Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (25 page)

outside that he would rather see us all dead than be a part of that

world. We could say all that, and then Konnal would stand up

and say, 'You lie! Lower the shield and the Dark Knights will

enter our beloved woods with their axes, the ogres will break and

maim the living trees, the Great Dragons will descend upon us

and devour us.' That is what he will say, and the people will cry,

Save us! Protect us, dear Governor General Konnal! We have no

one else to turn to!' and that will be that."

"I see," said Silvan thoughtfully. He glanced at Rolan, who

was gazing intently into the darkness.

"Now the people will have someone else to turn to, Your

Majesty," said Rolan. "The rightful heir to the Silvanesti throne.

But we must proceed carefully, cautiously." He smiled sadly.

"Else you, too, might 'disappear.' "

The lovely song of the nightingale throbbed in the darkness.

Rolan pursed his lips and whistled back. Three elves material-

ized, emerging from the shadows. Silvan recognized them as the

three who had first accosted him near the shield this morning.

This morning! Silvan marveled. Was it only this morning?

Days, months, years had go~e by since then.

Rolan stood to greet the three, clasping the elves by the hand

and exchanging the ritual kiss on the cheek.

The elves wore the same cloak as did Rolan, and even though

Silvan knew that they had entered the clearing, he was having a

difficult time seeing them, for they seemed to be wrapped in

darkness and starlight.

Rolan questioned them about their patrol. They reported that

the border along the Shield was quiet, "deathly quiet" one said

with terrible irony. The three turned their attention back to

Silvan.

"So have you questioned him, Rolan?" asked one, turning a

stem gaze upon Silvanoshei. "Is he what he claims?"

Silvan scrambled to his feet, feeling awkward and embar-

rassed. He started to bow politely to his elders, as he had been

taught, but then the thought came to him that he was king, after

all. It was they who should bow to him. He looked at Rolan in

some confusion.

"I did not 'question' him," Rolan said sternly. "We discussed

certain things. And yes, I believe him to be Silvanoshei, the right-

ful Speaker of the Stars, son of Alhana and Porthios. Our king has

returned to us. The day for which we have been waiting has

arrived."

The three elves looked at Silvan, studied him up and down,

then turned back to Rolan.

"He could be an imposter," said one.

"I am certain he is not" Rolan returned with firm conviction.

"I knew his mother when she was his age. I fought with his father

against the dreaming. He has the likeness of them both, though

he favors his father. You, Drinel. You fought with Porthios. Look

at this young man. You will see the father's image engraven on

the son's."

The elf stared intently at Silvanoshei, who met his gaze and

held it.

"See with your heart Drinel," Rolan urged. "Eyes can be

blinded. The heart cannot. You heard him when we followed him,

when he had no idea we were spying on him. You heard what he

said to us when he believed us to be soldiers of his mother's

army. He was not dissembling. I stake my life on it."

"I grant you that he favors his father and that there is some-

thing of his mother in his eyes. By what miracle does the son of

our exiled queen walk beneath the shield?" Drinel asked.

"I don't know how I came to be inside the shield," Silvan said,

embarrassed. "I must have fallen through it. I don't remember.

But when I sought to leave, the shield would not let me."

"He threw himself against the shield," Rolan said. "He tried

to go back, tried to leave Silvanesti. Would an imposter do that

when he had gone to so much trouble to enter? Would an im-

poster admit that he did not know how he came through the

shield? No, an imposter would have a tale to hand us, logical and

easy to believe."

"You spoke of seeing with my heart," said Drinel. He glanced

back at the other elves. "We are agreed. We want to try the truth-

seek on him."

"You disgrace us with your distrust!" Rolan said, highly dis-

pleased. "What will he think of us?"

"That we are wise and prudent," Drinel answered dryly. "If

he has nothing to hide, he will not object."

"It is up to Silvanoshei," Rolan replied. "Though I would

refuse, if I were him."

"What is it?" Silvan looked from one to another, puzzled.

"What is this truth-seek?"

"It is a magical spell, Your Majesty," Rolan answered and his

tone grew sad. "Once there was a time when the elves could trust

each other. Trust each other implicitly. Once there was a time

when no elf could possibly lie to another of our people. That time

came to an end during Lorac's dream. The dream created phan-

tasms of our people, false images of fellow elves that yet seemed

very real to those who looked on them and touched them and

spoke to them. These phantasms could lure those who believed in

them to ruin and destruction. A husband might see his wife beck-

oning to him and plunge headlong over a cliff in an effort to reach

her. A mother might see a child perishing in flames and rush into

the fire, only to find the child vanished.

"We kirath developed the truth-seek to determine if these

phantasms were real or if they were a part of the dream. The

phantasms were empty inside, hollow. They had no memories, no

thoughts, no feelings. A touch of a hand upon the heart and we

would know if we dealt with living person or the dream.

"When the dream ended, the need for the truth-seek ended,

as well," Rolan said. "Or so we hoped. A hope that proved for-

lorn. When the dream ended, the twisted, bleeding trees were

gone, the ugliness that perverted our land departed. But the

ugliness had entered the hearts of some of our people, turned

them as hollow as the hearts of those created by the dream.

Now elf can lie to elf and does so. New words have crept into

the elven vocabulary. Human words. Words like distrust, dis-

honest, dishonor. We use the truth-seek on each other now and

it seems to me that the more we use it, the more the need to use

it." He looked very darkly upon Drinel, who remained resolute,

defiant.

"I have nothing to hide," said Silvan. "You may use this

truth-seek on me and welcome. Though it would grieve my

mother deeply to hear that her people have come to such a

pass. She would never think to question the loyalty of those

who follow her, as they would never think to question her care

of them."

"You see, Drinel," said Rolan, flushing. "You see how you

shame us!"

"Nevertheless, I will know the truth," Drinel said stubbornly.

"Will you?" Rolan demanded. "What if the magic fails you

again?"

Drinel's eyes flashed. He cast a dark glance at his fellow.

"Curb your tongue, Rolan. I remind you that as yet we know

nothing about this young man."

Silvanoshei said nothing. It was not his place to interject.

himself into this dispute. But he stored up the words for future

thought. Perhaps the elf sorcerers of his mother's army were

not the only people who had found their magical power start-

ing to wane.

Drinel approached Silvan, who stood stiffly, eyeing the elf

askance. Drinel reached out his left hand, his heart hand, for that

is the hand closest to the heart, and rested his hand upon Silvan's

breast. The elf's touch was light, yet Silvan could feel it strike

through to his soul, or so it seemed.

Memory flowed from the font of his soul, good memories

and bad, bubbling up from beneath surface feelings and

thoughts and pouring into Drinel's hand. Memories of his father,

a stern and implacable figure who rarely smiled and never

laughed. Who never made any outward show of his affection,

never spoke approval of his son's actions, rarely seemed to

n?tice his son at all. Yet within that glittering flow of memory,

Sllvanoshei recalled one night, when he and his mother had nar-

rowly escaped death at the hands of someone or other. Porthios

had clasped them both in his arms, had held his small son close

to his breast, had whispered a prayer over them in elven, an an-

cient prayer to gods who were no longer there to hear it. Sil-

vanoshei remembered cold wet tears touching his cheek,

remembered thinking to himself that these tears were not his.

They were his father's.

This memory and others Drinel came to hold in his mind, as

he might have held sparkling water in his cupped hands.

Drinel's expression altered. He looked at Silvan with new

regard, new respect.

"Are you satisfied?! Silvan asked coldly. The memories had

opened a bleeding gash in his being.

"I see his father in his face, his mother in his heart, "Drinel

replied. I pledge you my allegiance, Silvanoshei. I urge others to

do the same."

Drinel bowed deeply, his hand over his breast. The other two

elves added their words of acceptance and allegiance. Silvan re-

turned gracious thanks, all the while wondering a bit cynically

just what all this kowtowing was truly worth to him. Elves had

pledged allegiance to his mother, as well, and Alhana Starbreeze

was little better than a bandit skulking in the woods.

If being the rightful Speaker of the Stars meant more nights

hiding in burial mounds and more days dodging assassins,

Silvan could do without it. He was sick of that sort of life, sick to

death of it. He had never fully admitted that until now. For the

first time he admitted to himself that he was angry-hotly, bit-

terly angry-at his parents for having forced that sort of life

upon him.

He was ashamed of his anger the next moment. He reminded

himself that perhaps his mother was either dead or captive, but,

irrationally, his grief and worry increased his anger. The conflict-

ing emotions, complicated further by guilt, confused and ex-

hausted him. He needed time to think, and he couldn't do that

with these elves staring at him like some sort of stuffed curiosity

in a mageware shop.

The elves remained standing, and Silvan eventually realized

that they were waiting for him to sit down and rest themselves.

He had been raised in an elven court, albeit a rustic one, and he

Was experienced at courtly maneuverings. He urged the other

elves to be seated, saying that they must be weary, and he invited

them to eat some of the fruit and water. Then Silvan excused

himself from their company, explaining that he needed to make

his ablutions.

He was surprised when Rolan warned him to be careful,

offered him the sword he wore.

"Why?" Silvan was incredulous. "What is there to fear? I

thought the shield kept out all our enemies."

"With one exception," Rolan answered dryly. "There are re-

ports that the great green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, was-by a

miscalculation' on the part of General Konnal-trapped inside

the shield."

"Bah! That is nothing but a story Konnal puts about in order to

distract us," Drinel asserted. "Name me one person who has seen

this monster! No one. The dragon is rumored to be here. He is ru-

mored to be there. We go here and we go there and never find a

trace of him. I think it odd, Rolan, that this Cyan Bloodbane is

always sighted just when Konnal feels himself under pressure to

answer to the leaders of the Households about the state of his rule."

"True, no one has seen Cyan Bloodbane," Rolan agreed. "Nev-

ertheless, I confess I believe that the dragon is in Silvanesti some-

where. I once saw tracks I found very difficult to explain

otherwise. Be careful, therefore, Your Majesty. And take my

sword. Just in case."

Silvan refused the sword. Thinking back to how he had

almost skewered Samar, Silvan was ashamed to let the others

know he could not handle a weapon, ashamed to let them know

that he was completely untrained in its use. He assured Rolan

that he would keep careful watch and walked into the glittering

forest. His mother, he recalled, would have sent an armed guard

with him.

For the first time in my life, Silvan thought suddenly, I am

free. Truly free.

He washed his face and hands in a clear, cold stream, raked

his fingers through his long hair, and looked long at his reflection

in the rippling water. He could see nothing of his father in his

face, and he was always somewhat irritated by those who

claimed that they could. Silvan's memories of Porthios were of a

stem, steel-hard warrior who, if he had ever known how to smile,

had long since abandoned the practice. The only tenderness

Silvan ever saw in his father's eyes was when they turned their

gaze to his mother.

"You are king of the elves," Silvan said to his reflection. "You

have accomplished in a day what your parents could not accom-

plish in thirty years. Could not. . . or would not."

He sat down on the bank. His reflection stirred and shim-