“I am happy, for Sturm’s sake,” Laurana said coolly, exchanging worried looks with Elistan. Although she liked what she had seen of Lord Gunthar, she had been brought up in a royal household and knew Sturm was being made a game piece.
Gunthar caught the edge of ice in her voice, and his face became grave. “Lady Laurana,” he said, speaking more somberly, “I know what you are thinking—that I am dangling Sturm from puppet strings. Let us be brutally frank, lady. The Knights are divided, split into two factions—Derek’s and my own. And we both know what happens to a tree split in two: both sides wither and die. This battle between us must end, or it will have tragic consequences. Now, lady and Elistan, for I have come to trust and rely on your judgment, I leave this in your hands. You have met me and you have met Lord Derek Crownguard. Who would you choose to head the Knights?”
“You, of course, Lord Gunthar,” Elistan said sincerely.
Laurana nodded her head. “I agree. This feud is ruinous to the Knighthood. I saw that myself, in the Council meeting. And—from what I’ve heard of the reports coming from Palanthas—it is hurting our cause there as well. My first concern must be for my friend, however.”
“I quite understand, and I am glad to hear you say so,” Gunthar said approvingly, “because it makes the very great favor I am about to ask of you easier.” Gunthar took Laurana’s arm. “I want you to go to Palanthas.”
“What? Why? I don’t understand!”
“Of course not. Let me explain. Please sit down. You, too, Elistan. I’ll pour some wine—”
“I think not,” Laurana said, sitting near the window.
“Very well.” Gunthar’s face became grave. He laid his hand over Laurana’s. “We know politics, you and I, lady. So I am going to arrange all my game pieces before you. Ostensibly you will be traveling to Palanthas to teach the knights to use the dragonlances. It is a legitimate reason. Without Theros, you and the dwarf are the only ones who understand their usage. And—let’s face it—the dwarf is too short to handle one.”
Gunthar cleared his throat. “You will take the lances to Palanthas. But more importantly, you will carry with you a Writ of Vindication from the Council fully restoring Sturm’s honor. That will strike the death’s blow to Derek’s ambition. The moment Sturm puts on his armor, all will know I have the Council’s full support. I shouldn’t wonder if Derek won’t go on trial when he returns.”
“But why me?” Laurana asked bluntly. “I can teach anyone—Lord Michael, for example—to use a dragonlance. He can take them to Palanthas. He can carry the Writ to Sturm—”
“Lady”—Lord Gunthar gripped her hand hard, drawing near and speaking barely above a whisper—“you still do not understand! I cannot trust Lord Michael! I cannot—I dare not trust any one of the knights with this! Derek has been knocked from his horse—so to speak—but he hasn’t lost the tourney yet. I need someone I can trust implicitly! Someone who knows Derek for what he is, who has Sturm’s best interests at heart!”
“I do have Sturm’s interests at heart,” Laurana said coldly. “I put them above the interests of the Knighthood.”
“Ah, but remember, Lady Laurana,” Gunthar said, rising to his feet and bowing as he kissed her hand, “Sturm’s only interest is the Knighthood. What would happen to him, do you think, if the Knighthood should fall? What will happen to him if Derek seizes control?”
In the end, of course, Laurana agreed to go to Palanthas, as Gunthar had known she must. As the time of her departure drew nearer, she began to dream almost nightly of Tanis arriving on the island just hours after she left. More than once she was on the verge of refusing to go, but then she thought of facing Tanis, of having to tell him she had refused to go to Sturm to warn him of this peril. This kept her from changing her mind. This—and her regard for Sturm.
It was during the lonely nights, when her heart and her arms ached for Tanis and she had visions of him holding that human woman with the dark, curly hair, flashing brown eyes, and the charming, crooked smile, that her soul was in turmoil.
Her friends could give her little comfort. One of them, Elistan, left when a messenger arrived from the elves, requesting the cleric’s presence, and asking that an emissary from the knights accompany him. There was little time for farewells. Within a day of the arrival of the elven messenger, Elistan and Lord Alfred’s son, a solemn, serious young man named Douglas, began their journey back to Southern Ergoth. Laurana had never felt so alone as she bid her mentor good-bye.
Tasslehoff faced a sad parting as well.
In the midst of the excitement over the dragonlance, everyone forgot poor Gnosh and his Life Quest, which lay in a thousand sparkling pieces on the grass. Everyone but Fizban. The old magician rose from where he lay cowering on the ground before the shattered Whitestone and went to the stricken gnome, who was staring woefully at the shattered dragon orb.
“There, there, my boy,” said Fizban, “this isn’t the end of everything!”
“It isn’t?” asked Gnosh, so miserable he finished a sentence.
“No, of course not! You’ve got to look at this from the proper perspective. Why, now you’ve got a chance to study a dragon orb from the inside out!”
Gnosh’s eyes brightened. “You’re right,” he said after a short pause, “and, in fact, I bet I could glue—”
“Yes, yes,” Fizban said hurriedly, but Gnosh lunged forward, his speech growing faster and faster.
“We could tag the pieces, don’t you see, and then draw a diagram of where each piece was lying on the ground, which—”
“Quite, quite,” Fizban muttered.
“Step aside, step aside,” Gnosh said importantly, shooing people away from the orb. “Mind where you walk, Lord Gunthar, and, yes, we’re going to study it from the inside out now, and I should have a report in a matter of weeks—”
Gnosh and Fizban cordoned off the area and set to work. For the next two days, Fizban stood on the broken Whitestone making diagrams, supposedly marking the exact location of each piece before it was picked up. (One of Fizban’s diagrams accidentally ended up in the kender’s pouch. Tas discovered later that it was actually a game known as “x’s and zeroes” which the mage had been playing against himself and apparently—lost.)
Gnosh, meanwhile, crawled happily around on the grass, sticking bits of parchment adorned with numbers on pieces of glass smaller than the bits of parchment. He and Fizban finally collected the 2,687 pieces of dragon orb in a basket and transported them back to Mount Nevermind.
Tasslehoff had been offered the choice of staying with Fizban or going to Palanthas with Laurana and Flint. The choice was simple. The kender knew two such innocents as the elfmaid and the dwarf could not survive without him. But it was hard leaving his old friend. Two days before the ship sailed, he paid a final visit to the gnomes and to Fizban.
After an exhilarating ride in the catapult, he found Gnosh in the Examination Room. The pieces of the broken dragon orb—tagged and numbered—were spread out across two tables.
“Absolutely fascinating,” Gnosh spoke so fast he stuttered, “because we have analyzed the glass, curious material, unlike nothing we’ve ever seen, greatest discovery, this century—”
“So your Life Quest is over?” Tas interrupted. “Your father’s soul—”
“Resting comfortably!” Gnosh beamed, then returned to his work. “Andsogladyoucouldstopbyandifyou’reeverintheneighborhoodcomebyandseeusagain—”
“I will,” Tas said, smiling.
Tas found Fizban two levels down. (A fascinating journey—he simply yelled out the name of his level, then leaped into the void. Nets flapped and fluttered, bells went off, gongs sounded and whistles blew. Tas was finally caught one level above the ground, just as the area was being inundated with sponges.)
Fizban was in Weapons Development, surrounded by gnomes, all gazing at him with unabashed admiration.
“Ah, my boy!” he said, peering vaguely at Tasslehoff. “You’re just in time to see the testin
g of our new weapon. Revolutionize warfare. Make the dragonlance obsolete.”
“Really?” Tas asked in excitement.
“A fact!” Fizban confirmed. “Now, you stand over here—” He motioned to a gnome who leaped to do his bidding, running to stand in the middle of the cluttered room.
Fizban picked up what looked, to the kender’s confused mind, like a crossbow that had been attacked by an enraged fisherman. It was a crossbow all right. But instead of an arrow, a huge net dangled from a hook on the end. Fizban, grumbling and muttering, ordered the gnomes to stand behind him and give him room.
“Now, you are the enemy,” Fizban told the gnome in the center of the room. The gnome immediately assumed a fierce, warlike expression. The other gnomes nodded appreciatively.
Fizban aimed, then let fly. The net sailed out into the air, got snagged on the hook at the end of crossbow, and snapped back like a collapsing sail to engulf the magician.
“Confounded hook!” Fizban muttered.
Between the gnomes and Tas, they got him disentangled.
“I guess this is good-bye,” Tas said, slowly extending his small hand.
“It is?” Fizban looked amazed. “Am I going somewhere? No one told me! I’m not packed—”
“I’m going somewhere,” Tas said patiently, “with Laurana. We’re taking the lances and—oh, I don’t think I’m supposed to be telling anyone,” he added, embarrassed.
“Don’t worry. Mum’s the word,” Fizban said in a hoarse whisper that carried clearly through the crowded room. “You’ll love Palanthas. Beautiful city. Give Sturm my regards. Oh, and Tasslehoff”—the old magician looked at him shrewdly—“you did the right thing, my boy!”
“I did?” Tas said hopefully. “I’m glad.” He hesitated. “I wondered … about what you said—the dark path. Did I—?”
Fizban’s face grew grave as he gripped Tas firmly on the shoulder “I’m afraid so. But you have the courage to walk it.”
“I hope so,” Tas said with a small sigh. “Well, good-bye. I’ll be back. Just as soon as the war’s over.”
“Oh, I probably won’t be here,” Fizban said, shaking his head so violently his hat slid off. “Soon as the new weapon’s perfected, I’ll be leaving for—” he paused. “Where was that I was supposed to go? I can’t seem to recall. But don’t worry. We’ll meet again. At least you’re not leaving me buried under a pile of chicken feathers!” he muttered, searching for his hat.
Tas picked it up and handed it to him.
“Good-bye,” the kender said, a choke in his voice.
“Good-bye, good-bye!” Fizban waved cheerfully. Then—giving the gnomes a hunted glance—he pulled Tas over to him. “Uh, I seem to have forgotten something. What was my name again?”
Someone else said good-bye to the old magician, too, although not under quite the same circumstances.
Elistan was pacing the shore of Sancrist, waiting for the boat that would take him back to Southern Ergoth. The young man, Douglas, walked along beside him. The two were deep in conversation, Elistan explaining the ways of the ancient gods to a rapt and attentive listener.
Suddenly Elistan looked up to see the old, befuddled magician he had seen at the Council meeting. Elistan had tried for days to meet the old mage, but Fizban always avoided him. Thus it was with astonishment Elistan saw the old man come walking toward them now along the shoreline. His head was bowed, he was muttering to himself. For a moment, Elistan thought he would pass by without noticing them, when suddenly the old mage raised his head.
“Oh, I say! Haven’t we met?” he asked, blinking.
For a moment Elistan could not speak. The cleric’s face turned deathly white beneath its weathered tan. He was finally able to answer the old mage, his voice was husky. “Indeed we have, sir. I did not realize it before now. And though we were but lately introduced, I feel that I have known you a long, long time.”
“Indeed?” The old man scowled suspiciously. “You’re not making some sort of comment on my age, are you?”
“No, certainly not!” Elistan smiled.
The old man’s face cleared.
“Well, have a pleasant journey. And a safe one. Farewell.”
Leaning on a bent and battered staff, the old man toddled on past them. Suddenly he stopped and turned around. “Oh, by the way, the name’s Fizban.”
“I’ll remember,” Elistan said gravely, bowing. “Fizban.”
Pleased, the old magician nodded and continued on his way along the shoreline while Elistan, suddenly thoughtful and quiet, resumed his walk with a sigh.
8
The Perechon.
Memories of long ago.
This is crazy, I hope you realize that!” Caramon hissed.
“We wouldn’t be here if we were sane, would we?”
Tanis responded, gritting his teeth.
“No,” Caramon muttered. “I suppose you’re right.”
The two men stood in the shadows of a dark alleyway, in a town where generally the only things ever found in alleyways were rats, drunks, and dead bodies.
The name of the wretched town was Flotsam, and it was well named, for it lay upon the shores of the Blood Sea of Istar like the wreckage of a broken vessel tossed upon the rocks. Peopled by the dregs of most of the races of Krynn, Flotsam was, in addition, an occupied town now, overrun with draconians, goblins, and mercenaries of all races, attracted to the Highlords by high wages and the spoils of war.
And so, “like the other scum,” as Raistlin observed, the companions floated along upon the tides of war and were deposited in Flotsam. Here they hoped to find a ship that would take them on the long, treacherous journey around the northern part of Ansalon to Sancrist—or wherever—
Where they were going was a point that had been much in contention lately—ever since Raistlin’s recovery from his illness. The companions had anxiously watched him following his use of the dragon orb, their concern not completely centered on his health. What had happened when he used the orb? What harm might he have brought upon them?
“You need not fear,” Raistlin told them in his whispering voice. “I am not weak and foolish like the elven king. I gained control of the orb. It did not gain control of me.”
“Then what does it do? How can we use it?” Tanis asked, alarmed by the frozen expression on the mage’s metallic face.
“It took all my strength to gain control of the orb,” Raistlin replied, his eyes on the ceiling above his bed. “It will require much more study before I learn how to use it.”
“Study …” Tanis repeated. “Study of the orb?”
Raistlin flicked him a glance, then resumed staring at the ceiling. “No,” he replied. “The study of books, written by the ancient ones who created the orb. We must go to Palanthas, to the library of one Astinus, who resides there.”
Tanis was silent for a moment. He could hear the mage’s breath rattle in his lungs as he struggled to draw breath.
What keeps him clinging to this life? Tanis wondered silently.
It had snowed that morning, but now the snow had changed to rain. Tanis could hear it drumming on the wooden roof of the wagon. Heavy clouds drifted across the sky. Perhaps it was the gloom of the day, but as he looked at Raistlin, Tanis felt a chill creep through his body until the cold seemed to freeze his heart.
“Was this what you meant, when you spoke of ancient spells?” Tanis asked.
“Of course. What else?” Raistlin paused, coughing, then asked, “When did I speak of … ancient spells?”
“When we first found you,” Tanis answered, watching the mage closely. He noticed a crease in Raistlin’s forehead and heard tension in his shattered voice.
“What did I say?”
“Nothing much,” Tanis replied warily. “Just something about ancient spells, spells that would soon be yours.”
“That was all?”
Tanis did not reply immediately. Raistlin’s strange, hourglass eyes focused on him coldly. The half-elf shivered and nodd
ed. Raistlin turned his head away. His eyes closed. “I will sleep now,” he said softly. “Remember, Tanis. Palanthas.”
Tanis was forced to admit he wanted to go to Sancrist for purely selfish reasons. He hoped against hope that Laurana and Sturm and the others would be there. And it was where he had promised he would take the dragon orb. But against this, he had to weigh Raistlin’s steady insistence that they must go to the library of this Astinus to discover how to use the orb.
His mind was still in a quandary when they reached Flotsam. Finally, he decided they would set about getting passage on a ship going north first and decide where to land later.
But when they reached Flotsam, they had a nasty shock. There were more draconians in that city than they had seen on their entire journey from Port Balifor north. The streets were crawling with heavily armed patrols, taking an intense interest in strangers. Fortunately, the companions had sold their wagon before entering the town, so they were able to mingle with the crowds on the streets. But they hadn’t been inside the city gates five minutes before they saw a draconian patrol arrest a human for “questioning.”
This alarmed them, so they took rooms in the first inn they came to—a run-down place at the edge of town.
“How are we going to even get to the harbor, much less buy passage on a ship?” Caramon asked as they settled into their shabby rooms. “What’s going on?”
“The innkeeper says a Dragon Highlord is in town. The draconians are searching for spies or something,” Tanis muttered uncomfortably. The companions exchanged glances.
“Maybe they’re searching for us,” Caramon said.
“That’s ridiculous!” Tanis answered quickly—too quickly. “We’re getting spooked. How could anyone know we’re here? Or know what we carry?”
“I wonder …” Riverwind said grimly, glancing at Raistlin.
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