Following the dwarf and kender rode an elflord, so like the elfmaiden that no one in the crowd needed his neighbor to tell him they were brother and sister. Beside the elflord rode another elfmaid with strange silver hair and deep blue eyes, who seemed shy and nervous among the crowd. Then came the the Knights of Solamnia, perhaps seventy-five strong, resplendent in gleaming armor. The crowd began to cheer, waving flags in the air.
A few of the Knights exchanged grim glances at this, all of them thinking that if they had ridden into Kalaman only a month before, they would have received a far different reception. But now they were heroes. Three hundred years of hatred and bitterness and unjust accusations were wiped from the minds of the public as they cheered those who had saved them from the terrors of the dragonarmies.
Marching after the Knights were several thousand footmen. And then, to the great delight of the crowd, the sky above the city filled with dragons—not the dreaded flights of red and blue the people had feared all winter. Instead, the sun flashed off wings of silver and bronze and gold as the awesome creatures circled and dove and pivoted in their well-organized flights. Knights sat in the dragonsaddles, the barbed blades of the dragonlances sparkling in the morning light.
After the parade, the citizens gathered to hear their Lord speak a few words in honor of the heroes. Laurana blushed to hear it told that she alone was responsible for the discovery of the dragonlances, the return of the good dragons, and the tremendous victories of the armies. Stammering, she tried to deny this, gesturing to her brother and to the Knights. But the yells and cheers of the crowd drowned her out. Helplessly Laurana looked at Lord Michael, Grand Master Gunthar Uth Wistan’s representative, who had lately arrived from Sancrist. Michael only grinned.
“Let them have their hero,” he said to her above the shouting. “Or heroine, I should say. They deserve it. All winter they lived in fear, waiting for the day the dragons would appear in the skies. Now they have a beautiful heroine who rides out of children’s tales to save them.”
“But it’s not true!” Laurana protested, edging nearer Michael to make herself heard. Her arms were filled with winter roses. Their fragrance was cloying, but she dared not offend anyone by setting them aside. “I didn’t ride out of a children’s story. I rode out of fire and darkness and blood. Putting me in command was a political stratagem of Lord Gunthar’s, we both know that. And if my brother and Silvara hadn’t risked their lives to bring the good dragons, we’d be parading down these streets in chains behind the Dark Lady.”
“Bah! This is good for them. Good for us, too,” Michael added, glancing at Laurana out of the corner of his eye as he waved to the crowd. “A few weeks ago we couldn’t have begged the Lord to give us a crust of stale bread. Now, because of the Golden General, he’s agreed to garrison the army in the town, provide us with supplies, horses, anything we want. Young men are flocking to join up. Our ranks will be swelled by a thousand or more before we leave for Dargaard. And you’ve lifted the morale of our own troops. You saw the Knights as they were in the High Clerist’s Tower—look at them now.”
Yes, thought Laurana bitterly. I saw them. Split by dissension among their own ranks, fallen into dishonor, bickering and plotting among themselves. It took the death of a fine and noble man to bring them to their senses. Laurana closed her eyes. The noise, the smell of the roses, which always brought Sturm to her mind, the exhaustion of battle, the heat of the noonday sun, all crashed over her in a stifling wave. She grew dizzy and feared she might faint. The thought was mildly amusing. How would that look—for the Golden General to keel over like a wilted flower?
Then she felt a strong arm around her.
“Steady, Laurana,” said Gilthanas, supporting her. Silvara was beside her, taking the roses from her arms. Sighing, Laurana opened her eyes and smiled weakly at the Lord, who was just concluding his second speech of the morning to thunderous applause.
I’m trapped, Laurana realized. She would have to sit here the rest of the afternoon, smiling and waving and enduring speech after speech praising her heroism when all she wanted was to lie down in some dark, cool place and sleep. And it was all a lie, all a sham. If only they knew the truth. What if she stood up and told them she was so frightened during the battles that she could remember details only in her nightmares? Told them that she was nothing but a game piece for the Knights? Told them that she was here only because she had run away from her home, a spoiled little girl chasing after a half-elven man who didn’t love her. What would they say?
“And now”—the Lord of Kalaman’s voice rang out above the noise of the crowd—“it is my honor and my very great privilege to present to you the woman who has turned the tide of this war, the woman who has sent the dragonarmies fleeing for their lives over the plains, the woman who has driven the evil dragons from the sky, the woman whose armies captured the evil Bakaris, commander of the Dragon Highlord’s armies, the woman whose name is even now being coupled with the great Huma’s as the most valiant warrior on Krynn. Within a week, she will be riding to Dargaard Keep to demand the surrender of the Dragon Highlord known as the Dark Lady.…”
The Lord’s voice was drowned in cheering. He paused dramatically, then, reaching behind him, caught hold of Laurana and nearly dragged her forward.
“Lauralanthalasa of the Royal House of Qualinesti!”
The noise was deafening. It reverberated off the tall stone buildings. Laurana looked out over the sea of open mouths and wildly waving flags. They don’t want to hear about my fear, she realized wearily. They’ve fears enough of their own. They don’t want to hear about darkness and death. They want children’s tales about love and rebirth and silver dragons.
Don’t we all.
With a sigh, Laurana turned to Silvara. Taking the roses back, she held them up into the air, waving to the jubilant crowd. Then she began her speech.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot was having a splendid time. It had been an easy task to evade Flint’s watchful gaze and slip off the platform where he had been told to stand with the rest of the dignitaries. Melting into the crowd, he was now free to explore this interesting city again. Long ago, he’d come to Kalaman with his parents and he cherished fond memories of the open-air bazaar, the seaport where the white-winged ships lay at anchor, and a hundred other wonders.
Idly he wandered among the festive crowd, his keen eyes seeing everything, his hands busy stuffing objects into his pouches. Really, Tas thought, the people of Kalaman were extremely careless! Purses had the most uncanny habit of falling from people’s belts into Tas’s hands. The streets might be paved with jewels the way he discovered rings and other fascinating trinkets.
Then the kender was transported into realms of delight when he came across a cartographer’s stall. And, as fortune would have it, the cartographer had gone to watch the parade. The stall was locked and shuttered, with a large “CLOSED” sign hanging on a hook.
“What a pity,” thought Tas. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I just looked at his maps.” Reaching out, he gave the lock an expert twitch, then smiled happily. A few more “twitches” and it would open easily. “He mustn’t really mean for people to keep out if he puts on such a simple-minded lock. I’ll just pop in and copy a few of his maps to update my collection.”
Suddenly Tas felt a hand on his shoulder. Irritated that someone should bother him at a time like this, the kender glanced around to see a strange figure that seemed vaguely familiar. It was dressed in heavy cloaks and robes, though the spring day was warming rapidly. Even its hands were wrapped in cloth, like bandages. Bother—a cleric, thought the kender, annoyed and preoccupied.
“I beg your pardon,” said Tas to the cleric who had hold of him, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was just—”
“Burrfoot?” interrupted the cleric in a cold, lisping voice. “The kender who rides with the Golden General?”
“Why, yes,” Tas said, flattered that someone had recognized him. “That’s me. I’ve ridden with Laura—the, er—Go
lden General—for a long time now. Let’s see, I think it was in the late fall. Yes, we met her in Qualinesti right after we escaped from the hobgoblins’ prison wagons which was a short time after we killed a black dragon in Xak Tsaroth. That’s the most wonderful story—” Tas forgot about the maps. “You see we were in this old, old city that had fallen into a cavern and it was filled with gully dwarves. We met one named Bupu, who had been charmed by Raistlin—”
“Shut up!” The cleric’s wrapped hand went from Tasslehoff’s shoulder to the collar of his shirt. Gripping it expertly, the cleric twisted it with a sudden jerk of its hand and lifted the kender off his feet. Although kender are generally immune to the emotion of fear, Tas found that being unable to breathe was an extremely uncomfortable sensation.
“Listen to me carefully,” the cleric hissed, shaking the frantically struggling kender as a wolf shakes a bird to break its neck. “That’s right. Hold still and it hurts less. I’ve got a message for the Golden General.” Its voice was soft and lethal. “It’s here—” Tas felt a rough hand stuffing something into his vest pocket. “See that you deliver it some time tonight when she’s alone. Understand?”
Choked by the cleric’s hand, Tas couldn’t speak or even nod, but he blinked his eyes twice. The cloaked head nodded, dropped the kender back to the ground, and walked rapidly off down the street.
Gasping for breath, the shaken kender stared at the figure as it walked away, its long robes fluttering in the wind. Tas absently patted the scroll that had been thrust into his pocket. The sound of that voice brought back very unpleasant memories: the ambush on the road from Solace, heavily cloaked figures like clerics … only they weren’t clerics! Tas shuddered. A draconian! Here! In Kalaman!
Shaking his head, Tas turned back to the cartographer’s stall. But the pleasure had gone out of the day. He couldn’t even feel excited when the lock fell open into his small hand.
“Hey, you!” shrieked a voice. “Kender! Get away from there!”
A man was running up to him, puffing and red in the face. Probably the cartographer himself.
“You shouldn’t have run,” Tas said listlessly. “You needn’t bother opening up for me.”
“Opening!” The man’s jaw sagged. “Why, you little thief! I got here just in time—”
“Thanks all the same.” Tas dropped the lock into the man’s hand and walked off, absent-mindedly evading the enraged cartographer’s effort to grab him. “I’ll be going now. I’m not feeling very well. Oh, by the way, did you know that lock’s broken? Worthless. You should be more careful. You never know who could sneak in. No, don’t thank me. I haven’t got time. Good-bye.”
Tasslehoff wandered off. Cries of “Thief! Thief!” rang out behind him. A town guardsman appeared, forcing Tas to duck into a butcher’s shop to avoid being run over. Shaking his head over the corruption of the world, the kender glanced about, hoping for a glimpse of the culprit. Seeing no one interesting in sight, he kept going, and suddenly wondered irritably how Flint had managed to lose him again.
Laurana shut the door, turned the key in the lock, and leaned thankfully against it, reveling in the peace and quiet and welcome solitude of her room. Tossing the key on a table, she walked wearily over to her bed, not even bothering to light a candle. The rays of the silver moon streamed in through the leaded glass panes of the long, narrow window.
Downstairs, in the lower rooms of the castle, she could still hear the sounds of merrymaking she had just left. It was nearly midnight. She had been trying for two hours to escape. It finally took Lord Michael’s intercession on her behalf, pleading her exhaustion from the battles, that induced the lords and ladies of the city of Kalaman to part with her.
Her head ached from the stuffy atmosphere, the smell of strong perfume, and too much wine. She shouldn’t have drunk so much, she knew. She had a weak head for wine and, anyway, she didn’t really like it. But the pain in her head was easier to bear than the pain in her heart.
Throwing herself down on the bed, she thought hazily about getting up and closing the shutters, but the moon’s light was comforting. Laurana detested lying in the darkness. Things lurked in the shadows, ready to spring out at her. I should get undressed, she thought, I’ll wrinkle this dress … and it’s borrowed.…
There was a knock at her door.
Laurana woke with a start, trembling. Then she remembered where she was. Sighing, she lay very still, closing her eyes again. Surely they’d realize she was asleep and go away.
There was another knock, more insistent than the first.
“Laurana …”
“Tell me in the morning, Tas,” Laurana said, trying to keep the irritation from her voice.
“It’s important, Laurana,” Tas called. “Flint’s with me.”
Laurana heard a scuffling sound outside the door.
“Come on, tell her—”
“I will not! This was your doing!”
“But he said it was important and I—”
“All right, I’m coming!” Laurana sighed. Stumbling out of bed, she fumbled for the key on the table, unlocked the door, and flung it open.
“Hi, Laurana!” Tas said brightly, walking inside. “Wasn’t that a wonderful party? I’ve never eaten roast peacock before—”
“What is it, Tas?” Laurana sighed, shutting the door behind them.
Seeing her pale, drawn face, Flint poked the kender in the back. Giving the dwarf a reproachful look, Tas reached into the pocket of his fleecy vest and drew forth a rolled scroll of parchment, tied with a blue ribbon.
“A-a cleric—sort of—said to give this to you, Laurana,” Tas said.
“Is that all?” Laurana asked impatiently, snatching the scroll from the kender’s hand. “It’s probably a marriage proposal. I’ve had twenty in the last week. Not to mention proposals of a more unique nature.”
“Oh, no,” said Tas, suddenly serious. “It’s not anything like that, Laurana. It’s from …” He stopped.
“How do you know who it’s from?” Laurana fixed the kender with a piercing gaze.
“I—uh—guess I—sort of—glanced at it—” Tas admitted. Then he brightened. “But it was only because I didn’t want to bother you with anything that wasn’t important.”
Flint snorted.
“Thank you,” Laurana said. Unrolling the scroll, she walked over to stand by the window where the moonlight was bright enough to read by.
“We’ll leave you alone,” Flint said gruffly, herding the protesting kender toward the door.
“No! Wait!” Laurana choked. Flint turned, staring at her in alarm.
“Are you all right?” he said, hurrying over to her as she sank down into a nearby chair. “Tas—get Silvara!”
“No, no. Don’t bring anyone. I’m … all right. Do you know what this says?” she asked in a whisper.
“I tried to tell him,” Tasslehoff said in an injured voice, “but he wouldn’t let me.”
Her hand shaking, Laurana handed the scroll to Flint.
The dwarf opened it and read aloud.
“Tanis Half-Elven received a wound in the battle of Vingaard Keep. Although at first he believed it was slight, it has worsened so that he is past even the help of the dark clerics. I ordered that he be brought to Dargaard Keep, where I could care for him. Tanis knows the gravity of his injury. He asks that he be allowed to be with you when he dies, that he may explain matters to you and so rest with an easy spirit.
“I make you this offer. You have as your captive my officer, Bakaris, who was captured near Vingaard Keep. I will exchange Tanis Half-Elven for Bakaris. The exchange will take place at dawn tomorrow in a grove of trees beyond the city walls. Bring Bakaris with you. If you are mistrustful, you may also bring Tanis’s friends, Flint Fireforge and Tasslehoff Burrfoot. But no one else! The bearer of this note waits outside the city gate. Meet him tomorrow at sunrise. If he deems all is well, he will escort you to the half-elf. If not, you will never see Tanis alive.
“I do t
his only because we are two women who understand each other.
“Kitiara”
There was an uneasy silence, then, “Humpf,” Flint snorted, and rolled up the scroll.
“How can you be so calm!” Laurana gasped, snatching the scroll from the dwarf’s hand. “And you”—her gaze switched angrily to Tasslehoff—“why didn’t you tell me before now? How long have you known? You read he was dying, and you’re so—so—”
Laurana put her head in her hands.
Tas stared at her, his mouth open. “Laurana,” he said after a moment, “surely you don’t think Tanis—”
Laurana’s head snapped up. Her dark, stricken eyes went to Flint, then to Tas. “You don’t believe this message is real, do you?” she asked incredulously.
“Of course not!” Flint said.
“No,” scoffed Tas. “It’s a trick! A draconian gave it to me! Besides Kitiara’s a Dragon Highlord now. What would Tanis be doing with her—”
Laurana turned her face away abruptly. Tasslehoff stopped and glanced at Flint, whose own face suddenly seemed to age.
“So that’s it,” the dwarf said softly. “We saw you talking to Kitiara on the wall of the High Clerist’s Tower. You were discussing more than Sturm’s death, weren’t you?”
Laurana nodded, wordlessly, staring at her hands in her lap.
“I never told you,” she murmured in a voice barely audible, “I couldn’t … I kept hoping.… Kitiara said … said she’d left Tanis in—some place called Flotsam … to look after things while she was gone.”
“Liar!” said Tas promptly.
“No.” Laurana shook her head. “When she says we are two women who understand each other, she’s right. She wasn’t lying. She was telling the truth, I know. And at the Tower she mentioned the dream.” Laurana lifted her head. “Do you remember the dream?”
Dragons of Spring Dawning Page 14