Dragons of a Lost Star

by Margaret Weis

  The silver dragon Mirror had traveled an immense distance in human form since the night of the magical storm—the storm that had wounded and scarred him, knocked him from the skies over Neraka, sent him plunging to the rocks below. Lying there, dazed and blind and bleeding, he had heard an immortal voice singing the Song of Death and he had been awed and appalled.

  He had wandered aimlessly for a time, searching for and then finding Mina. He spoke with her. She was the one who sang the Song of Death.

  The voice in the storm had been a summons. The voice had spoken the truth to him and, when he had refused to accept the truth, the Bringer of the Storm had punished him. Robbed of his sight, Mirror realized that he might be the only one in the world to see truly. He had recognized the voice, but he did not understand how it could be or why. So he had embarked on a quest to find out. In order to travel, he had been forced to take human form, because a blind dragon dare not fly, whereas a blind human can walk.

  Trapped in this frail body, Mirror was helpless to act. He was frustrated in his search for answers, for the voice spoke to him constantly, taunted him, fed his fear, singing to him of the terrible events happening in the world: the fall of Silvanesti, the peril of Qualinost, the destruction of the Citadel of Light, the gathering of the dead in Nightlund. This was his punishment. Although he could not see, he was made to see all too clearly those he loved dying. He saw them stretch out their hands to him for help, and he was powerless to save them.

  The voice sought to make despair his guide, and it had almost succeeded. He stumbled along the dark path, tapping out his way with his stick, and when he came to places where he cast about him with the stick and felt nothing ahead, he sometimes wondered if it would not be easier to keep walking, to fall off the edge of the precipice into the eternal silence that would close his ears to the voice, the darkness of death that could not be more dark than that in which he lived.

  His search for others of his kind who had heard the voice, who might have heard the ancient words and understood them, had failed. He could find no other silver dragons. They had fled, disappeared. That gave him some indication that he had not been alone in recognizing the voice, but that was not much help if he were alone in the world—a blind dragon in human form—unable to do anything. In the moment of his despair Mirror formed a desperate resolution. One dragon would know the truth and might share it. But he was not a friend. He was a longtime enemy.

  Skie, the immense blue dragon, had not arrived on Krynn as a stranger, as had Malys and the others. He had been in the world for years. True, Skie had changed much following the Chaos War. He had grown larger than any blue dragon was ever meant to grow. He had conquered Palanthas—the Dark Knights ruled that wealthy land in his name. He had gained the grudging respect of the great red Malystryx and her green cousin Beryl. Although rumor had it that he had turned upon his own kind and devoured them, as had Malys and Beryl, Mirror—for one—had not believed it.

  Mirror would stake his life on that belief.

  The silver dragon left Solace seeking Skie, tracking his enemy using the eyes of his soul to find the trail. His trek had led him here, to the foot of one of the blue dragon’s mountain lairs. Mirror could not see the lair, but he could hear the enormous blue dragon roaming inside. He could feel the ground shake with every step Skie took, the mountains tremble as he lashed his tail. Mirror could smell the ozone of the blue’s breath, feel the electricity tingle in the air.

  Mirror rested for several hours, and when he felt his strength return, he began to climb. A dragon himself, he knew that Skie would have opened up many entrances to his lair. Mirror had only to find one of them.

  Skie regarded the slight human female standing before him with barely concealed contempt. He had fostered a secret hope that in this female commander of armies he would find, once again, his lost Kitiara. He had relinquished that hope almost immediately. Here was no hot blood, no passion. Here was no love of battle for the sake of the challenge and the thrill of outwitting death. This female was as different from Kitiara as the ice floe differs from the frothing, crashing waves driven by the storm.

  Skie might have been tempted to tell this girl to go away and send some responsible adult to deal with him, but he knew from the reports of his agents that she had flummoxed the Solamnics at Sanction, brought down the shield over Silvanost, and been the death of Lord Targonne—gone and quite easily forgotten.

  She stood before him unafraid, even unimpressed, though he could have cracked the lithe, frail body with the flick of a claw. He had teeth that were bigger than this human.

  “So you are the Healer, the Bringer of Death, the Conqueror of Elves,” he grunted.

  “No,” she said. “I am Mina.”

  As she spoke, she lifted her gaze to meet his. He looked into the amber eyes and saw himself inside them. He saw himself small, shrunken, a lizard of a dragon. The sight was disquieting, made him ill at ease. He rumbled deep in his massive throat and arched his great neck and shifted the immense bulk of his body so that the mountain shook, and he felt reassured in his might and his strength. Still, in the amber eyes, he was very small.

  “The One Who Heals, the One Who Brings Death, the One Who Conquers is the One God,” Mina continued. “The One God I serve. The One God we both serve.”

  “Indeed I have served,” Skie said, glowering. “I have served faithfully and well. I was promised my reward.”

  “You were given it. You were permitted to enter the Gray to search for her. If you have failed in your search, that is not the fault of the One God.” Mina shrugged and slightly smiled. “You give up too easily, Skie. The Gray is a vast plane. You could not possibly have looked everywhere. After all, you did sense her spirit—”

  “Did I?” Skie lowered his head so that his eyes could look directly into the amber eyes. He hoped to see himself grow large, but he failed. He was frustrated now, as well as angry. “Or was it a trick? A trick to get rid of me. A trick to cheat me of what I have earned.”

  He thrust forth his great head near her, exhaled a frustrated, sulfurous breath. “Two centuries ago, I was taken from my home world and brought in secret to the world known as Krynn. In return for my services it was promised that I would one day be granted the rulership of this world. I obeyed the commands given me. I traveled the Portals. I scouted out locations. I made all ready. I now claim the right to rule a world—this world. I could have done so thirty-eight years ago, but I was told that now was not the time.

  “Then came the great red Malys and my cousins, and again I demanded my right to assert my authority. I could have stopped them, then. I could have cowed them, made them bow before me. Again, I was told, it is not the time. Now Beryl and Malystryx have grown in power that they gained by killing dragons of my own kin—”

  “Not your kin,” Mina corrected gently.

  “My kin!” Skie thundered, his anger swelling to rage. Still, in the amber eyes, he remained small. “For over two hundred years I lived among blue dragons and fought alongside them. They are more my kin than those great bloated wyrms. Now the wyrms divide up the choicest parts between them. They extend their control. Be damned to the pact that was made. I—I am shunted off to the Gray on some wild kender chase.

  “I say I was tricked!” the blue snarled. “I say I was deluded. Kitiara is not in the Gray. She was never in the Gray. I was sent there so that another could rule in my stead. Who is that other? You, girl? Or will it be Malys? Has another pact been made? A secret pact? That is why I came back—long before I was expected, seemingly, for I hear you are to now march upon Solanthus.”

  Mina was silent, considering.

  Skie shifted his great bulk, lashed his tail so that it thumped against the walls of his lair, sending tremors through the mountain. Though the ground quaked beneath her feet, the human remained complacent. She gazed steadily at the dragon.

  “The One God owes you nothing.”

  Skie drew in a seething breath. Lightning crackled between his teeth,
sparked, and smoldered. The air was charged. Mina’s cropped red hair rippled like that of a stalking panther. Ignoring his display of anger, she continued speaking, her voice calm.

  “You abrogated your right to rule when you forgot your duties and forsook your oath of allegiance to the One to whom you owed everything, choosing instead to bestow your love and loyalty on a mortal. You rule the world!” Mina regarded the dragon with scorn and cool contempt. “You are not fit to rule a dung heap! Your services are no longer needed. Another has been chosen to rule. Your followers will serve me as they once served you. As to your precious Kitiara, you will never find her. She has passed far beyond your reach. But then, you knew that, didn’t you, Skie?”

  Mina’s eyes fixed on him, unblinking. He found himself caught in them. He tried to look away, to break free, but he was held fast, the amber hardening around him.

  “You refused to admit it,” she went on, relentless, her voice digging deep beneath his scales. “Go back to the Gray, Skie. Go there to seek Kitiara. You can return anytime you want. You know that, don’t you? The Gray is in your mind, Skie. You were deluded, but not by the One God. You deluded yourself.”

  Skie would send his answer to the One God—a charred lump. He unleashed his lethal breath, spat a gout of lightning at the girl. The bolt struck Mina on her black breastplate, over her heart. The fragile body crumpled to the cavern floor, frail limbs curled, contorted as those of a dead spider. She did not move.

  Skie watched, cautious, wary. He did not trust her or the one she served. It had been too easy.

  Mina lifted her head. A bolt of light flashed from her amber eyes and struck Skie in the center of his forehead.

  The lightning burned his scales, jolted through his body. His heart clamored painfully in his chest, its rhythm knocked wildly askew. He could not breathe. Mist, gray mist, swirled before his eyes. His head sank to the stone floor of his lair. His eyes closed upon the gray mist that he knew so well. The gray mist where he heard Kitiara’s voice calling to him. The gray mist that was empty …

  Mina stood up. She had taken no hurt, seemingly, for her body was whole, her armor unblemished. She remained in the cave for several moments, watching the dragon, imprisoning his image behind her long lashes. Then she turned on her heel and walked from his lair.

  The blind beggar remained crouched in the darkness of his hiding place while he tried to understand what had happened. He had arrived in Skie’s lair at about the same time as Mina, only Mirror had come in by one of the back entrances, not by the front. His astonishment on hearing and recognizing Mina’s voice had been immense. The last time he had seen her, he had met her on the road leading to Silvanost. Though he could not see her with his eyes, he had been able to see her through her voice. He had heard stories about her all along his road, and he had marveled that the orphan child he had known at the Citadel of Light, the child who had disappeared so mysteriously, had returned even more mysteriously. She had recognized him, known him for the silver dragon who had once guarded the citadel.

  His astonishment at seeing her here, speaking to Skie, was not so great as his astonishment at their conversation. He was starting to understand, starting to find answers to his questions, but those answers were too astounding for him yet to comprehend them fully.

  The silver dragon felt the Blue’s fury building. Mirror trembled for Mina, not so much for her sake as for the sake of the orphan child she had been. Mirror would have to be the one to return to tell Goldmoon the horrible fate of the child she had once so loved. He heard the cracking of the lightning, bent beneath the shock wave of the thunder.

  But it was not Mina who cried out in agony. The voice of pain was Skie’s. Now the great blue dragon was quiet, except for a low, piteous moan.

  Footsteps—booted, human footsteps—echoed in the lair and faded away.

  Mirror felt more than heard the irregular thumping of Skie’s heart, felt it pulse through the cavern so that it jarred his body. The giant heart was slowing. Mirror heard the soft moan of anger and despair.

  Even a blind dragon was more at home in these twisting corridors than a human—sighted or not. A dragon could find his way through them faster. Mirror had once, long ago, been larger than the Blue. That had changed. Skie had grown enormous, and now Mirror knew the reason why. Skie was not of Krynn.

  Transforming himself into his true dragon form, Mirror was able to move without hindrance through the corridors of Skie’s lair. The silver dragon glided along the passage, his wings folded tightly at his side, reaching out with his senses as a sightless human gropes with his hands. Sound and smell and a knowledge of how dragons build their lairs guided him, leading him in the direction of that last tortured cry of shock and pain.

  Mirror advanced cautiously. There were other blue dragons in the vicinity of the lair. Mirror could hear their voices, though they were faint, and he could not understand what they said. He could smell their scent, a mixture of dragon and thunder, and he feared one or more of them might return to see what had befallen their leader. If the blues discovered Mirror, the blind silver would not stand a chance in battle against them.

  The voices of the blue dragons died away. He heard the flapping of their wings. The lair stank of blue dragon, but instinct told Mirror the others were gone. They had left Skie to die. The other blues had deserted him to follow Mina.

  Mirror was not surprised, nor did he blame them. He recalled vividly his own meeting with her. She had offered to heal him, and he had been tempted, sorely tempted, to let her. He had wished not so much that she would restore his sight but that she would restore to him something he had lost with the departure of the gods. He had found it, to his dismay. He had refused to allow her near him. The darkness that surrounded her was far deeper than the darkness that enveloped him.

  Mirror reached the lair where Skie lay, gasping and choking. The Blue’s immense tail twitched, back and forth, thumping the walls spasmodically. His body jerked, scraping against the floor, his wings flapped, his head thrashed. His claws scrabbled against the rock.

  Mirror might be able to heal the body of the Blue, but that would avail Mirror little if he could not heal Skie’s mind. Loyalty to Kitiara had turned to love, a hopeless love that had darkened to an obsession that had been fed and fostered so long as it served a useful purpose. When the purpose was complete, the obsession became a handy weapon.

  It would be an act of mercy to let the tormented Skie die. Mirror could not afford to be merciful. He needed answers. He needed to know if what he feared was true.

  Crouching in the cavern beside the body of his dying enemy, Mirror lifted his silver wings, spread them over Skie, and began to speak in the ancient language of the dragons.

  27

  The City Slumbers

  itting in the dark on the wooden plank that was his bed in the cell, listening to his fourth Uncle Trapspringer tale in an hour, Gerard wondered if strangling a kender was punishable by death or if it would be considered a meritorious act, worthy of commendation.

  “… Uncle Trapspringer traveled to Flotsam in company with five other kender, a gnome, and a gully dwarf, whose name I can’t remember. I think it was Phudge. No, that was a gully dwarf I met once. Rolf? Well, maybe. Anyway, let’s say it was Rolf. Not that it matters because Uncle Trapspringer never saw the gully dwarf again. To go on with the story, Uncle Trapspringer had come across this pouch of steel coins. He couldn’t remember where, he thought maybe someone had dropped it. If so, no one had come to claim it from him, so he decided that since possession is nine-tenths of a cat’s lives he would spend some of the steel on magic artifacts, rings, charms, and a potion or two. Uncle Trapspringer was exceedingly fond of magic. He used to have a saying that you never knew when a good potion would come in handy, you just had to remember to hold your nose when you drank it. He went to this mage-ware shop, but the moment he walked in the door the most marvelous thing happened. The owner of the mage-ware shop happened to be a wizard, and the wizard told Uncle Traps
pringer that not far from Flotsam was a cave where a black dragon lived, and the dragon had the most amazing collection of magical objects anywhere on Krynn, and the wizard just couldn’t take Uncle Trapspringer’s money when, with a little effort, Uncle Trapspringer could kill the black dragon and have all the magical objects he wanted. Now, Uncle Trapspringer thought this was an excellent idea. He asked directions to the cave, which the wizard most obligingly gave him, and he—”

  “Shut up!” said Gerard through clenched teeth.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Tasslehoff. “Did you say something?”

  “I said ‘shut up.’ I’m trying to sleep.”

  “But I’m just coming to the good part. Where Uncle Trapspringer and the five other kender go to the cave and—”

  “If you don’t be quiet, I will come over there and quiet you,” said Gerard in a tone that meant it. He rolled over on his side.

  “Sleep is really a waste of time, if you ask me—”

  “No one did. Be quiet.”

  “I—”

  “Quiet.”

  He heard the sound of a small kender body squirming about on a hard wooden plank—the bed opposite where Gerard lay. In order to torture him, they had locked him in the same cell as the kender and had put the gnome in the next cell over.

  “ ‘Thieves will fall out,’ ” the warden had remarked.

  Gerard had never hated anyone in his life so much as he hated this warden.

  The gnome, Conundrum, had spent a good twenty minutes yammering about writs and warrants and Klein-hoffel vs. Mencklewink and a good deal about someone named Miranda, until he had eventually talked himself into a stupor. At least Gerard supposed that was what had happened. There had been a gargle and a thump from the direction of the gnome’s cell and then blessed silence.

  Gerard had just been drifting off himself when Tasslehoff—who had fallen asleep the moment the gnome had opened his mouth—awakened the moment the gnome was quiet and launched into Uncle Trapspringer.