Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

Remembering her assessment of the young knight, and hearing his cheerful, unconcerned tone, Tanis frowned.

“There wasn’t one,” he said abruptly. An almost comic look of hope and relief dawned in Lord Amothus’s face. At the sight, Tanis nearly laughed, but—fearing it would be hysterical laughter—he managed to control himself. He glanced at Sir Markham, who had raised an eyebrow.

“No battle? Then the enemy didn’t come—”

“Oh, they came,” Tanis said bitterly, “came and went. Right by.” He gestured in the air. “Whoosh.”

“Whoosh?” Amothus turned pale. “I don’t understand.”

“A flying citadel!”

“Name of the Abyss!” Sir Markham let out a low whistle. “A flying citadel.” He grew thoughtful, his hand absently smoothing his elegant riding clothes. “They didn’t attack the High Clerist’s Tower. They’re flying over the mountains. That means—”

“They plan to throw everything they have at Palanthas,” Tanis finished.

“But, I don’t understand!” Lord Amothus looked bewildered. “The knights didn’t stop them?”

“It would have been impossible, m’lord,” Sir Markham said with a negligent shrug. “The only way to attack a flying citadel that stands a chance of succeeding is with flights of dragons.”

“And by terms of the surrender treaty, the good dragons will not attack unless first attacked. All we had at the High Clerist’s Tower was one flight of bronzes. It will take far greater numbers than that—silver and golden dragons, as well—to stop the citadel,” Tanis said wearily.

Leaning back in his chair, Sir Markham pondered. “There are a few silver dragons in the area who will, of course, immediately rise up when the evil dragons are sighted. But there are not many. Perhaps more could be sent for—”

“The citadel is not our gravest danger,” Tanis said. Closing his eyes, he tried to stop the room from spinning. What was the matter with him? Getting old, he supposed. Too old for this.

“It isn’t?” Lord Amothus appeared to be on the verge of collapse from this additional blow but—nobleman that he was—he was doing his best to regain his shattered composure.

“Most assuredly Lord Soth rides with Highlord Kitiara.”

“A death knight!” Sir Markham murmured with a slight smile. Lord Amothus paled so visibly that Charles, returning with the food, set it down at once and hurried to his master’s side.

“Thank you, Charles,” Amothus said in a stiff, unnatural voice. “A little brandy, perhaps.”

“A lot of brandy would be more to the point,” Sir Markham said gaily, draining his glass. “Might as well get good and roaring drunk. Not much use staying sober. Not against a death knight and his legions... .” The young knight’s voice trailed off.

“You gentlemen should eat now,” Charles said firmly, having made his master more comfortable.

A sip of brandy brought some color back to Amothus’s face. The smell of the food made Tanis realize that he was hungry, and so he did not protest when Charles, bustling about efficiently, brought over a table and served the meal.

“Wh—what does it all mean?” Lord Amothus faltered, spreading his napkin on his lap automatically. “I—I’ve heard of this death knight before. My great-great-great grandfather was one of the nobles who witnessed Soth’s trial in Palanthas. And this Soth was the one who kidnapped Laurana, wasn’t he, Tanis?”

The half-elf’s face darkened. He did not reply.

Amothus raised his hands appealingly. “But what can he do against a city?”

Still no one replied. There was, however, no need. Amothus looked from the grim, exhausted face of the half-elf to the young knight, who was smiling bitterly as he methodically stabbed tiny holes in the lace tablecloth with his knife. The lord had his answer.

Rising to his feet, his breakfast untouched, his napkin slipping unnoticed from his lap to the floor, Amothus walked across the sumptuously appointed room to stand before a tall window made of hand-cut glass, crafted in an intricate design. A large oval pane in the center framed a view of the beautiful city of Palanthas. The sky above it was dark and filled with the strange, churning clouds. But the storm above only seemed to intensify the beauty and apparent serenity of the city below. Lord Amothus stood there, his hand resting upon a satin curtain, looking out into the city. It was market day. People passed the palace on their way to the market square, chatting together about the ominous sky, carrying their baskets, scolding their playful children.

“I know what you’re thinking, Tanis,” Amothus said finally, a break in his voice. “You’re thinking of Tarsis and Solace and Silvanesti and Kalaman. You’re thinking of your friend who died at the High Clerist’s Tower. You’re thinking of all those who died and suffered in the last war while we in Palanthas remained untouched, unaffected.”

Still Tanis did not respond. He ate in silence.

“And you, Sir Markham—” Amothus sighed. “I heard you and your knights laughing the other day. I heard the comments about the people of Palanthas carrying their money bags into battle, planning to defeat the enemy by tossing coins and yelling, ‘Go away! Go away’”

“Against Lord Soth, that will do quite as well as swords!” With a shrug and a short, sardonic laugh, Markham held out his brandy snifter for Charles to refill.

Amothus rested his head against the window pane. “We never thought war would come to us! It never has! Through all the Ages, Palanthas has remained a city of peace, a city of beauty and light. The gods spared us, even during the Cataclysm. And now, now that there is peace in the world, this comes to us!” He turned around, his pale face drawn and anguished. “Why? I don’t understand?”

Tanis shoved his plate away. Leaning back, he stretched, trying to ease the cramps in his muscles. I am getting old, he thought, old and soft. I miss my sleep at night. I miss a meal and grow faint. I miss days long past. I miss friends long gone. And I’m sick and tired of seeing people die in some stupid, senseless war! Heaving a sigh, he rubbed his bleary eyes and then, resting his elbows on the table, let his head sink into his hands.

“You talk of peace. What peace?” he asked. “We’ve been behaving like children in a house where mother and father have fought constantly for days and now, at last, they’re quiet and civil. We smile a lot and try to be merry and eat all our vegetables and tiptoe around, scared of making a sound. Because we know, if we do, the fighting will start all over again. And we call this peace!” Tanis laughed bitterly. “Speak one false word, my lord, and Porthios will have the elves on your neck. Stroke your beard the wrong way, and the dwarves will bar the gates to the mountain once again.”

Glancing over at Lord Amothus, Tanis saw the man’s head bow, he saw the delicate hand brush his eyes, his shoulders slump. Tanis’s anger dwindled. Who was he angry at anyway? Fate? The gods?

Rising tiredly to his feet, Tanis walked over to stand at the, window, looking out over the peaceful, beautiful, doomed city.

“I don’t have the answer, my lord,” he said quietly. “If I did, I’d have a Temple built to me and a whole string of clerics following me about, I suppose. All I know is that we can’t give up. We’ve got to keep trying.”

“Another brandy, Charles,” said Sir Markham, holding out his glass once again. “A pledge, gentlemen.” He raised his glass.

“Here’s to trying... Rhymes with dying.”

There came a soft knock at the door. Absorbed in his work, Tanis started. “Yes, what is it?” he called.

The door opened. “It is Charles, my lord. You asked that I call you during the changing of the watch.”