by Jean Rabe
I will borrow this bauble, she said to herself, as I doubt that all the buildings are so magically lit, but I will return it when I am done.
Feril tucked the pear under her belt, which dimmed the glow only a little, and then dived down to the floor again. She took a long look at the statue in the middle of the room as she swam around it. It was of a Qualinesti boy standing with a crossbow, a quiver of bolts propped between his legs. He had the face of the boy holding the frog—perhaps the same boy, only older, perhaps a brother.
Maybe the statues tell a story, she thought, or recorded important moments in the lives of individuals who were precious to the sculptor. Maybe when she was finished with searching the city and after she had discovered a way to help Dhamon, she might return and study this room at length. There was certainly nothing in here that would help Dhamon or would help her puzzle out the magic in the city. She swam toward the door with a sudden pang of regret.
When she turned for a last look at the sculptures, she noticed a wispy figure rising from behind the boy with the crossbow. It was thin, like an elf, and as it drew closer its features became clearer. It had the image of a man, but with long graceful arms and delicate fingers. Mist swirled around the wispy figure, serving as a robe. Translucent feet poked out, sandaled and narrow. Its face was narrow, too, and Feril imagined that in life this dead elf must have been gaunt.
Somehow she was not frightened.
“Join me,” the ghost said. “Enjoy my art forever.”
7
Dhamon didn’t like water, and he especially didn’t like deep lakes. He had almost drowned in a lake once. He shuddered at the memory.
This one in particular was unnerving. The blue was too intense to be natural, and he saw there was a depth beyond which the fish would not swim. The water turned cold deeper down, an aberrant, disturbing cold that swirled around him. He had to find Feril, of whom, thus far, he had seen no sign.
Nalis Aren indeed, he thought, half-expecting to see chaos wights in the frigid water. He cursed himself for his fear of water and for not immediately joining Feril when she dived in, for hesitating and letting her take on his possible salvation alone. If something happened to her he would never be at peace with himself, and he might never have another chance to regain his humanity.
He searched for the Kagonesti for several minutes, at first seeing only the blue, then plunging deep, but without seeing anything out of the ordinary. He could have searched much longer before surfacing for air. His lungs were immense, and he likely could hold his breath for an hour or more, hut he wouldn’t stay down for more than a dozen minutes at a time. He couldn’t.
Dhamon dived again, hunting Feril erratically not methodically, going over the same area again and again. For a while he swam along the surface and tried mingling with the fishes, thinking one of them might turn out to be Feril, but they were all frightened of him, despite his suppressed dragonfear, and soon darted away.
At last, admitting defeat, he climbed out onto the bank and saw Ragh sitting in the grass just beyond the sand.
“You weren’t down there very long, were you? I know you’re not overly fond of the water.”
Dhamon stood in the shallows and gave a shake, the water spattering all over the decidedly disgruntled sivak.
“Didn’t happen to see any elves down there, did you?”
Dhamon shook again, arched his back, and let the sun warm him. “It’s a big lake, Ragh. She could be anywhere. I should have asked her in what direction she was going to swim.”
The draconian shrugged. “Still, you didn’t look very long for her.”
“I keep telling you, Feril can take care of herself.”
“So you’re not worried.”
“No, Ragh, I’m not worried.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Dhamon’s eyes narrowed. “This is not a game, Ragh.” His tone was suddenly angry.
“Fine, fine. I agree that she’s perfectly capable, Dhamon. I saw her hang those knights from the trees, and if she can swim with the fishes like you say, then we might have a long time to wait—no reason to get impatient.”
Dhamon pawed at a plant caught around a talon. “I might try again later, if she doesn’t come back in a short while.”
“Fine by me. I’ll wait in the woods, as far away from this peculiar lake as possible. I like the water maybe even less than you do. I can’t even swim like you do. I sink like a rock.”
“Stop talking about it and go to the woods then.”
“I intend to.” Ragh headed toward the trees again, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m going to take a long nap, Dhamon… in the cool shade. Wake me up if or when you find the elf… or when you give up waiting for her.”
“She’ll be back,” Dhamon said.
The Kagonesti had obviously managed well enough without him these past several years, he thought, and she certainly had faced worse dangers in her life than this unnaturally cold lake.
“Yeah, fine, but of course there’s a chance she already has drowned, Dhamon…” When Dhamon shot him an angry look, the sivak added, “…so might want to keep an eye out for her body floating to the surface. Wake me up if you do, then maybe we can get out of here, pronto. Sable’s swamp is starting to look mighty attractive compared to this damnable lake.”
“Join me,” the elf specter repeated. “Live in my gallery forever.” The wispy figure floated toward Feril, arms spread out in a greeting. “I am Deban Nildareh, and I would love to add your beautiful form to my works of art.”
Not today, Feril said to herself. She would have liked to say aloud, “I’ll not ever join you,” but she didn’t want to rile the strangely mild-mannered ghost. Instead she swiftly kicked her feet and swam past the sculptures and outside the building. She followed the wall as it curved toward a slate-tiled street.
Residences stretched in a line far into the dark blue water. One was missing a roof, and another had decorative stones knocked off along one side, as if a great windstorm had swept down the row of homes. The largest had a broken fence and shattered window boxes everywhere. A few had sheer curtains hanging out of opened windows. There was minimal damage on many of the buildings that she saw, though she suspected that she would see considerable damage if she really inspected things closely, but she wasn’t going to slow down in case the elf ghost was pursuing her. She kicked her feet and drove through the water faster.
Feril tried to keep her mind off the cold by imagining what it was like in the final moments for the Qualinesti who had refused to leave their beloved city. It must have been a time of pure terror, the sky darkened by the great dragon Beryl cutting across it. The overlord must have breathed on the elves, her deadly green cloud choking the ones caught in the open. Beryl’s forces were probably scouring the streets. She pictured the elves fleeing, some of them fighting desperately.
Did they die by Knights of Neraka or by the great overlord Beryl? Did they give the last measure of their strength in defiance of the dragon, or did they fall as they were fleeing? Did they drown when the dragon struck the earth and the White Rage River spilled into the crater to create Nalis Aren? Had they known there wasn’t a chance of victory and stayed till the end because Qualinost was all they had and all they ever wanted, and they couldn’t bear to leave their dreams behind? Or did they imprudently believe there truly was a chance to save their city?
Feril would have stayed and fought alongside the bravest warriors to defend the nation, not the city, of Qualinost. The city was merely graceful towers and elegant homes to her—a physical home. She was thankful she’d never become attached to any home, any one single place; indeed, she had very few possessions. Clothes, memories, and woods to walk through, that was all she needed. Perhaps Dhamon Grimwulf, a piece of her heart murmured.
Was there something down here that could help him? Was this all a waste of her time?
Feril headed straight toward an artful tower that had caught her eye. It looked to be five or six levels and seemed
to have escaped any serious damage. Her arms churned through the water faster, as the cold relentlessly seeped into her very bones. It seemed to be getting worse, and the feeling was leaving her feet.
As strong as her will was, it couldn’t keep the cold away. In the span of a few city blocks, Feril’s teeth were chattering senselessly. She imagined this must be as cold as the icy lakes created by the white dragon Frost on her Kagonesti homeland.
She angled herself toward the top of the tower and its roof that reminded her of a turnip. The roof was lighter than the stone of the outer walls, and it glimmered faintly as if embedded with crystals or precious metals. Directly beneath her was a circular manse and next to it, an impressive home that looked like it had been built around a much older courtyard. There was a fountain in the center, with two long-finned fish twisted together in an embrace. Water must have sprayed up all around from the mouths of smaller fish that ringed the bowl. There were tall, leafless trees in a runic pattern throughout the courtyard, and benches with posts carved to look like the legs of wild cats and horses. Someone with wealth and influence and an appreciation for art had lived here.
She passed over what she suspected was a small merchant district. The buildings were more colorful and a few had decorative awnings that hung limply without a current to stir them. There were numerous signs, all wooden and all rotting, the paint faded by the water and making their words illegible from this distance. Gowns and cloaks lay half-out, half-inside one shop window. Slippers were strewn outside another; a headless doll lay on its back in front of a likely toy store. Runes above a second-floor window suggested a sage or herbalist had lived there.
She would return to visit this district later, she decided, as perhaps that herbalist and others—scholars and healers with storefronts—had left some of their goods behind. Perhaps if the materials were stored in stoppered pots, not all the contents would have been ruined by the lake. Feril might bring Dhamon along. He’d been a battlefield medic and so could describe potent healing salves and such that could be salvaged and handed out to the Qualinesti refugees.
And some clothes for herself, she thought impulsively, considering that her only leather tunic was growing thin and was in need of replacing. Some garments the water wouldn’t have ruined; these she could lay out on the bank and let the sun dry. A light cloak would be nice, as the evenings would be getting cooler soon. It was so terribly cold here, she was reminded. She would look for a good knife, too, she decided, remembering the Knights of Neraka attacking her back by the White Rage River. She’d wished then that she carried a knife.
She spotted skeletons everywhere—at the corners of streets, near marble benches, at the doors to a few shops, and around the base of the tall trunks that lined the district. She noticed only occasional bits of armor, and these were silver, not black, likely marking the wearers as Qualinesti warriors. There were spears and javelins and a few shields, the markings on which were partially ravaged.
Feril could barely move her numb fingers by the time she had cleared the small merchant district and reached the high tower. She knew there must be other merchant quarters… somewhere. The city was immense, perhaps it had been scattered by Beryl’s fall, and she knew it could take her weeks to explore this area, months perhaps.
Her slender arms had become so heavy that she could scarcely lift them anymore, scarcely keep swimming. She glanced up, seeing only the never-ending blue, and realized that she should head toward the surface—at least for a little while.
How deep is this lake? How many feet down am I?
Feril angled upwards, swimming more slowly. Warm up thoroughly before returning. She was so terribly, terribly cold. The city and the lake would be here forever, so Feril knew she would have time to regain her strength and tell Dhamon what she’d discovered, perhaps wait until tomorrow to return.
Then she found herself close to the tower, and there was an open window a few feet away. She had the enchanted crystal still tucked into her belt to light her way. What is in the tower? Feril’s curiosity won again, and she decided to take a quick peek inside. Just a few moments, she told herself, as she managed to force herself to keep swimming. A few moments will not make a difference, then I can be on my way and be warm for a while. She pulled herself through the window, her enchanted light revealing a room that at first appeared to be filled with fog, but the mist was actually layer upon layer of parchment, she was quick to discern, all the sheets hanging suspended from floor to ceiling. She stretched her arm forward, touching several sheets. They dissolved into shreds, looking like fragments from a crushed eggshell.
She waved her arms to scatter the pieces drifting like snow before her eyes, so she could see farther into the room. She saw shelves on the far wall, all loaded with books. Likely the water had destroyed all these, but there was always a chance some pages could be dried out and preserved. If by chance, the books offered any magic spells or lore, the water shouldn’t have caused any harm—this she had learned during her time with the great sorcerer Palin Majere.
So many books, and this is just one tower.
They could be accounting ledgers for all she knew, or histories of Qualinost’s oldest families. They could be blank books, waiting to be sold to some scholar or statesman, to be filled with their imperious ruminations. They could all be ruined. Hoping against hope, she reached for one of the books, a short, narrow volume bound in red leather. The cover floated open, spilling its pages onto the floor where they dispersed in every possible direction.
Worthless. Like this notion of finding a cure for Dhamon here is worthless. By Habbakuk’s fist, why did he ever think to suggest I search this lake? Search for what? What?
Feril tried to reach for another book but couldn’t; all of a sudden the numbness had taken a greater hold of her arms. It’s the cold that’s making me despair, she thought, the cold is making this all seem so futile. There’s an answer here, I know it. The Qualinesti had some of the brightest savants and sorcerers on all of Krynn. They had to have left something behind that might help Dhamon.
So terribly, terribly cold.
The sun above would feel so good against her skin. She dreamed of the warmth as the shredded parchment floated up and danced before her eyes, yet there was still no current to stir them, and she wasn’t moving her arms to disturb them. Why did they move and sparkle so? She realized it was her mind playing tricks on her; the numbness had her seeing things. Though she continued to breathe the frigid water, felt it flowing in and out of her gills, she couldn’t even turn her head now. It felt frozen. It was as though she was turning into ice.
The colors of dancing parchment shifted to gray now, and her enchanted light dimmed. The room grew steadily darker. She felt as though she was sinking.
Too long, she told herself; she’d stayed down here too long. Damn my curiosity. Once more she tried to push her arms and legs into movement, backing out of the window. She might have made some progress, but she couldn’t be certain. The room was darker. It was hard to make out any of the details anymore.
No hope for Dhamon now. Feril didn’t mourn her own demise; she knew every living creature lived and died, but she felt sad that she hadn’t been able to help Dhamon. She did wonder what death would be like, however. The Kagonesti revered Habbakuk more than any other of Krynn’s gods, and she wondered if she would meet him when she passed from the world.
One last desperate attempt to budge.
The tower room at the bottom of Nalis Aren grew ever colder and blacker.
8
Dhamon Grimwulf was human again, tall and tan, his wheat-blond hair fluttering about him. He was sinking in a lake, one far to the north of the Qualinesti Forest. The water felt cool against his skin but not unpleasantly so. It would have been comforting, were it not weighing down his clothes and boots and tugging him relentlessly and inescapably down.
He’d been fighting a dragon—his once-partner Gale—and in the height of the battle he had plummeted into the lake, the impact aga
inst the surface driving the wind from his lungs and knocking him senseless.
The water pulled him deeper, his eyes fluttering open. He couldn’t see much, just dark blue-gray patches and occasional glints of silver-gray—fish swimming past. His hand touched something soft and slimy, and he grabbed for it. It came away in his hands—a plant.
Dhamon heard a loud thrumming in his ears and realized it was his heart beating wildly. He could hear nothing else, and after a moment he could no longer register the cool water. He was drowning. He tried to move his arms and legs… commanded them to propel him to the surface, but he couldn’t even move a finger. He could only sink deeper and watch everything grow dark around him.
He’d always told himself he wasn’t afraid of death. When he was with the Dark Knights he often embraced the notion of meeting death bravely on the battlefield, dying honorably and heroically for whatever cause his unit was embracing at the moment. Death would not be so bad if met head-on, but drowning was ignoble. He felt his chest tighten, then everything went black.
Dhamon woke up from his daze, shaking his head to clear the image from his mind, his barbels lashing the surface of the lake and spattering water.
“That was years ago,” he growled to himself, but the image of his human self drowning in that northern mountain lake was as clear in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. He knew that even now he had panicked, reliving it.
