Dragons of a Lost Star Read online

  The first several draconians dashed inside the Hedge Maze and almost immediately came to a stop. Branches spread across the path, stems shot up from the ground. Foliage grew at an astonishing rate. Within moments, the path on which Palin and Tas had walked was overgrown with shrubbery so thick the mage could no longer see the draconians.

  Palin breathed a sigh of relief. He had been right. The magic of the Hedge Maze would keep out those who entered with evil intent. He had a momentary fear that the draconians might use their wings to lift themselves over the maze, but, as he looked up, flowering vines twined overhead to form a canopy that would hide him from sight. For the moment, he and Tas were safe.

  “Whew! That was close!” said Tasslehoff happily. “I thought we were goners there for a moment. You are a really good wizard, Palin. I saw Raistlin cast lots of spells, but I don’t believe he ever caused draconians to sizzle up like bacon before, though I once saw him summon the Great Worm Catyrpelius. Did you ever hear about that one? Raistlin—”

  A roar and a blast of flame interrupted Tasslehoff’s tale. The bushes that had so recently grown to block the draconians burst into bright orange flame.

  “The dragons!” Palin said with a bitter curse, coughing as the intense heat seared his lungs. “They’re going to try to smoke us out.”

  In his elation at defeating the draconians, he had forgotten the dragons. The Hedge Maze could withstand almost all other attacks, but apparently it was not impervious to dragon fire. Another red breathed its fiery breath on the maze. Flames crackled, smoke filled the air. The way out was blocked off by a wall of flame. They had no choice but to run deeper into the maze.

  Palin led the way down the aisle of green, made a right turn, and came to a halt when the hedgerow at the end of the path erupted up in a blaze of flame and smoke. Choking, Palin covered his mouth with his sleeve and searched for a way out. Another pathway opened in front of him, the bushes parting to let him and Tas through. They had only made it a short distance when, again, flames blocked their path. Still another path opened. Though the Hedge Maze itself was dying, it sought a way to save them. He had the impression that they were being led somewhere specific, but he had no idea where. The smoke made him dizzy and disoriented. His strength was starting to ebb. He staggered, more than ran. Tasslehoff, too, was falling prey to fatigue. His shoulders slumped, his breathing was ragged. His very topknot seemed to droop.

  The red dragon that was attacking the maze did not want to kill them. The dragon could have done that long ago. The red was driving them like sheep, using fire to dog their footsteps, nip at their heels, try to force them out in the open. Still, the maze itself urged them on, revealing yet another path when their way was blocked.

  Smoke swirled around them. Palin could barely see the kender right beside him. He coughed until his throat was raw, coughed until he retched. Whenever one of the hedge ways opened up, a flow of air would refresh him, but almost immediately the air became tainted with smoke and the smell of brimstone. They stumbled on.

  A wall of flame burst in front of them. Palin fell back, looked frantically to the left to see another wall of flame. He turned to the right, and the maze crackled with fire. Heat seared his lungs. He could not breathe. Smoke swirled, stinging his eyes.

  “Palin!” Tas pointed. “The stair!”

  Palin wiped away the tears to see silver steps spiraling upward, vanishing in the smoke.

  “Let’s climb it!” Tas urged.

  Palin shook his head. “It won’t help. The stair doesn’t lead anywhere, Tas,” he croaked, his throat raw and bleeding, as a fit of coughing seized him.

  “Yes, it does,” Tas argued. “I’m not sure where, but I climbed it the last time I was here, when I decided that I should really go back and be stepped on by the giant. A decision I have since rethought,” he added hastily. “Anyway I saw—Oh, look! There’s Caramon! Hullo, Caramon!”

  Palin raised his head, peered through the smoke. He was sick and faint, and when he saw his father, standing at the top of the Silver Stair, he did not wonder at the sight. Caramon had come to his son once before, in the Citadel of Light, come to him to urge him not to send Tasslehoff back to die. Caramon looked now as he had looked to his son before his death, old but still hearty and hale. His father’s face was different, though. Caramon’s face had always been quick to laughter, quick to smile. The eyes that had seen much sorrow and known much pain had always been light with hope. Caramon had changed. Now the eyes were different, lost, searching.

  Tasslehoff was already clambering up the stairs, jabbering excitedly to Caramon, who said no word. There had been only a few stairs, when Tasslehoff began to climb. He was quite close to the top already. But when Palin placed his foot upon the first shining silver step, he looked up and saw the stairs appeared to be without number, never ending. He did not have the strength to climb all those stairs, and he feared he would be left behind. As his foot touched the stair, a breath of fresh air wafted over him. He gulped it eagerly. Lifting his face, he saw blue sky above him. He drew in another deep breath of fresh air and began to climb. The distance seemed short now.

  Caramon stood at the top, waiting patiently. Lifting a ghostly hand, he beckoned to them.

  Tasslehoff reached the top, only to find, as Palin had said, that the Silver Stair led nowhere. The staircase came to an abrupt end, his next step would carry him over the edge. Far below, the ugly black smoke of the dying hedge swirled like the waters of a maelstrom.

  “What do I do now, Caramon?” Tas yelled.

  Palin heard no reply, but apparently the kender did.

  “How wonderful,” Tas cried. “I’ll fly just like the draconians!”

  Palin shouted out in horror. He lunged, tried to grasp hold of the kender’s shirttail, and missed.

  With a cry of glee, Tasslehoff spread his arms like a bird and leaped straight off the final stair. He plunged downward and disappeared into the smoke.

  Palin clung to the stair. In his desperate attempt to grab hold of Tas, he had almost toppled off. He waited, his heart in his throat, to hear the kender’s death cry, but all he heard was the crackling of flame and the roaring of the dragons.

  Palin looked into the swirling smoke and shuddered. He looked back at his father, but Caramon was not there. In his place flew the red dragon. Wings blotted out the patch of blue sky. The dragon reached out a talon, intending to pluck Palin from his stair and carry him back to his cell. He was tired, tired of being afraid. He wanted only to rest and to be rid of fear forever.

  He knew now where the Silver Stair led.

  Death.

  Caramon was dead. His son would soon join him.

  “At least,” Palin said calmly, grimly, “I will nevermore be a prisoner.”

  He leaped off the stair—and fell heavily on his side on a hard stone floor.

  The landing being completely unexpected, Palin made no attempt to break his fall. He rolled and tumbled, came up hard against a stone wall. Jolted by the impact, shocked and confused, he lay blinking at the ceiling and wondered that he was alive.

  Tasslehoff bent over him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Look, Palin! Isn’t it wonderful? You told me to find Dalamar and I have! He’s right here! But I can’t find Caramon anymore. He’s nowhere.”

  Palin eased himself carefully to a sitting position. He was bruised and battered, his throat hurt, and his lungs wheezed as though they were still filled with smoke, but he felt no stabbing pains, heard no bones crunch together. His astonishment and shock at the sight of the elf caused him to forget his minor injuries. Palin was shocked not only to see Dalamar—who had not been seen in this world for thirty years—he was shocked to see how Dalamar changed.

  The long-lived elves do not appear to humans to age. Dalamar was an elf in the prime of manhood. He should have looked the same now as he had looked when Palin last saw him more than thirty years ago. He did not. So drastic was the change that Palin was n
ot completely convinced that this apparition was Dalamar and not another ghost.

  The elf’s long hair that had once been as black as the wing of a raven was streaked with gray. His face, though still elegantly carved and beautifully proportioned, was wasted. The elf’s pale skin was stretched tight over the bones of the skull, making it look as if his face were carved of ivory. The aquiline nose was beakish, the chin sharp. His robes hung loosely on an emaciated frame. His long-fingered, elegant hands were bony and chafed, the knuckles red and prominent. The veins on the backs of his hands traced a blue road map of illness and despair.

  Palin had always liked and admired Dalamar, though he could not say why. Their philosophies were not remotely the same. Dalamar had been the servant of Nuitari, god of the Dark Moon and darker magicks. Palin had served Solinari, god of the Silver Moon, god of the magic of light. Both men had been devastated when the gods of magic had departed, taking the magic with them. Palin had gone into the world to seek out the magic they called “wild” magic. Dalamar had withdrawn from other magi, withdrawn from the world. He had gone seeking magic in dark places.

  “Are you injured?” Dalamar asked. He sounded annoyed, not concerned for Palin’s well-being, but only that Palin might require some sort of attention, an exertion of power on the part of the elf.

  Palin struggled to stand. Speaking was painful. His throat hurt abominably.

  “I am all right,” he rasped, watching Dalamar as the elf watched him, wary, suspicious. “Thank you for helping us—”

  Dalamar cut him off with a sharp, emphatic gesture of a pallid hand. The skin of the hand was so pale against the black robes that it seemed disembodied.

  “I did what I had to do, considering the mess you had made of things.” The pale hand snaked out, seized hold of Tas by the collar. “Come with me, kender.”

  “I’d be glad to come with you, Dalamar,” Tas answered. “And, by the way, it really is me, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, so you needn’t keep calling me ‘kender’ in that nasty tone. I’m very glad to see you again, except, you’re pinching me. Actually you’re hurting me quite a bit—”

  “In silence,” Dalamar said and gave the kender’s collar an expert twist that effectively caused Tas to obey the order by half-choking him. Dragging the squirming kender with him, Dalamar crossed the small, narrow room to a heavy wooden door. He beckoned with a pale hand, and the door swung silently open.

  Keeping a tight grasp on Tas, Dalamar paused in the doorway and turned to face Palin.

  “You have much to answer for, Majere.”

  “Wait!” Palin croaked, wincing at the pain in his throat. “Where is my father? I saw him.”

  “Where?” Dalamar demanded, frowning.

  “At the top of the Silver Stair,” Tasslehoff volunteered. “We both saw him.”

  “I have no idea. I did not send him, if that is what you are thinking,” said Dalamar. “Although, I appreciate his help.”

  He walked out, and the door slammed shut behind him. Alarmed, panicked, feeling himself start to suffocate, Palin hurled himself at the door.

  “Dalamar!” he shouted, beating on the wood. “Don’t leave me in here!”

  Dalamar spoke, but it was only to chant words of magic.

  Palin recognized the spell—a wizard lock.

  His strength gone, he slid down the door and slumped to the cold, stone floor.

  A prisoner.

  3

  Sun Arise

  n the dark hour before the dawn, Gilthas, the king of the Qualinesti stood on the balcony of his palace. Rather, his body stood on the balcony. His soul walked the streets of the silent city. His soul walked every street, paused at every doorway, looked in every window. His soul saw a newlywed couple asleep, clasped in each other arms. His soul saw a mother sitting in a rocking chair, nursing her babe, the babe sleeping, the mother dozing, gently rocking. His soul saw young elf brothers sharing the same bed with a large hound. The two boys slept with their arms flung around the neck of the dog, all three dreaming of playing catch in sunlit meadows. His soul saw an elderly elf sleeping in the same house that his father had slept in and his father before him. Above his bed, a portrait of the wife who had passed on. In the next room, the son who would inherit the house, his wife by his side.

  “Sleep long this night,” Gilthas’s soul said softly to each one he touched. “Do not wake too early in the morning, for when you wake, it will not be the beginning of a new day but the end of all days. The sun you see in the sky is not the rising sun, but the setting sun. The daylight will be night and night the darkness of despair. Yet, for now, sleep in peace. Let me guard that peace while I can.”

  “Your Majesty,” said a voice.

  Gilthas was loath to pay heed. He knew that when he turned to listen, to answer, to respond, the spell would be shattered. His soul would return to his body. The people of Qualinesti would find their sleep disturbed by dreams of smoke and fire, blood and shining steel. He tried to pretend he had not heard, but even as he watched, he saw the bright silver of the stars start to fade, saw a faint, pale light in the sky.

  “Your Majesty,” said a voice, another voice.

  Dawn. And with the dawn, death.

  Gilthas turned around. “Marshal Medan,” he said, a hint of coolness in his tone. He shifted his gaze from the leader of the Dark Knights of Neraka to the person standing next to him, his trusted servant. “Planchet. You both have news, by the looks of it. Marshal Medan, I’ll hear yours first.”

  Alexius Medan was a human male in his fifties, and although he bowed deferentially to the king, the Marshal was the true ruler of Qualinesti and had been for more than thirty years, ever since the Dark Knights of Neraka seized Qualinesti during the Chaos War. Gilthas was known to all the world as the “Puppet King.” The Dark Knights had left the young and apparently weak and sickly youth on the throne in order to placate the elven people and give them the illusion of elven control. In reality, it was Marshal Medan who held the strings that caused the arms of the puppet Gilthas to move, and Senator Palthainon, a powerful member of the Thalas-Enthia, who played the tune to which the puppet danced.

  But as Marshal Medan had learned only yesterday, he had been deceived. Gilthas had not been a puppet but a most gifted actor. He had played the weak and vacillating king in order to mask his real persona, that of leader of the elven resistance movement. Gilthas had fooled Medan completely. The Puppet King had cut the strings, and the dances he performed were done to music of His Majesty’s own choosing.

  “You left us after dark and have been gone all night, Marshal,” Gilthas stated, eyeing the man suspiciously. “Where have you been?”

  “I have been at my headquarters, Your Majesty, as I told you before I left,” Medan replied.

  He was tall and well-built. Despite his fifty-five years—or perhaps because of them—he worked at keeping himself fighting fit. His gray eyes contrasted with his dark hair and dark brows and gave him an expression of perpetual gravity that did not lighten, even when he smiled. His face was deeply tan, weathered. He had been a dragonrider in his early days.

  Gilthas cast a very slight glance at Planchet, who gave a discreet nod of his head. Both glance and nod were seen by the observant Medan, who looked more than usually grave.

  “Your Majesty, I do not blame you for not trusting me. It has been said that kings cannot afford the luxury of trusting anyone—” the Marshal began.

  “Especially the conqueror of our people, who has held us in his iron grasp for over thirty years,” Gilthas interjected. Both elven and human blood ran in the young king’s veins, though the elven dominated. “You release the grip on our throats to offer the same hand in friendship. You will understand me, sir, when I say that I still feel the bite of your fingers around my windpipe.”

  “Well put, Your Majesty,” replied the Marshal with a hint of smile. “As I said, I approve your caution. I wish I had a year to prove my loyalty—”

  “To me?” Gilthas said with a slight sneer. �
�To the ‘puppet’?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Marshal Medan said. “My loyalty to the land I have come to consider my home. My loyalty to a people I have come to respect. My loyalty to your mother.” He did not add the words, “whom I have come to love,” though he might have said them in his heart.

  The Marshal had been awake all night the night before, removing the Queen Mother to a place of safety, out of reach of the hands of Beryl’s approaching assassins. He had been awake all day yesterday, having taken Laurana in secret to the palace where they had both met with Gilthas. It had been Medan’s unhappy task to inform Gilthas that Beryl’s armies were marching on Qualinesti with the intent of destroying the land and its people. Medan had not slept this night, either. The only outward signs of weariness were on the Marshal’s haggard face, however, not in his clear, alert eyes.

  Gilthas’s tension relaxed, his suspicions eased. “You are wise, Marshal. Your answer is the only answer I would ever accept from you. Had you sought to flatter me, I would have known you lied. As it is, my mother has told me of your garden, that you have worked to make it beautiful, that you take pleasure not only in the flowers themselves but in planting them and caring for them. However, I must say that I find it difficult to believe that such a man could have once sworn loyalty to the likes of Lord Ariakan.”

  “I find it difficult to understand how a young man could have been tricked into running away from parents who doted on him to fly into a web spun by a certain senator,” said Marshal Medan coolly, “a web that nearly led to the young man’s destruction, as well as that of his people.”

  Gilthas flushed, hearing his own story repeated back to him. “What I did was wrong. I was young.”

  “As was I, Your Majesty,” said the Marshal. “Young enough to believe the lies of Queen Takhisis. I do not flatter you when I say, Gilthas, that I have come to respect you. The role you played of the indolent dreamer, who cared more for his poetry than his people, fooled me completely. Although,” the Marshal added dryly, “I must say that you and your rebels have caused me no end of trouble.”