Маргарет Уэйс - Dragons of Spring Dawning

Caramon stared at the dragon, fighting the dragonfear that overwhelmed him. Tika and Tas both clung to him, shivering in fright. Then, with a hoarse cry, he thrust them both away and ran toward the great dragon.

“Wait! Raistlin!” Caramon cried raggedly. “I’ll go with you!”

Cyan reared his great head in alarm, eyeing the human with a flaming gaze.

“Would you?” Raistlin asked softly, laying a soothing hand upon the dragon’s neck. “Would you go with me into darkness?”

Caramon hesitated, his lips grew dry, fear parched his throat. He could not speak, but he nodded, twice, biting his lip in agony as he heard Tika sobbing behind him.

Raistlin regarded him, his eyes golden pools within the deep blackness. “I truly believe you would,” the mage marveled, almost to himself. For a moment Raistlin sat upon the dragon’s back, pondering. Then he shook his head, decisively.

“No, my brother, where I go, you cannot follow. Strong as you are, it would lead you to your death. We are finally as the gods meant us to be, Caramon—two whole people, and here our paths separate. You must learn to walk yours alone, Caramon"—for an instant, a ghostly smile flickered across Raistlin’s face, illuminated by the light from the staff—"or with those who might choose to walk with you. Farewell, my brother.”

At a word from his master, Cyan Bloodbane spread his wings and soared into the air. The gleam of light from the staff seemed like a tiny star amidst the deep blackness of the dragon’s wingspan. And then it, too, winked out, the darkness swallowing it utterly.

“Here come those you have waited for,” the old man said gently.

Tanis raised his head.

Into the light of the old man’s fire came three people—a huge and powerful warrior, dressed in dragonarmy armor, walking arm in arm with a curly-haired young woman. Her face was pale with exhaustion and streaked with blood, and there was a look of deep concern and sorrow in her eyes as she gazed up at the man beside her. Finally, stumbling after them, so tired he could barely stand, came a bedraggled kender in ragged blue leggings.

“Caramon!” Tanis rose to his feet.

The big man lifted his head. His face brightened. Opening his arms, he clasped Tanis to his breast with a sob. Tika, standing apart, watched the reunion of the two friends with tears in her eyes. Then she caught sight of movement near the fire.

“Laurana?” she said hesitantly.

The elfwoman stepped forward into the firelight, her golden hair shining brightly as the sun. Though dressed in bloodstained, battered armor, she had the bearing, the regal look of the elven princess Tika had met in Qualinesti so many months ago.

Self-consciously, Tika put her hand to her filthy hair, felt it matted with blood. Her white, puffy-sleeved barmaid’s blouse hung from her in rags, barely decent; her mismatched armor was all that held it together in places. Unbecoming scars marred the smooth flesh of her shapely legs, and there was far too much shapely leg visible.

Laurana smiled, and then Tika smiled. It didn’t matter. Coming to her swiftly, Laurana put her arms around her, and Tika held her close.

All alone, the kender stood for a moment on the edge of the circle of firelight, his eyes on the old man who stood near it. Behind the old man, a great golden dragon slept sprawled out upon the ridge, his flanks pulsing with his snores. The old man beckoned Tas to come closer.

Heaving a sigh that seemed to come from the toes of his shoes, Tasslehoff bowed his head. Dragging his feet, he walked slowly over to stand before the old man.

“What’s my name?” the old man asked, reaching out his hand to touch the kender’s topknot of hair.

“It’s not Fizban,” Tas said miserably, refusing to look at him.

The old man smiled, stroking the topknot. Then he drew Tas near him, but the kender held back, his small body rigid. “Up until now, it wasn’t,” the old man said softly.

“Then what is it?” Tas mumbled, his face averted.

“I have many names,” the old man replied. “Among the elves I am Eli. The dwarves call me Thak. Among the humans I am known as Skyblade. But my favorite has always been that by which I am known among the Knights of Solamnia—Draco Paladin”

“I knew it!” Tas groaned, flinging himself to the ground. “A god! I’ve lost everyone! Everyone!” He began to weep bitterly.

The old man regarded him fondly for a moment, even brushing a gnarled hand across his own moist eyes. Then he knelt down beside the kender and put his arm around him comfortingly. “Look, my boy,” he said, putting his finger beneath Tas’s chin and turning his eyes to heaven, “do you see the red star that shines above us? Do you know to what god that star is sacred?”

“Reorx,” Tas said in a small voice, choking on his tears.

“It is red like the fires of his forge,” the old man said, gazing at it. “It is red like the sparks that fly from his hammer as it shapes the molten world resting on his anvil. Beside the forge of Reorx is a tree of surpassing beauty, the like of which no living being has ever seen. Beneath that tree sits a grumbling old dwarf, relaxing after many labors. A mug of cold ale stands beside him, the fire of the forge is warm upon his bones. He spends all day lounging beneath the tree, carving and shaping the wood he loves. And every day someone who comes past that beautiful tree starts to sit down beside him.

“Looking at them in disgust, the dwarf glowers at them so sternly that they quickly get to their feet again.

“ ‘This place is saved,’ the dwarf grumbles. There’s a lame-brained doorknob of a kender off adventuring somewhere, getting himself and those unfortunate enough to be with him into no end of trouble. Mark my words. One day he’ll show up here and he’ll admire my tree and he’ll say, “Flint, I’m tired. I think I’ll rest awhile here with you.” Then he’ll sit down and he’ll say, “Flint, have you heard about my latest adventure? Well, there was this black-robed wizard and his brother and me and we went on a journey through time and the most wonderful things happened—” and I’ll have to listen to some wild tale—’ and so he grumbles on. Those who would sit beneath the tree hide their smiles and leave him in peace.”

“Then... he’s not lonely?” Tas asked, wiping his hand across his eyes.

“No, child. He is patient. He knows you have much yet to do in your life. He will wait. Besides he’s already heard all your stories. You’re going to have to come up with some new ones.”

“He hasn’t heard this one yet,” Tas said in dawning excitement. “Oh, Fizban, it was wonderful! I nearly died—again. And I opened my eyes and there was Raistlin in Black Robes!” Tas shivered in delight. “He looked so—well—evil! But he saved my life! And—oh!” He stopped, horrified, then hung his head. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I guess I shouldn’t call you Fizban anymore.”

Standing up, the old man patted him gently. “Call me Fizban. From now on, among the kender, that shall be my name.” The old man’s voice grew wistful. “To tell the truth, I’ve grown rather fond of it.”

The old man walked over to Tanis and Caramon, and stood near them for a moment, eavesdropping on their conversation.

“He’s gone, Tanis,” Caramon said sadly. “I don’t know where. I don’t understand. He’s still frail, but he isn’t weak. That horrible cough is gone. His voice is his own, yet different. He’s—”

“Fistandantilus,” the old man said.

Both Tanis and Caramon turned. Seeing the old man, they both bowed reverently.

“Oh, stop that!” Fizban snapped. “Can’t abide all that bowing. You’re both hypocrites anyway. I’ve heard what you said about me behind my back—” Tanis and Caramon both flushed guiltily. “Never mind.” Fizban smiled. “You believed what I wanted you to believe. Now, about your brother. You are right. He is himself and he is not. As was foretold, he is the master of both present and past.”