Dezra's Quest

by Chris Pierson

  "By order of this Circle, the Keening Wind tribe are cast out. Thou and thine may remain in Darken Wood, but must live apart from the rest, and may never again set hoof in any of the sacred places. No centaur may consort with or help thee.

  "Furthermore," Menelachos continued, "thou art to be marked for thy deeds, Lord Chrethon. Thou art sentenced to daicheiron—the Tail-Cutting."

  Chrethon's mouth dropped open. He lifted his bound hands to his head. Weakened by shock, he didn't resist as the guards seized his arms and legs, holding him still. Behind him, Rhedogar drew a short, broad sword from a scabbard on his battle harness. He stepped toward Chrethon.

  Eucleia of the Iron Hooves held up her hand. "Wait."

  Everyone—Chrethon, the guards, the chieftains—looked toward her. "It is too late to protest, Eucleia," Menelachos warned. "Thou agreed to this punishment."

  "That's true," she agreed, "but I refuse to watch it happen. I ask leave to depart."

  Menelachos scowled, but Eucleia didn't quail. Finally, the High Chief waved her away. She turned and cantered into the forest, her guards following. Menelachos looked to the other four chieftains, his eyes glittering.

  "If any of thee wish to follow, then go," he said.

  Immediately, Leodippos wheeled about and trotted after Eucleia. As he vanished into the woods, Pleuron murmured an apology and left as well. Menelachos looked to Nemeredes and Thymmiar, who nodded and stayed where they were. Satisfied, he turned back toward Chrethon.

  "Proceed," he bade Rhedogar.

  The dwarves of Krynn are said to value their beards so highly, they would sooner give up a life's wealth of steel than shave. The elves are as protective of their pointed ears, which are a precious trophy to goblins and other foul races. Among the horsefolk, however, the tail is the greatest source of pride: to have it docked is a permanent mark of shame. Even grizzled Rhedogar hesitated before seizing Chrethon's white, flowing tail. He pulled it taut, then set his blade where the short, fleshy stub met Chrethon's rump. Gritting his teeth, he drew the blade swiftly downward.

  Bright blood spurted as the sword sliced through flesh. Chrethon cried out, in anguish and pain, and thrashed mightily against his captors. The guards held him tight until he finally fell still.

  "It is done," Menelachos murmured. "Loose his bonds."

  Obediently, Rhedogar severed the cords binding Chrethon's arms and legs. Chrethon stood weakly, wobble-kneed, as the guards removed his collar. He stared at the remaining chiefs with open hatred. Thymmiar lowered his gaze, and Nemeredes glared back coldly.

  "Now," said Menelachos, "go to thy exile."

  Chrethon blinked, then began to chuckle. He tossed his head, his pale mane flying, as the chuckle gave way to laughter. The chieftains glanced at one another uneasily, each wondering if the others had seen the faint, unclean glimmer of madness in the white centaur's eyes.

  "I will go," Chrethon said. "But know this: I will return. And when I do, woe unto all of thee." He looked up at the sacred stone, eyes glittering. "All of thee."

  He searched the ground a moment, then stooped and picked up the mass of bloody hair that had been his tail. Lifting it high above his head, he galloped out of the glade and into the depths of Darken Wood.

  2

  It was early in the year to be so warm, but the folk of Solace didn't complain. The winter had been fierce, with bone-freezing winds and snow that drifted up the trunks of the mighty vallenwoods, halfway to the cottages nestled in their branches. A month ago, a storm had sheathed the huge trees with sparkling ice. Most of the bridges that linked the tree-bound houses had snapped from the ice's weight, and several old vallenwoods had burst, collapsing in tangles of shattered wood.

  The gods' absence only made things worse. Where a cleric's prayer once brought healing, folk lost fingers and toes to frostbite; illnesses, once cured with a word, crippled or killed instead. But the folk of Solace were used to doing without divine aid: Ten years had passed since the Second Cataclysm, when the gods had quit the world forever. Many people had despaired of this, but the folk of Solace were resilient: They overcame what troubles they could handle, endured what they couldn't.

  So Solace survived the direst winter since the Summer of Chaos. The dead were buried, the sick and injured cared for with herb and poultice instead of magic. The villagers rebuilt the bridges, took in those who'd lost their homes, planned to build new ones.

  A fortnight ago, the cold had ended. Now the vallenwoods were coming alive: Yellow-green buds prepared to burst into leaf, and fragrant blossoms dotted the branches. Songbirds, gone since autumn, flitted above and below the houses, filling the air with music. Shrews, flying squirrels, and gray-tailed markle chased each other among the boughs. Children played in the open air, and young couples stole time together in secret. Everyone, it seemed, was cheered by the coming of spring.

  Caramon Majere, however, was in one of his moods.

  Tika, Caramon's wife of more than forty years, stood by the bedroom door and surveyed the bulk that was her husband. He lay on his side, facing the sunlit window, his legs tangled in the blankets. Tika sighed, shaking her head. She loved Caramon dearly, but he wasn't the man he'd once been. This past winter had been his sixty-seventh, and few of his years had been easy. His long hair had turned gray, thinning here and receding there. His girth, which he'd battled most of his life, now had him beat: Despite years of hard work running the Inn of the Last Home, his muscles were turning, bit by bit, into flab. Hardly a day went by when he didn't gripe about some new ache or pain.

  Tika understood. She was six years his junior, and while her freckled face showed few lines for a woman her age, her once-aubum tresses were snowy, and she was plumper than she'd once been. It was all part of growing older: Bodies gave out, and that was that.

  It wasn't her husband's body that troubled Tika; it was his spirit. He'd become prone to fits of deep depression. He moped about, ate too little, slept too much. He wasn't nipping into the dwarf spirits again, as he'd done in his youth, but she suspected that day would come, if something wasn't done.

  She wished to the vanished gods that she knew what that something was.

  "Caramon," she said. "Get up."

  He mumbled, rolling over. The bed groaned.

  "Laura has breakfast ready downstairs," Tika pressed. "There's still some eggs and sausage, if you're hungry."

  In years gone by, the mention of food would have made him lunge out of bed like a berserker. Now, though, he raised his head, peered at her, then flopped back down. "I'm not hungry," he grumbled.

  Caramon's boots were propped by the door. Tika grabbed one, weighed it in her hands, and heaved it at him. It struck his side with a meaty smack.

  "Ow!" he exclaimed, sitting up. Tika tried not to notice how his flesh—once hard as stone—jiggled and jounced. "Huma's teeth, Tika, that hurt!"

  "There's another boot, right here," Tika said, nudging it with her foot. "Get up."

  He slumped. "What for?"

  "What for?" Tika was growing livid. "It's Spring Dawning, you great ox! The festival starts at midday. You've got to tap the spring brew before then."

  "Let Laura do it," Caramon said. Laura was their elder daughter, and well on her way to running the Inn.

  Tika shook her head. "Laura can't carry the kegs up from the cellar. Neither can I. Caramon, what in the Abyss is wrong with you?"

  "You want to know?" he snapped, surprising her with his sudden anger. "Fine. I'm tired of watching people die."

  She was silent a moment. "Is this about old Dezra?" she asked. Dezra Sepadin had worked at the Inn even longer than Tika. She'd been a close friend to Tika and Caramon. They'd named their younger daughter after her.

  Dezra had also been a midwife. One night this past Frostcold, she'd gone out late to help the weaver's wife give birth to her second son, and had caught a terrible coughing sickness. She'd died soon after, with Tika and Caramon at her bedside.

  Caramon shrugged. "Partly. I miss them all, Tika�
�my old friends, my brother, our sons."

  Tika chewed her lip, looking away. Losing dear ones was another part of growing old, but it had been particularly hard on Caramon. His closest friends, the six he'd adventured with as a youth, were all gone. Sturm Brightblade and Flint Fire-forge had died during the War of the Lance; his half-sister Kitiara had perished soon after in a failed attempt to conquer the Lordcity of Palanthas. His twin brother, Raistlin, with whom he'd shared a bond Tika could never understand, had been sealed inside the Abyss after failing to overthrow Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness; he'd returned during the Chaos War, ten years ago, only to accompany the gods when they departed Krynn. The same war had also claimed the lives of Tanis Half-Elven and Tasslehoff Burrfoot, as well as Caramon and Tika's eldest sons, Tanin and Sturm. The boys' graves lay beneath a vallenwood not far from the Inn.

  Others had died since. Riverwind of Que-shu and his daughter Brightdawn… Gunthar uth Wistan… and now old Dezra. Caramon had lost many friends, it was true.

  "We aren't all gone," Tika told him. "You've got me, for one thing. Goldmoon and Laurana are around. And you still have three children, you know—not to mention two grandchildren."

  As Caramon pondered this, Tika thought she saw him brighten. They didn't see Palin, their surviving son, as often as they liked—he spent most of his time at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, seeking new magic to replace the sorcery that had vanished when the gods left. He still visited Solace a few times each year, though, and he and his wife Usha were always sure to bring along their own children, Ulin and Linsha, for Tika and Caramon to spoil. Then there was Laura, who was indispensible around the Inn. And Dezra, their youngest, who—well, who was a regal pain in the backside. But that was another set of worries altogether.

  Caramon looked less miserable, but he still hadn't budged. Tika reached for the other boot.

  "All right," he said, chuckling. "Go easy. I'm getting up." He kicked loose the blankets and swung out of bed. His knees popped loudly, making him wince. "Go back downstairs. I'll be along."

  She studied him a moment, then shook the boot at him, unable to keep from grinning. "You'd better be. If I have to come back up here, I'll find something harder than this to throw at you."

  "I believe it," he said.

  Tika dropped the boot and left the room.

  Caramon stood quietly beside the bed, listening as her footsteps creaked down the stairs. Sighing, he went to fill the washbasin.

  "Closing time!" Caramon shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Everyone finish your drinks!"

  If the folk who'd crowded the Inn for the tapping of the spring ale heard him, they gave no sign. They laughed and shouted, downing long draughts of foamy, golden beer. It was a good batch this year, with an earthy flavor that came from moss that grew on the vallenwoods' highest branches. Many travelers in Abanasinia went out of their way to stop at Solace, just to taste Caramon's ale.

  It had been Borlos the minstrel, a fixture around the Inn for years, who'd first tasted the batch. He and his friends, Clemen and Osier, had shown up at daybreak just so they could have that honor. He'd quaffed it carefully, thinking long and hard.

  "Not bad," he'd declared. "A bit sour, though."

  Caramon's face had fallen, and Borlos had grinned. "Just kidding, big guy," he'd said, raising his tankard. "This is some of the best you've ever brewed. Bard's honor."

  Caramon had filled a second tankard and carefully dumped it over Borlos's head, to the crowd's delight.

  He'd been busy ever since, pouring and handing drinks to Tika and Laura, who carried them to the thirsty townsfolk and brought back empty ones for Caramon to refill. Otik Sandath, the Inn's previous owner, had always made sure the first keg of spring beer was empty before closing up for the Spring Dawning festival. Fifty years later, the folk of Solace weren't about to let such a fine tradition die. Mug after mug, Caramon had poured until the barrel ran dry.

  Now came the hard part.

  "Come on!" Caramon yelled again, banging the bar with his fist. "It's all gone! Get yourselves down to the fair!"

  If anything, the crowd got even louder. Somewhere in the back—Caramon couldn't see for the press of bodies—some youngsters were playing pipes and drums. Many of the drinkers were singing along. Borlos had joined them for a while with his lute, but had since lost interest and joined Clemen and Osier at their usual table by the kitchen, to drink and play cards.

  Realizing the crowd wasn't listening, Caramon threw up his hands in exasperation. Then, from the kitchen door, came a new sound: a loud, metallic crash, as if two fully armored Knights of Solamnia were beating each other with maces. Near the door, Borlos and his comrades clapped hands over their ears and winced. The crowd quickly fell still, and Caramon grinned, relieved, as a woman pushed through the throng. There was an iron skillet in each of her hands, and a ferocious look on her face. Reaching the middle of the room, she slammed the pans together again with a loud, ringing clang.

  Unlike most taverns, the Inn of the Last Home had no bouncer. It didn't need one: It had Tika Waylan Majere.

  Like her husband, Tika had fought against the Dragon Highlords in the War of the Lance, some forty years ago. Unlike Caramon, however, she'd never trained as a warrior, relying instead on the art of bashing opponents with whatever heavy, blunt object was available. That skill had served her well after the war. Anyone who thought of causing trouble at the Inn quickly thought otherwise when Tika brandished one of her skillets—if they wanted to keep all their teeth.

  "Didn't you hear my husband?" Tika asked. "We're closed."

  With precision a Knight of Takhisis would have admired, the crowd set down its tankards and headed out the door. Soon, only Caramon, Tika, and the card-players remained.

  "Four of Flames," said Borlos, throwing a card down on the table. He raked a stack of coins toward him as Clemen and Osier groaned. "I take this trick."

  Tika glared at them. "I'll count to ten," she declared. "One. Two."

  "We were just going," Borlos said.

  Tika continued to count as the card-players snatched up their bets and dashed out the door. "Seven!" she snapped as she followed them onto the balcony. "Eight!"

  Their footsteps scurried away outside, fading in the distance. Tika came back in and set her skillets down on the bar, green eyes twinkling.

  "I can still clear a room, can't I?" she asked.

  Chuckling, Caramon made his way around the bar. Without a word, he took her in his arms and pressed his lips against hers. She made a surprised sound, then softened into the kiss. Her face was red when he lifted his mouth from hers.

  "What in the Abyss was that for?" she asked.

  "This morning," Caramon said. "Sorry I was such a lummox."

  "Forgotten," Tika answered. Smiling, he began to turn away, but she grabbed his apron, pulling him toward her. "Get back here."

  They kissed again, folding their arms about each other. They didn't hear the footsteps in the kitchen, or the creak of the door swinging open.

  Laura Majere stepped into the taproom, carrying a steaming crock-pot. "I've got the herb-roasted beans for the feast tonight," she said. "Where should I—"

  Flushing, Tika and Caramon parted. Caramon grinned at his daughter, a little too widely. "Laura!" he exclaimed in a rush. "Smells wonderful. Did you use enough sage? I should put the spiced potatoes on. Is the stove still hot?"

  Laughing, Laura set the pot down on a table and flipped back her long, red curls. "Don't worry about the potatoes," she said. "I'll take care of them. You two enjoy yourselves. Go down to the fair." She winked. "Or whatever else you want to do."

  Caramon's cheeks nearly glowed. "I think we've done it," he told Tika, his broad chest swelling with pride. "We've raised the perfect daughter."

  Tika laughed, untying her apron. A moment later, her eyes narrowed. She peered about suspiciously. "Where's your sister?"

  Laura looked away, clearing her throat. "Oh, she's around… somewhere. I, uh, think she we
nt out to the cistern to fetch water."

  Her parents exchanged knowing glances. "She's a lousy liar," Caramon said.

  "She gets that from you," Tika replied.

  Laura sidled toward the kitchen. "I'd better see to the potatoes—"

  "Stop right there," Caramon said sternly. "Where's Dezra?"

  "I don't know." Laura shrugged helplessly. "She went out this morning. She wouldn't say where she was headed."

  Tika shook her head. "Typical. One perfect daughter and one perfect brat. I swear, that girl's looking for trouble. And it'll find her, too."

  Caramon sighed. Though Dezra was only a year younger than Laura, the sisters couldn't have been less alike. While Laura worked hard to help run the Inn, Dezra was always out, and seldom up to any good. She drank, swore, kept unsavory company. That she'd leave without a word, even on Spring Dawning, was scarcely a surprise.

  "She'll be all right," Laura said. "Don't let her spoil the day for you."

  Tika frowned, then spread her hands and walked to Caramon. He offered his arm, and she took it. "Don't stay here too late," she chided Laura. "You should enjoy the festival too. And if you see your sister—"

  "I'll tell her you're looking for her," Laura said.

  Arm in arm, Caramon and Tika strolled outside. Laura listened to them go, then went to the bar and started polishing mugs.

  "Gods, Dez," she murmured. "I hope you know what you're doing."

  3

  Mostly, the folk of Solace preferred not to come down from the trees. True, some of the town's buildings—smithy, stables, storehouses—were on the ground, but many of the villagers could spend weeks at a time up among the boughs. Town fairs, however, were a different matter: it was easier, and safer, to hold them in the broad town square on the ground. So, at least once a season, the townsfolk descended to the forest floor to make merry.

  The Spring Dawning fair was a tumult of activity. Merchants from all over Ansalon had set up tents and counters, selling everything from leather pouches to gemstones, steel weapons to vallenwood carvings. There was food, too—venison and honeycakes, culberries and elven quith-pa— and everywhere one looked, someone was hawking ale or wine.