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 Woodshapers 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 corridors, where those new to the palace would often lose themselves 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 attitude, 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 corridor 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 pretense 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 affixed 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 tomorrow 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 servant. “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.”
15
Tasslehoff, the One and Only
espite 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 circumnavigated 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 destination for the elves
were cutting loose the bindings holding him on the saddle. One of the 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 impenetrable 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 traveled 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 who 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 necessity, 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 stern 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 attention.
“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 another search for ancient magical artifacts. With the Academy destroyed, Solace held nothing for Palin anymore. And with rumors running rife that wizards all over the world were losing their magical powers, people guessed that Palin was no different. It seemed, so they whispered, that life held nothing more for him. His marriage was not the happiest. He had grown careless, reckless of his safety, especially if the slightest chance offered of obtaining a magical 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 generation. He had brought together mages from all over 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 departure of the gods. His efforts had been successful. He had established 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 burn 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 aggressive, sent her armies to seize more territory. Qualinesti spies reported that this was happening because the dragon was feeling her own magical powers on the decrease. Beryl had long sought to find the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The magical 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 Sorcery. 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 torment 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 wrinkles; 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.
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