Margaret Weis - Dragons of Vanished Moon

Silvanoshei was to be laid to rest in the Tomb of the Heroes in Solace. This was not to be his final burial place. His grieving mother, Alhana Starbreeze, hoped to one day take him home to Silvanesti, but that day would be long in coming. The minotaur nation poured in troops and supplies and were firmly entrenched in that formerly fair land.

Captain Samuval and his mercenaries continued to raid throughout the elven lands of Qualinesti. The Dark Knights drove out or killed the few elves who remained and claimed the land of Qualinesti as their own. The elves were exiles now. The remnants of the two nations argued over where to go, what to do.

The elven exiles camped in the valley outside of Sanction, but they were not at home there, and the Solamnic Knights, now the rulers of Sanction, urged them politely to consider moving somewhere else. The Knights’ Council discussed allying with the elves to drive the minotaurs out of Silvanesti, but there was some question in regard to the Measure, and the matter was referred to scholars to settle, which they might confidently be expected to do in ten or twenty years. Alhana Starbreeze had been offered the rulership of the Silvanesti, but, her heart broken, she had refused. She suggested that Gilthas rule in her stead. The Qualinesti wanted this, most of them. The Silvanesti did not, though they had no one else to recommend. The two quarreling nations came together once more, their representatives traveling together to the funeral of Silvanoshei. A golden dragon bore the body of Silvanoshei to the Tomb of the Heroes. Solamnic Knights, riding silver dragons, formed a guard of honor, led by Gerard uth Mondar. Alhana accompanied the body of her son, as did his cousin Gilthas.

He was not sorry to leave the quarrels and intrigues behind. He wondered if he had the strength to go back. He did not want the kingship of the elven nations. He did not feel he was the right person. He did not want the responsibility of leading a people in exile, a people without a home. Standing outside the tomb, Gilthas watched as a procession of elves carried the body of Silvanoshei, covered in a shroud of golden cloth, to its temporary resting place. His body was laid in a marble coffin, covered over with flowers. The shards of the broken dragonlance were placed in his hands.

The tomb would be the final resting place of Goldmoon. Her ashes were mingled with the ashes of Riverwind. The two of them together at last.

An elf dressed in travel-stained clothes of brown and green came to stand beside Gilthas. He said nothing but watched in solemn reverence as the ashes of Goldmoon and Riverwind were carried inside.

“Farewell, dear and faithful friends,” he said softly.

Gilthas turned to him.

“ I am glad to have this chance to speak to you, E’li—” he began. The elf halted him. “That is my name no longer.”

“What, then, should we call you, sir?” Gilthas asked.

“So many names I have had,” said the elf. “E’li among the elves, Paladine among the humans. Even Fizban. That one, I must admit, was my favorite. None of them serve me now. I have chosen a new name.”

“And that is—” Gilthas paused.

“Valthonis,” said the elf.

“‘The exile?’” Gilthas translated, puzzled. Sudden understanding rushed upon him. He tried to speak but could not manage beyond saying brokenly, “So you will share our fate.” Valthonis laid his hand upon Gilthas’s shoulder. “Go back to your people, Gilthas. They are both your people, the Silvanesti and the Qualinesti. Make them one people again, and though they are a people in exile, though you have no land to call your own, you will be a nation.” Gilthas shook his head.

“The task before you is not an easy one,” Valthonis said. “You will work hard and painstakingly to join together what others will endeavor to tear apart. You will be beset with failure, but never give up hope. If that happens, you will know defeat.”

“Will you be with me?” Gilthas asked.

Valthonis shook his head. “I have my own road to walk, as do you, as does each of us. Yet, at times, our paths may cross.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Gilthas, clasping the elf’s hand. “I will do as you say. I will return to my people. All my people.” He sighed deeply, smiled ruefully. “Even Senator Palthainon.” Gerard stood at the entrance to the tomb, waiting for the last of the mourners to leave. The ceremony was over. Night had fallen. The crowds who had gathered to watch began to drift away, some going to the Inn of the Last Home, where Palin and Usha joined with his sisters, Laura and Dezra, to comfort all who mourned, giving them smiles and good food and the best ale in Ansalon.

As Gerard stood there, he thought back to all that had happened since that day, so long ago, when he had first heard Tasslehoff’s voice shouting from inside the tomb. The world had changed, and yet it had not.

There were now three moons in the sky instead of one. Yet the sun that rose every morning was the same sun that had ushered in the Fifth Age. The people could look up into the sky again and find the constellations of the gods and point them out to their children. But the constellations were not the same as they had once been. They were made up of different stars, held different places in the heavens. Two could not be found, would never be found, would never be seen above Krynn again.

“The Age of Mortals,” Gerard said to himself. The term had a new significance, a new meaning. He looked inside the tomb to see one last person still within—the strange elf he had first seen in the arena. Gerard waited respectfully, patiently, fully prepared to give this mourner all the time he needed.

The elf said his prayers in silence, then, with a final loving farewell, he walked over to Gerard.

“Did you fix the lock?” he asked, smiling.

“I did, sir,” said Gerard. He shut the door to the tomb behind him. He heard the lock click. He did not immediately leave. He was also loath to say goodbye.

“Sir, I was wondering.” Gerard paused, then plunged ahead. “I don’t know how to say this, but did Tasslehoff—Did he ... did he do what he meant to do?”

“Did he die when and where he was meant to die?” the elf asked. “Did he defeat Chaos? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, sir,” said Gerard. “That’s what I mean.”

In answer, the elf lifted his head, looked into the night sky. “There once used to be a red star in the heavens. Do you remember it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look for it now. Do you see it?”

“No, sir,” said Gerard, searching the heavens. “What happened to it?”

“The forge fire has gone out. Flint doused the flame, for he knew he was no longer needed.”

“So Tasslehoff found him,” said Gerard.

“Tasslehoff found him. He and Flint and their companions are all together again,” said the elf.

“Flint and Tanis and Tasslehoff, Tika, Sturm, Goldmoon and Riverwind. They wait only for Raistlin, and he will join them soon, for Caramon, his twin, would not think of leaving without him.”

“Where are they bound, sir?” Gerard asked.

“On the next stage of their souls’ journey,” said the elf.

“I wish them well,” said Gerard.

He left the Tomb of the Last Heroes, bade the elf farewell, and, pocketing the key, turned his steps toward the Inn of the Last Home. The warm glow that streamed from its windows lit his way.

My name? Ah, I have so many. Paladine, E’li, Fizban, Bah’Mut, Draco Paladin—that last was a special favorite. Forgive the digression; I sometimes find these academic discourses a little disconcerting, even with old friends. In a way, though, all my friends are old friends, since I knew you before you were born, not that you’d know that. In any case, I understand that you desire a record of my observations on the War of Souls. I’m glad to help, especially since this series of events spans times and concepts only the gods and High Gods fully understand. Of course, because of that, I’ll have to be careful how I put things. The gods don’t experience time in the same way mortals do; it sometimes frustrates us when you can’t grasp the totality of simultaneous existence and the stream of probability. You see what I mean? In any case, I’ll try to keep this simple.