Dragons of a Fallen Sun, page 56
Gilthas played with his pen and took up a pensive attitude. Lounging back in his chair, he propped his feet up on a cushion, ran the tip of the feather over his lips, and stared at the ceiling.
“The Runner Kelevandros,” announced the guard, “to see His Majesty.”
“Let him enter” said Gilthas languidly.
Kelevandros came into the room in a bound. He was hooded and cloaked, the hood covering his face. Planchet shut the door behind him. Kelevandros threw back his hood. His face was deathly pale.
Gilthas rose involuntarily to his feet.
“What—”
“Your Majesty must not excite himself” Planchet remonstrated with a glance at the door reminding the king that the guards could hear him.
“What has happened, Kelevandros?” Gilthas asked indolently. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.”
“Your Majesty!” Kelevandros said in a low, quivering voice.
“The queen mother has been arrested!”
“Arrested?” Gilthas repeated in astonishment. “Who has done this? Who would dare? And why? What is the charge?”
“Marshal Medan. Your Majesty.” Kelevandros gulped. “I don’t know how to say this—”
“Out with it, man!” Gilthas said sharply.
“Last night, Marshal Medan placed your honored mother under arrest. He has orders from the dragon Beryl to put. . . to put the queen mother to death.”
Gilthas stared wordlessly. The blood drained from his face, as if someone had taken a knife and drawn it across his throat. He was so pale and shaken that Planchet left the door and hastened to the king’s side, placed a firm and comforting hand on Gilthas’s shoulder.
“I attempted to stop him, Your Majesty,” Kelevandros said miserably. “I failed.”
“Last night!” Gilthas cried, anguished. “Why didn’t you come to me at once?”
“I tried, Your Majesty,” Kelevandros said, “but the guards would not let me inside without orders from Palthainon.”
“Where has Medan taken the queen mother?” Planchet asked. “What is the charge against her?”
“The charge is harboring the sorcerer Palin and helping him escape with the magical device brought by the kender. I don’t know where Medan has taken my mistress. I went first to the Knight’s headquarters, but if she is being held there, no one would tell me. I have had people searching for her all night. They are to report back to Kalindas, who has offered to remain in the house in case there is news. Finally, one of the guards who is a friend of our cause admitted me.
“I came next to you. You have heard nothing then?” Kelevandros looked anxiously at the king.
“No,” said Gilthas. The word made no sound as it left his pallid lips.
“We are about to learn something more, I believe,” said Planchet, his ear cocked. “That is Medan’s heavy tread on the staircase. His footsteps shake the house. He comes quickly.”
They could hear the stamp of the guards’ feet as they came to attention, hear the thud of their spears strike the floor. One of the guards started to knock, but the knock was never finished. Medan, accompanied by one of his bodyguards— helmed and wearing black leather armor— thrust the door open, strode into the room.
“Your Majesty—”
Gilthas lunged from his chair. He covered the distance between himself and the marshal in two great bounds. Catching hold of the startled Medan by the throat, Gilthas slammed the human back against the wall, while Planchet accosted the bodyguard. Seizing hold of the man’s arm, Planchet twisted it behind his back, held a knife to his ear.
“What have you done with my mother?” Gilthas demanded, his voice hard and grim. “Tell me!” He tightened his grip on Medan’s throat. “Tell me!”
The marshal had been caught flat-footed by the king’s sudden assault. Medan did not move. The young king’s fingers were exceptionally strong, and he appeared to know precisely what he was doing.
The marshal was by no means afraid. He had his hand on the handle of his dirk and could at any moment draw the weapon and plunge it into the king’s belly. That was not, however, what Medan had come here to accomplish.
He stared at Gilthas long moments without speaking, then said, as best he could for being choked, “Either the pup has grown into a wolf, or I am in the presence of a consummate actor.” Noting the fearless determination in the young elf’s eyes, the resolution in the jaw, the firmness of the fingers and the expertness of the hold, Medan had his answer. “I tend to think the latter,” he gasped.
“My mother, sir!” Gilthas said through clenched teeth. “Where is she?”
“I am here, Gilthas,” Laurana replied, her voice echoing inside the helm of the Neraka Knights.
“Queen Mother!” Planchet gasped. He dropped the knife he had been holding and fell to his knees. “Forgive me! I had no idea.”
“You weren’t supposed to, Planchet,” Laurana said, removing the helm. “Let the marshal go, Gilthas. I am safe. For the moment. As safe as any of us.”
Gilthas let loose of Medan, who stepped away from the wall, massaging his bruised throat.
“Mother, are you hurt?” Gilthas demanded. “Did he harm you? If he did, I swear—”
“No, my son, no!” Laurana reassured him. “The marshal has treated me with all possible respect. With great kindness, even. He took me to his house last night. This morning, he provided me with this disguise. The marshal fears my life may be in peril. He took me into custody for my own safety.”
Gilthas frowned as if he found all this difficult to believe.
“Mother, sit down. You look exhausted. Planchet, bring my mother some wine.”
While Planchet went to fetch the wine, the marshal walked over to the door. Flinging it open, he stepped out into the hallway. The guards scrambled to attention.
“Guards, the rebel force has been reported within the city limits. His Majesty’s life is in danger. Clear the household. Send all the servants home. Everyone. No one is to remain within the palace. Is that understood? I want guards posted at all the entrances. Admit no one, with the exception of my aide. Send him to king’s chambers directly upon his arrival. Go!”
The guards departed, and soon their voices could be heard loudly ordering everyone to leave the palace. The voices of the servants rose in perplexity or consternation. It was early morning, breakfast was prepared but had not been served, the floors had yet to be swept. The guards were firm. There was a hubbub of voices, the household staff exclaiming loudly and fearfully, the scream of an overexcited maid. The guards herded everyone out the doors and took up their positions outside as ordered.
Within a few moments, the palace was strangely, unnaturally quiet.
Medan reentered the room. “Where do you think you are going?” he demanded, finding Kelevandros about to depart.
“I must take this news to my brother, my lord,” Kelevandros said. “He is frantic with worry—”
“You are not taking this news to him or to anyone. Go sit down and keep quiet.”
Laurana glanced up swiftly at this, looked searchingly at Kelevandros. The elf glanced at her uncertainly and then did as he was told.
Medan left the door open behind him. “I want to be able to hear what is going on outside. Are you all right, madam?”
“Yes, thank you, Marshal. Will you join me in a glass of wine?”
“With His Majesty’s permission.” The marshal made a slight bow.
“Planchet,” Gilthas said, “pour the marshal some wine.” The king continued to stand protectively beside his mother, continued to glower at the marshal.
Medan raised his glass in a toast. “I congratulate you, Your Majesty. I have been duped for the first and only time in my life. That weak, vacillating, poetry-loving act of yours took me in completely. I have long wondered how and why so many of my best plans were thwarted. I believe that I now have the answer. Your health, Your Majesty.”
Medan drank the wine. Gilthas turned his back on the man.
“Mother, what is going on?”
“Sit down, Gilthas, and I will tell you,” Laurana said. “Or better yet, you may read for yourself.”
She looked to Medan. He reached inside his armor, produced the scroll sent by the dragon, and handed it, with a new and marked show of respect, to the king.
Gilthas walked to the window, unrolled the parchment. He held it to the waning twilight and read it slowly and carefully.
“The dragon cannot mean this,” he said, his voice strained.
“She means it,” said Medan grimly. “Erase all doubt from your mind, Your Majesty. Beryl has long been seeking an excuse to destroy Qualinesti. The rebel attacks grow bolder. She suspects the elves of keeping the Tower of Wayreth from her. The unfortunate fact that Palin Majere was discovered hiding in the house of the queen mother merely confirms the dragon’s suspicions that the elves and the sorcerers are in collusion to rob her of her magic.”
“We pay her tribute—” Gilthas began.
“Bah! What is money to her? She demands tribute only because it pleases her to think she is inflicting a hardship on you. Magic is what she lusts after, magic of the old world, magic of the gods. It is a pity this blasted device ever came into his land. A pity you sought to keep it from me, madam.” The marshal’s voice was stem. “Had you turned it over to me, this tragedy might have been averted.”
Laurana sipped her wine, made no answer.
Medan shrugged. “But, you did. Spilled ale, as they said. Now you must fetch the device back. You must, madam,” he reiterated.
“I have done what I can to stall for time, but I have bought us only a few days. Send your griffon messenger to the Citadel. Instruct Palin Majere to turn over the device and the kender who bears it. I will take them to the dragon personally. I may be able to stave off this doom that hangs over us—”
“Us!” Gilthas cried in anger. “You hold the executioner’s axe, Marshal! The axe hangs poised over our heads, not yours!”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Medan replied with a low bow. “I have lived in this land for so long that it has come to seem like my home.”
“You are our conqueror,” said Gilthas, speaking the words distinctly, separately them with bitter emphasis on each. “You are our master. You are our jailer. Qualinesti can never be your home, sir.”
“I suppose not, Your Majesty,” said Medan, after a moment’s pause. “I should like you to consider, however, that I escorted your mother to the palace, when I might have escorted her to the block. I have come to warn you of the dragon’s intent, when I might have been marching prisoners to the market place to serve as targets for my archers.”
“What is all this generosity to cost us?” Gilthas demanded, his voice cold. “What is the price you set on our lives, Marshal Medan?”
Medan smiled slightly. “I should like to die in my garden, Your Majesty. Of old age, if that is possible.” He poured himself another glass of wine.
“Do not trust him, Your Majesty,” Planchet said softly, coming to pour wine for the king.
“Don’t worry,” said Gilthas, twisting the fragile stem of the glass in his fingers.
“And now, madam, we do not have much time,” the Marshal said. “Here is paper and ink. Compose your letter to Majere.”
“No, Marshal,” Laurana said firmly. “I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought. Beryl must never come into possession of this device. I would die a hundred deaths first.”
“You would die a hundred deaths, madam,” said Medan grimly, “but what about thousands of deaths? What about your people? Will you sacrifice them to save some sorcerer’s toy?”
Laurana was pale, resolute. “It is not a toy, Marshal Medan. If Palin is right, it is one of the most powerful magical artifacts ever made. Qualinesti could be burned to the ground before I would turn over the artifact to the Beryl.”
“Tell me the nature of this artifact, then,” Medan said.
“I cannot, Marshal.” Laurana replied. “It is bad enough that Beryl knows the artifact exists. I will not provide her with any more information.” Calmly, she lifted her blue eyes to meet his irate gaze. “You see, sir, I have reason to believe that I am being spied upon.”
Medan’s face flushed. He seemed about to say something, changed his mind and turned abruptly to speak to the king.
“Your Majesty. What have you to say?”
“I agree with my mother. She told me of this device, described its powers to me. I will not give the device to the dragon.
“Do you realize what you are doing? You sentence your nation to death! No magical artifact is worth this,” Medan protested angrily.
“This one is, Marshal.” Laurana said. “You must trust me.”
Medan regarded her intently.
She met his gaze, held it, did not blink or flinch away.
“Hush!” Planchet warned. “Someone’s coming.”
They could hear footfalls on the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“My aide,” Medan replied.
“Can he be trusted?” Laurana asked.
Medan gave a wry smile. “Judge for yourself, Madam.
A Knight entered the room. His black armor was covered in blood and gray dust. He stood still for some moments, breathing heavily, his head bowed, as if climbing those stairs had drained every last ounce of his energy. At length, he raised his head, lifted his hand, held out a scroll to the marshal.
“I have it, sir. Groul is dead.”
“Well done, Sir Gerard,” said the Marshal accepting the scroll. He looked at the Knight, at the blood on his armor. “Are you wounded?” he asked.
“To be honest, my lord, I can’t tell,” Gerard said with a grimace. “There isn’t one single part of me that doesn’t hurt. But if I am, it is not serious, or else I’d be lying out there dead in the street.”
Laurana was staring, amazed.
“Queen Mother,” Gerard said, bowing.
Laurana seemed about to speak, but, glancing at Medan, she caught herself.
“I do not believe that we have met, sir,” she said coolly. Gerard’s blood-masked face relaxed into a faint smile. “Thank you, madam, for trying to protect me, but the marshal knows I am a Solamnic Knight. I am the marshal’s prisoner, in fact.”
“A Solamnic?” Gilthas was startled.
“The one I told you about,” Laurana said. “The Knight who accompanied Palin and the kender.”
“I see. And so you are the marshal’s prisoner. Did he do this to you?” Gilthas demanded angrily.
“No, Your Majesty,” said Gerard. “A draconian did this to me. Beryl’s messenger. Or rather, Beryl’s former messenger.” He sank down in a chair, sighed, and closed his eyes.
“Some wine here,” Medan ordered. “The dragon won’t be receiving any more information from Qualinesti,” he added with satisfaction. “Beryl will wait at least a day to hear from me. When she does not, she will be forced to send another messenger. We have gained some time, at least.”
He handed Gerard a glass of wine.
“No, my lord,” said Gerard, accepting the wine, but not drinking it. “We haven’t. The dragon deceived us. Beryl’s forces are on the march. Groul figured that they might already be crossing the border. The largest army assembled since the Chaos War is marching on Qualinesti.”
A silence as of death settled over the room. Each person listened unmoving, absorbing the news. No one’s eyes sought another’s. No one wanted to see the reflection of his own fear.
Marshal Medan smiled ruefully, shook his head.
“I am not to die of old age, after all, it seems,” he said, and poured himself another glass of wine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE PALE RIVER OF THE DEAD
That night, Goldmoon left the hospital, ignoring the pleas of the Healers and Lady Camilla.
“I am well,” Goldmoon said, fending off their attempts to keep her in bed. “I need rest, that is all, and I will not find rest here!”
Not with the dead.
She walked swiftly through the gardens and courtyards of the citadel complex, bright with lights. She looked neither to the left nor the right. She did not answer greetings. She kept her gaze fixed upon the path before her. If she looked anywhere else, she would see them. They were following her.
She heard their whispered beggings. She felt their touch, soft as milkweed, upon her hands, her face. They wrapped around her like silken scarves. She was afraid, if she looked at them, she would see Riverwind. Then she thought, perhaps this is why his spirit has not come to me. He is lost and foundering in this river, swept away. I will never find him.
Reaching the Grand Lyceum, she ran swiftly up the many stairs leading to her chambers. For the first time, she blessed this strange, young body, which was not only quick but was eager to meet the physical demands she now placed upon it. Brought to bay, Goldmoon turned to face them.
“Be gone. I have nothing for you.”
The dead drew near, an old, old man, a thief, a warrior, a crippled child. Beggars all, their hands extended. Then, quite suddenly, they left— as if a voice had ordered them gone. But not her voice.
Goldmoon shut the door behind.
In her chamber, she was alone, truly alone. The dead were not here. Perhaps when she had refused to grant them what they sought, they had left her to seek other prey. She sank back against the door, overwhelmed by her vision. Standing in the darkness, she could see again, in her mind’s eye, the dead draining the lifegiving power from her followers. This was the reason healing was failing in the world. The dead were robbing the living. But why? What need had the dead for mystical power? What force constrained them? Where were they bound with such urgency?
“And why has it been given to me to see them?” Goldmoon murmured.
A knock sounded on her door. She ignored it and felt to make certain the door was locked. The knock was repeated several times. Voices— living voices— called to her. When she did not answer, they were perplexed. She could hear them wondering aloud what to do.
