“You are our conqueror,” said Gilthas, speaking the words distinctly, separately them with bitter emphasis on each. “You are our master. You are our jailer. Qualinesti can never be your home, sir.”
“I suppose not, Your Majesty,” said Medan, after a moment’s pause. “I should like you to consider, however, that I escorted your mother to the palace, when I might have escorted her to the block. I have come to warn you of the dragon’s intent, when I might have been marching prisoners to the market place to serve as targets for my archers.”
“What is all this generosity to cost us?” Gilthas demanded, his voice cold. “What is the price you set on our lives, Marshal Medan?”
Medan smiled slightly. “I should like to die in my garden, Your Majesty. Of old age, if that is possible.” He poured himself another glass of wine.
“Do not trust him, Your Majesty,” Planchet said softly, coming to pour wine for the king.
“Don’t worry,” said Gilthas, twisting the fragile stem of the glass in his fingers.
“And now, madam, we do not have much time,” the Marshal said. “Here is paper and ink. Compose your letter to Majere.”
“No, Marshal,” Laurana said firmly. “I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought. Beryl must never come into possession of this device. I would die a hundred deaths first.”
“You would die a hundred deaths, madam,” said Medan grimly, “but what about thousands of deaths? What about your people? Will you sacrifice them to save some sorcerer’s toy?”
Laurana was pale, resolute. “It is not a toy, Marshal Medan. If Palin is right, it is one of the most powerful magical artifacts ever made. Qualinesti could be burned to the ground before I would turn over the artifact to the Beryl.”
“Tell me the nature of this artifact, then,” Medan said.
“I cannot, Marshal,” Laurana replied. “It is bad enough that Beryl knows the artifact exists. I will not provide her with any more information.” Calmly, she lifted her blue eyes to meet his irate gaze. “You see, sir, I have reason to believe that I am being spied upon.”
Medan’s face flushed. He seemed about to say something, changed his mind and turned abruptly to speak to the king.
“Your Majesty. What have you to say?”
“I agree with my mother. She told me of this device, described its powers to me. I will not give the device to the dragon.”
“Do you realize what you are doing? You sentence your nation to death! No magical artifact is worth this,” Medan protested angrily.
“This one is, Marshal,” Laurana said. “You must trust me.”
Medan regarded her intently.
She met his gaze, held it, did not blink or flinch away.
“Hush!” Planchet warned. “Someone’s coming.”
They could hear footfalls on the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“My aide,” Medan replied.
“Can he be trusted?” Laurana asked.
Medan gave a wry smile. “Judge for yourself, Madam.”
A Knight entered the room. His black armor was covered in blood and gray dust. He stood still for some moments, breathing heavily, his head bowed, as if climbing those stairs had drained every last ounce of his energy. At length, he raised his head, lifted his hand, held out a scroll to the marshal.
“I have it, sir. Groul is dead.”
“Well done, Sir Gerard,” said the Marshal, accepting the scroll.
He looked at the Knight, at the blood on his armor. “Are you wounded?” he asked.
“To be honest, my lord, I can’t tell,” Gerard said with a grimac. “There isn’t one single part of me that doesn’t hurt. But if I am, it not serious, or else I’d be lying out there dead in the street.”
Laurana was staring, amazed.
“Queen Mother,” Gerard said, bowing.
Laurana seemed about to speak, but, glancing at Medan, she caught herself.
“I do not believe that we have met, sir,” she said coolly.
Gerard’s blood-masked face relaxed into a faint smile. “Thank you, madam, for trying to protect me, but the marshal knows I am a Solamnic Knight. I am the marshal’s prisoner, in fact.”
“A Solamnic?” Gilthas was startled.
“The one I told you about,” Laurana said. “The Knight who accompanied Palin and the kender.”
“I see. And so you are the marshal’s prisoner. Did he do this to you?” Gilthas demanded angrily.
“No, Your Majesty,” said Gerard. “A draconian did this to me. Beryl’s messenger. Or rather, Beryl’s former messenger.” He sank down in a chair, sighed, and closed his eyes.
“Some wine here,” Medan ordered. “The dragon won’t be receiving any more information from Qualinesti,” he added with satisfaction. “Beryl will wait at least a day to hear from me. When she does not, she will be forced to send another messenger. We have gained some time, at least.”
He handed Gerard a glass of wine.
“No, my lord,” said Gerard, accepting the wine, but not drinking it. “We haven’t. The dragon deceived us. Beryl’s forces are on the march. Groul figured that they might already be crossing the border. The largest army assembled since the Chaos War is marching on Qualinesti.”
A silence as of death settled over the room. Each person listened unmoving, absorbing the news. No one’s eyes sought another’s. No one wanted to see the reflection of his own fear.
Marshal Medan smiled ruefully, shook his head.
“I am not to die of old age, after all, it seems,” he said, and poured himself another glass of wine.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Pale River of the Dead
That night, Goldmoon left the hospital, ignoring the pleas of the Healers and Lady Camilla.
“I am well,” Goldmoon said, fending off their attempts to keep her in bed. “I need rest, that is all, and I will not find rest here!”
Not with the dead.
She walked swiftly through the gardens and courtyards of the citadel complex, bright with lights. She looked neither to the left nor the right. She did not answer greetings. She kept her gaze fixed upon the path before her. If she looked anywhere else, she would see them. They were following her.
She heard their whispered beggings. She felt their touch, soft as milkweed, upon her hands, her face. They wrapped around her like silken scarves. She was afraid, if she looked at them, she would see Riverwind. Then she thought, perhaps this is why his spirit has not come to me. He is lost and foundering in this river, swept away. I will never find him.
Reaching the Grand Lyceum, she ran swiftly up the many stairs leading to her chambers. For the first time, she blessed this strange, young body, which was not only quick but was eager to meet the physical demands she now placed upon it. Brought to bay, Goldmoon turned to face them.
“Be gone. I have nothing for you.”
The dead drew near, an old, old man, a thief, a warrior, a crippled child. Beggars all, their hands extended. Then, quite suddenly, they left—as if a voice had ordered them gone. But not her voice.
Goldmoon shut the door behind.
In her chamber, she was alone, truly alone. The dead were not here. Perhaps when she had refused to grant them what they sought, they had left her to seek other prey. She sank back against the door, overwhelmed by her vision. Standing in the darkness, she could see again, in her mind’s eye, the dead draining the life-giving power from her followers. This was the reason healing was failing in the world. The dead were robbing the living. But why? What need had the dead for mystical power? What force constrained them? Where were they bound with such urgency?
“And why has it been given to me to see them?” Goldmoon murmured.
A knock sounded on her door. She ignored it and felt to make certain the door was locked. The knock was repeated several times. Voices—living voices—called to her. When she did not answer, they were perplexed. She could hear them wondering aloud what to do.