Margaret Weis - Dragons of a Lost Star

“I hope we can count on him to carry out his part,” the Marshal said.

“He has, as you say, been acting strange of late.”

“I trust him,” Laurana replied. “Look.” She pointed at narrow booted footprints in the thick dust on the stairs. “He is here already, waiting for us.”

They climbed as rapidly as possible, yet they dared not move too swiftly, lest they lose their strength before they had reached the top. “I am thankful . . . I did not wear full plate armor,” the Marshal stated with what breath he had left. As it was, he had only reached what Laurana told him was the halfway mark and he was gasping for breath, his legs burned.

“I used to race . . . my brothers and Tanis up these stairs . . . when I was a girl,” Laurana said, pressing her hand over her side to ease a jabbing pain. “We had better rest. . . a moment, or we’re not going to make it.”

She sank down on the staircase, wincing at the pain. Medan remained standing, staring out the window. He drew in deep breaths, flexed his legs to ease the cramped muscles.

“What can you see?” Laurana asked tensely. “What is happening?”

“Nothing yet,” he reported. “Those are Beryl’s minions in the skies. Probably scouting the city, making certain it is deserted. Beryl is a coward at heart. Without her magic, she feels naked, vulnerable. She won’t come near Qualinost until she is assured nothing will harm her.”

“When will her soldiers enter the city?”

Medan turned from the window to look down at her. “Afterward. The commanders won’t send in the men until the dragons are gone. The dragonfear unsettles the troops, makes them difficult to manage. When the dragons are finished leveling the place, the soldiers will arrive. To ‘mop up.’ “

Laurana laughed shakily. “I hope they will not find much to ‘mop.’ “

“If all goes as planned,” said Medan, returning her smile, “the floor will be wiped clean.”

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready,” he replied and gallantly extended his hand to help her to her feet.

The stairs brought them to the top of the tower, to an entrance to a small alcove with an arched ceiling. Those passing through the alcove walked out onto a balcony that overlooked all of the city of Qualinost. The Speaker of the Suns and the clerics of Paladine had been accustomed to come to the top of the tower on holidays and feast days, to thank Paladine

—or Eli, as the elves knew him—for his many blessings, the most glorious of which was the sun that gave life and light to all. That custom had ended after the Chaos War, and now no one came up here. What was the use?

Paladine was gone. The sun was a strange sun, and though it gave light and life, it seemed to do so grudgingly, not gloriously. The elves might have kept up the old tradition simply because it was tradition. Their Speaker, Solostaran, had kept up the custom during the years after the Cataclysm, when Paladine had not heeded their prayers. The young king, Gilthas, had not been able to make the arduous climb, however. He had pleaded ill health, and so the elves had abandoned tradition. The real reason Gilthas did not want to climb to the top of the Tower of the Sun was that he did not want to look out over a city that was captive, a city in chains.

“When Qualinost is no longer held in thrall,” Gilthas had promised his mother during their last night together, “I will come back, and no matter if I am so old that my bones creak and I have lost every tooth in my head, I will run up those stairs like a child at play, for at the top I will look out over a country and a people who are free.”

Laurana thought of him as she set her foot gratefully upon the last stair. She could see her son, young and strong—for he would be young and strong, not old and decrepit—bounding up the stairs joylessly to look out upon a land bathed in blessed sunlight.

She looked out the open archway leading to the balcony and saw only darkness. The wings of Beryl’s subject dragons cut off the sunlight. The first tremors of dragonfear caused her throat to constrict, her palms to sweat, her hand involuntarily to tighten its grip around the slender railing. She had felt such fear before, and as had told Marshal Medan, she knew how to combat it. She walked across the landing, faced her enemy squarely, stared at the dragons long and hard until she had mentally conquered them. The fear did not leave her. It would always be there, but she was the master. The fear was under her control.

This settled, she looked around to find Kelevandros. She had expected to find him waiting for them on the landing, and she felt a twinge of worry that she did not see him. She had forgotten the effects of dragonfear, however. Perhaps he had been overcome by it and run away.

No, that could not have happened. There was only one way down. He would have passed them on the stairs.

Perhaps he had gone out on the balcony.

She was about to go in search of him when she heard the Marshal’s footsteps behind her, heard him heave a great sigh of relief at finally reaching the top of the stairs. She turned to face him, to tell him that she could not find Kelevandros, when she saw Kelevandros emerging from the shadows of the arched entryway.

I must have walked right past him, she realized. Caught by the dragonfear, she had never noticed him. He stood crouched in the shadows, paralyzed, seeming unable to move.

“Kelevandros,” Laurana said to the young elf in concern, “what you are feeling is the dragonfear—”

Marshal Medan rested the dragonlance against the wall. “And to think,”

he said, sucking in air, “we still have to make the climb down.”

Kelevandros gave a convulsive leap. Steel flashed in his hand. Laurana shouted a warning and lunged to stop him, but she was too late.

Kelevandros stabbed through the cloak the Marshal wore, aiming to strike beneath his upraised arm that had been holding the dragonlance, strike a part of the body the armor could not protect. The elf buried his knife to the hilt in Medan’s ribcage, then jerked the knife free. His hand and the blade were stained with blood.

Medan gave a pain-filled cry. His body stiffened. He pressed his hand to his side and stumbled forward, fell to the floor on one knee.

“Ah!” He gasped for breath and found none. The blade had punctured his lung. “Ah!”

“Kelevandros . . .” Laurana whispered, overcome by shock. “What have you done?”

He had been staring at the Marshal, but now he turned his gaze to her. His eyes were wild and fevered, his face livid. He held up his hand to ward her off, raised the knife.

“Don’t come near me, Madam!” he cried.

“Kelevandros,” Laurana asked helplessly, “why? He was going to help us—”

“He killed my brother,” Kelevandros gasped, his pallid lips quivering.

“Killed him years ago with his filthy money and his foul promises. He used him, and all the while he despised him-Not dead yet, are you, you bastard?”

Kelevandros lunged to stab the Marshal again.

Swiftly, Laurana interposed her body between the elf and the human. For a moment she thought Kelevandros, in his rage, was going to stab her. Laurana faced him, unafraid. Her death didn’t matter. She would die now or later. Their plan lay in ruins.

“What have you done, Kelevandros?” she repeated sadly. “You have doomed us.”

He glared at her. Froth bubbled on his lips. He raised the knife, but not to stab. With a wrenching sob, he threw the knife at the wall. She heard it hit with a clang.

“We were already doomed, Madam,” he said, choking.

He fled the chamber, running blindly. Either he could not see where he was going or he did not care, for he crashed headlong into the railing of silver-and gold-twined ivy. The ancient railing shuddered, then gave way under the young elf’s weight. Kelevandros plunged over the edge of the staircase. He made no attempt to catch himself. He fell to the floor below without a cry.