Gerard stood in silence, watching the Marshal’s hand flow over the paper. Medan wrote swiftly and concisely. The orders did not take long, not nearly long enough as far as Gerard was concerned. He had no doubt that he was going to die, and he would much rather die with a sword in his hand than by toppling off the back of a dragon, falling with sickening terror to a bone-shattering end. Deeming himself a coward, he reminded himself of the importance and urgency of his mission, and thus he was able to take Medan’s sealed orders with a hand that did not shake.
“Farewell, Sir Gerard,” Medan said, clasping the young man by the hand.
“Only for a time, my lord,” said Gerard. “I will not fail you. I will return and bring aid.”
“You should leave immediately. Beryl and her followers would think twice about attacking a blue dragon, especially one belonging to the Dark Knights, but it would be best for you to take advantage of the fact that for the moment Beryl’s dragons are not around. Planchet will show you the way out the back, through the garden, so that Kalindas does not catch sight of you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Gerard lifted his hand in a salute, the salute a Solamnic Knight gives his enemy.
“Very well, my son, I agree,” Laurana’s voice reached them from across the chamber. She stood near a window. The first rays of the morning sunshine touched her hair like the hand of the alchemist, changed the honey to gold. “You convince me. You have your father’s own way about you, Gilthas. How proud he would have been of you. I wish he could be here to see you.”
“I wish he were here to offer his wise counsel,” said Gilthas, leaning forward to kiss his mother gently on the cheek. “Now, if you will excuse me, Mother, I must write down the words that I will shortly be called upon to speak. This is so important, I do not want to make a mistake.”
“Your Majesty,” said Gerard, stepping forward. “If I might have a moment of your time. I want to pay my respects before I go-”
“Are you leaving us, Sir Gerard?” Laurana asked.
“Yes, Madam,” said Gerard. “The Marshal has orders for me. He dispatches me to Solamnia, there to plead your cause before the Council of Knights and ask for their aid. If I might have a letter from you, Your Majesty, in your hand with your seal, vouching for my credentials as your messenger and also stating the dire nature of the situation—”
“The Solamnics have never cared for Qualinesti before,” Gilthas interrupted, frowning. “I see no reason why they should start now.”
“They did care, once,” said Laurana gently, looking searchingly at Gerard. “There was a Knight called Sturm Brightblade who cared very much.” She held out her hand to Gerard, who bent low to touch her soft skin with his lips. “Go safely in the memory of that brave and gentle knight, Sir Gerard.”
The story of Sturm Brightblade had never meant two coppers to Gerard before now. He had heard the tale of his death at the High Clerist’s Tower so many times that it had grown stale in the telling. Indeed, he had even expressed his doubts that the episode had truly happened. Yet now he recalled that here was the comrade who had stood over the body of the dead Knight, the comrade who had wept for him even as she lifted the fabled dragonlance to defy his killer. Receiving her blessing in Sturm Brightblade’s name, Gerard was humbled and chastened. He bent his knee before her, accepted the blessing with bowed head.
“I will, Madam,” he said. “Thank you.”
He rose to his feet, exalted. His fears over riding the dragon seemed paltry and ignoble now, and he was ashamed of them.
The young king looked chastened as well and gave Gerard his hand to shake. “Ignore my words, Sir Knight. I spoke without thought. If the Solamnics have been careless of Qualinesti, then it might be truly said that the Qualinesti have been careless of the Solamnics. For one to help the other would be the beginning of a new and better relationship for both. You shall have your letter.”
The king dipped his pen in ink, wrote a few paragraphs on a sheet of fine vellum, and signed his name. Beneath his name, he affixed his seal, pressing into soft wax a ring he wore on his index finger. The ring left behind the image of an aspen leaf. He waited for the wax to harden, then folded the letter and handed it to Gerard.
“So I will convey to them, Your Majesty,” said Gerard, accepting the letter. He looked once more at Laurana, to take with him in his mind her beautiful image for inspiration. He was disquieted to see sorrow darken her eyes as she gazed at her son, to hear her sigh softly.
Planchet told him how to find his way out of the garden. Gerard departed, scrambling awkwardly over the balcony, dropping heavily to the garden below. He looked up for one final wave, one final glimpse, but Planchet had closed the doors behind him.
Gerard recalled Laurana’s look, her sadness, and he had a sudden terrible fear that this would be the last time he ever saw her, the last time he ever saw Qualinost. The fear was overwhelming, and his earlier resolve to stay and help them fight resurfaced. But he could not very well return now, not without looking foolish, or—worse—a coward. Gripping the Marshal’s orders in his hand, Gerard departed, running through the garden that was starting to come alive with the warm rays of the sun. The sooner he reached the council, the sooner he would be back.
4
The Traitor
The room was quiet. Gilthas sat at his desk, writing his speech, the pen moving swiftly across the page. He had spent the night thinking of what to say. The words came rapidly, so that the ink seemed to flow from the heart and not his pen. Planchet was laying out a light breakfast of fruit, bread, and honey, although it seemed unlikely anyone would have much appetite. Marshal Medan stood at the window, watched Gerard depart through the garden. The Marshal saw the young Knight pause, perhaps he even guessed what Gerard was thinking. When Gerard turned and left, Medan smiled to himself and nodded.
“That was good of you, Marshal Medan,” said Laurana, coming to stand at his side. She kept her voice low so as not to interrupt Gilthas in his work. “To send the young man safely away. For you do not truly believe the Solamnic Knights will come to our aid, do you?”
“No, I do not,” said the Marshal, equally quiet. “Not because they will not, but because they cannot.” He looked out the window, across the garden to the distant hills to the north. “They have their own problems. Beryl’s attack means that the so-called Pact of the Dragons is broken. Oh, I am certain that Lord Targonne is doing his best to try to placate Malys and the others, but his efforts will be for naught. Many believe that Khellendros the Blue plays a game of cat and mouse. He pretends to be oblivious to all that is going on around him, but that is only to lull Malys and the others into complacency. In fact, it is my belief that he has long had his eye on Solanthus. He held off attacking only for fear that Beryl would consider such an attack a threat to her own territory to the south. But now he will feel that he can seize Solanthus with impunity. And so it will go from there. We may be the first, but we will not be the last.
“As to Gerard,” Medan continued, “I returned to the Solamnic Knighthood a good soldier. I hope his commanders have sense enough to realize that.”
He paused a moment, watching Gilthas. When the king had reached the end of a sentence, Medan spoke. “I am sorry to interrupt Your Majesty’s work, but a matter has arisen that must be dealt with swiftly. A matter of some unpleasantness, I fear.”
Medan shifted his gaze to Laurana. “Gerard reported to me that your servant, Kalindas, waits downstairs. It seems that he heard you were in the palace and was worried for you.”
Medan watched Laurana carefully as he spoke. He saw her color wane, saw her troubled gaze flash across the room to Kelevandros, who was still sleeping.