Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (20 page)

“My friend,” Goldmoon said, reaching out to embrace Tanis.

Seeing the grave, somber expression on her face, the half-elf held her tightly, glancing questioningly at Riverwind. What had each of them dreamed? But the Plainsman only shook his head, his own face pale and grieved.

Then it occurred to Tanis that each must have lived through his or her own dream, and he suddenly remembered Kitiara! How real she had been! And Laurana, dying. Closing his eyes, Tanis laid his head against Goldmoon’s. He felt Riverwind’s strong arms surround them both. Their love blessed him. The horror of the dream began to recede.

And then Tanis had a terrifying thought. Lorac’s dream became reality!
Would theirs?

Behind him, Tanis heard Raistlin begin to cough. Clutching his chest, the mage sank down onto the steps leading up to Lorac’s throne. Tanis saw Caramon, still holding Tika, glance at his brother in concern. But Raistlin ignored his brother. Gathering his robes around him, the mage lay down on the cold floor and closed his eyes in exhaustion.

Sighing, Caramon pressed Tika closer. Tanis watched her small shadow become part of Caramon’s larger one as they stood together, their bodies outlined in the distorted silver and red beams of the fractured moonlight.

We all must sleep, Tanis thought, feeling his own eyes burn. Yet how can we? How can we ever sleep again?

Y
et finally they slept. Huddled on the stone floor of the Tower of the Stars, they kept as near each other as possible. While, as they slept, others in lands cold and hostile, lands far from Silvanesti, wakened.

Laurana woke first. Starting up from a deep sleep with a cry, at first she had no idea where she was. She spoke one word—“Silvanesti!”

Flint, trembling, woke to find that his fingers still moved, the pains in his legs were no worse than usual.

Sturm woke in panic. Shaking with terror, for long moments he could only crouch beneath his blankets, shuddering. Then he heard something outside his tent. Starting up, hand on his sword, he crept forward and threw open the tent flap.

“Oh!” Laurana gasped at the sight of his haggard face.

“I’m sorry,” Sturm said. “I didn’t mean—” Then he saw she
was shaking so she could scarcely hold her candle. “What is it?” he asked, alarmed, drawing her out of the cold.

“I—I know this sounds silly,” Laurana said, flushing, “but I had the most frightening dream and I couldn’t sleep.”

Shivering, she allowed Sturm to lead her inside the tent. The flame of her candle cast leaping shadows around the tent. Sturm, afraid she might drop it, took it from her.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, but I heard you call out. And my dream was so real! You were in it—I saw you—”

“What is Silvanesti like?” Sturm interrupted abruptly.

Laurana stared at him. “But that’s where I dreamed we were! Why did you ask? Unless … you dreamed of Silvanesti, too!”

Sturm wrapped his cloak around him, nodding. “I—” he began, then heard another noise outside the tent. This time, he just opened the tent flap. “Come in, Flint,” he said wearily.

The dwarf stumped inside, his face flushed. He seemed embarrassed to find Laurana there, however, and stammered and stamped until Laurana smiled at him.

“We know,” she said. “You had a dream. Silvanesti?”

Flint coughed, clearing his throat and wiping his face with his hand. “Apparently I’m not the only one?” he asked, staring narrowly at the other two from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I suppose you—you want me to tell you what I dreamed?”

“No!” Sturm said hurriedly, his face pale. “No, I do not want to talk about it—ever!”

“Nor I,” Laurana said softly.

Hesitantly, Flint patted her shoulder. “I’m glad,” he said gruffly. “I couldn’t talk about mine either. I just wanted to see if it was a dream. It seemed so real I expected to find you both—”

The dwarf stopped. There was a rustling sound outside, then Tasslehoff burst excitedly through the tent flap.

“Did I hear you talking about a dream? I
never
dream, at least not that I remember. Kender don’t, much. Oh, I suppose we do. Even animals dream, but—” He caught Flint’s eye and came hurriedly back to the original subject. “Well! I had the most fantastic dream! Trees crying blood. Horrible dead elves going around killing people! Raistlin wearing black robes! It was the most incredible thing! And you were there, Sturm. Laurana and Flint. And everyone died! Well, almost everyone. Raistlin didn’t. And there was a green dragon—”

Tasslehoff stopped. What was wrong with his friends? Their faces were deathly pale, their eyes wide. “G-green dragon,” he stammered. “Raistlin, dressed in black. Did I mention that? Q-quite becoming, actually. Red always makes him look kind of jaundiced, if you know what I mean. You don’t. Well, I g-guess I’ll go back to bed. If you don’t want to hear anymore?” He looked around hopefully. No one answered.

“Well, g-night,” he mumbled. Backing out of the tent precipitously, he returned to his bed, shaking his head, puzzled. What was the matter with everyone? It was only a dream—

For long moments, no one spoke. Then Flint sighed.

“I don’t mind having a nightmare,” the dwarf said dourly. “But I object to sharing it with a kender. How do you suppose we all came to have the same dream? And what does it mean?”

“A strange land—Silvanesti,” Laurana said. Taking her candle, she started to leave. Then she looked back. “Do you—do you think it was real? Did they die, as we saw?” Was Tanis with that human woman? she thought, but didn’t ask aloud.

“We’re here,” said Sturm. “We didn’t die. We can only trust the others didn’t either. And”—he paused—“this seems funny, but somehow I k
now
they’re all right.”

Laurana looked at the knight intently for a moment, saw his grave face calm after the initial shock and horror had worn off. She felt herself relax. Reaching out, she took Sturm’s strong lean hand in her own and pressed it silently. Then she turned and left, slipping back into the starlit night.

The dwarf rose to his feet. “Well, so much for sleep. I’ll take my turn at watch now.”

“I’ll join you,” said Sturm, standing and buckling on his swordbelt.

“I suppose we’ll never know,” Flint said, “why or how we all dreamed the same dream.”

“I suppose not,” Sturm agreed.

The dwarf walked out of the tent. Sturm started to follow, then stopped as his eyes caught a glimpse of light. Thinking perhaps that a bit of wick had fallen from Laurana’s candle, he bent down to put it out, only to find instead that the jewel Alhana had given him had slipped from his belt and lay upon the ground. Picking it up, he noticed it was gleaming with its own inner light, something he’d never seen it do before.

“I suppose not,” Sturm repeated thoughtfully, turning the jewel over and over in his hand.

Morning dawned in Silvanesti for the first time in many long, horrifying months. But only one saw it. Lorac, watching from his bedchamber window, saw the sun rise above the glistening aspens. The others, worn out, slept soundly.

Alhana had not left her father’s side all night. But exhaustion had overwhelmed her, and she fell asleep sitting in her chair. Lorac saw the pale sunlight light her face. Her long black hair fell across her face like cracks in white marble. Her skin was torn by thorns, caked with dried blood. He saw beauty, but that beauty was marred by arrogance. She was the epitome of her people. Turning back, he looked outside into Silvanesti, but found no comfort there. A green, noxious mist still hung over Silvanesti, as though the ground itself was rotting.

“This is my doing,” he said to himself, his eyes lingering on the twisted, tortured trees, the pitiful misshapen beasts that roamed the land, seeking an end to their torment.

For over four hundred years, Lorac had lived in this land. He had watched it take shape and flower beneath his hands and the hands of his people.

There had been times of trouble, too. Lorac was one of the few still living on Krynn to remember the Cataclysm. But the Silvanesti elves had survived it far better than others in the world—being estranged from other races. They knew why the ancient gods left Krynn—they saw the evil in humankind—although they could not explain why the elven clerics vanished as well.

The elves of Silvanesti heard, of course, via the winds and birds and other mysterious ways, of the sufferings of their cousins, the Qualinesti, following the Cataclysm. And, though grieved at the tales of rapine and murder, the Silvanesti asked themselves what could one expect, living among humans? They withdrew into their forest, renouncing the outside world and caring little that the outside world renounced them.

Thus Lorac had found it impossible to understand this new evil sweeping out of the north, threatening his homeland. Why should they bother the Silvanesti? He met with the Dragon Highlords, explaining to them that the Silvanesti would give them no trouble. The elves believed everyone had
the right to live upon Krynn, each in his own unique fashion, evil and good. He talked and they listened and, at first, all seemed well. Then the day came when Lorac realized he had been deceived—the day the skies erupted with dragons.

The elves were not, after all, caught unprepared. Lorac had lived too long for that. Ships waited to take the people to safety. Lorac ordered them to depart under his daughter’s command. Then, when he was alone, he descended to the chambers beneath the Tower of the Stars where he had secreted the dragon orb.

Only his daughter and the long-lost elven clerics knew of the orb’s existence. All others in the world believed it destroyed in the Cataclysm. Lorac sat beside it, staring at it for long days. He recalled the warnings of the High Mages, bringing to mind everything he could remember about the orb. Finally, though fully aware that he had no idea how it worked, Lorac decided he had to use it to try and save his land.

He remembered the globe vividly, remembered it burning with a swirling, fascinating green light that pulsed and strengthened as he looked at it. And he remembered knowing, almost from the first seconds he had rested his fingers on the globe, that he had made a terrible mistake. He had neither the strength nor the control to command the magic. But by then, it was too late. The orb had captured him and held him enthralled, and it had been the most hideous part of his nightmare to be constantly reminded that he
was
dreaming, yet unable to break free.

And now the nightmare had become waking reality. Lorac bowed his head, tasting bitter tears in his mouth. Then he felt gentle hands upon his shoulders.

“Father, I cannot bear to see you weep. Come away from the window. Come to bed. The land will be beautiful once more in time. You will help to shape it—”

But Alhana could not look out the window without a shudder. Lorac felt her tremble and he smiled sadly.

“Will our people return, Alhana?” He stared out into the green that was not the vibrant green of life but that of death and decay.

“Of course,” Alhana said quickly.

Lorac patted her hand. “A lie, my child? Since when have the elves lied to each other?”

“I think perhaps we may have always lied to ourselves,” Alhana murmured, recalling what she had learned of Goldmoon’s teaching. “The ancient gods did not abandon Krynn, Father. A cleric of Mishakal the Healer traveled with us and told us of what she had learned. I—I did not want to believe, Father. I was jealous. She is a human, after all, and why should the gods come to the humans with this hope? But I see now, the gods are wise. They came to humans because we elves would not accept them. Through our grief, living in this place of desolation, we will learn—as you and I have learned—that we can no longer live within the world and live apart
from
the world. The elves will work to rebuild not only this land, but all lands ravaged by the evil.”

Lorac listened. His eyes turned from the tortured landscape to his daughter’s face, pale and radiant as the silver moon, and he reached out his hand to touch her.

“You will bring them back? Our people?”

“Yes, Father,” she promised, taking his cold, fleshless hand in her own and holding it fast. “We will work and toil. We will ask forgiveness of the gods. We will go out among the peoples of Krynn and—” Tears flooded her eyes and choked her voice, for she saw Lorac could no longer hear her. His eyes dimmed, and he began to sink back in the chair.

“I give myself to the land,” he whispered. “Bury my body in the soil, daughter. As my life brought this curse upon it, so, perhaps, my death will bring its blessing.”

Lorac’s hand slipped from his daughter’s grasp. His lifeless eyes stared out into the tormented land of Silvanesti. But the look of horror on his face faded away, leaving it filled with peace.

And Alhana could not grieve.

That night, the companions prepared to leave Silvanesti. They were to travel under the cover of darkness for much of their journey north, since by now they knew the dragonarmies controlled the lands they must pass through. They had no maps to guide them. They feared trusting ancient maps anymore, after their experience with the landlocked seaport city, Tarsis. But the only maps that could be found in Silvanesti dated back thousands of years. The companions decided to travel north from Silvanesti blindly, with some hope
of discovering a seaport where they could find passage to Sancrist.