Now that he was speaking, Gilthanas seemed eager to tell the story. "Some of the humans tied to stakes went into a frenzy of terror, screaming piteously. But my warriors remained calm and defiant, although all were affected alike by the dragonfear the monster generates. The dragonrider did not seem to find this pleasing. He glared at them, and then spoke in a voice that came from the depths of the Abyss. His words still burn in my mind.
'I am Verminaard, Dragon Highlord of the North. I have fought to free this land and these people from the false beliefs spread by those who call themselves Seekers. Many have come to work for me, pleased to further the great cause of the Dragon Highlords. I have shown them mercy and graced them with the blessings my goddess has granted me. Spells of healing I possess, as do no others in this land, and therefore you know that I am the representative of the true gods. But you humans who stand before me now have defied me. You chose to fight me and therefore your punishment will serve as an example to any others who choose folly over wisdom.
"Then he turned to the elves and said, 'Be it known by this act that I, Verminaard, will destroy your race utterly as decreed by my goddess. Humans can be taught to see the errors of their ways, but elves-never! The man's voice rose until it raged louder than the winds. 'Let this be your final warning-all who watch! Ember, destroy!
"And, with that, the great dragon breathed out fire upon all those tied to the stakes. They writhed helplessly, burning to death in terrible agony…"
There was no sound at all in the chamber. The shock and horror were too great for words.
"A madness swept over me," Gilthanas continued, his eyes burning feverishly, almost a reflection of what he had seen. "I started to rush forward, to die with my people, when a great hand grasped me and dragged me backwards. It was Theros Ironfeld, the blacksmith of Solace. 'Now is not the time to die, elf, he told me. 'Now is the time for revenge. I… I collapsed then, and he took me back to his house, in peril of his own life. And he would have paid for his kindness to elves with his life, had not this woman healed him!"
Gilthanas pointed to Goldmoon, who stood at the back of the group, her face shrouded by her fur cape. The Speaker turned to stare at her, as did the other elves in the chamber, their murmurings dark and ominous.
"Theros is the man brought here today. Speaker," Porthios said. "The man with but one arm. Our healers say he will live. But they say it is only by a miracle that his life was spared, so dreadful were his wounds."
"Come forward, woman of the Plains," the Speaker commanded sternly. Goldmoon took a step toward the rostrum, Riverwind at her side. Two elven guards moved swiftly to block him. He glared at them but stood where he was.
The Chieftain's Daughter moved forward, holding her head proudly. As she removed her hood, the sun shone on the silver-gold hair cascading down her back. The elves marveled at her beauty.
"You claim to have healed this man-Theros Ironfeld?" The Speaker asked her with disdain.
"I claim nothing," Goldmoon answered coolly. "Your son saw me heal him. Do you doubt his words?"
"No, but he was overwrought, sick and confused. He may have mistaken witchcraft for healing."
"Look on this," Goldmoon said gently and untied her cape, letting it fall away from her neck. The medallion sparkled in the sunlight.
The Speaker left the rostrum and came forward, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then his face became distorted with rage. "Blasphemy!" he shouted. Reaching out, he started to rip the medallion from Goldmoon's throat.
There was a flash of blue light. The Speaker crumbled to the floor with a cry of pain. As the elves shouted out in alarm, drawing their swords, the companions drew theirs. Elven warriors rushed to surround them.
"Stop this nonsense!" said the old magician in a strong, stern voice. Fizban tottered up to the rostrum, calmly pushing aside the sword blades as if they were slender branches of an aspen tree. The elves stared in astonishment, seemingly unable to stop him. Muttering to himself, Fizban came up to the Speaker, who was lying stunned on the floor. The old man helped the elf to his feet.
"Now then, you asked for that, you know," Fizban scolded, brushing the Speaker's robes as the elf gaped at him.
"Who are you?" the Speaker gasped.
"Mmmm. What was that name?" The old magician glanced around at Tasslehoff.
"Fizban," the kender said helpfully.
"Yes, Fizban. That's who I am." The magician stroked his white beard. "Now, Solostaran, I suggest you call off your guards and tell everyone to settle down. I, for one, would like to hear the story of this young woman's adventures and you, for one, would do well to listen. It wouldn't hurt you to apologize, either."
As Fizban shook his finger at the Speaker, his battered hat tilted forward, covering his eyes. "Help! I've gone blind!" Raistlin, with a distrustful glance at the elven guards, hurried forward. He took the old man's arm and straightened his hat.
"Ah, thank the true gods," the magician said, blinking and shuffling across the floor. The Speaker watched the old magician, a puzzled expression on his face. Then, as if in a dream, he turned to face Goldmoon.
"I do apologize, lady of the Plains," he said softly. "It has been over three hundred years since the elven clerics vanished, three hundred years since the symbol of Mishakal was seen in this land. My heart bled to see the amulet profaned, as I thought. Forgive me. We have been in despair so long I failed to see the arrival of hope. Please, if you are not weary, tell us your story."
Goldmoon related the story of the medallion, telling of Riverwind and the stoning, the meeting of the companions at the Inn and their journey to Xak Tsaroth. She told of the destruction of the dragon and of how she received the medallion of Mishakal. But she didn't mention the Disks.
The sun's rays lengthened as she spoke, changing color as twilight approached. When her story ended, the Speaker was silent for long moments.
"I must consider all of this and what it means to us," he said finally. He turned to the companions. "You are exhausted. I see some of you stand by courage alone. Indeed"-he smiled, looking at Fizban who leaned against a pillar, snoring softly- "some of you are asleep on your feet. My daughter, Laurana, will guide you to a place where you can forget your fears. We will hold a banquet in your honor tonight, for you bring us hope. May the peace of the true gods go with you."
The elves parted, and out of their midst came an elfmaiden who walked forward to stand beside the Speaker. At sight of her, Caramon's mouth sagged open. Riverwind's eyes widened. Even Raistlin stared, his eyes seeing beauty at last, for no hint of decay touched the young elfmaiden. Her hair was honey pouring from a pitcher; it spilled over her arms and down her back, past her waist, touching her wrists as she stood with her arms at her sides. Her skin was smooth and woodland brown. She had the delicate, refined features of the elves, but these were combined with full, pouting lips and large liquid eyes that changed color like leaves in flickering sunshine.
"On my honor as a knight," Sturm said with a catch in his voice, "I've never seen any woman so lovely."
"Nor will you in this world," Tanis murmured.
All the companions glanced at Tanis sharply as he spoke, but the half-elf did not notice. His eyes were on the elfmaid. Sturm raised his eyebrows, exchanged looks with Caramon who nudged his brother. Flint shook his head and sighed a sigh that seemed to come from his toes.