Dragons of a Fallen Sun

by Margaret Weis

  His guest room in the Citadel was a spacious one, located on the second floor. He had a small bedroom, a study, and a parlor. One wall of the parlor was crystal, facing west, providing a magnificent view of sea and sky. Restless, exhausted, but too tense to sleep, he wandered into the parlor and stood gazing out across the sea. The water was like green glass, mirroring the sky. Except for a gray-green line on the horizon, he could not tell where one left off and the other began. The sight was strangely disquieting.

  Leaving the parlor, Palin entered his study and sat down at his desk, thinking he would write a letter to Jenna. He picked up the pen, but the words scrambled in his head, made no sense. He rubbed his burning eyes. He had not been able to sleep all night. Every time he drifted off, he thought he heard a voice calling to him and he woke with a start to find that no one was there.

  His head sank down, pillowed on his arms. He closed his eyes. The smooth crystal sea stole over him, the water warm and dark.

  “Palin!” a voice cried, a hollow, whispering voice. “Palin! Wake up!”

  “Just a moment more, father,” Palin said, lost in a dream that he was a child again. “I’ll be down—”

  Caramon stood over him. Big of body, big of heart as when Palin had last seen him, except that he was wavering and insubstantial as the smoke from dying embers. His father was not alone. He was surrounded by ghosts, who reached out grasping hands to Palin.

  “Father!” Palin cried. His head jerked up. He stared in amazement. He could say nothing more, only stare, gaping, at the phantasmic shapes that had gathered around him and seemed to be trying to seize hold of him.

  “Get back!” Caramon shouted in that dreadful whisper. He glared around, and the ghosts shrank back, but they did not go far. They stared at Palin with hungry eyes.

  “Father,” Palin said—or tried to say. His throat was so dry that the words seemed to shred his flesh. “Father, what—”

  “I’ve been searching for you!” Caramon said desperately. “Listen to me! Raistlin’s not here! I can’t find him! Something’s wrong.…”

  More ghosts appeared in the study. The ghosts surged past Caramon, over him and around him. They could not rest, could not remain long in one place. They seized Caramon and tried to carry him away, like a panicked mob that bears its members to destruction.

  Exerting all his effort, Caramon broke free of the raging current and flung himself at Palin.

  “Palin!” he shouted, a shout that made no sound. “Don’t kill Tas! He’s the—”

  Caramon vanished suddenly. The ephemeral forms swirled a moment and then separated into ragged wisps, as if a hand had brushed through smoke. The wisps were wafted away on a soul-chilling wind.

  “Father? I don’t understand! Father!”

  The sound of his own voice woke Palin. He sat upright with a start, gasping, as if he’d been splashed with cold water. He stared about wildly. “Father!”

  The room was empty. Sunlight streamed in through the open window. The air was hot and fetid.

  “A dream,” Palin said, dazedly.

  But a very real dream. Remembering the dead clustering around him, Palin felt horror thrilling through him, raising the hair on his arms and his neck. He still seemed to feel the clutching hands of the dead, plucking at his clothes, whispering and pleading. He brushed at his face, as if he’d run into a spider’s web in the dark.

  Just as Goldmoon had said.…

  “Nonsense,” he said to himself out loud, needing to hear a living voice after those terrible whispers. “She put the thought into my mind, that is all. No wonder I’m having nightmares. Tonight, I will take a sleeping potion.”

  Someone rattled the doorknob, trying to open the door, only to find that it was locked. Palin’s heart was in his throat.

  Then came the sound of metal—a lockpick—clicking and snicking in the door lock.

  Not ghosts. Just a kender.

  Palin, sighing, stood up and walked to the door, opened it.

  “Good morning, Tas,” said Palin.

  “Oh, hullo,” said Tasslehoff. The kender was bent double, a lockpick in his hand, peering intently at the place where the lock had been before the door swung open. Tas straightened, tucked the lockpick back in a front pocket.

  “I thought you might be asleep. I didn’t want to bother you. Do you have anything to eat?” The kender entered the room, making himself at home.

  “Look, Tas,” Palin said, trying hard to be patient, “this isn’t a good time. I am very tired. I didn’t sleep well—”

  “Me neither,” said Tas, marching into the parlor and plunking himself down on a chair. “I guess you don’t have anything to eat. That’s all right. I’m not really hungry.”

  He sat in silence, swinging his feet back and forth, looking out at the sky and the sea. The kender was silent for several whole minutes put together.

  Palin, recognizing this as an extraordinarily unusual phenomenon, drew up another chair and sat down beside him.

  “What is it, Tas?” he asked gently.

  “I’ve decided to go back,” Tas said, not looking at Palin, but still looking out at the empty sky. “I made a promise. I never thought about it before, but a promise isn’t something you make with your mouth. You make a promise with your heart. Every time you break a promise, your heart breaks a little until pretty soon you have cracks running all through it. I think, all in all, it’s better to be squished by a giant.”

  “You are very wise, Tas,” said Palin, feeling ashamed of himself. “You are far wiser than I am.”

  He paused a moment. He could hear again his father’s voice. Don’t kill Tas! The vision was real, much more real than any dream. A mage learns to trust his instincts, to listen to the inner voices of heart and soul, for those are the voices that speak the language of magic. He wondered if, perhaps, this dream wasn’t that inner voice cautioning him to slow down, take no drastic actions, do further study.

  “Tas,” said Palin slowly. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to go back. At least not yet.”

  Tas leaped to his feet. “What? I don’t have to die? Is that true? Do you mean it?”

  “I said only that you didn’t have to go back yet,” Palin admonished. “Of course, you have to go back sometime.”

  His words were lost on the excited kender. Tas was skipping around the room, scattering the contents of his pouches every which way. “This is wonderful! Can we go sailing off in a boat like Goldmoon?”

  “Goldmoon went off in a boat?” Palin repeated, amazed.

  “Yes,” said Tas cheerfully. “With the gnome. At least I guess Conundrum caught up with her. He was swimming awfully fast. I didn’t know gnomes could swim so well.”

  “She has gone mad,” Palin said to himself. He headed for the door. “We must alert the guards. Someone will have to go rescue her.”

  “Oh, they’ve gone after them,” Tas said casually, “but I don’t think they’ll find them. You see, Conundrum told me that the Destructible can dive down under the water just like a dolphin. It’s a sub—sup—soop—whatchamacallit. A boat that travels under water. Conundrum showed it to me last night. It looks exactly like a gigantic steel fish. Say, I wonder if we could see them from here?”

  Tasslehoff ran to the window. Pressing his nose against the crystal, he peered out, searching for some sight of the boat. Palin forgot the strange vision in his amazement and consternation. He hoped very much that this was just another of Tasslehoff’s tales and that Goldmoon had not sailed away in a gnomish contraption.

  He was about to go downstairs, to find out the truth of the matter, and was heading for the door when the morning stillness was split by a trumpet blast. Bells rang out, loudly, insistently. In the hallway voices could be heard demanding to know what was going on. Other voices answered, sounding panicked.

  “What’s that?” Tas asked, still peering out the window.

  “They’re sounding the call to arms,” Palin said. “I wonder why—”

 
“Maybe it has something to do with those dragons,” Tasslehoff said, pointing.

  Winged shapes, black against the morning sky, flew toward the citadel. One shape, flying in the center, was larger than the rest, so large that it seemed the green tinge in the sky was a reflection of the sunlight on the dragon’s scales. Palin took one good look. Appalled, he drew back into the center of the room, into the shadows, as if, even at that distance, the dragon’s red eyes might find him.

  “That is Beryl!” he said, his throat constricting. “Beryl and her minions!”

  Tas’s eyes were round. “I thought it was finding out that I didn’t have to go back to die that was making me feel all squirmy inside. It’s the curse, isn’t it?” He gazed at Palin. “Why is she coming here?”

  A good question. Of course, Beryl might have decided to attack the citadel on a whim, but Palin doubted it. The Citadel of Light was in the territory of Khellendros, the blue dragon who ruled this part of the world. Beryl would not encroach on the Blue’s territory unless she had desperate need. And he guessed what that need was.

  “She wants the device,” Palin said.

  “The magical device?” Tasslehoff reached into a pocket and drew forth the magical artifact.

  “Ugh!” He brushed his hand over his face. “You must have spiders in here. I feel all cobwebby.” He clutched the device protectively. “Can the dragon sniff it out, Palin? How does she know we’re here?”

  “I don’t know,” Palin said grimly. He could see it all quite clearly. “It doesn’t matter.” He held out his hand. “Give me the device.”

  “What are we going to do?” Tas asked, hesitating. He was still a bit mistrustful.

  “We’re going to get out of here,” Palin said. “The magical device must not come into her possession.”

  Palin could only imagine what the dragon might do with it. The magic of the device would make the dragon the undisputed ruler of Ansalon. Even if there was no longer past, she could go back to the point after the Chaos War when the great dragons had first come to Ansalon. She could go back to any point in time and change events so that she emerged victorious from any battle. At the very least, she could use the device to transport her great bloated body to circumnavigate the world. No place would be safe from her ravages.

  “Give me the device,” Palin repeated urgently, reaching for it. “We have to leave. Hurry, Tas!”

  “Am I coming with you?” Tas asked, still hanging onto the device.

  “Yes!” Palin almost shouted. He started to add that they didn’t have much time—but time was the one thing they did have. “Just … give me the device.”

  Tas handed it over. “Where are we going?” he asked eagerly.

  A good question. In all the turmoil, Palin had not given that important matter any thought.

  “Solace,” he said. “We will go back to Solace. We’ll alert the Knights. The Solamnic Knights in the garrison ride silver dragons. They can come to the aid of the people here.”

  The dragons were closer now, much closer. The sun shone on green scales and red. Their broad wings cast shadows that glided over the oily water. Outside the door the bells clamored, urging people to seek shelter, to flee to the hills and forests. Trumpets sounded, blaring the call to arms. Feet pounded, steel clashed, voices shouted terse orders and commands.

  He held the device in his hands. The magic warmed him, calmed him like a draught of fine brandy. He closed his eyes, called to mind the words of the spell, the manipulation of the device.

  “Keep close to me!” he ordered Tas.

  The kender obediently clamped his hand firmly onto the sleeve of Palin’s robes.

  Palin began to recite the spell.

  “ ‘Thy time is thy own …’ ”

  He tried to turn the jeweled face of the pendant upward. Something was not quite right. There was a catch in the mechanism. Palin applied a bit more force, and the face plate shifted.

  “ ‘Though across it you travel …’ ”

  Palin adjusted the face plate right to left. He felt something scrape, but the face plate moved.

  “ ‘Its expanses you see …’ ”

  Now the back plate was supposed to drop to form two spheres connected by rods. But quite astonishingly, the back plate dropped completely off. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

  “Oops,” said Tas, looking down at the spherical plate that lay rolling like a crazed top on the floor. “Did you mean for that to happen?”

  “No!” Palin gasped. He stood holding in his hands a single sphere with a rod protruding from one end, staring down at the plate in horror.

  “Here, I’ll fix it!” Tas helpfully picked up the broken piece.

  “Give it to me!” Palin snatched the plate. He stared helplessly at the plate, tried to fit the rod into it, but there was no place for the rod to go. A misty film of fear and frustration swam before his eyes, blinding him.

  He spoke the verse again, terse, panicked. “ ‘Its expanses you see!’ ” He shook the sphere and the rod, shook the plate. “Work!” he commanded in anger and desperation. “Work, damn you!”

  The chain dropped down, slithered out of Palin’s grasping fingers to lie like a glittering silver snake on the floor. The rod separated from the sphere. Jewels winked and sparkled in the sunlight. And then the room went dark, the light of the jewels vanished. The dragons’ wings blotted out the sun.

  Palin Majere stood in the Citadel of Light holding the shattered remnants of the Device of Time Journeying in his crippled hands.

  The dead! Goldmoon had told him. They are feeding off you!

  He saw his father, saw the river of dead pouring around him. A dream. No, not a dream. Reality was the dream. Goldmoon had tried to tell him.

  “This is what is wrong with the magic! This is why my spells go awry. The dead are leeching the magical power from me. They are all around me. Touching me with their hands, their lips.…”

  He could feel them. Their touch was like cobwebs brushing across his skin. Or insect wings, such as he had felt at Laurana’s home. So much was made clear now. The loss of the magic. It wasn’t that he had lost his power. It was that the dead had sucked it from him.

  “Well,” said Tas, “at least the dragon won’t have the artifact.”

  “No,” said Palin quietly, “she’ll have us.”

  Though he could not see them, he could feel the dead all around him, feeding.

  32

  The Execution

  he candle that kept count of the hours stood beside Silvan’s bed. He lay on his belly, watching the hours melt with the wax. One by one, the lines that marked the hours vanished until only a single line was left. The candle had been crafted to burn for twelve hours. Silvan had lit it at midnight. Eleven hours had been devoured by the flame. The time was nearly noon, the time set for Mina’s execution.

  Silvan extinguished the candle with a breath. He rose and dressed himself in his finest clothes, clothes he had brought to wear on the return march—the victory march—into Silvanost. Fashioned of soft pearl gray, the doublet was stitched with silver that had been twisted and spun into thread. His hose were gray, his boots gray. Touches of white lace were at his wrist and neck.

  “Your Majesty?” a voice called from outside his tent, “it is Kiryn. May I come in?”

  “If you want,” said Silvan shortly, “but no one else.”

  “I was here earlier,” Kiryn said, upon entering. “You didn’t answer. You must have been asleep.”

  “I have not closed my eyes,” Silvan said coldly, adjusting his collar.

  Kiryn was silent a moment, an uncomfortable silence. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

  Silvan cast a him a look that would have been a blow to anyone else. He did not even bother to respond.

  “Cousin, I know how you feel,” Kiryn said. “This act they contemplate is monstrous. Truly monstrous. I have argued with my uncle and the others until my throat is raw from talking, and nothing I say makes any difference. Glaucous
feeds their fear. They are all gorging themselves on terror.”

  “Aren’t you dining with them?” Silvan asked, half-turning.

  “No, Cousin! Of course not!” Kiryn was astonished. “Could you imagine that I would? This is murder. Plain and simple. They may call it an ‘execution’ and try to dress it up so that it looks respectable, but they cannot hide the ugly truth. I do not care if this human is the worst, most reprehensible, most dangerous human who ever lived. Her blood will forever stain the ground upon which it falls, a stain that will spread like a blight among us.”

  Kiryn’s voice dropped. He cast an apprehensive glance out the tent. “Already, Cousin, Glaucous speaks of traitors among our people, of meting out the same punishment to elves. My uncle and the Heads of House were all horrified and utterly opposed to the idea, but I fear that they will cease to feed on fear and start to feed on each other.”

  “Glaucous,” Silvan repeated softly. He might have said more, but he remembered his promise to Mina. “Fetch my breastplate, will you, Cousin? And my sword. Help me on with them, will you?”

  “I can call your attendants,” Kiryn offered.

  “No, I want no one.” Silvan clenched his fist. “If one of my servants said something insulting about her I might … I might do something I would regret.”

  Kiryn helped with the leather buckles.

  “I have heard that she is quite lovely. For a human,” he remarked.

  Silvan cast his cousin a sharp, suspicious glance.

  Kiryn did not look up from his work. Muttering under his breath, he pretended to be preoccupied with a recalcitrant strap.

  Reassured, Silvan relaxed. “She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw, Kiryn! So fragile and delicate. And her eyes! I have never seen such eyes!”

  “And yet, Cousin,” Kiryn rebuked gently, “she is a Knight of Neraka. One of those who have pledged our destruction.”

  “A mistake!” Silvan cried, going from ice to fire in a flash. “I am certain of it! She has been bewitched by the Knights or … or they hold her family hostage … or any number of reasons! In truth, she came here to save us.”