Маргарет Уэйс - Dragons of Spring Dawning

Flushing, Tanis translated the elven woman’s words to his friends. Goldmoon’s eyes widened. Berem did not seem to hear, he was lost in some sort of inner dream, only vaguely aware of what was happening around him. Riverwind’s expression did not change. Apparently nothing he heard about elves could surprise him anymore.

“Anyway, the sea elves are the ones who rescued us,” Tanis went on. “Like all elves, they consider life sacred and will help anyone lost at sea or drowning. This man, her husband—”

“Zebulah,” he said, extending his hand.

“I am Tanis Half-Elven, Riverwind and Goldmoon of the Que-shu tribe, and Berem, uh—” Tanis faltered and fell silent, not quite knowing where to go from here.

Apoletta smiled politely, but her smile quickly faded. “Zebulah,” she said, “find the friends the half-elf speaks of and bring them back here.”

“We should go with you,” Tanis offered. “If you thought I was going to swallow you, there’s no telling what Caramon might do—”

“No,” said Apoletta, shaking her head. The water glistened on her hair and sparkled on her smooth green-tinged skin. “Send the barbarians, half-elf. You stay here. I would talk with you and learn more of this war you say could endanger us. It saddens me to hear the dragons have awakened. If that is true, I fear you might be right. Our world will no longer be safe.”

“I will be back soon, beloved,” Zebulah said.

Apoletta reached out her hand to her husband. Taking it, he raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. Then he left. Tanis quickly translated for Riverwind and Goldmoon, who readily agreed to go in search of Caramon and Tika.

As they followed Zebulah back through the eerie, broken streets, he told them tales of the fall of Istar, pointing out various landmarks as they went along.

“You see—” he explained, “when the gods hurled the fiery mountain onto Krynn, it struck Istar, forming a giant crater in the land. The seawater rushed in to fill up the void, creating what came to be known as the Blood Sea. Many of the buildings in Istar were destroyed, but some survived and, here and there, retained small pockets of air. The sea elves discovered that this was an excellent place to bring mariners they rescued from capsized ships—Most of them soon feel quite at home.”

The mage spoke with a hint of pride, which Goldmoon found amusing, though she kindly did not allow her amusement to show. It was the pride of ownership, as if the ruins belonged to Zebulah and he had arranged to display them for the public’s enjoyment.

“But you are human. You are not a sea elf. How did you come to live here?” Goldmoon asked.

The magic-user smiled, his eyes looking back across the years. “I was young and greedy,” he said softly, “always in hopes of finding a quick way to make my fortune. My magic arts took me down into the depths of the ocean, searching for the lost wealth of Istar. I found riches all right, but not gold or silver.

“One evening I saw Apoletta, swimming among the sea forests. I saw her before she saw me, before she could change her shape. I fell in love with her... and long I worked to make her mine. She could not live up above and, after I had existed so long in the peace and tranquil beauty down here, I knew I no longer had a life in the world above either. But I enjoy talking to your kind occasionally, so I wander among the ruins now and then, to see who the elves have brought in.”

Goldmoon looked around the ruins as Zebulah paused to catch his breath between stories. “Where is the fabled temple of the Kingpriest?” she asked.

A shadow passed over the mage’s face. The look of pleasure he had worn was replaced by an expression of deep sorrow tinged with anger.

“I’m sorry,” Goldmoon said quickly. “I did not mean to cause you pain...”

“No, it’s all right,” Zebulah said with a brief, sad smile. “In fact, it is good for me to remember the darkness of that dreadful time. I tend to forget—in my daily ramblings here—that this used to be a city of laughing, crying, living, and breathing beings. Children played in these streets—they were playing that terrible evening when the gods cast the fiery mountain down.”

He was silent for a moment then, with a sigh, continued.

“You ask where the temple stands. It stands no longer. In the place where the Kingpriest stood, shouting his arrogant demands to the gods, there is a dark pit. Although it is filled with seawater, nothing lives within it. None know its depth, for the sea elves will not venture near it. I have looked into its dark, still waters as long as I could bear the terror, and I do not believe there is an end to its darkness. It is as deep as the heart of evil itself.”

Zebulah stopped in one of the sea-dark streets and peered at Goldmoon intently. “The guilty were punished. But why the innocent? Why did they have to suffer? You wear the medallion of Mishakal the Healer. Do you understand? Did the goddess explain it to you?”

Goldmoon hesitated, startled by the question, searching within her soul for the answer. Riverwind stood beside her, stern and silent as always, his thoughts hidden.

“Often I myself have questioned,” Goldmoon faltered. Moving nearer Riverwind, she touched his arm with her hand as though to reassure herself he was near. “In a dream, once, I was punished for my questioning, for my lack of faith. Punished by losing the one I love.” Riverwind put his strong arm around her and held her close. “But whenever I feel ashamed of my questioning, I am reminded that it was my questioning that led me to find the ancient gods.”

She was silent a moment. Riverwind stroked her silver-gold hair and she glanced up at him with a smile. “No,” she said softly to Zebulah, “I do not have the answer to this great riddle. I still question. I still burn with anger when I see the innocent suffer and the guilty rewarded. But I know now that my anger can be as a forging fire. In its heat, the raw lump of iron that is my spirit is tempered and shaped to form the shining rod of steel that is my faith. That rod supports my weak flesh.”

Zebulah studied Goldmoon silently as she stood amid the ruins of Istar, her silver-golden hair shining like the sunlight that would never touch the crushed buildings. The classic beauty of her face was marked by the effects of the dark roads she had traveled. Far from marring that beauty, the lines of suffering and despair had refined it. There was wisdom in her eyes, enhanced now by the great joy that came from the knowledge of the new life she carried within her body.

The mage’s gaze went to the man who held the woman so tenderly. His face, too, bore the marks of the long, tortuous path he had walked. Although stern and stoic that face would always be, his deep love for this woman showed clearly in the man’s dark eyes and the gentleness of his touch.

Perhaps I have made a mistake staying beneath the waters so long, Zebulah thought, suddenly feeling very old and sad. Perhaps I could have helped, if I had stayed above and used my anger as these two used theirs—to help them find answers. Instead, I let my anger gnaw at my soul until it seemed easiest to hide it down here.

“We should delay no longer,” said Riverwind abruptly. “Caramon will soon get it into his head to come looking for us, if he has not already.”

“Yes,” said Zebulah, clearing his throat. “We should go, although I do not think the young man and woman will have left. He was very weak—”

“Was he injured?” Goldmoon asked in concern.

“Not in body,” Zebulah replied as they entered a tumbledown building on a crumbling side-street. “But he has been injured in his soul. I could see that even before the girl told me about his twin brother.”