Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (80 page)

gnome. "Because I think I'm losing all the feeling in my left foot.

"Hold still!" Conundrum ordered. "Don't move. I've almost

got it. Drat this wind," he added irritably. "I wish it would stop.

It keeps blowing away my map."

Tasslehoff endeavored to do as he was ordered, although not

moving was extremely difficult. He stood on the path in the

middle of the hedge maze, balanced precariously on his left foot.

He held his right leg hoisted in a most uncomfortable position in

the air, his foot attached to a branch of the hedge maze by the en

of the thread of the unraveled right stocking. The stocking was

considerably reduced in size, its cream-colored thread trailing

along the path through the hedge maze.

The gnome's plan to use the socks had proved a brilliant suc-

cess, though Conundrum sighed inwardly over the fact that the

means by which he was going to finally succeed in mapping the

hedge maze lacked the buttons, the gears, the pulleys, the spindles

and the wheels, which are such a comfort to the scientific mind.

To have to describe the wondrous mechanism by which he

had achieved his Life Quest as "two socks, wool" was a terrible

blow. He had spent the night trying to think of some way to add

steam power, with the result that he developed plans for snow-

shoes that not only went extremely fast but kept the feet warm as

well. But that did nothing to advance his Life Quest.

At length Conundrum was forced to proceed with the simple

plan he'd originally developed. He could always, he reflected,

embellish the proceedings during the final report. They began

early in the morning, up before the dawn. Conundrum posted

Tasslehoff at the entry of the hedge maze, tied one end of the

kender's sock to a branch, and marched Tasslehoff forward. The

sock unraveled nicely, leaving a cream-colored track behind.

Whenever Tasslehoff took a wrong turn and came to a dead end,

he reversed direction, rolling up the thread, and proceeded down

the path until he came to the right turn in the path, which was

leading them deeper into the middle of the hedge maze.

Whenever they struck a correct turning, Conundrum would

fall flat on his belly and mark the route on his map. By this means,

he advanced farther than he'd ever been able to go. So long as

Tasslehoff's supply of hosiery held out, the gnome felt certain

that he would have the entire hedge maze well and truly mapped

by day's end.

As for Tasslehoff, he was not feeling quite as cheery and

pleased as one might expect for someone who was on the verge

of wondrous scientific breakthrough. Every time he put his hand

in a pocket he felt the prickly jewels and the cold, hard surface of

the Device of Time Journeying. He more than half suspected the

device of deliberately making a nuisance of itself by turning up in

places and pockets where he knew for a fact it had not been ten

minutes earlier. No matter where he put his hands, the Device

was jabbing him or poking him.

Every time the device jabbed him or poked him, it was like

Fizban's bony finger jabbing him or poking him, reminding him

of his promise to come right back.

Of course, kender have traditionally considered promises to

be about as binding as a silken strand of gossamer-good for

holding butterflies, but not much more. Normally anyone relying

on a kender's promise would be considered loony, unstable, in-

competent and just plain daft, all of which descriptions fit Fizban

to a tee. Tasslehoff would not have worried at all about breaking

a promise he had really never intended to keep in the first place

and that he had assumed Fizban knew he never meant to keep,

but for what Palin had said about his-Tasslehoff's-funeral.

That funeral speech seemed to indicate that Fizban expected

Tasslehoff to keep his promise. Fizban expected it because Tas

was not an ordinary kender. He was a brave kender, a courageous

kender, and-that dreadful word-an honorable kender.

Tasslehoff looked honor up and he looked it down. He

looked it inside out and sideways, and there were just no two

ways about it. Honorable people kept promises. Even promises

that were terrible promises, promises that meant one had to go

back in time to be stepped on by a giant and squashed flat and

killed dead.

"Right! That's got it!" said the gnome briskly. "You can put

your foot down. Now, just hop along around that comer. To your

right. No, left. No, right. . ."

Tasslehoff hopped, feeling the sock unravel from around his

leg. Rounding the comer, he came upon a staircase. A spiral stair-

case. A spiral staircase made all of silver. A silver spiral staircase

in the middle of the hedge maze.

"We've done it!" The gnome shouted ecstatically.

"We have?" asked Tasslehoff, staring at the stair. "What have

we done?"

"We've reached the very center of the hedge maze!" The

gnome was capering about, flinging ink to the four winds.

"How beautiful!" said Tasslehoff and walked toward the

silver stair.

"Stop! You're unraveling too fast!" the gnome cried. "We still,

have to map the exit."

At that moment, Tasslehoff's sock gave out. He barely no-

ticed, he was so interested in the staircase. The stair seemed to

rise up out of nothing. The stair had no supports, but hung sus-

pended in the air, shining and fluid as quicksilver. The stair

turned round and round upon itself, leading ever upward. Arriv-

ing at the bottom, he looked up to see the top.

He looked up and up and all he saw was sky, blue sky that

seemed to go on and on like a bright and lovely summer's day,

which is so bright and so lovely that you never want the day to

end. You want it to go on and on forever. Yet you know, the sky

seemed to say, that night must come, or else there will be no day

tomorrow. And the night has its own blessing, its own beauty.

Tasslehoff began to climb the silver stair.

A few steps below, Conundrum was also starting to climb.

"Strange construction," he remarked. "No pylons, no struts, no

rivets, no balusters, no hand railings-safety hazard. Someone

should be reported." The gnome paused about twenty steps up to

look around. "My what a view. I can see the harbor-"

The gnome let out a shriek that might have been mistaken for

the Mt. Nevermind noon whistle, which generally goes off at

about three in the morning.

"My ship!"

Conundrum dropped his maps, he spilled his ink. He dashed

down the stair, his wispy hair flying in the wind, tripped over

Tasslehoff's stocking, which was tied to the end of the hedge,

picked himself up and ran toward the harbor with a speed that

the makers of the steam-powered, piston-driven snowshoes

might have tried hard to emulate.

"Stop thief!" the gnome bellowed. "That's my ship!"

Tasslehoff glanced down to see what all the excitement was

about, saw it was the gnome, and thought nothing more about it.

Gnomes were always excitable.

Tasslehoff sat down on the stairs, put his small pointed chin in

his hand and thought about promises.

Palin tried to catch up with Goldmoon, but a cramp in his leg

had brought him up, gasping in pain. He massaged the leg and

then, when he could walk, he limped down the stairs to find the

hall in an uproar. Goldmoon had come running through like a

madwoman. She had run out before any could stop her. The mas-

ters and healers had been taken by such surprise that only belat-

edly had some thought to chase after her. By that time, she had

vanished. The entire Citadel was being turned upside down,

searching for her.

Palin kept to himself what Goldmoon had said to him. The

others were already speaking of her in tense whispers. Her wild

talk about the dead feeding off him would only convince them-

as it had convinced him-that the poor woman had been driven

insane by her amazing transformation. He could still see her look

of horror, still feel the powerful blow that had sent him falling

back against the wall. He offered to search for her, but Lady

Camilla told him curtly that both her Knights and the citadel

guards had been sent to locate the First Master and that they were

quite capable of handling the situation.

Not knowing what else to do, he returned to his rooms, telling

Lady Camilla to be certain to notify him upon the First Master's

return.

"In the meantime," he said to himself, sighing, "the best I can

do is to leave Schallsea. I've made a mess of things. Tas won't come

near me, and I can't blame him. I am only adding to Goldmoon's

burdens. Perhaps I am the one responsible for her madness!"

His guest room in the Citadel was a spacious one, located on

the second floor. He had a small bedroom, a study, and a parlor.

One wall of the parlor was crystal, facing west, providing a mag-

nificent view of sea and sky. Restless, exhausted, but too tense to

sleep, he wandered into the parlor and stood gazing out across

the sea. The water was like green glass, mirroring the sky. Except

for a gray-green line on the horizon, he could not tell where one

left off and the other began. The sight was strangely disquieting.

Leaving the parlor, Palin entered his study and sat down at

his desk, thinking he would write a letter to Jenna. He picked up

the pen, but the words scrambled in his head, made no sense. He

rubbed his burning eyes. He had not been able to sleep all night.

Every time he drifted off, he thought he heard a voice calling to

him and he woke with a start to find that no one was there.

His head sank down, pillowed on his arms. He closed his eyes.

The smooth crystal sea stole over him, the water warm and dark.

"Palin!" a voice cried, a hollow, whispering voice. "Palin!

Wake up!"

"Just a moment more, father," Palin said, lost in a dream that

he was a child again. "I'll be down-" (

Caramon stood over him. Big of body, big of heart as wh~

Palin had last seen him, except that he was wavering and insub-

stantial as the smoke from dying embers. His father was not

alone. He was surrounded by ghosts, who reached out grasping

hands to Palin.

"Father!" Palin cried. His head jerked up. He stared in amaze-

ment. He could say nothing more, only stare, gaping, at the phan-

tasmic shapes that had gathered around him and seemed to be

trying to seize hold of him.

"Get back!" Caramon shouted in that dreadful whisper. He

glared around, and the ghosts shrank back, but they did not go

far. They stared at Palin with hungry eyes.

"Father," Palin said--or tried to say. His throat was so dry that

the words seemed to shred his flesh. "Father, what-"

"I've been searching for you!" Caramon said desperately.

"Listen to me! Raistlin's not here! I can't find him! Something's

wrong. . . .

More ghosts appeared in the study. The ghosts surged past

Caramon, over him and around him. They could not rest, could

not remain long in one place. They seized Caramon and tried to

carry him away, like a panicked mob that bears its members to

destruction.

Exerting all his effort, Caramon broke free of the raging cur-

rent and flung himself at Palin.

"Palin!" he shouted, a shout that made no sound,"Don't kill

Tas! He's the-"

Caramon vanished suddenly. The ephemeral forms swirled a

moment and then separated into ragged wisps, as if a hand had

brushed through smoke. The wisps were wafted away on a soul-

chilling wind.

"Father? I don't understand! Father!"

The sound of his own voice woke Palin. He sat upright with a

start, gasping, as if he'd been splashed with cold water. He stared

about wildly. "Father!"

The room was empty. Sunlight streamed in through the open

window. The air was hot and fetid.

"A dream," Palin said, dazedly.

But a very real dream. Remembering the dead clustering

around him, Palin felt horror thrilling through him, raising the hair

on his arms and his neck. He still seemed to feel the clutching hands

of the dead, plucking at his clothes, whispering and pleading. He

brushed at his face, as if he'd run into a spider's web in the dark.

Just as Goldmoon had said. . . .

"Nonsense," he said to himself out loud, needing to hear a

living voice after those terrible whispers. "She put the thought

into my mind, that is all. No wonder I'm having nightmares.

Tonight, I will take a sleeping potion."

Someone rattled the doorknob, trying to open the door, only

to find that it was locked. Palin's heart was in his throat.

Then came the sound of metal-a lockpick-clicking and

snicking in the door lock.

Not ghosts. Just a kender.

Palin, sighing, stood up and walked to the door, opened it.

"Good morning, Tas," said Palin.

"Oh, hullo," said Tasslehof£. The kender was bent double, a

lockpick in his hand, peering intently at the place where the lock

had been before the door swung open. Tas straightened, tucked