explanation. This kender is Tasslehoff."
  Usha shook her head.
  "Do you remember my father telling the story about how he
and Tas traveled back in time?" Palin continued.
  "Yes," she answered, her voice tight.
  "They did so by means of a magical artifact. Tasslehoff used
that same device to jump forward in time so he could speak at
Caramon's funeral. He was here once, but he overshot the mark.
He arrived too late. The funeral was over, so he came back a
second time. In this instance, he was on time. Only everything
was different. The other future he saw was a future of hope and
happiness. The gods had not gone away. I was head of the Order
of White Robes. The elven kingdoms were united-"
  "And you believe all this?" Usha asked, amazed.
  "I do," Palin said stubbornly. "1 believe it because I have seen
the device, Usha. I've held it in my hands. I've felt its power.
That's why Mistress Jenna is here. I need her advice. And that's
why it's not safe for you to stay in Solace. The dragon knows I
have the device. I'm not sure how she found out, but I fear some-
one in Laurana's household may be a traitor. If so, Beryl may al-
ready be aware that I have brought the device to Solace. She'll
send her people to try to-"
  "You're going to use it!" Usha gasped, pointed her finger at
Palin.
  He made no response
  "I know you, Palin Majere," Usha said. "You're planning to
use the device yourself! To try to go back in time and . . . and. . .
who knows what else!"
  "I've only been thinking about it," he returned, uneasily. "1
haven't made up my mind. That's why I needed to speak to Mis-
tress Jenna."
  "You planned to speak to her and not to me? Your wife?"
  "I was going to tell you," Palin said.
  "Tell me? Not ask me? Not ask me what I thought about this
insanity? Not ask my opinion? No." She answered her own ques-
tion. "You intend to do this whether I want you to or not. No
matter how dangerous. No matter that you could be killed!"
  "Usha," he said, after a moment, "it's so very important. The
magic. . . if I could. . ." He shook his head, unable to explain. His
voice trailed away.
  "The magic is dead, Palin," Usha cried, her voice choked with
tears. "Good riddance, I say. What did it ever do for you? Noth-
ing except destroy you and ruin our marriage."
  He reached out his hand, but this time she was the one who
pulled away. "I'm going to the Inn," she said, not looking at him.
"Let me know if . . . if you want me to come home."
  Turning away from him, she walked over to Tas. Usha looked
him over long and hard. "You really are Tas, aren't you?" she
said, awed.
  "Yes, Usha," Tas said miserably. "But I wish right now I
wasn't."
  She leaned down, kissed him on the forehead. He could see
the unshed tears shimmer in her golden eyes.
  "Good-bye, Tas. It was nice to see you again."
  "I'm sorry, Usha," he wailed. "I didn't mean to make a mess
of things. I just came back to speak at Caramon's funeral."
  "It's not your fault Tas. Things were a mess long before you
came."
  Usha left the kitchen, walking past Palin without glancing at
him. He stood where she had left him, staring at nothing, his ex-
pression dark, his face pale. Tas heard Usha say something to
Jenna, something he couldn't quite catch. He heard Jenna re-
spond, but he couldn't catch that either. Usha left the house. The
front door shut with a bang. The house was silent except for
Jenna's restive pacing. Still Palin did not move.
  Tas reached into several of his pockets and at last located the
device. He removed some string that had become tangled around
it dusted off the lint from his pocket and some crumbs from a bis-
cuit he'd meant to eat two days ago.
  "Here, Palin," Tas said, holding out the device. "You can
have it."
  Palin stared at him, uncomprehending.
  "Go on," Tas said, pushing the device at him. "If you want to
use it like Usha said you did, I'll let you. Especially if you can go
back and make things the way they're supposed to be. That's
what you're thinking, isn't it? Here," Tas said insistently and ~
gave the device a shake, which caused its jewels to wink.
  "Take it!" Jenna said.
  Tas was startled. He had been so intent on Palin, he hadn't
heard Jenna come into the kitchen. She stood in the doorway, the
door partially ajar.
  "Take it!" she repeated urgently. "Palin, you were worried
about overcoming the geas laid on the device, the spell that
would always return the device to the person who uses it. Such
a geas would protect the owner if the device was ever stolen or
lost but if the device is freely given, this act may break the
geas!"
  "I don't know anything about gewgaws," said Tas, "but I
know that I'll let you use the device if you want to."
  Palin lowered his head. His gray hair fell forward, covering
his face, but not before Tas had seen the pain that contorted and
twisted it into a face he did not recognize. Reaching out Palin
took hold of the device, his crooked fingers wrapping around it
lovingly.
  Tas watched the device go with something akin to relief.
Whenever the device was in his possession, he could always
hear Fizban's voice reminding him in irritable tones that he
wasn't supposed to be off having adventures. He was supposed
to go back to his own time. And while this adventure certainly
left a lot to be desired as far as adventures go-what with being
cursed and having to see Usha cry and discovering that he
didn't like Palin anymore-Tas was starting to think that even a
bad adventure was probably better than being stepped on by a
giant.
  "I can tell you how it works," Tas offered.
  Palin placed the device on the kitchen table. He sat there star-
ing at it, not saying a word.
  "There's a rhyme that goes with it and stuff you have to do to
it," Tas added, "but it's pretty easy to learn. Fizban said I had to
know it so that I could recite it standing on my head and I could,
so I'm sure you probably can, too."
  Palin was only half-listening. He looked up at Jenna. "What
do you think?"
  "It is the Device of Time Journeying," she said. "I saw it at the
Tower of High Sorcery when your father brought it to Dalamar
for safekeeping. He studied it, of course. I believe he had some of
your uncle's notes regarding it. He never used it that I know of,
but he has more knowledge about it than anyone now living. I
never heard that the device went missing. However, as I recall,
we did find Tasslehoff in the Tower right before the Chaos War. He
might have taken it then."
  Jenna eyed the kender quite sternly.
  "I did not take it!" Tas said, insulted. "Fizban gave it to me! He
told me-"
  "Hush, Tas." Palin leaned across the table, lowered his voice.
"I don't suppose there is any way you could contact Dalamar."
  "I do not practice necromancy," Jenna returned coolly.
  Palin's eyes narrowed. "Come now, you don't believe he's
dead. Do you?"
  Jenna relaxed back in her chair. "Perhaps I don't. But he might
as well be. I have not heard a word from him in more than thirty
years. I don't know where he may have gone."
Palin looked dubious, as if he did not quite believe her.
Jenna spread her bejeweled hands on the table's surface, fin-
gers apart. "Listen to me, Palin. You do not know him. No one
knows him as I know him. You did not see him at the end,
when he came back from the Chaos War. I did. I was with him.
Day and night. I nursed him to health. If you could call it
that."
  She sat back, her expression dark and frowning.
  "I am sorry if I offended you," Palin said. "I never heard. . . .
You never told me."
  "It is not something I enjoy talking about," Jenna said
tersely. "You know that Dalamar was gravely wounded during
our battle against Chaos. I brought him back to the Tower. For
weeks he hovered between the realm of the living and that of
the dead. I left my home and my shop and moved into the
Tower to care for him. He survived. But the lo$s of the gods, the
loss of godly magic, was a terrible blow, one from which he
never truly recovered. He changed, Palin. Do you remember
how he used to be?"
  "I didn't know him very well. He supervised my Test in the
Tower, the Test during which my Uncle Raistlin took him by
surprise, turning what Dalamar had intended as illusion into
reality. I'll never forget the look on his face when he saw I had
been given my uncle's staff." Palin sighed deeply, regretf1jl!y.
The memories were sweet, yet painful. "All I remember of
Dalamar is that I thought him sharp-tongued and sarcastic,
self-centered and arrogant. I know that my father had a better
opinion of him. My father said Dalamar was a very compli-
cated man, whose loyalty was to magic, rather than to the Dark
Queen. From what little I knew of Dalamar, I believe that to be
true."
  "He was excitable," Tas chimed in. "He used to get very ex-
cited when I started to touch anything that belonged to him.
Jumpy, too."
  "Yes, he was all that. But he could also be charming, soft-
spoken, wise. . ." Jenna smiled and sighed. "I loved him, Palin. I
still do, I suppose. I have never met any other man to equal him."
She was quiet a moment, then she shrugged and said, "But that
was long ago."
  "What happened between you two?" Palin asked. 
She shook her head. 1/ After his illness, he withdrew into him-
self, became sullen and silent, morose and isolated. I have never
been a particularly patient person," Jenna admitted. "1 couldn't
stomach his self-pity and I told him so. We quarreled, I walked
out, and that was the last I saw of him."
  "I can understand how he felt," Palin said. "1 know how lost
I felt when I realized the gods were gone. Dalamar had practiced
the arcane art far longer than I. He had sacrificed so much for it.
He must have been devastated."
  "We all were," Jenna said bluntly, "but we dealt with it. You
went on with your life, and so did I. Dalamar could not. He fret-
ted and fumed until I feared that his frustration would do what
his wounds could not. I honestly thought he would die of it. He
could not eat or sleep. He spent hours locked up in his laboratory
searching desperately for what had been lost. He had the key to
it, he once told me during one of the rare times he actually spoke
to me. He said the key had come to him during his sickness. Now
he had only to find the door. It's my belief," Jenna added wryly,
"that he found it."
  "So you do not think he destroyed himself when he destroyed
the Tower," Palin said.
  "The Tower's gone?" Tas was stunned. "That great big Tower
of High Sorcery in Palanthas? What happened to it?"
  "I am not even convinced he blew up the Tower," Jenna said,
continuing the conversation as if the kender wasn't there. "Oh, I
know what people say. That he destroyed the Tower for fear the
dragon Khellendros would seize it and use its magic. I saw the
pile of rubble that was left. People found all sorts of magical arti-
facts in the ruins. I bought many of them and resold them later for
five times what I paid for them. But I know something I've never
told anyone. The truly valuable artifacts that were in the Tower
were never found. Not a trace. The scrollbooks, the spellbooks,
those belonging to Raistlin and Fistandantilus, Dalamar's own
spellbooks-those were gone, too. People thought they were de-
stroyed in the blast. If so," she added with fine irony, "the blast
was extremely selective. It took only what was valuable and im-
portant, left the trinkets behind."
  She eyed Palin speculatively. "Tell me, my friend, would you
take this device to Dalamar if you had the chance?"
  Palin stirred restlessly. "Probably not, now that I think of it.
If he knew I had it, the device would not remain long in my
possession. "
  "Do you truly intend to use it?" she asked.
  "I don't know." Palin was evasive. "What do you think?
Would it be dangerous?"
  "Yes, very," she answered.
  "But the kender used it-"
  "If you believe him, he used it in his own time," she said.
"And that was the time of the gods. The artifact is now in this
time. You know as well as I do that the magic of the artifacts from
the Fourth Age is erratic in nature. Some artifacts behave per-
fectly predictably and others go haywire."
  "So I won't really find out until I try," Palin said. "What do
you suppose could happen?"
  "Who knows!" Jenna lifted her hands, the jewels on her fin-
gers glittered. "The journey alone might kill you. You might be
stranded back in time, unable to return. You might accidently do
something to change the past and, in so doing, obliterate the pres-
ent. You might blow up this house and everything around it for a
twenty-mile radius. I would not risk it. Not for a kender tale."
  "Yet I would like to go back to before the Chaos War. Go back
simply to look. Perhaps I could see the moment where destiny
veered off the path it should have taken. Then we would know
how to steer it back on the right course." --
  Jenna snorted. "You speak of time as if it were a horse and
cart. For all you know, this kender has made up this nonsensical
story of a future in which the gods never left us. He is a kender,
after all."
  "But he is an unusual kender. My father believed him, and
Caramon knew something about traveling through time."
  "Your father also said the kender and the device were to be
given to Dalamar," Jenna reminded him.
  Palin frowned. "1 think we have to find out the truth for our-
selves," he argued. "1 believe that it is worth the risk. Consider
this, Jenna. If there is another future, a better future for our world,
a future in which the gods did not depart, no price would be too
great to pay for it."
  "Even your life?" she asked.
  "My life!" Palin was bitter. "Of what value is my life to me
now? My wife is right. The old magic is gone, the new magic is
dead. I am nothing without the magic!"
  "I do not believe that the new magic is dead," Jenna said
gravely. "Nor do I believe those who say that we 'used it all up.'
Does one use up water? Does one use up air? The magic is a part
of this world. We could not consume it."
  "Then what has happened to it?" Palin demanded impa-
tiently. "Why do our spells fail? Why do even simple spells re-
quire so much energy that one has to go to bed for a week after
casting them?"
  "Do you remember that old test they used to give us in school?"
Jenna asked. "The one where they put an object on the table and tell
you to move it without touching it. You do, and then they put the
object on a table behind a brick wall and tell you to move it. Sud-
denly, it's much more difficult. Since you can't see the object, it's dif-
ficult to focus your magic on it. I feel the same when I try to cast a
spell-as if something is in the way. A brick wall, if you will. Gold-
moon told me her healers were experiencing similar feelings-"
  "Goldmoon!" Tas cried eagerly. "Where is Goldmoon? If
anyone could fix things around here, it's Goldmoon." He was on
his feet, as if he would run out the door that instant. "She'll know
what to do. Where is she?"
  "Goldmoon? Who brought up Goldmoon? What does she
have to do with anything?" Palin glowered at the kender. "Please
sit down and be quiet! You've interrupted my thoughts!"
  "I'd really like to see Goldmoon," Tas said, but he said it qui-
etly, under his breath, so as not to disturb Palin.
  The mage lifted the device carefully in his hand, turned it
over, examined it, caressed it.
  "Your wife was right," Jenna stated. "You're going to use the
device, aren't you, Palin?"
  "Yes, I am," he replied, closing his hands over it.
  "No matter what I say?"
  "No matter what anyone says." He glanced at her, appeared
embarrased. "Thank you for your help. I'm certain my sister can
find you a room at the Inn. I'll send word."
  "Did you really think I would leave and miss this?" Jenna
asked,amused.
  "It's dangerous. You said-"
  "These days, walking across the street is dangerous." Jenna
shrugged. "Besides, you will need a witness. Or at the very least,"
she added lightly, "you'll need someone to identify your body."
  "Thank you very much," Palin said, but he managed a smile,
the first Tas had seen the mage wear. Palin drew in a deep brealli,
let it out slowly. His hands holding the device trembled.
  "When should we try this?" he asked
  "No time like the present," Jenna said and grinned.

                  CHAPTER TWENTYTWO
                  THE JOURNEY BACK

And that's the rhyme," said Tasslehoff. "Do you want me to
repeat it again?"
  "No, I have it memorized," Palin said.
  "Are you sure?" Tas was anxious. "You'll need to recite it to
return to this time. Unless you want to take me with you?" he
added excitedly. "Then I could bring us."
  "I am quite sure I have the spell memorized," Palin said
firmly. And, indeed, the words were emblazoned in his mind. It
seemed to him that he could see their fiery images on the backs of
his eyes. " And, no, I'm not taking you with me. Someone needs to
stay here and keep Mistress Jenna company."
  "And to identify the body," Tas said, nodding and settling
down in his chair, kicking his feet against the rungs. "Sorry, I
forgot about that. I'll stay here. You won't be gone long anyway.
Unless you don't come back at all," he mentioned, as an after-
thought. Twisting in his chair, he looked at Jenna, who had
dragged her chair to a far comer in the kitchen. "Do you really
think he'll blow up?"
  Palin carefully ignored the kender.
"I will chant the magic that activates the device. If the spell
works, I believe that I will vanish from your sight. As the kender
says, I should not be gone long. I do not plan to stay in the past.
I am going to my father's first funeral where, hopefully, I will be
able talk to Dalamar. Perhaps I'll even talk to myself." He smiled
grimly. "I'll try to find out what went wrong-"
  "Take no action, Palin," Jenna warned. "If you do find out
anything useful, return and report. We will need to think long
and hard before acting upon it."
  "Who is 'we'?" Palin demanded, frowning.
  "I suggest a gathering of the wise," Jenna said. "The elven
king Gilthas, his mother Laurana, Goldmoon, Lady Crysania-"
  "And while we are spreading the word of what we've found
far and wide and waiting for all these people to come together,
Beryl murders us and steals the device," Palin said acerbically.
"She uses it, and we're all dead."
  "Palin, you are talking about altering the past," Jenna said in
stern rebuke. "We have no idea what the ramifications would be
to those of us living in the present."
  "I know," he said, after a moment. "1 understand. I will return
and report. But we must be prepared to act rapidly after that."
  "We will. How long do you think you will be gone?"
  "According to Tasslehoff, hundreds of days will pas~r me
for each second of time that passes for you. I estimate that I may
be gone an hour or two marked by our time."
  "Good fortune on your journey," Jenna said quietly. "Kender""
come over here and stand beside me."
  Palin took hold of the device, moved to the center of the
kitchen. The jewels glinted and sparkled in the sunshine.
  He closed his eyes. He stood for long moments in d~ep
thought and concentration. His hands cherished the device. He
delighted in the feel of the magic. He began to give himself tp the
magic, let it cherish him, caress him. The dark years slipped away
like receding waves, leaving memory's shoreline smooth and
clean. Palin was, for a moment, young and filled with hope and
promise. Tears blurred his vision.
  "Holding the pendant in my hand, I repeat the first verse,
turning the face of the device up toward myself." Palin recited the
first words of the spell: " 'Thy time is thy own.' " Acting as he had
been instructed, he twisted the face plate of the device.
"Next, at the second verse, I move the face plate from the right
to the left." He moved the face of the device in the direction indi-
cated and recited the second verse of the chant: " 'Though across
it you travel.
  "At the recitation of the third verse, the back plate drops to
form two spheres connected by rods. " 'Its expanses you see.' "
  Palin gave the device another twist and smiled with pleasure
when it performed as designed. He no longer held an egg-shaped
bauble in his hand but something that resembled a scepter. "At the
fourth verse, twist the top clockwise-a chain will drop down."
  Palin repeated the fourth verse: " 'Whirling across forever.
  The chain dropped as Tas had foretold. Palin's heartbeat in-
creased with excitement and exultation. The spell was working.
  "The fifth verse warns me to make certain that the chain is
clear of the mechanism. As the sixth verse instructs, I hold the
device by each sphere and rotate the spheres forward, while recit-
ing the seventh verse. The chain will wind itself into the body. I
hold the device over my head, repeating the final verse, and
summon a clear vision of where I want to be and the time I want
to be there."
  Palin drew in a deep breath. Manipulating the device as in-
structed, he recited the rest of the chant: " 'Obstruct not its flow.
Grasp firmly the end and the beginning. Turn them forward upon
themselves. All that is loose shall be secure. Destiny will be over
your own head.' 
  He held the device over his head and brought to mind a vision
of the Chaos War, his own part in it. His part and Tasslehoff's.
  Closing his eyes, Palin focused on the vision and gave himself
to the magic. He surrendered himself to his longtime mistress.
She proved faithful to him.
  The floor of the kitchen elongated, scrolled up into the air. The
ceiling slid underneath the floor, the dishes on the shelves melted
and trickled down the walls, the walls merged with the floor and
the ceiling, and all began to roll into themselves, forming an enor-
mous spiral. The spiral sucked in the house and then the woods
beyond. Trees and grass wrapped around Palin, then the blue sky,
and the ball in which he was the center started to revolve, faster
and faster.
  His feet left the floor. He was suspended in the center of a
whirling, spinning kaleidoscope of places and people and events.
He saw Jenna and Tas whirl past, saw the blur of their faces, and
then they disappeared. He was moving very slowly but the
people around him were moving fast, or perhaps he was the one
speeding past them while they walked by him as slowly if they
were walking under water.
  He saw forests and mountains. He saw villages and cities. He
saw the ocean and ships on the ocean, and all of them were drawn
up to form part of the great ball in the middle of which he drifted.
  The spiral wound down. The spinning slowed, slowed. . . he
could see people, objects more clearly. . .
  He saw Chaos, the Father of All and of Nothing, a fearsome
giant with beard and hair of flame, standing taller than the tallest
mountain, the top of his head brushing eternity, his feet extend-
ing to the deepest part of the Abyss. Chaos had just smashed his
foot down on the ground, presumably killing Tasslehoff but in-
flicting his death blow upon himself, for Usha would catch a drop
of his blood in the Chaos jewel and banish him.
  The spinning continued, carrying Palin on past that moment
into...
  Blackness. Utter darkness. A darkness so vast and deep that
Palin feared he'd been struck blind. And then he saw light behind
him, blazing firelight.
  He glanced back into fire, looked ahead into dar~ss.
Looked into nothing.
  Panic-stricken, he closed his eyes. "Go back beyond the Chaos
War!" he said, half-suffocated with fear. "Go back to my child"""
hood! Go back to my father's childhood! Go back to Istar! Go back
to the Kingpriest! Go back to Huma! Go back. . . go back. . ."
  He opened his eyes.
  Darkness, emptiness, nothing.
  He took another step and realized that he had taken a step too
far. He had stepped off the precipice. -
  He screamed, but no sound came from his throat. Time's rush-
ing wind carried it away from. He experienced the sickening sen-
sation of falling that one feels in a dream. His stomach dropped.
Cold sweat bathed him. He tried desperately to wake himself, but
then came the horrible knowledge that he would never wake.
  Fear seized him, paralyzed him. He was falling, and he would
continue to fall and fall and keep falling into time's well of darkness.
  Time's empty well.
Having been the one using the device to travel back through
time, Tasslehoff had never actually seen what happened to him-
self when he used it. He had always rather regretted this and had
once tried to go back to watch himself going back, but that hadn't
worked. He was extremely gratified, therefore, to watch Palin
using the device and quite charmed to see the mage disappear
before his very eyes.
  All that was interesting and exciting, but it lasted only a few
moments. Then Palin was gone, and Tasslehoff and Jenna were
alone in the Majere's kitchen.
  "We didn't explode," Tas observed.
  "No, we didn't," Jenna agreed. "Disappointed?"
  "A little. I've never seen anything explode before, not count-
ing the time Fizban tried to boil water to cook an egg. Speaking
of eggs, would you like something to eat while we wait? I could
heat up some oatmeal." Tas felt it incumbent upon himself to act
as host in Usha's and Palin's absence.
  "Thank you," Jenna replied, glancing at the remaIns of the
congealed oatmeal in the pot and making a slight grimace, "but I
think not. If you could find some brandy, now, I believe I could
use a drink-"
  Palin materialized in the room. He was ashen, disheveled,
and he clutched the device in a hand that shook so he could
barely hold it.
  "Palin!" Jenna cried, rising from her chair in amazement and
consternation. "Are you hurt?"
  He stared at her wildly, without recognition. Then he shud-
dered, gave a gasping sigh of relief. Staggering, he very nearly
fell. His hand went limp. The device tumbled to the floor and
bounced away in a flash of jewels. Tas chased after it, caught it
before it rolled into the fireplace.
  "Palin, what went wrong?" Jenna ran to him. "What hap-
pened? Tas, help me!"
  Palin started to crumple. Between the two of them, Tas and
Jenna eased the mage to the floor.
  "Go fetch blankets," Jenna ordered.
  Tasslehoff dashed out of the kitchen, pausing only a moment
to deposit the device in a pocket. He returned moments later, tot-
tering under a load of several blankets, three pillows, and a
feather mattress that he had dragged off the master bed.
  Palin lay on the floor, his eyes closed. He was too weak to
move or speak. Jenna put her hand on his wrist, felt his pulse
racing. His breathing was rapid, rasping, his body chilled. He
was shivering so that his teeth clicked together. She wrapped two
of the blankets snugly around him.
  "Palin!" she called urgently.
  He opened his eyes, stared at her. "Darkness. All darkness."
  "Palin, what do you mean? What did you see in the past?"
  He grasped her hand, hard, hurting her. He held fast to her as
if he were being swept away by a raging river and she was his
only salvation.
  "There is no past!" he whispered through pallid lips. He sank
back, exhausted.
  "Darkness," he murmured. "Only darkness."
  Jenna sat back on her heels, frowning.
  "That doesn't make any sense. Brandy," she said to Tas.
  She held the flask to Palin's lips. He drank a little, and some
color came to his pale cheeks. The shivering eased. Jenna took a
swallow of the brandy herself, then handed the flask to the
kender. Tas helped himself, just to be sociable.
  "Put it back on the table," Jenna ordered.
  Tas removed the flask from his pocket and, after several!!iore
sociable gulps, he placed it on the table.
  The kender looked down at Palin in remorseful concern.
"What's wrong? Was this my fault? I didn't mean it, if it was." ~
  Palin's eyes flared open again. "Your fault!" he cried hoarsely.
Flinging off the blankets, he sat up. "Yes, it's your fault!"
  "Palin, keep calm," Jenna said, alarmed. "You'll make your-
self ill again. Tell me what you saw."
  "I'll tell you what I saw, Jenna." Palin said, his voice hollow.
"I saw nothing. Nothing!"
  "I don't understand," Jenna said.
  "I don't either." Palin sighed, concentrated, tried to order his
thoughts. "I traveled back in time and as I did so, time unrolled
before me,like a vast parchment. I saw all that has passed in the Fifth
Age. I saw the coming of the great dragons. I saw the dragon purge.
I saw the building of this Citadel. I saw the raising of the shield over
Silvanesti. I saw the dedication of the Tomb of the Last Heroes. I saw
the defeat of Chaos, and that is where it all ends. Or begins."
"Ends? Begins?" Jenna repeated; baffled. "But that can't be,
Palin. What of the Fourth Age? What of the War of the Lance?
What of the Cataclysm?"
  "Gone. All of it. I stood amidst the ether and saw the battle
with Chaos, but when I tried to see beyond, when I looked into
the past, I saw only darkness. I took a step and . . . " He shud-
dered. "I fell into the darkness. A void where no light shines, no
light has ever shone. Darkness that is eternal, everlasting. I had
the feeling that I was falling through centuries of time and that I
would continue to fall until death took me, and then my corpse
would keep falling. . . ."
  "If that is true, what does it mean?" Jenna pondered.
 "I'll tell you what it means," Palin said raggedly. He pointed
at Tasslehoff. "This is Tas's fault. Everything that has happened is
his fault."
  "Why? What does he have to do with it?"
  "Because he's not dead!" Palin said, hissing the words through
clenched teeth. "He changed time by not dying! The future he saw
was the future that happened because he died and by his death, we
were able to defeat Chaos. But he's not dead! We didn't defeat Chaos.
The Father of All and Nothing banished his children, the gods, and
these past forty years of death and tunnoil have been the result!"
  Jenna looked at Tas. Palin was looking at Tas, this time as if
he'd grown five heads, wings and a tail.
  "Let's all have another drink of brandy," Tas suggested,
taking his own advice. "Just to make us feel better. Clear our
heads," he added pointedly.
  "You could be right, Palin," Jenna said thoughtfully.
 "I know I'm right!" he said grimly.
  "And we all know that two rights make a wrong," Tas ob-
served helpfully. "Would anyone like oatmeal?"
  "What other explanation could there be?" Palin continued, ig-
noring the kender.
  "I'm not sure," said Tas, backing up a few steps toward the
kitchen door, "but if you give me a moment, I'll bet I could think
of several."
  Palin threw off the blanket and rose to his feet. "We have to
send Tas back to die."
  "Palin, I'm not so sure. . ." Jenna began, but he wasn't
listening to her.
"Where's the device?" he demanded feverishly. "What hap-
pened to it?"
  "While it is true," Tas said, "that I had promised F~zban I
would go back in time for the giant to step on me, the more I
think about that part of it, the less I like it. For while being
stepped on by a giant might be extremely interesting, it would be
interesting for only a few seconds at most, and then as you said
I would be dead."
  Tas bumped up against the kitchen door.
  "And while I've never been dead," he continued, "I've seen
people being dead before, and I must say that it looks like about
the most uninteresting thing that could happen to a person."
  "Where is the device?" Palin demanded.
  "It rolled into the ashes!" Tas cried and pointed at the fire-
place. He took another gulp of brandy.
  "I'll look," Jenna offered. Seizing the poker, she began to sift
through the ashes.
  Palin peered over her shoulder. "We must find it!"
  Tasslehoff put his hand in his pocket and, taking hold of the
Device of Time Journeying, he began to turn it and twist it and
slide it, all the while speaking the rhyme under his breath.
  "'Thy time is thy own, though across it you travel. . .' 
  "Are you sure it went under here, Tas?" Jenna asked. "Be-
cause I can't see anything except cinders-" 
  Tas spoke faster, his nimble fingers working swiftly.
  " 'Whirling across forever. Obstruct not its flow,' " he
whispered. 
  This was going to be the tricky part.
  Palin's head jerked up. Turning around, he made a diving
leap for the kender.
  Tas whipped the device out of his pocket and held it up. "Des-
tiny be over your own head!" he cried, and he was pleased to re-
alize, as time rolled up the kitchen, the brandy flask, and him
along with it, that he had just made a very pithy remark.

  "The little weasel," said Jenna, looking at the empty place on
the floor where the kender had once been standing. "So he had
the device all along."
  "My gods!" Palin gasped, "what have I done?"
  "Scared the oatmeal out of him, unless I'm much mistaken,"
Jenna returned. "Which is quite an accomplishment, considering
he's a kender. I don't blame him," she added, scrubbing her soot-
covered hands vigorously on a towel. "If you had shouted at me
like that, I would have run, too."
  "I'm not a monster," Palin said, exasperated. "I am scared! I
don't mind admitting it." He pressed his hand over his heart.
"The fear is here, worse than anything I've ever known, even
during the dark days of my captivity. Something strange and
terrible has happened to the world, Jenna~ and I don't under-
stand what!" His fists clenched. "The kender is the cause. I'm
sure of it!"
  "If so, we better find him," said Jenna practically. "Where do
you think he would have gone? Not back in time?"
  "If he has, we'll never locate him. But I don't think he would,"
Palin said, pondering. "He wouldn't go back because if he did,
he'd wind up exactly where he doesn't want to be-dead. I be-
lieve he's still in the present. Then where would he go?"
  "To someone who would protect him from you," said Jenna
bluntly.
  "Goldmoon," said Palin. "He talked about wanting to see her
only moments before he left. Or Laurana. He's already been to see
Laurana. Knowing Tas, though, he'd want some new adventure.
I will travel to the Citadel of Light. I would like to discuss what I
have seen with Goldmoon anyhow."
  "I'll loan you one of my magical rings to speed you across the
miles," Jenna said, tugging the ring off her finger. "Meanwhile, I
will send a message to Laurana, warning her to watch for the
kender and if he shows up on her doorstep, to hang onto him."
  Palin accepted the ring. "Warn her to be cautious of what she
says and does," he added, his expression troubled. "I believe that
there may be a traitor in her household. Either that or the Neraka
Knights have found some way to spy on her. Will you. . ." He
paused, swallowed. "Will you stop by the Inn and tell Usha . . .
tell her. . . "
  "I'll tell her you're not a monster," said Jenna, patting his arm
with a smile. She looked at him intently, frowning in anxiety. " Are
you certain you are well enough for this?"
  "I was not injured. Only shocked. I can't say that's wearing
off, but I'll be well enough to make the journey." He looked curi-
ously at the ring. "How does this work?"
"Not all that well anymore, "Jenna wryly. lilt will take you
two or three jumps to reach your destination. Place the ring on
the middle finger of your left hand. That's close enough," she
added, seeing Palin struggle to ease it over a swollen joint. "Put
your right hand over the ring and conjure up the image of where
you want to be. Keep that image in your mind, repeat it to your-
self over and over again. I want that ring back, by the way."
  "Certainly." He smiled at her wanly. "Farewe" Jenna. Thank
you for your help. I'll keep you informed."
  He placed his hand over the ring and began to picture in his
mind the cry tal rainbow domes of the Citadel of Light.
  "Palin:' Jenna said suddenly, "I haven't been entirely honest
with you. I may have an idea where to find Dalamar."
  "Good," Palin replied. liMy father was right. We need him."

                    CHAPTER TWENTYTHREE
                      THE HEDGE MAGE

  The gnome was lost in the hedge maze.
  This was nothing unusual. The gnome was frequently
lost in the hedge maze. In fact, whenever anyone in the
Citadel of Light wanted the gnome (which wasn't often) and
asked where he was, the response was invariably, "Lost in the
hedge maze."
  The gnome did not wander the hedge maze aimlessly. Far
from it. He entered the hedge maze daily with a set purpose, a
mission, and that was to make a map of the maze. The gnome,
who belonged to the Guild of PuzzlesRiddlesEnigmasRebusLo-
gogriphsMonogramsAnagramsAcrosticsCrosswordsMazes-
Labyrin thsP ar adoxesScrab b leF eminine LogicandPoli ticians,
otherwise known as P3 for short, knew of a certainty that if he
could map the hedge maze, he would find in that map the key to
the Great Mysteries of Life, among these being: Why Is It That
When You Wash Two Socks You Only End Up With One? Is There
Life After Death? and Where Did The Other Sock Go? The gnome
was convinced that if you found the answer to the second ques-
tion you would also find the answer to the third.
In vain the mystics of the Citadel attempted to explain to
him that the hedge maze was magical. Those who entered it
with minds troubled or sad found their cares eased, their bur-
dens lifted. Those who entered it seeking solitude and peace
were not disturbed, no matter how many other people walked
the fragrant hedgerows at the same moment. Those who en-
tered seeking a solution to a problem found that their thoughts
grew centered, their minds cleared of clutter. Those who en-
tered on their mystical journey to climb the Silver Stair that
stood in the center of the maze found that they did not journey
through a maze of shrubbery, but through the maze of their
hearts.
  Those who entered the hedge maze with the firm resolve to
map out the hedge maze, to try to define it in terms of X number
of rows and left and right turnings and longitudes and latitudes
and degrees of angles and radiuses and circumferences discov-
ered that here mathematics need not apply. The hedge maze
shifted beneath the compass, skittered out from underneath the
ruler, defied all calculation.
  The gnome, whose name (the short version) was Conundrum,
refused to listen. He entered the hedge maze every day, con-
vinced that this would be the day he solved the mystery. This
would be the day he would achieve his Life Quest and p~duce
the definitive map of the hedge maze, a map he would then copy
and sell to tour groups.
  With one quill pen stuck behind his ear and another through
the bosom of his robe, rather as if he'd been stabbed, the gnome
would enter the hedge maze in the morning and work feverishly
all during the hours of sunlight. He would measure and count his
steps, note down the elevation of the hedge at Point A, indicate
where Point A converged with Point B, and cover himself in ink
and perspiration. He would emerge at the end of the day glowing
with pride, with bits of the hedge stuck in his hair and beard, and
produce for the edification of any poor unfortunate he could
coerce into viewing his project an ink-spattered and sweat-
stained map of the hedge maze.
  He would then spend the night copying the map so that it was
perfect, absolutely perfect, not a twig missing. Next morning he
would take the map into the hedge maze and become immedi-
ately and hopelessly lost. He would manage to find his way out
about noontime, which just gave him daylight enough to redraw
his map-and so forth and so on daily for about a year now.
  On this day Conundrum had worked his way through the
hedge maze to about the halfway point. He was down on his
knees, tape in hand, measuring the angle between a zig and a zag
when he noted a foot blocking his way. The foot was encased in a
boot that was attached to a leg that was attached-on looking
up--to a kender.
  "Excuse me," said the kender politely, "but I'm lost and I was
wondering-"
  "Lost! Lost!" Conundrum scrambled to his feet, overturning
his ink jar, which left a large purple stain on the grassy path. Sob-
bing, the gnome flung his arms around the kender. "How grati-
fying! I'm so glad! So glad! You can't know!"
  "There, there," said the kender, patting the gnome on the
back. "I'm certain that whatever it is, it will be all right. Have you
a hankie? Here, borrow mine. Actually, it's Palin's, but I don't
suppose he'd care."
  "Thank you," said the gnome, blowing his nose.
  Generally gnomes talk extremely fast and mash all their
words together, one on top of the other, in the belief that if you
don't reach the end of a sentence quickly you might never reach
it all. Conundrum had lived among humans long enough to have
learned to slow his speech pattern. He now talked very slowly
and haltingly, which led other gnomes he encountered to con-
sider him quite stupid.
  "I'm sorry I fell apart like that." The gnome sniffed. "It's just,
I've been working so long, and no one has been kind enough to
get lost before. . ." He started to weep again.
  "Glad I could oblige," said the kender hurriedly. "Now that I
am lost, I was wondering if you could show me the way out. You
see, I have just arrived through magical means"-the kender was
quite proud of this and repeated it to make certain the gnome was
impressed-"magical means that are quite secret and mysterious,
otherwise I'd tell you about them. Anyhow my business is ex-
tremely urgent. I'm looking for Goldmoon. I have a feeling she
must be here because I thought about her very hard just as the
magic happened. My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot, by the way."
  "Conundrum Solitaire," replied the gnome, and the two
shook hands, after which Tasslehoff completed the ruin of
Palin's handkerchief by using it to wipe the residual ink left on
his fingers.
  "I can show you the way out!" the gnome added eagerly. "I
have drawn this map, you see."
Proudly, with a flourish of his hand, Conundrum presented
the map to Tasslehoff's view. Drawn on an immense piece of
parchment, the map lay on the ground, covering the path be-
tween the two hedge rows, overlapping on the edges. The map
was bigger than the gnome, who was a smallish, misty-eyed,
dimly smiling gnome with a nut-brown complexion and a long
wispy beard that had probably once been white but was now
stained purple due to the fact that the gnome invariably dragged
his beard through the wet ink as he bent on hands and knees over
the map.
  The map was quite complicated, with Xs and Arrows and
Do Not Enters and Turn Left Heres scrawled allover it in
Common. Tasslehoff looked down at the map. Looking up, he
saw the end of the row in which they were standing. The hedge
opened up and he could see the sun shining on several very
beautiful crystalline domed structures that caught the sunlight
and turned it into rainbows. Two golden dragons formed an
immense archway. The grounds were green and filled with
flowers. People dressed in white robes strolled around, talking
in low voices. 
  "Oh, that must be the way out!" said Tasslehoff. "Thanks all
the same."
  The gnome looked at his map and looked at what was unde-
niably the exit from the hedge maze.
  "Drat," he said and began to stomp on the map.
  "I'm extremely sorry," said Tas, feeling guilty. "It was a really
nice map."
  "Hah!" Conundrum jumped up and down on the map.
  "Well, excuse me, but I've got to go," Tasslehoff said, inching
toward the exit. "But once I have talked to Goldmoon, I'll be glad
to come back and get lost again, if that will help."
  "Bah!" cried the gnome, kicking the ink jar into the hedge.
  The last Tasslehoff saw of Conundrum, he was back at the be-
ginning of the hedge maze, measuring his foot with the tape in
preparation to pace off the precise distance between the first turn-
ing and the second.
Tas walked a good distance, leaving the hedge maze far
behind. He was about to wander into a lovely building made of
sparkling crystal when he heard footsteps behind him and felt a
hand on his shoulder.
  "Have you business in the Citadel of Light, kender?" asked a
voice, speaking Common.
  "The where?" said Tasslehoff. "Oh, yes. Of course."
  Quite accustomed to having the heavy hand of the law fall on
his shoulder, he was not surprised to find himself in the custody
of a tall young woman of stern expression wearing a helm of
silver chain mail and a chain-mail shirt that glittered in the sun.
She wore a long tabard marked with the symbol of the sun and
carried a swC5rd in a silver scabbard, girded around her waist.
  "I'm here to see Goldmoon, ma'am," Tasslehoff said politely.
"My business is urgent. Quite urgent. If you could just show me
where-"
  "What do you have here, Guardian?" asked another voice.
"Trouble?"
  Tasslehoff twisted his head to see another woman clad in
armor, except that she was wearing the armor of a Solamnic
Knight. Two more Solamnic Knights walked on either side of her
as she proceeded up the walkway.
  "I am not certain, Lady Camilla," replied the guard, saluting.
"This kender has asked to see Goldmoon."
  The two exchanged glances and it seemed to Tas that a
shadow crossed the face of the lady Knight. "What does a kender
want of the First Master?"
  "The who?" Tas wondered.
  "Goldmoon, the First Master."
  "I'm an old friend of hers," Tas said. He held out his hand.
"My name is . . ." He paused. He was growing extremely tired of
people staring at him oddly whenever he said his name. He with-
drew his hand. "It's not important. If you'll just tell me where to
find Goldmoon . . ."
  Neither of the women answered, but Tas, watching closely,
saw the Solamnic Knight glance in the direction of the largest crys-
tal dome. He guessed at once that this was where he needed to be.
   "You both look very busy," he said, edging away. "I'm sorry
to have bothered you. If you'll excuse me. . ." He made a dash
for it.
"Should I go after him, sir?" he heard the guard ask the
Knight.
  "No, leave him be," Lady Camilla replied. "The First Master
has a soft spot in her heart for kender." -
  "But he might disturb her solitude," the guard said.
  "I would give him thirty steel pieces, if he could," Lady
Camilla replied.
  The lady Knight was fifty years old, a handsome woman, hale
and hearty, though her black hair was streaked with silver. Stem
of countenance, grim and stoic, she did not appear to be the sort
of person given to displays of emotion. Yet Tas heard her say this
with a sigh.

  Tas reached to the door of the crystal dome and halted, fully
expecting someone to come out and tell him he shouldn't be
there. Two white-robed men did emerge, but they only smiled at
him and wished him a good afternoon.
  "And a good afternoon to you, sirs," Tas said, bowing. "By the
way, I'm lost. What building is this?"
  "The Grand Lyceum," said one.
  "Oh," said Tas, looking wise, although he hadn't a clue what
a lyceum was. "I'm so glad I've found it. Thank you."
  Bidding the gentlemen good-bye, the kender enter~d the
Grand Lyceum. After a thorough exploration of the area, ~ ex-
ploration involving opening doors and interrupting classes,
asking innumerable questions, and eavesdropping on private
conversations, the kender discovered that he was inside the
Grand Hall, a popular meeting place for the people who lived
and worked and studied in the Citadel of Light.
  This being afternoon, the Grand Hall was quiet with only a
few people reading or talking together in small groups. At night
the Grand Hall would be crowded, for it served as the dining hall
for the Citadel, and here everyone-teachers and students
alike-gathered for their evening meal.
  The rooms inside the crystal dome glowed with sunshine.
Chairs were numerous and comfortable. Long wooden tables
stood at one end of the enormous room. The smell of baking
bread wafted from the kitchen that was located on a level below.
The reception rooms were at the far end, some of them occupied
by students and their masters.
Tasslehoff had no difficulty gathering information about
Goldmoon. Every conversation he overheard and half those he
interrupted were centered on the First Master. Everyone, it
seemed, was very worried about her.
  "I cannot believe that the Masters have allowed this to go on
this long," one woman said to a visitor. "Permitting the First
Master to remain sealed up in her room like this! She might be in
danger. She might be ill."
  "Has no one made any attempt to try to talk to her?"
  "0f course, we have tried to talk to her!" The woman shook
her head. "We are all of us worried about her. Ever since the night
of the storm, she has refused to see or speak to anyone, even those
closest to her. Food and water are left for her on a tray during the
night. The tray is always found empty in the morning. She leaves
us notes on the tray assuring us that she is well, but she begs that
we will respect her privacy and not disturb her."
  "I won't disturb her,lI Tasslehoff said to himself. Ill," tell her
very quickly what's happened, and then I'll leave."
"What are we to do?" the woman continued. "The handwrit-
ing on the notes is her own. We are all agreed on that."
  "That proves nothing. She may be a prisoner. She may be
writing those notes under duress, especially if she fears she will
bring down harm upon others in the Citadel."
  "But with what motive? If she were taken hostage, we would
expect a ransom request or that some demand be made in return
for her well-being. Nothing has been asked of us. We have not
been attacked. The island remains as peaceful as anywhere in this
dark time. Ships come and go. Refugees arrive daily. Our lives
continue apace."
  "What of the silver dragon?" the second woman asked. "Mirror
is one of the guardians of Schallsea Isle and of the Citadel of Light.
I would think that the dragon, with his magic, would be able to dis-
cover if some evil had taken possession of the First Master."
  "He undoubtedly could, but Mirror has vanished as well,"
her friend returned helplessly. "He took flight during the worst of
the storm. No one has seen him since."
"I knew a silver dragon once," Tas said, barging in on the con-
versation. "Her name was Silvara. I couldn't help overhearing
you talk about Goldmoon. She's a very good friend of mine. I'm
deeply worried about her. Where did you say her rooms were?"
"At the very top of the Lyceum. Up those stairs," said one.
  "Thank you," said Tas and turned that direction.
  "But no one's allowed up there," the woman added sternly.
  Tas turned back again. "Oh, sure. I understand. Thanks."
  The two women walked ofL continuing their conversation.
Tasslehoff loitered in the area, admiring a large statue of a silver
dragon that occupied an honored place in the center of the hall.
When the women were gone, Tas glanced about. Seeing that one
was watching him, he began to climb the stairs.

  Goldmoon's chambers were located at the very top of the
Grand Lyceum. A spiral staircase of many hundred steps led
upward through the various levels. The climb was long, the
stairs built for the tall legs of humans, not the short legs of
kender. Tas had begun bounding up the stairs enthusiastically,
but after stair number seventy-five, he was forced to sit down
and take a brief rest.
  "Whew!" he said, panting. "I wish I were a silver dragon. At
least then I'd have wings."
  The sun was starting to dip down into the sea, by the time
Tasslehoff-after a few more rests-reached the top.
  The staircase ended, so Tas presumed he'd arrived at the level
where Goldmoon lived. The hallway was peaceful and qyiet, or
so it seemed at first. A door decorated with sheaves of wh~t and
vines and fruit and flowers stood at the end of the corridor. As Tas
moved closer to the door, he detected the faint sound of someone
weeping.
  The tender-hearted kender forgot his own trouble. He
knocked gently on the door. "Goldmoon," he called out. "It's me,
Tasslehoff. Is anything wrong? Maybe I can help."
  The sound of weeping ceased immediately, replaced by
silence.
  "Goldmoon," Tas began. "I really need to talk to-"
  A hand grasped hold of his shoulder. Startled, Tas jumped
and banged his head against the door. He looked wildly around.
  Palin gazed down at him sternly.
  "I thought I might find you here," he stated.
  "I'm not going back," Tas said, rubbing his head. "Not yet.
Not until I talk to Goldmoon." He looked up at Palin with suspi-
cion. "Why are you here?"
"We were worried about you," Palin replied.
  "I'll bet" Tas muttered. Sidling away from Palin, he turned
back to the door. "Goldmoon!" He knocked again on the door.
"Let me in! It's me, Tasslehoff!"
  "First Master," Palin added, "I am here with Tas. Something
very strange has happened. We would like your wise counsel."
  A moment's silence, then a voice, muffled from crying, came
back, "You must excuse me, Palin, but I am seeing no one at
present."
  "Goldmoon," Palin said, after a moment. "I have ve~y sad
news. My father is dead."
  Another moment's silence, then the voice, strained and
hushed. "Caramon dead?"
  "He died several weeks ago. His end was peaceful."
  "I came in time to speak at his funeral Goldmoon," Tasslehoff
added. "It's too bad you missed my speech. But I could give it
again if you-"
  A terrible cry burst from behind the door. "Oh, fortunate man!
Oh,lucky, lucky man!"
  Palin looked grim. "Goldmoon!" he called out. "Please let me
in!"
  Tasslehof£ very subdued and solemn, put his nose to the
doorknob.
  "Goldmoon," he said, speaking through the key hole, "I'm
very sorry to hear that you've been sick. And I was sorry to hear
that Riverwind was dead. But I heard he died being a hero and
saving my people from the dragon when there were probably
quite a few who said that we kender weren't worth saving. I want
you to know that I'm grateful and that I was proud to call River-
wind my friend."
  "This is a shabby trick you play upon me, Palin," said the
voice angrily from inside. "You have inherited your uncle's gift of
rnimickry. Everyone knows that Tasslehoff Burrfoot is dead."
  "No, I'm not" Tas returned. "And that's the problem. At least
it is for some people." He gave Palin a stern look. "It's really me,
Goldmoon," Tas continued. "If you put your eye to the keyhole
you can see me."
  He waved his hand.
  A lock clicked. Slowly, the door opened. Goldmoon stood
framed within. Her room was lit by many candles, their glow cast
a halo of light around her. The corridor into which she stepped
was dark, except for the light of a single red star. She was cloaked
in shadows. Tas could not see her.
  "First Master. . ." Palin stepped forward, his hand out-
stretched.
  Goldmoon turned, allowed the light from her room to touch
her face. "Now, you see. . ." she said softly.
  The light of the candles gleamed on hair that was thick and
golden and luxuriant, on a face that was soft and smooth, on
eyes that, though red with weeping, were blue as the morning
sky and shone with the luster of youth. Her body was strong as
the days when the Chieftain's Daughter had first fallen in love
with a young warrior named Riverwind. The years Goldmoon
had lived in the world numbered ninety, but her body, her hair,
her eyes, her voice, her lips and hands were those of the young
woman who had carried the blue crystal staff into the Inn of the
Last Home.
  Beautiful, she stood sorrowfully before them, her head droop-
ing like the bud of a cut rose.
  "What miracle is this?" Palin cried, awed.
  "No miracle," said Goldmoon bitterly. "A curse."
  "Are you cursed?" said Tas with interest. "So am I!"
  Goldmoon turned to the kender, looked him up and down. "It
is you!" she murmured. "I recognized your voice. Why ~re you
here? Where have you been? Why have you come?"
  Tasslehoff extended his hand, shook hers politely. "I'd love to
tell you all about everything, Goldmoon. All about Caramon's
first funeral and then his second funeral and how I'm cursed. But
right now Palin is trying to murder me. I came to see if you would
tell him to stop. So if you'll just speak to him, I'll be going."
  Tas made a break for it. He had very nearly reached the stairs
and was just about to dash down them when Palin's hand snaked
out and snagged him by the collar of his shirt.
  Tas wriggled and writhed, trying various kender tricks devel-
oped through years of practice at escaping the long arm of irri-
tated sheriffs and irate shopkeepers. He used the old Twist and
Bite and the always effective Stomp and Kick, but Palin was proof
against them. At last, truly desperate, Tas tried the Lizard. He en-
deavored to slide his arms out of his shirt sleeves, regretful at
having to leave his shirt behind, but, like the lizard who leaves
part of his tail in the hand of the would-be captor, he would be
free. Unfortunately, the new shirt proved a bit snug, and this
didn't work. Palin was thin, but he was strong and, in addition,
he had a strong incentive to hold onto the kender.
  "What is he talking about?" Goldmoon asked, staring at Tas in
bewilderment. She shifted her gaze to Palin. "Are you trying to
murder him?"
  "Of course not," Palin said impatiently.
  " Are too!" Tas muttered, squirming.
  "Listen to me, Tas. I'm truly sorry about what happened back
there," Palin said.
  He seemed about to continue, then sighed and lowered his
head. He looked old, older than Tas remembered, and he'd seen
him only a few moments ago. The lines m his face had deepened,
darkened, pulled taut; the skin stretched tight across the bones.
He blinked his eyes too frequently and often rubbed them, as if
trying to see through a film or mist covering them. Tas-who was
set to run-was touched by Palin's obvious trouble. The kender
decided he could at least stay to listen.
  "I'm sorry, Tas," Palin said finally, and his voice was tight as
the lines on his face. "1 was upset. I was frightened. Jenna was
quite angry with me. After you left, she said she didn't blame you
for running. She was right. I should have explained things to you
calmly and rationally. I shouldn't have yelled at you. After what
I saw, I panicked."
  He looked down at Tas and sighed deeply. "Tas, I wish there
was some other way. You have to understand. I'll try to explain this
as best I can. You were meant to die. And because you haven't died,
it is possible that this is the reason all these terrible things that have
happened to the world have happened. To put it another way, if
you were dead, the world might be the world you saw the first
time you came back to my father's funeral. Do you understand?"
  "No," said Tas.
  Palin regarded the kender with obvious disappoinment. "I'm
afraid I can't explain it any better than that. Perhaps you and
Goldmoon and I should discuss it. You don't need to run away
again. I won't force you to go back."
  "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Palin," Tas returned, "but
you can't force me to do anything. I have the device, and you
don't."
Palin regarded the kender with deepening gravity, then sud-
denly and unexpectedly he smiled. The smile was not quite a
whole smile, more a quarter-smile, for it lifted the comers of his
thin lips and didn't come anywhere near his unhappy eyes, but it
was a start.
  "That is true, Tas," he said. "You do have the device. You
know yourself what is right. You know that you made a promise
to Fizban and that he trusted you to keep that promise."
  Palin paused, then said quietly. "Were you aware, Tas, that
Caramon spoke at your funeral?"
  "He did?" Tas was astonished. "I didn't even know I had a fu-
neral! I just figured there probably wouldn't be much of me left,
except a bit of goo between the giant's toes. What did Caramon
say? Was there a big turnout? Did Jenna bring cheese puffs?"
  "There was an immense turnout," Palin said. "People came
from allover Ansalon to pay their respects to a heroic kender. As
for my father, he called you' a kender among kender.' He said
that you exemplifed all that was best in the kender race: you were
noble, self-sacrificing, brave, and, above all, honorable."
  "Maybe Caramon was wrong about me," Tas said uneasily,
glancing at Palin out of the comer of his eyes.
  "Maybe he was," Palin said.
  Tas didn't like the way Palin was looking at him, as (if he were
shriveling into something icky, like a squished cocktoach. He
didn't know what to do or say-an unusual feeling for him. He
couldn't recall ever having had this feeling before, and he hoped
he never would again. The silence grew stretched, until Tas was
afraid that if one of them let loose, the silence would snap back
and smack someone in the face. He was therefore quite thankful
when a commotion sounded on the stairs, distracting Palin and
easing the tense silence.
  "First Master!" Lady Camilla called. "We thought we heard
your voice. Someone said they saw a kender come up here-"
  Reaching the head of the stairs, she caught sight of Gold-
moon.
  "First Master!" The Knight stopped dead in her tracks and
stared. The Citadel guards bunched up behind her, staring and
gaping.
  This was Tas's opportunity to head for freedom again. No one
would try to stop him. No one was paying the least attention to
him. He could slip past them all and run away. Almost certainly
the gnome Conundrum had some sort of sailing vessel. Gnomes
always had sailing vessels. Sometimes they had flying vessels, as
well, and sometimes they had vessels that both flew and sailed,
although this generally resulted in an explosion.
  Yes, thought Tas, eyeing the stairs and the people standing
there with their mouths open. That's what I'll do. I'll go. Right
now. I'm running. Any moment now. My feet will start to run.
  But his feet had other ideas, apparently, because they stayed
pretty much firmly attached to the floor.
  Perhaps his feet were thinking the same thing as his head. His
head was thinking about what Caramon had said. Those words
were almost the very same words he'd heard people say about
Sturm Brightblade, about Tanis Half-Elven. And they'd said those
words about him! Tasslehoff Burrfoot! He felt a warm glow in the
vicinity of his heart, and, at the same time, he felt another kind of
glow around his stomach. A much more uncomfortable glow, a
sort of gurgling glow, as if he'd eaten something that disagreed
with him. He wondered if it could be the oatmeal.
  "Excuse me, Goldmoon,1I Tas said, interrupting the gaping
and staring and general stupidity that was taking place around
him. liDo you think I could go inside your room and lie down?
I'm not feeling very well."
  Goldmoon drew herself up. Her face was pale, cold. Her voice
was bitter. I'll knew it would be like this. I knew you would look
upon me as some sort of sideshow at a fair."
  "Forgive me, First Master,"Lady Camilla said, her own face
crimson with shame. She lowered her gaze. "I beg your pardon.
It's just. . . this miracle. . ."
  "It is not a miracle!" Goldmoon said in sharp tones. She lifted
her head and something of her regal presence, her noble spirit,
flashed from her. I'll am sorry for all the trouble I have caused,
Lady Camilla. I know that I have brought pain to many. Please
carry word to all in the Citadel that they need worry for me no
longer. I am well. I will come among them presently, but first I
want to speak to my friends in private.1I
  "0f course, I will be happy to do whatever you ask, First
Master," Lady Camilla said, and though she tried her best not to
stare, she could not help but gaze with astonishment at the amaz-
ing change that had come over Goldmoon.
Palin coughed meaningfully.
  Lady Camilla blinked. "I am sorry, First Master. It's just-"
  She shook her head, helpless to put her confused thoughts
into words. Turning away, yet with one more backward glance, as
if to reassure herself that what she saw was real, she hastened
down the spiral stairs. The Citadel guards, after a moment's hes-
itation, turned to run down after the Knight. Tas could hear their
voices loudly exclaiming over the "miracle."
  "They will all be like that" Goldmoon said in anguish, re-
turning thoughtfully to her chambers. "They will all stare at me
and exclaim and wonder." She shut the door swiftly behind them,
leaned against it.
  "You can hardly blame them, First Master," said Palin.
  "Yes. I know. That's one reason I kept myself locked inside
this room. I had hoped that when the change first happened it
would be . . . temporary." Goldmoon gestured. "Please sit down.
We have much to discuss, it seems."
  Her chambers were plainly furnished, contained a bed made
of a simple wood frame, a writing desk, handwoven rugs upon
the floor, and a large number of soft cushions scattered about. A
lute stood in one comer. The only other article of furniture-a tall
standing mirror-lay toppled on the floor. The broken gla~ had
been swept into a neat pile.
  "What happened to you, First Master?" Palin asked. "Was this
transformation magical in nature?"
  "I don't know! I wish I could find an explanation!" she
said helplessly. "The transformation occurred the night of the
thunderstorm."
  "The storm," Palin murmured and glanced at Tas. "Many
strange things happened during that storm, seemingly. The
kender arrived the night of the storm."
  "The rain drummed on the rooL" Goldmoon continued, as
if she hadn't heard. "The wind howled and beat against the
crystal as if it would smash it in. A brilliant lightning flash lit
up the entire room more brightly than the brightest sunshine. It
was so bright that it blinded me. For a time, I could see nothing
at all. The blindness passed in a moment. I saw my reflectiort in
the mirror.
  "I . . . I thought a stranger was in the room. I turned, but there
was no one there. It was then, when I turned back, that I recognized
myself. Not as I had been, not gray and wrinkled and old, but
young. Young as on my wedding day. . ."
  She closed her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
  "The crash they heard below," Palin said. "You broke the
mirror.
  "Yes!" Goldmoon cried, her fists clenched. "I was so close to
reaching him, Palin! So near! Riverwind and I would have been
together soon. He has waited so patiently. He knew that I had im-
portant tasks to perform, but my work is done now and I could
hear him calling to me to join him. We would be together forever.
I was going to walk again with my beloved at last and . . . and
now... this!"
  "You truly have no idea how this happened?" Palin hesi-
tated, frowning. "Perhaps a secret wish of your heart. . . some
potion. . . or magical artifact. . ."
  "In other words, did I ask for this?" Goldmoon returned, her
voice cool. "No, I did not. I was content. My work is finished.
Others have the strength and heart and will to carry on. I want
only to rest in my husband's arms again, Palin. I want to walk
with him into the next stage of being. Riverwind and I used to
speak of that next step on our great journey. I was given a glimpse
of it during the time I was with Mishakal, the time she gave me
the staff. The beauty of that far distant place. . . I can't describe it.
  "I am tired. So very tired. I look young, but I don't feel young,
Palin. This body is like a costume for the masquerade, the face a
mask. Except that I can't take it off! I've tried and I can't!"
  Goldmoon put her hands to her cheeks, pressed on them. Her
face was scarred and now Tas, shocked, knew the cause. In her
desperation, she had endeavored to claw away the smooth,
supple flesh.
  "Inside I am still old, Palin," Goldmoon said, her voice hollow
and ragged. "I have lived my allotted life span. My husband has
traveled on before me, my friends are gone. I am alone. Oh, I
know." She raised her hand to forestall his objections. "I know
that I have friends here. But they are not of my time. They. . .
don't sing the same songs."
  She turned to Tasslehoff with a smile that was sweet but so
sad that the kender's eyes filled with tears.
  "Is this my fault, Goldmoon?" Tas asked mournfully. "I didn't
mean to make you unhappy! I didn't!"
"No, kenderken." Goldmoon soothed him with her gentle
touch. "You have brought me cheer. And a puzzle." She turned to
Palin. "How does he come to be here? Has he been roaming the
world these thirty years when we thought him dead?"
  "The kender came the night of the storm by using a magical
device, Goldmoon," Palin said in a low voice. "The Device of
Time Journeying. A device that once belonged to my father. Do
you remember hearing the story of how Caramon traveled back
in time with Lady Crysania-"
  "Yes, I remember," Goldmoon said, flushing. "I must say that
I found your father's story very difficult to believe. If it hadn't
been for Lady Crysania's account-"
  "There is no need to apologize," Palin said. "I admit that I
myself found the story difficult to credit. I was able to speak to
Dalamar about it years ago, before the Chaos War. And I talked
to Tanis Half-Elven. Both confirmed my father's tale. In addi-
tion, I read Par-Salian's notes, which spoke of how the decision
to send my father back into time came to be made. And I have
a friend, Mistress Jenna, who was present in the Tower of High
Sorcery when my father handed over the device to Dalamar for
safekeeping. She had se~n the device before and she recog-
nized it. Above all, I have my account to serve as ~tness.
Tasslehoff has with him the magical device my father used to
transport himself through time. I know because I used it
myself."
  Goldmoon's eyes widened. She drew in a breath, soft as a
sigh.
  "Are you saying that the kender has come to us from the past?
That he has traveled through time? That you traveled through
time?"
  "Tasslehoff," Palin said, "tell Goldmoon what you told me
about Caramon's funeral. The first one. Be brief and concise as
possible."
  Since neither the word "brief" nor the word" concise" are in
the kender vocabulary, Tasslehoff's story was considerably in-
volved and extended, taking many little detours and side trips,.
and once losing himself completely in a morass of words from
which he had to be patiently extricated. Goldmoon was a most at-
tentive listener, however, seating herself next to him on the floor
amongst the cushions and never saying a word.
When Tas spoke of how she and Riverwind had attended
Caramon's first funeral together; her husband gray and stooped,
the proud chieftain of the united tribes of the Plains, accompa-
nied by his son and daughters, grandchildren and great-grand-
children, Goldmoon's tears flowed again. She wept silently,
however, and never took her rapt gaze from the kender.
  Tasslehoff came to a halt, mainly because his voice gave out.
He was given a restorative glass of water and lay back down on
the cushions.
  "Well, what do you think of his tale, First Master?" Palin
asked.
  "A time in which Riverwind did not die," Goldmoon mur-
mured. " A time in which we grow old together. Is it possible?"
  "I used the device," Palin said. "1 went back into the past,
hoping to find the moment in time when we traded one future for
the other. I had hoped to find such a moment, thinking that I
might be able to effect a change."
  "That would be very dangerous," Goldmoon said, her tone
sharp-edged.
  "Yes, well, it doesn't matter if it was or it wasn't," Palin re- 
turned, "because I did not find such a moment in our past."
  "That is just as well," Goldmoon began.
  Palin interrupted her. "First Master," he said, "I found no past
at all.
  "What do you mean? No past?" 
  "I went back in time," Palin said. "I saw the end of the Chaos
War. I witnessed the departure of the gods. When I looked
beyond that, when I tried to see the beginning of the Chaos War,
when I tried to see events that had come before that, I saw noth-
ing but a vast and empty darkness, like looking down into an
enormous well."
  "What does this mean?" Goldmoon asked.
  "I don't know, First Master." Palin looked at Tasslehoff. "What
I do know is this: Many years ago, Tasslehoff Burrfoot died. At
least, he was supposed to die. As you see, here he sits, very much
alive."
  "That is why you wanted to send him back to die," Goldmoon
murmured, looking sorrowfully at Tas.
  "Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps that wouldn't make any
difference. I am the first to admit that I do not understand time
journeying," Palin said ruefully. "Only one of our order does, and
that is Dalamar. But none know if he is dead or alive or how to
find him if he is alive."
  "Dalamar!" Goldmoon's expression darkened. "When I heard
of his disappearance and that of the Tower of High Sorcery, I re-
member thinking how wonderful it was that some good had
come out of the evil of these times. I know others liked and
trusted him - Tanis, for example, and your father. But every time
I saw him, I saw that he walked in shadow, and more than that,
that he liked the shadow. He wrapped it around him, hiding his
deeds. I believe Tanis and Caramon were deceived by him and I,
for one, hope he has left this world. Bad as things are, they are
better than if he were here. I trust," she added sharply, "that you
will have nothing to do with him, should he happen to reappear."
  "There seems little likelihood Dalamar will enter into this at
all," Palin returned impatiently. "If he is not dead, he is where we
are not likely to ever find him. Now that I have spoken to you,
First Master, what I find most singular is that all these strange
eyents happened the night of the storm."
  "There was a voice in that storm," Goldmoon said, shivering.
"It filled me with terror, though I could not understand what it
said." She looked again at Tas. "The question is, what do we do
now?" 
  "That is up to Tas," Palin replied. "The fate of the world in the
hands of a kender." He looked very grim.
  Tas rose, with dignity, to his feet. "I'll give the matter serious
thought," he announced. "The decision isn't easy. I have lots of
things to consider. But before I go away to think and to help Co-
nundrum map the hedge maze, which I promised I would do
before I left, I want to say one thing. If you people had left the fate
of the world in the hands of kender all along, you probably
wouldn't be in this mess."
  Leaving that shot to rankle in Palin's bosom, Tasslehoff
Burrfoot left the room.

                       CHAPTER TWENTYFOUR
                    SLEEP,LOVE; FOREVER SLEEP

Over a week had passed since Mina had received her orders to
march on Silvanesti. During that time, Silvanoshei had been
crowned king of the Silvanesti kingdom that slumbered be-
neath its protective shield, unaware of doom marching nearer.
  Galdar had spent three days racing to Khur to deliver Mina's
orders to General Dogah. He had spent another three days trav-
eling south from Khur, eager to meet up with Mina and her
troops, following the route she'd shown him on her map. Finding
them was easy. He could see signs of their passing all along the
way-wheel ruts, footprints, abandoned equipment. If he could
find the army this easily, so could the ogres.
  Galdar marched with bowed head, slogging through the mud,
rain running into his eyes, dripping from his muzzle. The rain
had been falling for two days straight now, ever since Galdar's
return, with no letup in sight. Not a soft drizzly summer shower,
either, but a lancing, wind-driven rain that chilled the spirit and
cast a gloom over the soul.
  The men were wet through, cold, and miserable. The trail was
slick with mud that was either so slippery no man could stand on
it or was so sticky that it nearly sucked the men's boots off their
feet. The heavily laden supply wagons were mired in the mud at
least thrice daily, requiring the men to put poles beneath the
wheels and heave them out. Galdar's strength was called upon
during these mishaps. The minotaur's back and shoulders ached
with the strain, for he often had to lift the wagon to free the
wheel.
  The soldiers began to actively hate the rain, to view it as the
enemy, never mind ogres. The rain beating on the soldiers' helms
sounded like someone constantly drumming on a tin pot, or so
one grumbled. Captain Samuval and his archers worried that the
feathers with which the arrows were fletched were so wet and
bedraggled that the arrows would not fly accurately.
  Mina required the men to be up and marching with the
dawn, always supposing there was a dawn, which there hadn't
been for the last few days. They marched until the twilight grew
so gloomy that the officers feared the wagon masters would
drive off the road in the darkness. The wood was too wet for
even the most experienced fire-builder to have any success. Their
food tasted of mud. They slept in the mud, with mud for a pillow
and rain for a blanket. The next morning they wer~ up and
marching again. Marching to glory with Mina. So all fi\rmly be-
lieved. So all knew.
  According to the mystics, the soldiers would have no chance
to penetrate the magical shield. They would be caught between
the anvil of the shield to their front and the hammer of the ogres
to their back. They would perish ignominiously. The soldiers
scoffed at the mystics. Mina could raise the shield, Mina could
batter it down with a touch of her hand. They believed in her, and
so they followed her. Not a man deserted during that long and ar-
duous march.
  They did complain-complained bitterly-about the mud
and the rain and the poor food and the lack of sleep. Their grum-
blings grew louder. Mina could not help but hear them. "What I
want to know is this," one man said loudly, his voice sounding
above the squelching of boots in the mud. "If the God we follow
wants us to win, then why doesn't the Nameless One send us
sunshine and a dry road?"
  Galdar marched in his accustomed place at Mina's side. He
glanced up at her. She had heard the grumblings before now and
had ignored them. But this was the first man who had dared
question her god.
  Mina reined in her horse, wheeled the animal. She galloped
back along the column, searching for the man who had spoken.
None of his comrades pointed him out, but Mina found him. She
fixed the man with her amber eyes.
  "Sub commander Paregin, is it not?" she said.
  "Yes, Mina," he replied, defiant.
  "You took an arrow in the chest. You were dying. I restored
you to life," Mina said. She was angry. The men had never seen
her angry. Galdar shivered, recalled suddenly the appalling
storm of lightning and thunder that had given her birth.
  Paregin's face went red with shame. He mumbled a reply,
lowered his gaze before her.
  "Listen to me, Subcommander," Mina said and her voice was
cold and sharp. "If we marched in dry weather under the blazing
sun, it would not be rain drops that pierce your armor but ogre
lances. The gray gloom is a curtain that hides us from the sight of
our enemy. The rain washes away all trace of our passing. Do not
question the God's wisdom, Pare gin, especially since it seems
you have little of your own."
  Paregin's face was pale. "Forgive me, Mina," he said through
pallid lips. "I meant no disrespect. I honor the God. I honor you."
He looked at her in adoration. "Would that I had a chance to
prove it!"
  Mina's expression softened. Her amber eyes glowed, the only
color in the gray gloom. "You will have that chance, Paregin," she
said gently, "I promise it to you."
  Wheeling her horse, she galloped back to the head of the
column, mud flying from the horse's hooves.
  The men lowered their heads against the rain and prepared to
march on.
  "Mina!" a voice cried from the rear. A figure was slipping and
sliding, hastening toward the front of the line.
  Mina halted her steed, turned to see what was amiss. "One of
the rearguard," Galdar reported.
  "Mina!" The man arrived panting and out of breath. "Blue
dragons!" he gasped. "From the north." He looked back,
frowned. "I swear, Mina! I saw them. . . ."
  "There!" Galdar said, pointing.
Blue dragons, five of them, emerged from the clouds, their
scales glistening with the rain. The ragged column of men slowed
and shuffled to a stop, all staring in alarm.
  The dragons were immense creatures, beautiful, awful. The
rain gleamed on scales that were blue as the ice of a frozen lake
beneath a clear winter sky. They rode the storm winds without
fear, their immense wings barely moving to keep the dragons
aloft. They had no fear of the jagged lightning, for their breath
was lightning, could blast a stone tower to rubble or kill a man as
he stood on the ground far below.
  Mina said nothing, gave no orders. She calmed her horse, who
shied at the sight of the dragons, and gazed up at them in silence.
The blue dragons flew nearer, and now Galdar could see riders
clad in black armor. One by one, in formation, each of the blue
dragons swooped low over the ragged column of marching men.
The dragomiders and their mounts took a good long look, then
the blue dragons flapped their wings and lifted back up among
the gray clouds.
  The dragons were lost to sight, but their presence could still
be felt, oppressing the heart, sapping courage.
  "What's going on?" Captain Samuval slogged through the
mud. At the sight of the dragons, his archers had drawn their
bows, fitted their arrows. "What was that all about?"
  "Targonne's spies," Galdar growled. "By now he must ~ow
that you countermanded his order and sent General Dogahan
order of your own, Mina. That's treason. He'll have you drawn
and quartered, your head on a spike."
  "Then why didn't he attack us?" Captain Samuval demanded,
with a grim glance skyward. "His dragons could have inciner-
ated us where we stood."
  "Yes, but what would that gain him?" Mina answered. "He does
not profit by killing us. He does profit if we succeed. He is a short-
sighted, avaricious, grasping, covetous man. A man like Targonne
has never been loyal to anyone in his life, cannot believe anyone else
can be loyal. A man who believes in nothing except the clink of steel
coins mounting one on top of the other cannot understand an-
other's faith. Judging all people by himself, he cannot understand
what is happening here, and consequently he does not know how
to deal with it. I will give him what he wants. Our victory will earn
him the wealth of the Silvanesti nation and Malystrx's favor."
"Are you so certain we will win, Mina?" Galdar asked. "It's
not that I'm doubting," he added hastily. "But five hundred
against the entire Silvanesti nation? And we have yet to march
through ogre lands."
  "Of course, we will win, Galdar," Mina replied. "The One
God has decreed it."
  Child of battle, child of wa4 child of death, she rode forward,
and the men followed after her through the steadily falling rain.
  Mina's army marched southward, following the Thon-
Thalas River. The rain finally stopped. The sun returned, its heat
welcome to the soldiers, though they had to pay for warmth and
dry clothes by redoubling their patrols. They were deep in ogre
lands now.
  The ogres were now threatened from the south by the cursed
elves and the Legion of Steel and from the north by their former
allies. Finding they could not dislodge the Knights of Neraka
from the north, the ogres had lately pulled their armies from that
front and sent them south, concentrating their attacks against the
Legion of SteeL believing that they were the weaker foe and
would thus more readily fall.
  Mina sent out scouting parties daily. Long-range scouts re-
turned to report that a large army of ogres was gathering around
the fortress of the Legion of SteeL near the border of Silvanesti.
The Legion of Steel and an army of elves, believed to be under the
leadership of the dark elf Alhana Starbreeze, were inside the fort
preparing to stave off the ogre attack. The battle had not yet
begun. The ogres were waiting for something-more manpowe4
perhaps, or favorable omens.
  Mina heard the scouts' reports in the morning, prior to setting
out on the day's march. The men were packing their gea4 com-
plaining as usual but in better spirits since the rain had quit. The
blue dragons that dogged them kept their distance. Occasionally
someone would catch sight of dark wings and the flash of sun-
light off blue scales, but the dragons did not fly closer. The men
ate their meager breakfast, waited for the orders to move out.
  "You bring good news, gentlemen," Mina said to the scouts,
"but we must not relax our vigilance. How close are we to the
shield, Galdar?"
  "The scouts report that we are within two days' march,
Mina," he said.
Her amber eyes gazed past him, past the army, past the trees
and the river, past the sky itself or so it seemed to him. "We are
called, Galdar. I feel a great urgency. We must be at the border of
Silvanesti by tonight."
  Galdar gaped. He was loyal to his commander. He would have
laid down his life for her and considered his death a privilege. Her
strategies were unorthodox, but' they had proven effective. But
there were some things not even she could do. Or her god.
  "We can't, Mina," Galdar said flatly. "The men have been
marching ten hours a day already. They're exhausted. Besides, the
supply wagons can't move that fast. Look at them." He waved his
hand. Acting under the direction of the quartermaster, his men
were digging out one of the wagons, which had sunk in the mud
during the night. "They won't be ready to set out for another
hour, at least. What you ask is impossible, Mina."
  "Nothing is impossible to the One God, Galdar," said Mina.
"We will camp beside the shield this night. You will see. 1- What
is that noise?"
  A frantic horn call split the air, coming from behind them.
  The long line of troops stretched along the road that ran over
a hill, around a bend, down a valley, and over another hill. The
men stood up, hearing the horn call, and looked back down the
ranks. Those digging out the wagon ceased their work. \
  A single scout, riding hard, crested the hill. The troops
scrambled to move off the road, out of his way. It seemed he
shouted a question as he rode, for many of the men pointed to the
front. Putting his head down, he dug his spurs into his horse's
flanks and urged his steed forward.
  Mina stepped out into the road to wait for him. The scout,
reaching her, pulled up so hard on his horse that the animal
reared on its hind legs.
  "Mina!" The scout was breathless. "Ogres! In the hills behind
us! Coming fast!"
  "How many?" she asked.
  "It's hard to tell. They're spread out allover the place, not in
column or in any sort of order. But there's a lot of them. One hun-
dred. Maybe more. Coming down out of the hills."
  "A raiding party, most likely." Galdar grunted. "Probably
heard about the big battle in the south and they're off to claim
their fair share of the loot."
"They'll come together quick enough when they pick up our
trail," Captain Samuval predicted. "They'll do that the moment
they strike the river."
  "They've done that now, seemingly," Galdar said.
  Grinding shouts of rage and glee bounded like boulders
among the hills. The raucous blasts of ram horns split the air. A
few ogres had spotted them and were calling their fellows to
battle.
  The scout's report spread with the swiftness of wildfire along
the line of Mina's troops. The soldiers scrambled to their feet,
weariness and fatigue vanishing like dry leaves in the flames.
Ogres are terrible enemies. Hulking, fierce, and savage, an ogre
army, led by ogre mages, operates with a good notion of strategy
and tactics. An ogre raiding party does not.
  Ogre raiding parties have no leaders. Outcasts from their own
brutal society, these ogres are extremely dangerous, will prey
even upon their own kind. They do not bother with formations
but will attack whenever the enemy is in sight, trusting to their
strength, brute force, and ferocity to overwhelm the foe.
  Ogres are fearless in battle and, due to thick and hairy hides,
are difficult to kill. Pain maddens them, goads them to greater fe-
rocity. Ogre raiders have no word for "mercy," they scorn the
word "surrender," either with regard to themselves or an oppo-
nent. Ogre raiders take only a few prisoners, and these are saved
to provide the evening's entertainment.
  A disciplined, heavily armed, and well-organized army can
turn back an ogre assault. Leaderless ogres are led easily into
traps and completely vanquished by clever stratagems. They are
not good archers, having no patience for the practice required to
develop skill with bow and arrow. They wield enormous swords
and battles-axes that they use to hack the enemy to pieces, or
throw spears, which their strong arms can hurl long distances
with deadly effect.
  Hearing the ogres' fierce yells and the sound of their horns,
Mina's officers began shouting orders. Her Knights turned their
horses, ready to gallop back to face the foe. The wagon masters
plied the whip, the draft horses snorted and strained.
  "Pull those wagons forward!" Galdar bellowed out com-
mands. "Footmen, form a line across the trail, anchor on the river.
Captain Samuval, your men take positions behind-"
"No," said Mina and though she did not raise her voice, her
single word sounded like a clarion and brought all action to a
halt. The clamor and uproar fell silenLThe men turned to look at
her. "We are not going to fight the ogres. We're going to flee
them."
  "The ogres will chase after us, Mina," Samuval protested.
"We'll never be able to outrun them. We have to stand and fight!"
  "Wagon masters," Mina called, ignoring him, "cut free the
horses!"
  "But Mina!" Galdar added his own protest "we can't leave
the supplies!"
  "The wagons slow us down," Mina replied. "Instead, we will
allow the wagons to slow down the ogres."
Galdar stared. At first he didn't comprehend, and then he saw
her plan.
  "It just might work," he said, mulling over her strategy in his
mind.
  "It will work," said Samuval jubilantly. "We'll toss the wagons
to the ogres like you toss food to a ravening wolf pack at your
heels. An ogre raiding party will not be able to resist such a
prize."
  "Footmen, form a double line, march column. Prepare to
move out. You will run," Mina told the men, "but not in a panic.
You will run until you have no more strength left to run and then
you will run faster." 
  "Perhaps the dragons will come to our aid," said SamuvaL
glancing skyward. "If they're even still up there."
  "They're up there," Galdar growled, "but they won't come to
our rescue. If we're wiped out at the hands of ogres, Targonne
will be spared the expense of executing us."
  "We're not going to be wiped out" Mina said crisply. "Pass
the word for Subcommander Paregin!"
  "I am here, Mina!" The officer pushed his way forward
through his men, who were hurriedly falling into position.
  "Paregin, you are loyal to me?"
  "Yes, Mina," he said firmly.
  "You asked for a chance to prove that loyalty."
  "Yes, Mina, I did," he said again, but this time his voice
faltered.
  "I saved your life," Mina said. The shouts and yells of the
ogres were coming closer. The men glanced uneasily behind
them. "That life is therefore mine."
  "Yes, Mina," he replied.
  "Subcommander Paregin, you and your men will remain here
to defend the wagons. You will hold off the ogres as long as pos-
sible, thereby giving the rest of us the time we need to escape."
  Paregin swallowed. "Yes, Mina," he said, but he said the
words without a voice.
  "I will pray for you, Paregin," Mina said softly. She extended
her hand to him. "And for all those who stay behind. The One
God blesses you and accepts your sacrifice. Take your positions."
  Grasping her hand, Paregin reverently pressed her hand to his
lips. He looked exalted, uplifted. When he returned to the lines,
he spoke to his troops in excited tones as if she had conferred
upon them a great reward. Galdar watched closely to see that
Paregin's men obeyed him and did not try to skulk off in the face
of orders that were essentially a death warrant. The men obeyed,
some looking dazed, others grim, but all determined and re-
solved. They ranged themselves around the supply wagons that
were filled with barrels of beef and ale, sacks of flour the smith's
equipment, swords, shields and armor, tents and rope.
  "The ogres will think it is Yule come early," Samuval
remarked.
  Galdar nodded, but made no comment. He remembered back
to Beckard's Cut, remembered Mina ordering him to pack extra
supplies. A shiver ran along his spine, caused his fur to rise. Had
she known all along? Had she been given knowledge that this
would come to pass? Had she foreseen it all? Were their ends de-
termined? Had she marked Paregin for death the day she saved
his life? Galdar felt a moment's panic. He wanted suddenly to cut
and run, just to prove to himself that he could. Prove that he was
still the master of his own fate, that he was not trapped like a bug
in her amber eyes.
  "We will reach Silvanesti by nightfall" said Mina.
  Galdar looked up at he4 fear and awe constricting his heart.
  "Give the order to move out Galdar. I will set the pace."
  She dismounted and handed the reins to one of her Knights.
Taking her place at the front of the line, she raised her voice, and
it was sweet and cold as the silver moonlight. "On to Silvanesti!
On to victory!"
She began to march double-time, her strides long, starting out
at swift but easy pace until her muscles warmed to the exercise.
The men, hearing the ogres rampaging in the rear, needed no
urging to keep up with her.
  Galdar could escape into the hills. He could volunteer to
remain with the doomed rear guard. He could follow her for as
long as he lived. He fell into step beside her and was rewarded
with her smile.
  "For Mina," Subcommander Paregin shouted. He stood
beside the loaded wagon, listening to the ogres raise their battle
cry.
  Gripping his sword, he waited for death.

  Now that the troops no longer had the wagons to slow them,
Mina's army made excellent time, especially with the howls and
hoots of the ogres to spur them on. Each man could hear the
sounds of the battle behind him, each man imagined what was
happening, could tell the progress of the battle by the noise.
Ogre shouts of rage, human death cries. Wild yelps of glee-the
ogres discovered the wagons. Silence. The ogres were looting
the wagons and hacking apart the bodies of those they had
slaughtered.
  The men ran as Mina had told them they would run. They ran
until they were exhausted, and then she urged them to run faster.
Those who fell were left behind. Mina permitted no one to assist
them and this gave the men additional incentive for keeping their
aching legs moving. Whenever a soldier thought he could no
longer go on, he had only to look to the front of the line, to see the
slender, fragile-looking girl, wearing plate and chain mail, lead-
ing the march, never flagging, never pausing to rest, never look-
ing behind to see if anyone was following. Her gallant courage,
her indomitable spirit, her faith was the standard that led her
men on.
  Mina permitted the soldiers only a brief rest, standing, to
drink sparingly of water. She would not let them sit or lie down
for fear their muscles would stiffen so that they would not be able
to move. Those who collapsed were left where they fell, to strag-
gle along behind when and if they recovered.
  The sun's shadows grew longer. The men continued to run,
officers setting the grueling pace with songs at first. Then no one
had any breath left except for breathing. Yet with every step, they
drew closer to their destination-the shield that protected the
border of Silvanesti.
  Galdar saw in growing alarm that Mina's own strength was
flagging. She stumbled several times and then, at last, she fell.
  Galdar leaped to her side.
  "No," she gasped and shoved away his hand. She regained
her feet, staggered forward several more steps and fell again.
  "Mina," said Galdar, "your horse, Foxfire, is here, ready and
able to carry you. There is no shame in riding."
  "My soldiers run," she told Galdar faintly. "I will run with
them. I will not ask them to do what I cannot!"
  She tried to rise. Her legs would not support her. Her face
grim, she began to crawl on her hands and knees along the trail.
Some of the soldiers cheered, but many others wept.
  Galdar lifted her in his arms. She protested, she ordered him
to set her back on her feet.
  "If I do, you will only fall again. You will be the one to slow
us down, Mina," Galdar said. "The men would never leave you.
We will never make the Silvanesti border by nightfall. The choice
is yours."
  "Very well," she said, after a moment's bitter struggle against
her own weakness. "1 will ride."
  He helped her onto Foxfire. She slumped over the saddle, so
tired that he feared for a moment she could not even remain in the
saddle. Then she set her jaw, straightened her back, sat upright.
  Mina looked down, her amber eyes cool.
  "Do not ever defy my orders again, Galdar," she said. "You
can serve the One God just as well dead as alive."
  "Yes, Mina," he answered quietly.
  Gripping the reins in her hands, she urged the horse forward
at a gallop.

  Mina's prediction proved correct. Her army reached the
forested lands outside the Shield before sundown.
Our march ends here for the night," Mina said and climbed
down from her exhausted horse.
  "What ails this place?" Galdar asked, eyeing the dead and
dying trees, the decaying plants, the corpses of animals found
lying along the trail. "Is it cursed?"
"In a way, yes. We are near the shield," Mina said, looking
intently at everything around her. "The devastation you see is the
mark of its passing."
  "The shield brings death?" Galdar asked, alarmed.
  "To all it touches," she replied.
  " And we must break through it?"
  "We cannot break through it." Mina was calm. "No weapon
can penetrate it. No force-not even the magical force of the most
powerful dragon-can shatter it. The elves under the leadership
of their witch-queen have hurled themselves against it for
months and it remains unyielding. The Legion of Steel has sent its
knights to batter it to no effect.
  "There." Mina pointed. "The shield lies directly before us. You
can see it, Galdar. The shield and beyond the shield, Silvanesti
and victory."
  Galdar squinted against the glare. The water caught the set-
ting sun's lurid red glow, turning the Thon-Thalas into a river of
blood. He could see nothing at first, and then the trees in front of
him rippled, as if they were reflected in the blood-tinged water.
He rubbed his eyes, thinking fatigue was causing them to blur.
He blinked and stared and saw the trees ripple again, and he re-
alized then that what he was seeing was a distortion of the air cre-
ated by the magic of the shield.
  He drew closer, fascinated. Now that he knew where to look,
he fancied he could see the shield itself. It was transparent,but its
transparency had an oily quality to it, like a soap bubble. Every-
thing inside it-trees and boulders, brush and grasses--Iooked
wobbly and insubstantial.
  Just like the elf army, he thought, and immediately took this
as a good omen. But they still had to pass through the shield.
  The officers brought the troops to a halt. Many of the men
pitched forward face-first on the ground as soon as the order to
cease march was given. Some lay sobbing for breath or sobbing
from the pain of muscle spasms in their legs. Some lay quiet and
still, as if the deadly curse that had touched the trees around them
had claimed them as well.
  "All in all," Galdar growled in an undertone to Captain Samu-
val, who stood gasping for breath beside him, "Given a choice be-
tween walking into that shield and facing ogres, I think I'd take
the ogres. At least then you know what you're up against."
"You said a true word there, friend," Captain Samuval agreed
when he had recaptured some of his breath and had enough left
over to use for speech. "This place has an uncanny feel to it."
He nodded his head in the direction of the shimmering air.
  "Whatever we're going to do, we'd best be doing it soon. We may
have slowed the ogres down a bit but they'll catch up with us fast
enough."
  "By morning, I'd say," Galdar agreed, slumping to the
ground. He lay on his back. He had never been so tired in all his
life. "I know ogre raiding parties. Looting the wagons and
butchering our men will occupy them for a while, but they'll be
looking for more sport and more loot. They're on our trail right
now. I'll bet money on it."
  "And us too goddamn worn out to go anywhere, even if we
had anywhere to go," Captain Samuval said, dropping wearily
down alongside him. "I don't know about you, but I don't have
energy enough to lift my hand to brush away a gnat much less
attack some blamed magical shield."
  He cast a sidelong glance at Mina, who alone of all her army
remained on her feet. She stood staring intently at the shield, or
at least in the direction of the shield, for night was closing upon
them fast, and its distortion could no longer be easily detected.
  "I think this ends it, my friend," Captain Samuval said in a
low voice to the minotaur. "We cannot get inside the magic of the
shield. The ogres will catch us here in the morning. Ogres at our
rear. The shield to our front; Us caught between. All that mad
dash for naught."
  Galdar didn't reply. He had not lost faith, though he was too
tired to argue. Mina had a plan. She would not lead them into a
blind alley to be caught and slaughtered by ogres. He didn't
know what her plan might be, but he had seen enough of her and
enough of the power of her God that he now believed her capa-
ble of doing the impossible.
  Mina shoved her way through the gray and lifeless trees,
walked toward the shield. Dead limbs fell around her. Dead, dry
leaves crackled beneath her boots. Dust like ashes sifted down
upon her'shoulders and covered her shaved head with a pearl
gray mantle. She walked until she could go no farther. She came
up against an invisible wall.
  Mina reached out her hand, pushed at the shield, and it seemed
to Galdar that the insubstantial oily soap bubble must give way.
She drew back her hand swiftly, as if she had touched a thistle and
been stung. Galdar thought he saw a tiny ripple in the shield, but
that might have been his imagination. Drawing her morning star,
Mina struck it against the shield. The morning star fell from her
hand, jarred out of her grasp by the blow. Shrugging, she bent
down to pick up her weapon. Reports confirmed, she turned and
made her way back through the forest of death to her command.
  "What are your orders, Mina?" Galdar asked.
  She looked around her army that lay scattered over the gray
ground like so many corpses.
  "The men have done well," she said. "They are exhausted. We
will make camp here. This is close enough, I think," she added,
looking back at the shield. "Yes, this should be close enough."
  Galdar didn't ask, "Close enough for what?" He didn't have
the energy. He staggered to his feet. "1'11 go set the watch-"
  "No," Mina countered. She laid her hand on his shoulder. "We
will not set a watch this night. Everyone will sleep."
  "Not set a watch!" Galdar protested. "But, Mina, the ogres are
in pursuit-" 
  "They will be on us by morning," she said. "The men should
eat if they are hungry and then they must sleep."
  Eat what? Galdar wondered. Their food was now filling the
bellies of the ogres. Those who had started out on that mad run
carrying packs had long ago dropped them by the side of the
road. He knew better than to question her.
  Assembling the officers, he relayed Mina's orders. To Galdar's
surprise, there was little protest or argument. The men were too
tired. They didn't care anymore. As one soldier said, setting a
watch wouldn't do much good anyhow. They'd all wake soon
enough when the ogres arrived. Wake up in time to die.
  Galdar's stomach rumbled, but he was too tired to go search-
ing for food. He would not eat anything from this accursed forest,
that much was certain. He wondered if the magic that had sucked
the life from the trees would do the same for them in the night.
He pictured the ogres arriving tomorrow morning to find nothing
but desiccated husks. The thought brought a smile to his lips.
  The night was dark as death. Tangled in the black branches of
the skeleton trees, the stars looked small and meager. Galdar was
too stupid with fatigue to remember if the moon would rise this
night or not. He hoped it wouldn't. The less he saw of this ghastly
forest, the better. He stumbled over limp bodies as he walked. A
few groaned, and a few cursed him, and that was the only way he
knew they were alive.
  He returned to the place he had left Mina, but she was not
there. He could not find her in the darkness, and his heart
spasmed with a nameless fear, the fear a child feels on finding
himself lost and alone in the night. He dare not call. The silence
was a temple silence, had an awful quality he did not want to dis-
turb. But he had to find her.
  "Mina!" he hissed in a penetrating whisper.
  "Here, Galdar," she replied.
  He circled around a stand of dead trees, found her cradled in
a severed arm that had fallen from an enormous oak. Her face
glimmered pale, more luminous than the moonlight and he won-
dered that he could have missed her.
  He made his report. "Four hundred and fifty men, Mina," he
said. He staggered as he spoke.
  "Sit down," she ordered.
  "Thirty left behind with the wagons. Twenty more fallen on the
road. Some of those may catch up, if the ogres don't find them first."
  She nodded silently. Galdar eased himself to the ground. His
muscles ached. He would be sore and stiff tomorrow, and he
wouldn't be the only one.
  "Everyone's bedded down." He gave a cavernous yawn.
  "You should sleep, too, Galdar."
  "What about you?"
  "I am wakeful. I will sit up for awhile. Not long. Don't worry
about me."
  He settled himself at her feet, his head pillowed on a pile of
dead leaves that crackled every time he moved. During that hell-
ish run, all he had been able to think about had been the blessed
night when he would be able to lie down, to rest, to sleep. He
stretched his limbs, closed his eyes, and saw the trail at his feet.
The trail went on and on into forever. He ran and ran, and forever
moved farther away from him. The trail undulated, twisted,
wrapped around his legs like a snake. Tripped him, sent him
plunging head first into a river of blood.
  Galdar woke with a hoarse cry and a start.
  "What is it?" Mina was still seated on the log. She hadn't moved.
"That damned run!" Galdar swore. "I see the road in my
dreams! I can't sleep. It's no use."
  He wasn't the only one. All around him came the sounds of
breathing-heavy, panting-restless shifting, groans and coughs
and whispers of fear, loss, despair. Mina listened, shook her head,
and sighed.
  "Lie down, Galdar," she said. "Lie down and I will sing you a
lullaby. Then you will sleep."
  "Mina . . . " Embarrassed for her, Galdar cleared his throat.
"There is no need for that. I'm not a child."
  "You are a child, Galdar," she said softly. "We are all children.
Children of the One God. Lie down. Close your eyes."
  Galdar did as he was told. He lay down and closed his eyes,
and the road was ahead of him, and he was running, running for
his life. . . .
  Mina began to sing. Her voice was low, untrained, raw and yet
there was a sweetness and a clarity that struck through to the soul.

		The day has passed beyond our power.
		The petals close upon the flower. 
		The light is failing in this hour
		Of day's last waning breath.
		
		The blackness of the night surrounds
		The distant souls of stars now found.
		Far from this world to which we're bound,
		Of sorrow, fear and death.

		Sleep, love; forever sleep.
		Your soul the night will keep.
		Embrace the darkness deep.
		Sleep, love; forever sleep.

		The gathering darkness takes our souls,
		Embracing us in a chilling folds,
		Deep in a Mistress's void that holds
		Our fate within her hands.

		Dream, warriors, of the dark above,
		And feel the sweet redemption of
		The Night's Consort, and of her love
		For those within her bands.

		Sleep, love; forever sleep.
		Your soul the night will keep.
		Embrace the darkness deep.
		Sleep, love; forever sleep.

  Galdar felt a lethargy steal over him, a languor similar to that
experienced by those who bleed to death. His limbs grew heavy,
his body was dead weight, so heavy that he was sinking into the
ground. Sinking into the soft dirt and the ash of the dead plants
and the leaves that drifted down upon him, settling over him like
a blanket of dirt thrown into his grave.
  He was at peace. He knew no fear. Consciousness drained
away from him.
  Gamashinoch, the dwarves called it. The Song of Death.

  Targonne's dragon riders were up with the gray dawn, flying
low over the forests of the ogre land of Blade. They had watched
from the heavens yesterday, watched the small army run before the
ogre raiding party. The soldiers had fled before the ogres in near
panic, so far as the dragon riders could see, abandoning their
supply wagons, leaving them for the ogres. One of the riders noted
grimly that Targonne would not be pleased to hear that several
hundred steel worth of equipment was now adorning ogre bodies.
  The ragtag army had run blindly, although they had managed
to keep in formation. But their mad dash to safety had taken them
nowhere. The army had run headlong into the magical shield sur-
rounding Silvanesti. The army had come to a halt here at sun-
down. They were spent, they could go no farther, even if there
had been any place for them to go, which there wasn't.
  Looting the wagons had occupied the ogre raiding party for a
couple of hours, but when there was nothing more to eat and they
had stolen all there was to steal, the ogres moved south, follow-
ing the trail of the humans, following their hated scent that drove
them to fury and battle madness.
  The dragon riders could have dealt with the ogres. The blues
would have made short work of the raiding party. But the riders
had their orders. They were to keep watch on this rebellious
Knight and her army of fanatics. The dragon riders were not to
interfere. Targonne could not be blamed if ogres destroyed the
Silvanesti invasion force. He had told Malys many times that the
ogres should be driven out of Blade, exterminated like the
kender. Maybe next time she would listen to him.
  "There they are, "said one of the riders, as his dragon circled
low. "In the Dead Land. The same place where we left them last
night. They haven't moved. Maybe they're dead themselves.
They look it."
  "If not, they soon will be," said his commander.
  The ogres were a black mass, moving like sludge along the
road that ran alongside what the Knight had termed the Dead
Land, the gray zone of death that marked the edge of the shield,
the border of Silvanesti.
  The dragon riders watched with interest, looking forward with
anticipation to the battle that would finally bring an end to this
tiresome duty and allow them to return to their barracks in Khur.
  The Knights settled themselves comfortably to watch.
  "Do you see that?" said one suddenly, sitting forward.
  "Circle 10wer," the commander ordered.
  The dragons flew lower, wings making a gentle sweep, catch-
ing the pre-dawn breeze. The riders stared down at the astonish-
ing sight below.
  "I think, gentlemen," said the commander, after a moment
spent watching in gaping wonder, "that we should fly to Jelek
and report this to Targonne ourselves. Otherwise, we might not
be believed." 

  A horn blast woke Galdar, brought him to his feet before he
was fully conscious, fumbling for his sword.
  "Ogres attacking! Fall in, men! Fall in!" Captain Samuval was
shouting himself hoarse, kicking at the men of his company to
rouse them from their slumbers.
  "Mina!" Galdar searched for her, determined to protect her,
or, if he could not do that, to kill her so that she should not fall
alive into ogre hands. "Mina!"
  He found her in the same place he had left her. Mina sat in the
curl of the dead oak's arm. Her weapon, the morning star, lay
across her lap.
  "Mina," said Galdar, plunging through the gray ash and
trampling the dead leaves, "hurry! There may yet be a chance for
you to escape-"
  Mina looked at him and began to laugh.
  He stared, appalled. He had never heard her laugh. The
laughter was sweet and merry, the laughter of a girl running to
meet a lover. Mina climbed upon the stump of a dead tree.
  "Put your weapons away, men!" she called out. "The ogres
cannot touch us."
  "She has gone mad!" Samuval said.
  "No," said Galdar, staring, unbelieving. "Look."
  Ogres had formed a battle line not ten feet away from them.
The ogres danced along this line. They clamored, roared, gnashed
their teeth, gibbered, and cursed. They were so close that their
foul stench made his nostrils twitch. The ogres jumped up and
down, kicked and hammered with their fists, wielded their
weapons in murderous rage.
  Murderous, frustrated rage. The enemy was in clear sight, yet
he might as well have been playing among the stars in some dis-
tant part of the universe. The trees that stood between Galdar and
the ogres shimmered in the half-light, rippled as Mina's laughter
rippled through the gray dawn. The ogres beat their heads
against a shield, an invisible shield, a magical shield. They could
not pass.
  Galdar watched the ogres, watched to make certain that they
could not reach him or his comrades. It seemed impossible to him
that they could not enter through this strange and unseen barrier,
but at last he had to admit that what his mind at first disbelieved
was true. Many of the ogres fell back away from the barrier,
alarmed and frightened of the magic. A few seemed to have
simply grown weary of beating their heads against nothing but
air. One by the one, the ogres turned their hairy backs upon the
human army that they could see, but could not reach. Their
clamor began to die down. With threats and rude gestures, the
ogres straggled off, disappeared into the forest.
  "We are inside the shield, men!" Mina called out in triumph.
  "You stand safe within the borders of the Silvanesti! Witness the
might and power of the One True God!"
  The men stood staring, unable at first to comprehend the mir-
acle that had befallen them. They blinked and gaped, reminding
Galdar of prisoners who have been locked in dark cells for most
of their lives, suddenly released to walk in the bright sunshine. A
few exclaimed, but they did so softly, as if fearful to break the
spell. Some rubbed their eyes, some doubted their own sanity, but
there was the unmistakable sight of ogre backsides - ogres in re-
treat - to tell the soldiers that they were in their right minds, that
they were not seeing things. One by one, the men fell to their
knees before Mina and pressed their faces into the gray ash. They
did not chant her name in triumph, not this time. This moment
was too holy, too sacred. They paid Mina homage in silent awe
and reverence.
  "On your feet, men!" Mina shouted. "Take up your arms. This
day we march to Silvanost. And there is no force in the world that
can stop us!"

                     CHAPTER TWENTYFIVE
                     FROM DAY TO NIGHT

  Faces. 
  Faces floating over him. Bobbing and receding on a rip-
pling surface of pain. When Gerard rose to the surface, the
faces were very close to him-strange faces, with no expression,
corpses, drowned in the dark sea in which he floundered. The
pain was worse closest to the surface, and he didn't like the face-
less faces so near his own. He let himself sink back into the dark-
ness, and there was some part of him that whispered he should
cease struggling and give himself to the sea and become one of
the faceless himself.
  Gerard might have done so, but for a firm hand that gripped
his when the pain was very bad and kept him from sinking. He
might have done so but for a voice which was calm and com-
manding and ordered him to stay afloat. Accustomed to obedi-
ence, Gerard obeyed the voice. He did not drown but floundered
in the dark water, clinging to the hand that held him fast. Finally,
he made his way to the shore, pulled himself out of the pain and,
collapsing on the banks of consciousness, he slept deeply and
peacefully.
He woke hungry and pleasantly drowsy to wonder where he
was, how he came to be here, what had happened to him. The
faces that had bobbed around in his delirium were real faces now,
but they were not much more comforting than the drowned faces
in his dreams. The faces were cold and inexpressive, passionless
faces of men and women, humans, dressed in long, black robes
trimmed in silver.
  "How are you feeling, sir?" one of these faces asked, bending
over him and placing a chill hand upon his neck to feel his pulse.
The woman's arm was covered with black cloth that fell over his
face, and Gerard understood the image of the dark water in
which he'd believed himself to be drowning.
  "Better," said Gerard cautiously. "I'm hungry."
  "A good sign. Your pulse is still weak. I will have one of the
acolytes bring you some beef broth. You have lost blood, and the
beef will help restore it."
  Gerard looked at his surroundings. He lay in a bed in a large
room filled with beds, most of which were empty. Other black-
robed figures drifted about the room, moving silently on slip-
pered feet. Pungent smells of herbs scented the air. I
  "Where am I?" Gerard asked, puzzled. "What happened?"
  "You are in a hospital of our order, Sir Knight," the healer
replied. "In Qualinesti. You were ambushed by elves, seem-
ingly. I do not know much more than that." Nor did she care,
by her cold expression. "Marshal Medan found you. He
brought you here the day before yesterday. He saved your
life."
  Gerard was baffled. "Elves attacked me?"
  "I know nothing more," the healer told him. "You are not my
only patient. You must ask the marshal. He will be here shortly.
He has been here every morning since he brought you in, sitting
by your side."
  Gerard remembered the firm hand, the strong, commanding
voice and presence. He turned his body, slowly, painfully. His
wounds were tightly bound, his muscles weak from lying in bed.
He looked to see his armor-black armor, cleaned and polished-
placed carefully on a stand near his bed.
  Gerard closed his eyes with a groan that must have made the
healer think he had suffered a relapse. He remembered all, or at
least most, of what had happened. He remembered fighting two
Neraka Knights. He remembered the arrow, remembered a third
Knight, remembered challenging the Knight to fight. . . .
  He did not remember being attacked by elves.
  A young man came carrying a tray on which was a bowl of
broth, a bit of bread, and a mug.
  "Shall I help you, sir?" the young man asked politely.
  Gerard imagined being spoon-fed like a child. "No," he said,
and, though it cost him considerable pain, he struggled to a
seated position.
  The young man placed the tray on Gerard's lap and sat down
on a chair at his side to watch him eat.
  Gerard dunked his bread in the broth. He drank the clear, cool
water from the mug and wondered how to find out the truth.
  "I take it I am a prisoner here," he said to the young man.
  "Why, no, sir!" The acolyte appeared astonished. "Why
should you think that? You were ambushed by a band of elves,
sir!" The acolyte was regarding Gerard with obvious admiration.
"Marshal Medan told everyone the story when he brought you to
us. He carried you in his arms himself, sir. He was covered with
your blood. He said you were a true hero and that you were to re-
ceive the very best care, to spare no effort. We have had seven
dark mystics working on you. You! A prisoner!" The young man
laughed and shook his head.
  Gerard shoved the bowl of soup away, uneaten. He had lost
his appetite. Mumbling something to the effect that he was
weaker than he'd supposed, he lay back among his pillows. The
acolyte fussed over him, adjusting his bandages and checking to
see if any of his wounds had ripped open. He said that they were
all almost healed, then left, telling Gerard he should sleep.
  Gerard closed his eyes, pretended to be asleep, but sleep was
far from coming. He had no idea what was going on. He could
only guess that this Medan was playing some sort of sadistic
game that would end in Gerard's torture and death.
  This decided, he was at peace, and he slept.
  "No, don't wake him," said a voice, deep and familiar. "I just
came to see how he was doing this morning."
  Gerard opened his eyes. A man wearing the armor of a Knight
of Neraka, with a marshal's sash, stood by the side of the bed. The
man was in his fifties. His face was sun-darkened, heavily lined,
stem, and grim, but it was not a cruel face. It was the face of a
commander who could order men to their deaths but who took
no pleasure in it.
  Gerard knew him immedia tel y. Marshal Medan.
  Laurana had spoken of the marshal with a certain grudging
respect, and Gerard could now understand why. Medan had
governed a hostile race for thirty years, and there had been no
death camps established, no gallows set up in the marketplace,
no burning and looting and wanton destruction of elven house-
holds and business. Medan saw to it that the dragon's tribute
was collected and paid. He had learned to play elven politics
and, according to Laurana, he played it well. He had his spies
and his informers. He dealt harshly with rebels, but he did so to
maintain order and stability. He kept tight hold on his troops. No
small feat in these days when the Knights of Neraka were re-
cruited from the dregs of society.
  Gerard was forced to abandon the notion that this man would
use him for sport, would make a mockery of him and of his death.
But if that were true, then what was Medan's game? What was
the tale of elves attacking?
  Gerard pushed himself to a sitting position, made his salute as
best he could with his chest and arm bound with bandages. The
marshal might be the enemy, but he was a commander and
Gerard was bound to give him the respect that was due his rank.
  The marshal returned the salute and told Gerard to lie back,
take care not to reopen his wounds. Gerard barely heard him. He
was thinking of something else. He was thinking back to the
attack.
  Medan had ambushed them for a reason-to catch Palin and
recover the artifact. That means Medan knew exactly where to
find us, Gerard said to himself. Someone told him where we were
going to be and when.
  Someone had betrayed them, but who? Someone in Laurana's
own household? That was hard to credit, yet Gerard thought of
the elf who had left to go "hunting" and had not returned. Per-
haps he had been killed by the Knights. Perhaps not.
  His thoughts were in bubbling turmoil. What had happened
to Palin and the kender? Had they managed to escape safely? Or
were they being held prisoner, too?
  "How do you feel, sir?" Medan asked, regarding Gerard with
concern.
"I am much better, my lord, thank you," Gerard replied. "I
want to tell you, sir, that there is no need to continue with this
pretense, which, perhaps, you do out of concern for my health.
I know I am your prisoner. There is no reason why you should
believe me, but I want you to know that I am not a spy.
"I am-
  "-a Solamnic Knight." Medan finished, smiling. "Yes, I am
aware of that Sir-" He paused.
  "Gerard uth Mondar, my lord," Gerard replied.
  "And I am Marshal Alexis Medan. Yes, Sir Gerard, I know you
are a Solamnic." Medan pulled up a chair, seated himself near
Gerard's bed. "I know you are my prisoner. I want you to keep
your voice down." He glanced at the dark mystics, who were
moving about at the far end of the room. "These two pieces of in-
formation will be our little secret."
  "My lord?" Gerard gaped. If the dragon Beryl had plum-
meted out of the skies and landed in his soup, he could not have
been more astonished.
  "Listen to me, Sir Gerard," Medan said, resting a firm hand on
the Solaminc's arm. "You were captured wearing the armor of a
Knight of Neraka. You claim that you are not a spy, but who will
believe you, do you suppose? No one. Do you know the fate that
would befall you, as a spy? You would be interrogated by men
skilled in the art of making other men talk. We are quite modern
and up to date here in Qualinesti. We have the rack, the wheeL
red-hot pincers, bone-crackers. We have the iron maiden with her
painful and deadly embrace. After a few weeks of such interro-
gation, you would, I think, be quite glad to tell your interrogators
everything you know and a lot of things you didn't. Anything to
end the torment."
  Gerard opened his mouth, but Medan exerted painful pres-
sure on his arm and Gerard kept silent.
  "What would you tell them? You would tell them about the
queen mother. You would tell them that Laurana was harboring a
human mage who had discovered a valuable magical artifact. Be-
cause of Laurana's intervention, this mage and the artifact are
now safely beyond Beryl's reach."
  Gerard breathed an inward sigh. Medan was watching him
closely. "Yes, I thought you might be glad to hear that" he said
dryly. "The mage escaped. The dragon Beryl was thwarted in her
desire for the magical artifact. You will die. You will be glad to
die. Your death will not save Laurana."
  Gerard was silent, taking this all in. He wriggled and
squirmed in the grasp of Medan's logic. The Knight could see no
way out. He would have liked to think he could withstand any
torture, go to his death mute and silent, but he could not be cer-
tain. He'd heard of the effects of the rack-how it pulled the joints
out of the socket, left a man crippled, for the injuries would never
fully heal. He had heard stories of the other torments they could
inflict on a man; he recalled Palin's twisted hands, deformed fin-
gers. He pictured Laurana's hands, white, slender, marred with
the calluses where she had once held a sword.
  Gerard cast another glance at the black-robed mystics. The
Knight looked back at Medan. "What do you want me to do, my
lord?" he asked quietly.
  "You will go along with the tale I have concocted about the
battle with the elves. In return for your heroic actions, I will take
you on as my aide. I need someone I can trust," Medan said
wryly. "I believe that the life of the queen mother is in danger. I
do what I can to shield her, but it may not be enough. I need a~
assistant who has the same regard for the queen mother as I have
myself."
  "Yet, my lord," said Gerard, bewildered, "you yourself spy
upon her."
  "For her own protection," Medan returned. "Believe me, I do
not enjoy it."
  Gerard shook his head, looked up at the marshal. "My lord,
here is my answer. I ask that you draw your sword and kill me.
Here, where I lie in this bed. I cannot offer any resistance. I ab-
solve you in advance of the crime of murder. My death here and
now will solve all our problems."
  Medan's grim face relaxed into a smile. "Perhaps not as many
as you might think. I refuse, of course. I have taken a liking to
you, Solamnic. I would not have missed seeing that fight you put
up for all the jewels in Qualinesti! Most other Knights I know
would have flung down their weapons and taken to their heels."
  Medan's expression darkened, his tone grew bitter. "The days
of glory for our order are long dead. Once we were led by a man
of honor, a man of courage. A man who was the son of a drag-
onlord and Zeboim, Goddess of the Sea. Who is our leader now?"
Medan's lip curled. "An accountant. A man who wears a
money belt instead of sword belt. Those he makes Knights no
longer win their places through valor in battle or by deeds of
bravery. They buy their rank with cold cash."
  Gerard thought of his own father and felt his skin grow
flushed and hot. He had not bought his way into the Knighthood,
at least he could credit himself there. But his father had certainly
bought his son's way into every soft-cushioned assignment that
came along. "The Solamnics are no better," he muttered, lowering
his gaze, smoothing out the wrinkles in the sweat-soaked sheet.
  "Indeed? I am sorry to hear that," Medan said and he did
sound genuinely disappointed. "Perhaps, in these last days, the
final battle will be fought by men who choose honor instead of
choosing sides. I hope so," he added quietly, "or else I believe that
we are all lost."
  "Last days?" Gerard asked, uneasily. "What do you mean, my
lord?"
  Medan looked about the room. The mystics had departed.
They were alone, the two of them.
  "Beryl is going to attack Qualinesti," Medan said. "I don't
know when, but she is gathering her armies. When she does, I
will have a bitter choice to make." He looked at Gerard intently.
"I do not want the queen mother to be part of that choice. I will
need someone I can trust to help her escape."
  This man is in love with Laurana! Gerard realized, amazed.
Not so surprising, he supposed. He was a little bit in love with
her himself. One could not be around her without becoming en-
chanted by her beauty and grace. Still Gerard hesitated.
  "Have I mistaken you, sir?" Medan asked, and his voice was
cold. He rose to his feet. "Perhaps you are as devoid of honor as
the rest."
  "No, my lord," Gerard said emphatically. Strange as it
seemed, he wanted the marshal to think well of him. "I worked to
become a Knight. I read books on the art of warfare. I studied
strategy and tactics. I have held my place in tourney and joust. I
became a Knight to defend the helpless, to find honor and glory
in battle and instead, because of my father's influence"-Gerard
paused, a shame-filled pause- "I guarded a tomb in Solace."
  Medan said nothing, looked down at him, waited for his
decision.
"I accept your offer, my lord," Gerard said. "I do not under-
stand you, but I will do what I can to help the Qualinesti," he said
pointedly, "and the queen mother."
  "Fair enough," said the marshal. With a curt nod, Medan
turned, started to walk away. Halting, he glanced back over his
shoulder.
  "I joined the Knighthood for the same reasons you did, young
man," he said, and then strode to the do04 his footsteps loud, his
cloak sweeping behind him. "If the healers pronounce you welL
you will move into my house tomorrow."
  Gerard settled back into his bed.
  I do not trust him, Gerard reflected. I will not allow myself to
trust him or admire him. He could be lying about the dragon.
This could all be a trick. To what end, I do not know, but I will
remain watchful and on my guard.
  At least, he thought, feeling a strange sort of contentment
wash through him, I'll be doing more than freeing some damn
kender who manages to lock himself in a tomb.
  Medan left the hospitaL well pleased with his interview. He
did -not trust the Solamnic, of course. Medan trusted no one 
these days. The marshal would watch the man closely over the
next few days, see how he acquitted himself. He could always
take the Solamnic up on his offer and run his sword through
him.
  At least, I do not doubt his courage or his loyalty to his
friends, the marshal reflected He has proven these to me already.
The marshal turned his steps toward Laurana's house. He en-
joyed the walk. Qualinesti was beautiful in all seasons, but
summer was his favorite, the season of festivals, with its myriad
flowers, the soft air filled with exquisite perfumes, the silvery
green of the leaves and the wondrous bird song.
  He took his time, pausing to lean over garden walls to admire
a flaming display of day lilies lifting their orange heads to the
sunshine. He lingered in the walkway to watch a shower of white
blossoms shaken from a snow-ball bush by a fluttering robin.
Coming upon an elf from House Woodshaper, Medan stopped
the man to discuss a blight he feared had overtaken one of his
rose bushes. The Woodshaper was hostile, made it clear he talked
to Medan only because he was forced to do so. Medan was polite,
respectfuL his questions were intelligent. Gradually the elf
warmed to his topic and, in the end, promised to come to the
marshal's house to treat the ailing rose.
  Arriving at Laurana's house, Medan rang the silver chimes
and stood listening with pleasure to their sweet song as he waited
for a response.
  An elf answered the door, bowed politely. Medan looked at
him intently.
  "Kelevandros, isn't it?" he asked.
  "Yes, Marshal," the elf returned.
  "I came to see-"
  "Who is it, Kelevandros?" Laurana appeared, walking down
the hallway. "Ah, Marshal Medan. Welcome to my home. Please
come in. Will you take some refreshment?"
  "Thank you, madam, but I cannot stay," Medan said politely.
"We have had reports that a band of rebels are operating in the
wilderness not far from here. One of my own men was savagely
attacked." He eyed her closely. liThe rebels have no love for the
royal family, considering them to be collaborators. If, as you say,
you have no influence over these rebels-"
  "I live a quiet and retired life, Marshal," Laurana said. III go
nowhere except to the palace to visit my son. Yet I find myself
constantly under suspicion. My first love and loyalty are to my
homeland and my people."
  "I am aware of that fact, madam," Medan said with a cool
smile. IITherefore, madam, until we have caught these rebels, it is
not safe for you to leave the confines of your house. I must ask
that you and those you care about remain close to home. You
have permission to visit the palace, naturally, but I must prohibit
trips to other places in the realm."
  "Am I a prisoner in my house, then, Marshal?" Laurana
demanded.
  "I do this for your own protection, madam," Medan said. He
reached out his hand to draw near one of the purple blossoms, in-
haled its sweet fragrance. "My commendations on this beautiful
lilac bush. I have never known one to bloom so long past spring.
Good-day to you, Queen Mother."
  "And to you, Marshal Medan," Laurana said.
  "How I detest this game," said Medan to himself. Making his
solitary way back to his own dwelling, he could smell the lilac's
perfume.
"How I hate this game," Laurana said, shutting the door and
leaning her head with its crown of golden hair against it.
  The waterfall played sweet and gentle music and Laurana lis-
tened to its song, let the melody soothe her, restore her to her cus-
tomary hopefulness. She was not one to give way to despair. She
had walked in darkness, the greatest darkness the world had
known. She had come face-to-face with the dread goddess Takhi-
sis. She had seen love surmount the darkness, love triumph. She
believed that even the darkest night must eventually give way to
the dawn.
  She held fast to that belief through all the sorrows and travails
of her life, through the loss of her son to the political machina-
tions of her own people, through the death of her beloved hus-
band, Tanis, who had died defending the High Clerist's Tower
against the Dark Knights, died of a sword thrust in the back. She
grieved his loss, she missed him sorely, she established a shrine to
him in her heart, but his death did not bring about her own. She
did not bury her heart in his grave. To do so would have been to
deny his life, to undo all the good that he had done. She contin-\
ued to fight for the causes both of them had championed.
  Some people took exception to this. They thought she should
have clothed herself in black and retired from the world. They
took offense that she should laugh and smile, or listen with pleas-
ure to the minstrel's song.
  "It is so sad," they would say. "Your husband died such a
senseless death."
  "Tell me, sir," Laurana would reply, or, "Tell me, madam. Tell
me what you consider to be a sensible death?"
  Smiling to herself at their discomfiture, Laurana heard, in her
heart, Tanis's laughter. There had been a time, shortly after his
death, when she could hear his voice and sense his presence
watching over her, not protectively, but supporting, reassuring.
She had not felt his presence" however, in a long, long time. She
could only assume that he had passed on to the next stage on
life's journey. She was not saddened or sorrowful. She would
meet him when it was time for her to depart this life. They would
find each other, though all eternity might stand between them.
Meanwhile, the dead did not need her. The living did.
  "My lady," said Kelevandros softly, "do not let the marshal's
threats upset you. We will outwit him. We have always done so."
  Laurana lifted her head and smiled. "Yes, we will. How for-
tunate that you had returned from your mission, Kelevandros.
Medan might have noted your absence, and that would have
made things awkward. We must take extra precautions from
now on. Gilthas reports that the dwarven tunnels are near com-
pletion. You will use that route now. It will take you out of your
way, but it will be safer. Kalindas! You should not be out of bed!"
  The elf stood swaying unsteadily in the doorway. His head
was swathed in bandages, he was so pale that his skin had a
translucent quality. Laurana could see the blue veins in his face.
Kelevandros came to his brother's aide, put his arm around him,
assisted him to a couch. He eased his brother down gently, all the
while scolding Kalindas roundly for leaving his bed and causing
their mistress concern.
  "What happened to me?" Kalindas asked dazedly.
  "You don't remember?" Laurana asked.
  "Nothing!" He put his hand to his head.
  "Kelevandros," Laurana said sharply, "go to the front door.
Make certain that Marshal Medan remembered to leave."
  "Birds sing in the trees," Kelevandros reported on his return.
"The bees buzz among the flowers. No one is about."
  "Now, Kalindas"-Laurana turned to him-"do you remem-
ber guiding Master Palin, Gerard, and the kender to the meeting
with the griffon?"
  Kalindas considered. "Vaguely, madam."
  "You were attacked while you were in the wilderness," said
Laurana, readjusting the bandages on the young elf's head.
"We have been very worried about you. When you didn't
return, I asked the Lioness to send her people to search for you.
The rebels found you lying wounded in the forest. They
brought you back yesterday. Why did you rise? Do you need
anything?"
  "No, madam, thank you," said Kalindas. "Forgive me for
causing you alarm. I heard the marshal's voice and thought per-
haps you might stand in need of me. I fancied myself well enough
to leave my bed. I was mistaken, it seems."
  Kelevandros eased his injured brother to a more comfortable
position on the couch, while Laurana spread her own shawl over
Kalindas to keep him warm.
"You have endured enough from Medan afid his men:' Lau-
rana said, her voice cool with anger. "You are fortunate you
weren't killed!"
  "They had no need to kill me," Kalindas said bitterly. "They
must have struck me from behind. Did Master Palin and the
kender escape safely with the magical device?"
  "We believe so. The rebels found no trace of them, and we
have received no reports that they were captured."
  "What about the Solamnic?"
  "The Lioness reported signs of a fight. Two of the Neraka
Knights were killed. They could not find Gerard's body and so
they assume that he was made prisoner." Laurana sighed. "If that
is true, I could almost wish him dead. The rebels have their spies
in the army trying to discover information about him. He is not in
prison, that much we know, and that is all we know.
  "As for Palin, Kelevandros has just returned from a meeting
with the griffons, who arrived bearing a message, which I hope is
from Palin."
  "I have it here, madam," said Kelevandros. He removed a roll
of parchment from his boot, handed the roll to Laurana. 
  "Are you certain you are all right?" she asked Kalindas, ac-
cepting the scroll. "Shall I call for a glass of wine."
  "Please read your letter, Madam," Kalindas said. "Do not
worry about me."
  After another worried glance, Laurana went to her writing
desk and sat down. Kelevandros lit a candle for her, brought it to
her desk. She unrolled the parchment. It was covered with ink
and smelled faintly of lemon. The words written in the letter were
inconsequential. A former neighbor told Laurana of the crops that
he had planted, how big his children were growing, how he'd re-
cently purchased a fine horse at the Midyear Day's Fair. He in-
quired after her health, hoped she was well.
  Laurana held the parchment above the candle's flame, taking
care not to hold it too near, taking care not to bum the paper or
singe it. Slowly, more writing began to appear on the parchment
words written in between the lines of words written in ink. She
passed the paper back and forth above the flame until the hidden
message written on the parchment was revealed.
  Placing it on the desk, she read the missive silently, to her-
self. The handwriting was not Palin's. Laurana was puzzled as
to who had written the letter, looked to see the signature on the
bottom.
  "Ah, Jenna," she murmured.
She read on, growing more amazed with each line.
  "What is it, madam?" Kalindas asked, alarmed. "What has
happened?"
  "Strange," she murmured. "So very strange. I cannot believe
this. Going back in time to find the past no longer exists. I don't
understand."
  She continued on. "Tasslehoff missing." She shook her head.
"He did not come here."
  She read on. The brothers exchanged glances. A dark line
marred the smooth skin of her forehead. Her brows came to-
gether. She read to the end of the scroll, stared at it long moments,
as if willing it to say something other than what it said, she slowly
released the end. The scroll curled in upon itself, hung limply in
her hand.
  "We are being spied upon, it seems," Laurana said, and her
tone was deliberatly even and calm. "Palin and Tasslehoff were
chased by a dragon, one of Beryl's minions. Palin believes that the
dragon was after the artifact. That means Beryl knows of the arti-
fact's existence and where it is to be found. The Neraka Knights
did not stumble across the four of you by accident, Kalindas. You
walked into an ambush."
  "A spy! In your own house. Perhaps one of us? That is im-
possible, madam," Kelevandros stated heatedly.
  "Indeed, it is," said Kalindas.
  "I hope you are right," Laurana said gravely. "An elf who
would betray his own people. . ." She shook her head, her tone
was sorrowful. "It is hard to believe that such evil could exist. Yet,
it has happened before."
  "You know that none of us would betray you," Kalindas reit-
erated, with emphasis.
  Laurana sighed. "I don't know what to think. Mistress Jenna
suggests that perhaps there is a mentalist among the Neraka
Knights, one who has learned to see into our minds and gather
our thoughts. What a bitter pass we are come to! We have to set a
guard now upon what we think!"
  She slipped the message into the girdle of gold she wore
around her waist. "Kelevandros, bring me some lemon juice and
then ready Brightwing to carry a message to the griffons."
  The elf did as he was told, departing on his errands in silence.
He exchanged a final glance with his brother before he left. Both
noted that Laurana had not answered the question about Palin.
She had taken care to change the subject. She did not trust even
them, it seemed. A shadow had fallen over their peaceful
dwelling place, a shadow that would not soon be lifted.
  Laurana's answer to the letter was short.
  Tasslehoff is not here. I will watch for him. Thank you for the warn-
ing about spies. I will be on my guard.
  She rolled the message tightly so that it would fit in the small
crystal tube that would be tied to the hawk's leg.
  "Forgive me for disturbing you, madam," Kalindas said, "but
the pain in my head has increased. Kelevandros told me that the
healer spoke of poppy juice. I think that might help me, if my
brother would bring it to me."
  "I will send for the healer at once," Laurana said, concerned.
  "Lie here until your brother returns to fetch her for you."

  Marshal Medan walked late in his garden. He enjoyed watch- 1
ing the miracle of the night-blooming flowers that shunned the
sun and opened their blossoms to the pale moonlight. He was
alone. He had dismissed his aide, ordered him to clear out his
things. The Solarnnic would arrive tomorrow, start upon his new
duties.
  Medan was pausing to admire a white orchid that seemed to
glow in the moonlight, when he heard a voice hissing from the
bushes.
  "Marshal! It is I!"
  "Indeed," said Medan, "and here I thought it was a snake. I
am weary. Crawl back under your rock until morning."
  "I have important information that cannot wait," the voice
said. "Information Beryl will find most interesting. The mage
Palin Majere has used the artifact to journey back in time. This is
a powerful magical artifact, perhaps the most powerful yet dis-
covered in this world."
  "Perhaps." Medan was noncommittal. He had a very low
opinion of mages and magic. "Where is this powerful artifact
now?"
  "I do not know for certain," said the elf. "His letter to my
mistress said that the kender had run off with the artifact. Majere
believes the kender has gone to the Citadel of Light. He travels
there to attempt to recover it."
  " At least he did not come back here," Medan said, breathing
a sigh of relief. "Good riddance to him and the blasted artifact."
  "This information is worth a great deal," the elf said.
  "You will be paid. But in the morning," Medan said. "Now be
gone before your mistress misses you."
  "She will not." The elf sounded smug. "She sleeps soundly.
Very soundly. I laced her evening tea with poppy juice."
  "I told you to leave," Medan said coldly. "I will deduct a steel
piece for every second you remain in my presence. You have lost
one already."
  He heard a scrabbling sound in the bushes. The marshal
waited a moment longer, to be certain the elf was gone. The moon
disappeared behind a cloud. The garden was submerged in dark-
ness. The pale glowing orchid vanished from his sight.
  It seemed a sign. A portent.
  "Only a matter of time," he said to himself. "Days, maybe.
Not longer. This night I have made my decision. I have chosen my
course. I can do nothing now but wait."
  His pleasure in the night destroyed, the marshal returned to
his house, forced to fumble his way through the darkness for he
could no longer see the path.

                       CHAPTER TWENTYSIX
                   PAWN TO KINGS KNIGHT FOUR

   This day, Gerard would meet with Marshal Medan and be
coerced into serving the commander of the Knights of
Neraka. This day, Laurana would discover that she har-
bored a spy, perhaps in her own home. This day, Tasslehoff would
discover that it is difficult to live up to what people say about you
after you are dead. This day, Mina's army would march deeper
into Silvanesti. This day, Silvanoshei was playing a game with his
cousin.
  Silvanoshei was king of the Silvanesti. He was king of his
people, just like the bejeweled and ornately carved bit of alabaster
who was king of the xadrez board. A silly, ineffectual king, who
could only move a single square at a time. A king who had to be
protected by his knights and his ministers. Even his pawns had
more important work to do than the king.
  "My queen takes your rook," said Kiryn, sliding an ornate
game piece across the green-and-white marble board. "Your king
is doomed. This gives me the game, I think."
  "Blast! So it does!" Silvan gave the board an irritated shove,
scattering the pieces. "I used to be quite good at xadrez. My
mother taught me to play. I could even beat Samar on occasion.
You are a far worse player than he was. No offense, Cousin."
  "None taken," said Kiryn, crawling on the floor to retrieve a
foot soldier who had fled the field and taken refuge underneath
the bed. "You are preoccupied, that is all. You're not giving the
game your complete concentration."
  "Here, let me do that," Silvan offered, remorseful. "I was the
one who spilled them."
  'I can manage-" Kiryn began.
  "No, let me do something constructive, at least!" Silvan dived
under the table to come up with a knight, a wizard and, after
some searching, his beleaguered king, who had sought to escape
defeat by hiding behind a curtain.
  Silvan retrieved all the pieces, set the board up again.
  "Do you want to play another?"
  "No, I am sick to death of this game!" Silvan said irritably.
Leaving the gaming table, he walked to the window, stared
out it for a few moments, then, restless, he turned away again.
  "You say I am preoccupied, Cousin. I don't know by what. I don't
do anything." 
  He wandered over to a side table on which stood bowls of
chilled fruit, nuts, cheese, and a decanter of wine. Cracking nuts,
as if he had some grudge against them, he sorted through the
shells to find the meats. "Want some?"
Kiryn shook his head. Silvan tossed the shells onto the table,
wiped them from his hand.
  "I hate nuts!" he said and walked back across the room to the
window. "How long have I been king?" he asked.
  "Some weeks, Cousin-"
  "And during that time, what have I accomplished?"
  "It is early days, yet, Cousin-"
  "Nothing," Silvan said emphatically. "Not a damn thing. I am
not allowed out of the palace for fear I will catch this wasting dis-
ease. I am not permitted to speak to my people for fear of assassins.
I sign my name to orders and edicts, but I'm never permitted to
read them for fear it will fatigue me. Your uncle does all the work."
  "He will continue to do it so long as you let him," Kiryn said
pointedly. "He and Glaucous."
  "Glaucous!" Silvan repeated. Turning, he eyed his friend sus-
piciously. "You are always on me about Glaucous. I'll have you
know that if it were not for Glaucous, I would not know the little
I do know about what is happening in my very own kingdom.
Look! Look there: now!" Silvan pointed out the window. "Here is
an example of what I mean. Something is happening. Something
is going on, and will I hear what it is? I will"-Silvan was bit-
ter-"but only if I ask my servants!"
  A man dressed in the garb of one of the kirath could be seen
running pell-mell across the broad courtyard with its walkways
and gardens that surrounded the palace. Once the elaborate gar-
dens had been a favorite place for the citizens of Silvanost to
walk, to meet, to have luncheons on the broad green swards be-
neath the willow trees. Lovers took boats fashioned in the shape
of swans out upon the sparkling streams that ran through the
garden. Students came with their masters to sit upon the grass
and indulge in the philosophical discussions so dear to elves.
  That was before the wasting sickness had come to Silvanost.
Now many people were afraid to leave their homes, afraid to
meet in groups, lest they catch the sickness. The gardens were
almost empty, except for a few members of the military, who had
just come off-duty and were returning to their barracks. The sol-
diers looked in astonishment at the racing kirath, stood aside to
let him pass. He paid no heed to them but hurried onward. He
ran up the broad marble stairs that led to the palace and vanished
from sight.
  "There! What did I tell you, Kiryn? Something important has
happened," said Silvan, gnawing his lower lip. "And will the
messenger come to me? No, he will go straight to your uncle. I am
king, not General Konnal!"
  Silvan turned from the window, his expression dark and grim.
"I am becoming what I most detest. I am becoming my cousin
Gilthas. A puppet dancing on another's strings!"
  "If you are a puppet, Silvan, then that is because you want to
be a puppet," Kiryn said boldly. "The fault is yours, not my
uncle's! You have shown no interest in the day-to-day business of
the kingdom. You could have read those edicts, but you were too
busy learning the newest dance steps."
  Silvan looked at him, anger flaring. "How dare you speak to
me like that. I am your-" He check~d himself. He had been
about to say, "your king!" but realized that in view of the conver-
sation, that would sound ridiculous.
Besides, he admitted, Kiryn had spoken nothing more than
the truth. Silvan had enjoyed playing at being king. He wore the
crown upon his head, but he would not take up the mantle of re-
sponsibility and drape it around his shoulders. He drew in a deep
breath, let it out. He had behaved like a child, and so he had been
treated like a child. But no more.
  "You are right, Cousin," Silvan said, his tone calm and even.
"If your uncle has no respect for me, why should he? What have
I done since I came here but skulk about in my room playing
games and eating sweets. Respect must be earned. It cannot be
dictated. I have done nothing to earn his regard. I have done
nothing to prove to him and to my people that I am king. That
ends. Today."
  Silvan threw open the huge double doors that led to his cham-
bers, threw them open with such force that they banged back against
the walls. The sound startled the guards, who had been dozing on
their feet in the quiet, drowsy afternoon. They clattered to attention
as Silvan strode out the door and walked right past them.
  "Your Majesty!" cried one. "Where are you goin~? Your
Majesty, you should not be leaving your room. General- Konnal
has ordered. . . Your Majesty!" The guard found he was speaking
to the king's back.
  Silvan descended the long, broad marble staircase, walking
rapidly, with Kiryn at his heels and the guards hastening along
behind.
  "Silvan!" Kiryn remonstrated, catching up, "I didn't intend
that you should take charge this very moment. You have much to
learn about Silvanesti and its people. You've never lived among
us. You are very young."
  Silvan had understood his cousin's intentions quite well: He
paid him no heed, but kept walking.
  "What I meant," Kiryn continued, dogging Silvan's footsteps,
"was that you should take more interest in the daily business of
the kingdom, ask questions. Visit the people in their homes. See
how we live. There are many of the wise among our people who
would be glad to help you learn. Rolan of the kirath is one. Why
not seek his advice and counsel? You would find him far wiser
than Glaucous, if less pleasing."
  Silvan's lips tightened. He walked on. "I know what I am
doing," he said.
"Yes, and so did your Grandfather Lorac. Listen to me,
Silvan," Kiryn said earnestly. "Don't make the same mistake.
Your grandfather's downfall was not the dragon Cyan Blood-
bane. Pride and fear were Lorac's downfall. The dragon was the
embodiment of his pride and his fear. Pride whispered to Lorac
that he was wiser than the wise. Pride whispered that he could
flout rules and laws. Fear urged him to act alone, to refuse help,
to turn a deaf ear to advice and counsel."
  Silvanoshei halted. "All my life, Cousin, I've heard that side
of the story, and I have accepted it. I have been taught to be
ashamed of my grandfather. But in recent days I've heard another
side, a side no one mentions because they find it easy to blame
my grandfather for their troubles. The Silvanesti people survived
the War of the Lance. They are alive today because of my grandfa-
ther. If he had not sacrificed himself as he did, you and I would
not be standing here discussing the matter. The welfare of the
people was Lorac's responsibility. He accepted that responsibility.
He saved them, and now instead of being blessed by them he is
denigrated!"
  "Who told you this, Cousin?" Kiryn asked.
  Silvan saw no reason to answer this, and so he turned on his
heel and continued walking. Glaucous had known his grandfa-
ther. He had been very close to Lorac. Who would know better
the truth of the matter?
  Kiryn guessed the name Silvan did not speak. He walked a
few paces behind his king, said no more.
  Silvan and his oddly assorted escort, consisting of his cousin
and the clamoring guards, strode rapidly through the corridors of
the palace. Silvan passed by magnificent paintings and wondrous
tapestries without a glance. His boots rang loudly on the floor, ex-
pressive of his haste and his determination. Accustomed only to
silence in this part of the palace, the servants came running to see
what was amiss.
  "Your Majesty, Your Majesty," they murmured, bowing in
fluttered confusion and looking at each other askance when he
had gone by, as much as to say, "The bird has flown the cage. The
rabbit has escaped the warren. Well, well. Not surprising, consid-
ering that he is a Caladon."
  The king left the royal quarters of the palace, entered the
public areas, which were crowded with people: messengers
coming and going, lords and ladies of House Royal standing in
clusters talking among themselves, people bustling about with
ledgers under their arms or scrolls in their hands. Here was the
true heart of the kingdom. Here the business of the kingdom was
accomplished. Here-on the side of the palace opposite the royal
quarters where Silvan resided.
  The courtiers heard the commotion, paused and turned to see
what was going on, and when they saw it was their king, they
were astonished. So astonished that some lords forgot to bow, re-
membered only belatedly and then because scandalized wives
poked them in the ribs.
  Silvan noted the differ~ce between the two sides of the
palace immediately. His lips tightened. He ignored the courtiers
and brushed aside those who tried to speak. Rounding a comer,
he approached another set of double doors. Guards stood here,
but these guards were alert, not dozing. They came to attention
when the king approached.
  "Your Majesty," said one, moving as if to block his way. "For-
give me, Sire, but General Konnal has given orders that he is not
to be disturbed."
  Silvan gazed long at the man, then said, "Tell the general he
will be disturbed. His king is here to disturb him."
  Silvan enjoyed watching the struggle on the guard's face. The
elf had his orders from Konnal, yet here stood his king before
him. The guard had a choice to make. He looked at the pale eyes
and set jaw of the young king and saw in them the blood line that
had ruled Silvanesti for generations. This guard was an older
man, perhaps he had served under Lorac. Perhaps he recognized
that pale fire. The guard bowed with respect, and, throwing open
the doors, announced in firm tones, "His Majesty, the King."
  Konnal looked up in amazement. Glaucous's expression was
one of astonishment at first, but that swiftly changed to secret
pleasure. Perhaps he, too, had been waiting the day when the lion
would tear free of his chains. Bowing, Glaucous cast a glance at
Silvan that said plainly, "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I am
under the general's control."
  "Your Majesty, to what do we owe this honor?" Konnal asked,
highly irritated at the interruption. He had obviously received
some unsettling news for his face was flushed, his brows con-
tracted. He had to struggle to maintain a show of politeness, and
then his voice was cold. Glaucous was disturbed by something as
well. His face was grim, he seemed disturbed and anxious.
  Silvan did not reply to the general's question. Instead, he
turned to the elf of the kirath, who immediately bowed very low.
  "You bring news, sir?" the king asked imperiously.
  "I do, Your Majesty," said the kirath.
  "News of importance to the kingdom?"
  The kirath stole a glance at Konnal, who shrugged in
response.
  "Of the utmost importance, Your Majesty," the kirath replied.
  "And you do not bring that news to your king!" Silvan was
pale with anger.
  The general intervened. "Your Majesty, I would have apprised
you of the situation at the proper time. This matter is extremely
serious. Immediate action must be taken-"
  "So you thought you would tell me of the matter after you had
taken the action," said Silvan. He looked back at the kirath.
"What is your news, sir? No, don't look at him! Tell me! I am your
king!"
  "A force of Dark Knights has managed to penetrate the shield,
Your Majesty. They are inside the borders of Silvanesti and
marching toward Silvanost."
  "Dark Knights?" Silvan repeated, astonished. "But how. . . ?
Are you certain?"
  "Yes, Your Majesty," the kirath replied. "1 saw them myself.
We had received reports of an army of ogres assembling out-
side the shield. We went to investigate these reports and it was
then we discovered this force of about four hundred human
soldiers inside the shield. The officers are those known to us as
the Dark Knights of Takhisis. We recognized their armor. A
company of archers, probably mercenaries, marches with them.
They have among their number a minotaur, who is second in
command." .
  "Who is their leader?" Silvan asked.
  "There is not time for this-" Konnal began.
  "I want to know all the details," Silvan stated coldly.
  "The leader is very strange, Your Majesty," the kirath replied.
"She is a human female. That in itself is not surprising, but this
leader is a child, even among their kind. She cannot be more than
eighteen human years, if she is that. Yet she is a Knight, and she
is their commander. She wears the black armor, and the soldiers
defer to her in everything."
  "That is odd," said Silvan, frowning. "I can hardly believe
it. I am familiar with the structure of the Dark Knights, who
now call themselves Knights of Neraka. I have never heard of
a person that young being made a Knight, much less an
officer."
  Silvan shifted his gaze to Konnal. "What do you plan to do
about this threat, General?"
  "We will mobilize the army, at once, Your Majesty," Konnal
replied stiffly. "I have already given orders to do so. The kirath
are following the enemy's progress through our land. We will
march out to meet th-em, and we will repulse them and destroy
them. Their force numbers only four hundred. They have no sup-
plies, no means of acquiring supplies. They are cut off, isolated.
The battle will not last long."
  "Do you have any experience fighting against the Knights of
Neraka, General Konnal?" Silvan asked.
  Konnal's face darkened. He pursed his lips. "No, Your
Majesty. I have not."
  "Do you have any experience fighting against any foe other
than a dream foe?" Silvan pursued.
   Konnal was extremely angry. He went livid. Two bright flar-
ing spots of red stained his cheeks. Jumping to his feet, he
slammed his hands on the desk. "You young-"
  "General!" Glaucous came back from wherever his thoughts
had been wandering to hastily intervene. "He is your king."
  Konnal.muttered something that sounded like, "He is not my
king . . ." but he said the words beneath his breath.
  "I have fought against these Knights and their forces, Gen-
eral," Silvan continued. "My father and mother fought the Dark
Knights in the forests around Qualinesti. I have fought ogres
and human brigands. I have fought elves, as you may know,
General."
  The elves they had fought had been elven assassins sent out
before the shield was put in place, sent to murder Porthios and
Alhana, who had been declared dark elves, perhaps on the orders
of General Konnal.
  "Although I myself did not fight," Silvan said, bound to be
truthful, "I have been witness to many of these battles. In addi-
tion, I have taken part in the meetings during which my father
and mother and their officers planned their strategies."
  "And yet, the Dark Knights managed to capture Qualinesti,
despite your father's best efforts," Konnal said, with a slight curl
of his lip.
  "They did, sir," Silvan replied gravely, "and that is why I
warn you not to underestimate them. I agree with your decision,
General. We will send out a force to fight them. I would like to see
a map of the area."
  "Your Majesty-" Konnal began impatiently, but Silvanoshei
was already spreading a map on the desk.
  "Where are the Dark Knights, kirath?" Silvan asked.
  The kirath stepped forward, indicated with his finger on
the map the location of the troops. "As you can see, Your
Majesty, by following the Thon- Thalas River, they entered the
shield here at the Silvanesti border, where the two intersect.
Our reports indicate that they are currently hugging the banks
of the Tho~- Thalas. We have no reason to believe that they will
deviate from that course, which will lead them directly into
Silvanost."
  Silvan studied the map. "1 agree with the kirath that they are
not likely to abandon the road that runs alongside the river. To do
so would be to risk losing themselves in unfamiliar wilderness.
They know they have been seen. They have no reason to hide.
They have every reason to move with haste. Their only hope is to
attack us while we are presumably reeling from the shock of find-
ing them inside our borders."
  He glanced pointedly at Konnal as he said this. The general's
face was stone hard, stone cold. He said nothing.
  "I suggest that here"-Silvan placed his finger on the map-
"would be an excellent location for us to engage them. The enemy
will come down out of the hills to find our forces spread out in
this valley. They will find themselves trapped between the river
on one side and hills on the other, which will make it difficult for
them to deploy their forces to best advantage. While the foot sol-
diers hit them from the front, a company of cavalry can circle
around and hit them from the rear. We will gradually close the
jaws of our army"-he moved his finger from the footmen in the
front to the cavalry in the rear, forming a semicircle--" and swal-
low them."
Silvan looked up. Konnal stared down at the map, frowning,
his hands clasped behind his back.
  "That is a good plan, Your Majesty," Glaucous said, sounding
impressed.
  "General Konnal?" Silvan demanded.
  "It might work," General Konnal conceded grudgingly.
  "My only concern is that the Knights may hide in the wilder-
ness," Silvan added. "If they do that, we will have a difficult time
flushing them out."
  "Bah! We will find them," Konnal stated.
  "It seems your forces cannot find an immense green dragon,
General," Silvan re;turned. "They've been searching for Cyan
Bloodbane for thirty years. If this army of humans was to sepa-
rate, scatter, we might search for them for a century."
  Glaucous laughed, causing the general to cast him a baleful
glance.
  "I find nothing amusing in any of this," Konnal said. "How
did this spawn of evil come through that precious shield of yours,
Glaucous? Answer me that?"
  "I assure you, General, I do not know," Glaucous said and his
face was once again troubled, shadowed. "Not yet, at any rate.
There is some fell magic at work here. I can smell it."
  " All I smell is the stench of humans," Konnal said bitterly.
  "I suggest that we try to capture alive this strange woman-
child who leads them. I would like very much to speak to her.
Very much indeed," Glaucous added, frowning.
  "I agree with Glaucous, General." Silvanoshei turned to
Konnal. "You will give the necessary orders. And you will
arrange for me to join the army."
  "Out of the question," Konnal said shortly.
  "I will go," said Silvan imperiously, staring intently at the
general, daring him to defiance. "You will make the arrange-
ments, sir. Would you have me cower under the bed while my
people ride to defend their homes?"
  Konnal considered, then he made an ice-rimed bow to the
king. "Very well. If your Majesty insists, I will see to it," he said.
  Silvan turned on his heel. He left the room in a flurry of robes.
Kiryn cast a thoughtful glance at Glaucous, then followed after
the king. The guards closed the doors behind them, took up their
posts.
"I would be interested to know why you changed your mind,
GeneraL" Glaucous said quietly.
  "Battles are chancy affairs," Konnal replied, shrugging. "No
one knows how they will turn out. No one knows who may fall
victim to the enemy. If His Majesty were to suffer some hurt-"
  "_you would make him a martyr," said Glaucous," as you
made his parents martyrs. You will be blamed. Never doubt it.
You should not permit him to go." The mage was grave, with-
drawing into himself again. I'll have a presentiment that, if he
does, something awful will happen."
  "Something awful has already happened, in case you hadn't
noticed!" Konnal said angrily. IIYour magic is failing, Glaucous!
Like all the others! Admit it!"
  "Your fear is talking, my friend," said Glaucous. I'll under-
stand that, and I forgive you for impugning my magical skills. I
forgive you this time." His voice softened. "Consider well what
I have said. I will endeavor to persuade His Majesty to recon-
sider riding to war. If I cannot do so, permit him to come, but
keep him safe."
  "Leave me!" Konnal said harshly. I'll do not need a wizard
telling me what to do."
  "I will leave," said Glaucous, "but remember this, General.
You need me. I stand between the Silvanesti and the world. Cast
me aside, and you cast aside all hope. I am the only one who can
save you."
  Konnal spoke no word, did not look up.

                  CHAPTER TWENTYSEVEN
                 THR TOUCH OF THE DEAD

  This evening, while Silvanoshei prepared himself for his
first battle, Goldmoon prepared herself as if for battle. For
he first time in many long weeks, Goldmoon asked that a
hand mirror be brought to her quarters. For the first time since the
storm, she lifted the mirror and looked at her face.
  Goldmoon had been vain as a girl. She was graced with a rare
beauty, the only woman in her tribe to have hair that was like a
shimmering tapestry woven of silken threads of sunshine and of
moonlight. The chieftain's daughter, she was spoiled, pampered,
brought up with an exalted opinion of herself. She spent long
hours gazing into the water bowl just to see her own reflection.
The young warriors of her tribe adored her. They came to blows
for her smile. All except one.
  One day, she looked into the eyes of a tall outcast, a young
shepherd named Riverwind, and she saw herself in the mirror he
held up to her. Looking into his eyes, she saw her vanity, her self-
ishness. She saw that she was ugly in his eyes, and she was
shamed and despairing. For him, for Riverwind, Goldmoon
wanted to be beautiful.
So she had come to be beautiful, but only after they had both
gone through many trials and travails together, only after they
had confronted death fearlessly, clasped in each other's arms. She
had been given the blue crystal staff. She had been given the
power of bringing the healing love of the gods back into the
world. 
 Children were born to Goldmoon and Riverwind. They
worked to unite the contentious tribes of the Plains people. They
were happy in their lives and in their children and their friends,
the companions of their journeying. They had looked forward to
growing old together, to taking their final rest together, to leav-
ing together this plane of existence and moving on to the next,
whatever that might be. They were not afraid, for they would be
together.
  It had not happened that way.
  When the gods left following the Chaos War, Goldmoon
mourned their absence. She was not one who railed against them.
She understood their sacrifice, or thought she did. The gods had
left so that Chaos would leave, the world would be at peace. She
did not understand, but she had faith in the gods, and so she did
what she could to argue against the anger and bitterness that poi-
soned so many.
  She believed in her heart that someday the gods would return.
That belief dwindled with the coming of the monstrous dragons,
who brought terror and death to Ansalon. Her belief vanished al-
together when word came that her beloved Riverwind and one of
her daughters had both been slain by the heinous dragon Malys.
Goldmoon had longed to die herself. She had fully intended to
end her life, but then Riverwind's spirit had come to her.
  She must stay, he told her. She must continue her fight to keep
hope alive in the world. If she left the world, the darkness would
win.
  She had not wanted to heed his words, but she had given way.
  She had been rewarded. She had been given the gift of healing
a second time. Not a blessing from the gods, but a mystical power
of the heart which even she did not understand. She brought this
gift to others and they had banded together to build the Citadel of
Light in order to teach all people how to use the power.
  Goldmoon had grown old in the Citadel. She had seen the
spirit of her husband as a handsome youth once again. Though he
curbed his impatience, she knew he was eager to be gone and that
he waited only for her to complete her journey.
  Goldmoon lifted the mirror'and looked at her face.
  Lines of age were gone. Her skin was smooth. Her once
sunken cheeks were now plump, the pale skin rose colQred. Her
eyes had always been bright, shining with the indomitable
courage and hope that had made her seem young to her devoted
followers. Her lips, thin and gray, were full, tinged with coral.
Her hair had remained her one vanity. Though her hair had
turned silver white, it remained thick and luxuriant. She reached
her hand to touch her hair, a hand that was young and smooth
and strong again, and the fingers touched gold and silver strands.
But her hair had an odd feel to it. Coarser than she remembered,
not as fine.
  She knew suddenly why she hated this \ffiasked for, unlooked
for, unwanted gift. The face in the mirror was not her face. The
face was a memory of her face, and the memory was not her own.
The memory was another's. The face was someone's idea of her
face. This face was perfect, and her face had not been perfect.
  The same was true of her body. Youthful, vigorous, strong,
slender waist, full breasts, this body was not the body she re-
membered. This body was perfect. No aches, no pains, not so
much as a tom nail or a blister on her heel.
  Her old soul did not fit into this new young flesh. Her old soul
had been light and airy, ready to take wing and soar into eternity.
That soul had been content to leave behind mundane cares and
woes. Now her soul was caged in a prison of flesh and bone and
blood, a prison that was making its own demands on her. She did
not understand how or why. She could not give reasons. All she
knew was that the face in the mirror terrified her.
  She laid the mirror down, facedown on the dressing table, and,
sighing deeply, prepared to leave the one prison she could leave,
desperately wishing all the while that she could leave the other.

  Wonder and amazement greeted Goldmoon's appearance in
the hall of the Grand Lyceum that night. As she had feared, her
transformation was taken for a miracle, a good miracle, a blessed
miracle.
  "Wait until word spreads!" her pupils whispered. "Wait until
the people hear! Goldmoon has conquered age. She has vanquished
death! The people will come flocking to our cause now!"
  Pupils and masters clustered around her and reached out to
touch her. They fell to their knees and kissed her hand. They
begged her to grant them her blessing, and they rose to their feet
exalted. Only a few looked closely at Goldmoon to see the pain
and anguish on ~e youthful, beautiful face, a face they recog-
nized more by the light in her eyes than by any resemblance to
the face of contentment and wisdom they had come to know and
revere. Even that light seemed unhealthy, a luster that was the
luster of a fever.
  The evening was a trial to Goldmoon. They held a banquet in
her honor, forced her to sit in a place of honor at the head of the
hall. She felt everyone was looking at her, and she was right. Few
seemed able to take their eyes off her, and they stared at her until
it occurred to them that they were being rude, then they shifted
their gazes pointedly in another direction. Goldmoon couldn't
decide which was worse. She ate well, much better than usual.
Her strange body demanded large quantities of food, but she did
not taste any of it. She was doing nothing more than fueling a fire,
a fire she feared must consume her.
  "In a few days, they will be used to me," she said to herself
drearily. "They will cease to notice that I am so terribly altered. I
will know, however. If I could just understand why this has been
done to me."
  Palin sat at her right hand, but he was grim and cheerless. He
picked at his food and finally pushed most of the meal away un-
eaten. He paid no attention to conversation but was wrapped in
his own thoughts. He was, she guessed, making that journey back
through time over and over again in his mind, searching for some
clue to its strange conclusion.
  Tasslehoff was also out of spirits. The kender sat beside Palin,
who kept close watch on him. He kicked the chair rungs and oc-
casionally heaved a doleful sigh. Most of his eating utensils, a salt
cellar, and a pepper pot made their way into his pockets, but the
borrowing was halfhearted at best, a reflexive action. He was
clearly not enjoying himself.
  "Will you help me map the hedge maze tomorrow?" asked his
neighbor, the gnome. "I have come up with a scientific solution to
my problem. My solution requires another person, however, and
a pair of socks."
"Tomorrow?" said Tas.
  "Yes, tomorrow," repeated the gnome.
  Tas looked at Palin. The mage looked at Tas.
  "I'll be glad to help," Tas said. He slid off his chair. "Come on,
Conundrum. You were going to show me your ship."
  "Ah, yes, my ship." The gnome tucked some bread into his
pocket for later. "The Indestructible XVIII. It's tied up at the
dock. At least it was. I'll never forget the surprise I had when I
went to board its predecessor, the Indestructible XVII, only to
discover that it had been woefully misnamed. The committee
made sweeping changes to the design, however, and I am quite
confident-"
  Palin watched Tasslehoff walk away.
  "You must talk to him, Goldmoon," file mage said in a low
voice. "Convince him he has to go back."
  "Go back to his death? How can I ask that of Tas? How could
I ask that of anyone?" -
  "I know," Palin said, sighing and rubbing his temples as if
they ached. "Believe me, First Master, I wish there were some
other way. All I know is that he's supposed to be dead, and he's
not, and the world has gone awry." .
  "Yet you admit yourself you are not certain that Tasslehoff,
either dead or alive, has anything to do with the world's
problems."
  "You don't understand, First Master-" Palin began wearily.
  "You are right. I don't understand. And therefore what
would you have me say to him?" she asked sharply. "How can
I offer counsel when I do not comprehend what is happening?"
She shook her head. "The decision is his alone to make. I will
not interfere."
  Goldmoon rested her hand on her smooth cheek. She could
feel her fingers against her skin, but her skin could not sense the
touch of her fingers. She might have been placing her fingers on
a waxen image.
  The banquet ended, finally. Goldmoon rose to her feet and the
others rose in respect. One of the acolytes, an exuberant young-
ster, gave a cheer. Others picked it up. Soon they were applaud-
ing and yelling lustily.
  The cheering frightened Goldmoon. The noise will draw at-
tention to us, was her first panicked thought. She wondered at
herself a moment later. She'd had the strangest feeling that they
were trapped in a house and that something evil was searching
for them. The feeling passed, but the cheering continued to jar on
her nerves. She lifted her hands to halt the shouting.
  "I thank you, my friends. My dear friends," Goldmoon said,
moistening lips thr were stiff and dry. "I . . . I ask you to keep me
in your hearts, to surround me with your good thoughts. I feel I
need them."
  The people glanced at each other, troubled. This wasn't what
any of them had expected to hear her say. They wanted to hear
her tell them about the wondrous miracle that had been wrought
upon her. How she would perform the same miracles for them.
Goldmoon made a gesture of dismissal. People filed out, return-
ing to their work or their studies, glancing back at her often and
talking in low voices.
  "I beg your pardon for disturbing you, First Master," Lady
Camilla said, approaching. Her eyes were cast down. She was
trying very hard not to look at Goldmoon's face. "The patients in
the hospital have missed you. I was wondering, if you are not too
tired, if you would come. . ."
  "Yes, assuredly," said Goldmoon readily, glad to have some-
thing to do. She would forget herself in her work. She was not in
the least fatigued. The strange body was not, that is.
  "Palin, would you care to accompany us?" she asked.
  "What for? Your healers can do nothing for me," he returned
irritably. "I know. They have tried."
  "You speak to the First Master, sir," Lady Camilla said in rebuke.
  "I am sorry, First Master," Palin said with a slight bow. "Please
forgive my rudeness. I am very tired. I have not slept in a long
time. I must find the kender, then I plan to go straight to my bed.
I bid you a good night."
  He bowed and turned and walked away.
  "Palin!" Goldmoon called after him, but either he didn't hear
or he was ignoring her.
  Goldmoon accompanied Lady Camilla to the hospital-a sep-
arate building located on the Citadel grounds. The night was
cooL unusually cool for this time of year. Goldmoon gazed up at
the stars, at the pale moon to which she had never grown truly
accustomed but always saw with a sense of shock and unease.
This night, she looked at the stars, but they seemed small and
distant. For the first time, she looked beyond them, to the vast
and empty darkness t11at surrounded them.
  "As it surrounds us," she said, chilled.
  "I beg your pardon, First Master," Lady Camilla said. "Were
you speaking to me?"
  The two women had been antagonists at one point in their
lives. When Goldmoon made the decision to build the Citadel of
Light on Schallsea, Lady Camilla had been opposed. The Solam-
roc was loyal to the old gods, the departed gods. She was suspi-
cious and .distrustful of this new "power of the heart." Then she
had come to witness the tireless efforts of the Citadel's mystics to
do good in the world, to bring light to the darkness. She had come
to love and to admire Goldmoon. She would do anything for the
First Master, Lady Camilla was wont to say, and she had proved
that statement, spending an inordinate amount of time and
money on a fruitless search for a lost child, a child who had been
dear to Goldmoon, but who had gone missing three years earlier,
a child whose name no one mentioned, to avoid causing the First
Master grief.
  Goldmoon often thought of the child, especially whenever she
walked along the seashore.
  "It wasn't important," Goldmoon said, adding, "You must
forgive me, Lady Camilla. I am poor company, I know."
  "Not at all, First Master," said Lady Camilla. I'You have much
on your mind."
  The two continued their walk to the hospital in silence.
  The hospital, located in one of the crystal domes that were the
central structures of the Citadel of Light, consisted of a large room
filled with beds that stood in straight rows up one side and down
the other. Sweet herbs perfumed the air and sweet music added
its own healing properties. The healers worked among the sick
and injured, using the power of the heart to heal them, a power
Goldmoon had discovered and first used to heal the dying dwarf,
Jasper Fireforge.
  She had performed many miracles since that time, or so
people claimed. She had healed those thought to be past hope.
She had mended broken bodies with the touch of her hands. She
had restored life to paralyzed limbs, brought sight to the blind.
Her miracles of healing were as wonderful as those she had
performed as a cleric of Mishakal. She was glad and grateful to be
able to ease the suffering of others. But the healing had not
brought her the same joy she had experienced when the blessing
of the healing art came to her as a gift from the god, when she and
Mishakal worked in partnership.
  A year or so ago, her healing powers had begun to wane. At
first, she blamed the loss on her advancing age. But she was not
the only one of her healers to experience the diminution of heal-
ing power.
  "It is as if someone has hung a gauze curtain between me and
my patient," one young healer had said in frustration. "I try to
draw the curtain aside to reach the patient, but there is another and
another. I don't feel as if I can come close to my patients anymore."
  Reports had begun coming in from Citadel masters through-
out Ansalon, all bearing witness to the same dread phenomenon.
Some had blamed it on the dragons. Some had blamed it on the
Knights of Neraka. Then they had heard rumors that the Knights'
dark mystics were losing their powers, as well.
  Goldmoon asked her counselor, Mirror, the silver dragon
who was the Citadel's guardian, if he thought that Malys was
responsible.
  "No, First Master, I do not," Mirror replied. He was in his
human form then, a handsome youth with silver hair. She saw
sorrow and trouble in his eyes, eyes that held the wisdom of cen-
turies in them. "1 have felt my own magical powers start to wane.
It is rumored among dragonkind that our enemies are also feeling
their powers weaken."
  "Then there is some good in this," Goldmoon said.
  Mirror remained grave. "1 fear not, First Master. The tyrant who
feels power slipping away does not let loose. He tightens his grasp."
  Goldmoon paused on the threshold of the hospital. The beds
were filled with patients, some sleeping, some talking quietly,
some reading. The atmosphere was restful, peaceful. Bereft of
much of their mystical power, the healers had gone back to the
herbal remedies once practiced by healers in the days following
the Cataclysm. The smells of sage and rosemary, chamomille and
mint spiced the air. Soft music played. Goldmoon felt the sooth-
ing influence of the restful solitude, and her heart was eased.
Here, perhaps, the healer would herself be healed.
  Catching sight of Goldmoon, one of the master healers came
forward immediately to welcome her. The welcome was, of
necessity, low-key, lest the patients be disturbed by undue com-
motion or excitement. The healer said how pleased she was that
the First Master was returned to them and stared with all her
might at Goldmoon's altered face.
  Goldmoon said something pleasant and innocuous and
turned her face from the amazed scrutiny to look around. She
asked after the patients.
  "The hospital is quiet this night, First Master," said the healer,
leading the way into the ward. "We have many patients, but, for-
tunately, few who are really worrisome. We have a baby suffering
from the croup, a Knight who received a broken leg during a
joust, and a young fisherman who was rescued from drowning.
The rest of our patients are convalescing."
  "How is Sir Wilfer?" Lady Camilla asked.
  "The leg is mended, my lady," the healer replied, "but it is still
weak. He insists he is ready to be released, and I cannot convince
him that he would do better to remain another few days to fully
recover. I know that he finds it very dull here, but perhaps if you
were to-"
  "I will speak to him," said Lady Camilla.
  She moved among the rows of beds. Most of the patients
came from outside the Citadel, from villages and towns on
Schallsea. They knew the elderly Goldmoon, for she often visited
their homes. But they did not recognize this youthful Goldmoon.
Most thought her a stranger and paid little attention to her, for
which she was grateful. At the far end was the cradle with the
baby, his watchful mother at his side. He coughed still and
whimpered. His face was flushed with fever. The healers were
preparing a bowl of herbs to which they would add boiling
water. The steam would moisten the lungs and ease the child's
cough. Goldmoon drew near, intending to say a few words of
comfort to the mother.
  As Goldmoon approached the cradle, she saw that another
figure hovered over the fretful baby. At first, Goldmoon thought
this to be one of the healers. She did not recognize the face, but
then she had been absent from them for weeks. Probably this was
a new student. . .
  Goldmoon's steps slowed. She halted about three beds away
from that of the sick child, put out a hand to steady herself upon
the wooden bedpost.
The figure was not a healer. The figure was not a student. The
figure was not alive. A ghost hovered over the child, the ghost of
a young woman.
  "If you will excuse me, First Master," said the healer, "1 will go
see what I can do for this sick child."
  The healer walked over to the child. The healer laid her hands
upon the baby, but at the same instant, the fleshless hands of the
ghost intervened. The ghost grasped the healer's hands.
  "Give me the blessed power," the ghost whispered. "1 must
have it, or I will be cast into oblivion!"
  The baby's coughing grew worse. The mother hung over him
worriedly. The healer, shaking her head, removed her hands. Her
healing touch had failed the baby. The ghost had stolen the
energy for herself.
  "He should breathe in this steam," the healer said, sounding
tired and defeated. "The steam will help keep his lungs clear."
The ghost of the woman drifted away. More insubstantial fig-
ures took her place, crowding around the sick baby, their burning
eyes staring avidly at the healer. When the healer moved to an-
other bed, they followed her, clinging to her like trailing cobweb.
When she put out her hands to try to heal another patient, the
dead grasped hold of her, crying and moaning.
  "Mine! Mine! Give the power to me!"
  Goldmoon staggered. If she had not been holding onto the
bedpost, she would have fallen. She closed her eyes tightly shut,
hoping the fearful apparitions would disappear. She opened her
eyes to see more ghosts. Legions of the dead crowded and jostled
each other as each sought to steal for his own the blessed life-
giving power that flowed from the healers. Restless, the dead
were in constant motion. They passed by Goldmoon like a vast
and turbulent river, all flowing in the same direction-north.
Those who gathered around the healers were not permitted to
linger long. Some unheard voice ordered them away, some
unseen hand pulled them back into the water.
  The river of dead shifted course, swept around Goldmoon.
The dead reached out to touch her, begged her to bless them in
their hollow whisperings.
  "No! Leave me alone!" she cried, cringing away. "I cannot
help you!"
  Some of the dead flowed past her, wailing in disappointment.
Other ghosts pressed near her. Their breath was cold, their eyes
burned. Their words were smoke, their touch like ashes falling on
her skin.
  Startled faces surrounded her. Faces of the living.
  "Healer!" someone was calling. "Come quickly! The First
Master!"
  The healer was in a flutter. Had she done something to offend
the First Master? She had not meant to.
  Goldmoon recoiled from the healer in horror. The dead were
all around her, pulling on her arm, tugging at her robes. Ghosts
surged forward, rushing at her, trying to seize hold of her hands.
  "Give us . . . " they pleaded in their terrible whisperings.
"Give us what we crave. . . what we must have. . ."
  "First Master!" Lady Camilla's voice boomed through the
sibiliant hissings of the dead. She sounded panicked. "Please let
us help you! Tell us what is wrong!"
  "Can't you see them?" Goldmoon cried. "The dead!" She
pointed. "There, with the baby! There, with the healer. Here, in
front of me! The dead are draining us, stealing our power. Can't
you see them?"
  Voices clamored around Goldmoon, voices of the living. She
could not understand them, they made no sense. Her own voice
failed her. She felt herself falling and could do nothing to halt her
fall.
  She was lying in a bed in the hospital. The voices still clam-
ored. Opening her eyes, she saw the faces of the dead surround-
ing her.

                      CHAPTER TWENTYEIGHT
                       THE DRAGON EDICT

  General Medan rarely visited his own headquarters in
Qualinost. Constructed by humans, the fortress was ugly,
purposefully ugly. Squat, square, made of gray sandstone,
with barred windows and heavy, iron-bound doors, the fortress
was intended to be ugly, intended as an insult to the elves, to im-
press upon them who was master. No elf would come near it of
his own free will, though many had seen the inside of it, partic-
ularly the room located far below ground, the room to which
they were taken when the order was given to "put them to the
question."
  Marshal Medan had developed an extreme dislike for this
building, a dislike almost as great as that of the elves. He pre-
ferred to conduct most of his business from his home where his
work area was a shady bower dappled with sunlight. He pre-
ferred listening to the song of the lark rather than to the sounds
of screams of the tortured, preferred the scent of his roses to that
of blood.
  The infamous room was not much in use these days. Elves
thought to be rebels or in league with the rebels vanished like
shadows when the sun hides beneath a cloud before the Neraka
Knights could arrest them. Medan knew very well that the elves
were being spirited away somehow, probably through under-
grO:!:lnd tunnels. In the old days, when he had first taken on the
governing of an occupied land, he would have turned Qualinost
upside down and inside out, excavated, probed, brought in
Thorn Knights to look for magic, tortured hundreds. He did none
of these things. He was just as glad that his Knights arrested so
few. He had come to loathe the torturing, the death, as he had
come to love Qualinesti.
  Medan loved the land. He loved the beauty of the land, loved
the peaceful serenity that meandered through Qualinesti as the
stream wound its sparkling way through his garden. Alexis
Medan did not love the elven people. Elves were beyond his ken,
his understanding. He might as well have said that he loved the
sun or the stars or the moon. He admired them, as he admired the
beauty of an orchid, but he could not love them. He sometimes
envied them their long life span and sometimes pitied them for it.
  Medan did not love Laurana as a woman, Gerard had come to
realize. He loved her as the embodiment of all that was beautiful
in his adopted homeland.
  Gerard was amazed, entranced, and astounded upon his first
entrance into Marshal Medan's dwelling. His amazement in-
creased when the marshal told him, proudly, that he had super-
vised the design of the house and had laid out the garden entirely
to his own liking.
  Elves would not have lived happily in the marshal's house,
which was too ordered and structured for their tastes. He disliked
the elven practice of using living trees as walls and trailing vines
for curtains, nor did he want green grasses for his roof. Elves
enjoy the murmur and whispers of living walls around them in
the night. Medan preferred his walls to allow him to sleep. His
house was built of rough-hewn stone. He took care not to cut
living trees, an act the elves considered a grievous crime.
  Ivy and morning glories clung to the surfaces of the rock walls.
The house itself was practically hidden by a profusion of flowers.
Gerard could not believe that such beauty could live in the soul of
this man, an avowed follower of the precepts of darkness.
  Gerard had moved into the house yesterday afternoon. Acting
on Medan's orders, the healers of the Nereka Knights had pooled
their dwindling energies to restore the 50lamnic to almost com-
plete health. His wounds had knit with astonishing rapidity.
Gerard smiled to himself, imagining their ire if they knew they
were expending their limited energies to heal the enemy.
  He occupied one wing, a wing that had been vacant until now,
for the marshal had not permitted his aides to live in his dwelling,
ever since the last man Medan had retained had been discovered
urinating in the fish pond. Medan had transferred the man to the
very farthest outpost on the elven border, an outpost built on the
edge of the desolate wasteland known as the Plains of Dust. He
hoped the man's brain exploded from the heat.
  Gerard's quarters were comfortable, if small. His duties thus
far--after two days on the job-had been light. Marshal Medan
was an early riser. He took his breakfast in the garden on sunny
days, dined on the porch that overlooked the garden on days
when it rained. Gerard was on hand to stand behind the mar-
shal's chair, pour the marshal's tea, and commiserate with the
marshal's concerns over those he considered his most implacable
foes: aphids, spider mites, and bagworms. He handled Medan's
correspondence, introduced and screened visitors and carried
orders from the marshal's dwelling to the detested headquarters
building. Here he was looked upon with envy and jealousy by the
other knights, who had made crude remarks about the "upstart,"
the "toady," the "ass-licker."
  Gerard was ill-at-ease and tense, at first. So much had hap-
pened so suddenly. Five days ago, he had been a guest in Lau-
rana's house. Now he was a prisoner of the Knights of Neraka,
permitted to remain alive so long as Medan considered Gerard
might be useful to him.
  Gerard resolved to stay with the marshal only as long as it
took to find out the identity of the person who was spying on the
queen mother. When this was accomplished, he would pass the
information on to Laurana and attempt to escape. After he had
made this decision, he relaxed and felt better.
  After Medan's supper, Gerard was dispatched to headquar-
ters again to receive the daily reports and the prisoner list-the
record of those who had escaped and who were now wanted
criminals. Gerard would also be given any dispatches that had ar-
rived for the marshal from other parts of the continent. Usually,
few came, Medan told him. The marshal had no interest in other
parts of the continent and those parts had very little interest in
him. This evening there was a dispatch, carried in the clawed
hands of Beryl's draconian messenger.
  Gerard had heard of the draconians-the spawn born years
ago of the magically corrupted eggs of good dragons. He had
never seen one, however. He decided, on viewing this one-a
large Baaz-that he could have gone all his life without seeing
one and never missed it.
  The draconian stood on two legs like a man, but his body
was covered with scales. His hands were large, scaly, the fingers
ending in sharp claws. His face was that of a lizard or a snake,
with sharp fangs that he revealed in a gaping grin, and a long,
lolling tongue. His--short, stubby wings, sprouting from his
back, were constantly in gentle motion, fanning the air around
him.
  The draconian was waiting for Gerard inside the headquar-
ters building. Gerard saw this creature the moment he entered,
and for the life of him he could not help hesitating, pausing in the
qoorway, overcome by revulsion. The other Knights, lounging
around the room, watched him with knowing smirks that broad-
ened to smug grins when they saw his discomfiture.
  Angry with himself, Gerard entered the headquarters build-
ing with firm strides. He marched past the draconian, who had
risen to his feet with a scrape of his claws on the floor.
  The officer in charge handed over the daily reports. Gerard
took them and started to leave. The officer stopped him.
  "That's for the marshal, too." He jerked a thumb at the dra-
conian, who lifted his head with a leer. "Groul, here, has a dis-
patch for the marshal."
  Gerard steeled himself. With an air of nonchalance, which he
hoped didn't look as phony as it felt, he approached the foul
creature.
  "I am the marshal's aide. Give me the letter."
Groul snapped his teeth together with a disconcerting click
and held up the scroll case but did not relinquish it to Gerard.
  "My orders are to deliver it to the marshal in person," Groul
stated.
  Gerard had expected the reptile to be barely sentient, to speak
gibberish or, at the best, a corrupt form of Common. He had not
expected to find the creature so articulate and, therefore, intelli-
gent. Gerard was forced to readjust his thinking about how to
deal with the creature.
  "I will give the dispatch to the marshaL" Gerard replied.
"There have been several attempts on the marshal's life. As a con-
sequence, he does not permit strangers to enter his presence. You
have my word of honor that I will deliver it directly into his
hands."
  "Honor! This is what I think of your honor." Groul's tongue
slid out of his mouth, then slurped back, splashing Gerard with
saliva. The draconian moved closer to Gerard, clawed feet scrap-
ing across the floor. "Listen, Knight," he hissed, "I am sent by the
exalted Berylinthranox. She has ordered me to hand this dis-
patch to Marshal Medan and to wait for his reply. The matter is
one of utmost urgency. I will do as I am ordered. Take me to the
marshal."
  Gerard could have done as the draconian demanded and
saved himself what was probably going to be a world of trouble.
He had two reasons for not doing so. First, he fully intended to
read the dispatch from the dragon before handing it. over to
Medan, and that would be difficult to manage with the dispatch
clutched firmly in the draconian's claws. The second reason was
more subtle. Gerard found this reason incomprehensible, but he
felt oddly guided by it. He did not like the thought of the loath-
some creature entering the marshal's beautiful house, his clawed
feet ripping holes in the ground, tearing up the flower beds,
trampling the plants, smashing furniture with his taiL leering and
poking, sneering and slavering.
  Groul held the scroll in his right hand. The creature wore his
sword on his left hip. That meant the draco was right-handed, or
so Gerard hoped, though there was always the possibility the
creatures were ambidextrous. Resolving to himself that if he lived
through this, he would take up a study of the draconian race,
Gerard drew his sword with an overdone flourish and jumped at
the draconian.
  Startled, Groul reacted instinctively, dropping the scroll case
to the floor and reaching with his right hand for his sword.
Gerard pivoted, stooped down to the floor and snatched up the
scroll case. Rising, he drove his shoulder and elbow, with the full
weight of his armor, into the midriff of the draconian. Groul went
down with a clatter of sword and sheath, his wings flapping
wildly, his hands waving as he lost the struggle to retain his bal-
ance. He crashed into a bench, smashing it.
  The sudden movement and attack on the draconian tore open
several of Gerard's wounds. Sucking in his breath against the
pain, he glared a moment at the creature floundering on the floor,
then turned and, resisting the impulse to see how badly he'd in-
jured himself, started to leave.
  Hearing clawed feet scrabbling and a vicious cursing, Gerard
wheeled, sword in hand, intending to finish the fight if the crea-
ture pursued it. To Gerard's astonishment, three of the Knights
of Neraka had drawn their swords and now blocked the dracon-
ian's path.
  "The marshal's aide is right," said one, an older man, who
had served in Qualinesti many years and had even taken an elven
wife. "We've heard stories of you, Groul. Perhaps you carry a dis-
patch from Beryl as you say. Or perhaps the dragon has given
orders that you are to 'dispatch' our marshal. I advise you to sit
down on what you've left of our bench and wait. If the marshal
wants to see you, he'll come himself."
  Groul hesitated, eyeing the Knights balefully. Two of the
guards drew their swords and joined their officers. The draconian
cursed, and, with a snarl, sheathed his sword. Muttering some-
thing about needing fresh air, he stalked over to the window and
stood staring out of it.
  "Go along," said the Knight to Gerard. "We'll keep an eye
on him."
  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
  The Knight grunted and returned to his duties.
  Gerard left the headquarters with haste. The street on which
the building stood was empty. The elves never came anywhere
near it voluntarily. Most of the soldiers were either on duty or had
just come off duty and were now asleep.
  Leaving the street on which the headquarters building was
located, Gerard entered the city proper, or rather the city's out-
skirts. He walked among the city's inhabitants now, and he
faced another danger. Medan had advised him to wear his
breastplate and helm, make his trip to headquarters before
darkness fell. He was conscious of beautiful faces, of almond
eyes either staring at him with open, avowed hatred, or pur-
posefully averting their gaze, so as not to disturb the loveliness
of the midsummer's twilight by adding his ugly human visage
to it.
  Gerard was likewise conscious of his strangeness. His body
seemed thick and clumsy in comparison to the slender, delicate
elven frames; his straw-colored hair, a color not usually seen
among elves, was probably regarded as freakish. His scarred and
lumpish features, considered ugly by human standards, must be
looked upon as hideous by the elves.
  Gerard could understand why some humans had come to
hate the elves. He felt himself inferior to them in every way- in
appearance, in culture, in wisdom, in manner. The only way in
which some humans could feel superior to elves was to conquer
them, subjugate them, torture and kill them.
  Gerard turned onto the road leading to Medan's house. Part
of him sighed when he left the streets where the elves lived and
worked behind, as if he had awakened from a lovely dream to
dreary reality. Part of him was relieved. He did not keep looking
constantly over his shoulder to see if someone was sneaking up
on him with a knife.
  He had a walk of about a mile to reach the marshal's secluded
house. The path wound among shimmering aspens, Roplars, and
rustling willows, whose arms overstretched a bub1:iling brook.
The day was fine, the temperature unusually cool for this time of
year, bringing with it the hint of an early fall. Reaching the
halfway point, Gerard looked carefully up the path and down the
path. He listened intently for the sound of other footfalls. Hear-
ing nothing, seeing nobody, he stepped off the trail and walked to
the brook. He squatted down on his hauncJ1es as if to drink and
examined the scroll case.
  It was sealed with wax, but that was easily managed. Remov-
ing his knife, he laid the blade upon a flat rock still hot from the
afternoon sun. When the metal had heated, Gerard edged the
knife blade carefully beneath the wax seal. He removed the seal
intact, placed it on a bit of bark to keep it safe. Gerard eyed the
scroll case, started to open it, hesitated.
  He was about to read a dispatch intended for his com-
mander. True, Medan was the enemy, he was not really Gerard's
commander, but the dispatch was private, meant for Medan
only. No honorable man would read another's correspondence.
Certainly no Solamnic Knight would stoop so low. The Measure
did not countenance the use of spies upon the enemy, deeming
them "dishonorable, treacherous." He recalled one paragraph in
particular.
  Some say that spies are useful, that the information they gather by
low and sneaking means might lead us to victory. We knights answer
that victory obtained by such means is no victory at all but the ultimate
defeat, for if we abandon the principles of honor for which we fight, what
makes us better than our enemy?
  "What indeed?" Gerard asked himself, the scroll case un-
opened in his hand. "Nothing, I guess." With a quick twist, he
opened the lid and, glancing about the forest one final time, he
drew out the parchment, unrolled it, and began to read.
  A weakness came over him. His body chilled. He sank down
upon the bank, continued reading in disbelief. Completing his pe-
rusal, he considered what to do. His first thought was to bum the
terrible missive so that it would never reach its destination. He
dared not do that, however. Too many people had seen him take
it. He thought of burning it and substituting another in its place,
but he abandoned that wild idea immediately. He had no parch-
ment, no pen, no ink. And perhaps Medan was familiar with the
handwriting of the scribe who penned this message at the
dragon's injunction.
  No, Gerard reasoned, sick at heart, there was nothing he could
do now but deliver the dispatch. To do otherwise would be to put
himself in danger, and he might be the only means of thwarting
the dragon's evil design.
  Medan would be wondering what had become of him. Gerard
had already been longer on his daily errand than usual. He hur-
riedly rolled up the dispatch, thrust it into the tube, carefully re-
placed the wax seal, and made sure that it was firmly stuck.
Thrusting the foul thing in his belt, unwilling to touch it more than
necessary, he continued on his way back to the marshal's at a run.

Gerard found the.marshal strolling in his garden, taking his
exercise after his evening meal. Hearing footsteps along the walk-
way, the marshal glanced around.
  "Ah, Gerard. You are behind your time. I was starting to fear
something might have happened to you." The marshal looked in-
tently at Gerard's arm. "Something has happened to you. You are
injured."
Gerard glanced down at his shirtsleeve, saw it wet with
blood. In his distraction over the dispatch, he'd forgotten his
wounds, forgotten the fight with the draconian.
  "There was an altercation at headquarters," he said, knowing
that Medan would come to hear what had happened. "Here are
the daily reports." He placed those upon a table that stood be-
neath a trellis over which Medan had patiently trained grapevines
to grow, forming a green and leafy bower. "And there is this dis-
patch, which comes from the dragon Beryl." ,
  Medan took the dispatch with a grimace. He did not immedi-
ately open it. He was much more interested in hearing about the
fight. "What was the altercation, Sir Gerard?"
  "The draconian messenger insisted on bringing the dis-
patch to you himself. Your Knights did not think that this
was necessary. They insisted he remain there to await your
response.
  "Your doing, I think, sir," said Medan with a smile. "You acted
rightly. I am wary of Groul. Who knows what he is thinking in
that lizard brain of his? He is not to be trusted."
  He turned his attention to the dispatch. Gerard saluted,
started to leave.
  "No, no. You might as well wait. I will have to draft an
answer. . . ." He fell silent, reading.
  Gerard, who knew every line because he felt each one burned
on his brain, could follow Medan's progress through the dispatch
by watching the expression on his face. Medan's lips tightened,
his jaw set. If he had appeared happy, overjoyed, Gerard had de-
termined to kill the marshal where he stood, regardless of the
consequences.
  Medan was not overjoyed, however. Far from it. His face lost
its color, took on a sallow, grayish hue. He completed reading the
dispatch and then, with studied deliberation, read it through
again. Finished, he crushed it in his hand and, with a curse,
hurled it to the walkway.
  Arms folded across his chest, he turned his back, stared
grimly at nothing until he had regained some measure of his com-
posure. Gerard stood in silence. Now might have been a politic
time to absent himselL but he was desperate to know what
Medan intended to do.
  At length, the marshal turned around. He glanced down at
the crumpled piece of parchment, glanced up at Gerard. "Read
it," he said.
  "Sir." Gerard flushed. "It's not meant for-"
  "Read it, damn you!" Medan shouted. Calming himself with
an effort, he added, "You might as well. I must think what to do,
what to say to the dragon in reply and how to say it. Carefully,"
he admonished himself softly. "1 must proceed carefully, or all is
lost!"
  Gerard picked up the dispatch and smoothed it out.
  "Read it aloud," Medan ordered. "Perhaps I misread it. Per-
haps there was some part of it I misunderstood." His tone was
ironic.
  Gerard skipped through the formal address, came to the body
of the text.
  "'It has come to my attention,'" he read, "through one who is
in sympathy with my interests, that the outlawed sorcerer Palin
Majere has discovered a most valuable and wondrous magical ar-
tifact whi~e he was unlawfully in my territory. I consider that the
artifact is therefore mine. I must and I will have it.
  "'Informants tell me that Palin Majere and the kender have
fled with the artifact to the Citadel of Light. I give the elf king,
Gilthas, three days to recover the device and the culprits who
carry it and another three days to deliver them up to me.
  "'In addition, the elf king will also send me the head of the elf
woman, Lauranalanthalas, who harbored the sorcerer and the
kender in her home and who aided and abetted them in their
escape.
  "'If, at the end of six days, I have not received the head of this
traitor elf woman and if the artifact and those who stole it are not
in my hands, I will order the destruction of Qualinesti to com-
mence. Every man, woman, and child in that wretched nation
shall be put to sword or flame. None shall survive. As for those in
the Citadel of Light who dare harbor these criminals, I will de-
stroy them, burn their Citadel to the ground, and recover the
magical device from amidst the bones and ashes.' 
  Gerard was thankful he'd read this once. Had he not been pre-
pared, he would not have been able to read it as calmly as he
managed. As it was, his voice caught in his throat and he was
forced to cover his emotions with a harsh cough. He finished
reading and looked up to find Medan observing him closely.
"Well, what do you think of this?" Medan demanded.
  Gerard cleared his throat. "I believe that it is presumptuous of
the dragon to give you orders, my lord. The Knights of Neraka
are not her personal army."
  Medan's grim expression relaxed. He almost smiled. "That is
an excellent argument, Gerard. Would it were true! Unfortu-
nately, the High Command crawled on their bellies before the
great dragons years ago."
  "She can't mean this, my lord," Gerard said cautiously. "She
wouldn't do this. Not an entire race of people-"
  "She could and she will," Medan replied grimly. "Look what
she did to Kenderhome. Slaughtered the little nuisances by the
thousands. Not that kender are any great loss, but it goes to prove
that she will do what she says."
  Gerard had heard other Solamnic Knights say the same thing
about the slaughter of the kender, and he recalled laughing with
them. He knew some Solamnic Knights who would not be dis-
pleased to see the elves depart this world. We consider ourselves
so much better, so much more moral and more honorable than the
Dark Knights, Gerard said to himself. In reality, the only differ-
ence is the armor. Silver or black, it masks the same prejudices,
the same intolerance, the same ignorance. Gerard felt suddenly,
deeply ashamed.
  Medan had begun to pace the walkway. "Damn the blasted
elves! All these years I work to save them, and now it is for noth-
ing! Damn the queen mother anyhow! If she had only listened
to me! But no. She must consort with rebels and the like, and
now what comes of it? She has doomed herself and her people.
Unless. . ."
  He paused in his pacing, hands clasped behind his back,
brooding, his thoughts turned inward. His robes, of elven make,
elven cut, and elven design, fell loosely about his body. The hem,
trimmed with silk ribbon, brushed his feet. Gerard remained
silent, absorbed with his own thoughts-a confusion of sickening
rage against the dragon for wanting to destroy the elves and rage
at himself and his own kind for standing idly by and doing noth-
ing all these years to stop her.
  Medan raised his head. He had made a decision. "The day has
arrived sooner than I anticipated. I will not be a party to geno-
cide. I have no compunction about killing another warrior in
battle, but I will not butcher helpless civilians who have no way
to fight back. To do so is the height of cowardice, and such
wanton slaughter would break the oath I swore when I became a
Knight. Perhaps there is a way to stop the dragon. But I will re-
quire your help."
  "You have it, my lord," said Gerard.
  "You will have to trust me." Medan raised an eyebrow.
  "And you will have to trust me, my lord," said Gerard,
smiling.
  Medan nodded. A man of quick and decisive actions, he did
not waste breath in further talk but seated himself at the table. He
reached for pen,pnd ink. "We must stall for time," he said, writ-
ing rapidly. "You will deliver my answer to the draconian Groul,
but he must never reach the dragon. Do you understand?"
  "Yes, sir," said Gerard.
  Medan completed his writing. He sprinkled sand on the
paper, to help the ink dry, rolled it and handed it to Gerard. "Put
that in the same scroll case. No need to seal it. The message states
that I am the Exalted One's Obedient Servant and that 1 will do
her bidding."
  Medan rose to his feet. "When you have completed your task,
go straight to the Royal Palace. I will leave orders that you are to
be admitted. We must make haste. Beryl is a treacherous fiend,
not to be trusted. She may have already decided to act on her
own."
  "Yes, my lord," Gerard said. "And where will you be, my
lord? Where can 1 find you?"
  Medan smiled grimly. "1 will be arresting the queen mother."

  Marshal Medan walked along the path that led through the
garden to the main dwelling of Laurana's modest estate. Night
had fallen. He had brought a torch to light his way. The flame
singed the hanging flowers as he passed beneath them, caused
leaves to blacken and curl. Bugs flew into the fire. He could hear
them sizzle.
  The marshal was not wearing his elven robes. He was accou-
tered in his full ceremonial armor. Kelevandros, who answered
Medan's resounding knock upon the door, was quick to note the
change. He eyed the marshal warily.
  "Marshal Medan. Welcome. Please enter. I will inform madam
that she has a visitor. She will see you in the arboretum, as usual."
  "I prefer to remain where 'I am," said the marshal. "Tell your
mistress to meet me here. Tell her," he added, his voice grating,
"that she should be dressed for travel. She will need her cloak.
The night air is chill. And tell her to make haste."
  He looked intently and constantly about the garden, paying
particular attention to the parts of the garden hidden in
shadow.
  "Madam will want to know why," Kelevandros said, hesitating.
  Medan gave him a shove that sent him staggering across the
room. "Go fetch your mistress," he ordered.

  "Travel?" Laurana said, astonished. She had been sitting in
the arboretum, pretending to listen to Kalindas read aloud from
an ancient elventext. In reality, she had not heard a word. "Where
am I going?"
  Kelevandros shook his head. "The marshal will not tell me,
Madam. He is acting very strangely."
  "I don't like this, Madam," Kalindas stated, lowering the
book. "First imprisonment in your house, now this. You should
not go with the marshal."
  "I agree with my brother, Madam," Kelevandros added. "I
will tell him you are not well. We will do what we have talked
about before. This night, we will smuggle you out in the tunnels."
  "I will not," said Laurana determinedly. "Would you have me
flee to safety while the rest of my people are forced to stay
behind? Bring my cloak."
  "Madam," Kelevandros dared to argue, "please--"
  "Fetch me my cloak," Laurana stated. Her tone was gentle but
firm, brooked no further debate.
  Kelevandros bowed silently.
  Kalindas went to fetch the cloak. Kelevandros returned with
Laurana to the front door, where Marshal Medan had remained
standing.
  Sighting her, he straightened. "Lauranalanthalas of the House
of Solostaran," he said formally, "you are under arrest. You will
surrender yourself peacefully to me as my prisoner."
  "Indeed?" Laurana was quite calm. "What is the charge? Or is
there a charge?" she asked. She turned so that Kalindas could
place the cloak about her shoulders.
The elf started to do so, but Medan took the cloak himself. The
marshal, his expression grave, settled the cloak around Laurana's
shoulders.
  "The charges are numerous, Madam. Harboring a human
sorcerer who is wanted by the Gray Robes, concealing your
knowledge of a valuable magical artifact, which the sorcerer
had in his possession when, by law, all magical artifacts located
in Qualinesti are to be handed over to the dragon. Aiding and
abetting the outlaw sorcerer in his escape from Qualinesti with
the artifact."
  "I see," said Laurana.
  "I tried to warn you, madam, but you would not heed me,"
Medan said.
  "Yes, you did try to warn me, marshal, and for that I am grate-
ful." Laurana fastened the cloak around her neck with a jeweled
pin. Her hands were steady, did not tremble. "And what is to be
done with me, Marshal Medan?"
  "My orders are to execute you, madam," said Medan. "lam to
send your head to the dragon."
Kalindas gasped. Kelevandros gave a hoarse shout and
lunged at Medan, grappling for his throat with his bare hands.
  "Stop, Kelevandros!" Laurana ordered, throwing herself be-
tween the elf and the marshal. "This will not help! Stop this
madness!"
  Kelevandros fell back, panting, glaring at Medan with hatred.
Kalindas took hold of his brother's arm, but Kelevandros angrily
shook him off.
  "Come, madam," said Marshal Medan. He offered Laurana
his arm. The torch smoked and sputtered. Orchids, hanging over
the door, shriveled in the heat.
  Laurana rested her hand on the marshal's arm. She looked
back at the two brothers, standing, white-faced with shadowed
eyes, watching her being led away to her death.
  Which one? she asked herself, sick at heart. Which one?

                           CHAPTER TWENTYNINE
                            PRISON OF AMBER

  The midsummer's morning dawned unusually cool in
Silvanesti.
  "A fine day for battle, gentlemen," said Mina to her as-
sembled officers.
  Galdar led the cheers, which shook the trees along the river-
bank, caused the leaves of the aspens to tremble.
  "So may our valor set the elves to trembling," said Captain
Samuval. "A great victory will be ours this day, Mina! We cannot
fail!"
  "On the contrary," said Mina coolly. "This day we will be de-
feated."
  Knights and officers stared at her blankly. They had seen her
perform miracle after miracle, until the miracles were now stacked
up one on top of the other like crockery in a neat housewife's cup-
board. The idea that these miracles were to now come spilling out
of the cupboard, come crashing down around their ears was a ca-
tastrophe not to be believed. So they did not believe it.
  "She's joking, " said Galdar, attempting to pass it off with a laugh.
  Mina shook her head. "We will lose the battle this day. An
army of a thousand elven warriors has come to test us. We are
outnumbered over two to one. We cannot win this battle."
  The Knights and officers looked at each other uneasily. They
looked at Mina grimly, doubtfully.
  "But though we lose the battle this day," Mina continued,
smiling slightly, her amber eyes lit from behind with an eerie
glow that made the faces captured in them glitter like tiny stars,
"this day we will win the war. But only if you obey me without
question. Only if you follow my orders exactly."
  The men grinned, relaxed. "We will, Mina," several shouted,
and the rest cheered.
  Mina was no longer smiling. The amber of her eyes flowed
over them, congealed around them, froze them where they stood.
"You will obey my orders, though you do not understand them.
You will obey my orders, though you do not like them. You will
swear this to me on your knees, swear by the Nameless God who
is witness to your oath and who will exact terrible revenge upon
the oath breaker. Do you so swear?"
  The Knights sank down on their knees in a semicircle around
her. Removing their swords, they held them by the blade, beneath
the hilt. They lifted their swords to Mina. Captain Samuval went
down on his knees, bowed his head. Galdar remained standing.
Mina turned her amber eyes on him.
  "On you, Galdar, more than on anyone else rests the outcome
of this battle. If you refuse to obey me, if you refuse to obey the
God who gave you back your warrior's arm, we are lost. All of us.
But you, most especially."
  "What is your command, Mina?" Galdar asked harshly. "Tell
me first, that I may know."
  "No, Galdar," she said gently. "You either trust me or you do
not. You put your faith in the God or you do not. Which will it be?"
  Slowly, Galdar knelt down upon his knees before her. Slowly
he drew his sword from its scabbard and slowly held it up as did
the others. He held it in the hand the God had returned to him.
  "I so swear, Mina!" he said.
  The rest spoke as one.
  "I so swear!"

  The battleground was a large field located on the banks of the
Thon- Thalas River. The elf soldiers trampled tender stalks of
wheat beneath their soft leather boots. The elf archers took their
places amid tall stands of green, tasseled com. General Konnal set
up his command tent in a peach orchard. The arms of a great
windmill turned endlessly, creaking in the wind that had a taste
of autumn's harvest in it.
  There would be a harvest on this field, a dread harvest, a har-
vest of young lives. When it was over, the water that ran at the
feet of the great windmill would run red.
  The field stood between the approaching enemy army and the
capital of Silvanost. The elves put themselves in harm's way, in-
tending to stop the army of darkness before it could reach the
heart of the elf kingdom. The Silvanesti were outraged, insulted,
infuriated. In hundreds of years, no enemy had set foot on this'
sacred land. The only enemy they had fought had been one of
their own making, the twisted dream of Lorac.
  Their wonderful magical shield had failed them. They did not
know how or why, but most of the elves were convinced that it
had been penetrated by an evil machination of the Knights of
Neraka.
  "To that end, General," Glaucous was saying, "the capture of
their leader is of the utmost importance. Bring this girl in for in-
terrogation. She will tell me how she managed to thwart the
shield's magic."
  "What makes you think she will tell you?" Konnal asked, an-
noyed at the wizard and his harping on this subject alone.
  "She may refuse, GeneraL" Glaucous assured him, "but she
will not have any choice in the matter. I will use the truth-seek
on her."
  The two were in the general's command tent. They had met
early that morning with the elf officers. Silvan had explained his
strategy. The officers had agreed that the tactics were sound.
Konnal had then dismissed them to deploy their men. The
enemy was reported to be about five miles away. According to
the scouts, the Knights of Neraka had halted to arm themselves
and put on their armor. They were obviously preparing for
battle.
  "I cannot spare the men who would be required to seize a
single office4 Glaucous," the general added, recording his orders
in a large book. "If the girl is captured in battle, fine. If not. . ."
He shrugged, continued writing.
"I will undertake her capture, General," Silvan offered.
  " Absolutely not, Your Majesty," Glaucous said hurriedly.
  "Give me a small detachment of mounted warriors," Silvan
urged, coming to stand before the general. "We will circle around
their flank, come in from behind. We will wait until the battle is
fairly joined and then we will drive through the lines in a wedge,
strike down her bodyguard, capture this commander of theirs
and carry her back to our lines."
  Konnallooked up from his work.
  "You said yourself, Glaucous, that discovering the means by
which these evil fiends came through the shield would be useful.
I think His Majesty's plan is sound."
  "His Majesty puts himself in too much danger," Glaucous
protested.
  "I will order members of my own bodyguard to ride with the
king," Konnal said. "No harm will come to him."
  "It had better not," Glaucous said softly.
  Ignoring his adviser, Konnal walked over to the map, stared
down at it. He laid his finger on a certain point. "My guess is
that the enemy commander will take up her position here, on
this rise. That is where you should look for her and her body-
guard. You can circle around the battle by riding through this
stand of trees, emerging at this point. You will be practically on
top of them. You will have the element of surprise, and you
should be able to strike before they are aware of you. Does Your
Majesty agree?"
  "The plan is an excellent one, General," said Silvan with
enthusiasm.
  He was to wear new armor, beautifully made, wonderfully
designed. The breastplate bore the pattern of a twelve-pointed
star, his helm was formed in the likeness of two swan's wjngs
done in shining steel. He carried a new sword, and he now knew
how to use one, having spent many hours each day since his ar-
rival in Silvanost studying with an expert elf swordsman, who
had been most complimentary on His Majesty's progress. Silvan
felt invincible. Victory would belong to the elves this day, and he
was determined to playa glorious part, a part that would be cel-
ebrated in story and song for generations to come~
  He left, ecstatic, to go prepare for battle. .
  Glaucous lingered behind. 
Konnal had returned to his work. Glaucous made no sound,
but Konnal sensed his presence, as one senses hungry eyes
watching one in a dark forest.
  "Begone. I have work to do."
  "I am going. I only want to emphasize what I said earlier. The
king must be kept safe."
  Konnal sighed, looked up. "If he comes to harm, it will not be
through me. I am not an ogre, to kill one of my own kind. I spoke
in haste yesterday, without thinking. I will give my guards orders
to watch over him as if he were my own son."
  "Excellent, General," said Glaucous with his beautiful smile.
  "I am much relieved. My hopes for this land and its people
depend on him. Silvanoshei Caladon must Jive to rule Silvanesti
for many years. As did his grandfather before him."

  "Are you certain you will not reconsider and ride with us,
Kiryn? This will be a battle celebrated for generations to
come!"
  Silvan fidgeted under the ministrations of his squire, who was
attempting to buckle the straps of the king's damascened armor
and having a difficult time of it. The leather was stiff and new, the
straps refused to ease into place. Silvan's constant shifting and
moving did not help matters.
  "If Your Majesty would please hold still!" the exasperated
squire begged.
  "Sorry," Silvan said and did as he was told, for a few seconds
at any rate. Then he turned his head to look at Kiryn, who sat on
a cot, watching the proceedings. "1 could lend you some armor. I
have another full suit."
  Kiryn shook his head. "My uncle has given me my assign-
ment. I am to carry dispatches and messages between the officers.
No armor for me. I must travel light."
  A trumpet call sounded, causing Silvan to give such a start of
excitement that he undid a good quarter of an hour's worth of
work. "The enemy is in-sight! Hurry, you oaf!"
  The squire sucked in a breath and held his tongue. Kiryn
added his assistance, and between the two of them the king was
readied for battle.
  "I would embrace you for luck, Cousin," said Kiryn, "but I
would be bruised for a week. I do wish you luck, though," he said
more seriously as he clasped Silvan's hand in his. "though I
hardly think you'll need it."
  Silvan was grave, solemn for a moment. "Battles are chancy
things, Samar used to say. One man's bravery may save the day.
One man's cowardice may spoil it. That is what I fear most,
Cousin. More than death. I fear that I will turn coward and flee
the field. I've seen it happen. I've seen good men, brave men fall
to their knees and tremble and weep like little children."
  "Your mother's courage flows in your veins along with your
father's fortitude:' Kiryn reassured him. "You will not fail their
memories. You will not fail your people. You will not fail yourself."
  Silvan drew in a deep breath of the flower-scented air, let it
out slowly. The sunshine was like warm honey spilling from the
sky. All around him were familiar sounds and smells, sounds of
battle and war, smells of leather and sweat sounds and smells he
had been born to, sounds and smells he had come to loathe but
which, oddly, he had also come to miss. His playground had been
a battlefield, a command tent his cradle. He was more at home
here, he realized, than he was in his fine castle.
Smiling ruefully, he walked out of his tent his armor of silver
and gold gleaming brightly, to be greeted by the enthusiastic
cheers of his people.

  The battle plans for both sides were simple. The elves formed
ranks across the field, with the archers in the rear. The army of the
Knights of Neraka extended their thinner lines among the trees of
the low hillside, hoping to tempt the elves into attacking rashly,
attacking up hill.
  Konnal was far too smart to fall for that. He was patient if his
troops were not and he kept fast hold of them. He had time, all
the time in the world. The army of the Knights of Neraka, run-
ning low on supplies, did not.
  Toward midafternoon, a single braying trumpet sounded
from the hills. The elves gripped their weapons. The army of
darkness came out of the hills on the run, shouting insults and de-
fiance to their foes. Arrows from both sides arced into the skies,
forming a canopy of death above the heads of the armies, who
came together with a resounding crash.
  When battle was joined, Silvan and his mounted escort
galloped into the woods on the west side of the battlefield. Their
small force screened by the trees, they rode around the flank of
their own army, crossed over enemy lines, and rode around the
enemy's flank. No one noticed them. No one shouted or called
out. Those fighting saw only the foe before them. Arriving at a
point near the edge of the field, Silvan called a halt, raising his
hand. He rode cautiously to the edge of the forest, taking the com-
mander of the general's guard with him. The two looked out
upon the field of battle.
  "Send out the scouting party," Silvan ordered. "Bring back
word the moment they have located the enemy commanders."
  The scouts proceeded ahead through the woods, edging
closer to the field of battle. Silvan waited, watching the progress
of the war.
  Combat was hand to hand. The archers on both sides were
now effectively useless, with the armies locked together in a
bloody embrace. At first, Silvan could make nothing of the con-
fusion he looked upon, but after watching several moments, it
seemed to him that the elf army was gaining ground.
  "A glorious victory already, Your Majesty," his commander
said in triumph. "The vermin are falling back!"
  "Yes, you are right," Silvan replied, and he frowned.
  "Your Majesty does not seem pleased. We are crushing the
human insects!"
  "So it would seem," said Silvan. "But if you look closely, Com-
mander, you will note that the enemy is not running in panic.
They are falling back, certainly, but their movements are calcu-
lated, disciplined. See how they hold their line? See how one man
steps in to take the place if another falls? Our troops, on the other
hand," he added with disgust, "have gone completely berserk!"
  The elves, seeing the enemy in retreat, had broken ranks and
were flailing at the enemy in a murderous rage, heedless of the
shouts and cries of their commanders. Competing trumpet calls
sounded over the screams of the wounded and dying, fighting
their own battle. Silvan noted that the Dark Knights listened
closely for their trumpet calls and responded immediately to the
brayed commands, while the maddened elves were deaf to all.
  "Still," Silvan said, "we cannot help but win, seeing that we
outnumber them so greatly. The only way could possibly lose
would be to turn our swords on ourselves. I will have a few
words with General Konnal on my return, however. Samar would
never permit such a lack of discipline."
  "Your Majesty!" One of the scouts returned, riding at a full
gallop. "We have located the officers!"
  Silvan turned his horse's head, rode after the scout. They had
advanced only a short way through the forest, before they met up
with another scout, who had been left to keep watch.
  He pointed. "There, Your Majesty. On that rise. They're easy
to see."
  So they were. A huge minotaur, the first Silvan had ever seen,
stood upon the rise. The minotaur wore the regalia of a Knight of
Neraka. A massive sword was buckled at his side. He was watch-
ing the progress of the battle intently. Twelve more Knights,
mounted on horses, were also observing the battle. Beside them
stood the standard-bearer, holding a flag that might have once
been white, but was now a dirty brownish red color, as if it had
been soaked in blood. An aide stood nearby, holding the reins of
a magnificent red horse.
  "Surely the minotaur is their commander," Silvan said. "We
were misinformed."
  "No, Your Majesty," the scout replied. "See there, behind the
minotaur. That is the commander, the one with the blood-red sash."
  Silvan could not see her, at first and then the minotaur
stepped to one side to confer with another of the Knights. Behind
him, a slight, delicate human female stood on a knoll, her gaze
fixed with rapt intensity upon the battle. She carried her helm be-
neath her arm. A morning star hung from a belt at her waist.
  "That is their commander?" Silvan said, amazed. "She does
not look old enough to be attending her first dance, much less
leading seasoned troops into battle."
  As if she had heard him, though that was impossible, for she
was a good forty yards distant, she turned her face toward him.
He felt himself suddenly exposed to her view, and he backed up
hurriedly, keeping to the deep shadows of the dense woods.
  She stared in his direction for long moments, and Silvan was
certain that they had been seen. He was about to order his men
forward, when she turned her head away. She said something to
the minotaur, apparently, for he left his conference and walked
over to her. Even from this distance, Silvan could see that the
minotaur regarded the girl with the utmost respect, even rever-
ence. He listened intently to her orders, looked over his shoulder
at the battle and nodded his homed head.
  He turned and, with a wave of his hand, summoned the
mounted Knights. With a roar, the minotaur ran forward toward
the rear of his own lines. The Knights galloped after him, with
what purpose Silvan could not tell. A countercharge, perhaps.
  "Now is our chance, Your Majesty!" said the commander ex-
citedly. "She stands alone."
  This was beyond all possible luck, so far beyond that Silvan
mistrusted his good fortune. He hesitated before ordering his
men forward, fearing a trap.
  "Your Majesty!" the commander urged. "What are you wait-
ing for?"
  Silvan looked and looked. He could see no troops lying in
ambush. The mounted Knights of the enemy were riding away
from their commander.
  Silvan spurred his horse and galloped forward, the other sol-
diers streaming behind him. They rode with the swiftness of an
arrow, with Silvan as the silver arrowhead, aiming straight at the
enemy's heart. They were halfway to their destination before
anyone was aware of them. The girl kept her gaze fixed on her
forces. It was her standard-bearer who spotted them. He cried out
and pointed. The red horse lifted its head, whinnied loud enough
to rival the trumpets.
  At the sound, the minotaur halted in his charge and turned
around.
  Silvan kept the minotaur in the comer of his eye as he rode,
dug his spurs into his horse's flank, urging more speed. The mad
race was exhilarating. A skilled rider, he outdistanced his body-
guard. He was not far from his objective now. She must have
heard the pounding hooves, but still she did not turn her head.
  A great and terrible roar sounded over the battlefield. A roar
of grief and rage and fury. A roar so horrible that the sound
caused Silvan's stomach to shrivel and brought beads of sweat to
his forehead. He looked to see the minotaur rushing for him, a
great sword raised to cleave him in twain. Silvan gritted his teeth
and pressed the horse forward. If he could lay his hands on the
girl, he would use her as both shield and hostage.
  The minotaur was extraordinarily fast. Though he was on foot
and Silvan was mounted, it seemed that the racing minotaur
must reach Silvan before Silvan's horse could reach the enemy
commander. Silvan looked from the minotaur to the girl. She had
still taken no notice of him. She seemed completely unaware of
her danger. Her gaze was fixed upon the minotaur.
  "Galdar," she called, her voice beautifully clear, oddly deep.
"Remember your oath."
  Her voice resounded over the cries and screams and clashing
steel. The call acted upon the minotaur like a spear to his heart.
He ceased his furious rush. He stared at her, his gaze pleading.
  She did not relent, or so it seemed. She shifted her gaze from
him to the heavens. The minotaur gave another howl of rage and
then plunged his sword into the ground, drove it into the corn-
field with such force that he buried it halfway to the hilt.
  Silvan galloped up the rise. At last the girl shifted her gaze
from the heavens. She turned her eyes full upon Silvan.
Amber eyes. Silvan had never seen the like. Her eyes did not
repel him but drew him forward. He rode toward her, and he
could see nothing but her eyes. It seemed he was riding into
them.
  She clasped her morning star, hefted it in her hand, and stood
waiting him fearlessly.
  Silvan dashed his horse up the small rise, came level with the
girl. She struck at him with the morning star, a blow he deflected
easily, kicking it aside with his foot. Another kick knocked the
morning star from her hand and sent her staggering backward.
She lost her balance, fell heavily to the ground. His guards sur-
rounded her. The guards killed her standard-bearer and made an
attempt to seize the horse, but the animal lashed out with its
hooves. Breaking free of the holder, the horse charged straight for
the rear lines, as if it would join the battle alone and riderless.
  The girl lay stunned on the ground. She was covered with
blood, but he could not tell if it was hers or that of her standard-
bearer, who lay decapitated by her side.
  Fearing she would be trampled, Silvan furiously ordered his
guards to keep back. He slid from his horse, ran to the girl and
lifted her in his arms. She moaned, her eyes fluttered. He
breathed again. She was alive.
  "I will take her, Your Majesty," offered his commander.
  Silvan would not give her up. He placed her on his saddle,
climbed up behind her. Clasping one arm around her tightly,
he took hold of the reins in the other. Her head rested against
his silver breastplate. He had never in his life seen any face so
delicate, so perfectly formed, so beautiful. He cradled her ten-
derly, anxiously.
  "Ride!" he ordered and he started for the woods, riding
swiftly, but not so swiftly that he risked jarring her.
  He rode past the minotaur, who was on his knees beside his
buried sword, his homed head bowed in grief.
  "What do you men think you are doing?" Silvan demanded.
Several of the elves were starting to ride in the minotaur's direc-
tion, their swords raised. "He is not a threat to us. Leave him."
  "He is a minotaur, Your Majesty. He is always a threat,"
protested the commander.
  "Would you kill him unarmed and unresisting?" Silvan de-
manded sternly.
  "He would have no compunction killing us, if the situation
was reversed," the commander replied grimly.
  "And so now we are reduced to the level of beasts," Silvan
said coldly. "I said leave him, Commander. We have achieved our
objective. Let us get out of here before we are overrun."
  Indeed, that seemed likely. The army of the Knights of Neraka
was falling back rapidly now. Their retreat was in good order,
they were keeping their lines intact. Silvan and his Knights gal-
loped from the field, Silvan bearing their prize proudly in his
arms.
  He reached the shadows of the trees. The girl stirred and
moaned again and opened her eyes.
  Silvan looked down into them, saw himself encased in amber.

  The girl was a docile captive, causing no trouble, accepting
her fate without complaint. When they arrived back in camp, she
refused Silvan's offers of assistance. Sliding gracefully from
Silvan's horse, she gave herself willingly into custody. The elves
clapped iron manacles on her wrists and ankles and marched her
into a tent that was furnished with nothing but a pallet of straw
and a blanket.
  Silvan followed her. He could not leave her.
  " Are you wounded? Shall I send the healers to you?"
  She shook her head. She had not spoken a word to him or to
anyone. She refused his offer of food and drink.
  He stood at the entrance to the prison tent, feeling helpless
and foolish in his regal armor. She, by contrast, blood-covered
and in chains, was calm and self-possessed. She sat down cross-
legged on her blanket, stared unblinking into the darkness. Silvan
left the tent with the uncomfortable feeling that he was the one
who had been taken prisoner.
  "Where is Glaucous?" Silvan demanded. "He wanted toques-
tion her."
  But no one could say what had become of Glaucous. He had
not been seen since the start of the battle;
  "Let me know when he comes to interrogate her," Silvan com-
manded and went to his tent to remove his armor. He held still
this time, still and unmoving, as his squire detached the buckles
and lifted the armor from him piece by piece.
  "Congratulations, Cousin!" Kiryn entered the tent, ducking
through the tent flap. "You are a hero! I will not need to write
your song, after all. Your people are already singing it!" He
waited for a laughing response, and when it did not come, he
looked at Silvan more closely. "Cousin? What is it? You don't look
well. Are you wounded?"
  "Did you see her, Kiryn?" Silvan asked. "Go away!" he
shouted irritably at his squire. "Get out. I can finish this myself."
  The squire bowed and left. Silvan sat down upon his cot, one
boot on and one boot off.
  "Did I see the prisoner? Only a glimpse," Kiryn said. "Why?"
  "What did you think of her?"
  "She is the first human I have ever seen, and I did not find her
as ugly as I had been led to believe. Still, I thought her extremely
strange. Bewitching. Uncanny." Kiryn grimaced. "And is it now
the custom among human females to shave their heads?"
  "What? Oh, no. Perhaps it is the custom of the Knights of
Neraka." Silvan sat with his boot in his hand, staring at the dark-
ness and seeing amber eyes. "I thought her beautiful. The most
beautiful woman I have ever seen."
  Kiryn sat down beside his cousin. "Silvan, she is the enemy.
Because of her, hundreds of our people lie dead or dying in that
blood-soaked field."
  "I know. I know!" Silvan cried, standing up. He tossed the
boot into the comer. Sitting down, he began to tug viciously on
the other. "She wouldn't say a word to me. She wouldn't tell me
her name. She just looked at me with those strange eyes."
"Your Majesty." An officer appeared at the entrance. "General
Konnal has asked me to relate to you the news. The day is ours.
We have won."
  Silvan made no response. He had ceased to tug on the boot,
was once again staring into the dark tent comer.
  Kiryn rose, went outside. "His Majesty is fatigued," he said.
"I'm certain he is overjoyed."
  "Then he's the only one," said the officer wryly.
  Victory belonged to the elves, but few in the elven camp that
night rejoiced. They had halted the enemy's advance, driven him
back, kept him from reaching Silvanost, but they had not de-
stroyed him. They counted thirty human bodies upon the field of
battle, not four hundred as they had anticipated. They laid the
blame to a strange fog that had arisen from the river, a dank, chilL
gray fog that hung low over the ground, a swirling, obfuscating
fog that hid foe from foe, comrade from comrade. In this fog, the
enemy had simply disappeared, vanished, as if the blood-soaked
ground had opened up and swallowed him.
  "Which is probably exactly what happened," said General
Konnal to his officers. "They had their escape arranged in ad-
vance. They retreated, and when the fog came, they ran to their
hideout. They are skulking about in the caves somewhere near
here."
  "To what purpose, General?" Silvan demanded impatiently.
  The king was feeling irritable and out of sorts, restless and
antsy. He left his tent that was suddenly cramped and confining,
came to confer with the officers. Silvan's courage had been
praised and lauded. He was undoubtedly the hero of the hour, as
even General Konnal admitted. Silvan cared nothing for their
praise. His gaze shifted constantly to the tent where the girl was
being held prisoner.
  "The humans have no food, no supplies," he continued, "and
no way of obtaining any. They are cut off, isolated. They know
that they can never take Silvanost now. Surely, if anything, they
will attempt to retreat back to the borders."
  "They know we would cut them down if they tried that,"
Konnal said. "Yet, you are right, Your Majesty, they cannot remain
in hiding forever. Sooner or later they must come out, and then
we will have them. I just wish I knew," he added, more to himself
than to anyone else, "what they are planning. For there was a
plan here as certain as I live and breathe."
  His officers offered various theories: The humans had panicked
and were now scattered to the four winds, the humans had de-
scended below ground in hopes of finding tunnels that would lead
them back north, and so on and so forth. Each theory had its op-
ponents, and the elves argued among themselves. Growing weary
of the debate, Silvan left abruptly, walked out into the night.
  "There is one person who knows," he said to himself, "and
she will tell me. She will talk to me!"
  He strode purposefully toward her tent, past the bonfires
where the elves sat disconsolately, reliving the battle. The soldiers
were bitter and chagrined at their failure to annihilate the de-
tested foe. They swore that when it was dawn they would search
beneath every rock until they found the cowardly humans, who
had run away to hide when it became clear defeat was imminent.
The elves vowed to slay them, every one.
  Silvan discovered that he wasn't the only one interested in the
prisoner. Glaucous stood at the entrance to her tent, being cleared
for admittance by the guard. Silvan was about to advance and
make himself known when he realized that Glaucous had not
seen him.
  Silvan was suddenly interested to hear what Glaucous would
ask her. He circled around to the rear of the prisoner's tent. The
night was dark. No guard stood back here. Silvan crept close to
the tent, being careful to make no sound. He quieted even his
breathing.
  A candle on the floor inside the tent flared, brought to life two
dark silhouettes-the girl's with her smooth head and long,
graceful neck and the elf, tall and straight, his white robes black
against the light. The two stared at each other unspeaking for
long moments and then, suddenly, Glaucous recoiled. He shrank
back away from her, though she had done nothing to him, had
not moved, had not raised her hand, had not said a word.
  "Who are you?" he demanded and his voice was awed.
  "I am called Mina," she replied.
  " And I am-"
  "No need to tell me," she said. "1 know your name."
  "How could you?" he asked, amazed. "You couldn't. You
have never seen me before."
  "But I know it," she replied calmly.
Glaucous had regained his self-possession. "Answer me one
thing, witch. How did you pass through my shield? By what
magic? What sorcery did you use?"
  "No magic," she said. "No sorcery. The Hand of the God
reached down and the shield was lifted."
  "What hand?" Glaucous was angry, thinking she mocked
him. "What god? There are no gods! Not anymore!"
  "There is One God," Mina stated.
  "And what is the name of this god?"
  "The God has no name. The God needs no name. The God is
the One God, the True God, the Only God."
  "Lies! You will tell me what 1 want to know." Glaucous lifted
his hand.
  Silvanoshei expected Glaucous to use the truth-seek, as had
been done to him.
  "You feel your throat start to close," said Glaucous. "You gasp
for air and find none. You begin to suffocate."
  "This is not the truth-seek," Silvan said to himself. "What is he
doing?"
  "Your lungs burn and seem about to burst," Glaucous contin-
ued. "The magic tightens, tightens all the while until you lose
consciousness. 1 will end the torment, when you agree to tell me
the truth."
  He began to chant strange words, words that Silvan did not
understand, but which he guessed must be words to a magical
spell. Alarmed for Mina's safety, Silvan was ready to rush to her
rescue, to tear the fabric of the tent with his bare hands if need be
to reach her.
  Mina sat calmly on the cot. She did not gasp. She did not
choke. She continued to breathe normally.
  Glaucous ceased his chant. He stared at her in amazement.
"You thwart me! How?"
  "Your magic has no effect on me," Mina said, shrugging. The
chains that bound her rang like silver bells. She looked up at him.
"1 know you. 1 know the truth."
  Glaucous regarded her in silence, and though Silvan could see
only Glaucous's silhouette, he could tell that the elf was emaged
and, also, that he was afraid.
  Glaucous left the tent abruptly.
  Troubled, fascinated, Silvan came around to the front of the
tent. He waited in the darkness until he saw Glaucous enter Gen-
eral Konnal's tent, then approached the guard.
  "I will speak with the prisoner," he said.
  "Yes, Your Majesty." The guard bowed, started to accompany
the king.
  "Alone," Silvan said. "You have leave to go."
The guard did not move.
  "I am in no danger. She is chained and manacled! Go fetch
yourself some dinner. I will take over your watch."
  "Your Majesty, I have my orders-"
  "I countermand them!" Silvan said angrily, thinking he was
cutting a very poor figure in the sight of those amber eyes. "Go
and take the fellow of your watch with you."
  The guard hesitated a moment longer, but his king had
spoken. He dared not disobey. He and his companion walked off
toward the cooking fires. Silvan entered the tent. He stood look-
ing at the prisoner, stood inside the amber of her eyes, warm and
liquid around him.
  "I want to know. . . if. . . if they are treating you well. . . ."
What a stupid thing to say! Silvan thought, even as the words
fumbled their way out of his mouth.
  "Thank you, Silvanoshei Caladon," the girl said. "I need noth-
ing. I am in the care of my God."
  "You know who I am?" Silvan asked.
  "Of course, you are Silvanoshei, son of Alhana Starbreeze,
daughter of Lorac Caladon and of Porthios of the House of
Solostaran."
  "And you are. . . ?"
  "Mina."
  "Just Mina?"
  She shrugged and when she shrugged, the chains on her man-
acles chimed. "Just Mina."
  The amber began to congeal around Silvan. He felt short of
breath, as if he were the one to fall victim to Glaucous's suffocat-
ing spell. He came closer to her, knelt on one knee before her to
bring those lovely eyes level with lUs own.
  "You mention your god. I would ask you a question. If the
Knights of Neraka follow this god, then I must assume that this
god is evil. Why does someone so young and so beautiful walk
the ways of darkness?"
Mina smiled at him, the kind and pitying smile one bestows
upon the blind or the feebleminded.
  "There is no good, there is no evil. There is no light, there is no
darkness. There is only one. One truth. All the rest is falsehood."
  "But this god must be evil," Silvan argued. "Otherwise why
attack our nation? We are peace-loving. We have done nothing to
provoke this war. Yet now my people lie dead at the hands of
their enemy."
  "I do not come to conquer," Mina said. "I come to free you, to
save you and your people. If some die, it is only that countless
others may live. The dead understand their sacrifice."
  "Perhaps they do," said Silvan with a wry shake of his head.
"I confess that I do not. How could you-a human, single and
alone-save the elven nation?"
  Mina sat quite still for long moments, so still that her chains
made no sound. Her amber eyes left him, shifted to stare into the
candle's flame. He was content to sit and gaze at her. He could
have been content to sit at her feet and gaze at her all night, per-
haps all his life. He had never seen a human woman with such
delicate features, such fine bone structure, such smooth skin.
Every movement was graceful and fluid. He found his eyes
drawn to her shaved head. The shape of the skull was perfect, the
skin smooth with a faint shimmering red down upon it, which
must be like feathery down to touch. . .
  "I am permitted to tell you a secret, Silvanoshei," said Mina.
  Silvan, lost in her, started at the sound of her voice. "Who
gives you this permission?"
  "You must swear that you will tell no one else."
  "I swear," said Silvan.
  "Truly swear," said Mina.
  "I swear," Silvan said slowly, "on my mother's grave."
  "An oath I cannot accept," Mina returned. "Your mother is not
dead."
  "What?" Silvan sank back, amazed. "What are you saying?"
  "Your mother lives, and so does your father. The ogres did
not kill your mother or her followers, as you feared. They were
rescued by the Legion of Steel. But your parents' story is ended,
they are in the past. Your story is just begun, Silvanoshei
Caladon."
  Mina reached out her hand, the chains ringing like altar bells.
She touched Silvan's cheek. Exerting a gentle pressure, she drew
him near. "Swear to me by the One True God that you will not
reveal what I am about to tell you to anyone."
  "But I don't believe in this god," Silvan faltered. Her touch
was like the lightning bolt that had struck so near him, raised the
hair on his neck and arms, sent prickles of desire through his
bloodstream.
  "The One God believes in you, Silvanoshei," Mina told him.
"That is all that matters. The One God will accept your oath."
  "I swear, then, by the . . . One God." He felt uncomfortable,
saying the word, felt uncomfortable swearing the vow. He did not
believe, not at all, but he had the strange and uneasy impression
that his vow had been recorded by some immortal hand and that
he would be held to it.
  "How did you enter the shield?" Mina asked.
  "Glaucous raised the shield so that I could-" Silvan began,
but he stopped when he saw her smile. "What? Did this God lift
it for me, as you told Glaucous?"
  "I told him what he wanted to hear. In effect, you did not
enter the shield. The shield captured you while you were
helpless."
  "Yes, I see what you are saying." Silvan remembered back to
the night of the storm. "I was unconscious. I collapsed on one
side of the Shield and when I woke, I was on the other. I did not
move. The shield moved to cover me! Of course, that is the
explanation!"
  "The shield will stand firm against an attack, but it will try to
apprehend the helpless, or so I was given to know. My soldiers
and I slept and while we slept, the shield moved over us."
  "But if the shield protects the elves," Silvan argued. "How
could it admit our enemies?"
  "The shield does not protect you," Mina replied. "The Shield
keeps out those who would help you. In truth, the shield is your
prison. Not only your prison, it is also your executioner."
  Silvan drew back, away from her touch. Her nearness con-
fused him, made thinking difficult. "What do you mean?"
  "Your people are dying of a wasting sickness," she said.
"Every day, many more succumb. Some believe the shield is caus-
ing this illness. They are partly right. What they do not know is
that the lives of the elves are being drained to provide energy to
the shield. The lives of your people keep the shield in place. The
shield is now a prison. Soon it will be your tomb."
  Silvan sank back on his heels. "I don't believe you."
  "I have proo£" Mina said. "What I speak is true. I swear by
my God."
  "Then give your proof to me," Silvan urged. "Let me consider
it."
  "I will tell you, Silvanoshei, and gladly. My God sent me here
with that purpose. Glaucous-"
  "Your Majesty," said a stem voice outside the tent.
  Silvan cursed softly, turned swiftly.
  "Remember, not a word!" Mina warned.
  His hand trembling, Silvan opened the tent flap to see General
Konnal, flanked by the two guards.
  "Your Majesty," General Konnal repeated and his voice held a
patronizing tone that grated on Silvan, "not even a king may dis-
miss those who guard such an important and dangerous prisoner.
Your Majesty places himself in peril, and that cannot be allowed.
Take up your positions," the general ordered.
  The elf guard moved to stand in front of the prison tent.
  Words of explanation clustered thick on Silvan's tongue, but
he couldn't articulate any of them. He might have said that he
was there to interrogate the prisoner about the shield, but that
was coming too close to her secret, and he feared he could not
mention one without revealing the other.
  "I will escort Your Majesty back to his tent," said Konnal.
"Even heroes must sleep."
  Silvan maintained a silence that he hoped was the silence of
injured dignity and misunderstood intentions. He fell into step
beside the generaL walked past campfires that were being al-
lowed to die down. Those elves not out on patroL searching for
the humans, had wrapped themselves in their blankets and were
already asleep. Elf healers tended to the wounded, made them
.. comfortable. The camp was quiet and still.
  "Good night, General," said Silvan coldly. "1 give you joy on
your victory this day." He started to enter his tent.
  "I advise Your Majesty to go straight to bed," the General said.
"You will need to be rested for tomorrow. To preside over the
execution."
  "What?" Silvan gasped. He caught hold of the tent post to
steady himself. "What execution? Whose?"
  "Tomorrow at noon, when the glorious sun stands high in the
sky to serve as our witness, we will execute the human," said
Konnal. He did not look at the king as he spoke, but stared
straight into the night. "Glaucous has recommended it, and in
this I agree with him."
  "Glaucous!" Silvan repeated.
  He remembered Glaucous in the tent, remembered the fear he
had sensed in him. Mina had been about to tell Silvan something
about Glaucous before they had been interrupted.
  "You cannot kill her!" Silvan said firmly. "You will not. I
forbid it."
  "I am afraid that Your Majesty has no say in this matter," said
Konnal. "The Heads of House have been apprised of the situa-
tion. They have voted, and their vote is unanimous."
  "How will she be killed?" Silvan asked.
  Konnallaid a kindly hand on the king's shoulder. "I know this
is an onerous task, Your Majesty. You don't need to remain to
watch. Just step out and say a few words, and then retire to your
tent. No one will think the worse of you."
  "Answer me, damn you!" Silvan cried, striking the man's
hand away.
  Konnal's face froze. "The human is to be taken to the field that
is drenched in the blood of our people. She is to be tied to a stake.
Seven of our best archers will be chosen. When the sun is directly
overhead, when the human no longer casts a shadow, the archers
will fire seven arrows into her body."
  Silvan could not see the general for the blinding white rage
that filled his being. He clenched his fist, dug his nails into his
flesh. The pain helped him steady his voice. "Why does Glaucous
say she must die?"
  "His reasoning is sound. So long as she lives, the humans will
remain in the area, hoping to rescue her. With her execution, they
will lose all hope. They will be demoralized. Easier to locate,
easier to destroy."
  Silvan felt his gorge rise. He feared he would be sick, but
he struggled to make one last argument. "We elves revere life.
We do not by law take the life of any elf, no matter how terri-
ble his or her crime. Elf assassins exist, but only outside the
law."
"We do not take the life of an el£" Konnal answered. "We take
the life of a human. Goodnight Your Majesty. I will send a mes-
senger to you before dawn."
  Silvan entered his tent and shut the flap behind him. His ser-
vants awaited him.
  "Leave me," Silvan ordered irritably, and the servants hur-
riedly departed.
  Silvan threw himself on his bed, but he was up almost imme-
diately. He flung himself into a chair and stared moodily into the
darkness. He could not let this girl die. He loved her. Adored her.
He had loved her from the moment he had seen her standing
courageously, fearlessly, among her soldiers. He had stepped off
the precipice of sanity and plummeted down on love's sharp
rocks. They tore and mangled him. He gloried in the pain and
wanted more.
  A plan formed in his mind. What he was doing was wrong.
He might well be placing his people in danger, but-he ar-
gued-what they were doing was wrong, and their wrong was
greater than his. He was, in a way, saving them from themselves.
  Silvan gave the general time to return to his tent, then
wrapped himself in a dark cloak. He thrust a long, sharp knife
into his boot. Peering out of the tent flap, he looked to see that no
one was about. He left his tent sneaked through the slumbering
camp with quiet tread.
  Two guards, alert and watchfuL stood outside Mina's tent.
Silvan did not go near them. He circled to the back of the tent
where he had hidden to eavesdrop on Glaucous. Silvan looked
carefully around. The woods were only a few paces away. They
could reach them easily. They would find a cave. He would hide
her there in safety, come to visit her in the night bring her food,
water, his love. . .
  Removing the knife, Silvan placed its sharp point against
the fabric of the tent and, working carefully and silently, cut a
slit near the bottom. He crawled through the slit and inside the
tent.
  The candle still burned. Silvan was careful to keep his body
from passing in front of it afraid that the guards would see his
shadow.
  Mina had fallen asleep on her straw pallet. She slept on her
side, her legs drawn up, her hands-still chained-curled up
against her breast. She looked very fragile. Her slumbers were
seemingly dreamless, and peaceful. Her breath came and went
easily through her nose and her parted lips.
  Silvan clapped his hand over her mouth to prevent any star-
tled exclamation. "Mina!" he whispered urgently. "Mina."
  Her eyes opened. She made no sound. The amber eyes gazed
up at him, aware of him, cognizant of her surroundings.
  "Don't be afraid," he said and realized as he said it that this
girl had never known fear. She did not know fear now. "I've come
to free you." He tried to speak calmly, but his voice and his hands
trembled. "We can escape out the back of the tent into the woods.
We have to get these manacles off."
  He moved his hand away. "Call the guard. He has the key. Tell
him you're ill. I'll wait in the shadows and-"
  Mina put her fingers on his lips, stopped his words. "No," she
said. "Thank you, but I will not leave."
  "What was that?" one of the guards asked his fellow. "Did
you hear something?"
  "It came from inside the tent."
  Silvan lifted his knife. Mina laid a restraining hand on his
arm. She began to sing.

		Sleep, love; forever sleep.
		Your soul the night will keep.
		Embrace the darkness deep.
		Sleep, love; forever sleep.

  The voices of the guards ceased.
  "There," she said to Silvan. "The guards are asleep. We may
talk without fear."
  "Asleep. . ." Silvan lifted the tent flap. The guards remained
standing at their posts, their heads bowed, their chins resting on
their chests. Their eyes were closed.
  "Are you a sorceress?" he asked, coming back to her.
  "No, I am only a faithful follower," Mina replied. "The gifts I
have are from my God."
  "May your God keep you safe. Hurry, Mina! Out this way. We
will find a path not far from here. The path runs through. . ."
Silvan halted. 
  She was shaking her head.
"Mina," he said desperately, "we must escape! They're going
to execute you at noon this very day. With the rising of the sun.
Glaucous has convinced them. He fears you, Mina."
  "He has good reason to fear me," she said sternly.
  "Why, Mina?" Silvan asked. "You were going to tell me some-
thing about him. What is it?"
  "Only that he is not what he appears and that by his magic,
your people are dying. Tell me this "-she put her hand upon his
cheek-"is it your desire to punish Glaucous? Reveal his inten-
tions to your people and thereby reveal his murderous plan?"
  "Yes, of course, but what-"
  "Then do as I instruct you," Mina said. "Do exactly as I say.
My life is in your keeping. If you fail me-"
  "I will not fail you, Mina," Silvan whispered. Seizing her
hand, he pressed it to his lips. "I am yours to command."
  "You will attend my execution- Hush! Say nothing. You
promised. Make certain that you are armed. Position yourself at
Glaucous's side. Keep a large number of your bodyguards
around you. Will you do that?"
  "Yes, but what then? Must I watch you die?"
  "You will know what to do and when to do it. Rest assured.
The One God is with us. You must go now, Silvan. The general
will send someone to your tent to check on you. He must not find
you absent."
  To leave her was to leave a part of himself. Silvan reached out
his hand, ran his fingers over her head, felt the warmth of her
skin, the sofu1ess of the downlike hai4 the hardness of the bone
beneath. She held perfectly still under his touch, did not warm to
him, but did not move away from him either.
  "What did your hair look like, Mina?" he asked.
  "It was the color of flame, long and' thick. The strands would
curl around your finger and tug at your heart like a baby's
hand."
  "Your hair must have been beautiful," Silvan said. "Did you
lose it in a fever?"
  "I cut it," she told him. "I took a knife and I cut it off at the
roots."
  "Why?" He was aghast.
  "My God required it of me. I cared too much for my looks,"
Mina replied. "I liked to be petted, admired, loved. My hair was
my vanity, my pride. I sacrificed it to prove my faith. I have only
one love, now. Only one loyalty. You must leave me now, Silvan."
  Silvan stood up. Reluctantly, he moved to the back of the tent.
  "You are my one love, Mina," he said softly.
  "It is not me that you love," she said to him. lIlt is the God in
me."
  Silvan did not remember leaving her tent, but he found him-
self standing outside in the darkness.

                      CHAPTER THIRTY
                      TO YOUR HEALTH

  Night settled over the battlefield of Silvanesti, shrouding the
bodies of the dead that were being ceremoniously pre-
pared for burial. The same night wrapped like a winding
cloth around the elven capital of Qualinost.
  The night had a feel of doom about it, or so Gerard thought.
He walked the streets of the elven capital with his hand on the
hilt of his sword, his watchful gaze looking for the glint of steel in
every shadowed corner, every dark doorway. He crossed the
street to avoid passing in front of an alley. He scrutinized every
second story window curtain to see if it fluttered, as it might if an
archer stood behind it, ready with an assassin's arrow.
  He was conscious, always, of eyes watching him, and once he
felt so threatened that he whipped around, sword drawn, to
defend against a knife in the back. He saw nothing, however, but
he was certain someone had been there, someone who had per-
haps been daunted by the Knight's heavy battle armor and his
shining sword.
  Gerard could not even breath a sigh of relief when he reached
safely the Headquarters of the Knights of Neraka. Danger was no
longer sneaking stealthily behind him. Danger was front and
center.
  He entered the headquarters to find a single officer on duty,
the draconian asleep the floor.
  "Here's the answer for Beryl from Marshal Medan," said
Gerard, saluting.
  "About time!" The officer grunted. "You can't believe how
loudly that thing snores!"
  Gerard walked over to the draconian, who was twitching in
his sleep and making strange, guttural sounds.
  "Groul," Gerard said and reached out a hand to shake the
slumbering draconian.
  A hiss, a snarl, a flapping of wings and scrabbling of feet.
Clawed hands grappled for Gerard's throat.
  "Hey!" Gerard yelled, fending off the draconian's attack.
"Calm down, will you?"
  Groul glared at him with squint lizard eyes. His tongue
flicked. Lowering his hand from Gerard's neck, the draconian
drew back. "Sorry," he muttered. "You startled me."
  The marks of Groul's claws stung and burned on Gerard's
skin. "My fault," he said stiffly. "I shouldn't have wakened you so
suddenly." He held out the scroll case. "Here is the marshal's
answer."
  Groul took it, eyed it to make certain the seal was intact. Sat-
isfied, he thrust it into the belt of his harness, turned and, with a
grunt, headed for the door. The creature wasn't wearing armor,
Gerard noted, thinking glumly to himself that the draco didn't
need to wear armor. The thick, scaly hide was protection enough.
  Gerard drew in a deep breath, sighed it out, and followed the
draconian.
  Groul turned. "What are you doing, Nerakan?"
  "You are in a hostile land after nightfall. My orders are to ac-
company you safely to the border," Gerard said.
  "You are going to protect me?" Groul gave a gurgle that might
have been a laugh. "Bah! Go back to your soft bed, Nerakan. I am
in no danger. I know how to deal with elf scum."
  "I have my orders," said Gerard stubbornly. "If anything hap-
pened to you, the marshal would do the same to me."
  Groul's lizard eyes glittered in anger.
  "I have something with me that might shorten the journey for
both of us," Gerard added. Drawing aside his cloak, he revealed -
a flask he wore on his hip. ,
  The glitter of anger brightened to a gleam of desire, a gleam
swiftly hooded.
  "What is in the flask, Nerakan?" Groul asked, his tongue dart-
ing out between his sharp teeth.
  "Dwarf spirits," said Gerard. "A gift from the marshal. He
asks that once we are safe across the border, we join him in drink-
ing to the downfall of the elves."
  Groul made no more protest about Gerard's accompanying him.
The two trudged off through the silent streets of Qualinost. Again,
Gerard felt eyes watching them, but no one attacked. Gerard was
not surprised. The draconian was a fearsome opponent.
  Reaching the wilderness, the draconian followed one of the
main trails leading into the woods. Then, with a suddenness that
took Gerard by surprise, Groul plunged into the forest, taking a
route known only to the draconian, or so Gerard guessed. The
draconian had excellent night vision, to judge by the rapidit;y
with which he moved through the tangled forest. The moon Was
waning, but the stars provided light, as did the glow of the lights
of Qualinost. The forest floor was a mass of brush and vines.
Weighed down by his heavy armor, Gerard found the going hard.
He had no need to feign fatigue when he called out for the dra-
conian to halt.
  "No need to kill ourselves," Gerard said, panting. "How
about a moment's rest?"
  "Humans!" Groul sneered. He was not even breathing hard,
but he came to a halt, looked back at the Knight. To be more pre-
cise, the draconian looked at the flask. "Still, this walking is
thirsty work. I could use a drink."
  Gerard hesitated. "My orders-"
  "To the Abyss with your orders!" Groul snarled.
  "I don't suppose one little nip would hurt," Gerard said and
removed the flask. He drew the cork, sniffed. The pungent, dark
and musky odor of dwarf spirits burned his nostrils. Snorting, he
held the flask at arm's length. "A good year," he said, his eyes
tearing.
  The draconian snatched the flask and brought it to his mouth.
He took a long drink, then lowered the flask with a satisfied sigh.
"Very good," he said in husky tones and burped.
"To your health," Gerard said and put the flask to his mouth.
Keeping his tongue pressed against the opening, he pretended to
swallow. "There," he said with seeming reluctance, putting the
cork back in the flask, "that's enough. We should be on our way."
  "Not so fast!" Groul seized the flask, drew out the cork and
tossed it away. "Sit down, Nerakan."
  "But your mission-"
  "Beryl isn't going anywhere," Groul said, settling himself
against the bole of a tree. "Whether she gets this message tomor-
row or a year from tomorrow won't make any difference. Her
plans for the elves are already in motion."
  Gerard's heart lurched. "What do you mean?" he asked,
trying to sound casual. He settled down beside the draconian and
reached for the flask.
  Groul handed it over with obvious reluctance. He kept his
gaze fixed on Gerard, grudging every drop the Knight suppos-
edly drank, and snatched it back the moment Gerard lowered it
from his lips.
  The liquid gurgled down the draconian's throat. Gerard was
alarmed by how much the creature could drink, wondered if one
flask would be enough.
  Groul sighed, belched and wiped his mouth with the back of
a clawed hand.
  "You were telling me about Beryl," Gerard said.
  "Ah, yes!" Groul held the flask to the moonlight. "Here's to
my lady dragon, the lovely Beryl. And to the death of the elves."
  He drank. Gerard pretended to drink.
  "Yes," said Gerard. "The marshal told me. She has given the
elves six days-"
  "Ha, ha! Six days!" Groul's laugh bubbled in his throat.
"The elves do not have six minutes! Beryl's army is probably
crossing the border as we speak! It is a huge army, the largest
seen on Ansalon since the Chaos War. Draconians, goblins, hob-
goblins, ogres, human conscripts. We attack Qualinost from
without. You Neraka Knights attack the elves from within. The
Qualinesti are caught between fire and water with nowhere to
run. At last, I will see the day dawn when not one of the pointy-
eared scum are left alive."
  Gerard's stomach twisted. Beryl's army crossing the border!
Perhaps within a day's march on Qualinost!
"Will Beryl herself come to ensure her victory?" he asked,
hoping that the catch in his throat would be mistaken for an af-
tereffect of the fiery liquor.
  "No, no." Groul chuckled. "She leaves the elves to us. Beryl is
flying off to Schallsea, to destroy the so-called Citadel of Light.
And to capture some wretched mage. Here, Nerakan, stop hog-
ging that flask!"
  Groul grabbed the flask, slid his tongue over the rim.
 Gerard's hand closed over the hilt of his knife. Slowly, quietly,
he drew it from its sheath on his belt. He waited until Groul had
lifted the flask one more time. The flask was almost empty. The
draconian tilted back his head to retrieve every last drop.
  Gerard struck, driving his knife with all his strength into the
draconian's ribs, hoping to hit the heart.
  He would have hit the heart on a human, but apparently a
draconian's heart was in a different place. Either that or the crea-
tures didn't possess hearts, which would not have surprised
Gerard.
  Realizing that his blow had not killed, Gerard yanked free the
bloody knife. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword in the
same motion.
  Groul was injured but not critically. His grunt of pain rising to
a howl of rage, he jumped up out of the brush, roaring in fury, his
clawed hand grappling for his sword. The draconian attacked
with a hacking blow, meant to split open his opponent's head.
  Gerard parried the blow and managed to knock the sword
from Groul's hand. The weapon fell into the brush at Gerard's
feet. Frantically, he kicked it away as Groul sought to recover it.
Gerard drove his booted foot into Groul's chin, knocking him
back, but not felling him.
  Drawing a curved-bladed dagger, Groulleaped into the air,
using his wings to lift him well above Gerard. Slashing with his
dagger, Groullaunched himself bodily at the Knight.
  The draconian's weight and the force of his blow drove
Gerard to the ground. He fell heavily, landing on his back, with
Groul on top, slavering and snarling and trying to stab Gerard
with the dagger. The draconian's wings beat frantically, flapping
in Gerard's face, stirring up dust that stung Gerard's eyes. He
fought in panicked desperation, striking at Groul with his knife
while trying to seize hold of the draconian's dagger.
The two rolled in the dust. Gerard felt his dagger hit home
more than once. He was covered with blood, but whether the
blood was his or Groul's, he could not tell. Still, Groul would not
die, and Gerard's strength was giving out. Fear-pumped adrena-
line was all that was keeping him going, and that was starting to
recede.
  Suddenly Groul choked, gagged. Blood spewed from the dra-
conian, splashed over Gerard' s fac~, blinding him. Groul stiffened,
snarled in fury. He raised himself up off Gerard, lifted his dagger.
The blade fell- from the draconian's hand. Groul fell back onto
Gerard, but this time, the draconian did not move. He was dead.
  Gerard paused to draw a shuddering breath of relief, a pause
that was his undoing. Too late, he remembered Medan's warning.
A dead draconian is just as dangerous as a draconian living.
Before Gerard could heave the carcass off him, the body of the
Baaz draconian had changed into solid stone. Gerard felt as if he
had the weight of a tomb on top of him. The stone carcass pressed
him into the ground. He could not breathe. He was slowly suffo-
cating. He fought to heave it off him, but it was too heavy. He
drew in a ragged breath, planning to exert every last ounce of
energy.
  The stone statue crumbled to dust.
  Gerard staggered to his feet, sank back against a tree. He
wiped Groul's blood from his eyes, spit and retched until he had
cleared it out of his mouth. He rested a few moments, waiting for
his heart to quit trying to beat its way out from beneath his armor,
waited until the battle rage had cleared from his eyes. When he
could see, he fumbled at the draconian's harness, found the scroll
case, and retrieved it.
  Gerard took one last look at the heap of dust that had been
Groul. Then, still spitting, still trying to rid himself of the foul
taste in his mouth, the Knight turned and wearily made his way
back through the darkness, back toward the flickering lights of
Qualinost. Lights that were just starting to pale with the comiI)g
of dawn.

  Sunshine streamed in through the crystal windows of the
Palace of the Speaker of the Sun. Gilthas sat bathed in the sun-
light, absorbed in his work. He was writing another poem, this
one about his father's adventures during the War 'of the Lance, a
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
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
gnome. "Because I think I'm losing all the feeling in my left foot.
  "Hold still!" Conundrum ordered. "Don't move. I've almost
got it. Drat this wind," he added irritably. "I wish it would stop.
It keeps blowing away my map."
  Tasslehoff endeavored to do as he was ordered, although not
moving was extremely difficult. He stood on the path in the
middle of the hedge maze, balanced precariously on his left foot.
He held his right leg hoisted in a most uncomfortable position in
the air, his foot attached to a branch of the hedge maze by the en
of the thread of the unraveled right stocking. The stocking was
considerably reduced in size, its cream-colored thread trailing
along the path through the hedge maze.
  The gnome's plan to use the socks had proved a brilliant suc-
cess, though Conundrum sighed inwardly over the fact that the
means by which he was going to finally succeed in mapping the
hedge maze lacked the buttons, the gears, the pulleys, the spindles
and the wheels, which are such a comfort to the scientific mind.
To have to describe the wondrous mechanism by which he
had achieved his Life Quest as "two socks, wool" was a terrible
blow. He had spent the night trying to think of some way to add
steam power, with the result that he developed plans for snow-
shoes that not only went extremely fast but kept the feet warm as
well. But that did nothing to advance his Life Quest.
  At length Conundrum was forced to proceed with the simple
plan he'd originally developed. He could always, he reflected,
embellish the proceedings during the final report. They began
early in the morning, up before the dawn. Conundrum posted
Tasslehoff at the entry of the hedge maze, tied one end of the
kender's sock to a branch, and marched Tasslehoff forward. The
sock unraveled nicely, leaving a cream-colored track behind.
  Whenever Tasslehoff took a wrong turn and came to a dead end,
he reversed direction, rolling up the thread, and proceeded down
the path until he came to the right turn in the path, which was
leading them deeper into the middle of the hedge maze.
Whenever they struck a correct turning, Conundrum would
fall flat on his belly and mark the route on his map. By this means,
he advanced farther than he'd ever been able to go. So long as
Tasslehoff's supply of hosiery held out, the gnome felt certain
that he would have the entire hedge maze well and truly mapped
by day's end.
  As for Tasslehoff, he was not feeling quite as cheery and
pleased as one might expect for someone who was on the verge
of wondrous scientific breakthrough. Every time he put his hand
in a pocket he felt the prickly jewels and the cold, hard surface of
the Device of Time Journeying. He more than half suspected the
device of deliberately making a nuisance of itself by turning up in
places and pockets where he knew for a fact it had not been ten
minutes earlier. No matter where he put his hands, the Device
was jabbing him or poking him.
  Every time the device jabbed him or poked him, it was like
Fizban's bony finger jabbing him or poking him, reminding him
of his promise to come right back.
  Of course, kender have traditionally considered promises to
be about as binding as a silken strand of gossamer-good for
holding butterflies, but not much more. Normally anyone relying
on a kender's promise would be considered loony, unstable, in-
competent and just plain daft, all of which descriptions fit Fizban
to a tee. Tasslehoff would not have worried at all about breaking
a promise he had really never intended to keep in the first place
and that he had assumed Fizban knew he never meant to keep,
but for what Palin had said about his-Tasslehoff's-funeral.
  That funeral speech seemed to indicate that Fizban expected
Tasslehoff to keep his promise. Fizban expected it because Tas
was not an ordinary kender. He was a brave kender, a courageous
kender, and-that dreadful word-an honorable kender.
  Tasslehoff looked honor up and he looked it down. He
looked it inside out and sideways, and there were just no two
ways about it. Honorable people kept promises. Even promises
that were terrible promises, promises that meant one had to go
back in time to be stepped on by a giant and squashed flat and
killed dead.
  "Right! That's got it!" said the gnome briskly. "You can put
your foot down. Now, just hop along around that comer. To your
right. No, left. No, right. . ."
  Tasslehoff hopped, feeling the sock unravel from around his
leg. Rounding the comer, he came upon a staircase. A spiral stair-
case. A spiral staircase made all of silver. A silver spiral staircase
in the middle of the hedge maze.
  "We've done it!" The gnome shouted ecstatically.
  "We have?" asked Tasslehoff, staring at the stair. "What have
we done?"
  "We've reached the very center of the hedge maze!" The
gnome was capering about, flinging ink to the four winds.
  "How beautiful!" said Tasslehoff and walked toward the
silver stair.
  "Stop! You're unraveling too fast!" the gnome cried. "We still,
have to map the exit."
  At that moment, Tasslehoff's sock gave out. He barely no-
ticed, he was so interested in the staircase. The stair seemed to
rise up out of nothing. The stair had no supports, but hung sus-
pended in the air, shining and fluid as quicksilver. The stair
turned round and round upon itself, leading ever upward. Arriv-
ing at the bottom, he looked up to see the top.
  He looked up and up and all he saw was sky, blue sky that
seemed to go on and on like a bright and lovely summer's day,
which is so bright and so lovely that you never want the day to
end. You want it to go on and on forever. Yet you know, the sky
seemed to say, that night must come, or else there will be no day
tomorrow. And the night has its own blessing, its own beauty.
  Tasslehoff began to climb the silver stair.
  A few steps below, Conundrum was also starting to climb.
"Strange construction," he remarked. "No pylons, no struts, no
rivets, no balusters, no hand railings-safety hazard. Someone
should be reported." The gnome paused about twenty steps up to
look around. "My what a view. I can see the harbor-"
  The gnome let out a shriek that might have been mistaken for
the Mt. Nevermind noon whistle, which generally goes off at
about three in the morning.
  "My ship!"
  Conundrum dropped his maps, he spilled his ink. He dashed
down the stair, his wispy hair flying in the wind, tripped over
Tasslehoff's stocking, which was tied to the end of the hedge,
picked himself up and ran toward the harbor with a speed that
the makers of the steam-powered, piston-driven snowshoes
might have tried hard to emulate.
  "Stop thief!" the gnome bellowed. "That's my ship!"
  Tasslehoff glanced down to see what all the excitement was
about, saw it was the gnome, and thought nothing more about it.
Gnomes were always excitable.
  Tasslehoff sat down on the stairs, put his small pointed chin in
his hand and thought about promises.

  Palin tried to catch up with Goldmoon, but a cramp in his leg
had brought him up, gasping in pain. He massaged the leg and
then, when he could walk, he limped down the stairs to find the
hall in an uproar. Goldmoon had come running through like a
madwoman. She had run out before any could stop her. The mas-
ters and healers had been taken by such surprise that only belat-
edly had some thought to chase after her. By that time, she had
vanished. The entire Citadel was being turned upside down,
searching for her.
  Palin kept to himself what Goldmoon had said to him. The
others were already speaking of her in tense whispers. Her wild
talk about the dead feeding off him would only convince them-
as it had convinced him-that the poor woman had been driven
insane by her amazing transformation. He could still see her look
of horror, still feel the powerful blow that had sent him falling
back against the wall. He offered to search for her, but Lady
Camilla told him curtly that both her Knights and the citadel
guards had been sent to locate the First Master and that they were
quite capable of handling the situation.
  Not knowing what else to do, he returned to his rooms, telling
Lady Camilla to be certain to notify him upon the First Master's
return.
  "In the meantime," he said to himself, sighing, "the best I can
do is to leave Schallsea. I've made a mess of things. Tas won't come
near me, and I can't blame him. I am only adding to Goldmoon's
burdens. Perhaps I am the one responsible for her madness!"
  His guest room in the Citadel was a spacious one, located on
the second floor. He had a small bedroom, a study, and a parlor.
One wall of the parlor was crystal, facing west, providing a mag-
nificent view of sea and sky. Restless, exhausted, but too tense to
sleep, he wandered into the parlor and stood gazing out across
the sea. The water was like green glass, mirroring the sky. Except
for a gray-green line on the horizon, he could not tell where one
left off and the other began. The sight was strangely disquieting.
  Leaving the parlor, Palin entered his study and sat down at
his desk, thinking he would write a letter to Jenna. He picked up
the pen, but the words scrambled in his head, made no sense. He
rubbed his burning eyes. He had not been able to sleep all night.
Every time he drifted off, he thought he heard a voice calling to
him and he woke with a start to find that no one was there.
  His head sank down, pillowed on his arms. He closed his eyes.
The smooth crystal sea stole over him, the water warm and dark.
  "Palin!" a voice cried, a hollow, whispering voice. "Palin!
Wake up!"
  "Just a moment more, father," Palin said, lost in a dream that
he was a child again. "I'll be down-" (
  Caramon stood over him. Big of body, big of heart as wh~
Palin had last seen him, except that he was wavering and insub-
stantial as the smoke from dying embers. His father was not
alone. He was surrounded by ghosts, who reached out grasping
hands to Palin.
  "Father!" Palin cried. His head jerked up. He stared in amaze-
ment. He could say nothing more, only stare, gaping, at the phan-
tasmic shapes that had gathered around him and seemed to be
trying to seize hold of him.
"Get back!" Caramon shouted in that dreadful whisper. He
glared around, and the ghosts shrank back, but they did not go
far. They stared at Palin with hungry eyes.
  "Father," Palin said--or tried to say. His throat was so dry that
the words seemed to shred his flesh. "Father, what-"
  "I've been searching for you!" Caramon said desperately.
"Listen to me! Raistlin's not here! I can't find him! Something's
wrong. . . .
  More ghosts appeared in the study. The ghosts surged past
Caramon, over him and around him. They could not rest, could
not remain long in one place. They seized Caramon and tried to
carry him away, like a panicked mob that bears its members to
destruction.
  Exerting all his effort, Caramon broke free of the raging cur-
rent and flung himself at Palin.
  "Palin!" he shouted, a shout that made no sound,"Don't kill
Tas! He's the-"
  Caramon vanished suddenly. The ephemeral forms swirled a
moment and then separated into ragged wisps, as if a hand had
brushed through smoke. The wisps were wafted away on a soul-
chilling wind.
  "Father? I don't understand! Father!"
  The sound of his own voice woke Palin. He sat upright with a
start, gasping, as if he'd been splashed with cold water. He stared
about wildly. "Father!"
  The room was empty. Sunlight streamed in through the open
window. The air was hot and fetid.
  "A dream," Palin said, dazedly.
  But a very real dream. Remembering the dead clustering
around him, Palin felt horror thrilling through him, raising the hair
on his arms and his neck. He still seemed to feel the clutching hands
of the dead, plucking at his clothes, whispering and pleading. He
brushed at his face, as if he'd run into a spider's web in the dark.
  Just as Goldmoon had said. . . .
  "Nonsense," he said to himself out loud, needing to hear a
living voice after those terrible whispers. "She put the thought
into my mind, that is all. No wonder I'm having nightmares.
Tonight, I will take a sleeping potion."
  Someone rattled the doorknob, trying to open the door, only
to find that it was locked. Palin's heart was in his throat.
Then came the sound of metal-a lockpick-clicking and
snicking in the door lock.
  Not ghosts. Just a kender.
  Palin, sighing, stood up and walked to the door, opened it.
  "Good morning, Tas," said Palin.
  "Oh, hullo," said Tasslehof£. The kender was bent double, a
lockpick in his hand, peering intently at the place where the lock
had been before the door swung open. Tas straightened, tucked
the lockpick back in a front pocket.
  "I thought you might be asleep. I didn't want to bother you.
Do you have anything to eat?" The kender entered the room,
making himself at home.
  "Look, Tas," Palin said, trying hard to be patient, "this isn't a
good time. I am very tired. I didn't sleep well-"
  "Me neither," said Tas, marching into the parlor and plunking
himself down on a chair. "I guess you don't have anything to eat.
That's all right. I'm not really hungry."
  He sat in silence, swinging his feet back and forth, looking out
at the sky and the sea. The kender was silent for several whole
minutes put together.
  Palin, recognizing this as an extraordinarily unusual phenom-
enon, drew up another chair and sat down beside him.
  "What is it, Tas?" he asked gently: . .
"I've decIded to go back," Tas saId, not looking at Palin, but
still looking out at the empty sky. "1 made a promise. I never
thought about it before, but a promise isn't something you make
with your mouth. You make a promise with your heart. Every
time you break a promise, your heart breaks a little until pretty
soon you have cracks running all through it. I think, all in all, it's
better to be squished by a giant."
  "You are very wise, Tas," said Palin, feeling ashamed of . 
self. "You are far wiser than I am."
  He paused a moment. He could hear again his father's voice.
Don't kill Tas! The vision was real, much more real than any dream. A
mage learns to trust his instincts, to listen to the inner voices of heart
and soul, for those are the voices that speak the language of magic.
He wondered if, perhaps, this dream wasn't that inner voice caution-
ing him to slow down, take no drastic actions, do further study.
  "Tas," said Palin slowly. "I've changed my mind. I don't want
you to go back. At least not yet."
Tas leaped to his feet. "What? I don't have to die? Is that true?
Do you mean it?"
  "I said only that you didn't have to go back yet," Palin ad-
monished. "Of course, you have to go back sometime."
  His words were lost on the excited kender. Tas was skipping
around the room, scattering the contents of his pouches every
which way. "This is wonderful! Can we go sailing off in a boat
like Goldmoon?"
  "Goldmoon went off in a boat?" Palin repeated, amazed.
  "Yes," said Tas cheerfully. "With the gnome. At least I guess
Conundrum caught up with her. He was swimming awfully fast.
I didn't know gnomes could swim so well."
  "She has gone mad," Palin said to himself. He headed for
the door. "We must alert the guards. Someone will have to go
rescue her."
  "Oh, they've gone after them," Tas said casually, "but I don't
think they'll find them. You see, Conundrum told me that the De-
structible can dive down under the water just like a dolphin. It's a
sub-sup-soop-whatchamacallit. A boat that travels under
water. Conundrum showed it to me last night. It looks exactly like
a gigantic steel fish. Say, I wonder if we could see them from here?"
  Tasslehoff ran to the window. Pressing his nose against the
crystal, he peered out, searching for some sight of the boat. Palin
forgot the strange vision in his amazement and consternation. He
hoped very much that this was just another of Tasslehoff's tales
and that Goldmoon had not sailed away in a gnomish contraption.
  He was about to go downstairs, to find out the truth of the
matter, and was heading for the door when the morning stillness
was split by a trumpet blast. Bells rang out, loudly, insistently. In
the hallway voices could be heard demanding to know what was
going on. Other voices answered, sounding panicked.
  "What's that?" Tas asked, still peering out the window.
  "They're sounding the call to arms," Palin said. "I wonder
why-"
  "Maybe it has something to do with those dragons," Tassle-
hoff said, pointing.
  Winged shapes, black against the morning sky, flew toward
the citadel. One shape, flying in the center, was larger than the
rest, so large that it seemed the green tinge in the sky was a re-
flection of the sunlight on the dragon's scales. Palin took one
good look. Appalled, he drew back into the center of the room,
into the shadows, as if, even at that distance, the dragon's red
eyes might find him.
  "That is Beryl!" he said, his throat constricting. "Beryl and her
minions!"
  Tas's eyes were round. "1 thought it was finding out that I
didn't have to go back to die that was making me feel all squirmy
inside. It's the curse, isn't it?" He gazed at Palin. "Why is she
coming here?"
  A good question. Of course, Beryl might have decided to
attack the citadel on a whim, but Palin doubted it. The Citadel of
Light was in the territory of Khellendros, the blue dragon who
ruled this part of the world. Beryl would not encroach on the
Blue's territory unless she had desperate need. And he guessed
what that need was.
  "She wants the device," Palin said.
  "The magical device?" Tasslehoff reached into a pocket and
drew forth the magical artifact.
  "Ugh!" He brushed his hand over his face. "You must have
spiders in here. I feel all cobwebby." He clutched the device pro-
tectively. "Can the dragon sniff it out, Palin? How does she know
we're here?"
  "I don't know," Palin said grimly. He could see it all quite
clearly. "It doesn't matter." He held out his hand. "Give me the
device."
  "What are we going to do?" Tas asked, hesitating. He was still
a bit mistrustful.
  "We're going to get out of here," Palin said. "The magical
device must not come into her possession."
Palin could only imagine what the dragon might do with it. -
The magic of the device would make the dragon the undisputed
ruler of Ansalon. Even if there was no longer past, she could go
back to the point after the Chaos War when the great dragons had
first come to Ansalon. She could go back to any point in time and
change events so that she emerged victorious from any battle. At
the very least, she could use the device to transport her great
bloated body to circumnavigate the world. No place would be
safe from her ravages.
  "Give me the device," Palin repeated urgently, reaching for it.
  "We have to leave. Hurry, Tas!"
"Am I coming with you?" Tas asked, still hanging onto the
device.
  "Yes!" Palin almost shouted. He started to add that they
didn't have much time-but time was the one thing they did
have. "Just. . . give me the device."
  Tas handed it over. "Where are we going?" he asked eagerly.
  A good question. In all the turmoil, Palin had not given that
important matter any thought.
  "Solace," he said. "We will go back to Solace. We'll alert the
Knights. The Solamnic Knights in the garrison ride silver drag-
ons. They can come to the aid of the people here."
  The dragons were closer now, much closer. The sun shone on
green scales and red. Their broad wings cast shadows that glided
over the oily water. Outside the door the bells clamored, urging
people to seek shelter, to flee to the hills and forests. Trumpets
sounded, blaring the call to arms. Feet pounded, steel clashed,
voices shouted terse orders and commands.
  He held the device in his hands. The magic warmed him,
calmed him like a draught of fine brandy. He closed his eyes,
called to mind the words of the spell, the manipulation of the
device.
  "Keep close to me!" he ordered Tas.
  The kender obediently clamped his hand firmly onto the
sleeve of Palin's robes.
  Palin began to recite the spell.
  "Thy time is thy own. . .'"
  He tried to turn the jeweled face of the pendant upward.
Something was not quite right. There was a catch in the mecha-
nism. Palin applied a bit more force, and the face plate shifted.
  "Though across it you travel. . .'"
  Palin adjusted the face plate right to left. He felt something
scrape, but the face plate moved.
  "Its expanses you see. . .'"
  Now the back plate was supposed to drop to form two
spheres connected by rods. But quite astonishingly, the back plate
dropped completely off. It fell to the floor with a clatter.
  "Oops," said Tas, looking down at the spherical plate that lay
rolling like a crazed top on the floor. "Did you mean for that to
happen?"
  "No!" Palin gasped. He stood holding in his hands a single
  sphere with a rod protruding from one end, staring down at the
plate in horror.
  "Here, I'll fix it!" Tas helpfully picked up the broken piece.
  "Give it to me!" Palin snatched the plate. He stared helplessly
at the plate, tried to fit the rod into it, but there was no place for
the rod to go. A misty film of fear and frustration swam before his
eyes, blinding him.
  He spoke the verse again, terse, panicked. "'Its expanses you
see!" He shook the sphere and the rod, shook the plate. "Work!"
he commanded in anger and desperation. "Work, damn you!"
  The chain dropped down, slithered out of Palin's grasping
fingers to lie like a glittering silver snake on the floor. The rod
separated from the sphere. Jewels winked and sparkled in the
sunlight. And then the room went dark, the light of the jewels
vanished. The dragons' wings blotted out the sun.
  Palin Majere stood in the Citadel of Light holding the shat-
tered remnants of the Device of Time Journeying in his crippled
hands.
  The dead! Goldmoon had told him. They are feeding off you!
  He saw his father, saw the river of dead pouring around him.
A dream. No, not a dream. Reality was the dream. Goldmoon had
tried to tell him.
  "This is what is wrong with the magic! This is why my spells
go awry. The dead are leeching the magical power from me. They
are all around me. Touching me with their hands, their lips. . . ."
  He could feel them. Their touch was like cobwebs brushing
across his skin. Or insect wings, such as he had felt at Laurana's
home. So much was made clear now. The loss of the magic. It
wasn't that he had lost his power. It was that the dead had sucked
it from him. ~
  "Well," said Tas, "at least the dragon won't have the artifact."
  "No," said Palin quietly, "she'll have us."
  Though he could not see them, he could feel the dead all
around him, feeding.

                    CHAPTER THIRTYTWO
                      THE EXECUTION

  The candle that kept count of the hours stood beside
Silvan's bed. He lay on his belly, watching the hours melt
with the wax. One by one, the lines that marked the hours
vanished until only a single line was left. The candle had been
crafted to bum for twelve hours. Silvan had lit it at midnight.
Eleven hours had been devoured by the flame. The time was
nearly noon, the time set for Mina's execution.
  Silvan extinguished the candle with a breath. He rose and
dressed himself in his finest clothes, clothes he had brought to
wear on the return march-the victory march- into Silvanost.
Fashioned of soft pearl gray, the doublet was stitched with
silver that had been twisted and spun into thread. His hose
were gray, his boots gray. Touches of white lace were at his
wrist and neck.
  "Your Majesty?" a voice called from outside his tent, "it is
Kiryn. May I come in?"
  "If you want," said Silvan shortly, "but no one else."
  "I was here earlier," Kiryn said, upon entering. "You didn't
answer. You must have been asleep."
           "I have not closed my eyes," Silvan said coldly, adjusting his
collar.
  Kiryn was silent a moment, an uncomfortable silence. "Have
you had breakfast?" he asked.
  Silvan cast a him a look that would have been a blow to
anyone else. He did not even bother to respond.
  "Cousin, I know how you feel," Kiryn said. "This act they
contemplate is monstrous. Truly monstrous. I have argued with
my uncle and the others until my throat is raw from talking, and
nothing I say makes any difference. Glaucous feeds their fear.
They are all gorging themselves on terror."
  "Aren't you dining with them?" Silvan asked, half-turning.
  "No, Cousin! Of course not!" Kiryn was astonished. "Could
you imagine that I would? This is murder. Plain and simple. They
may call it an 'execution' and try to dress it up so that it looks re-
spectaple, but they cannot hide the ugly truth. I do not care if this
humart is the worst, most reprehensible, most dangerous human
who ever lived. Her blood will forever stain the ground upon
which it falls, a stain that will spread like a blight among us."
  Kiryn's voice dropped. He cast an apprehensive glance out
the tent. "Already, Cousin, Glaucous speaks of traitors among our
people, of meting out the same punishment to elves. My uncle
and the Heads of House were all horrified and utterly opposed to
the idea, but I fear that they will cease to feed on fear and start to
feed on each other.
  "Glaucous," Silvan repeated softly. He might have said more,
but he remembered his promise to Mina. "Fetch my breastplate,
will you, Cousin? And my sword. Help me on with them, will
you?" 
  "I can call your attendants," Kiryn offered.
  "No, I want no one." Silvan clenched his fist. "If one of my
servants said something insulting about her I might. . . I might
do something I would regret."
  Kiryn helped with the leather buckles.
  "I have heard that she is quite lovely. For a human," he re-
marked.
  Silvan cast his cousin a sharp, suspicious glance.
  Kiryn did not look up from his work. Muttering under his
breath, he pretended to be preoccupied with a recalcitrant strap.
  Reassured, Silvan relaxed. "She is the most beautiful woman
  I ever saw, Kiryn! So fragile and delicate. And her eyes! I have
never seen such eyes!"
  "And yet, Cousin," Kiryn rebuked gently, "she is a Knight of
Neraka. One of those who have pledged our destruction."
  "A mistake!" Silvan cried, going from ice to fire in a flash. "I
am certain of it! She has been bewitched by the Knights or . . . or
they hold her family hostage. . . or any number of reasons! In
truth, she came here to save us."
  "Bringing with her a troop of armed soldiers," Kiryn said
dryly.
  "You will see, Cousin," Silvan predicted. "You will see that I
am right. I'll prove it to you." He rounded on Kiryn. "Do you
know what I did? I went last night to set her free. I did! I cut a
hole in her tent. I was going to unlock her chains. She refused to
leave."
  "You did what?" Kiryn gasped, appalled. "Cousin-"
  "Never mind," said Silvan, turning away, the flame flaring
out, the ice reforming. "I don't want to discuss it. I shouldn't have
told you. You're as bad as the rest. Get out! Leave me alone."
Kiryn thought it best to obey. He put his hand on the tent flap
and was halfway out when Silvan caught hold of him by the
shoulder, gripped him hard.
  "Are you going to run to tell Konnal what I told you? Because
if you are--"
  "I am not, Cousin," Kiryn said quietly. "I will keep what you
have said in confidence. You need not threaten me."
  Silvan appeared ashamed. Mumbling something, he let loose
of Kiryn's sleeve, turned his back on him.
  Grieved, worried, afraid, both for his people and for his
cousin, Kiryn stood outside the king's tent and tried to think
what to do. He did not trust the human girl. He did not know
much about the Knights of Neraka, but he had to believe that they
would not promote someone who served them reluctantly or un-
willingly to the rank of commander. And though no elf could ever
speak well of a human, the elven soldiers had talked grudgingly
of the enemy's tenacity in battle, their discipline. Even General
Konnal, who detested all humans, had admitted that these sol-
diers had fought well, and though they had retreated, they had
done so in good order. They had followed the girl through the
shield and into a well-defended realm, where surely they must
have known they would march to their deaths. No, these men did
not serve an unwilling, treacherous commander.
  It was not the girl who was bewitched. It was the girl who had
done the bewitching. Silvan was clearly enamored of her. He was
of an age when elven men first begin to feel the stirrings of passion,
the age when a man falls in love with love itself. An age when he
may become drunk with adoration. "I love to love my love," was
the first line of a chorus of a popular elven song. A pity that fortune
had thrown the two of them together, had literally tossed the exotic
and beautiful human girl into the young king's arms.
  Silvan was plotting something. Kiryn could not imagine
what, but he was sick at heart. Kiryn liked his cousin. He con-
sidered that Silvanoshei had the makings of a good king. This
folly could ruin him. The fact that he had tried to free this girl,
their mortal enemy, was enough to brand him a traitor if anyone
came to know of it. The Heads of House would never forgive
Silvan. They would declare him a "dark elf" and would exile him
as they had exiled his mother and his father. General Konnal
only wanted an excuse.
  Kiryn did not for a moment consider breaking his vow to the
king. He would not tell anyone what Silvan had told him. He
wished very much that Silvan had never spoken of it. Kiryn won-
dered unhappily what his cousin planned, wondered what he
could do to prevent Silvan from acting in some foolish, hot-
headed, impulsive manner that would end in his ruin. The best,
the only thing he could do would be to keep close to his cousin
and be ready to try to stop him.

  The sun hung directly overhead, its single eye glaring down 
through the gauzy curtain of the shield as if frustrated that
could not gain a clearer view. The watery eye shown upon the
bloody field being readied for yet another wetting. The sun gazed
unwinking upon the sowers of death, who were planting bodies
in the ground, not seeds. The Thon- Thalas had run red with
blood yesterday. None could drink of it.
  The elves had searched the woodlands to find a fallen tree
that would be suitable for use as a stake. The Woodshapers
crafted it so that it was smooth and sturdy and straight. They
thrust the stake deep into the ground, hammered it into the soil,
drove it deeply so that it was stable and would not fall.
General K.onnal, accompanied by Glaucous, took the field. He
wore his armor, carried his sword. The general's face was stem
and set. Glaucous was pleased, triumphant. Officers formed the
elven army into ranks in the field, brought them to attention. Elf
soldiers surrounded the field, forming a protective barrier, keep-
ing a lookout for the humans, who might take it into their heads
to try to rescue their leader. The Heads of House assembled. The
wounded who could drag themselves from their beds lined up to
watch.
  Kiryn took his place beside his uncle. The young man looked
so unwell that Konnal advised him in a low voice to return to his
tent. Kiryn shook his head and remained where he was.
Seven archers had been chosen to make up the death squad.
They formed a single line about twenty paces from the stake.
They nocked their arrows, held their bows ready.
  A trumpet sounded announcing the arrival of His Majesty the
Speaker of the Stars. Silvanoshei walked alone, without escort,
onto the field. He was extremely pale, so pale that the whispered
rumor ran among the Heads of House that his majesty had suf-
fered a wound in the battle, a wound that had drained his heart's
blood.
  Silvan halted at the edge of the field. He looked around at the
disposition of the troops, looked at the stake, looked at the Heads
of House, looked at Konnal and at Glaucous. A chair had been
placed for the king on one side of the field, at a safe distance from
where the prisoner must make her final walk. Silvan glanced at
the chair, strode past it. He took up his place beside General
Konnal, standing between Konnal and Glaucous.
  Konnal was not pleased. "We have a chair for Your Majesty. In
a place of safety."
  "I stand at your side, General," Silvan said, turning his gaze
full upon Konnal. "I can think of nowhere I would be safer. Can
you?"
  The general flushed, flustered. He cast a sidelong glance at
Glaucous, who shrugged as much as to say, "Don't waste time ar-
guing. What does it matter?"
  "Let the prisoner be brought forth!" Konnal ordered.
  Silvan held himself rigid, his hand on his sword hilt. His ex-
pression was fixed, set, gave away nothing of his inner thoughts
or feelings.
Six elven guards with swords drawn, their blades flashing
white in the sunlight, marched the prisoner onto the field. The
guards were tall and accoutered in plate mail. The girl wore a
white shift, a plain gown, unadorned, like a child's nightclothes.
Her hands and feet were manacled. She looked small and frail,
fragile and delicate, a waif surrounded by adults. Cruel adults.
  A murmur swept among some of the Heads of House, a
murmur of pity and dismay, a murmur of doubt. This was the
dread commander! This girl! This child! The murmur was an-
swered with an angry growl from the soldiers. She is human. She
is our enemy.
  Konnal turned his head, silenced the dismay and the anger
with a single baleful glance.
  "Bring the prisoner to me," Konnal called, "so that she may
know the charges for which her life is forfeit."
  The guards escorted the prisoner, who walked slowly, due to
the manacles on her ankles, but who walked with regal bearing-
straight back and lifted head and a strange, calm smile upon her
lips. Her guards, by contrast, looked exceedingly uncomfortable.
She stepped lightly over the ground, seemed to barely touch it.
The guards slogged across the churned-up dirt as if it were rough
going. They were winded and exhausted by the time they es-
corted their charge to stand before the general. The guards cast
watchful, nervous glances at their prisoner, who never once
looked at thetn.
  Mina did not look at Silvanoshei, who was looking at her with
all his heart and all his soul, willing her to give him the Sign
ready to battle the entire elven army if she but said the word. 
Mina's amber-eyed gaze took in General Konnal, and though he
appeared to struggle against it for a moment, he could not h
himself. He joined the other insects, trapped inside the golden
resin.
  Konnal launched into a speech, explaining why it was neces-
sary to go against elven custom and belief and rob this person of
her most precious gift-her life. He was an effective speaker and
produced many salient points. The speech would have gone over
well if he had given it earlier, before the people were allowed to
see the prisoner. As it was, he had now the look of a brutal father
inflicting abusive punishment on a helpless child. He understood
that he was losing his audience; many in the crowd were growing
restless and uneasy, reconsidering their verdict. Konnal brought.
his speech to a" swift, if somewhat abrupt, end.
  "Prisoner, what is your name?1I he barked, speaking Common.
His voice, unnaturally loud, bounded back at him from the
mountains.
  "Mina," she replied, her voice cool as the blood-tinged Thon- 
Thalas and with the same hint of iron. 
  "Surname?" he asked. "For the record."
  "Mina is the only name I bear," she said.
  "Prisoner Mina," said General Konnal sternly, "you led an
armed force into our lands without cause, for we are a peace-
loving people. Because there exists no formal declaration of war
between our peoples, we consider you to be nothing but a brig-
and, an outlaw, a murderer. You are therefore sentenced to death.
Do you have aught to say in answer to these charges?"
  "I do," Mina replied, serious and earnest. I did not come here
to make war upon the Qualinesti people. I came to save them."
  Konnal gave a bitter, angry laugh. IIWe know full well that to
the Knights of Neraka 'salvation' is another word for conquering
and enslavement."
  "I came to save your people," said Mina quietly, gently," and
 "I will do SO."
  "She makes a mockery of you, General," Glaucous whispered
urgently into Konnal's left ear. "Get this over with!"
  Konnal paid no attention to his adviser, except to shrug him
off and move a step away from him.
  "I have one more question, Prisoner," the General continued
in portentous tones. IIYour answer will not save you from death,
but the arrows might fly a little straighter and hit their target a
little quicker if you cooperate. How did you manage to enter the
shield?"
  "I will tell you and gladly,lI Mina said at once. "The hand of the
God I follow, the Hand of the One True God of the world and all
peoples in the world reached down from the heavens and raised
the shield so that I and those who accompany me could enter."
  A whisper like an icy wind blowing unexpectedly on a
summer's day passed from elf to elf, repeating her words, though
that was not necessary. All had heard her clearly.
  "You speak falsely, Prisoner!" said Konnal in a hollow furious
voice. "The gods are gone and will not return."
"I warned you," Glaucous said, sighing. He eyed Mina un-
easily. "Put her to death! Now!"
  "I am not the one who speaks falsely," Mina said. "I am not
the one who will die this day. 1 am not the one whose life is for-
feit. Hear the words of the One True God."
  She turned and looked directly at Glaucous. "Greedy, ambi-
tious, you colluded with my enemies to rob me of what is right-
fully mine. The penalty for faithlessness is death."
  Mina raised her hands to the heavens. No cloud marred the
sky, but the manacles that bound her wrists split apart as if struck
by lightning and fell, ringing, to the ground. The chains that
bound her melted, dissolved. Freed of her restraints, she pointed
at Glaucous, pointed at his breast.
  "Your spell is broken! The illusion ended! You can no longer
hide your body on the plane of enchantment while your soul
walks about in another form. Let them see you, Cyan Bloodbane.
Let the elves see their 'savior.' "
  A flash of light flared from the breast of the elf known as Glau-
cous. He cried out in pain, grappled for the magical amulet, but
the silver rope that held it around his neck was broken, and with
it broke the spell the amulet had cast.
  The elves beheld an astonishing sight. The form of Glaucous
grew and expanded so that for the span of a heartbeat his elven
body was immense, hideous, contorted. The elf sprouted green
wings. Green scales slid over the mouth that was twisted in
hatred. Green scales rippled across the rapidly elongating nose.
Fangs thrust up from the lengthening jaws, impeding the flow of
vile curses that were spewing from his mouth, transforming the
words into poisonous fumes. His arms became legs that ended in
jabbing claws. His legs were now hind legs, strong and musc r.
His great tail coiled, prepared to lash out with the deadly power
of a whip or a striking snake.
  "Cyan!" the elves cried in terror. "Cyan, Cyan!"
  No one moved. No one could move. The dragonfear para-
lyzed their limbs, froze hands and hearts, seized them and shook
them like a wolf shakes a rabbit to break its spine.
  Yet Cyan Bloodbane was not yet truly among them. His soul
and body were still joining, still coming together. He was in mid-
transformation, vu];nerable, and he knew it. He required seconds
only to become one, but he had to have those few precious seconds.
He used the dragonfear to buy himself the time he needed,
rendering the elves helpless, sending some of them wild with
fear and despair. General Konnal, dazed by the overwhelming
horror of the destruction he had brought down upon his own
people, was like a man struck by a thunderbolt. He made a feeble
attempt to draw his sword, but his right hand refused to obey his
command.
  Cyan ignored the general. He would deal with that wretch
later. The dragon concentrated his fury and his ire upon the one,
true danger-the creature who had unmasked him. The creature
who had somehow managed to break the powerful spell of the
amulet, an amulet that permitted body and soul to live apart, an
amulet given to the dragon as a gift from his former master, the
infamous wizard Raistlin Majere.
  Mina shivered with the dragonfear. Not even her faith could
guard her against it. She was unarmed, helpless. Cyan breathed
his poisonous fumes, fumes that were weak, just as his crushing
jaws were still weak. The lethal gas would immobilize this puny
mortal, and then his jaws would be strong enough to tear the
human's heart from her breast and rip her head from her body.
  Silvan was also consumed with dragonfear-fear and aston-
ishment, horror and a terrifying realization: Cyan Bloodbane, the
dragon who had been the curse of the grandfather, was now the
curse of the grandson. Silvan shuddered to think what he might
have done at Glaucous's bidding if Mina had not opened his eyes
to the truth.
  Mina! He turned to find her, saw her stagger, clasp her throat,
and fall backward to lie senseless on the ground in front of the
dragon, whose slavering jaws were opening wide.
  Fear for Mina, stronger and more powerful than the dragon:'
fear, ran through Silvan's veins. Drawing his sword, he leaped to
stand over her, placing his body between her and the striking
dragon.
  Cyan had not wanted this Caladon to die so swiftly. He had
looked forward to years of tormenting him as he had tormented
his grandfather. Such a disappointment, but it could not be
helped. Cyan breathed his poisoned gas on the elf.
  Silvan coughed and gagged. The fumes sickened him, he felt
himself drowning in them. Weakening, he yet managed a single
wild sword swipe at the hideous head.
The blade sank into the soft flesh beneath the jaw, doing little
true damage but causing the dragon pain. Cyan reared his head,
the sword still embedded in the jaw, jerking the blade from
Silvan's limp hand. A shake of the dragon's head sent blood spat-
tering and the sword flying across the field
  The dragon was whole. He was powerful. He was furious. His
hatred for the elves bubbled in his gut. He intended to unleash his
poison upon them, watch them die in writhing, choking agony.
Cyan spread his wings and bounded into the air.
  "Look upon me!" the dragon roared. "Look upon me, Sil-
vanesti! Look upon my might and my power, and look upon your
own doom!"
  General Konnal saw suddenly the full extent of Glaucous's
deception. He had been duped by the dragon. He had been as
much Cyan Bloodbane's pawn as the man Konnal had de-
spised, Lorac Caladon. In those last moments, Konnal saw the
truth. The shield was not protecting them. It was killing them.
Horror-stricken at the thought of the terrible fate he had un-
wittingly brought down upon his people, Konnal stared up at
the green dragon that had been his bane. He opened his~outh
to give the order to attack, but at that moment, his heart; filled
with fury and guilt, burst in his chest. He pitched forward on
his face.
  Kiryn ran to his uncle, but Konnal was dead.
  The dragon soared higher, circling, beating the air with his
great wings, letting the dragonfear settle over the elves like a
thick, blinding fog.
  Silvan, his vision dimming, sank to the ground beside Mina
He tried, even as he fell dying, to shield her body with his own.
  "Mina!" he whispered, the last words he would ever speak "I
love you!"
  He collapsed. Darkness closed over him.
  Mina heard his words. Her amber eyes opened. She looked to
see Silvan lying beside her. His own eyes were closed. He was not
breathing. She looked about and saw the dragon above the bat-
tlefield, preparing to launch his attack. The elves were helpless,
paralzyed by the dragonfear that twisted inside them, squeezing
their hearts until they could not breathe or move or think of any-
thing except the coming pain and horror. The elven archers stood
staring up at death, their arrows nocked and ready to fire, but
their shaking hands were limp on the bow strings, barely able to -
hold the weapons. 
  Their general lay dead on the ground.
  Mina bent over Silvanoshei. Kissing him, she whispered, "You
must not die! I need you!"
  He began to breathe, but he did not move.
  "The archers, Silvanoshei!" she cried. "Tell them to fire! You
are their king! They will obey you."
  She shook him. "Silvanoshei!"
  He stirred, groaned. His eyes flickered, but Mina was running
out of time.
  She leaped to her feet. "Archers!" she shouted in flawless Sil-
vanesti elven. "Sagasto! Fire! Fire!"
  Her clarion call penetrated the dragonfear of a single archer.
He did not know who spoke. He heard only the one word that
seemed to have been pounded into his brain with the force of an
iron spike. He lifted his bow and aimed at the dragon.
  "Sagasto!" Mina cried. "Slay him! He betrayed you!"
  Another archer heard her words and obeyed, and then an-
other and another after that. They let fly their arrows and, as they
did so, they overcame the dragonfear within themselves. The
elves saw only an enemy now, one who was mortal, and they
reached swiftly to nock their arrows. The first shafts fired from
fingers that still trembled flew none too straight, but their target
was so immense that even the worst shot must hit its mark,
though perhaps not the mark at which it had been aimed. Two
arrows tore holes in the dragon's wings. One stuck in his lashing
tail. One struck the green scales on his chest and bounced off, fell
harmlessly to the ground.
  Once the dragonfear was overcome, the elves would not be af-
fected by it again. Now the archers aimed for the vulnerable parts
of the dragon's body, aimed for the tender flesh the scales did not
cover, under the front legs, so near the heart. They aimed for the
joints where the wings attached to the dragon's main body. They
aimed for the dragon's eyes.
  The other elves lifted their heads now. Dozens at first, then
hundreds shook off the dragonfear and grabbed up bow and
arrow, spear and lance, and joined the battle. Cries of horror
changed to fierce exultation. At last, they were able to face in
combat the foe who had brought despair and ruin and death to
their land and their people. The sky was dark with arrows and
with the dragon's falling blood.
  Maddened by the pain, Cyan Bloodbane made a mistake. He
did not retreat from the fight. He could have withdrawn, even
now, grievously hurt as he was, and flown away to one of his
many lairs to nurse his wounds. But he could not believe that the
puny people who had been subject to his will for so long could
possibly do him mortal harm. One enormous breath of poison
would settle them. One breath would end it.
  Cyan sucked in that breath and let it out. But the breath that
should have been a killing cloud came out a gasp. The poisonous
gas was little more than a mist that dissipated in the morning's
soft breeze. His next breath rattled in his chest. He felt the arrows
sink deep into his bowels. He felt their points perilously close to
his heart. He felt them puncture his lungs. Too late, he tried to
break off the battle. Too late, he sought to flee his tormentors. His
torn and broken wings would not hold the air. He could not
maintain his altitude.
  Cyan rolled over on his back. He was falling, and he could not
stop his fall. Plummeting to the ground, he realized in a final
moment of bitter despair that his last wrenching moves had car-
ried him away from the battlefield, where his body crashing
down on top of the elves might have taken many of his enemies
with him. He was over the forest, above the trees.
  With a last defiant roar of fury, Cyan Bloodbane fell onto the
trees of Silvanesti, the trees that he had twisted and tormented
during the dream. The trees were waiting to receive him. The
aspens and the oaks, the cypress and the pines stood firm, like
bold pikeman. They did not break beneath his weight but held
strong and true as their enemy smashed into them.The trees
punched through Cyan Bloodbane's scales, pierced his flesh, im-
paled him on their splintered limbs. The trees of Silvanesti took
their own full measure of revenge.

  Silvanoshei opened his eyes to see Mina standing protectively
over him. He staggered to his feet, dazed and unsteady, but im-
proving with each passing moment. Mina was watching the
battle against the dragon. Her face held no expression, as she
watched the arrows meant to pierce her own body penetrate the
body of her foe.
Silvan barely noticed the battle. He could see and think only
of Mina.
  "You brought me back from death," Silvan whispered, his
throat raw from the gas. "I was dying, dead. I felt my soul slip-
ping away. I saw my own body lying on the ground. I saw you
kiss me. You kissed me, and I could not leave you! And so I live!"
  "The One God brought you back, Silvanoshei," said Mina
calmly. "The One God has a purpose for you yet in this life."
  "No, you!" he insisted. "You gave me life! Because you love
me! My life is yours, now, Mina. My life and my heart."
  Mina smiled, but she was intent on the fight. "Look there, Sil-
vanoshei," she said, pointing, "This day you have defeated your
most terrible enemy, Cyan Bloodbane, who put you on the
throne, thinking you as weak as your grandfather. You have
proved him wrong."
  "We owe our victory to you, Mina," Silvan said, exultant. "You
gave the order to fire. I heard your voice through the darkness."
  "We have not achieved victory yet," she said, and her gaze
was farseeing, abstracted. "Not yet. The battle has not ended.
Your people remain in mortal danger. Cyan Bloodbane will die,
but the shield he placed over you remains."
  Silvan could barely hear her voice over the cheers of his
people and the furious howls of the mortally wounded dragon.
Putting his arm around her slender waist, he drew her near to
him, to hear her words better.
  "Tell me again, Mina," he said. "Tell me again what you told
me earlier about the shield."
  "I tell you nothing more than what Cyan Bloodbane to)d
you," Mina replied. "He used the elves' fear of the world against
them. They imagine the shield protects them, but in reality it is
killing them. The magic of the shield draws upon the life-force of
the elves to maintain its life. So long as it remains in place, your
people will slowly die until at last there will be no one left for the
shield to protect. Thus did Cyan Bloodbane mean to destroy
everyone of you, laughing all the while because your people
imagined themselves to be safe and protected when, in reality,
they were the means of their own destruction."
  "If this is true, the shield must be destroyed," said Silvan.
"But I doubt if even our strongest sorcerers could shatter its pow-
erful magic."
"You don't need sorcerers, Silvan. You are the grandson of
Lorac Caladon. You can end what your grandfather began. You
have the power to bring down the shield. Come with me." Mina
held out her hand to him. "I will show you what you must do."
  Silvan took hold of her hand, small-boned, fine. He drew close
to her, looked down into her eyes. He saw himself, shining in the
amber.
  "You must kiss me," she said and she lifted her lips.
  Silvan was quick to obey. His lips touched hers, tasted the
sweetness for which he hungered.

  Not far distant, Kiryn kept watch beside the body of his uncle.
He had seen Silvanoshei fall. He had known that his cousin was
dead, for no one could survive the dragon's poisoned breath.
Kiryn grieved for them both, for his cousin, for his uncle. Both
had been deluded by Glaucous. Both had paid the price. Kiryn
had knelt beside his uncle to wait for his own death, wait for the
dragon to slay them.
  Kiryn watched, astonished, to see the human girl, Mina, lift
her head and regain her feet. She was strong, alert, seemingly un-
touched by the poison. She looked down at Silvanoshei, lying at
her side. She kissed the lifeless lips, and to Kiryn's amazement
and unease, his cousin drew in a breath.
  Kiryn saw Mina act to rally the flagging spirits of the elven
archers. He heard her voice, crying out the order to fire in Elvish.
He watched his people rally, watched them battle back against
their foe. He watched the dragon die.
  He watched all with boundless gladness, a gladness that
brought tears to his eyes, but with a sense of unease in his heart.
  Why had the human done this? What was her reason? Why
had she watched her army kill elves one day and acted to save
elves the next?
  He watched her embrace Silvan. Kiryn wanted to run to them,
to snatch his cousin away from the girl's touch. He wanted to
shake him, shake some sense into him. But Silvan would not
listen.
  And why should he? Kiryn thought.
  He himself was confused, stunned by the day's awful events.
Why should his cousin listen to Kiryn's words of warning when
the only proof he could offer of their veracity was a dark shadow
that passed over his soul every time he looked upon the girl, Mina.
  Kiryn turned away from them. Reaching down, he closed his
uncle's staring eyes with a gentle touch. His duty, as a nephew,
was to the dead.

  "Come with me, Silvan," Mina urged him, her lips soft against
his cheek. "Do this for your people."
  "I do this for you, Mina," Silvan whispered. Closing his eyes,
he placed his lips on hers.
  Her kiss was honey, yet it stung him. He drank in the sweet-
ness; flinched from the searing pain. She drew him into darkness,
a darkness that was like the darkness of the storm cloud. Her kiss
was like the lightning bolt, blinded him, sent him tumbling over
the edge of a precipice. He could not stop his fall. He crashed
against rocks, felt his bones breaking, his body bruised and
aching. The pain was excruciating, and the pain was ecstasy. He
wanted it to end so badly that he would have been glad for death.
He wanted the pain to last beyond forever.
  Her lips drew away from his, the spell was broken.
  As though he had come back from the dead, Silvan opened his
eyes and was amazed to see the sun, the blood-red sun of twi-
light. Yet it had been noontime when he had kissed her. Hours
had passed, seemingly, but where had they gone? Lost in her, for-
gotten in her. All around him was still and quiet. The dragon had
vanished. The armies were nowhere in sight. His cousin was
gone. Silvan slowly realized that he no longer stood on the fie'd
of battle. He was in a garden, a garden he dimly recognized by
the fading light of the waning sun.
  I know this place, he thought dazedly. It seems familiar. Yet
where I am? And how do I come to be here? Mina! Mina! He was
momentarily panicked, thinking he had lost her.
  He felt her hand close over his, and he sighed deeply and
clasped his hand over hers.
  I stand in the Garden of Astarin, he realized. The palace garden.
A garden I can see from my bedroom window. I came here once,
and I hated it. The place made my flesh crawl. There-a dead
plant. And another and another. A tree dying as I watch, its leaves
curling and twisting as if in pain, turning gray, falling off. The only
reason there are any living plants at all in this garden is because the
palace gardeners and the Woodshapers replace the dead plants
with living plants from their own personal gardens. Yet, to bring
anything living into this garden is to sentence it to death.
  Only one tree survives in this garden. The tree in the very
heart of the garden. The tree they call the Shield Tree, because it
was once surrounded by a luminous shield nothing could pene-
trate. Glaucous claimed the magic of the tree kept the shield in
place. So it does, but the tree's roots do not draw nourishment
from the soil. The tree's roots extend into the heart of every elf in
Silvanesti.
  He felt the tree's roots coiling inside him.
  Taking hold of Mina by the hand, Silvanoshei led her through
the dying garden to the tree that grew in the center. The Shield
Tree lived. The Shield Tree thrived. The Shield tree's leaves were
green and healthy, green as the scales of the green dragon. The
Shield Tree's trunk was blood-colored, seemed to ooze blood, as
they looked at it. Its limbs contorted, wriggled like snakes.
  I must uproot the tree. I am the Grandson of Lorac. I must tear
the tree's roots from the hearts of my people, and so I will free
them. Yet I am loathe to touch the evil thing. I'll find an axe, chop
it down.
  Though you were to chop it down a hundred times, a voice whis-
pered to him, a hundred times it would grow back.~;~---/
  It will die, now that Cyan Bloodbane is dead. He was the one
who kept it alive.
  You are the one keeping it alive. Mina spoke no word, but she
laid her hand on his heart. You and your people. Can't you feel its
roots twisting and turning inside you, sapping your strength, sucking
the very life from you?
  Silvan could feel something wringing his heart, but whether it
was the evil of the tree or the touch of her hand, he could not tell.
  He caught up her hand and kissed it. Leaving her standing on
the path, among the dying plants, he walked toward the living
tree. The tree sensed its danger. Gray vines twined around his
ankles. Dead branches fell on him, struck him on the back and on
his shoulder. He kicked at the vines and tossed the branches away
from him.
  As he drew near the tree, he felt the weakness. He felt it grow
on him the closer he came. The tree sought to kill him as it had
killed so many before him. Its sap ran red with the blood of. his
people. Every shining leaf was the soul of a murdered elf.
The tree was tall, but its trunk was spindly. Silvan could easily
place his hands around it. He was weak and wobbly from the
aftereffects of the poison and wondered if he would have the
strength to pull it from the ground.
  You have the strength. You alone.
  Silvan 'wrapped his hands around the tree trunk. The trunk
writhed in his grasp like a snake, and he shuddered at the horri-
ble feeling.
  He let loose, fell back. If the shield falls, he thought, suddenly
assailed by doubt, our land will lie unprotected.
  The Silvanesti nation has stood proudly for centuries protected by
the courage and skill of its warriors. Those days of glory will return. The
days when the world respected the elves and honored them and feared
them. You will be king of a powerful nation, a powerful people.
  I will be king, Silvan repeated to himself. She will see me puis-
sant, noble, and she will love me.
  He planted his feet on the ground. He took firm hold of -the
slithering tree trunk and, summoning strength from his excite-
ment, his love, his ambition, his dreams, he gave a great heave.
  into his own heart for when it released, his strength and his will
increased. He pulled and tugged, his shoulders straining. He felt
more roots give, and he redoubled his efforts.
  "For Mina!" he said beneath his breath.
  The roots let go their hold so suddenly that Silvan toppled
over backward. The tree came crashing down on top of him. He
was unhurt, but he could see nothing for the leaves and twigs and
branches that covered him.
  Angry, feeling that he must look a fool, he crawled out from
under. His face flushed with triumph and embarrassment, he
wiped the dirt and the muck from his hands.
  The sun shone hot on his face. Looking up, Silvan saw the
sun, saw it shining with an angry red fire. No gauzy curtain ob-
scured its rays, no shimmering aura filtered its light. He found he
could not look directly at the blazing sun, could not look any-
where near it. The sight was painful, hurt his eyes. Blinking away
tears, he could see nothing except a black spot where the sun had
been.
  "Mina!" he cried, shading his eyes, trying to see her. "Look,
Mina! Your God was right. The shield is down!"
Silvan stumbled out onto the path. He could not yet see
clearly. "Mina?" he cried. "Mina?"
  Silvan called and called. He called long after the sun had
fallen from the sky, called long into the darkness. He called her
name until he had no voice left, and then he whispered it.
  "Mina!"
  No answer came.

                     CHAPTER THIRTYTHREE
                      FOR LOVE OF MINA

  Galdar had'not slept since the day of the battle. He kept
watch all the long night, standing just inside the shadows
of the caves where what remained of the forces of her
Knights had taken refuge. He refused to relinquish his post to
anyone, although several had offered to relieve him of his self-im-
posed duty. He shook his homed head to all proposals, sent the
men away, and eventually they quit coming.
  The men who had survived the battle lay in the caves, tired
and frightened, speaking little. The wounded did their best to
stifle their groans and cries, afraid that the noise would draw
down the enemy upon them. Mostly they whispered a name, her
name and wondered why she did not come to comfort them.
Those who died did so with her name on their lips.
  Galdar was not watching for the enemy. That duty was being
handled by others. Pickets crouched in the thick foliage on watch
for any elven scout who might happen to stumble upon their
hiding place. Two elves did so, early this morning. The pickets
dealt with them swiftly and silently, breaking their necks and
throwing the bodies into the deep and swift-flowing Thon- Thalas.
Galdar was furious when he found out that his men had ac-
tually captured the two elves alive before killing them.
  "I wanted to question them, you dolts!" he cried in a rage,
raising his hand to strike one of the scouts.
  "Relax, Galdar," Samuval admonished, placing his hand on
the minotaur's fur-covered arm. "What good would torturing
them have done? The elves would only refuse to talk, and their
screams would be heard for miles."
  "They would tell me what they have done with her," Galdar
said, lowering his arm, but glowering viciously at the scouts, who
beat a hasty retreat. "They would tell me where she was being
held. I would see to that." He clenched and unclenched his fist.
  "Mina left orders that no prisoners were to be taken, Galdar.
She ordered that any elf we found was to be put immediately to
death. You vowed to obey her orders. Would you be foresworn?"
Samuval asked.
  "I'll keep my vow." Galdar growled and took up his post
again. "I promised her, and I will keep my promise. Didn't I keep
it yesterday? I stood there and watched her taken captive by that
bastard elven king. Captured alive by her most bitter enem}'
ried off in triumph to what terrible fate? To be made sport of, to
be made a slave, to be tormented, killed. I promised her I would
not interfere, and I kept my word. But I am sorry now that I did
so," he added with a bitter oath.
  "Remember what she said, my friend," Samuval said quietly.
"Remember her words. 'They think they will make me their cap-
tive. But in so doing I will capture them, every single one.' Re-
member that, and do not lose your faith."
  Galdar stood at the entrance to the cave all that morning. He
saw the sun rise to its zenith, saw its angry eye glare through the
shield, and he envied it fiercely, for the sun could see Mina and
he could not.
  He watched in wonder the fight with the green dragon, saw
the sky rain blood and green scales. Galdar had no love for
dragons, even those who fought on his side. An old minotaur
adage, dating back from the time of their great hero, Kaz,
maintained that dragons had only one side: their own. Galdar
heard the dragon's death roar, felt the ground shake from the
beast's fall, and wondered only what portent this held for
them. For Mina.
Captain Samuval joined Galdar to watch the fight. He
brought the minotaur food-rat, caught in the cave-and drink.
Galdar drank the water, but he refused the rat meat. The men had
little enough to eat as it was. Others needed it more than he did.
Captain Samuval shrugged and ate the rat himself. Galdar con-
tinued hi's watch.
  The hours passed. The wounded groaned quietly, died qui-
etly. The sun started to fall, a blood-red sun, dropping behind its
curtain of gauze. The sun was distorted and misshapen, looking
like no sun Galdar had ever before seen. He shifted his gaze away.
He did not like seeing the sun through the shield, wondered how
the elves could stand it.
  His eyes closed in spite of himself. He was nodding off,
drowsing on his feet, when Captain Samuval's voice sounded
right next to him, seemed to explode over the minotaur like a
fireball.
  "Would you look at that!"
  Galdar's eyes flared open. He fumbled for his sword. "What?
Where?"
  "The sun!" Captain Samuval said. "No, don't look at it di-
rectly. It will blind you!" He shaded his eyes with his hand,
peered out from beneath the shadow. "Damn!"
  Galdar looked heavenward. The light was so bright it made
his eyes water, and he had to look hurriedly away. He wiped the
tears from his muzzle and squinted. The sun had burned away
the gauze. It shone bright and fierce upon the world as if it were
a new-made sun and was exulting in its power. He lowered his
gaze, half-blinded.
  Mina stood before him, bathed in the blood-red light of the
new-born sun.
  Galdar was about to raise a shout of joy, but she laid a finger
on her lips, counseling silence. The minotaur settled for a huge
grin. He did not tell her he was thankful to see her. She had prom-
ised she would return to them, and he did not want her to think
he doubted. In truth, he had not doubted. Not in his heart. He
jerked a thumb toward the horizon.
  "What does it mean?" he asked.
  "The shield is lowered," Mina replied. She was pale and
weary to the point of falling. She reached out her hand, and
Galdar was honored and proud to support her with his arm, his
right arm. "The spell is broken. As we speak, the forces of General
Dogah, many thousands strong, are marching across the border
of Silvanesti."
  Leaning on Galdar' s strong arm, Mina entered the cave. The
men would have cheered, but she cautioned them to silence.
  The men gathered around he4 reached out their hands to
touch her. Tired as she was, she said a word to each one of them,
calling each by name. She would not eat or drink or rest until she
had visited the wounded and asked the G~d to heal them. She
prayed over everyone of the dead, as well, holding the cold
hands in her own, her head bowed.
  Then and only then would she drink water and sit down to
rest. She summoned her Knights and officers to a council
of war.
  "We have only to continue a little while longer in hiding," she
told them. "My plan is to meet up with the armies of General
Dogah and join them in the capture of Silvanost."
  "How soon can he be here?" Samuval asked.
  "Dogah and his forces will be able to march rapidly," MiRa
replied. "He will meet no resistance. The elven border patrol was
pulled back to deal with us. Their army is in disarray. Their gen-
eral is dead. The shield has fallen."
  "How, Mina?" Galdar asked and others echoed his wonder.
"Tell us how you brought down the shield?"
  "I told the king the truth," Mina said. "I told him that the
shield was killing his people. Their king himself brought down
the shield."
  The Knights laughed, enjoying the fine irony. They were in ex-
cellent spirits, cheered and heartened by Mina's return and the
miraculous lowering of the magical shield, which had for so long
kept them from striking at their enemy.
  Turning to ask Mina a question, Galdar saw that she had
fallen asleep. Gently, he lifted her in his arms and carried her-
she was a light as a child-to the bed he had made for her him-
sel£ a blanket spread over dried pine needles in a niche in the
rock wall. He eased her down, covered her with a blanket. She
never opened her eyes.
  The minotaur settled himself near her, seated with his broad
back against the rocky wall to guard her sleep.
  Captain Samuval came to keep watch beside Galdar. The cap-
tain offered the minotaur more rat meat, and this time Galdar did
not refuse.
  "Why would the king lower the shield?" Galdar wondered,
crunching the rat, bones and all. "Why would he bring down the
elves' o~y defense? It doesn't make any sense. Elves are sneaky.
Perhaps it is a trap."
  "No trap," said Samuval. Bunching up a blanket, he shoved it
beneath his head and stretched himself out on the cold cavern
floor. "You will see, my friend. In a week's time, we'll be walking
arm and arm down the streets of Silvanost."
  "But why would he do such a thing?" Galdar persisted.
  "Why else?" Samuval said, yawning until his jaws cracked.
"You saw the way he looked at her. You saw her take him captive.
He did it for love of her, of course."
  Galdar settled himself. He considered the answer, decided
that his comrade was right. Before he slept, he whispered the
words softly to the night.
  "For love of Mina."

                          EPILOGUE

   Far from where Mina slept, guarded by her troops, Gilthas
watched from a window of the Tower of the Speaker of the
Sun as the sun lifted higher into the sky. He imagined its
rays gilding the spears of the armies of Beryl as that army
marched across the border into Qualinesti. The Solamnic, Gerard,
had suggested a plan, a desperate plan, and now he and Marshal
Medan waited for Gilthas to make a decision, a decision that
would either mean salvation for his people or would end in their
ultimate destruction. Gilthas would make that decision. He
would make it because he was their king. But he would put off
the decision for the moment. He would spend this moment
watching the sun shimmer on the green leaves of the trees of his
homeland
  On Schallsea, Tasslehoff and Palin watched Beryl and her 
minions fly closer and closer. They heard the trumpets blasting, 
heard people crying out in terror, They heard them cry for Gold- 
moon, but she was gone. The broken bits of the magical Device of 
Time Journeying lay scattered on the floor, the light of the jewels 
dimmed by the shadows of the wings of dragons. 
  Goldmoon did not see the sun. She did not! see the dragons. 
She was far beneath the ocean, wrapped In Its darkness. The 
gnome expostulated and sweated and raced here and dashed
there, mopping up water, sopping up oil, cranking cranks and
pumping bellows. Goldmoon paid no attention to him. She had
been absorbed by the darkness. She traveled northward with the
river of the dead.
  Silvanoshei stood alone in the Garden of Astarin, beside the
dying Shield Tree, and watched the new-made blazing sun wither
the tree's roots.
  Poised on the borders of Silvanesti, General Dogah of the
Knights of Neraka watched the sun emerge from the crysallis of
the fallen shield. The next morning, when the sun had mounted
into the sky, when it shone clear and bright, General Dogah gave
his army the order to march.