The Tower of the Sun rose high above the other buildings in Qualinost. Sunlight reflecting off the golden surface gave the illusion of whirling movement. The companions entered the Tower in silence, awestruck by the beauty and majesty of the ancient building. Only Raistlin glanced around, unimpressed. To his eyes, there existed no beauty, only death.
Gilthanas led the companions to a small alcove. “This room is just off the main chamber,” he said. “My father is meeting with the Heads of Household to plan the evacuation. My brother has gone to tell him of our arrival. When the business is finished, we will be summoned.” At his gesture, elves entered, bearing pitchers and basins of cool water. “Please, refresh yourselves as time permits.”
The companions drank, then washed the dust of the journey from their faces and hands. Sturm removed his cloak and carefully polished his armor as best he could with one of Tasslehoff’s handkerchiefs. Goldmoon brushed out her shining hair, kept her cloak fastened around her neck. She and Tanis had decided the medallion she wore should remain hidden until the time seemed proper to reveal it; some would recognize it. Fizban tried, without much success, to straighten his bent and shapeless hat. Caramon looked around for something to eat. Gilthanas stood apart from them all, his face pale and drawn.
Within moments, Porthios appeared in the arched doorway. “You are called,” he said sternly.
The companions entered the chamber of the Speaker of the Suns. No human had seen the inside of this building for hundreds of years. No kender had ever seen it. The last dwarves who saw it were the ones present at its construction, hundreds of years before.
“Ah, now this is craftsmanship,” Flint said softly, tears misting his eyes.
The chamber was round and seemed immensely larger than the slender Tower could possibly encompass. Built entirely of white marble, there were no support beams, no columns. The room soared upwards hundreds of feet to form a dome at the very top of the tower where a beautiful mosaic made of inlaid, glittering tile portrayed the blue sky and the sun on one half; the silver moon, the red moon, and the stars on the other half, the halves separated by a rainbow.
There were no lights in the chamber. Cunningly built windows and mirrors focused sunlight into the room, no matter where the sun was located in the sky. The streams of sunlight converged in the center of the chamber illuminating a rostrum.
There were no seats in the Tower. The elves stood—men and women together; only those designated as Heads of Household had the right to be in this meeting. There were more women present than Tanis ever remembered seeing; many dressed in deep purple, the color of mourning. Elves marry for life and if the spouse dies do not remarry. Thus the widow has the status of Head of Household until her death.
The companions were led to the front of the chamber. The elves made room for them in respectful silence but gave them strange, forbidding looks—particularly the dwarf, the kender, and the two barbarians, who seemed grotesque in their outlandish furs. There were astonished murmurs at the sight of the proud and noble Knight of Solamnia. And there were scattered mutterings over the appearance of Raistlin in his red robes. Elven magic-users wore the white robes of good, not the red robes proclaiming neutrality. That, the elves believed, was just one step removed from black. As the crowd settled down, the Speaker of the Suns came forward to the rostrum.
It had been many years since Tanis had seen the Speaker, his adopted father, as it were. And here, too, he saw change. The man was still tall, taller even than his son Porthios. He was dressed in the yellow, shimmering robes of his office. His face was stern and unyielding, his manner austere. He was the Speaker of the Suns, called the Speaker; he had been called the Speaker for well over a century. Those who knew his name never pronounced it—including his children. But Tanis saw in his hair touches of silver, which had not been there before, and there were lines of care and sorrow in the face, which had previously seemed untouched by time.
Porthios joined his brother as the companions, led by the elves, entered. The Speaker extended his arms and called them by name. They walked forward into their father’s embrace.
“My sons,” the Speaker said brokenly, and Tanis was startled at this show of emotion. “I never thought to see either of you in this life again. Tell me of the raid—” he said, turning to Gilthanas.
“In time, Speaker,” said Gilthanas. “First, I bid you, greet our guests.”
“Yes, I am sorry.” The Speaker passed a trembling hand over his face and it seemed to Tanis that he aged even as he stood before them. “Forgive me, guests. I bid you welcome, you who have entered this kingdom no one has entered for many years.”
Gilthanas spoke a few words and the Speaker stared shrewdly at Tanis, then beckoned the half-elf forward. His words were cool, his manner polite, if strained. “Is it indeed you, Tanthalas, son of my brother’s wife? The years have been long, and all have wondered about your fate. We welcome you back to your homeland, though I fear you come only to see its final days. My daughter, in particular, will be glad to see you. She has missed her childhood playmate.”
Gilthanas stiffened at this, his face darkening as he looked at Tanis. The half-elf felt his own face flush. He bowed low before the Speaker, unable to say a word.
“I welcome the rest of you and hope to learn more of you later. We shall not keep you long, but it is right that you learn in this room what is happening in the world. Then you will be allowed to rest and refresh yourselves. Now, my son—” The Speaker turned to Gilthanas, obviously thankful to end the formalities. “The raid on Pax Tharkas?”
Gilthanas stepped forward, his head bowed. “I have failed, Speaker of the Suns.”
A murmur passed among the elves like the wind among the aspens. The Speaker’s face bore no expression. He simply sighed and stared unseeing out a tall window. “Tell your story,” he said quietly.
Gilthanas swallowed, then spoke, his voice so low many in the back of the room leaned forward to hear.
“I traveled south with my warriors in secrecy, as was planned. All went well. We found a group of human resistance fighters, refugees from Gateway, who joined us, adding to our numbers. Then, by the cruelest mischance, we stumbled into the advance patrols of the dragonarmy. We fought valiantly, elves and humans together, but for naught. I was struck on the head and remember nothing more. When I awoke, I was lying in a ravine, surrounded by the bodies of my comrades. Apparently, the foul dragonmen shoved the wounded over the cliff, leaving us for dead.” Gilthanas paused, clearing his throat. “Druids in the woods tended my injuries. From them, I learned that many of my warriors were still alive and had been taken prisoner. Leaving the druids to bury the dead, I followed the tracks of the dragonarmy and eventually came to Solace.”
Gilthanas stopped. His face glistened with sweat and his hands twitched nervously. He cleared his throat again, tried to speak and failed. His father watched him with growing concern.
Gilthanas spoke. “Solace is destroyed.”
There was a gasp from the audience.
“The mighty vallenwoods have been cut and burned, few now stand.”
The elves wailed and cried out in dismay and anger. The Speaker held up his hand for order. “This is grievous news,” he said sternly. “We mourn the passing of trees old even to us. But continue—what of our people?”
“I found my men tied to stakes in the center of the town square along with the humans who had helped us,” Gilthanas said, his voice breaking. “They were surrounded by draconian guards. I hoped to be able to free them at night. Then—” His voice failed completely and he bowed his head as his older brother came over and laid a hand on his shoulder. Gilthanas straightened. “A red dragon appeared in the sky—”
Sounds of shock and dismay came from the assembled elves. The Speaker shook his head in sorrow.
“Yes, Speaker,” Gilthanas said and his voice was loud, unnaturally loud and jarring. “It is true. These monsters have returned to Krynn. The red dragon circled above Solace and all who saw him
fled in terror. He flew lower and lower and then landed in the town square. His great gleaming red reptile body filled the clearing, his wings spread destruction, his tail toppled trees. Yellow fangs glistened, green saliva dripped from his massive jaws, his huge talons tore the ground … and riding upon his back was a human male.
“Powerfully built, he was dressed in the black robes of a cleric of the Queen of Darkness. A black and gold cape fluttered around him. His face was hidden by a hideous horned mask fashioned in black and gold to resemble the face of a dragon. The dragonmen fell to their knees in worship as the dragon landed. The goblins and hobgoblins and foul humans who fight with the dragonmen cowered in terror; many ran away. Only the example of my people gave me the courage to stay.”
Now that he was speaking, Gilthanas seemed eager to tell the story. “Some of the humans tied to stakes went into a frenzy of terror, screaming piteously. But my warriors remained calm and defiant, although all were affected alike by the dragonfear the monster generates. The dragonrider did not seem to find this pleasing. He glared at them, and then spoke in a voice that came from the depths of the Abyss. His words still burn in my mind.
“ ‘I am Verminaard, Dragon Highlord of the North. I have fought to free this land and these people from the false beliefs spread by those who call themselves Seekers. Many have come to work for me, pleased to further the great cause of the Dragon Highlords. I have shown them mercy and graced them with the blessings my goddess has granted me. Spells of healing I possess, as do no others in this land, and therefore you know that I am the representative of the true gods. But you humans who stand before me now have defied me. You chose to fight me and therefore your punishment will serve as an example to any others who choose folly over wisdom.’
“Then he turned to the elves and said, ‘Be it known by this act that I, Verminaard, will destroy your race utterly as decreed by my goddess. Humans can be taught to see the errors of their ways, but elves—never!’ The man’s voice rose until it raged louder than the winds. ‘Let this be your final warning—all who watch! Ember, destroy!’
“And, with that, the great dragon breathed out fire upon all those tied to the stakes. They writhed helplessly, burning to death in terrible agony.…”
There was no sound at all in the chamber. The shock and horror were too great for words.
“A madness swept over me,” Gilthanas continued, his eyes burning feverishly, almost a reflection of what he had seen. “I started to rush forward, to die with my people, when a great hand grasped me and dragged me backward. It was Theros Ironfeld, ‘Now is not the time to die, elf,’ he told me. “Now is the time for revenge.’ I … I collapsed then, and he took me back to his house, in peril of his own life. And he would have paid for his kindness to elves with his life, had not this woman healed him!”
Gilthanas pointed to Goldmoon, who stood at the back of the group, her face shrouded by her fur cape. The Speaker turned to stare at her, as did the other elves in the chamber, their murmurings dark and ominous.
“Theros is the man brought here today, Speaker,” Porthios said. “The man with but one arm. Our healers say he will live. But they say it is only by a miracle that his life was spared, so dreadful were his wounds.”
“Come forward, woman of the Plains,” the Speaker commanded sternly. Goldmoon took a step toward the rostrum, Riverwind at her side. Two elven guards moved swiftly to block him. He glared at them but stood where he was.
The Chieftain’s Daughter moved forward, holding her head proudly. As she removed her hood, the sun shone on the silver-gold hair cascading down her back. The elves marveled at her beauty.
“You claim to have healed this man—Theros Ironfeld?” The Speaker asked her with disdain.
“I claim nothing,” Goldmoon answered coolly. “Your son saw me heal him. Do you doubt his words?”
“No, but he was overwrought, sick and confused. He may have mistaken witchcraft for healing.”
“Look on this,” Goldmoon said gently and untied her cape, letting it fall away from her neck. The medallion sparkled in the sunlight.
The Speaker left the rostrum and came forward, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then his face became distorted with rage. “Blasphemy!” he shouted. Reaching out, he started to rip the medallion from Goldmoon’s throat.
There was a flash of blue light. The Speaker crumbled to the floor with a cry of pain. As the elves shouted out in alarm, drawing their swords, the companions drew theirs. Elven warriors rushed to surround them.
“Stop this nonsense!” said the old magician in a strong, stern voice. Fizban tottered up to the rostrum, calmly pushing aside the sword blades as if they were slender branches of an aspen tree. The elves stared in astonishment, seemingly unable to stop him. Muttering to himself, Fizban came up to the Speaker, who was lying stunned on the floor. The old man helped the elf to his feet.
“Now then, you asked for that, you know,” Fizban scolded, brushing the Speaker’s robes as the elf gaped at him.
“Who are you?” the Speaker gasped.
“Mmmm. What was that name?” The old magician glanced around at Tasslehoff.
“Fizban,” the kender said helpfully.
“Yes, Fizban. That’s who I am.” The magician stroked his white beard. “Now, Solostaran, I suggest you call off your guards and tell everyone to settle down. I, for one, would like to hear the story of this young woman’s adventures, and you, for one, would do well to listen. It wouldn’t hurt you to apologize, either.”
As Fizban shook his finger at the Speaker, his battered hat tilted forward, covering his eyes. “Help! I’ve gone blind!” Raistlin, with a distrustful glance at the elven guards, hurried forward. He took the old man’s arm and straightened his hat.
“Ah, thank the true gods,” the magician said, blinking and shuffling across the floor. The Speaker watched the old magician, a puzzled expression on his face. Then, as if in a dream, he turned to face Goldmoon.
“I do apologize, lady of the Plains,” he said softly. “It has been over three hundred years since the elven clerics vanished, three hundred years since the symbol of Mishakal was seen in this land. My heart bled to see the amulet profaned, as I thought. Forgive me. We have been in despair so long I failed to see the arrival of hope. Please, if you are not weary, tell us your story.”
Goldmoon related the story of the medallion, telling of Riverwind and the stoning, the meeting of the companions at the Inn, and their journey to Xak Tsaroth. She told of the destruction of the dragon and of how she received the medallion of Mishakal. But she didn’t mention the Disks.
The sun’s rays lengthened as she spoke, changing color as twilight approached. When her story ended, the Speaker was silent for long moments.
“I must consider all of this and what it means to us,” he said finally. He turned to the companions. “You are exhausted. I see some of you stand by courage alone. Indeed”—he smiled, looking at Fizban who leaned against a pillar, snoring softly—“some of you are asleep on your feet. My daughter, Laurana, will guide you to a place where you can forget your fears. We will hold a banquet in your honor tonight, for you bring us hope. May the peace of the true gods go with you.”
The elves parted, and out of their midst came an elfmaiden who walked forward to stand beside the Speaker. At sight of her, Caramon’s mouth sagged open. Riverwind’s eyes widened. Even Raistlin stared, his eyes seeing beauty at last, for no hint of decay touched the young elfmaiden. Her hair was honey pouring from a pitcher; it spilled over her arms and down her back, past her waist, touching her wrists as she stood with her arms at her sides. Her skin was smooth and woodland brown. She had the delicate, refined features of the elves, but these were combined with full, pouting lips and large liquid eyes that changed color like leaves in flickering sunshine.
“On my honor as a knight,” Sturm said with a catch in his voice, “I’ve never seen any woman so lovely.”
“Nor will you in this world,” Tanis murmured.
All
the companions glanced at Tanis sharply as he spoke, but the half-elf did not notice. His eyes were on the elfmaid. Sturm raised his eyebrows, exchanged looks with Caramon who nudged his brother. Flint shook his head and sighed a sigh that seemed to come from his toes.
“Now much is made clear,” Goldmoon said to Riverwind.
“It hasn’t been made clear to me,” Tasslehoff said. “Do you know what’s going on, Tika?”
All Tika knew was that, looking at Laurana, she felt suddenly dumpy and half-dressed, freckled and red-headed. She tugged her blouse up higher over her full bosom, wishing it didn’t reveal quite so much or that she had less to reveal.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Tasslehoff whispered, seeing the knowing looks exchanged by the others.
“I don’t know!” Tika snapped. “Just that Caramon’s making a fool of himself. Look at the big ox. You’d think he’d never seen a woman before.”
“She is pretty,” Tas said. “Different from you, Tika. She’s slender and she walks like a tree bending in the wind and—”
“Oh, shut up!” Tika snapped furiously, giving Tas a shove that nearly knocked him down.
Tasslehoff gave her a wounded glance, then walked over to stand beside Tanis, determined to keep near the half-elf until he figured out what was going on.
“I welcome you to Qualinost, honored guests,” Laurana said shyly, in a voice that was like a clear stream rippling among the trees. “Please follow me. The way is not far, and there is food and drink and rest at the end.”
Moving with childlike grace, she walked among the companions who parted for her as the elves had done, all of them staring at her admiringly. Laurana lowered her eyes in maidenly modesty and self-consciousness, her cheeks flushing. She looked up only once, and that was as she passed Tanis—a fleeting glance, that only Tanis saw. His face grew troubled, his eyes darkened.
The companions left the Tower of the Sun, waking Fizban as they departed.
6
Dragons of Autumn Twilight Page 35