“And what of Lord Milles, Excellency?” his aide asked. “Is he to be reassigned? Where is he to be sent?”
Targonne considered the matter. He was in an excellent humor, a feeling which normally came with the closing of an extremely good business deal.
“Send Milles to report in person to Malystryx. He can tell her the story of his great ‘victory’ over the Solamnics. I’m sure she will be very interested to hear how he fell into an enemy trap and in so doing came close to losing all that we have fought so hard to gain.”
“Yes, Excellency.” The aide gathered up his papers and prepared to return to his desk to execute the documents. “Shall I take Lord Milles off the rolls?” he asked, as an afterthought.
Targonne had returned to his ledger. He adjusted the spectacles carefully on his nose, picked up his pen, waved a negligent hand in acquiescence, and returned to his credits and debits, his additions and subtractions.
11
The Song of Lorac
hile Tasslehoff was near dying of boredom on the road to Qualinesti and while Sir Roderick was returning to Sanction, blissfully unaware that he had just delivered his commander into the jaws of the dragon, Silvanoshei and Rolan of the kirath began their journey to place Silvanoshei upon the throne of Silvanesti. Rolan’s plan was to move close to the capital city of Silvanost, but not to enter it until word spread through the city that the true head of House Royal was returning to claim his rightful place as Speaker of the Stars.
“How long will that take?” Silvan asked with the impatience and impetuosity of youth.
“The news will travel faster than we will, Your Majesty,” Rolan replied. “Drinel and the other kirath who were with us two nights ago have already left to spread it. They will tell every other kirath they meet and any of the Wildrunners they feel that they can trust. Most of the soldiers are loyal to General Konnal, but there are a few who are starting to doubt him. They do not openly state their opposition yet, but Your Majesty’s arrival should do much to change that. The Wildrunners have always sworn allegiance to House Royal. As Konnal himself will be obliged to do—or at least make a show of doing.”
“How long will it take us to reach Silvanost, then?” Silvanoshei asked.
“We will leave the trail and travel the Thon-Thalas by boat,” Rolan responded. “I plan to take you to my house, which is located on the outskirts of the city. We should arrive in two days time. We will take a third day to rest and to receive the reports that will be coming in by then. Four days from now, Your Majesty, if all goes well, you will enter the capital in triumph.”
“Four days!” Silvan was skeptical. “Can so much be accomplished that fast?”
“In the days when we fought the dream, we kirath could send a message from the north of Silvanesti into the far reaches of the south in a single day. I am not exaggerating, Your Majesty,” Rolan said, smiling at Silvanoshei’s obvious skepticism. “We accomplished such a feat many times over. We were highly organized then, and there were many more of us than there are now. But I believe that Your Majesty will be impressed, nevertheless.”
“I am already impressed, Rolan,” Silvanoshei replied. “I am deeply indebted to you and the others of the kirath. I will find some way of repaying you.”
“Free our people from this dreadful scourge, Your Majesty,” Rolan answered, his eyes shadowed with sorrow, “and that will be payment enough.”
Despite his praise, Silvanoshei still harbored doubts, though he kept them to himself. His mother’s army was well organized, yet even she would make plans, only to see them go awry. Ill luck, miscommunication, bad weather, any one of these or a host of other misfortunes could turn a day that had seemed meant for victory into disaster.
“No plan ever survives contact with the enemy,” was one of Samar’s dictums, a dictum that had proven tragically true.
Silvan anticipated disasters, delays. If the boat Rolan promised even existed, it would have a hole in it or it would have been burned to cinders. The river would be too low or too high, run too swift or too slow. Winds would blow them upstream instead of down or down when they wanted to travel up.
Silvan was vastly astonished to find the small boat at the river landing where Rolan had said it would be, perfectly sound and in good repair. Not only that, but the boat had been filled with food packed in waterproof sacks and stowed neatly in the prow.
“As you see, Your Majesty,” Rolan said, “the kirath have been here ahead of us.”
The Thon-Thalas River was calm and meandering this time of year. The boat, made of tree bark, was small and light and so well balanced that one would have to actively work to tip it over. Well knowing that Rolan would never think of asking the future Speaker of the Stars to help row, Silvan volunteered his assistance. Rolan at first demurred, but he could not argue with his future ruler and so at last he agreed and handed Silvanoshei a paddle. Silvan saw that he had earned the elder elf’s respect by this act, a pleasant change for the young man, who, it seemed, had always earned Samar’s disrespect.
Silvan enjoyed the exercise that burned away some of his pent-up energy. The river was placid, the forests through which it flowed were green and verdant. The weather was fine, but Silvan could not say that the day was beautiful. The sun shone through the shield. He could see blue sky through the shield. But the sun that shone on Silvanesti was not the same fiercely burning orb of orange fire that shone on the rest of Ansalon. The sun Silvan looked upon was a pale and sickly yellow, the yellow of jaundiced skin, the yellow of an ugly bruise. It was as if he were looking at a reflection of the sun, floating facedown, drowned in a pool of stagnant, oily water. The yellow sun altered the color of the sky from azure blue to a hard metallic blue-green. Silvan did not look long at the sun but instead shifted his gaze to the forest.
“Do you know a song to ease our labors?” he called out to Rolan who was seated in the front of the boat.
The kirath paddled with quick, strong strokes, digging his paddle deep into the water. The far-younger Silvan was hard pressed to keep pace with his elder.
Rolan hesitated, glanced back over his shoulder. “There is a song that is a favorite of the kirath, but I fear it may displease His Majesty. It is a song that tells the story of your honored grandfather, King Lorac.”
“Does it start out, ‘The Age of Might it was, the Age of the Kingpriest and his minions?’ ” Silvan asked, singing the melody tentatively. He had only heard the song once before.
“That is the beginning, Your Majesty,” Rolan replied.
“Sing it for me,” Silvan said. “My mother sang it once to me on the day I turned thirty. That was the first time I had ever heard the story of my grandfather. My mother never spoke of him before, nor has she spoken of him since. To honor her, none of the other elves speak of him either.”
“I, too, honor your mother, who gathered roses in the Garden of Astarin when she was your age. And I understand her pain. We share in that pain every time we sing this song, for as Lorac was snared by his own hubris into betraying his country, so we who took the easy way out, who fled our land and left him to do battle alone, were also at fault.
“If all our people had stayed to fight, if all our people—those of House Royal to House Servitor, those of House Protector, House Mystic, House Mason—if we had all joined together and stood shoulder to shoulder, regardless of caste, against the dragonarmies, then I believe that we could have saved our land.
“But you shall hear the full tale in the song.
Song of Lorac
The Age of Might it was,
the Age of the Kingpriest and
his minions.
Jealous of the wizards, the Kingpriest
said, “You will hand over your high Towers
to me and you will fear me and obey me.”
The wizards gave over their High Towers, the last
the Tower of Palanthas.
Comes to the Tower Lorac Caladon, King of the Silvanesti,
to take his Test in
magic before the closing of the Tower.
In his Test, one of the dragon orbs,
fearful of falling into the hands
of the Kingpriest and his minions,
speaks to Lorac.
“You must not leave me here in Istar.
If you do, I will be lost and the world will perish.”
Lorac obeys the voice of the dragon orb,
hides the orb away.
carries it with him from the Tower,
carries the orb back to Silvanesti,
holds the orb in secret, hugging his secret to him,
never telling anyone.
Comes the Cataclysm. Comes Takhisis, Queen of Darkness,
with her dragons, mighty and powerful.
Comes war. War to Silvanesti.
Lorac summons all his people, orders them to flee their homelands
Orders them away.
Says to them,
“I alone will be the savior of the people.”
“I alone will stop the Queen of Darkness.”
Away the people.
Away the loved daughter, Alhana Starbreeze.
Alone, Lorac hears the voice of the dragon orb,
calling his name, calling to him to come to the darkness.
Lorac heeds the call.
Descends into darkness.
Puts his hands upon the dragon orb and
the dragon orb puts its hands upon Lorac.
Comes the dream.
Comes the dream to Silvanesti,
dream of horror,
dream of fear,
dream of trees that bleed the blood of elvenkind,
dream of tears forming rivers,
dream of death.
Comes a dragon,
Cyan Bloodbane,
minion of Takhisis,
to hiss into Lorac’s ear the terrors of the dream.
To hiss the words, “I alone have the power to save the people.
I alone.” To mock the words, “I alone have the power to save.”
The dream enters the land,
kills the land,
twists the trees, trees that bleed,
fills the rivers with the tears of the people,
the tears of Lorac,
held in thrall by the orb and by Cyan Bloodbane,
minion of Queen Takhisis,
minion of evil,
who alone has the power.
“I can understand why my mother does not like to hear that song,” Silvan said when the last long-held, sweet, sad note drifted over the water, to be echoed by a sparrow. “And why our people do not like to remember it.”
“Yet, they should remember it,” said Rolan. “The song would be sung daily, if I had my way. Who knows but that the song of our own days will be just as tragic, just as terrible? We have not changed. Lorac Caladon believed that he was strong enough to wield the dragon orb, though he had been warned against it by all the wise. Thus he was snared, and thus he fell. Our people, in their fear, chose to flee rather than to stand and fight. And thus in fear today we cower under this shield, sacrificing the lives of some of our people in order to save a dream.”
“A dream?” Silvan asked. He was thinking of Lorac’s dream, the dream of the song.
“I do not refer to the whispers of the dragon,” said Rolan. “That dream is gone, but the sleeper refuses to wake and thus another dream has come to take its place. A dream of the past. A dream of the glories of days that have gone. I do not blame them,” Rolan added, sighing. “I, too, love to think upon what has gone and long to regain it. But those of us who fought alongside your father know that the past can never be recovered, nor should it be. The world has changed, and we must change with it. We must become a part of it, else we will sicken and die in the prison house in which we have locked ourselves.”
Rolan ceased paddling for a moment. He turned in the boat to face Silvan. “Do you understand what I am saying, Your Majesty?”
“I think so,” said Silvan cautiously. “I am of the world, so to speak. I come from the outside. I am the one who can lead our people out into the world.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Rolan smiled.
“So long as I avoid the sin of hubris,” Silvan said, ceasing his paddling, thankful for the rest. He grinned when he said it for he meant it teasingly, but on reflection, he became more serious. “Pride, the family failing,” Silvan said, half to himself. “I am forewarned, and that is forearmed, they say.”
Picking up his paddle, he fell to work with a will.
The pallid sun sank down behind the trees. Day languished, as if it too was one of the victims of the wasting sickness. Rolan watched the bank, searching for a suitable site to moor for the night. Silvan watched the opposite shore and so he saw first what the kirath missed.
“Rolan!” Silvan whispered urgently. “Pull for the western shore! Quickly!”
“What is it, Your Majesty?” Rolan was quick to take alarm. “What do you see?”
“There! On the eastern bank! Don’t you see them? Hurry! We are nearly within arrow range!”
Rolan halted his rapid stroking. He turned around to smile sympathetically at Silvan. “You are no longer among the hunted, Your Majesty. Those people you see gathered on that bank are your own. They have come to look upon you and do you honor.”
Silvan was astonished. “But … how do they know?”
“The kirath have been here, Your Majesty.”
“So soon?”
“I told Your Majesty that we would spread the word rapidly.”
Silvan blushed. “I am sorry, Rolan. I did not mean to doubt you. It’s just that … My mother uses runners. They travel in secret, carrying messages between my mother and her sister by marriage, Laurana, in Qualinesti. Thus we are kept apprised of what is happening with our people in that realm. But it would take them many days to cover the same number of miles.… I had thought—”
“You thought I was exaggerating. You need make no apology for that, Your Majesty. You are accustomed to the world beyond the shield, a world that is large and filled with dangers that wax and wane daily, like the moon. Here in Silvanesti, we kirath know every path, every tree that stands on that path, every flower that grows beside it, ever squirrel that crosses it, every bird that sings in every branch, so many times have we run them. If that bird sings one false note, if that squirrel twitches its ears in alarm, we are aware of it. Nothing can surprise us. Nothing can stop us.”
Rolan frowned. “That is why we of the kirath find it troubling that the dragon Cyan Bloodbane has so long eluded us. It is not possible that he should. And yet it is possible that he has.”
The river carried them within sight of the elves standing on the western shoreline. Their houses were in the trees, houses a human would have probably never seen, for they were made of the living tree, whose branches had been lovingly coaxed into forming walls and roofs. Their nets were spread out upon the ground to dry, their boats pulled up onto the shore. There were not many elves, this was only a small fishing village, and yet it was apparent that the entire population had turned out. The sick had even been carried to the river’s edge, where they lay wrapped in blankets and propped up with pillows.
Self-conscious, Silvan ceased paddling and rested his oar at the bottom of the boat.
“What do I do, Rolan?” he asked nervously.
Rolan looked back, smiled reassuringly. “You need only be yourself, Your Majesty. That is what they expect.”
Rolan steered closer to the bank. The river seemed to run faster here, rushed Silvan toward the people before he was quite ready. He had ridden on parade with his mother to review the troops and had experienced the same uneasiness and sense of unworthiness that assailed him now.
The river brought him level with his people. He looked at them and nodded slightly and raised his hand in a shy wave. No one waved back. No one cheered, as he had been half-expecting. They watched him float upon the river in silence, a silence that was poignant and touched Silvan more
deeply than the wildest cheering. He saw in their eyes, he heard in their silence, a wistful hopefulness, a hope in which they did not want to believe, for they had felt hope before and been betrayed.
Profoundly moved, Silvan ceased his waving and stretched out his hand to them, as if he saw them sinking and he could keep them above the water. The river bore him away from them, took him around a hill, and they were lost to his sight.
Humbled, he huddled in the stern and did not move nor speak. For the first time, he came to the full realization of the crushing burden he had taken upon himself. What could he do to help them? What did they expect of him? Too much, perhaps. Much too much.
Rolan glanced back every now and again in concern, but he said nothing, made no comment. He continued to paddle alone until he found a suitable place to beach the boat. Silvan roused himself and jumped into the water, helped to drag the boat up onto the bank. The water was icy cold and came as a pleasant shock. He submerged his worries and fears of his own inadequacies in the Thon-Thalas, was glad to have something to do to keep himself busy.
Accustomed to living out of doors, Silvan knew what needed to be done to set up camp. He unloaded the supplies, spread out the bedrolls, and began to prepare their light supper of fruit and flatbread, while Rolan secured the boat. They ate for the most part in silence, Silvan still subdued by the enormity of the responsibility he had accepted so blithely just two nights before and Rolan respecting his ruler’s wish for quiet. The two made an early night of it. Wrapping themselves in their blankets, they left the woodland animals and night birds to stand watch over their slumbers.
Silvan fell asleep much sooner than he’d anticipated. He was wakened in the night by the hooting of an owl and sat up in fear, but Rolan, stirring, said the owl was merely calling to a neighbor, sharing the gossip of the darkness.
Silvan lay awake, listening to the mournful, haunting call and its answer, a solemn echo in some distant part of the forest. He lay awake long, staring up at the stars that shimmered uneasily above the shield, the Song of Lorac running swift like the river water through his mind.
Dragons of a Fallen Sun Page 22