Margaret Weis - Dragons of a Lost Star

—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.”