Dragons of a Lost Star

31 The Red Rose

In the dark hours before the dawn, on the day the dragon Beryl had appointed for the destruction of Qualinost, Marshal Medan took his breakfast in his garden. He ate well, for he would need the reserves of energy food provided later in the day. He had known men unable to swallow a mouthful before a fight or those who ate and then disgorged the contents of their stomachs shortly after. He had disciplined himself long ago to eat a large meal before a campaign and even to enjoy it. He was able to accomplish this by focusing on each single minute as it happened, looking neither ahead to what must come or behind to what might have been. He had made his peace with the past last night before he slept—another discipline. As to what brief future might remain to him, he put his trust in himself. He knew his limits; he knew his strengths. He knew and trusted his comrades.

He dipped the last of the season’s strawberries in the last of his elven wine. He ate olive bread and soft white cheese. The bread was hard and a week old, for the bakery fires had not been lighted these many days, the bakers either having left Qualinost or gone into hiding, working toward this day. Still, he relished the taste. He had always enjoyed olive bread. The cheese, spread on the bread, was excellent. A simple pleasure, one he would miss in death.

Medan did not believe in life beyond the grave. No rational mind could, as far as he was concerned. Death was oblivion. Each night’s short sleep prepares us for the final night’s long one. Yet he thought that even in oblivion, he would miss his garden and the soft cheese on the fragrant bread, he would miss moonlight shining on golden hair. He finished the cheese, scattered bread crumbs to the fish. He sat for another hour alone in the garden, listening to the sparrow sing her mournful song. His eyes misted for a moment, but that was for the birdsong that would for him be silenced, and for the beauty of the late-blooming flowers that he also would miss. When his eyes misted, he knew it was time to depart. The Dark Knight Dumat was on hand to assist Medan into his armor. The Marshal would not wear full plate this day. Beryl would notice and find it suspicious. The elves had been killed, driven out, vanquished. The elven capital city was being delivered to her without a fight. Her Marshal was here to greet her in triumph. What use did he have for armor? Besides that, Medan needed to be free to move swiftly, and he was not going to be encumbered by heavy plate or chain mail. He wore his ceremonial armor

—the highly polished breastplate with the lily and the skull, and his helm

—but he dispensed with all the rest.

Dumat helped fasten the long, flowing cloak around Medan’s shoulders. The cloak was made of wool that had been dipped in black dye and then in purple. Trimmed in gold braid, the cloak reached to the floor and weighed nearly as much as a chain-mail shirt. Medan despised it, never wore it except on those days when he had to make a show for the Senate. Today, though, the cloak would come in handy, for it covered a multitude of sins. Once he was attired, he experimented with the cloak to make certain it would perform as required.

Dumat assisted him to arrange the folds so that cloak fell over his left shoulder, concealing beneath those folds the sword he wore on his left hip. The sword he wore now was not the magical sword, not the Lost Star. For now, his customary sword would serve his purpose. He had to remember to make certain he held fast the cloak’s edge with his left hand, so that the wind created by the dragon’s fanning wings would not cause it to billow out. He practiced several times, while Dumat watched with a critical eye.

“Will it work, do you think?” the Marshal asked.

“Yes, my lord,” Dumat replied. “If Beryl does catch a glimpse of steel, she will think it is only your sword, such as you always wear.”

“Excellent.” Medan let fall the cloak. He unbuckled his sword from its belt, started to set it aside. Then, thinking better of it, he handed the weapon to Dumat. “May it serve you well as it has served me.”

Dumat rarely smiled, and he did not smile then. He removed his own sword—that was regulation issue—and buckled on the Marshal’s, with its fine, tempered steel blade. He made no show of gratitude, other than a muttered thanks, but Medan saw that his gift had pleased and touched the soldier.

“You had better leave now,” Medan said. “You have a long ride back to Qualinost and much to do this morning before the appointed time.”

Dumat started to salute, but the Marshal extended his hand. Dumat hesitated, then grasped Medan’s hand, shook it heartily in silence. Dumat took his leave. Mounting his horse, he headed at a gallop back to Qualinost.

Medan went over the plan again in his mind, checking and rechecking to see if he had missed anything. He was satisfied. No plan was perfect, of course, and events rarely went as one hoped, but he was confident he and Laurana had anticipated most contingencies. He shut his house and locked it up. He wondered, idly, if he would be returning to unlock it or if they would carry his body back here to bury him in his garden as he had requested. In the afterdays when the elves came back to their homeland, would anyone live in this house? Would anyone remember?

“The house of the hated Marshal Medan,” he said to himself with half a smile. “Perhaps they’ll burn it to the ground. Humans would.”

But elves were not like humans. Elves did not take satisfaction in such petty revenge, knowing that it would serve no purpose. Besides, they would not want to harm the garden. He could count on that.

He had one more task to perform before he left. He searched the garden until he found two perfect roses—one red, one white. He plucked them both and stripped the white one of its thorns. He placed the red rose, thorns and all, beneath his armor, against his breast.

The white rose in hand, he left his garden without a backward look. What need? He carried the sight and the fragrance in his mind, and he hoped, if death took him, that his last thought would wend its way back here, live forever in beauty and peace and solitude.

In her house, Laurana was doing much the same thing as the Marshal, with a few exceptions. She had managed to swallow only a few mouthfuls of food before putting aside the plate. She drank a glass of wine to give her heart, then retired to her room.

She had no one to assist her to dress and arm herself, for she had sent her maidservants away to safety in the south. They had gone reluctantly, separating from their mistress with tears. Now, only Kelevandros remained with her. She had urged him to leave, as well, but he had refused, and she had not pressed him. He wanted to stay, he said, to redeem his family’s honor that had been besmirched by the treachery of his brother.

Laurana understood, but she was almost sorry he had done so. He was the perfect servant, anticipating her wants and needs, unobtrusive, a hard and diligent worker. But he no longer laughed or sang as he went about his tasks. He was quiet, distant, his thoughts turned inward, rebuffing any offers of sympathy.

Laurana wrapped around her waist the leather skirt that had been designed for her years ago when she was the Golden General. She had just enough feminine vanity to note that the skirt was a little tighter on her than it had been in her youth and just enough sense of the absurd to smile at herself for minding. The leather skirt was slit up the side for ease of movement and served well as protective armor whether standing or riding. When this was done, she started to summon Kelevandros, but he had been waiting outside and entered the room as his name formed on her lips. Without speaking, he fastened on her the breastplate, blue with golden trim, she had worn those long years ago, then she draped a cloak around her shoulders. The cloak was oversized.

She had made it specially for this occasion, working on it day and night so it would be ready in time. The cloak was white, of finely carded wool, and was fastened in the front by seven golden clasps. Slits had been placed in the side for her arms. She studied herself critically in the looking glass, moving, walking, standing still, making certain that no hint of leather or glint of metal gave her away. She had to look the part of the victim, not the predator.

Because the cloak restricted the movement of her arms, Kelevandros brushed and arranged her long hair around her shoulders. Marshal Medan had wanted her to wear her helm, arguing that she would need its protection. Laurana had refused. The helm would look out of place. The dragon would be suspicious.

“After all,” she had said to him, half-teasing, wholly serious, “if she attacks, I don’t suppose a helmet will make much difference.”

Silver chimes rang outside the house.

“Marshal Medan is here,” Laurana said. “It is time.”

Lifting her gaze, she saw that Kelevandros’s face had gone pale. His jaw tightened, his lips pressed tight. He looked at her, pleading.

“I must do this, Kelevandros,” Laurana said, laying her hand gently on his arm. “The chance is a slim on£, but it is our only hope.”

He lowered his gaze, bowed his head.

“You should leave now,” Laurana continued. “It is time you took your place in the tower.”

“Yes, Madam,” Kelevandros said in the same empty, toneless voice he had used since the day of his brother’s death.

“Remember your instructions. When I say the words, Am Qualinesti you will light the signal arrow and shoot it into the air. Fire it out over Qualinost, so that those watching for it can see it.”

“Yes, Madam.” Kelevandros bowed silently and turned to leave. “If you do not mind, I will depart through the garden.”

“Kelevandros,” Laurana said, halting him. “I am sorry. Truly sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry, Madam?” he asked, not turning, keeping his back to her. “My brother tried to murder you. What he did was not your fault.”

“I think perhaps it was,” Laurana said, faltering. “If I had known how unhappy he was . . . If I had taken time to find out . . . If I had not assumed that. . . that. . .”

“That we were happy to have been born into servitude?” Kelevandros finished her sentence for her. “No, it never occurs to anyone, does it?” He looked at her with a strange smile. “It will from now on. The old ways end here. Whatever happens this day, the lives of the elves will never be the same. We can never go back to what we were. Perhaps we will all know, before the end, what it means to be born a slave. Even you, Madam. Even your son.”

Bowing, Kelevandros picked up his bow and a quiver of arrows and started to take his leave. He was almost out the door when he turned to face her, yet he did not look at her.

“Oddly enough, Madam,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes downcast.

“I was happy here.”

With another bow, he left.

“Was that Kelevandros I saw skulking through the garden?” Medan asked when Laurana opened the door to him. He looked at her intently.

“Yes,” she said, glancing in that direction, though she could not see him for the thick foliage. “He has gone to take his place in the tower.”

“You look troubled. Has he said or done something to upset you?”

“If he did, I must make allowances. He has not been himself since his brother’s death. His grief overwhelms him.”

“His grief is wasted,” said the Marshal. “That wretched brother of his was not worth a snivel, let alone a tear.”

“Perhaps,” Laurana said, unconvinced. “And yet . . .” She paused, perplexed, and shook her head.

Medan regarded her earnestly. “You have only to say the word, Madam, and I will see to it that you escape safely from Qualinost this instant. You will be reunited with your son—”

“No, I thank you, Marshal,” Laurana answered calmly, looking up at him. “Kelevandros must wrestle with his own demons, as I have wrestled with mine. I am resolved in this. I will do my part. You need me, I think, sir,” she added with a hint of mischief, “unless you plan to dress up in one of my gowns and wear a blonde wig.”

“I have no doubt that even Beryl, dense as she is, would see through that disguise,” said Medan dryly. He was pleased to see Laurana smile. Another memory for him to keep. He handed her the white rose. “I brought this for you, Madam. From my garden. The roses will be lovely in Qualinost this fall.”

“Yes,” said Laurana, accepting the rose. Her hand trembled slightly.

“They will be lovely.”

“You will see them. If I die this day, you will tend my garden for me. Do you promise?”

“It is bad luck to speak of death before the battle, Marshal,” Laurana warned, partly in jest, wholly in earnest. “Our plan will work. The dragon will be defeated and her army demoralized.”

“I am a soldier. Death is in my contract. But you—”

“Marshal,” Laurana interrupted with a smile, “every contract ever written ends in death.”

“Not yours,” he said softly. “Not so long as I am alive to prevent it.”

They stood a moment in silence. He watched her, watched the moonlight gently touch her hair as he longed to touch it. She kept her gaze fixed upon the rose.

“The parting with your son Gilthas was difficult?” he asked at last. She replied with a soft sigh. “Not in the way you imagine. Gilthas did not try to dissuade me from my chosen path. Nor did he try to free himself from walking his. We did not spend our last hours in fruitless argument, as I had feared. We remembered the past and talked of what he will do in the future. He has many hopes and dreams. They will serve to ease his journey over the dark, perilous road he must travel to reach that future. Even if we win this day, as Kelevandros said, the lives of the elves will never be the same. We can never go back to what we were.” She was pensive, introspective.

In his heart Medan applauded Gilthas. The Marshal guessed how difficult it must have been for the young man to leave his mother to face the dragon while he departed safely out of harm’s way. Gilthas had been wise enough to realize that attempting to dissuade her from her chosen course would have accomplished nothing and left him with only bitter recriminations. Gilthas would need all the wisdom he possessed to face what lay ahead of him. Medan knew the peril better than Laurana, for he had received reports of what was happening in Silvanesti. He said nothing to her, not wanting to worry her. Time enough to face that crisis when they had disposed of this one.

“If you are ready, Madam, we should leave now,” he told her. “We’ll steal through the city while night’s shadows yet linger and enter the tower with the dawn.”

“I am ready,” Laurana said. She did not look behind her. As they walked down the path that led through the late-blooming lilacs, she said to him, “I want to thank you, Marshal, on behalf of the elven people, for what you do for us this day. Your courage will be long remembered and long honored among us.”

Medan was embarrassed. “Perhaps it is not so much what I do this day, Madam,” he said quietly, “as what I try to undo. Rest assured I will not fail you or your people.”

“Our people, Marshal Medan,” said Laurana. “Our people.”

Her words were meant kindly, but they pierced his heart. He deserved the punishment, and he bore it in silence, unflinching, as a soldier. Thus he bore unflinching the sting of the rose’s thorns against his breast. Muffled sounds could be heard coming from the houses of the elves as Medan and Laurana passed swiftly through the streets on their way to the tower. Although no elf showed his face, the time for skulking in silence was gone. There were sounds of heavy objects being hauled up stairs, the rustlings of tree branches as the archers took their places. They heard orders given in calm voices both in Common and Elvish. Near the tower, they actually caught a glimpse of Dumat adding the finishing touches to a web of tree branches he had constructed over the roof of his house. Chosen to watch for Kelevandros’s signal, Dumat would give the signal to the elves for the attack. He saluted the Marshal and bowed to the Queen Mother, then continued on about his work.

The morning sun rose, and by the time they reached the tower, the sun shone bright. Shading his eyes, Medan blessed the day for its clear visibility, although he caught himself thinking that his garden would have welcomed rain. He put the thought aside with a smile and concentrated on the task ahead.

The bright light streamed in through the myriad windows, sent rainbows dancing in dazzling array around the tower’s interior, and lit the mosaic on the ceiling: the day and the night, separated by hope. Laurana had locked away the sword and the dragonlance in one of the tower’s many rooms. While she retrieved them, Medan looked out one of the windows, watching the preparations as Qualinost made ready for war. Like its Queen Mother, the city was transforming itself from lovely and demure maid into doughty warrior.

Laurana handed Medan the sword, Lost Star. He gravely saluted her with the sword, then buckled it around his waist. She helped him arrange the folds of the cloak to conceal it. Stepping back, she eyed him critically and pronounced his disguise successful. No gleam of metal could be seen.

“We climb this staircase.” Laurana indicated a circular stair. “It leads to the balcony at the top of the tower. The climb is a long one, I fear, but there will be time to rest—”

Sudden night, strange and awful as that of an eclipse, quenched the sunlight. Medan hastened to look out the window, well knowing, yet dreading what he would see.

The sky was dark with dragons.

“Very little time, I fear,” Medan said calmly, taking the dragonlance from her hand and shaking his head when she started to try to retrieve it.

“The great green bitch has launched her attack early. No surprise there. We must make haste.”

Opening the door, they began to climb the stairs that wound around and around a hollow shaft, a vortex of stone. A railing made of gold and of silver, twined together, spiraled upward. Formed in an imitation of a vine of ivy, the railing did not appear to have been built into the stone but seemed to have grown around it.

“Our people are ready,” Laurana said. “When Kelevandros gives the signal, they will strike.”

“I hope we can count on him to carry out his part,” the Marshal said.

“He has, as you say, been acting strange of late.”

“I trust him,” Laurana replied. “Look.” She pointed at narrow booted footprints in the thick dust on the stairs. “He is here already, waiting for us.”

They climbed as rapidly as possible, yet they dared not move too swiftly, lest they lose their strength before they had reached the top. “I am thankful . . . I did not wear full plate armor,” the Marshal stated with what breath he had left. As it was, he had only reached what Laurana told him was the halfway mark and he was gasping for breath, his legs burned.

“I used to race . . . my brothers and Tanis up these stairs . . . when I was a girl,” Laurana said, pressing her hand over her side to ease a jabbing pain. “We had better rest. . . a moment, or we’re not going to make it.”

She sank down on the staircase, wincing at the pain. Medan remained standing, staring out the window. He drew in deep breaths, flexed his legs to ease the cramped muscles.

“What can you see?” Laurana asked tensely. “What is happening?”

“Nothing yet,” he reported. “Those are Beryl’s minions in the skies. Probably scouting the city, making certain it is deserted. Beryl is a coward at heart. Without her magic, she feels naked, vulnerable. She won’t come near Qualinost until she is assured nothing will harm her.”

“When will her soldiers enter the city?”

Medan turned from the window to look down at her. “Afterward. The commanders won’t send in the men until the dragons are gone. The dragonfear unsettles the troops, makes them difficult to manage. When the dragons are finished leveling the place, the soldiers will arrive. To ‘mop up.’ “

Laurana laughed shakily. “I hope they will not find much to ‘mop.’ “

“If all goes as planned,” said Medan, returning her smile, “the floor will be wiped clean.”

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready,” he replied and gallantly extended his hand to help her to her feet.

The stairs brought them to the top of the tower, to an entrance to a small alcove with an arched ceiling. Those passing through the alcove walked out onto a balcony that overlooked all of the city of Qualinost. The Speaker of the Suns and the clerics of Paladine had been accustomed to come to the top of the tower on holidays and feast days, to thank Paladine

—or Eli, as the elves knew him—for his many blessings, the most glorious of which was the sun that gave life and light to all. That custom had ended after the Chaos War, and now no one came up here. What was the use?

Paladine was gone. The sun was a strange sun, and though it gave light and life, it seemed to do so grudgingly, not gloriously. The elves might have kept up the old tradition simply because it was tradition. Their Speaker, Solostaran, had kept up the custom during the years after the Cataclysm, when Paladine had not heeded their prayers. The young king, Gilthas, had not been able to make the arduous climb, however. He had pleaded ill health, and so the elves had abandoned tradition. The real reason Gilthas did not want to climb to the top of the Tower of the Sun was that he did not want to look out over a city that was captive, a city in chains.

“When Qualinost is no longer held in thrall,” Gilthas had promised his mother during their last night together, “I will come back, and no matter if I am so old that my bones creak and I have lost every tooth in my head, I will run up those stairs like a child at play, for at the top I will look out over a country and a people who are free.”

Laurana thought of him as she set her foot gratefully upon the last stair. She could see her son, young and strong—for he would be young and strong, not old and decrepit—bounding up the stairs joylessly to look out upon a land bathed in blessed sunlight.

She looked out the open archway leading to the balcony and saw only darkness. The wings of Beryl’s subject dragons cut off the sunlight. The first tremors of dragonfear caused her throat to constrict, her palms to sweat, her hand involuntarily to tighten its grip around the slender railing. She had felt such fear before, and as had told Marshal Medan, she knew how to combat it. She walked across the landing, faced her enemy squarely, stared at the dragons long and hard until she had mentally conquered them. The fear did not leave her. It would always be there, but she was the master. The fear was under her control.

This settled, she looked around to find Kelevandros. She had expected to find him waiting for them on the landing, and she felt a twinge of worry that she did not see him. She had forgotten the effects of dragonfear, however. Perhaps he had been overcome by it and run away.

No, that could not have happened. There was only one way down. He would have passed them on the stairs.

Perhaps he had gone out on the balcony.

She was about to go in search of him when she heard the Marshal’s footsteps behind her, heard him heave a great sigh of relief at finally reaching the top of the stairs. She turned to face him, to tell him that she could not find Kelevandros, when she saw Kelevandros emerging from the shadows of the arched entryway.

I must have walked right past him, she realized. Caught by the dragonfear, she had never noticed him. He stood crouched in the shadows, paralyzed, seeming unable to move.

“Kelevandros,” Laurana said to the young elf in concern, “what you are feeling is the dragonfear—”

Marshal Medan rested the dragonlance against the wall. “And to think,”

he said, sucking in air, “we still have to make the climb down.”

Kelevandros gave a convulsive leap. Steel flashed in his hand. Laurana shouted a warning and lunged to stop him, but she was too late.

Kelevandros stabbed through the cloak the Marshal wore, aiming to strike beneath his upraised arm that had been holding the dragonlance, strike a part of the body the armor could not protect. The elf buried his knife to the hilt in Medan’s ribcage, then jerked the knife free. His hand and the blade were stained with blood.

Medan gave a pain-filled cry. His body stiffened. He pressed his hand to his side and stumbled forward, fell to the floor on one knee.

“Ah!” He gasped for breath and found none. The blade had punctured his lung. “Ah!”

“Kelevandros . . .” Laurana whispered, overcome by shock. “What have you done?”

He had been staring at the Marshal, but now he turned his gaze to her. His eyes were wild and fevered, his face livid. He held up his hand to ward her off, raised the knife.

“Don’t come near me, Madam!” he cried.

“Kelevandros,” Laurana asked helplessly, “why? He was going to help us—”

“He killed my brother,” Kelevandros gasped, his pallid lips quivering.

“Killed him years ago with his filthy money and his foul promises. He used him, and all the while he despised him-Not dead yet, are you, you bastard?”

Kelevandros lunged to stab the Marshal again.

Swiftly, Laurana interposed her body between the elf and the human. For a moment she thought Kelevandros, in his rage, was going to stab her. Laurana faced him, unafraid. Her death didn’t matter. She would die now or later. Their plan lay in ruins.

“What have you done, Kelevandros?” she repeated sadly. “You have doomed us.”

He glared at her. Froth bubbled on his lips. He raised the knife, but not to stab. With a wrenching sob, he threw the knife at the wall. She heard it hit with a clang.

“We were already doomed, Madam,” he said, choking.

He fled the chamber, running blindly. Either he could not see where he was going or he did not care, for he crashed headlong into the railing of silver-and gold-twined ivy. The ancient railing shuddered, then gave way under the young elf’s weight. Kelevandros plunged over the edge of the staircase. He made no attempt to catch himself. He fell to the floor below without a cry.

Laurana pressed her hands over her mouth and closed her eyes, aghast at the horror of the young elf’s death. She stood shivering, trying desperately to banish the sickening feeling of numbness that paralyzed her.

“I won’t give up,” she said to herself. “I won’t... Too much depends...”

“Madam...” Medan’s voice was weak.

He lay on the floor, his hand still pressed against his side, as if he could halt the flow of blood that was draining away his life. His face was ashen, his lips gray.

Tears dimming her eyes, Laurana sank down on her knees beside him and began frantically to thrust aside the folds of the bloody cloak to find the wound, to see if there was anything she could do to stop the bleeding. Medan caught her hand, held it fast, and shook his head.

“You weep for me,” he said softly, astonished.

Laurana could not reply. Her tears fell on his face.

He smiled and made a move as if he would kiss her hand, but he lacked the strength. His grip on her hand tightened. He struggled to speak through the tremors of pain that shook his body.

“You must go now,” he told her, using his remaining strength to force out each word. “Take the sword . . . and the lance. You are in command, Laurana.”

Laurana shivered. You are in command, Laurana. The words had a familiar sound, harkened back to another time of darkness and death. She could not think why that should be so or where she had heard them before. She shook her head.

“No,” she said brokenly. “I can’t. . . .”

“The Golden General,” Medan whispered. “I would have liked to have seen her. . . .”

He gave a sigh. The bloodstained hand loosed its grip, dropped limply to the floor. His eyes continued to look fixedly at her, and although no life was in them, she saw his faith in her, steadfast, unwavering. He meant what he had said. She was in command. Except it was not his voice speaking those words. Another voice... far away.

You can command, Laurana. Farewell, elfmaid. Your light will shine in this world... It is time for mine to darken.

“No, Sturm, I can’t do this,” she cried wretchedly. “I am alone!”

As Sturm had been alone, standing by himself at the top of another tower in the bright sunshine of a new day. He had faced certain death, and he had not faltered.

Laurana wept for him. She wept for Medan and for Kelevandros. She wept for the hatred that had destroyed them both and would keep on destroying until someone somewhere had the courage to love. She wept for herself, for her weakness. When she had no more tears left, she lifted her head. She was calm now, in command of herself.

“Sturm Brightblade.” Laurana clasped her hands together, praying to him, since there was no one else to hear her prayer. “True friend. I need your strength. I need your courage. Be with me, that I may save my people.”

Laurana wiped away her tears. With hands that were firm and did not tremble, she closed the Marshal’s eyes and kissed his cold forehead.

“You had the courage to love,” she said to him softly. “That will be your salvation and my own.”

Sunlight lit the alcove, gleamed on the dragonlance that stood against the wall, glistened in the splatters of blood on the floor. Laurana glanced out through the arched entrance to the blue sky, the empty blue sky. The minion dragons had departed. She did not rejoice. Their departure meant that Beryl was coming.

She thought despairingly of the plan she and the Marshal had made, then resolutely thrust aside both the thought and the despair. Kelevandros’s bow and the pitch-covered signal arrow, his flint and tinderbox lay abandoned in the alcove where he had dropped them. She had no one to fire the signal arrow. She could not do it herself, not do that and face the dragon. She had no way now to send word to Dumat, who would be watching for the flare to give his order.

“No matter,” she said to herself. “He will know when it is time. They will all know.”

She unbuckled the sword belt from around the Marshal’s waist. Trying to move hurriedly with fingers that were stiff and shaking, she fastened the belt with the heavy sword around her own waist and arranged the folds of her cloak over the sword. Her white cloak was stained red with the Marshal’s blood. Nothing she could do about that. She would have to find some way to explain it to the dragon, explain not only the blood but why she was here atop the tower, a hostage without a captor. Beryl would be suspicious. She would be a fool not to be, and the dragon was no fool. This is hopeless. There is no chance, Laurana told herself. She heard Beryl approaching, heard the creaking of enormous wings that obliterated the sun. Darkness descended. The air was tainted with the smell of the dragon’s poisonous breath.

The dragonfear overwhelmed Laurana. She began to tremble, her hands were numb with cold. The Marshal was wrong. She couldn’t do this. . . . A ray of sunlight escaped from beneath the dragon’s wings and shone bright on the dragonlance. The lance blazed with silver flame. Moved by the beauty, Laurana remembered those who had wielded the lances so long ago. She remembered standing over Sturm’s body, the lance in hand, defiantly facing his killer. She had been afraid then, too. Laurana reached out her hand to touch the lance. She did not intend to take it with her. The lance was eight feet long. She could not hide it from the dragon. She wanted only to touch it, for memory’s sake and in memory of Sturm.

Perhaps at this moment Sturm was with her. Perhaps the courage of those who wielded the lance was a part of the lance and now flowed through the metal and into her. Perhaps her own courage, the courage of the Golden General, the courage that had always been there, flowed from her into the dragonlance. All she knew was that when she touched the lance, her plan came to her. She knew what she would do.

Resolute, Laurana took hold of the dragonlance and carried it with her into the sunlight.