by Jean Rabe
“It could be risky,” Palin warned.
“I know that.”
“You’ll rejoin us?” the Master asked.
“Of course. I’ll find you in the Northern Wastes.”
“Good luck to you,” Palin said as he rose from the table and rotated his head, working a crick out of his neck. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He strode from the room and climbed one more set of stairs, throwing back a heavy wooden door and climbing out onto the roof.
He inhaled deeply and gazed about, then padded near the edge. The air was still and warm. He closed his eyes and tilted his chin toward the sun, focusing his energy. Several moments passed, his breathing slowed, and he felt a soft breeze play over his skin.
“Goldmoon,” he whispered.
“It has been too long since we talked,” replied a wispy image.
Goldmoon hovered several feet in front of him, her feet floating in the air off the edge of the parapet. She was nearly translucent, but Palin could make out her flawless face and starlike eyes. Her golden hair slowly writhed in the breeze created by magic.
“We will be going to the Wastes late tonight to await your champions,” he began. “The Lonely Refuge is —”
“The haft?” the image interrupted.
“Has been retrieved,” Palin added. “After I meet your champions, I will go into Palanthas with them. Goldmoon, do you think your plan will work?”
“The new heroes are made of sturdy stuff,” she answered. “As is the lance. But they can’t set things aright on Krynn by themselves.”
“But they are a beginning...” Palin finished.
Then the breeze picked up and blew the image away.
*
Later that night Palin put away his uncle’s books, returned to the Academy and found Usha. She was diligently painting a scene she’d remembered from her childhood. A dense forest of oak and pine was taking shape, and next to the largest tree stood an incredibly handsome man of indeterminate age, an Irda that Usha called the Protector. The man had raised her, taken care of her, and sent her away when the rest of the Irda deemed it time for her to rejoin her own people. If he hadn’t sent her away, she would have died with the Irda on their idyllic island when the Graygem exploded.
Usha had been toiling over the painting for a few weeks, and it was nearly finished, one of her best.
“It’s beautiful,” Palin said, coming up silently behind her.
“But it doesn’t do him justice,” she said. “His eyes. They burned with hope. They laughed at me when I did something foolish. They scolded me when I was wrong. And they cried when I left. His eyes spoke to me. I just can’t capture that.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted you to,” Palin offered. “Maybe the meaning of his eyes was for you alone, and not for whoever admires his image hanging on a wall. The painting is beautiful. Exquisite.”
Usha had started painting after the children were grown, and after Palin started spending an increasing amount of time studying the dragons and Raistlin’s notes. She had to have something to occupy herself, and that something now decorated several walls in the Academy. She’d improved with each painting, teaching herself subtle techniques to shade and highlight and add texture. There were paintings of Ulin and Linsha, friends she and Palin had met, fantastical creatures they’d witnessed, and sunsets viewed from Solace. This was the only one she’d attempted of an Irda.
“Beautiful, maybe. But I still don’t think it does him justice.” Backing away from the easel, she swirled the brush in a mug of water, shook it clean, and set it gingerly on a tray. “He was a wonderful man.”
“More wonderful for sending you to me.” Palin took her hands and pulled her close. He kissed her gently.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen you for days, locked in that room with those men.”
“We’ve been...”
“I know, the dragons.”
“We’ll be heading for the Northern Wastes tomorrow,” he said, looking to her hopefully.
She sighed heavily. “We?”
“It might not be safe. When we find a means to combat the dragons, we will become targets.”
Usha pursed her lips. “Can you tell me that any place is truly safe, Palin Majere?”
Palin scowled.
“Well, can you?”
“Some places are safer than others,” he said tersely. Palin drew her toward the stairs. “I need to know you are looking
after the Academy. I need to know you are here. I continue to have dreams about the Blue. Now I am finally going to his realm.”
“Maybe if you see Khellendros in the flesh and scales, you’ll quit dreaming about him,” she said with a chuckle.
Palin pursed his lips. “The Blue is nearly as powerful as the Red.”
She edged up the stairs ahead of him. “Maybe I could paint him,” she mused. “I have lots of blue paint.”
When they reached the landing, he paused before an oak door. “I have talked you into staying, haven’t I?”
She shook her head “yes” and said, “I can talk you into something, Palin Majere.”
Usha smiled slyly, opened the door, and gently tugged him inside.
Chapter 24
BLISTER’S GLOVES
Dhamon led three dun-colored mares, two of them saddled, to the western gate of Palanthas. The largest carried packs that bulged with dried meat, cheese, and waterskins.
“Three horses. Four of us,” Blister dryly commented. “And I don’t see any pony.”
“I didn’t have enough coins. I couldn’t even buy a third saddle.”
“Well, you could have asked us to help,” the kender said huffily. “I’ve some coins left – and Raph’s spoon collection.” She demonstrated by jiggling one of her pouches and the coins inside clinked together.
Dhamon offered her a weak smile. “Maybe it’s better if we have a few coins to spare among us, Blister. Just in case other expenses arise,” he said. “You’ll have to double up with Shaon or Feril. Sorry.”
He vaulted onto the saddleless horse.
“You’re used to riding,” Blister observed caustically. Her eyes narrowed, and she said more softly, “I’m used to riding, too – at least I could’ve ridden a pony bareback.”
Feril took the smaller of the two remaining horses, and settled the kender in front of her. The Kagonesti ran her fingers along the horse’s flank and made soft clucking noises. The horse responded with a whinny.
“These horses are old, Dhamon,” she said.
“They were all I could afford,” he replied testily.
Dhamon’s gaze drifted to Shaon. The sea barbarian was staring at her mare, looking from the saddle to the stirrup to the bulging pack. She shifted her weight back and forth on the balls of her feet and toyed with the reins.
“I think I’d rather walk for a while,” Shaon said. “If the horse is old, it doesn’t need me weighing it down. No need to hurt it. Besides, I could use the exercise, and —”
“Don’t worry about that,” Feril was quick to interject. “These horses might be old, but they are in very good condition. They’re strong, and they’re happy to be out of the pen. They’re definitely used to riders. And I’ll make sure that they’ll tell me when they’re tired.”
“Still, I think I’ll walk.”
Dhamon slipped from his horse’s back and walked toward her. “Haven’t ridden before?”
“Of course I have,” Shaon replied a bit too quickly. “I’m just not in the mood right now.”
“It’s not difficult,” he said softly. “Let me help you up.”
“I don’t need help – see!” Shaon put her right foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself up and over. It was an expert maneuver but she was facing backward. Frowning, she tried to change stirrups and turn around, but the horse balked, and she was thrown to the ground.
“Ouch! Damn horse! See, it doesn’t want a rider. It wants me to walk.”
Dhamon bent to help her, but Shaon
slapped his hand away and jumped up. “I don’t need help.”
“But we need to get moving.” Dhamon’s voice was tinged with annoyance. “And I’m not planning to be slowed down by your walking.”
“Maybe I’ll just stick with the ship. Then Blister won’t have to share a horse.”
“And tell Rig that you changed your mind because of a horse?” Blister asked. “Besides, my feet wouldn’t begin to reach those stirrups.”
Shaon looked unmoved.
“Suit yourself,” Dhamon snapped, striding away.
Shaon brushed the dirt from her clothing. She cursed when she saw that Rig’s shirt had been soiled, maybe ruined. He’d be upset. Drawing her lips into a thin line, she grabbed the reins and hoisted herself up properly this time, easing into the saddle. “See, I told you I don’t need any help,” she called to Dhamon.
He gave her a smile before mounting his own horse. A moment later, Dhamon was leading the small procession away from the city.
Feril clucked softly to Shaon’s big horse, and it neighed in response. The Kagonesti seemed engrossed in communicating with the horse, listening attentively to its noises.
“What’d you tell her?” Blister whispered.
“That’s between me and the horse,” Feril whispered back.
“Oh, come on, Feril,” Blister encouraged.
“Ask Palla if you’re that curious,” the Kagonesti returned, cocking her head toward Shaon’s mount. “I don’t spill any secrets.”
Blister glowered. However, as the miles passed, the kender noted that Shaon’s horse was providing an especially gentle ride. Blister suspected the Kagonesti had told the horse to go easy on the sea barbarian.
They spent the night in a small barbarian village called Orok’s Clay. They learned it was named after a long-dead chieftain who was determined to build homes out of the earth. Indeed, many of the homes were domes shaped of clay and dung, and they were cool inside – at least compared to the uncomfortable heat of the barrens. The people were guardedly friendly, and after sharing their food they admitted they hadn’t heard much lately from the nearest village, Dolor. It was several miles to the northwest, and a report from the elder there was long overdue. They hadn’t sent someone to the village to investigate. There were reports of brown lizards flying across the sand – lizards with very large wingspans.
A few of their own hunters had disappeared – why or how, they couldn’t say, though they feared the brown lizards or the Blue might be responsible. And because of the mysterious disappearances, they suspected something bad had happened to Dolor – and perhaps to other neighboring villages farther north.
The quartet left shortly after dawn, Blister riding with Shaon this time. The dark-skinned woman groaned as she planted herself in the saddle. Her legs and back were sore from the unaccustomed position of riding for so many hours.
“Why the gloves?” the sea barbarian asked Blister. Shaon was trying to take her mind off her aching thighs. “I’ve never seen you without a pair, and you must have at least a dozen.”
Blister wore a pair of tan leather gloves this morning. Surprisingly, they bore no attachments or odd decorations.
“Did you ever ride a horse before yesterday?” the kender countered.
“No,” Shaon said with a groan.
“Then I’ll tell you why I wear gloves.” Blister decided to be honest with her riding companion. “I had an accident about thirty years ago,” she began. “I didn’t used to be such a cautious sort. I guess I was a lot like Raph.”
The years melted away as Blister reminisced about Calinhand, a city on the southern coast of Balifor, a country that bordered to the east of her native land of Kendermore. Calinhand was a bustling port city filled with wonderful sounds and so many things to investigate – though not nearly so big as Palanthas.
While visiting the city, she became particularly interested in the merchant ships along the docks that kept loading and unloading crates – and taking a large number of them to Hosam’s Imports.
She snuck inside the place late one afternoon when there were plenty of shadows to hide in. The back room was large, and everything in it seemed to be some type of container – crates, bins, elaborate chests, coffers, bags, satchels, and barrels. There were mysteries everywhere, discoveries to be made.
“And you found a crate full of kender-sized gloves?” Shaon speculated.
Blister shook her head. “But I found this.” The kender pointed to one of the pouches that hung from her belt. It was a heavy dark green net, tightly woven.
“Which is?”
“A magic pouch. It doesn’t get dirty. It doesn’t snag. I can put sharp things inside, and nothing breaks it. Someone told me once it was made out of seaweed, and maybe it was magic. After all this time, I’m certain it is.”
The kender recounted exploring the insides of a few bags and bins that were blocking her path to a large black chest. It was smooth, polished and expensive-looking. Surely what was inside was also expensive.
“Well, what was inside?” Shaon had become engrossed.
“I didn’t find out.” Blister hung her head. “There were words on the chest, and I guess they were some kind of a magic spell. As I played with the lock, the letters suddenly slid down off the chest and on to my hands. They wrapped tightly around my fingers and palms, almost cutting off the circulation at my wrists. Their acidic touch ate away at my skin. It hurt bad, and I couldn’t shake them off. I guess I cried out. And then he came.”
She recollected that Hosam, the portly old merchant himself, rushed into the back room. He saw her and started screaming and waving his fists at her. Blister wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying, her hands hurt too much, feeling like they’d been thrust in a pot of boiling water. She backed away, with Hosam chasing her, but he was slow because of his size. He raised his meaty fists and screamed as she raced through the alley and stumbled face first into a puddle of rainwater. She stuck her hands in it, hoping the water would take away the pain, but it didn’t. The magical letters kept chewing away at her fingers for what seemed like hours. The pain didn’t stop until sometime very late that night.
She tugged a glove free and held the hand out to her side so the sea barbarian could get a better look. Her small fingers were bent, misshapen, and they were covered with dozens of tiny blisters and rough splotches.
Shaon winced. “Oh, does it hurt?”
“Only when I bend them, which I try to avoid. And the more I bend them, the more it hurts.” She gingerly replaced the glove.
“So that’s why you’re so cautious about your fingers all the time.”
The kender nodded.
“And that’s why you’re called Blister,” Shaon figured out. “Because of what happened.”
“Well, there’s more to the story.” The kender shifted on her perch. “But I’ll save that for another time.”
Shaon laughed. “So what’s your real name?”
“Vera-Jay Nimblefingers.”
“Know what? I like Blister better.”
The kender heartily agreed and as the miles passed, she continued to regale the sea barbarian with tales of her exploits in Balifor and Kendermore. Dhamon and Feril rode in silence, listening also, until the outskirts of Dolor came into view.
It was shortly past noon, and the day showed no promise of cooling off. Feril brushed the sweat off her forehead, squinted, and looked at the collection of clay-domed houses and wooden buildings erected against the sides of some low hills. There was no sign of people. It was just as the barbarians in the tavern had said it would be.
The Kagonesti inhaled deeply, then coughed. The air was tinged with the musky rot of death. A shiver raced down her spine, and she cast her gaze about, looking for the corpses she knew must be near.
“I feel like we’re being watched,” Shaon whispered. “I wonder if there are any ghosts about....”
Chapter 25
THE DEATH OF DOLOR
Feril dismounted and headed towar
d the village, the horse following her. The mare whinnied softly.
“I know it smells bad,” Feril hushed. “Stay here.”
Metal cooking pots sat by cold firepits outside many of the earthen, dome-shaped homes. She idly wondered if Orok’s Clay was patterned to be like Dolor, or if this village was the later of the two and had borrowed Orok’s building techniques, and improved on them. Some of the domes looked more elaborate, and decorations were etched into the sides of some – plants, animals, circular and zigzag patterns.
A loom that held a partially finished ocher and black blanket sat just beyond the doorway of the closest structure.
Inside another she saw clean clothes folded on a high shelf and dirty plates on a table. One home had an empty child’s bed in view, a red wooden ball and some other toys underneath it. Behind a small dome was a pen filled with pigs. They huddled in the scant shade thrown from the building and showed only mild curiosity at her presence.
The scent of death remained heavy, but the Kagonesti still didn’t spot any bodies. She saw that a section of the pen’s fence was broken and guessed they were probably coming and going, foraging for food. She doubted the pigs ate the dead, however. There would be some bones scattered about, and there were none that she could see.
She followed a curving path that cut through the center of the village, and she passed by a larger pen, for horses or cattle, she guessed. It was empty.
Dhamon and Shaon came closer, but as their horses passed by the first few homes, the Kagonesti held up her hand, silently warning them to keep their distance. She didn’t want any noise or scents to interfere and confuse her.
She heard a shuffling ahead. Someone moving? Something? She peered to her left and saw a canvas sheet over a doorway, rustling in the slight breeze. She relaxed, creeping forward.
She passed the middle of the village, where the path turned and the crude homes were the largest. She spotted what she believed was the central lodge. From here, she could better see the far end of the village – and a fresh row of graves at the edge of a graveyard.
