Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Fallen Sun

“No!” Palin gasped. He stood holding in his hands a single sphere with a rod protruding from one end, staring down at the plate in horror.

“Here, I’ll fix it!” Tas helpfully picked up the broken piece.

“Give it to me!” Palin snatched the plate. He stared helplessly at the plate, tried to fit the rod into it, but there was no place for the rod to go. A misty film of fear and frustration swam before his eyes, blinding him.

He spoke the verse again, terse, panicked. “‘Its expanses you see!’” He shook the sphere and the rod, shook the plate. “Work!” he commanded in anger and desperation. “Work, damn you!”

The chain dropped down, slithered out of Palin’s grasping fingers to lie like a glittering silver snake on the floor. The rod separated from the sphere. Jewels winked and sparkled in the sunlight. And then the room went dark, the light of the jewels vanished. The dragons’ wings blotted out the sun.

Palin Majere stood in the Citadel of Light holding the shattered remnants of the Device of Time Journeying in his crippled hands.

The dead! Goldmoon had told him. They are feeding off you!

He saw his father, saw the river of dead pouring around him.

A dream. No, not a dream. Reality was the dream. Goldmoon had tried to tell him.

“This is what is wrong with the magic! This is why my spells go awry. The dead are leeching the magical power from me. They are all around me. Touching me with their hands, their lips. . . .”

He could feel them. Their touch was like cobwebs brushing across his skin. Or insect wings, such as he had felt at Laurana’s home. So much was made clear now. The loss of the magic. It wasn’t that he had lost his power. It was that the dead had sucked it from him.

“Well,” said Tas, “at least the dragon won’t have the artifact.”

“No,” said Palin quietly, “she’ll have us.”

Though he could not see them, he could feel the dead all around him, feeding.

The candle that kept count of the hours stood beside Silvan’s bed. He lay on his belly, watching the hours melt with the wax. One by one, the lines that marked the hours vanished until only a single line was left. The candle had been crafted to bum for twelve hours. Silvan had lit it at midnight.

Eleven hours had been devoured by the flame. The time was nearly noon, the time set for Mina’s execution.

Silvan extinguished the candle with a breath. He rose and dressed himself in his finest clothes, clothes he had brought to wear on the return march—the victory march—into Silvanost.

Fashioned of soft pearl gray, the doublet was stitched with silver that had been twisted and spun into thread. His hose were gray, his boots gray. Touches of white lace were at his wrist and neck.

“Your Majesty?” a voice called from outside his tent, “it is Kiryn. May I come in?”

“If you want,” said Silvan shortly, “but no one else.”

“I was here earlier,” Kiryn said, upon entering. “You didn’t answer. You must have been asleep.”

“I have not closed my eyes,” Silvan said coldly, adjusting his collar.

Kiryn was silent a moment, an uncomfortable silence. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

Silvan cast a him a look that would have been a blow to anyone else. He did not even bother to respond.

“Cousin, I know how you feel,” Kiryn said. “This act they contemplate is monstrous. Truly monstrous. I have argued with my uncle and the others until my throat is raw from talking, and nothing I say makes any difference. Glaucous feeds their fear. They are all gorging themselves on terror.”

“Aren’t you dining with them?” Silvan asked, half-turning.

“No, Cousin! Of course not!” Kiryn was astonished. “Could you imagine that I would? This is murder. Plain and simple. They may call it an ‘execution’ and try to dress it up so that it looks respectable, but they cannot hide the ugly truth. I do not care if this human is the worst, most reprehensible, most dangerous human who ever lived. Her blood will forever stain the ground upon which it falls, a stain that will spread like a blight among us.”

Kiryn’s voice dropped. He cast an apprehensive glance out the tent. “Already, Cousin, Glaucous speaks of traitors among our people, of meting out the same punishment to elves. My uncle and the Heads of House were all horrified and utterly opposed to the idea, but I fear that they will cease to feed on fear and start to feed on each other.”

“Glaucous,” Silvan repeated softly. He might have said more, but he remembered his promise to Mina. “Fetch my breastplate, will you, Cousin? And my sword. Help me on with them, will you?”

“I can call your attendants,” Kiryn offered.

“No, I want no one.” Silvan clenched his fist. “If one of my servants said something insulting about her I might. . . I might do something I would regret.”

Kiryn helped with the leather buckles.

“I have heard that she is quite lovely. For a human,” he remarked.

Silvan cast his cousin a sharp, suspicious glance.

Kiryn did not look up from his work. Muttering under his breath, he pretended to be preoccupied with a recalcitrant strap.

Reassured, Silvan relaxed. “She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw, Kiryn! So fragile and delicate. And her eyes! I have never seen such eyes!”

“And yet, Cousin,” Kiryn rebuked gently, “she is a Knight of Neraka. One of those who have pledged our destruction.”

“A mistake!” Silvan cried, going from ice to fire in a flash. “I am certain of it! She has been bewitched by the Knights or . . . or they hold her family hostage. . . or any number of reasons! In truth, she came here to save us.”

“Bringing with her a troop of armed soldiers,” Kiryn said dryly.

“You will see, Cousin,” Silvan predicted. “You will see that I am right. I’ll prove it to you.” He rounded on Kiryn. “Do you know what I did? I went last night to set her free. I did! I cut a hole in her tent. I was going to unlock her chains. She refused to leave.”

“You did what?” Kiryn gasped, appalled. “Cousin—”

“Never mind,” said Silvan, turning away, the flame flaring out, the ice reforming. “I don’t want to discuss it. I shouldn’t have told you. You’re as bad as the rest. Get out! Leave me alone.”

Kiryn thought it best to obey. He put his hand on the tent flap and was halfway out when Silvan caught hold of him by the shoulder, gripped him hard.

“Are you going to run to tell Konnal what I told you? Because if you are—”

“I am not, Cousin,” Kiryn said quietly. “I will keep what you have said in confidence. You need not threaten me.”

Silvan appeared ashamed. Mumbling something, he let loose of Kiryn’s sleeve, turned his back on him.

Grieved, worried, afraid, both for his people and for his cousin, Kiryn stood outside the king’s tent and tried to think what to do. He did not trust the human girl. He did not know much about the Knights of Neraka, but he had to believe that they would not promote someone who served them reluctantly or unwillingly to the rank of commander. And though no elf could ever speak well of a human, the elven soldiers had talked grudgingly of the enemy’s tenacity in battle, their discipline. Even General Konnal, who detested all humans, had admitted that these soldiers had fought well, and though they had retreated, they had done so in good order. They had followed the girl through the shield and into a well-defended realm, where surely they must have known they would march to their deaths. No, these men did not serve an unwilling, treacherous commander.