Then Tas felt a hand touch him, hesitate, then pat him gently.
“There, there, now,” Denubis said. “You’ll have a chance to tell your story. Your friend will, too. And, if you’re innocent, no harm will come to you.” But Tas heard the cleric sigh. “Your friend had been drinking, hadn’t he?”
“No!” Tas snuffled, looking up at Denubis pleadingly. “Not a drop, I swear.…”
The kender’s voice died, however, at the sight of Caramon as the guards led him out of the alley into the street where Tas and the cleric stood. Caramon’s face was covered with muck and filth from the alley, blood dribbled from a cut on his lip. His eyes were wild and blood-shot, the expression on his face vacant and filled with fear. The legacy of past drinking bouts was marked plainly in his puffy, red cheeks and shaking limbs. A crowd, which had begun to form at the sight of the guards, began to jeer.
Tas hung his head. What was Par-Salian doing? he wondered in confusion. Had something gone wrong? Were they even in Istar? Were they lost somewhere? Or maybe this was some terrible nightmare.…
“Who—What happened?” Denubis asked the captain. “Was the Dark One right?”
“Right? Of course, he was right. Have you ever known him to be wrong?” the captain snapped. “As for who—I don’t know who she is, but she’s a member of your order. Wears the medallion of Paladine around her neck. She’s hurt pretty bad, too. I thought she was dead, in fact, but there’s a faint lifebeat in her neck.”
“Do you think she was … she was …” Denubis faltered.
“I don’t know,” the captain said grimly. “But she’s been beaten up. She’s had some kind of fit, I guess. Her eyes are wide open, but she doesn’t seem to see or hear anything.”
“We must convey her to the Temple at once,” Denubis said briskly, though Tas heard a tremor in the man’s voice. The guards were dispersing the crowd, holding their spears in front of them and pushing back the curious.
“Everything’s in hand. Move along, move along. Market’s about to close for the day. You best finish your shopping while there’s still time.”
“I didn’t hurt her!” Caramon said bleakly. He was shivering in terror. “I didn’t hurt her,” he repeated, tears streaking down his face.
“Yeah!” the captain said bitterly. “Take these two to the prisons,” he ordered his guards.
Tas whimpered. One of the guards grabbed him roughly, but the kender—confused and stunned—caught hold of Denubis’s robes and refused to let go. The cleric, his hand resting on Lady Crysania’s lifeless form, turned around when he felt the kender’s clinging hands.
“Please,” Tas begged, “please, he’s telling the truth.”
Denubis’s stern face softened. “You are a loyal friend,” he said gently. “A rather unusual trait to find in a kender. I hope your faith in this man is justified.” Absently, the cleric stroked Tas’s topknot of hair, his expression sad. “But, you must realize that sometimes, when a man has been drinking, the liquor makes him do things—”
“Come along, you!” the guard snarled, jerking Tas backward. “Quit your little act. It won’t work.”
“Don’t let this upset you, Revered Son,” the captain said. “You know kender!”
“Yes,” Denubis replied, his eyes on Tas as the two guards led the kender and Caramon away through the rapidly thinning crowd in the marketplace. “I do know kender. And that’s a remarkable one.” Then, shaking his head, the cleric turned his attention back to Lady Crysania. “If you will continue holding her, Captain,” he said softly, “I will ask Paladine to convey us to the Temple with all speed.”
Tas, twisting around in the guard’s grip, saw the cleric and the Captain of the Guard standing alone in the marketplace. There was a shimmer of white light, and they were gone.
Tas blinked and, forgetting to look where he was going stumbled over his feet. He tumbled to the cobblestone pavement, skinning his knees and his hands painfully. A firm grip on his collar jerked him upright, and a firm hand gave him a shove in the back.
“Come along. None of your tricks.”
Tas moved forward, too miserable and upset to even look around at his surroundings. His gaze went to Caramon, and the kender felt his heart ache. Overwhelmed by shame and fear, Caramon plodded down the street blindly, his steps unsteady.
“I didn’t hurt her!” Tas heard him mumble. “There must be some sort of mistake.…”
CHAPTER
2
he beautiful elven voices rose higher and higher, their sweet notes spiraling up the octaves as though they would carry their prayers to the heavens simply by ascending the scales. The faces of the elven women, touched by the rays of the setting sun slanting through the tall crystal windows, were tinged a delicate pink, their eyes shone with fervent inspiration.
The listening pilgrims wept for the beauty, causing the choir’s white and blue robes—white robes for the Revered Daughters of Paladine, blue robes for the Daughters of Mishakal—to blur in their sight. Many would swear later that they had seen the elven women transported skyward, swathed in fluffy clouds.
When their song reached a crescendo of sweetness, a chorus of deep, male voices joined in, keeping the prayers that had been sweeping upward like freed birds tied to the ground—clipping the wings, so to speak, Denubis thought sourly. He supposed he was jaded. As a young man, he, too, had cleansed his soul with tears when he first heard the Evening Hymn. Then, years later, it had become routine. He could well remember the shock he had experienced when he first realized his thoughts had wandered to some pressing piece of church business during the singing. Now it was worse than routine. It had become an irritant, cloying and annoying. He had come to dread this time of day, in fact, and took advantage of every opportunity to escape.
Why? He blamed much of it on the elven women. Racial prejudice, he told himself morosely. Yet, he couldn’t help it. Every year a party of elven women, Revered Daughters and those in training, journeyed from the glorious lands of Silvanesti to spend a year in Istar, devoting themselves to the church. This meant they sang the Evening Hymn nightly and spent their days reminding all around them that the elves were the favored of the gods—created first of all the races, granted a lifespan of hundreds of years. Yet nobody but Denubis seemed to take offense at this.
Tonight, in particular, the singing was irritating to Denubis because he was worried about the young woman he had brought to the Temple that morning. He had, in fact, almost avoided coming this evening but had been captured at the last moment by Gerald, an elderly human cleric whose days on Krynn were numbered and who found his greatest comfort in attending Evening Prayers. Probably, Denubis reflected, because the old man was almost totally deaf. This being the case, it had been completely impossible to explain to Gerald that he—Denubis—had somewhere else to go. Finally Denubis gave up and gave the old cleric his arm in support. Now Gerald stood next to him, his face rapt, picturing in his mind, no doubt, the beautiful plane to which he, someday, would ascend.
Denubis was thinking about this and about the young woman, whom he had not seen or heard anything about since he had brought her to the Temple that morning, when he felt a gentle touch upon his arm. The cleric jumped and glanced about guiltily, wondering if his inattention had been observed and would be reported. At first he couldn’t figure out who had touched him, both of his neighbors apparently lost in their prayers. Then he felt the touch again and realized it came from behind. Glancing in back of him, he saw a hand had slipped unobtrusively through the curtain that separated the balcony on which the Revered Sons stood from the antechambers around the balcony.
The hand beckoned, and Denubis, puzzled, left his place in line and fumbled awkwardly with the curtain, trying to leave without calling undue attention to himself. The hand had withdrawn and Denubis couldn’t find the separation in the folds of the heavy velvet curtains. Finally, after he was certain every pilgrim in the place must have his eyes fixed on him in disgust, he found the opening and stumbled thro
ugh it.
A young acolyte, his face smooth and placid, bowed to the flushed and perspiring cleric as if nothing were amiss.
“My apologies for interrupting your Evening Prayers, Revered Son, but the Kingpriest requests that you honor him with a few moments of your time, if it is convenient.” The acolyte spoke the prescribed words with such casual courtesy that it would not have seemed unusual to any observer if Denubis had replied, “No, not now. I have other matters I must attend to directly. Perhaps later?”
Denubis, however, said nothing of the sort. Paling visibly, he mumbled something about “being much honored,” his voice dying off at the end. The acolyte was accustomed to this, however, and—nodding acknowledgment—turned and led the way through the vast, airy, winding halls of the Temple to the quarters of the Kingpriest of Istar.
Hurrying behind the youth, Denubis had no need to wonder what this could be about. The young woman, of course. He had not been in the Kingpriest’s presence for well over two years, and it could not be coincidence that brought him this summons on the very day he had found a Revered Daughter lying near death in an alley.
Perhaps she has died, Denubis thought sadly. The Kingpriest is going to tell me in person. It would certainly be kind of the man. Out of character, perhaps, in one who had such weighty affairs as the fate of nations on his mind, but certainly kind.
He hoped she hadn’t died. Not just for her sake, but for the sake of the human and the kender. Denubis had been thinking a lot about them, too. Particularly the kender. Like others on Krynn, Denubis hadn’t much use for kender, who had no respect at all for rules or personal property—either their own or other people’s. But this kender seemed different. Most kender Denubis knew (or thought he knew) would have run off at the first sign of trouble. This one had stayed by his big friend with touching loyalty and had even spoken up in his friend’s defense.
Denubis shook his head sadly. If the girl died, they would face—No, he couldn’t think about it. Murmuring a sincere prayer to Paladine to protect everyone concerned (if they were worthy), Denubis wrenched his mind from its depressing thoughts and forced it to admire the splendors of the Kingpriest’s private residence in the Temple.
He had forgotten the beauty—the milky white walls, glowing with a soft light of their own that came—so legend had it—from the very stones themselves. So delicately shaped and carved were they, that they glistened like great white rose petals springing up from the polished white floor. Running through them were faint veins of light blue, softening the harshness of the stark white.
The wonders of the hallway gave way to the beauties of the antechamber. Here the walls flowed upward to support the dome overhead, like a mortal’s prayer ascended to the gods. Frescoes of the gods were painted in soft colors. They, too, seemed to glow with their own light—Paladine, the Platinum Dragon, God of Good; Gilean of the Book, God of Neutrality; even the Queen of Darkness was represented here—for the Kingpriest would offend no god overtly. She was portrayed as the five-headed dragon, but such a meek and inoffensive dragon Denubis wondered she didn’t roll over and lick Paladine’s foot.
He thought that only later, however, upon reflection. Right now, he was much too nervous to even look at the wonderful paintings. His gaze was fixed on the carefully wrought platinum doors that opened into the heart of the Temple itself.
The doors swung open, emitting a glorious light. His time of audience had come.
The Hall of Audience first gave those who came here a sense of their own meekness and humility. This was the heart of goodness. Here was represented the glory and power of the church. The doors opened onto a huge circular room with a floor of polished white granite. The floor continued upward to form the walls into the petals of a gigantic rose, soaring skyward to support a great dome. The dome itself was of frosted crystal that absorbed the glow of the sun and the moons. Their radiance filled every part of the room.
A great arching wave of seafoam blue swept up from the center of the floor into an alcove that stood opposite the door. Here stood a single throne. More brilliant than the light streaming down from the dome was the light and warmth that flowed from this throne.
Denubis entered the room with his head bowed and his hands folded before him as was proper. It was evening and the sun had now set. The Hall Denubis walked into was lit only by candles. Yet, as always, Denubis had the distinct impression he had stepped into an open-air courtyard bathed in sunlight.
Indeed, for a moment his eyes were dazzled by the brilliance. Keeping his gaze lowered, as was proper until he was given leave to raise it, he caught glimpses of the floor and objects and people present in the Hall. He saw the stairs as he ascended them. But the radiance welling from the front of the room was so splendid that he literally noticed nothing else.
“Raise your eyes, Revered Son of Paladine,” spoke a voice whose music brought tears to Denubis’s eyes when the lovely music of the elven women could move him no longer.
Denubis looked up, and his soul trembled in awe. It had been two years since he had been this near the Kingpriest, and time had dulled his memory. How different it was to observe him every morning from a distance—seeing him as one sees the sun appearing on the horizon, basking in its warmth, feeling cheered at its light. How different to be summoned into the presence of the sun, to stand before it and feel one’s soul burned by the purity and clarity of its brilliance.
This time, I’ll remember, thought Denubis sternly. But no one, returning from an audience with the Kingpriest, could ever recall exactly what he looked like. It seemed sacrilegious to attempt to do so, in fact—as though thinking of him in terms of mere flesh was a desecration. All anyone ever remembered was that they had been in the presence of someone incredibly beautiful.
The aura of light surrounded Denubis, and he was immediately rent by the most terrible guilt for his doubts and misgivings and questionings. In contrast to the Kingpriest, Denubis saw himself as the most wretched creature on Krynn. He fell to his knees, begging forgiveness, almost totally unaware of what he was doing, knowing only that it was the right thing to do.
And forgiveness was granted. The musical voice spoke, and Denubis was immediately filled with a sense of peace and sweet calm. Rising to his feet, he faced the Kingpriest in reverent humility and begged to know how he could serve him.
“You brought a young woman, a Revered Daughter of Paladine, to the Temple this morning,” said the voice, “and we understand you have been concerned about her—as is only natural and most proper. We thought it would give you comfort to know that she is well and fully recovered from her terrible ordeal. It may also ease your mind, Denubis, beloved son of Paladine, to know that she was not physically injured.”
Denubis offered his thanks to Paladine for the young woman’s recovery and was just preparing to stand aside and bask for a few moments in the glorious light when the full import of the Kingpriest’s words struck him.
“She-she was not assaulted?” Denubis managed to stammer.
“No, my son,” answered the voice, sounding a joyous anthem. “Paladine in his infinite wisdom had gathered her soul to himself, and I was able, after many long hours of prayer, to prevail upon him to return such a treasure to us, since it had been snatched untimely from its body. The young woman now finds rest in a life-giving sleep.”
“But the marks on her face?” Denubis protested, confused. “The blood—”
“There were no marks,” the Kingpriest said mildly, but with a hint of reproof that made Denubis feel unaccountably miserable. “I told you, she was not physically injured.”
“I-I am delighted I was mistaken,” Denubis answered sincerely. “All the more so because it means that young man who was arrested is innocent as he claimed and may now go free.”
“I am truly thankful, even as you are thankful, Revered Son, to know that a fellow creature in this world did not commit a crime as foul as was first feared. Yet who among us is truly innocent?”
The musical voice pa
used and seemed to be awaiting an answer. And answers were forthcoming. The cleric heard murmured voices all around him give the proper response, and Denubis became consciously aware for the first time that there were others present near the throne. Such was the influence of the Kingpriest that he had almost believed himself alone with the man.
Denubis mumbled the response to this question along with the rest and suddenly knew without being told that he was dismissed from the august presence. The light no longer beat upon him directly, it had turned from him to another. Feeling as if he had stepped from brilliant sun into the shade, he stumbled, half-blind, back down the stairs. Here, on the main floor, he was able to catch his breath, relax, and look around.
The Kingpriest sat at one end, surrounded by light. But, it seemed to Denubis that his eyes were becoming accustomed to the light, so to speak, for he could at last begin to recognize others with him. Here were the heads of the various orders—the Revered Sons and Revered Daughters. Known almost jokingly as “the hands and feet of the sun,” it was these who handled the mundane, day-to-day affairs of the church. It was these who ruled Krynn. But there were others here, besides high church officials. Denubis felt his gaze drawn to a corner of the Hall, the only corner, it seemed, that was in shadow.
There sat a figure robed in black, his darkness outshone by the Kingpriest’s light. But Denubis, shuddering, had the distinct impression that the darkness was only waiting, biding its time, knowing that—eventually—the sun must set.
The knowledge that the Dark One, as Fistandantilus was known around the court, was allowed within the Kingpriest’s Hall of Audience came as a shock to Denubis. The Kingpriest was trying to rid the world of evil, yet it was here—in his court! And then a comforting thought came to Denubis—perhaps, when the world was totally free of evil, when the last of the ogre races had been eliminated, then Fistandantilus himself would fall.
Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Page 24
