“Thank you, madam, but I cannot stay,” Medan said politely. “We have had reports that a band of rebels are operating in the wilderness not far from here. One of my own men was savagely attacked.” He eyed her closely. “The rebels have no love for the royal family, considering them to be collaborators. If, as you say, you have no influence over these rebels—”
“I live a quiet and retired life, Marshal,” Laurana said. “I go nowhere except to the palace to visit my son. Yet I find myself constantly under suspicion. My first love and loyalty are to my homeland and my people.”
“I am aware of that fact, madam,” Medan said with a cool smile. “Therefore, madam, until we have caught these rebels, it is not safe for you to leave the confines of your house. I must ask that you and those you care about remain close to home. You have permission to visit the palace, naturally, but I must prohibit trips to other places in the realm.”
“Am I a prisoner in my house, then, Marshal?” Laurana demanded.
“I do this for your own protection, madam,” Medan said. He reached out his hand to draw near one of the purple blossoms, inhaled its sweet fragrance. “My commendations on this beautiful lilac bush. I have never known one to bloom so long past spring. Good-day to you, Queen Mother.”
“And to you, Marshal Medan,” Laurana said.
“How I detest this game,” said Medan to himself. Making his solitary way back to his own dwelling, he could smell the lilac’s perfume.
“How I hate this game,” Laurana said, shutting the door and leaning her head with its crown of golden hair against it.
The waterfall played sweet and gentle music and Laurana listened to its song, let the melody soothe her, restore her to her customary hopefulness. She was not one to give way to despair. She had walked in darkness, the greatest darkness the world had known. She had come face-to-face with the dread goddess Takhisis. She had seen love surmount the darkness, love triumph. She believed that even the darkest night must eventually give way to the dawn.
She held fast to that belief through all the sorrows and travails of her life, through the loss of her son to the political machinations of her own people, through the death of her beloved husband, Tanis, who had died defending the High Clerist’s Tower against the Dark Knights, died of a sword thrust in the back. She grieved his loss, she missed him sorely, she established a shrine to him in her heart, but his death did not bring about her own. She did not bury her heart in his grave. To do so would have been to deny his life, to undo all the good that he had done. She continued to fight for the causes both of them had championed.
Some people took exception to this. They thought she should have clothed herself in black and retired from the world. They took offense that she should laugh and smile, or listen with pleasure to the minstrel’s song.
“It is so sad,” they would say. “Your husband died such a senseless death.”
“Tell me, sir,” Laurana would reply, or, “Tell me, madam. Tell me what you consider to be a sensible death?”
Smiling to herself at their discomfiture, Laurana heard, in her heart, Tanis’s laughter. There had been a time, shortly after his death, when she could hear his voice and sense his presence watching over her, not protectively, but supporting, reassuring. She had not felt his presence, however, in a long, long time. She could only assume that he had passed on to the next stage on life’s journey. She was not saddened or sorrowful. She would meet him when it was time for her to depart this life. They would find each other, though all eternity might stand between them. Meanwhile, the dead did not need her. The living did.
“My lady,” said Kelevandros softly, “do not let the marshal’s threats upset you. We will outwit him. We have always done so.”
Laurana lifted her head and smiled. “Yes, we will. How fortunate that you had returned from your mission, Kelevandros. Medan might have noted your absence, and that would have made things awkward. We must take extra precautions from now on. Gilthas reports that the dwarven tunnels are near completion. You will use that route now. It will take you out of your way, but it will be safer. Kalindas! You should not be out of bed!”
The elf stood swaying unsteadily in the doorway. His head was swathed in bandages, he was so pale that his skin had a translucent quality. Laurana could see the blue veins in his face. Kelevandros came to his brother’s aide, put his arm around him, assisted him to a couch. He eased his brother down gently, all the while scolding Kalindas roundly for leaving his bed and causing their mistress concern.
“What happened to me?” Kalindas asked dazedly.
“You don’t remember?” Laurana asked.
“Nothing!” He put his hand to his head.
“Kelevandros,” Laurana said sharply, “go to the front door. Make certain that Marshal Medan remembered to leave.”
“Birds sing in the trees,” Kelevandros reported on his return. “The bees buzz among the flowers. No one is about.”
“Now, Kalindas”—Laurana turned to him—“do you remember guiding Master Palin, Gerard, and the kender to the meeting with the griffon?”
Kalindas considered. “Vaguely, madam.”
“You were attacked while you were in the wilderness,” said Laurana, readjusting the bandages on the young elf’s head. “We have been very worried about you. When you didn’t return, I asked the Lioness to send her people to search for you. The rebels found you lying wounded in the forest. They brought you back yesterday. Why did you rise? Do you need anything?”
“No, madam, thank you,” said Kalindas. “Forgive me for causing you alarm. I heard the marshal’s voice and thought perhaps you might stand in need of me. I fancied myself well enough to leave my bed. I was mistaken, it seems.”
Kelevandros eased his injured brother to a more comfortable position on the couch, while Laurana spread her own shawl over Kalindas to keep him warm.
“You have endured enough from Medan and his men,” Laurana said, her voice cool with anger. “You are fortunate you weren’t killed!”
“They had no need to kill me,” Kalindas said bitterly. “They must have struck me from behind. Did Master Palin and the kender escape safely with the magical device?”
“We believe so. The rebels found no trace of them, and we have received no reports that they were captured.”
“What about the Solamnic?”
“The Lioness reported signs of a fight. Two of the Neraka Knights were killed. They could not find Gerard’s body and so they assume that he was made prisoner.” Laurana sighed. “If that is true, I could almost wish him dead. The rebels have their spies in the army trying to discover information about him. He is not in prison, that much we know, and that is all we know.
“As for Palin, Kelevandros has just returned from a meeting with the griffons, who arrived bearing a message, which I hope is from Palin.”
“I have it here, madam,” said Kelevandros. He removed a roll of parchment from his boot, handed the roll to Laurana.
“Are you certain you are all right?” she asked Kalindas, accepting the scroll. “Shall I call for a glass of wine?”
“Please read your letter, Madam,” Kalindas said. “Do not worry about me.”
After another worried glance, Laurana went to her writing desk and sat down. Kelevandros lit a candle for her, brought it to her desk. She unrolled the parchment. It was covered with ink and smelled faintly of lemon. The words written in the letter were inconsequential. A former neighbor told Laurana of the crops that he had planted, how big his children were growing, how he’d recently purchased a fine horse at the Midyear Day’s Fair. He inquired after her health, hoped she was well.
Laurana held the parchment above the candle’s flame, taking care not to hold it too near, taking care not to burn the paper or singe it. Slowly, more writing began to appear on the parchment, words written in between the lines of words written in ink. She passed the paper back and forth above the flame until the hidden message written on the parchment was revealed.
Placing
it on the desk, she read the missive silently, to herself. The handwriting was not Palin’s. Laurana was puzzled as to who had written the letter, looked to see the signature on the bottom.
“Ah, Jenna,” she murmured.
She read on, growing more amazed with each line.
“What is it, madam?” Kalindas asked, alarmed. “What has happened?”
“Strange,” she murmured. “So very strange. I cannot believe this. Going back in time to find the past no longer exists. I don’t understand.”
She continued on. “Tasslehoff missing.” She shook her head. “He did not come here.”
She read on. The brothers exchanged glances. A dark line marred the smooth skin of her forehead. Her brows came together. She read to the end of the scroll, stared at it long moments, as if willing it to say something other than what it said, she slowly released the end. The scroll curled in upon itself, hung limply in her hand.
“We are being spied upon, it seems,” Laurana said, and her tone was deliberatly even and calm. “Palin and Tasslehoff were chased by a dragon, one of Beryl’s minions. Palin believes that the dragon was after the artifact. That means Beryl knows of the artifact’s existence and where it is to be found. The Neraka Knights did not stumble across the four of you by accident, Kalindas. You walked into an ambush.”
“A spy! In your own house. Perhaps one of us? That is impossible, madam,” Kelevandros stated heatedly.
“Indeed, it is,” said Kalindas.
“I hope you are right,” Laurana said gravely. “An elf who would betray his own people …” She shook her head, her tone was sorrowful. “It is hard to believe that such evil could exist. Yet, it has happened before.”
“You know that none of us would betray you,” Kalindas reiterated, with emphasis.
Laurana sighed. “I don’t know what to think. Mistress Jenna suggests that perhaps there is a mentalist among the Neraka Knights, one who has learned to see into our minds and gather our thoughts. What a bitter pass we are come to! We have to set a guard now upon what we think!”
She slipped the message into the girdle of gold she wore around her waist. “Kelevandros, bring me some lemon juice and then ready Brightwing to carry a message to the griffons.”
The elf did as he was told, departing on his errands in silence. He exchanged a final glance with his brother before he left. Both noted that Laurana had not answered the question about Palin. She had taken care to change the subject. She did not trust even them, it seemed. A shadow had fallen over their peaceful dwelling place, a shadow that would not soon be lifted.
Laurana’s answer to the letter was short.
Tasslehoff is not here. I will watch for him. Thank you for the warning about spies. I will be on my guard.
She rolled the message tightly so that it would fit in the small crystal tube that would be tied to the hawk’s leg.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, madam,” Kalindas said, “but the pain in my head has increased. Kelevandros told me that the healer spoke of poppy juice. I think that might help me, if my brother would bring it to me.”
“I will send for the healer at once,” Laurana said, concerned. “Lie here until your brother returns to fetch her for you.”
Marshal Medan walked late in his garden. He enjoyed watching the miracle of the night-blooming flowers that shunned the sun and opened their blossoms to the pale moonlight. He was alone. He had dismissed his aide, ordered him to clear out his things. The Solamnic would arrive tomorrow, start upon his new duties.
Medan was pausing to admire a white orchid that seemed to glow in the moonlight, when he heard a voice hissing from the bushes.
“Marshal! It is I!”
“Indeed,” said Medan, “and here I thought it was a snake. I am weary. Crawl back under your rock until morning.”
“I have important information that cannot wait,” the voice said. “Information Beryl will find most interesting. The mage Palin Majere has used the artifact to journey back in time. This is a powerful magical artifact, perhaps the most powerful yet discovered in this world.”
“Perhaps.” Medan was noncommittal. He had a very low opinion of mages and magic. “Where is this powerful artifact now?”
“I do not know for certain,” said the elf. “His letter to my mistress said that the kender had run off with the artifact. Majere believes the kender has gone to the Citadel of Light. He travels there to attempt to recover it.”
“At least he did not come back here,” Medan said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Good riddance to him and the blasted artifact.”
“This information is worth a great deal,” the elf said.
“You will be paid. But in the morning,” Medan said. “Now be gone before your mistress misses you.”
“She will not.” The elf sounded smug. “She sleeps soundly. Very soundly. I laced her evening tea with poppy juice.”
“I told you to leave,” Medan said coldly. “I will deduct a steel piece for every second you remain in my presence. You have lost one already.”
He heard a scrabbling sound in the bushes. The marshal waited a moment longer, to be certain the elf was gone. The moon disappeared behind a cloud. The garden was submerged in darkness. The pale glowing orchid vanished from his sight.
It seemed a sign. A portent.
“Only a matter of time,” he said to himself. “Days, maybe. Not longer. This night I have made my decision. I have chosen my course. I can do nothing now but wait.”
His pleasure in the night destroyed, the marshal returned to his house, forced to fumble his way through the darkness for he could no longer see the path.
26
Pawn to King’s Knight Four
his day, Gerard would meet with Marshal Medan and be coerced into serving the commander of the Knights of Neraka. This day, Laurana would discover that she harbored a spy, perhaps in her own home. This day, Tasslehoff would discover that it is difficult to live up to what people say about you after you are dead. This day, Mina’s army would march deeper into Silvanesti. This day, Silvanoshei was playing a game with his cousin.
Silvanoshei was king of the Silvanesti. He was king of his people, just like the bejeweled and ornately carved bit of alabaster who was king of the xadrez board. A silly, inefffectual king, who could only move a single square at a time. A king who had to be protected by his knights and his ministers. Even his pawns had more important work to do than the king.
“My queen takes your rook,” said Kiryn, sliding an ornate game piece across the green-and-white marble board. “Your king is doomed. This gives me the game, I think.”
“Blast! So it does!” Silvan gave the board an irritated shove, scattering the pieces. “I used to be quite good at xadrez. My mother taught me to play. I could even beat Samar on occasion. You are a far worse player than he was. No offense, Cousin.”
“None taken,” said Kiryn, crawling on the floor to retrieve a foot soldier who had fled the field and taken refuge underneath the bed. “You are preoccupied, that is all. You’re not giving the game your complete concentration.”
“Here, let me do that,” Silvan offered, remorseful. “I was the one who spilled them.”
“I can manage—” Kiryn began.
“No, let me do something constructive, at least!” Silvan dived under the table to come up with a knight, a wizard and, after some searching, his beleaguered king, who had sought to escape defeat by hiding behind a curtain.
Silvan retrieved all the pieces, set the board up again.
“Do you want to play another?”
“No, I am sick to death of this game!” Silvan said irritably.
Leaving the gaming table, he walked to the window, stared out it for a few moments, then, restless, he turned away again. “You say I am preoccupied, Cousin. I don’t know by what. I don’t do anything.”
He wandered over to a side table on which stood bowls of chilled fruit, nuts, cheese, and a decanter of wine. Cracking nuts, as if he had some grudge against them, he so
rted through the shells to find the meats. “Want some?”
Kiryn shook his head. Silvan tossed the shells onto the table, wiped them from his hand.
“I hate nuts!” he said and walked back across the room to the window. “How long have I been king?” he asked.
“Some weeks, Cousin—”
“And during that time, what have I accomplished?”
“It is early days, yet, Cousin—”
“Nothing,” Silvan said emphatically. “Not a damn thing. I am not allowed out of the palace for fear I will catch this wasting disease. I am not permitted to speak to my people for fear of assassins. I sign my name to orders and edicts, but I’m never permitted to read them for fear it will fatigue me. Your uncle does all the work.”
“He will continue to do it so long as you let him,” Kiryn said pointedly. “He and Glaucous.”
“Glaucous!” Silvan repeated. Turning, he eyed his friend suspiciously. “You are always on me about Glaucous. I’ll have you know that if it were not for Glaucous, I would not know the little I do know about what is happening in my very own kingdom. Look! Look there, now!” Silvan pointed out the window. “Here is an example of what I mean. Something is happening. Something is going on, and will I hear what it is? I will”—Silvan was bitter—“but only if I ask my servants!”
A man dressed in the garb of one of the kirath could be seen running pell-mell across the broad courtyard with its walkways and gardens that surrounded the palace. Once the elaborate gardens had been a favorite place for the citizens of Silvanost to walk, to meet, to have luncheons on the broad green swards beneath the willow trees. Lovers took boats fashioned in the shape of swans out upon the sparkling streams that ran through the garden. Students came with their masters to sit upon the grass and indulge in the philosophical discussions so dear to elves.
That was before the wasting sickness had come to Silvanost. Now many people were afraid to leave their homes, afraid to meet in groups, lest they catch the sickness. The gardens were almost empty, except for a few members of the military, who had just come off-duty and were returning to their barracks. The soldiers looked in astonishment at the racing kirath, stood aside to let him pass. He paid no heed to them but hurried onward. He ran up the broad marble stairs that led to the palace and vanished from sight.
Dragons of a Fallen Sun Page 48
