Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter Twenty-Five From Day to Night

Faces.

Faces floating over him. Bobbing and receding on a rippling surface of pain. When Gerard rose to the surface, the faces were very close to him—strange faces, with no expression, corpses, drowned in the dark sea in which he floundered. The pain was worse closest to the surface, and he didn’t like the faceless faces so near his own. He let himself sink back into the darkness, and there was some part of him that whispered he should cease struggling and give himself to the sea and become one of the faceless himself.

Gerard might have done so, but for a firm hand that gripped his when the pain was very bad and kept him from sinking. He might have done so but for a voice which was calm and commanding and ordered him to stay afloat. Accustomed to obedience, Gerard obeyed the voice. He did not drown but floundered in the dark water, clinging to the hand that held him fast. Finally, he made his way to the shore, pulled himself out of the pain and, collapsing on the banks of consciousness, he slept deeply and peacefully.

He woke hungry and pleasantly drowsy to wonder where he was, how he came to be here, what had happened to him. The faces that had bobbed around in his delirium were real faces now, but they were not much more comforting than the drowned faces in his dreams. The faces were cold and inexpressive, passionless faces of men and women, humans, dressed in long, black robes trimmed in silver.

“How are you feeling, sir?” one of these faces asked, bending over him and placing a chill hand upon his neck to feel his pulse.

The woman’s arm was covered with black cloth that fell over his face, and Gerard understood the image of the dark water in which he’d believed himself to be drowning.

“Better,” said Gerard cautiously. “I’m hungry.”

“A good sign. Your pulse is still weak. I will have one of the acolytes bring you some beef broth. You have lost blood, and the beef will help restore it.”

Gerard looked at his surroundings. He lay in a bed in a large room filled with beds, most of which were empty. Other black-robed figures drifted about the room, moving silently on slippered feet. Pungent smells of herbs scented the air. I

“Where am I?” Gerard asked, puzzled. “What happened?”

“You are in a hospital of our order, Sir Knight,” the healer replied. “In Qualinesti. You were ambushed by elves, seemingly. I do not know much more than that.” Nor did she care, by her cold expression. “Marshal Medan found you. He brought you here the day before yesterday. He saved your life.”

Gerard was baffled. “Elves attacked me?”

“I know nothing more,” the healer told him. “You are not my only patient. You must ask the marshal. He will be here shortly. He has been here every morning since he brought you in, sitting by your side.”

Gerard remembered the firm hand, the strong, commanding voice and presence. He turned his body, slowly, painfully. His wounds were tightly bound, his muscles weak from lying in bed.

He looked to see his armor—black armor, cleaned and polished—placed carefully on a stand near his bed.

Gerard closed his eyes with a groan that must have made the healer think he had suffered a relapse. He remembered all, or at least most, of what had happened. He remembered fighting two Neraka Knights. He remembered the arrow, remembered a third Knight, remembered challenging the Knight to fight. . . .

He did not remember being attacked by elves.

A young man came carrying a tray on which was a bowl of broth, a bit of bread, and a mug.

“Shall I help you, sir?” the young man asked politely.

Gerard imagined being spoon-fed like a child. “No,” he said, and, though it cost him considerable pain, he struggled to a seated position.

The young man placed the tray on Gerard’s lap and sat down on a chair at his side to watch him eat.

Gerard dunked his bread in the broth. He drank the clear, cool water from the mug and wondered how to find out the truth.

“I take it I am a prisoner here,” he said to the young man.

“Why, no, sir!” The acolyte appeared astonished. “Why should you think that? You were ambushed by a band of elves, sir!” The acolyte was regarding Gerard with obvious admiration.

“Marshal Medan told everyone the story when he brought you to us. He carried you in his arms himself, sir. He was covered with your blood. He said you were a true hero and that you were to receive the very best care, to spare no effort. We have had seven dark mystics working on you. You! A prisoner!” The young man laughed and shook his head.

Gerard shoved the bowl of soup away, uneaten. He had lost his appetite. Mumbling something to the effect that he was weaker than he’d supposed, he lay back among his pillows. The acolyte fussed over him, adjusting his bandages and checking to see if any of his wounds had ripped open. He said that they were all almost healed, then left, telling Gerard he should sleep.

Gerard closed his eyes, pretended to be asleep, but sleep was far from coming. He had no idea what was going on. He could only guess that this Medan was playing some sort of sadistic game that would end in Gerard’s torture and death.

This decided, he was at peace, and he slept.

“No, don’t wake him,” said a voice, deep and familiar. “I just came to see how he was doing this morning.”

Gerard opened his eyes. A man wearing the armor of a Knight of Neraka, with a marshal’s sash, stood by the side of the bed. The man was in his fifties. His face was sun-darkened, heavily lined, stem, and grim, but it was not a cruel face. It was the face of a commander who could order men to their deaths but who took no pleasure in it.

Gerard knew him immediately. Marshal Medan.

Laurana had spoken of the marshal with a certain grudging respect, and Gerard could now understand why. Medan had governed a hostile race for thirty years, and there had been no death camps established, no gallows set up in the marketplace, no burning and looting and wanton destruction of elven households and business. Medan saw to it that the dragon’s tribute was collected and paid. He had learned to play elven politics and, according to Laurana, he played it well. He had his spies and his informers. He dealt harshly with rebels, but he did so to maintain order and stability. He kept tight hold on his troops. No small feat in these days when the Knights of Neraka were recruited from the dregs of society.

Gerard was forced to abandon the notion that this man would use him for sport, would make a mockery of him and of his death.

But if that were true, then what was Medan’s game? What was the tale of elves attacking?

Gerard pushed himself to a sitting position, made his salute as best he could with his chest and arm bound with bandages. The marshal might be the enemy, but he was a commander and Gerard was bound to give him the respect that was due his rank.

The marshal returned the salute and told Gerard to lie back, take care not to reopen his wounds. Gerard barely heard him. He was thinking of something else. He was thinking back to the attack.

Medan had ambushed them for a reason—to catch Palin and recover the artifact. That means Medan knew exactly where to find us, Gerard said to himself. Someone told him where we were going to be and when.

Someone had betrayed them, but who? Someone in Laurana’s own household? That was hard to credit, yet Gerard thought of the elf who had left to go “hunting” and had not returned. Perhaps he had been killed by the Knights. Perhaps not.

His thoughts were in bubbling turmoil. What had happened to Palin and the kender? Had they managed to escape safely? Or were they being held prisoner, too?

“How do you feel, sir?” Medan asked, regarding Gerard with concern.

“I am much better, my lord, thank you,” Gerard replied. “I want to tell you, sir, that there is no need to continue with this pretense, which, perhaps, you do out of concern for my health. I know I am your prisoner. There is no reason why you should believe me, but I want you to know that I am not a spy.

“I am—” “—a Solamnic Knight.” Medan finished, smiling. “Yes, I am aware of that Sir—” He paused.

“Gerard uth Mondar, my lord,” Gerard replied.

“And I am Marshal Alexis Medan. Yes, Sir Gerard, I know you are a Solamnic.” Medan pulled up a chair, seated himself near Gerard’s bed. “I know you are my prisoner. I want you to keep your voice down.” He glanced at the dark mystics, who were moving about at the far end of the room. “These two pieces of information will be our little secret.”

“My lord?” Gerard gaped. If the dragon Beryl had plummeted out of the skies and landed in his soup, he could not have been more astonished.

“Listen to me, Sir Gerard,” Medan said, resting a firm hand on the Solamnic’s arm. “You were captured wearing the armor of a Knight of Neraka. You claim that you are not a spy, but who will believe you, do you suppose? No one. Do you know the fate that would befall you, as a spy? You would be interrogated by men skilled in the art of making other men talk. We are quite modern and up to date here in Qualinesti. We have the rack, the wheel, red-hot pincers, bone-crackers. We have the iron maiden with her painful and deadly embrace. After a few weeks of such interrogation, you would, I think, be quite glad to tell your interrogators everything you know and a lot of things you didn’t. Anything to end the torment.”

Gerard opened his mouth, but Medan exerted painful pressure on his arm and Gerard kept silent.

“What would you tell them? You would tell them about the queen mother. You would tell them that Laurana was harboring a human mage who had discovered a valuable magical artifact. Because of Laurana’s intervention, this mage and the artifact are now safely beyond Beryl’s reach.”

Gerard breathed an inward sigh. Medan was watching him closely. “Yes, I thought you might be glad to hear that” he said dryly. “The mage escaped. The dragon Beryl was thwarted in her desire for the magical artifact. You will die. You will be glad to die. Your death will not save Laurana.”

Gerard was silent, taking this all in. He wriggled and squirmed in the grasp of Medan’s logic. The Knight could see no way out. He would have liked to think he could withstand any torture, go to his death mute and silent, but he could not be certain. He’d heard of the effects of the rack—how it pulled the joints out of the socket, left a man crippled, for the injuries would never fully heal. He had heard stories of the other torments they could inflict on a man; he recalled Palin’s twisted hands, deformed fingers. He pictured Laurana’s hands, white, slender, marred with the calluses where she had once held a sword.

Gerard cast another glance at the black-robed mystics. The Knight looked back at Medan. “What do you want me to do, my lord?” he asked quietly.

“You will go along with the tale I have concocted about the battle with the elves. In return for your heroic actions, I will take you on as my aide. I need someone I can trust,” Medan said wryly. “I believe that the life of the queen mother is in danger. I do what I can to shield her, but it may not be enough. I need an assistant who has the same regard for the queen mother as I have myself.”

“Yet, my lord,” said Gerard, bewildered, “you yourself spy upon her.”

“For her own protection,” Medan returned. “Believe me, I do not enjoy it.”

Gerard shook his head, looked up at the marshal. “My lord, here is my answer. I ask that you draw your sword and kill me. Here, where I lie in this bed. I cannot offer any resistance. I absolve you in advance of the crime of murder. My death here and now will solve all our problems.”

Medan’s grim face relaxed into a smile. “Perhaps not as many as you might think. I refuse, of course. I have taken a liking to you, Solamnic. I would not have missed seeing that fight you put up for all the jewels in Qualinesti! Most other Knights I know would have flung down their weapons and taken to their heels.”

Medan’s expression darkened, his tone grew bitter. “The days of glory for our order are long dead. Once we were led by a man of honor, a man of courage. A man who was the son of a dragonlord and Zeboim, Goddess of the Sea. Who is our leader now?”

Medan’s lip curled. “An accountant. A man who wears a money belt instead of sword belt. Those he makes Knights no longer win their places through valor in battle or by deeds of bravery. They buy their rank with cold cash.”

Gerard thought of his own father and felt his skin grow flushed and hot. He had not bought his way into the Knighthood, at least he could credit himself there. But his father had certainly bought his son’s way into every soft-cushioned assignment that came along. “The Solamnics are no better,” he muttered, lowering his gaze, smoothing out the wrinkles in the sweat-soaked sheet.

“Indeed? I am sorry to hear that,” Medan said and he did sound genuinely disappointed. “Perhaps, in these last days, the final battle will be fought by men who choose honor instead of choosing sides. I hope so,” he added quietly, “or else I believe that we are all lost.”

“Last days?” Gerard asked, uneasily. “What do you mean, my lord?”

Medan looked about the room. The mystics had departed.

They were alone, the two of them.

“Beryl is going to attack Qualinesti,” Medan said. “I don’t know when, but she is gathering her armies. When she does, I will have a bitter choice to make.” He looked at Gerard intently.

“I do not want the queen mother to be part of that choice. I will need someone I can trust to help her escape.”

This man is in love with Laurana! Gerard realized, amazed.

Not so surprising, he supposed. He was a little bit in love with her himself. One could not be around her without becoming enchanted by her beauty and grace. Still Gerard hesitated.

“Have I mistaken you, sir?” Medan asked, and his voice was cold. He rose to his feet. “Perhaps you are as devoid of honor as the rest.”

“No, my lord,” Gerard said emphatically. Strange as it seemed, he wanted the marshal to think well of him. “I worked to become a Knight. I read books on the art of warfare. I studied strategy and tactics. I have held my place in tourney and joust. I became a Knight to defend the helpless, to find honor and glory in battle and instead, because of my father’s influence”—Gerard paused, a shame-filled pause—“I guarded a tomb in Solace.”

Medan said nothing, looked down at him, waited for his decision.

“I accept your offer, my lord,” Gerard said. “I do not understand you, but I will do what I can to help the Qualinesti,” he said pointedly, “and the queen mother.”

“Fair enough,” said the marshal. With a curt nod, Medan turned, started to walk away. Halting, he glanced back over his shoulder. “I joined the Knighthood for the same reasons you did, young man,” he said, and then strode to the door, his footsteps loud, his cloak sweeping behind him. “If the healers pronounce you well, you will move into my house tomorrow.”

Gerard settled back into his bed.

I do not trust him, Gerard reflected. I will not allow myself to trust him or admire him. He could be lying about the dragon.

This could all be a trick. To what end, I do not know, but I will remain watchful and on my guard.

At least, he thought, feeling a strange sort of contentment wash through him, I’ll be doing more than freeing some damn kender who manages to lock himself in a tomb.

Medan left the hospital well pleased with his interview. He did not trust the Solamnic, of course. Medan trusted no one these days. The marshal would watch the man closely over the next few days, see how he acquitted himself. He could always take the Solamnic up on his offer and run his sword through him.

At least, I do not doubt his courage or his loyalty to his friends, the marshal reflected He has proven these to me already.

The marshal turned his steps toward Laurana’s house. He enjoyed the walk. Qualinesti was beautiful in all seasons, but summer was his favorite, the season of festivals, with its myriad flowers, the soft air filled with exquisite perfumes, the silvery green of the leaves and the wondrous bird song.

He took his time, pausing to lean over garden walls to admire a flaming display of day lilies lifting their orange heads to the sunshine. He lingered in the walkway to watch a shower of white blossoms shaken from a snow-ball bush by a fluttering robin.

Coming upon an elf from House Woodshaper, Medan stopped the man to discuss a blight he feared had overtaken one of his rose bushes. The Woodshaper was hostile, made it clear he talked to Medan only because he was forced to do so. Medan was polite, respectful, his questions were intelligent. Gradually the elf warmed to his topic and, in the end, promised to come to the marshal’s house to treat the ailing rose.

Arriving at Laurana’s house, Medan rang the silver chimes and stood listening with pleasure to their sweet song as he waited for a response.

An elf answered the door, bowed politely. Medan looked at him intently.

“Kelevandros, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, Marshal,” the elf returned.

“I came to see—”

“Who is it, Kelevandros?” Laurana appeared, walking down the hallway. “Ah, Marshal Medan. Welcome to my home. Please come in. Will you take some refreshment?”

“Thank you, madam, but I cannot stay,” Medan said politely. “We have had reports that a band of rebels are operating in the wilderness not far from here. One of my own men was savagely attacked.” He eyed her closely. “The rebels have no love for the royal family, considering them to be collaborators. If, as you say, you have no influence over these rebels—”

“I live a quiet and retired life, Marshal,” Laurana said. “I go nowhere except to the palace to visit my son. Yet I find myself constantly under suspicion. My first love and loyalty are to my homeland and my people.”

“I am aware of that fact, madam,” Medan said with a cool smile. “Therefore, madam, until we have caught these rebels, it is not safe for you to leave the confines of your house. I must ask that you and those you care about remain close to home. You have permission to visit the palace, naturally, but I must prohibit trips to other places in the realm.”

“Am I a prisoner in my house, then, Marshal?” Laurana demanded.

“I do this for your own protection, madam,” Medan said. He reached out his hand to draw near one of the purple blossoms, inhaled its sweet fragrance. “My commendations on this beautiful lilac bush. I have never known one to bloom so long past spring. Good-day to you, Queen Mother.”

“And to you, Marshal Medan,” Laurana said.

“How I detest this game,” said Medan to himself. Making his solitary way back to his own dwelling, he could smell the lilac’s perfume.

“How I hate this game,” Laurana said, shutting the door and leaning her head with its crown of golden hair against it.

The waterfall played sweet and gentle music and Laurana listened to its song, let the melody soothe her, restore her to her customary hopefulness. She was not one to give way to despair. She had walked in darkness, the greatest darkness the world had known. She had come face-to-face with the dread goddess Takhisis. She had seen love surmount the darkness, love triumph. She believed that even the darkest night must eventually give way to the dawn.

She held fast to that belief through all the sorrows and travails of her life, through the loss of her son to the political machinations of her own people, through the death of her beloved husband, Tanis, who had died defending the High Clerist’s Tower against the Dark Knights, died of a sword thrust in the back. She grieved his loss, she missed him sorely, she established a shrine to him in her heart, but his death did not bring about her own. She did not bury her heart in his grave. To do so would have been to deny his life, to undo all the good that he had done. She continued to fight for the causes both of them had championed.

Some people took exception to this. They thought she should have clothed herself in black and retired from the world. They took offense that she should laugh and smile, or listen with pleasure to the minstrel’s song.

“It is so sad,” they would say. “Your husband died such a senseless death.”

“Tell me, sir,” Laurana would reply, or, “Tell me, madam. Tell me what you consider to be a sensible death?”

Smiling to herself at their discomfiture, Laurana heard, in her heart, Tanis’s laughter. There had been a time, shortly after his death, when she could hear his voice and sense his presence watching over her, not protectively, but supporting, reassuring.

She had not felt his presence, however, in a long, long time. She could only assume that he had passed on to the next stage on life’s journey. She was not saddened or sorrowful. She would meet him when it was time for her to depart this life. They would find each other, though all eternity might stand between them.

Meanwhile, the dead did not need her. The living did.

“My lady,” said Kelevandros softly, “do not let the marshal’s threats upset you. We will outwit him. We have always done so.”

Laurana lifted her head and smiled. “Yes, we will. How fortunate that you had returned from your mission, Kelevandros. Medan might have noted your absence, and that would have made things awkward. We must take extra precautions from now on. Gilthas reports that the dwarven tunnels are near completion. You will use that route now. It will take you out of your way, but it will be safer. Kalindas! You should not be out of bed!”

The elf stood swaying unsteadily in the doorway. His head was swathed in bandages, he was so pale that his skin had a translucent quality. Laurana could see the blue veins in his face.

Kelevandros came to his brother’s aide, put his arm around him, assisted him to a couch. He eased his brother down gently, all the while scolding Kalindas roundly for leaving his bed and causing their mistress concern.

“What happened to me?” Kalindas asked dazedly.

“You don’t remember?” Laurana asked.

“Nothing!” He put his hand to his head.

“Kelevandros,” Laurana said sharply, “go to the front door. Make certain that Marshal Medan remembered to leave.”

“Birds sing in the trees,” Kelevandros reported on his return.

“The bees buzz among the flowers. No one is about.”

“Now, Kalindas”—Laurana turned to him—“do you remember guiding Master Palin, Gerard, and the kender to the meeting with the griffon?”

Kalindas considered. “Vaguely, madam.”

“You were attacked while you were in the wilderness,” said Laurana, readjusting the bandages on the young elf’s head.

“We have been very worried about you. When you didn’t return, I asked the Lioness to send her people to search for you. The rebels found you lying wounded in the forest. They brought you back yesterday. Why did you rise? Do you need anything?”

“No, madam, thank you,” said Kalindas. “Forgive me for causing you alarm. I heard the marshal’s voice and thought perhaps you might stand in need of me. I fancied myself well enough to leave my bed. I was mistaken, it seems.”

Kelevandros eased his injured brother to a more comfortable position on the couch, while Laurana spread her own shawl over Kalindas to keep him warm.

“You have endured enough from Medan afid his men.” Laurana said, her voice cool with anger. “You are fortunate you weren’t killed!”

“They had no need to kill me,” Kalindas said bitterly. “They must have struck me from behind. Did Master Palin and the kender escape safely with the magical device?”

“We believe so. The rebels found no trace of them, and we have received no reports that they were captured.”

“What about the Solamnic?”

“The Lioness reported signs of a fight. Two of the Neraka Knights were killed. They could not find Gerard’s body and so they assume that he was made prisoner.” Laurana sighed. “If that is true, I could almost wish him dead. The rebels have their spies in the army trying to discover information about him. He is not in prison, that much we know, and that is all we know.”

“As for Palin, Kelevandros has just returned from a meeting with the griffons, who arrived bearing a message, which I hope is from Palin.”

“I have it here, madam,” said Kelevandros. He removed a roll of parchment from his boot, handed the roll to Laurana.

“Are you certain you are all right?” she asked Kalindas, accepting the scroll. “Shall I call for a glass of wine.”

“Please read your letter, Madam,” Kalindas said. “Do not worry about me.”

After another worried glance, Laurana went to her writing desk and sat down. Kelevandros lit a candle for her, brought it to her desk. She unrolled the parchment. It was covered with ink and smelled faintly of lemon. The words written in the letter were inconsequential. A former neighbor told Laurana of the crops that he had planted, how big his children were growing, how he’d recently purchased a fine horse at the Midyear Day’s Fair. He inquired after her health, hoped she was well.

Laurana held the parchment above the candle’s flame, taking care not to hold it too near, taking care not to bum the paper or singe it. Slowly, more writing began to appear on the parchment words written in between the lines of words written in ink. She passed the paper back and forth above the flame until the hidden message written on the parchment was revealed.

Placing it on the desk, she read the missive silently, to herself. The handwriting was not Palin’s. Laurana was puzzled as to who had written the letter, looked to see the signature on the bottom.

“Ah, Jenna,” she murmured.

She read on, growing more amazed with each line.

“What is it, madam?” Kalindas asked, alarmed. “What has happened?”

“Strange,” she murmured. “So very strange. I cannot believe this. Going back in time to find the past no longer exists. I don’t understand.”

She continued on. “Tasslehoff missing.” She shook her head.

“He did not come here.”

She read on. The brothers exchanged glances. A dark line marred the smooth skin of her forehead. Her brows came together. She read to the end of the scroll, stared at it long moments, as if willing it to say something other than what it said, she slowly released the end. The scroll curled in upon itself, hung limply in her hand.

“We are being spied upon, it seems,” Laurana said, and her tone was deliberatly even and calm. “Palin and Tasslehoff were chased by a dragon, one of Beryl’s minions. Palin believes that the dragon was after the artifact. That means Beryl knows of the artifact’s existence and where it is to be found. The Neraka Knights did not stumble across the four of you by accident, Kalindas. You walked into an ambush.”

“A spy! In your own house. Perhaps one of us? That is impossible, madam,” Kelevandros stated heatedly.

“Indeed, it is,” said Kalindas.

“I hope you are right,” Laurana said gravely. “An elf who would betray his own people. . .” She shook her head, her tone was sorrowful. “It is hard to believe that such evil could exist. Yet, it has happened before.”

“You know that none of us would betray you,” Kalindas reiterated, with emphasis.

Laurana sighed. “I don’t know what to think. Mistress Jenna suggests that perhaps there is a mentalist among the Neraka Knights, one who has learned to see into our minds and gather our thoughts. What a bitter pass we are come to! We have to set a guard now upon what we think!”

She slipped the message into the girdle of gold she wore around her waist. “Kelevandros, bring me some lemon juice and then ready Brightwing to carry a message to the griffons.”

The elf did as he was told, departing on his errands in silence.

He exchanged a final glance with his brother before he left. Both noted that Laurana had not answered the question about Palin.

She had taken care to change the subject. She did not trust even them, it seemed. A shadow had fallen over their peaceful dwelling place, a shadow that would not soon be lifted.

Laurana’s answer to the letter was short.

Tasslehoff is not here. I will watch for him. Thank you for the warning about spies. I will be on my guard.

She rolled the message tightly so that it would fit in the small crystal tube that would be tied to the hawk’s leg.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, madam,” Kalindas said, “but the pain in my head has increased. Kelevandros told me that the healer spoke of poppy juice. I think that might help me, if my brother would bring it to me.”

“I will send for the healer at once,” Laurana said, concerned.

“Lie here until your brother returns to fetch her for you.”

Marshal Medan walked late in his garden. He enjoyed watching the miracle of the night-blooming flowers that shunned the sun and opened their blossoms to the pale moonlight. He was alone. He had dismissed his aide, ordered him to clear out his things. The Solamnic would arrive tomorrow, start upon his new duties.

Medan was pausing to admire a white orchid that seemed to glow in the moonlight, when he heard a voice hissing from the bushes.

“Marshal! It is I!”

“Indeed,” said Medan, “and here I thought it was a snake. I am weary. Crawl back under your rock until morning.”

“I have important information that cannot wait,” the voice said. “Information Beryl will find most interesting. The mage Palin Majere has used the artifact to journey back in time. This is a powerful magical artifact, perhaps the most powerful yet discovered in this world.”

“Perhaps.” Medan was noncommittal. He had a very low opinion of mages and magic. “Where is this powerful artifact now?”

“I do not know for certain,” said the elf. “His letter to my mistress said that the kender had run off with the artifact. Majere believes the kender has gone to the Citadel of Light. He travels there to attempt to recover it.”

“ At least he did not come back here,” Medan said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Good riddance to him and the blasted artifact.”

“This information is worth a great deal,” the elf said.

“You will be paid. But in the morning,” Medan said. “Now be gone before your mistress misses you.”

“She will not.” The elf sounded smug. “She sleeps soundly. Very soundly. I laced her evening tea with poppy juice.”

“I told you to leave,” Medan said coldly. “I will deduct a steel piece for every second you remain in my presence. You have lost one already.”

He heard a scrabbling sound in the bushes. The marshal waited a moment longer, to be certain the elf was gone. The moon disappeared behind a cloud. The garden was submerged in darkness. The pale glowing orchid vanished from his sight.

It seemed a sign. A portent.

“Only a matter of time,” he said to himself. “Days, maybe. Not longer. This night I have made my decision. I have chosen my course. I can do nothing now but wait.”

His pleasure in the night destroyed, the marshal returned to his house, forced to fumble his way through the darkness for he could no longer see the path.