“Did you say ‘we’?” Mirror asked, astounded. He truly thought he hadn’t heard correctly, although the words “we” and “I” in the language of dragons are very distinct and easily distinguished.
“I said”—Razor lifted his voice, as though Mirror were deaf, as well as blind—“that we will go together to confront this Mina and demand to know our Queen’s plans—”
“Impossible,” said Mirror shortly. Whatever he himself planned, it did not involve partnering with a Blue. “You see my handicap.”
“I see it,” said Razor. “A grievous injury, yet it does not seem to have stopped you from doing what you needed to do. You came here, didn’t you?”
Mirror couldn’t very well deny that. “I travel on foot, slowly. I am forced to beg for food and shelter—”
“We don’t have time for such nonsense. Begging! Of humans!” Razor shook his head so that his scales rattled. “I would think you would have much rather died of starvation. You must ride with me. Time is short. Momentous events are happening in the world. We don’t have time to waste trudging along at a human’s pace.”
Mirror didn’t know what to say. The idea of a blind silver dragon riding on the back of a Blue was so utterly ludicrous as to make him sorely tempted to laugh out loud.
“If you do not come with me,” Razor added, seeing that Mirror was apparently having trouble making up his mind, “I will be forced to slay you. You speak very glibly about certain information Skie gave you, yet you are vague and evasive when it comes to the rest. I think Skie told you more than you are willing to admit to me. Therefore you will either come with me where I can keep an eye on you, or I will see to it that the information dies with you.” Mirror had never more bitterly regretted his blindness than at this moment. He supposed that the noble thing to do would be to defy the Blue and die in a brief and brutal battle. Such a death would be honorable, but not very sensible. Mirror was, so far as he knew, one of two beings on Krynn who were aware of the departure of his fellow gold and silver dragons, who had flown off on the wings of magic to find the gods, only to be trapped and imprisoned by the One God. Mina was the other being who knew this, and although Mirror did not think that she would tell him anything, he would never know for certain until he had spoken to her.
“You leave me little choice,” said Mirror.
“Such was my intent,” Razor replied, not smug, merely matter-of-fact. Mirror altered his form, abandoning his strong, powerful dragon body for the weak, fragile body of a human. He took on the aspect of a young man with silver hair, wearing the white robes of a mystic of the Citadel. He wore a black cloth around his hideously injured eyes. Moving slowly on his human feet, he groped about with his human hands. His shuffling footsteps stumbled over every rock in the lair. He slipped in Skie’s blood and fell to his knees, cutting the weak flesh. Mirror was thankful for one blessing—he did not have to see the look of pity on Razor’s face.
The Blue was a soldier, and he made no gibes at Mirror’s expense. Razor even guided Mirror’s steps with a steadying talon, assisted him to crawl upon the Blue’s broad back. The stench of death was strong in the lair where lay Skie’s maltreated corpse. Both Blue and Silver were glad to leave. Perched on the ledge of the cavern, Razor drew in a breath of fresh air, spread his wings and took to the clouds. Mirror held on tightly to the Blue’s mane, pressed his legs into Razor’s flanks.
“Hold on,” Razor warned. He soared high into the air, wheeled about in a huge arc. Mirror guessed what Razor planned and held on tightly, as he’d been ordered.
Mirror felt Razor’s lungs expand, felt the expulsion of breath. He smelt the brimstone and heard the sizzle and crackle of lightning. A blast and the sound of rock splitting and shattering, then the sound of tons of rock sliding down the cliff face, rumbling and roaring amidst the thunder of the lightning bolt. Razor unleashed another blast, and this time it sounded to Mirror as if the entire mountain was falling into rubble.
“Thus passes Khellendros, known as Skie,” said Razor. “He was a courageous warrior and loyal to his rider, as his rider was loyal to him. Let this might be said of all of us when it comes our time to depart this world.”
His duty done to the dead, Razor dipped his wings in a final salute, then wheeled and headed off in a different direction.
Mirror judged by the warmth of the sun on the back of his neck that they were flying east. He held fast to Razor’s mane, feeling the rush of wind strong against his face. He envisioned the trees, red and gold with the coming of autumn, like jewels set against the green velvet cloth of the grasslands. He saw in his mind the purple-gray mountains, capped by the first snows of the seasons. Far below, the blue lakes and snaking rivers with the golden blot of a village, bringing in the autumn wheat, or the gray dot of a manor house with all its fields around it.
“Why do you weep, Silver?” Razor asked.
Mirror had no answer, and Razor, after a moment’s thought, did not repeat the question.
6
The Stone Fortress of the Mind
The Wilder elf known as the Lioness watched her husband with growing concern. Two weeks had passed since they had heard the terrible news of the Queen Mother’s death and the destruction of the elven capital of Qualinost. Since that time, Gilthas, the Qualinesti’s young king, had barely spoken a word to anyone—not to her, not to Planchet, not to the members of their escort. He slept by himself, covering himself in his blanket and rolling away from her when she tried to offer him the comfort of her presence. He ate by himself, what small amount he ate. His flesh seemed to melt from his bones, and he’d not had that much to spare. He rode by himself, silent, brooding.
His face was pale, set in grim, tight lines. He did not mourn. He had not wept since the night they’d first heard the dreadful tidings. When he spoke, it was only to ask a single question: how much farther until they reached the meeting place?
The Lioness feared that Gilthas might be slipping back into old sickness that had plagued him during those early years of his enforced rulership of the Qualinesti people. King by title and prisoner by circumstance, he had fallen into a deep depression that left him lethargic and uncaring. He had often spent days sleeping in his bed, preferring the terrors of the dream world to those of reality. He had come out of it, fighting his way back from the dark waters in which he’d nearly drowned. He’d been a good king, using his power to aid the rebels, led by his wife, who fought the tyranny of the Dark Knights. All that he had gained seemed to have been lost, however. Lost with the news of his beloved mother’s death and the destruction of the elven capital.
Planchet feared the same. His Majesty’s bodyguard and valet-de-chamber, Planchet had been responsible, along with the Lioness, in luring Gilthas away from his nightmare world back to those who loved and needed him.
“He blames himself,” said the Lioness, riding alongside Planchet, both gazing with concern on the lonely figure, who rode alone amidst his bodyguards, his eyes fixed unseeing on the road ahead. “He blames himself for leaving his mother there to die. He blames himself for the plan that ended up destroying the city and costing so many hundreds of lives. He cannot see that because of his plan Beryl is dead.”
“But at a terrible cost,” said Planchet. “He knows that his people can never return to Qualinost. Beryl may be dead, but her armies are not destroyed. True, many were lost, but according to the reports, those who remain continue to burn and ravage our beautiful land.”