Dragons of the Highlord Skies

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “And, in the meantime, Gunthar will buy the letter.”

  “So what if he does?” Brian demanded. “If there is truth in this letter, the Knighthood will benefit—”

  “Gunthar will benefit,” Derek countered.

  He reached for his purse.

  Brian sighed and shook his head.

  “Here is your one hundred steel, Madame,” said Derek. “I warn you. My reach is long. If you have cheated me, I will not rest until I have hunted you down.”

  “I understand, Sir Derek,” said the woman quietly. She took the bag of steel coins and thrust it in her belt. “You see? I don’t even bother to count it. I trust you, Sir Knight, and you are right to trust me.”

  She placed the paper in his hand. “You will not be disappointed, I assure you. I bid you gentlemen a good evening.”

  She gave them her crooked smile and raised her hand in farewell. Pausing in the doorway, she said, “Oh, when Lord Gunthar’s man arrives, tell him he’s too late.”

  She left, shutting the door behind her.

  “Read it swiftly,” said Brian. “We can still go after her.”

  Derek was already perusing the letter. He drew in a breath and let it out in a whistle.

  “Well, what does it say?” Brian asked impatiently.

  “The object is said to be in Icereach, in the possession of a wizard called Feal-Thas.”

  “What is this object?”

  “It is something called a ‘dragon orb’.”

  “A dragon orb. I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Brian said. He sat down. “Now that we’re here, we might as well order dinner.”

  Derek rolled up the paper, tucked it carefully into his glove. “Don’t get comfortable. We’re leaving.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see if you’re right, my friend. To see if I have been a fool.”

  “Derek, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t,” said Derek, and he almost smiled. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come along. We’re wasting time.”

  6

  The wrong entrance. Derek’s demand.

  Bertrem’s refusal.

  ight had fallen by the time Derek and Brian left the Knight’s Helm. The streets were mostly deserted, for the shops were now closed; merchants and customers alike were either home with their families or making merry with friends in the taverns. Those few people walking about carried torches to light their way, though that was hardly necessary, for Solinari, the silver moon, was bright in the heavens.

  Rising over the buildings of New City, the moon looked like a bauble caught and held by the finger-like spires reaching into the sky, or at least so Brian fancied. He watched the moon as he and Derek hastened through streets gilded with silver light. He watched the fingers play with the moon like a conjurer plays with a coin until the fingers let loose and the moon was free to drift among the stars.

  “Mind where you are walking,” said Derek, catching hold of Brian and jerking him away from a large pile of horse manure.

  “These streets are a disgrace!” Derek added in disgust. “Here, sirrah, what do you think you’re doing? Go clean that up!”

  A gully dwarf street sweeper, his large broom tucked in the crook of his arm, was ensconced comfortably in a doorway, sound asleep. Derek shook the wretched creature into sullen wakefulness and sent him on his way. The gully dwarf glared at them and made a rude gesture before sweeping up the muck. Brian guessed the moment they were out of sight, the gully dwarf would go back to his slumbers.

  “What were you staring at anyway?” Derek asked.

  “The moon,” Brian answered. “Solinari is beautiful tonight.”

  Derek grunted. “We have more important things to do than stare at the moon. Ah, here we are.” Derek laid a cautionary hand on Brian’s arm. “Let me do the talking.”

  Emerging from a side street, they entered the street known as Second Ring, so called because the streets of Old City were laid out in concentric rings and were numbered accordingly. All the major buildings of Palanthas were located in the second ring; the largest and most famous of these was the great Library of Palanthas.

  White walls, rising three stories into the sky, gleamed in the moonlight as if illuminated by silver fire. Semicircular marble steps led to a columned porch sheltering large double doors made of thick glass set in bronze. Lights burned in the upper windows of the library. The Aesthetics, an order of monks dedicated to Gilean, God of the Book, worked here day and night—writing, transcribing, recording, filing, compiling. The Library was a vast repository of knowledge. Information on any subject could be found here. Admittance was free. The doors were open to almost all—so long as they came at the appointed hours.

  “The Library is closed this time of night,” Brian pointed out as they climbed the stairs.

  “They will open for me,” stated Derek with cool aplomb. He beat on the doors with an open palm and raised his voice to be heard through the open windows above him. “Sir Derek Crownguard!” he shouted. “Here on urgent business of the Knighthood. I demand entrance.”

  A bald head or two poked out a window. Novices glad for a break in their work peered down curiously to see what all the ruckus was about.

  “You’re at the wrong entrance, Sir Knight,” called one, gesturing. “Go around to the side.”

  “What does he take me for? A tradesman?” Derek said angrily, and he beat on the bronze and glass door, this time with his closed fist.

  “We should come back in the morning,” Brian suggested. “If the information the woman gave you is a hoax, it’s too late to catch her now anyway.”

  “I will not wait for morning,” Derek returned, and he continued to shout and beat on the door.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” called a voice from within.

  The words were accompanied by the slap of sandals and the sounds of huffing and puffing. The doors opened, and one of the Aesthetics—a middle-aged, shaved-headed man clad in the gray robes of his Order—stared out at them.

  “The Library is closed,” he said severely. “We open again in the morning, and next time, come to the side entrance. Hey, there! You can’t come in—”

  Paying no heed, Derek shoved past the pudgy man, who spluttered in indignation and fluttered his hands at them, but did nothing else to try to stop him. Brian, embarrassed, entered along with Derek, muttering an apology that went unheard.

  “I want to see Astinus, Brother …” Derek waited for the man to provide his name.

  “Bertrem,” said the Aesthetic. He glared at Derek in indignation. “You came in the wrong door! And keep your voice down!”

  “I am sorry, but the matter is urgent. I demand to see Astinus.”

  “Impossible,” Bertrem stated. “The Master sees no one.”

  “He will see me,” said Derek. “Tell Astinus Sir Derek Crownguard, Lord of the Rose, wishes to consult with him on a matter of the utmost importance. It is not too much to say the fate of the Solamnic nation may well rest on this meeting.”

  Bertrem didn’t budge.

  “My friend and I will wait here while you carry my message to Astinus,” Derek said, frowning. “Why do you dawdle, Brother? Didn’t you hear what I said? I need to speak to Astinus!”

  Bertrem looked them up and he looked them down. He was obviously disapproving. “I will go inquire,” he said. “You will remain here, and you will remain quiet!”

  He indicated with a jabbing finger the alcove in which they were standing, then he raised that finger to his lips. Finally he departed, walking off with an air of injured dignity, his sandals slapping the floor.

  Silence settled over them, soothing and tranquil. Brian glanced into one of the large rooms. It was lined floor to ceiling with books and filled with desks and chairs. Several Aesthetics were hard at work, either studying or writing by candlelight. One or two glanced in the direction of the knights, but seeing that Bertrem apparently had the situation under control, they returned to their work.


  “You could have been more polite,” Brian said to Derek in a whisper. “Vinegar and flies and honey and all that.”

  “We are at war for our very survival,” Derek returned, “though one would not think it to judge by this place! Look at them, scratching away, undoubtedly chronicling the life cycles of the ant while good men fight and die.”

  “Isn’t this why we fight and die?” Brian asked. “So that these harmless souls can keep on writing about the ant and not be forced to mine ore in some slave camp?”

  If Derek heard, he paid no heed to Brian’s words. He began to pace the floor, his booted feet ringing loudly on the marble. Several of the Aesthetics raised their heads and glared and one said loudly, “Shush!” Derek glowered, but he ceased his pacing.

  The sound of slapping sandals on marble heralded the return of Bertrem, looking harried.

  “I am sorry, Sir Derek, but the Master is not at liberty to speak to you.”

  “My time is valuable,” said Derek impatiently. “How long am I to be kept waiting?”

  Bertrem grew flustered. “I beg your pardon, Sir Derek, you misunderstand me. There is no need to wait. The Master will not see you.”

  Derek’s face flushed, his brows constricted, his jaw tightened. He was used to snapping his fingers and watching people jump and lately he’d been snapping his fingers only to find people turning their backs on him.

  “You told him who I am?” Derek asked, seething. “You gave him my message?”

  “There was no need,” said Bertrem simply. “The Master knows you and why you have come and he will not see you. He did, however, ask me to give you this.”

  Bertrem handed over what appeared to be a crude map drawn on a bit of paper.

  “What is this?” Derek demanded.

  Bertrem looked down at it and read aloud the notation at the top. “It is a map to the Library of Khrystann.”

  “I can see that! What I meant is what in the Abyss do I want with a map to some blasted library?” demanded Derek.

  “I do not know, my lord,” said Bertrem, shrinking from the knight’s fury. “The Master did not confide in me. He said only that I was to give it you.”

  “Perhaps that’s where you’ll find the dragon orb,” suggested Brian.

  “Bah! In a library?”

  Derek reached for his purse. “How much money will Astinus take to see me?”

  Bertrem drew himself up to his full height, which put him about level with Derek’s chin. The Aesthetic was deeply offended.

  “Put away your money, Sir Knight. The Master has refused to see you and his word is final.”

  “By the Measure, I will not be treated in this manner!” Derek took a step forward. “Stand aside, Brother. I do not want to do you an injury!”

  The Aesthetic planted his sandaled feet firmly. Though clearly frightened, Bertrem was prepared to make a valiant stand to block their way.

  Brian felt a sudden desire to burst out laughing at the sight of the pudgy, anemic scholar facing down the furious knight. He swallowed his mirth, which would only make Derek angrier, and rested his hand on Derek’s arm.

  “Think what you are doing! You can’t go barging in on this man when he has refused to see you. You put yourself in the wrong. If all you seek is information about the dragon orb, then perhaps this gentleman could assist you.”

  “Yes, certainly, Sir Knight,” said Bertrem, wiping sweat from his brow. “I would be glad to help in any way I can—despite the fact that the library is closed and you came in the wrong door.”

  Derek wrenched his arm free. He was still furious, but mastered himself. “Whatever I say to you must be kept secret.”

  “Of course, Sir Knight,” Bertrem replied. “I swear by Gilean that I will hold all you say in confidence.”

  “You ask me to accept an oath to a god who is no longer around?” Derek demanded in scathing tones.

  Bertrem smiled complacently and folded his hands over his pudgy belly. “The blessed Gilean is with us, Sir Knight. You need have no worries on that score.”

  Derek shook his head, but he wasn’t about to be drawn into a theological discussion. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “I seek information regarding an artifact known as a ‘dragon orb’. What can you tell me about it?”

  Bertrem blinked his eyes as he thought this over. “I fear I can tell you nothing, my lord. I have never heard of such a thing. I can, however, do some research on the subject. Can you tell me in what context the artifact is mentioned, or where and how you heard of it? Such information would help me know where to look.”

  “I know very little,” said Derek. “I heard of it in connection with a Black Robe wizard—”

  “Ah, then it is a magical artifact.” Bertrem nodded his head sagely. “We have little information on such things, Sir Derek. The wizards tend to keep their knowledge to themselves. But we do have a few resources I can consult. Do you need this information right away?”

  “If you please, Brother,” said Derek.

  “Then make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. I will see what I can find. Oh, and please do keep quiet!”

  Bertrem pattered off, making his way over to a large section of shelves. He rounded those, and they lost sight of him. They sat down at a table and prepared to wait.

  “This is why I wanted to speak to Astinus,” muttered Derek. “He is said to have the knowledge of all things at his fingertips. I wonder why he won’t see me?”

  “From what I hear, he doesn’t see anyone—ever,” said Brian. “He sits at his desk, day and night, recording the history of every living being in the world as it passes before his eyes. That’s how he knew you were here.”

  Derek gave a loud snort. Heads raised, pens ceased their writing. He made a motion of his hand in apology and the Aesthetics, shaking their heads, returned to their work.

  “Some say he’s the god Gilean,” Brian whispered across the table.

  Derek gave him a disgusted glance. “Not you as well! The monks foster such nonsensical beliefs so they can collect more donations.”

  “Still, Astinus did give you that map.”

  “To a library! Useless. It must be some sort of joke.”

  Derek drew out the scroll he’d purchased to read it over again. Brian sat quietly, afraid to move for fear of drawing down the ire of the scholars. He heard the street crier call out the hour, and then, putting his head down on the desk, he went to sleep.

  He woke to Derek’s hand shaking him and the sound of slapping sandals—two pairs of sandals. Bertrem came hastening toward them, accompanied by another monk, who bore a scroll in his hands.

  “I hope you do not mind, Sir Knight, but I consulted Brother Barnabus, who is our expert on magical artifacts. He recalled having read a reference to a dragon orb in an old manuscript. I will let him tell you.”

  Brother Barnabus—a taller, thinner, younger version of Brother Bertrem—unfurled the scroll and laid it down in front of Derek. “This was penned by one of our monks who was in Istar about a year prior to the Cataclysm. It is an account of his time there.”

  Derek looked down at the scroll, then looked back up. “I cannot decipher these chicken scratchings. What does it say?”

  “Brother Michael was Ergothian,” Brother Barnabus explained, “and thus he wrote in that language. He writes that the soldiers of the Kingpriest were given lists of magical artifacts and sent to raid mageware shops in search of objects that were on these lists. He obtained one of these lists and copied down the objects. One of these is a dragon orb. A description was provided to the soldiers, so they’d know what to look for: ‘A crystal orb, ten inches in diameter, filled with a strange swirling mist.’ Brother Michael writes that the soldiers were ordered to handle the orb with caution for no one knew exactly what the orb did, though, as he writes here, ‘It is believed that it was used during the Third Dragon War to control dragons’.”

  “Control dragons,” Derek repeated softly. His eyes gleamed, but he took care to hide his
rising excitement. “Were any found?” he asked in a careless tone.

  “Brother Michael does not say.”

  “And this is the only information you have on these dragon orbs?” Derek inquired.

  “That is all we have here in our library,” said Brother Barnabus. “However, I did find a cross reference.” He pointed to a small notation placed in the margin of the scroll. “According to this, another book said to provide more information on dragon orbs can be found in an ancient library in Tarsis—the lost Library of Khrystann. Unfortunately, as the name implies, few now remember where the library is located. Only we Aesthetics know and we do not give out—”

  Derek regarded the monk in astonishment. Then he drew out the map he had so angrily crumpled up and smoothed it out on the table. “Is this it?” he asked, pointing.

  Brother Barnabus looked down. “The Library of Khrystann. Yes, that is it.” He regarded Derek in suspicion. “How did you come by this map, my lord?”

  Bertrem plucked Barnabus’s sleeve and whispered something to him. The brother listened then relaxed and smiled. “Ah, of course. The Master.”

  “Strange,” Derek muttered. “Damn strange.” He folded the map, treating it with much greater care, and placed it along with the letter in his belt.

  “You might want to leave a donation,” suggested Brian, having trouble keeping a straight face.

  Derek glanced at him sharply, then fumbled in his purse for several coins and handed them to Bertrem. “Put this toward some worthy cause,” he said gruffly.

  “I thank you, my lord,” Bertrem said. “Can I be of further service to your lordship this night?”

  “No, Brother,” said Derek. “Thank you for your help.” He paused then said stiffly, “I apologize for my behavior earlier.”

  “No need for that, my lord,” said Bertrem kindly. “It is already forgotten.”

  “Maybe Astinus is the god Gilean after all,” Brian said, as he and Derek were descending the moonlit steps of the Great Library.

  Derek muttered something and continued walking at a rapid pace down the street.