Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Fallen Sun

The gnome let out a shriek that might have been mistaken for the Mt. Nevermind noon whistle, which generally goes off at about three in the morning.

“My ship!”

Conundrum dropped his maps, he spilled his ink. He dashed down the stair, his wispy hair flying in the wind, tripped over Tasslehoff’s stocking, which was tied to the end of the hedge, picked himself up and ran toward the harbor with a speed that the makers of the steam-powered, piston-driven snowshoes might have tried hard to emulate.

“Stop thief!” the gnome bellowed. “That’s my ship!”

Tasslehoff glanced down to see what all the excitement was about, saw it was the gnome, and thought nothing more about it.

Gnomes were always excitable.

Tasslehoff sat down on the stairs, put his small pointed chin in his hand and thought about promises.

Palin tried to catch up with Goldmoon, but a cramp in his leg had brought him up, gasping in pain. He massaged the leg and then, when he could walk, he limped down the stairs to find the hall in an uproar. Goldmoon had come running through like a madwoman. She had run out before any could stop her. The masters and healers had been taken by such surprise that only belatedly had some thought to chase after her. By that time, she had vanished. The entire Citadel was being turned upside down, searching for her.

Palin kept to himself what Goldmoon had said to him. The others were already speaking of her in tense whispers. Her wild talk about the dead feeding off him would only convince them—as it had convinced him—that the poor woman had been driven insane by her amazing transformation. He could still see her look of horror, still feel the powerful blow that had sent him falling back against the wall. He offered to search for her, but Lady Camilla told him curtly that both her Knights and the citadel guards had been sent to locate the First Master and that they were quite capable of handling the situation.

Not knowing what else to do, he returned to his rooms, telling Lady Camilla to be certain to notify him upon the First Master’s return.

“In the meantime,” he said to himself, sighing, “the best I can do is to leave Schallsea. I’ve made a mess of things. Tas won’t come near me, and I can’t blame him. I am only adding to Goldmoon’s burdens. Perhaps I am the one responsible for her madness!”

His guest room in the Citadel was a spacious one, located on the second floor. He had a small bedroom, a study, and a parlor.

One wall of the parlor was crystal, facing west, providing a magnificent view of sea and sky. Restless, exhausted, but too tense to sleep, he wandered into the parlor and stood gazing out across the sea. The water was like green glass, mirroring the sky. Except for a gray-green line on the horizon, he could not tell where one left off and the other began. The sight was strangely disquieting.

Leaving the parlor, Palin entered his study and sat down at his desk, thinking he would write a letter to Jenna. He picked up the pen, but the words scrambled in his head, made no sense. He rubbed his burning eyes. He had not been able to sleep all night.

Every time he drifted off, he thought he heard a voice calling to him and he woke with a start to find that no one was there.

His head sank down, pillowed on his arms. He closed his eyes.

The smooth crystal sea stole over him, the water warm and dark.

“Palin!” a voice cried, a hollow, whispering voice. “Palin! Wake up!”

“Just a moment more, father,” Palin said, lost in a dream that he was a child again. “I’ll be down—”

Caramon stood over him. Big of body, big of heart as when Palin had last seen him, except that he was wavering and insubstantial as the smoke from dying embers. His father was not alone. He was surrounded by ghosts, who reached out grasping hands to Palin.

“Father!” Palin cried. His head jerked up. He stared in amazement. He could say nothing more, only stare, gaping, at the phantasmic shapes that had gathered around him and seemed to be trying to seize hold of him.

“Get back!” Caramon shouted in that dreadful whisper. He glared around, and the ghosts shrank back, but they did not go far. They stared at Palin with hungry eyes.

“Father,” Palin said—or tried to say. His throat was so dry that the words seemed to shred his flesh. “Father, what—”

“I’ve been searching for you!” Caramon said desperately. “Listen to me! Raistlin’s not here! I can’t find him! Something’s wrong. . . .”

More ghosts appeared in the study. The ghosts surged past Caramon, over him and around him. They could not rest, could not remain long in one place. They seized Caramon and tried to carry him away, like a panicked mob that bears its members to destruction.

Exerting all his effort, Caramon broke free of the raging current and flung himself at Palin.

“Palin!” he shouted, a shout that made no sound,”Don’t kill Tas! He’s the—”

Caramon vanished suddenly. The ephemeral forms swirled a moment and then separated into ragged wisps, as if a hand had brushed through smoke. The wisps were wafted away on a soul-chilling wind.

“Father? I don’t understand! Father!”

The sound of his own voice woke Palin. He sat upright with a start, gasping, as if he’d been splashed with cold water. He stared about wildly. “Father!”

The room was empty. Sunlight streamed in through the open window. The air was hot and fetid.

“A dream,” Palin said, dazedly.

But a very real dream. Remembering the dead clustering around him, Palin felt horror thrilling through him, raising the hair on his arms and his neck. He still seemed to feel the clutching hands of the dead, plucking at his clothes, whispering and pleading. He brushed at his face, as if he’d run into a spider’s web in the dark.

Just as Goldmoon had said. . . .

“Nonsense,” he said to himself out loud, needing to hear a living voice after those terrible whispers. “She put the thought into my mind, that is all. No wonder I’m having nightmares. Tonight, I will take a sleeping potion.”

Someone rattled the doorknob, trying to open the door, only to find that it was locked. Palin’s heart was in his throat.

Then came the sound of metal—a lockpick—clicking and snicking in the door lock.

Not ghosts. Just a kender.

Palin, sighing, stood up and walked to the door, opened it.

“Good morning, Tas,” said Palin.

“Oh, hullo,” said Tasslehoff. The kender was bent double, a lockpick in his hand, peering intently at the place where the lock had been before the door swung open. Tas straightened, tucked the lockpick back in a front pocket.

“I thought you might be asleep. I didn’t want to bother you. Do you have anything to eat?” The kender entered the room, making himself at home.

“Look, Tas,” Palin said, trying hard to be patient, “this isn’t a good time. I am very tired. I didn’t sleep well—”

“Me neither,” said Tas, marching into the parlor and plunking himself down on a chair. “I guess you don’t have anything to eat. That’s all right. I’m not really hungry.”

He sat in silence, swinging his feet back and forth, looking out at the sky and the sea. The kender was silent for several whole minutes put together.

Palin, recognizing this as an extraordinarily unusual phenomenon, drew up another chair and sat down beside him.

“What is it, Tas?” he asked gently.