Dragons of Winter Night

by Margaret Weis

  “So what happened next?” the old man demanded, poking Tas.

  “Oh, uh, that’s where it gets a bit—uh—muddled,” Tas said. “I heard a scream and a thump. Well, it was more like a splatter actually, and I f-f-figured the splatter was you.”

  “Me?” the old man shouted. “Splatter!” He glared at the kender furiously. “I never in my life splattered!”

  “Then Sestun and I tumbled down into the chicken feathers, along with the chain. I looked—I really did.” Tas’s eyes filled with tears as he remembered his heartbroken search for the old man’s body. “But there were too many feathers … and there was this terrible commotion outside where the dragons were fighting. Sestun and I made it to the door, and then we found Tanis, and I wanted to go back to look for you some more, but Tanis said no …”

  “So you left me buried under a mound of chicken feathers?”

  “It was an awfully nice memorial service,” Tas faltered. “Goldmoon spoke, and Elistan. You didn’t meet Elistan, but you remember Goldmoon, don’t you? And Tanis?”

  “Goldmoon …” the old man murmured. “Ah, yes. Pretty girl. Big, stern-looking chap in love with her.”

  “Riverwind!” said Tas in excitement. “And Raistlin?”

  “Skinny fellow. Damn good magician,” the old man said solemnly, “but he’ll never amount to anything if he doesn’t do something about that cough.”

  “You are Fizban!” Tas said. Jumping up gleefully, he threw his arms around the old man and hugged him tight.

  “There, there,” Fizban said, embarrassed, patting Tas on the back. “That’s quite enough. You’ll crumple my robes. Don’t sniffle. Can’t abide it. Need a hankie?”

  “No, I’ve got one—”

  “Now, that’s better. Oh, I say, I believe that handkerchief’s mine. Those are my initials,”

  “Is it? You must have dropped it.”

  “I remember you now!” the old man said loudly. “You’re Tassle—Tassle-something-or-other.”

  “Tasslehoff. Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” the kender replied.

  “And I’m—” The old man stopped. “What did you say the name was?”

  “Fizban.”

  “Fizban. Yes …” The old man pondered a moment, then he shook his head. “I sure thought he was dead.…”

  10

  Silvara’s secret.

  How did you survive?” Tas asked, pulling some dried fruit from a pouch to share with Fizban.

  The old man appeared wistful. “I really didn’t think I did,” he said apologetically. “I’m afraid I haven’t the vaguest notion. But, come to think of it, I haven’t been able to eat a chicken since. Now”—he stared at the kender shrewdly—“what are you doing here?”

  “I came with some of my friends. The rest are wandering around somewhere, if they’re still alive.” He sniffed again.

  “They are. Don’t worry.” Fizban patted him on the back.

  “Do you think so?” Tas brightened. “Well, anyway, we’re here with Silvara—”

  “Silvara!” The old man leaped to his feet, his white hair flying out wildly. The vague look faded from his face.

  “Where is she?” the old man demanded sternly. “And your friends, where are they?”

  “D-downstairs,” stammered Tas, startled at the old man’s transformation. “Silvara cast a spell on them!”

  “Ah, she did, did she?” the old man muttered. “We’ll see about that. Come on.” He started off along the balcony, walking so rapidly, Tas had to run to keep up.

  “Where’d you say they were?” the old man asked, stopping near the stairs. “Be specific,” he snapped.

  “Uh—the tomb! Huma’s tomb! I think it’s Huma’s tomb. That’s what Silvara said.”

  “Humpf. Well, at least we don’t have to walk.”

  Descending the stairs to the hole in the floor Tas had come up through, the old man stepped out into its center. Tas, gulping a little, joined him, clutching at the old man’s robes. They hung suspended over nothing but darkness, feeling cool air waft up around them.

  “Down,” the old man stated.

  They began to rise, drifting toward the ceiling of the upper gallery. Tas felt the hair stand up on his head.

  “I said down!” the old man shouted furiously, waving his staff menacingly at the hole below him.

  There was a slurping sound and both of them were sucked into the hole so rapidly that Fizban’s hat flew off. It’s just like the hat he lost in the red dragon’s lair, Tas thought. It was bent and shapeless, and apparently possessed of a mind of its own. Fizban made a wild grab for it, but missed. The hat, however, floated down after them, about fifty feet above.

  Tasslehoff peered down, fascinated, and started to ask a question, but Fizban shushed him. Gripping his staff, the old mage began whispering to himself, making an odd sign in the air.

  Laurana opened her eyes. She was lying on a cold stone bench, staring at a black, glistening ceiling. She had no idea where she was. Then memory returned. Silvara!

  Sitting up swiftly, she flashed a glance around the room. Flint was groaning and rubbing his neck. Theros blinked and looked around, puzzled. Gilthanas, already on his feet, stood at the end of Huma’s tomb, gazing down at something by the door. As Laurana walked over to him, he turned around. Putting his finger to his lips, he nodded in the direction of the doorway.

  Silvara sat there, her head in her arms, sobbing bitterly.

  Laurana hesitated, the angry words on her lips dying. This certainly wasn’t what she had expected. What had she expected? she asked herself. Never to wake again, most likely. There had to be an explanation. She started forward.

  “Silvara—” she began.

  The girl leaped up, her tear-stained face white with fear.

  “What are you doing awake? How did you free yourself from my spell?” she gasped, falling back against the wall.

  “Never mind that!” Laurana answered, though she hadn’t any idea how she had wakened. “Tell us—”

  “It was my doing!” announced a deep voice. Laurana and the rest turned around to see a white-bearded old man in mouse-colored robes rise up solemnly out of the hole in the floor.

  “Fizban!” whispered Laurana in disbelief.

  There was a clunk and a thud. Flint toppled over in a dead faint. No one even looked at him. They simply stared at the old mage in awe. Then, with a shrill shriek, Silvara flung herself flat on the cold stone floor, shivering and whimpering softly.

  Ignoring the stares of the others, Fizban walked across the floor of the tomb, past the bier, past the comatose dwarf, to come to Silvara. Behind him, Tasslehoff scrambled up out of the hole.

  “Look who I found,” the kender said proudly. “Fizban! And I flew, Laurana. I jumped into the hole and just flew straight up into the air. And there’s a painting up there with gold dragons, and then Fizban sat up and yelled at me and—I must admit I felt really queer there for a while. My voice was gone and … what happened to Flint?”

  “Hush, Tas,” Laurana said weakly, her eyes on Fizban. Kneeling down, he shook the Wilder elfmaid.

  “Silvara, what have you done?” Fizban asked sternly. Laurana thought then that perhaps she had made a mistake—this must be some other old man dressed in the old magician’s clothes. This stern-faced, powerful man was certainly not the befuddled old mage she remembered. But no, she’d recognize that face anywhere, to say nothing of the hat!

  Watching the two of them—Silvara and Fizban—before her, Laurana felt great and awesome power like silent thunder surging between the two. She had a terrible longing to run out of this place and keep running until she dropped with exhaustion. But she couldn’t move. She could only stare.

  “What have you done, Silvara?” Fizban demanded. “You have broken your oath!”

  “No!” The girl moaned, writhing on the ground at the old mage’s feet. “No, I haven’t. Not yet—”

  “You have walked the world in another body, meddling in the affairs of men. That alone
would be sufficient. But you brought them here!”

  Silvara’s tear-stained face was twisted in anguish. Laurana felt her own tears sliding unchecked down her cheeks.

  “All right then!” Silvara cried defiantly. “I broke my oath, or at least I intended to. I brought them here. I had to! I’ve seen the misery and the suffering. Besides”—her voice fell, her eyes stared far away—“they had an orb …”

  “Yes,” said Fizban softly. “A dragon orb. Taken from Ice Wall Castle. It fell into your possession. What have you done with it, Silvara? Where is it now?”

  “I sent it away …” Silvara said almost inaudibly.

  Fizban seemed to age. His face grew weary. Sighing deeply, he leaned heavily upon his staff. “Where did you send it, Silvara? Where is the dragon orb now?”

  “St-Sturm has it,” Laurana interrupted fearfully. “He took it to Sancrist. What does this mean? Is Sturm in danger?”

  “Who?” Fizban peered around over his shoulder. “Oh, hullo there, my dear.” He beamed at her. “So nice to see you again. How’s your father?”

  “My father—” Laurana shook her head, confused. “Look, old man, never mind my father! Who—”

  “And your brother.” Fizban extended a hand to Gilthanas. “Good to see you, son. And you, sir.” He bowed to an astonished Theros. “Silver arm? My, my”—he stole a look back at Silvara—“what a coincidence. Theros Ironfeld, isn’t it? Heard a lot about you. And my name is …” The old magician paused, his brow furrowed.

  “My name is …”

  “Fizban,” supplied Tasslehoff helpfully.

  “Fizban.” The old man nodded, smiling.

  Laurana thought she saw the old magician cast a warning glance at Silvara. The girl lowered her head as if to acknowledge some silent, secret signal passed between them.

  But before Laurana could sort out her whirling thoughts, Fizban turned back to her again. “And now, Laurana, you wonder who Silvara is? It is up to Silvara to tell you. For I must leave you now. I have a long journey ahead of me.”

  “Must I tell them?” Silvara asked softly. She was still on her knees and, as she spoke, her eyes went to Gilthanas. Fizban followed her gaze. Seeing the elflord’s stricken face, his own face softened. Then he shook his head sadly.

  Silvara raised her hands to him in a pleading gesture. Fizban walked over to her. Taking her hands, he raised her to her feet. She threw her arms around him, and he held her close.

  “No, Silvara,” he said, his voice kind and gentle, “you do not have to tell them. The choice is yours that was your sister’s. You can make them forget they were ever here.”

  Suddenly the only color left in Silvara’s face was the deep blue of her eyes. “But, that will mean—”

  “Yes, Silvara,” he said. “It is up to you.” He kissed the girl on the forehead. “Farewell, Silvara.”

  Turning, he looked back at the rest. “Good-bye, good-bye. Nice seeing you again. I’m a bit miffed about the chicken feathers, but—no hard feelings.” He waited impatiently a minute, glaring at Tasslehoff. “Are you coming? I haven’t got all night!”

  “Coming? With you?” Tas cried, dropping Flint’s head back onto the stone floor with a thunk. The kender stood up. “Of course, let me get my pack …” Then he stopped, glancing down at the unconscious dwarf. “Flint—”

  “He’ll be fine,” Fizban promised. “You won’t be parted from your friends long. We’ll see them”—he frowned, muttering to himself—“seven days, add three, carry the one, what’s seven times four? Oh well, around Famine Time. That’s when they’ll hold the Council meeting. Now, come along. I’ve got work to do. Your friends are in good hands. Silvara will take care of them, won’t you, my dear?” He turned to the Wilder elf.

  “I will tell them,” she promised sadly, eyes on Gilthanas.

  The elflord was staring at her and at Fizban, his face pale, fear spreading through his soul.

  Silvara sighed. “You are right. I broke the oath long ago. I must finish what I set out to do.”

  “As you think best.” Fizban laid his hand upon Silvara’s head, stroking her silver hair. Then he turned away.

  “Will I be punished?” she asked, just as the old man stepped into the shadows.

  Fizban stopped. Shaking his head, he looked back over his shoulder “Some would say you are being punished right now, Silvara,” he said softly. “But what you do, you do out of love. As the choice was up to you, so is your punishment.”

  The old man stepped into the darkness. Tasslehoff ran after him, his pouches bouncing behind him. “Good-bye, Laurana! Good-bye, Theros! Take care of Flint!” In the silence that followed, Laurana could hear the old man’s voice.

  “What was that name again? Fizbut, Furball—”

  “Fizban!” said Tas shrilly.

  “Fizban … Fizban …” muttered the old man.

  All eyes turned to Silvara.

  She was calm now, at peace with herself. Although her face was filled with sorrow, it was not the tormented, bitter sorrow they had seen earlier. This was the sorrow of loss, the quiet, accepting sorrow of one who has nothing to regret. Silvara walked toward Gilthanas. She took hold of his hands and looked up into his face with so much love that Gilthanas felt blessed, even as he knew she was going to tell him good-bye.

  “I am losing you, Silvara,” he murmured in broken tones. “I see it in your eyes. But I don’t know why! You love me—”

  “I love you, elflord,” Silvara said softly. “I loved you when I saw you lying injured upon the sand. When you looked up and smiled at me, I knew that the fate which had befallen my sister was to be mine, too.” She sighed. “But it is a risk we take when we choose this form. For though we bring our strength into it, the form inflicts its weaknesses upon us. Or is it a weakness? To love …”

  “Silvara, I don’t understand!” Gilthanas cried.

  “You will,” she promised, her voice soft. Her head bowed.

  Gilthanas took her in his arms, holding her. She buried her face in his chest. He kissed her beautiful silver hair, then clasped her with a sob.

  Laurana turned away. This grief seemed too sacred for her eyes to intrude upon. Swallowing her own tears, she looked around and then remembered the dwarf. She took some water from his waterskin and sprinkled it on Flint’s face.

  His eyes fluttered, then opened. The dwarf stared up at Laurana for a moment and reached out a trembling hand.

  “Fizban!” the dwarf whispered hoarsely.

  “I know,” Laurana said, wondering how the dwarf would take the news about Tas’s leaving.

  “Fizban’s dead!” Flint gasped. “Tas said so! In a pile of chicken feathers!” The dwarf struggled to sit up. “Where is that rattle-brained kender?”

  “He’s gone, Flint,” Laurana said. “He went with Fizban.”

  “Gone?” The dwarf looked around blankly. “You let him go? With that old man?”

  “I’m afraid so—”

  “You let him go with a dead old man?”

  “I really didn’t have much choice.” Laurana smiled. “It was his decision. He’ll be fine—”

  “Where’d they go?” Flint stood and shouldered his pack.

  “You can’t go after them,” Laurana said. “Please, Flint.” She put her arm around the dwarf’s shoulders. “I need you. You’re Tanis’s oldest friend, my advisor—”

  “But he’s gone without me,” Flint said plaintively. “How could he leave? I didn’t see him go.”

  “You fainted—”

  “I did no such thing!” the dwarf roared.

  “You—you were out cold,” Laurana stammered.

  “I never faint!” stated the dwarf indignantly. “It must have been a recurrence of that deadly disease I caught on board that boat—” Flint dropped his pack and slumped down beside it. “Idiot kender. Running off with a dead old man.”

  Theros came over to Laurana, drawing her to one side. “Who was that old man?” he asked curiously.

  “It’s
a long story.” Laurana sighed. “And I’m not certain I could answer that question anyway.”

  “He seems familiar.” Theros frowned and shook his head. “But I can’t remember where I’ve seen him before, though he puts me in mind of Solace and the Inn of the Last Home. And he knew me …” The blacksmith stared at his silver hand. “I felt a shock go through me when he looked at me, like lightning striking a tree.” The big blacksmith shivered, then he glanced over at Silvara and Gilthanas. “And what of this?”

  “I think we’re finally about to find out,” Laurana said.

  “You were right,” Theros said. “You didn’t trust her—”

  “But not for the right reasons,” Laurana admitted guiltily.

  With a small sigh, Silvara pushed herself away from Gilthanas’s embrace. The elflord let her go reluctantly.

  “Gilthanas,” she said, drawing a shuddering breath, “take a torch off the wall and hold it up before me.”

  Gilthanas hesitated. Then, almost angrily, he followed her directions.

  “Hold the torch there …” she instructed, guiding his hand so that the light blazed right before her. “Now—look at my shadow on the wall behind me,” she said in trembling tones.

  The tomb was silent, only the sputtering of the flaming torch made any sound. Silvara’s shadow sprang into life on the cold stone wall behind her. The companions stared at it and—for an instant—none of them could say a word.

  The shadow Silvara cast upon the wall was not the shadow of a young elfmaid.

  It was the shadow of a dragon.

  “You’re a dragon!” Laurana said in shocked disbelief. She laid her hand on her sword, but Theros stopped her.

  “No!” he said suddenly. “I remember. That old man—” He looked at his arm. “Now I remember. He used to come into the Inn of the Last Home! He was dressed differently. He wasn’t a mage, but it was him! I’ll swear it! He told stories to the children. Stories about good dragons. Gold dragons and—”

  “Silver dragons,” Silvara said, looking at Theros. “I am a silver dragon. My sister was the Silver Dragon who loved Huma and fought the final great battle with him—”