Dragons of a Fallen Sun

by Margaret Weis

  Small wonder then that Gilthas was known to be indecisive, vacillating, fond of solitude and of reading and writing poetry, an art he had taken up about three years previous and in which he showed undeniable talent. Seated on his throne, a chair of ancient make and design, the back of which was carved into the image of a sun and gilded with gold, Gilthas watched the dancers with a restive air and looked as if he could not wait to escape back to the privacy of his quarters and the happiness of his rhymes.

  “His Majesty seems in unusually high spirits tonight,” observed Prefect Palthainon. “Did you notice the way he favored the eldest daughter of the guildmaster of the Silversmiths?”

  “Not particularly,” returned Marshal Medan, leader of the occupation forces of the Knights of Neraka.

  “Yes, I assure you, it is so,” Palthainon argued testily. “See how he follows her with his eyes.”

  “His Majesty appears to me to be staring either at the floor or his shoes,” Medan remarked. “If you are going to ever see an heir to the throne, Palthainon, you will have to make the marriage yourself.”

  “I would,” Palthainon said, grumbling, “but elven law dictates that only the family may arrange a marriage, and his mother adamantly refuses to become involved unless and until the king makes up his mind.”

  “Then you had better hope His Majesty lives a long, long time,” said Medan. “I should think he would, since you watch over him so closely and attend to his needs so assiduously. You can’t really fault the king, Palthainon,” the marshal added, “His Majesty is, after all, exactly what you and the late Senator Rashas have made him—a young man who dares not even take a piss without looking to you for permission.”

  “His Majesty’s health is fragile,” Palthainon returned stiffly. “It is my duty to remove from him from the burden of the cares and responsibilities of the ruler of the elven nation. Poor young man. He can’t help dithering. The human blood, you know, Marshal. Notoriously weak. And now, if you will excuse me, I will go pay my respects to His Majesty.”

  The marshal, who was human, bowed wordlessly as the prefect, whose mask was, most appropriately, that of a stylized bird of prey, went over to peck at the young king. Politically, Medan found Prefect Palthainon extremely useful. Personally, Medan thought Palthainon utterly detestable.

  Marshal Alexius Medan was fifty-five years old. He had joined the Knights of Takhisis under the leadership of Lord Ariakan prior to the Chaos War that had ended the Fourth Age of Krynn and brought in the Fifth. Medan had been the commander responsible for attacking Qualinesti over thirty years ago. He had been the one to accept the surrender of the Qualinesti people and had remained in charge ever since. Medan’s rule was strict, harsh where it needed to be harsh, but he was not wantonly cruel. True, the elves had few personal freedoms anymore, but Medan did not view this lack as a hardship. To his mind, freedom was a dangerous notion, one that led to chaos, anarchy, the disruption of society.

  Discipline, order, and honor—these were Medan’s gods, now that Takhisis, with a complete lack of discipline and of honor, had turned traitor and run away, leaving her loyal Knights looking like utter fools. Medan imposed discipline and order on the Qualinesti. He imposed discipline and order on his Knights. Above all, he imposed these qualities on himself.

  Medan watched with disgust as Palthainon bowed before the king. Well knowing that Palthainon’s humility was all for show, Medan turned away. He could almost pity the young man Gilthas.

  The dancers swirled about the marshal, elves dressed as swans and bears and every other variety of bird or woodland creature. Jesters and clowns clad in gay motley were in abundance. Medan attended the masquerade because protocol required it, but he refused to wear a mask or a costume. Years ago, the marshal had adopted the elven dress of loose flowing robes draped gracefully over the body as being most comfortable and practicable in the warm and temperate climate of Qualinesti. Since he was the only person in elven dress attending the masquerade, the human had the odd distinction of looking more like an elf than any other elf in the room.

  The marshal left the hot and noisy dance floor and escaped, with relief, into the garden. He brought no body guards with him. Medan disliked being trailed about by Knights in clanking armor. He was not overly fearful for his safety. The Qualinesti had no love for him, but he had outlived a score of assassination attempts. He could take care of himself, probably better care than any of his Knights. Medan had no use for the men being taken into the Knighthood these days, considering them to be an undisciplined and surly lot of thieves, killers, and thugs. In truth, Medan trusted elves at his back far more than his own men.

  The night air was soft and perfumed with the scents of roses and gardenias and orange blossoms. Nightingales sang in the trees, their melodies blending with the music of harp and lute. He recognized the music. Behind him, in the Hall of the Sky, lovely elf maidens were performing a traditional dance. He paused and half-turned, tempted to go back by the beauty of the music. The maidens were performing the Quanisho, the Awakening Promenade, a dance said to drive elf men wild with passion. He wondered if it would have any effect on the king. Perhaps he might be moved to a write a poem.

  “Marshal Medan,” said a voice at his elbow.

  Medan turned. “Honored Mother of our Speaker,” he said and bowed.

  Laurana extended her hand, a hand that was white and soft and fragrant as the flower of the camellia. Medan took her hand, brought the hand to his lips.

  “Come now,” she said to him, “we are by ourselves. Such formal titles need not be observed between those of us who are—how should I describe us? ‘Old enemies’?”

  “Respected opponents,” said Medan, smiling. He relinquished her hand, not without some reluctance.

  Marshal Medan was not married, except to his duty. He did not believe in love, considered love a flaw in a man’s armor, a flaw that left him vulnerable, open to attack. Medan admired Laurana and respected her. He thought her beautiful, as he thought his garden beautiful. He found her useful in assisting him to find his way through the sticky mass of fine-spun cobweb that was the elven version of government. He used her and he was well aware that in return she used him. A satisfactory and natural arrangement.

  “Believe me, madam,” he said quietly, “I find your dislike of me much preferable to other people’s friendship.”

  He glanced meaningfully back into the palace, where Palthainon was standing at the young king’s side, whispering into his ear.

  Laurana followed his gaze. “I understand you, Marshal,” she replied. “You are a representative of an organization I believe to be wholly given over to evil. You are the conqueror of my people, our subjugator. You are allied with our worst enemy, a dragon who is intent upon our total destruction. Yet, I trust you far more than I trust that man.”

  She turned away abruptly. “I do not like this view, sir. Would you mind if we walked to the arboretum?”

  Medan was quite willing to spend a lovely moonlit night in the most enchanting land on Ansalon in company with the land’s most enchanting woman. They walked side by side in companionable silence along a walkway of crushed marble that glittered and sparkled as if it would mimic the stars. The scent of orchids was intoxicating.

  The Royal Arboretum was a house made of crystal, filled with plants whose fragile and delicate natures could not survive even the relatively mild winters of Qualinesti. The arboretum was some distance from the palace. Laurana did not speak during their long walk. Medan did not feel that it was his place to break this peaceful silence, and so he said nothing. In silence, the two approached the crystal building, its many facets reflecting the moon so that it seemed there must be a hundred moons in the sky instead of just one.

  They entered through a crystal door. The air was heavy with the breath of the plants, which stirred and rustled as if in welcome.

  The sound of the music and the laughter was completely shut out. Laurana sighed deeply, breathed deeply of the perfume that scented the warm, mo
ist air.

  She placed her hand upon an orchid, turning it to the moonlight.

  “Exquisite,” said Medan, admiring the plant. “My orchids thrive—especially those you have given me—but I cannot produce such magnificent blossoms.”

  “Time and patience,” Laurana said. “As in all things. To continue our earlier conversation, Marshal, I will tell you why I respect you more than Palthainon. Though your words are not easy for me to hear sometimes I know that when you speak, you speak from your heart. You have never lied to me, even when a lie might have served your purpose better than the truth. Palthainon’s words slide out of his mouth and fall to the ground, then slither away into the darkness.”

  Medan bowed to acknowledge the compliment, but he would not enter into further disparagement of the man who helped him keep Qualinesti under control. He changed the subject.

  “You have left the revelries at an early hour, madam. I hope you are not unwell,” he said politely.

  “The heat and the noise were too much to bear,” Laurana replied. “I came out into the garden for some quiet.”

  “Have you dined?” the marshal asked. “Could I send the servants for food or wine?”

  “No, thank you, Marshal. I find I have very little appetite these days. You can serve me best by keeping me company for a while, if your duties do not call you away.”

  “With such a charming companion, I do not think that death himself could call me away,” the Marshal returned.

  Laurana glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes, smiled slightly. “Humans are not generally given to such pretty speeches. You have been around elves much too long, Marshal. In fact, I believe you are more elf than human now. You wear our clothes, you speak our language flawlessly, you enjoy our music and our poetry. You have issued laws that protect our woodlands, laws stronger than those we might have passed ourselves. Perhaps I was wrong,” she added lightly. “Perhaps you are the conquered and we are, in truth, your conquerors.”

  “You make sport of me, madam,” Medan returned, “and you will probably laugh when I say that you are not far wrong. I was blind to nature before I came to Qualinesti. A tree was a thing I used to build a wall for a fortress or a handle for my battle-axe. The only music I enjoyed was the martial beating of the war drum. The only reading in which I took pleasure were dispatches from headquarters. I freely admit that I laughed when I first entered this land to see an elf speaking respectfully to a tree or talking gently to a flower. And then, one spring, after I had been living here about seven years, I was amazed to find myself eagerly awaiting the return of the flowers to my garden, wondering which would blossom first, wondering if the new rosebush the gardener had planted last year would bloom. At about the same time, I discovered the songs of the harpist running through my mind. I began to study the poetry to learn the words.

  “In truth, Madam Lauralanthalasa, I do love your land. That is why,” Medan added, his expression darkening, “I do my best to keep this land safe from the wrath of the dragon. That is why I must harshly punish those of your people who rebel against my authority. Beryl wants only an excuse to destroy you and your land. By persisting in resistance, by committing acts of terror and sabotage against my forces, the misguided rebels among your people threaten to bring destruction down upon you all.”

  Medan had no idea how old Laurana must be. Hundreds of years, perhaps. Yet she was as beautiful and youthful as the days when she had been the Golden General, leading the armies of light against the forces of Queen Takhisis during the War of the Lance. He had met old soldiers who spoke still of her courage in battle, her spirit that rallied the flagging spirits of the crumbling armies and led them to victory. He wished he could have known her then, though they would have been on opposite sides. He wished he could have seen her riding to battle on the back of her dragon, her golden hair a shining banner for her troops to follow.

  “You say that you trust in my honor, madam,” he continued and he took hold of her hand in his earnestness. “Then you must believe me when I tell you that I am working day and night to try to save Qualinesti. These rebels do not make my task easy. The dragon hears of their attacks and their defiance and grows extremely angry. She wonders aloud why she wastes her time and money ruling over such troublesome subjects. I do my best to placate her, but she is fast losing patience.”

  “Why do you tell me this, Marshal Medan?” Laurana asked. “What has this to do with me?”

  “Madam, if you have any influence over these rebels, please stop them. Tell them that while their acts of terror may do some harm to myself and my troops, in the long run, the rebels are harming only their own people.”

  “And what makes you think that I, the Queen Mother, have anything to do with rebels?” Laurana asked. A flush came to her cheeks. Her eyes glittered.

  Medan regarded her in silent admiration for a moment, then replied, “Let us say that I find it difficult to believe that someone who fought the Dark Queen and her minions so tenaciously over fifty years ago during the War of the Lance has ceased to do battle.”

  “You are wrong, Marshal,” Laurana protested. “I am old, too old for such matters. No, Sir”—she forestalled his speaking—“I know what you are going to say. You are going to say that I look as young as a maiden at her first dance. Save your pretty compliments for those who desire to hear them. I do not. I have no heart left for battle, for defiance. My heart is in the tomb where my dear husband, Tanis, lies buried. My family is all that matters to me now. I want to see my son happily married, I want to hold grandchildren in my arms. I want our land to be at peace and I am willing to pay tribute to the dragon for our land to remain at peace.”

  Medan regarded her skeptically. He heard the ring of truth in her voice, but she was not telling him the entire truth. Laurana had been a skilled diplomat in the days following the war. She was accustomed to telling people what they wanted to hear while subtly swaying them to believe what she wanted them to believe. Still, it would have been extremely impolite to openly doubt her words. And if she meant them, Medan pitied her. The son on whom she doted was a spineless jellyfish who took hours to decide whether to have strawberries or blueberries for luncheon. Gilthas was not likely to ever take such an important step as making up his mind to wed. Unless, of course, someone else picked out his bride for him.

  Laurana averted her head but not before Medan had seen the tears welling in her almond eyes. He changed the subject back to orchids. He was attempting to grow some in his own garden and was having minimal success. He discussed orchids for a long while, giving Laurana a chance to regain her composure. A quick touch of her hand to her eyes and she was once more in control. She recommended her own gardener, a master with orchids.

  Medan accepted the offer with pleasure. The two of them lingered another hour in the arboretum, discussing strong roots and waxen flowers.

  “Where is my honored mother, Palthainon?” Gilthas, Speaker of the Sun, asked. “I have not seen her this past half-hour.”

  The king was dressed in the costume of an elven ranger, all in greens and browns, colors that were becoming to him. Gilthas looked quite impressive, though few elven rangers were likely to go about their duties attired in the finest silken hose and shirts, or a hand-tooled and gold-embossed leather vest with matching boots. He held a cup of wine in his hand, but he only sipped at it out of politeness. Wine gave him a headache, everyone knew.

  “I believe that your mother is walking in the garden, Your Majesty,” said Prefect Palthainon, who missed nothing of the comings and goings of the House Royal. “She spoke of needing air. Would you have me send for her? Your Majesty does not look well.”

  “I am not well,” Gilthas said. “Thank you for your kind offer, Palthainon, but do not disturb her.” His eyes darkened, he looked out upon the throng of dancers with sadness and wistful envy. “Do you think anyone would take it amiss if I were to retire to my room, Prefect?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Perhaps a dance would cheer Your Majesty
,” Palthainon said. “There, look at how the lovely Amiara smiles at you.” The prefect leaned near the king to whisper, “Her father is one of the wealthiest elves in all of Qualinesti. Silversmith, you know. And she is perfectly charming—”

  “Yes, she is,” said Gilthas in disinterested agreement. “But I do not feel equal to dancing. I am feeling faint and nauseated. I believe that I really must retire.”

  “By all means, if Your Majesty is truly not well,” said Palthainon reluctantly. Medan was right. Having robbed the king of a spine, the prefect could not very well fault the young man for crawling about on his hands and knees. “Your Majesty should rest in bed tomorrow. I will take care of the affairs of state.”

  “Thank you, Palthainon,” Gilthas said quietly. “If I am not needed, I will spend the day working on the twelfth canto in my new poem.”

  He rose to his feet. The music came to a sudden halt. The dancers ceased in mid-whirl. Elven men bowed, elven women curtsied. The elven maidens looked up in expectation. Gilthas seemed embarrassed by the sight of them. Ducking his head, he stepped down off the dais and walked quickly toward the door that led to his private chambers. His personal servant accompanied him, walking ahead of the king, bearing a glowing candelabra to light His Majesty’s way. The elven maidens shrugged and glanced about demurely for new partners. The music began again. The dancing continued.

  Prefect Palthainon, muttering imprecations, headed for the refreshment table.

  Gilthas, glancing back before he left the room, smiled to himself. Turning, he followed the soft glow of the candlelight through the darkened hallways of his palace. Here no courtiers flattered and fawned, here no one was permitted to enter without first obtaining permission from Palthainon, who lived in constant fear that some day someone else might wrest away the marionette’s strings. Kagonesti guards stood at every entrance.

  Freed from the music and the lights, the twittering laughter and the whispering conversations, Gilthas breathed a sigh of relief as he walked the well-guarded corridors. The newly built palace of the Speaker of the Sun was a large and airy dwelling of living trees that had been magically altered and lovingly transformed into ceilings and walls. The tapestries were made of flowers and plants coaxed to form beautiful works of art that changed daily depending on what was in bloom. The floors of some of the rooms of the palace, such as the dancing room and the audience chambers, were made of marble. Most of the private rooms and the hallways that wound among the boles of the trees were carpeted with fragrant plants.