The answer came back. The Lioness whistled again. The elves relaxed, although they still kept up their guard. The runner entered the camp and, sighting the Lioness, approached her and began to speak to her in Kagonesti, the language of the Wilder-elves.
Gilthas could speak some Kagonesti, but he could catch only fragments of the conversation, for the two kept their voices low, and the runner spoke too fast to be understood, his speech broke only by pauses for breath. Gilthas might have walked over and joined in the conversation, but he was suddenly unable to move. He could tell by the runner’s tone that the news he was conveying was not good.
Then Gilthas saw his wife do something she had never before done. She fell to her knees and bowed her head. Her mane of hair covered her face like a veil of mourning. She lifted her hand to he eyes, and Gilthas saw that she wept.
Planchet gripped Gilthas’s arm, but the king shook him of Gilthas walked forward on feet that were numb. He could not feel the ground beneath them, and he stumbled once but caught himself. Hearing him approaching, the Lioness regained cont of herself. Scrambling to rise, she hastened to meet him. She clasped his hands in hers. Her hands were as cold as death, and Gilthas shivered.
“What is it?” he demanded in a voice he did not recognize “Tell me! My mother—” He could not speak it.
“Your mother is dead,” the Lioness said softly, her voice trembling and husky with her tears.
Gilthas sighed deeply, but his grief was his own. He was king. He had his people to think about.
“What about the dragon?” he asked harshly. “What about Beryl?”
“Beryl is dead,” the Lioness said. “There is more,” she added quickly, when she saw Gilthas about to speak.
“The tremor we felt...” Her voice cracked. She moistened dry lips, then continued. “Something went wrong. Your mother fought alone. No one knows why or what happened. Beryl came and... your mother fought the dragon alone.”
Gilthas lowered his head, unable to bear the pain.
“Laurana struck Beryl with the dragonlance but did not kill her. Furious, the dragon smashed the tower... Your mother could not escape....”
The Lioness was silent a moment, then went on. Her voice sounded dazed, as if she could not believe the words she was speaking. “The plan to snare the dragon worked. The people dragged her out of the skies. Your mother’s attack kept Beryl from breathing her foul gas. The dragon was down on the ground, and it seemed she was dead. She was only shamming. Beryl heaved herself off the ground and was about to attack when the ground gave way beneath her.”
Gilthas stared, appalled, unable to speak.
“The tunnels,” said the Lioness, tears trailing down her cheeks. “The tunnels collapsed beneath the dragon. She fell in and . . . the city fell in on top of her.”
Planchet gave a low cry. The elven guards, who had edged close to hear, gasped and cried out.
Gilthas could say nothing, could make no sound.
“Tell him,” the Lioness ordered the runner in a choked voice, averting her face. “I can’t.”
The runner bowed to the king. The man’s face was white. His eyes were wide. He was only now starting to recover his breath.
“Your Majesty,” he said, speaking the Qualinesti tongue, “I grieve to tell you that the city of Qualinost is no more. Nothing remains.”
“Survivors?” Gilthas asked without a voice.
“There could be no survivors, Your Majesty,” the elf said. “Qualinost is now a lake. Nalis Aren. A lake of death.”
Gilthas took his wife in his arms. She held him fast, murmuring incoherent words of comfort that could bring no comfort. Planchet wept openly, as did the elven guards, who began to whisper prayers for the spirits of the dead. Bewildered, overwhelmed, unable to comprehend the enormity of the disaster, Gilthas held fast to his wife and stared out into the darkness that was a lake of death washing over him.
34
The Presence
The blue dragon circled over the treetops, searching for a place to land. The cypress trees grew thick, so thick that Razor I talked of flying back to the east, to where grassy fields and low rolling hills provided more suitable sites. Goldmoon would not permit the dragon to turn back, however. She was nearing the end of her journey. Her strength waned with the passing seconds. Each beat of her heart was a little slower, a little weaker. What time she had left to her was precious, she could not waste a moment. Looking down from the dragon’s back, she watched the river of souls flowing beneath her, and it seemed to her that she was not borne forward by the dragon’s strong wings but by that mournful tide.
“There!” she said, pointing.
An outcropping of rock, gleaming chalk-white in the moonlight, thrust up from amid the cypress trees. The shape of the outcropping was strange. Seen from above, it had the look of a hand outstretched, palm upward, as if to receive something.
Razor regarded it intently and, after some thought, opined that he could land safely, although it would be their task to climb down the steep sides of the outcropping.
Goldmoon was not concerned. She had only to wade into the river to be carried to her destination.
Razor landed in the palm of the chalk-white hand, settling down as easily as possible, so as not to jar his passengers. Goldmoon dismounted, her strong youthful body carrying within it the faltering spirit. She assisted Conundrum to slide down off the dragon’s back. Her assistance was needed, for Razor rolled an eye, glared at the gnome balefully. Conundrum had spent the entire journey discoursing on the inefficiency of dragons for flight, the unreliability of scales and skin, bones and tendon. Steel and steam, said the gnome. Machines. That was the future. Razor flicked a wing, came very near knocking Conundrum off the cliff. The gnome, lost in a happy dream of hydraulics, never noticed. Goldmoon looked up at Tasslehoff, who remained comfortably seated on the dragon’s back.
“Here you are, Goldmoon,” said Tas, waving his hand. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for. Well, come along, dragon. Let’s get going. Can’t waste time. We have cities to burn, maidens to devour, treasure to carry off. Good-bye, Goldmoon! Good-bye, Conund—”
Snapping his teeth, Razor arched his back, shook his mane. Tasslehoff’s farewells were cut off in midsentence as the kender went flying heels over topknot, to land with uncomfortable finality on the rock.
“Bad enough I had to carry the little beast this tar,” Razor snarled. He shifted his gaze to Goldmoon. The dragon’s red eye flickered. “You are not what the Knight Gerard claimed you to be, are you? You are not a dark mystic.”
“No, I am not. But I thank you for bringing me to Nightlund,” said Goldmoon absently. She was not afraid of the dragon’s wrath. She felt a protective hand over her, as strong as the hand of rock that now supported her. No mortal being could harm her.
“I do not want your thanks,” Razor returned. “Your thanks are nothing. I did this for her.” His eyes clouded, his gaze lifted to the bright moon, the starlit heavens. “I hear her voice.” He shifted the red eyes back to fix intently on Goldmoon. “You hear the voice, too, don’t you? It speaks your name. Goldmoon, princess of the Que-shu. You know the voice.”
“I hear the voice,” said Goldmoon, troubled. “But I do not know it. I do not recognize it.”