Dragonlance 16 - Dragons Of A Lost Star (31 page)

“You have had a shock, Healer. You have traveled far, by the sounds of it, and in strange company. Come with me. I will take you to Starmaster Mikelis.”

“Yes, I know him! Although,” Goldmoon added, sighing deeply, “he will not know me.”

Lady Odila rose to lead Goldmoon away. Tas and Conundrum rose, too, following right behind. Hearing their footsteps, the Knight turned around. She had that look on her face that Knights get when they are about to summon the City Guard and have someone dragged off to jail. Guessing that the someone might be him, Tasslehoff thought fast.

“Say, Lady Odila!” he said. “Do you know a Knight named Gerard uth Mondar? Because I’m looking for him.”

The Lady Knight, who had indeed been about to shout for the guard, shut her mouth on the words and stared at him.

“What did you say?”

“Gerard uth Mondar. Do you know him?” Tas asked.

“Maybe I do. Excuse me a moment, Healer. This won’t take long.” Lady Odila squatted down in front of Tas, to look him in the eye. “Describe him to me.”

“He has hair the color of Tika’s corn bread and a face that looks ugly at first, until you get to know him, then for some reason, it doesn’t seem all that ugly anymore, especially when he’s rescuing you from Dark Knights. He has eyes that are—”

“Blue as cornflowers,” said Lady Odila. “Corn bread and cornflowers. Yes, that pretty much describes him. How do you know him?”

“He’s a great friend,” said Tas. “We traveled to Qualinesti together—”

“Ah, so
that’s
where he came from.” Lady Odila regarded Tas intently, then she said, “Your friend Gerard is here in Solanthus. He is being brought up before the Knights’ Council. They suspect him of espionage.”

“Oh, dear! I’m sorry to hear he’s sick,” said Tas. “Where is he? I’m sure he’ll be glad to see me.”

“Actually such a meeting might prove extremely interesting,” the lady returned. “Bring these two along, Guard. I suppose the gnome is in on this plot, too?”

“Oh, yes,” said Tasslehoff, taking firm hold of Conundrum’s hand. “He keeps the money.”

“Don’t mention the money!” Conundrum snapped, clutching his robes.

“Obviously some sort of mix-up,” Tasslehoff whispered. “Don’t worry, Conundrum. I’ll fix everything.”

Knowing that
I’ll
fix everything has been emblazoned in the annals of Krynnish history as the last words many associates of kender ever hear, the gnome was not comforted.

23

Council Of The Nights Of Somalia

Goldmoon was weary from her long journey, weary as if her body were the frail and elderly one that was rightfully her own, not this strange, youthful, strong body. She had come to use the body as she used the wooden staff, to take her to wherever strange destiny called. The body carried her long distances every day without tiring. It ate and drank. It was young and beautiful. People were entranced by it and were glad to help her. Farmers gave her lodging in their humble cottages and eased her weary way by providing rides in their farm carts. Noble lords and ladies took her into their castles and sent her forth on her journey in their fine carriages. Thus, because of the body, she had traveled to Solanthus far more swiftly than she had dared hope.

Goldmoon believed her beauty and youth charmed them, but in this she was wrong. The farmers and the noble lords saw first that she was beautiful, but then they looked into her eyes. They saw there a sorrow and a seeking that touched them deeply, touched the peasant who shared a loaf of bread with her and received her grateful thanks with bowed head, touched the wealthy lady who kissed her and asked for her blessing. Theysaw in Goldmoon’s sorrow their own fears and anxieties. They saw in her seeking their own questing for something more, something better, something in which to believe.

Lady Odila, noting Goldmoon’s pallor and her faltering steps, took her directly to the hall where the Knights’ Council convened and found her a small, comfortable room in the main chamber with a warm fire. The Knight ordered servants to bring water for washing away the stains of the road, and food and drink. After assuring herself that she could do nothing more to make Gold-moon comfortable, Lady Odila departed. She sent a runner to the Temple of the Mystics with word of Goldmoon’s arrival, while she herself saw to the disposition of her prisoners, Tasslehoff and Conundrum.

Goldmoon ate and drank without tasting the food or knowing that she had consumed it. The body demanded fuel to keep going, and she was forced to accede to its demands. She had to keep going, to follow the river of the dead, who called to her and swept her along in their chill, dread current. She sought among the ghostly faces that pressed around her for some among them that she knew: Riverwind, Tika, Caramon, her own beloved daughter . . . all the old friends who had departed this world, leaving her behind. She could not find them, but that was not surprising, for the numbers of the dead were like the drops in a river, bewildering, overwhelming.

The body was hale and strong, but she was tired, so very tired. She thought of herself as a candle flame burning inside an ornate lantern. The flame burned low, the wax had all melted, the wick was down to the last tiny portion. What she could not see was that as the flame dwindled, her light burned ever brighter.

The One God. Goldmoon did not remember having spoken of the One God. She had not said anything, but she had dreamed about the One God. Dreamed often, the same dream, over and over so that her sleep was almost as wearying as her waking hours.

In the dream, Goldmoon was once again in the Temple of the Gods in the ancient city of Xak Tsaroth. She held in her hands the blue crystal staff. Before her was the statue of the blessed Mishakal, goddess of healing. The statue’s hand was curled as if to hold a staff, yet no staff was there. As Goldmoon had done once, so long ago, she gave the magical staff to the statue. That time, the statue had accepted it, and Goldmoon had come to understand the love the gods bore their children. In the dream, though, when she tried to give the staff to the goddess, the crystal staff shattered, cutting her hands that were soon covered in blood. Her joy changed to terror.

The dream ended with Goldmoon waking, trembling and confused.

She pondered the portent of this dream. First she thought it might mean one thing, then another. She dwelled on it until the images began to wheel in her mind, one chasing the other, like a snake swallowing its own tail. Shutting her eyes, she pressed her hands against them, trying to banish the wheel.

“Daughter of Goldmoon?” came a concerned voice.

She dropped her hands, startled, and looked into the kindly, anxious face of Starmaster Mikelis. She had met him before. He had studied at the Citadel of Light, where he had been an excellent student, a capable and gentle healer. A Solamnic by birth, he had returned to Solanthus and was now head of the Temple of Light in that city. Often they had spent hours talking together, and she sighed to see that he did not recognize her.

“I am sorry,” he said gently. “I did not mean to frighten you, Daughter. I would not have entered without knocking, but Lady Odila said she feared you might be unwell, and she hoped you might be sleeping. Yet I am glad to see that you have eaten and drunk with good appetite.”

He looked with some perplexity at the numerous plates and a basket that had been filled with bread. The strange body had eaten a dinner that would have fed two, and there was not a crumb left.

“Thank you, Starmaster,” Goldmoon said. “You did not frighten me. I have traveled a long distance, and I am fatigued. I am distraught over this news that the citadel was attacked. I did not know. It was the first I had heard—”

“Some were killed,” Mikelis said, taking a seat beside her. “We grieve for them and trust that their spirits wing their way from this world to the next. Daughter,” he asked in sudden alarm, “are you ill? Is there something I can do?”

Goldmoon had started at this statement about the spirits and, shuddering, glanced around. Ghosts filled the room, some watching her, some roving about restlessly, some seeking to touch her, others paying no attention to her. They never stayed long. They I were forced to keep moving, to join the river that flowed steadily north.

“No,” she said confusedly. “It’s this terrible news. . . .”

She knew better than to try to explain. Mikelis was a good man, a dedicated man, but he would not understand that the spirits could never wing their way anywhere, that they were trapped, prisoners.

“I regret to say,” he added, “that we have received no news of your mother. We take this as a hopeful sign that Goldmoon was not injured in the attack.”

“She was not,” said Goldmoon briskly. Better to end this and tell the truth. She did not have much time. The river drew her onward. “Goldmoon was not hurt in the attack because she wasn’t there. She fled. She left her people to face the dragons without her.”

Starmaster Mikelis looked troubled. “Daughter, do not speak so disrespectfully of your mother.”

“I know that she fled,” Goldmoon continued relentlessly. “I am not Goldmoon’s daughter, as you well know, Starmaster. You know that I have only two daughters, one of whom is . . . dead. I am Goldmoon. I have come to Solanthus to tell my story before the Knights’ Council, to see if they can help me and also to give them a warning. Surely,” she added, “you have heard rumors of my ‘miraculous’ transformation.”

Starmaster Mikelis was clearly uncomfortable. He was obviously trying not to stare, yet he could not take his eyes from her. He looked at her, then looked quickly away, only to gaze back at her in bewilderment.

“Some of our young Mystics made a pilgrimage to the citadel not long ago,” he conceded. “They returned with the tale that you had been the recipient of a miracle, that you had been given back your youth. I confess that I thought this an overabundance of youthful exuberance.” He halted, now openly staring. “Can it be you, First Master? Forgive me,” he added awkwardly, “but we have received reports that the Dark Knights have infiltrated the Orders of the Mystics. . . .”

“Do you remember the night we sat beneath the stars, Starmaster, and spoke of the gods you had known in your youth and how, even as a small boy, you felt drawn to be a cleric of Paladine?

“First Master!” Mikelis cried. Taking hold of her hands, he pressed them to his lips. “This is truly you, and it is truly a miracle.”

“No, it is not,” said Goldmoon tiredly. “It is me, but it is not me. It is not a miracle, it is a curse. I don’t expect you to understand. How could I, when I don’t understand? I know that the Knights honor and revere you. I sent for you to ask you a favor. I must speak before the Knights’ Council, and I cannot wait until next week or next month or whenever it is they might make room for me on their schedule. Can you gain me entry to see them now, this day?”

“I can!” Mikelis returned, smiling. “I am not the only Mystic they revere. When they hear that First Master Goldmoon is present, they will be only too glad to give you audience. The council has adjourned but only for supper. They are holding a special session to consider the fate of a spy, but that should not take long. Once that sordid business is concluded, you will come as a ray of light to the darkness.”

“I fear that I come only to deepen the darkness, but that will be as it may.” Goldmoon rose to her feet, gripping the wooden staff. “Take me to the council room.”

“But, Master,” Mikelis protested, rising in his turn, “the Knights will still be at table. They may be there some time. And there is this matter of the spy. You should remain here where you are comfortable—”

“I am never comfortable,” she said, her voice crisp with anger and impatience, “so it does not matter whether I remain here or sit in a drafty chamber. I must speak before the council this day. Who knows but that this business with the spy might drag on, and they would send me word that I should return tomorrow.”

“Master, I assure you—”

“No! I do not intend to be put off until tomorrow or whenever it may suit them. If I am present in the room, they cannot very well refuse to listen to me. And, you will make no mention to them of this so-called miracle.”

“Certainly, Master, if that is what you wish,” Mikelis said.

He looked and sounded hurt. He was disappointed in her. Here was a miracle, right before his eyes, and she would not permit him to glory in it.

In my hands, the blue crystal staff shattered.

She accompanied Starmaster Mikelis to the council chamber, where he persuaded the guards to permit her entry. Once they were inside, he started to ask if she was comfortable—she saw the words form on his lips—but he stammered and, with a stumbling apology, said that he would go to apprise the Lord Knight that she was here. Goldmoon took a seat in the large, echoing chamber decorated with roses. Their perfume scented the air.

She waited alone in the darkness, for the room faced away from the afternoon sunlight and the candles that lit it had been put out upon the Knights’ departure. The servants offered to bring light, but Goldmoon preferred to sit in the darkness.

At the same moment Goldmoon was being led to the council chamber, Gerard was being escorted by Lady Odila from his prison cell to the meeting of the Knights’ Council. He had not been treated harshly, not by the standards of the Dark Knights of Neraka. He had not been tied to the rack nor hung by his thumbs. He had been brought before the inquisitor and badgered with questions for days, the same questions, over and over, the man tossing them out at random, jumping forward in time, leapfrogging back, always hoping to catch him in a lie.

Gerard was faced with a choice. Either he could tell his story from beginning to end, starting with a time-traveling dead kender and ending with his inadvertently switching sides to become aide-de-camp to Marshal Medan, one of the most notorious of the Dark Knights of Neraka. Or he could state over and over that he was a Solamnic Knight who had been sent on a secret mission by Lord Warren and that he had a perfectly logical, reasonable and innocent explanation for why he came to be riding a blue dragon and wearing the leathers of a Dark Knight dragonrider, all of which he would explain in full before the Knights’ Council.

Not, admittedly, the best of choices. Gerard had decided on the latter.

At length, after many weary hours of badgering, the inquisitor reported to his superiors that the prisoner was sticking by his story and that he would speak only to the Knights’ Council. The inquisitor had also added that, in his opinion, the prisoner was either telling the truth, or he was one of the most cunning and clever spies of this age. Whichever was true, he should be brought before the Knights’ Council and questioned.

As Lady Odila accompanied Gerard to the hall, she disconcerted him by staring quite often at his hair, which was probably standing straight up, since it would do nothing else.

“It’s yellow,” he said at last, put out. “And it needs trimming. I don’t usually—”

“Tika’s corn bread,” said Lady Odila, her green-eyed gaze on his hair. “You have hair as yellow as Tika’s corn bread.”

“How do you know Tika?” Gerard demanded, astonished.

“How do you know Tika?” she returned.

“She was the proprietor of the Inn of the Last Home in Solace, where I was posted, as I stated, if you’re trying to test me—”

“Ah,” said Lady Odila. “That Tika.”

“Where did you— Who said—”

Lady Odila, a thoughtful expression on her face, shook her head, refused to answer any of his questions. She held his arm in a pincerlike grip—she had uncommonly large, strong hands— and was absentmindedly urging him forward at her own long-strided pace, taking no notice that he was hampered by the manacles and chains on his ankles and was forced to keep up with her by means of a painful, hobbled trot.

He saw no reason to call her attention to this fact. He had no intention of saying anything further to this baffling female, who would only make a jest or a riddle of his words. He was going before the Knights’ Council, appearing before lords who would hear him without prejudice. He had decided on which parts of his story he would tell without qualification and which he would keep to himself (such as the time-traveling dead kender). His tale, although strange, was believable.

They arrived at the Hall of Knights, the oldest building in Solanthus, dating back to the city’s founding by, so legend had it, a son of the founder of the Knighthood, Vinus Solamnus. Made of granite faced with marble, the Hall of Knights had originally been a simple structure, resembling a block house. Additional levels had been added down through the ages—wings and towers and spires—so that now the simple block house had been transformed into a complex of buildings, surrounding an inner courtyard. A school had been established, instructing aspiring Knights not only in the art of warfare, but also the study of the Measure and how its laws were to be interpreted, for these Knights would spend only a small portion of their time fighting. Noble lords, they were leaders in their communities and would be expected to hear pleas, render judgment. Although the vast complex of structures had long outgrown the term “hall,” the Knights continued to refer to it as that, in deference to the past.

Once, temples to Paladine and Kiri-Jolith, a god particularly honored by the Knights, had been a part of the complex. After the departure of the gods, the Knights had politely permitted the priests to remain, but—their power of prayer gone—the priests had felt useless and uncomfortable. The temples held such sorrowful memories that they had departed. The temples remained open. They had become a favorite place for Knights to go to study or to spend evenings in long philosophical discussions. The temples had a peace about them that was conducive to thought, or so it was said. Many of the younger students found them a curiosity.

Gerard had himself never visited Solanthus, but he had heard his father describe it, and recalling his father’s descriptions, he tried to figure out which buildings were which. He knew the Great Hall, of course, with its sharply pointed roof and flying buttresses and ornate stonework.

Odila led him inside the Great Hall. He caught a glimpse of the enormous chamber, where town meetings were held. Odila escorted him up a winding stone stairway and down a long, echoing corridor. The corridor was lit with oil lamps mounted on tall, heavy pedestals carved from stone to resemble maidens holding lamps in their outstretched hands. The sculptures were extraordinary—each maiden was different, having been modeled from real life—but Gerard was so absorbed in his thoughts that he paid them scant attention.

The council, made up of three Knights, the heads of the three Orders of the Knighthood—Knights of the Sword, Knights of the Rose, Knights of the Crown—was just convening. The Knights stood together at the end of the hallway, apart from the noble lords and ladies and a few common folk who had come to witness the proceedings and who were now filing quietly into the chamber. A Knights’ Council was a solemn procedure. Few spoke, or if they did, they kept their voices low. Lady Odila brought her prisoner to a halt and, leaving him in the care of guards, went to inform the herald the prisoner was present.

When those seated in the gallery had all entered, the Lord Knights walked into the room, preceded by several squires carrying the emblem of the Knights of Solamnia with its sword, rose, and kingfisher. Next came the flag of the city of Solanthus, and after that the banners of the Lord Knights who sat upon the council.

While waiting for them to take their places, Gerard scanned the crowd, searching for someone who might know either him or his father. He saw no signs of anyone he recognized, and his heart sank.

“There is someone here who claims to know you,” said Lady Odila, returning. She had seen his scrutiny of the assembly, guessed what he was doing.

“There is?” he asked, relieved. “Who is it? Perhaps Lord Jeffrey of Lynchburg or perhaps Lord Grantus?”

Lady Odila shook her head, her mouth twitched. “No, no. None of those. Not a Knight at all, in fact. He’s going to be called to testify on your behalf. Please accept my condolences.”

“What—” Gerard began angrily, but she cut him off.

“Oh, and in case you were concerned about your blue dragon, you will be pleased to know that he has thus far escaped our attempts to slay him. We discovered the cave empty, but we know he is still in the vicinity. We have received reports of livestock disappearing.”

Gerard knew that he should be on the Knights’ side in this contest, but he found himself rooting for Razor, who had been a loyal and gallant mount. He was touched by the fact that the dragon was risking his own life to remain in the area, even though Razor must realize by now that something unfortunate had happened to Gerard.

“Bring forth the prisoner,” cried the bailiff.

Lady Odila reached to take hold of Gerard, to lead him into the hall.

“I am sorry you must be manacled,” she said to him quietly, “but that is the law.”

He looked at her in astonishment. He could not, for the life of him, figure her out. Giving her a grudging nod, he evaded her grip and walked past her. He might have to enter the council room clanking and shackled, but he would enter on his own, carrying himself proudly, with his head high.

He hobbled into the room to the whispers and murmurs of those seated in the gallery. The Lord Knights sat behind a long wooden table placed at the front of the chamber. Gerard knew the custom. He had attended Knights’ Councils as a spectator before, and he advanced to the center of the room, to make his obeisance to the three who would be sitting in judgment upon him. The Lord Knights watched him with grave countenances, but he guessed by their approving looks and nods that he was creating a favorable impression. He rose from his bow and was turning to take his place at the dock when he heard a voice that dashed all his hopes and expectations and caused him to think that he might as well call for the executioner and save everyone the trouble.

“Gerard!” cried the voice. “Over here, Gerard! It’s me! Tasslehoff! Tasslehoff Burrfoot!”

The spectators were located at the far end of the large, rectangular room. The Lord Knights were seated at the front. The dock, holding the prisoners and their guards, was to their left. On the right, against the wall, were chairs for those who had business before the Knights’ Council, petitions to present, or testimony to offer.

Goldmoon rested in one of these chairs. She had waited two hours for the council to convene. She had slept some during that time, her sleep disturbed as usual by the spinning wheel of whirling, multicolored forms and images. She woke when she heard the people filing in to take their seats at the gallery. They looked at her strangely, some staring, others painfully careful to avoid doing so. When the Lord Knights entered, each bowed low before her. One knelt to ask for her blessing.

Goldmoon understood by this that Starmaster Mikelis had spread the word of the miracle of her renewed youth.

At first she was annoyed and even angry with the Starmaster for having told people when she had specifically requested him not to do so. On reflection, she admitted that she was being unreasonable. He would have to offer some explanation for her altered appearance, and he had saved her the weary work of having to describe yet again what had happened to her, to relive the night of that terrible transformation. She accepted the Knights’ homage and reverence with patience. The dead flitted around her, as well, but then the dead were always around her.

Starmaster Mikelis returned to sit protectively beside her, watching over her with a mixture of awe and pity and perplexity.

Obviously he could not understand why she was not running through the streets displaying the wondrous gift she had been granted. None of them understood. They mistook her patience for humility, and they honored her for that, but they resented her for it as well. She had been given this great gift, a gift every one of them would have been glad to receive. The least she could do was enjoy it.

The Knights’ Council convened with the ritual formalities the Solamnics love. Such formalities grace every important epoch in a Solamnic’s life, from birth to death, and no function is considered to have truly happened without innumerable solemn pronouncements and readings and quotations from the Measure.

Goldmoon sank back against the wall, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. The trial of some Knight began, but Goldmoon was not consciously aware of it. The droning voices were an undercurrent to her dreams, and in her dreams she was back in Tarsis. The city was being attacked by an immense flight of dragons. She cowered in terror as the shadows of their many-colored wings turned bright day into darkest night. Tasslehoff was calling her name. He was telling her something, something important. . . .

“Tas!” she cried, sitting bolt upright. “Tas, fetch Tanis! I must speak to him—”

She blinked and looked around her in confusion.

“Goldmoon, First Master,” Mikelis was saying softly, as he chafed her hands soothingly. “You were dreaming.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I was dreaming. . . .”

She tried to recall the dream, for she had discovered something important, and she had been going to tell Tanis. But of course, Tanis was not there. None of them were there. She was alone, and she could not remember what it was she had been dreaming about.

Everyone in the hall was staring at her. Her outburst had interrupted the proceedings. Starmaster Mikelis made a sign that all was well. The Lord Knights turned their attention to the case at hand, calling forth the prisoner Knight to take his place before them.

Goldmoon’s gaze roamed aimlessly about the room, watching the restless dead rove among the living. The voices of the Lord Knights droned, and she paid no attention to them until they called upon Tasslehoff to give testimony. He stood in the dock, a shabby and diminutive figure among the tall, splendidly accoutered guards.