Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (58 page)

It was the Starjewel, which Laurana had found in a pool of the knight’s own blood. The jewel was dark, its brilliance fading even as Laurana had held it in her hand. Many things became clear to her later, as she studied the Starjewel. This, then, was how they shared the dream in Silvanesti. Had Sturm realized its power? Did he know of the link that had been forged between himself and Alhana? No, Laurana thought sadly, he had probably not known. Nor could he realize the love it represented. No human could. Carefully she had placed it upon his breast as she thought with sorrow of the dark-haired elven woman, who must know the heart upon which the glittering Starjewel rested was stilled forever.

The Honor Guard stepped back, waiting. The assembled knights stood with heads bowed for a moment, then lifted them to face Laurana.

This should have been the time for proud speeches, for recitals of the dead knights’ heroic deeds. But for a moment, all that could be heard was the wheezing sobs of the old dwarf and Tasslehoff’s quiet snuffle. Laurana looked down into Sturm’s peaceful face, and she could not speak.

For a moment she envied Sturm, envied him fiercely. He was beyond pain, beyond suffering, beyond loneliness. His war had been fought. He was victorious.

You left me! Laurana cried in agony. Left me to cope with this by myself! First Tanis, then Elistan, now you. I can’t! I’m not strong enough! I can’t let you go, Sturm. Your death was senseless, meaningless! A fraud and a sham! I won’t let you go. Not quietly! Not without anger!

Laurana lifted her head, her eyes blazing in the torchlight.

“You expect a noble speech,” she said, her voice cold as the air of the sepulcher. “A noble speech honoring the heroic deeds of these men who have died. Well, you won’t get it. Not from me!”

The knights glanced at each other, faces dark.

“These men, who should have been united in a brotherhood forged when Krynn was young, died in bitter discord, brought about by pride, ambition, and greed. Your eyes turn to Derek Crownguard, but he was not totally to blame. You are. All of you! All of you who took sides in this reckless bid for power.”

A few knights lowered their heads, some paled with shame and anger. Laurana choked with her tears. Then she felt Flint’s hand slip into hers, squeezing it comfortingly. Swallowing, she drew a deep breath.

“Only one man was above this. Only one man here among you lived the Code every day of his life. And for most of those days, he was not a knight. Or rather, he was a knight where it meant the most—in spirit, in heart, not in some official list.”

Reaching behind her, Laurana took the blood-stained dragonlance from the altar and raised it high over her head. And as she lifted the lance, her spirit was lifted. The wings of darkness that had hovered around her were banished. When she raised her voice, the knights stared at her in wonder. Her beauty blessed them like the beauty of a dawning spring day.

“Tomorrow I will leave this place,” Laurana said softly, her luminous eyes on the dragonlance. “I will go to Palanthas. I will take with me the story of this day! I will take this lance and the head of a dragon. I will dump that sinister, bloody head upon the steps of their magnificent palace. I will stand upon the dragon’s head and make them listen to me! And Palanthas will listen! They will see their danger! And then I will go to Sancrist and to Ergoth and to every other place in this world where people refuse to lay down their petty hatreds and join together. For until we conquer the evils within ourselves—as this man did—we can never conquer the great evil that threatens to engulf us!”

Laurana raised her hands and her eyes to heaven. “Paladine!” she called out, her voice ringing like the trumpet’s call. “We come to you, Paladine, escorting the souls of these noble knights who died in the High Clerist’s Tower. Give us who are left behind in this war-torn world the same nobility of spirit that graces this man’s death!”

Laurana closed her eyes as tears spilled unheeded and unchecked down her cheeks. No longer did she grieve for Sturm. Her sorrow was for herself, for missing his presence, for having to tell Tanis of his friend’s death, for having to live in this world without this noble friend by her side.

Slowly she laid the lance upon the altar. Then she knelt before it a moment, feeling Flint’s arm around her shoulder and Tasslehoff’s gentle touch on her hand.

As if in answer to her prayer, she heard the knights’ voices rising behind her, carrying their own prayers to the great and ancient god, Paladine.

The chant ended. Slowly, solemnly, the knights walked forward one by one to pay homage to the dead, each kneeling for a moment before the altar. Then the Knights of Solamnia left the Chamber of Paladine, returning to their cold beds to try and find some rest before the next day’s dawning.

Laurana, Flint, and Tasslehoff stood alone beside their friend, their arms around each other, their hearts full. A chill wind whistled through the open door of the sepulcher where the Honor Guard stood, ready to seal the chamber.

“Kharan bea Reorx,”
said Flint in dwarven, wiping his gnarled and shaking hand across his eyes. “Friends meet in Reorx.” Fumbling in his pouch, he took out a bit of wood, beautifully carved into the shape of a rose. Gently he laid it upon Sturm’s breast, beside Alhana’s Starjewel.

“Good-bye, Sturm,” Tas said awkwardly. “I only have one gift that, that you would approve of. I—I don’t think you’ll understand. But then again, maybe you do now. Maybe you understand better than I do.” Tasslehoff placed a small white feather in the knight’s cold hand.

“Quisalan elevas,”
Laurana whispered in elven. “Our loves-bond eternal.” She paused, unable to leave him in this darkness.

“Come, Laurana,” Flint said gently. “We’ve said our goodbyes. We must let him go. Reorx waits for him.”

Laurana drew back. Silently, without looking back, the three friends climbed the narrow stairs leading from the sepulcher and walked steadfastly into the chill, stinging sleet of the bitter winter’s night.

Far away from the frozen land of Solamnia, one other person said good-bye to Sturm Bright-blade.

Silvanesti had not changed with the passing months. Though Lorac’s nightmare was ended, and his body lay beneath the soil of his beloved country, the land still remembered Lorac’s terrible dreams. The air smelled of death and decay. The trees bent and twisted in unending agony. Misshapen beasts roamed the woods, seeking an end to their tortured existence.

In vain Alhana watched from her room in the Tower of the Stars for some sign of change.

The griffons had come back—as she had known they would once the dragon was gone. She had fully intended to leave Silvanesti and return to her people on Ergoth. But the griffons carried disturbing news: war between the elves and humans.

It was a mark of the change in Alhana, a mark of her suffering these past months, that she found this news distressing. Before she met Tanis and the others, she would have accepted war between elves and humans, perhaps even welcomed it. But now she saw that this was only the work of the evil forces in the world.

She should return to her people, she knew. Perhaps she could end this insanity. But she told herself the weather was unsafe for traveling. In reality, she shrank from facing the shock and the disbelief of her people when she told them of the destruction of their land and her promise to her dying father that the elves would return and rebuild—after they had helped the humans fight the Dark Queen and her minions.

Oh, she would win. She had no doubt. But she dreaded leaving the solitude of her self-imposed exile to face the tumult of the world beyond Silvanesti.

And she dreaded—even as she longed—to see the human she loved. The knight, whose proud and noble face came to her in her dreams, whose very soul she shared through the Starjewel. Unknown to him, she stood beside him in his fight to save his honor. Unknown to him, she shared his agony and came to learn the depths of his noble spirit. Her love for him grew daily, as did her fear of loving him.

And so Alhana continually put off her departure. I will leave, she told herself, when I see some sign I may give my people, a sign of hope. Otherwise they will not come back. They will give up in despair. Day after day, she looked from her window.

But no sign came.

The winter nights grew longer. The darkness deepened. One evening Alhana walked upon the battlements of the Tower of the Stars. It was afternoon in Solamnia then, and—on another Tower—Sturm Brightblade faced a sky-blue
dragon and a Dragon Highlord called the Dark Lady. Suddenly Alhana felt a strange and terrifying sensation
—
as though the world had ceased to turn. A shattering pain pierced her body, driving her to the stone below. Sobbing in fear and grief, she clutched the Starjewel she wore around her neck and watched in agony as its light flickered and died.

“So this is my sign!” she screamed bitterly, holding the darkened jewel in her hand and shaking it at the heavens. “There is no hope! There is nothing but death and despair!”

Holding the jewel so tightly that the sharp points bit into her flesh, Alhana stumbled unseeing through the darkness to her room in the Tower. From there she looked out once more upon her dying land. Then, with a shuddering sob, she closed and locked the wooden shutters of her window.

Let the world do what it will, she told herself bitterly. Let my people meet their end in their own way. Evil will prevail. There is nothing we can do to stop it. I will die here, with my father.

That night she made one final journey out into the land. Carelessly she threw a thin cape over her shoulders and headed for a grave lying beneath a twisted, tortured tree. In her hand, she held the Starjewel.

Throwing herself down upon the ground, Alhana began to dig frantically with her bare hands, scratching at the frozen ground of her father’s grave with fingers that were soon raw and bleeding. She didn’t care. She welcomed the pain that was so much easier to bear than the pain in her heart.

Finally, she had dug a small hole. The red moon, Lunitari, crept into the night sky, tinging the silver moon’s light with blood. Alhana stared at the Starjewel until she could no longer see it through her tears, then she cast it into the hole she had dug. She forced herself to quit crying. Wiping the tears from her face, she started to fill in the hole.

Then she stopped.

Her hands trembled. Hesitantly, she reached down and brushed the dirt from the Starjewel, wondering if her grief had driven her mad. No, from it came a tiny glimmer of light that grew even stronger as she watched. Alhana lifted the shimmering jewel from the grave.

“But he’s dead,” she said softly, staring at the jewel that sparkled in Solinari’s silver light.

“I know death has claimed him. Nothing can change that. Yet, why this light—”

A sudden rustling sound startled her. Alhana fell back, fearing that the hideously deformed tree above Lorac’s grave might be reaching to grasp her in its creaking branches. But as she watched she saw the limbs of the tree cease their tortured writhing. They hung motionless for an instant, then—with a sigh—turned toward the heavens. The trunk straightened and the bark became smooth and began to glisten in the silver moonlight. Blood ceased to drip from the tree. The leaves felt living sap flow once more through their veins.

Alhana gasped. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she looked around the land. But nothing else had changed. None of the other trees were different—only this one, above Lorac’s grave.