"I am not a dragon, lady." Bahrn spoke gently, but for the first time since he was a boy staring in a window, he felt unsure and a little afraid of the old woman. He swallowed, forcing the feelings away and a smile to his lips. "Neither are you, Diadree, despite all accounts."
"This is no way to die either." Her eyelids fluttered-the darkness passed from her face, and a bit of the old humor returned. "Don't listen to me. If I stay here long enough, she will take them-the rest of the pieces. I hope."
Bahrn didn't know what to say.
"I'll mend your roof for you before I go," he found himself offering. "When you decide to go home."
"That's kind of you. You've not turned out too badly at all. I'm shocked almost to the point of exhaustion." She laid her head against the mountain and slept, a satisfied half-smile curving her lips.
THE STRENGTH OF THE JESTER
There was news from far and wide in the Jovial Juggler Inn that day. News of dragons. It was hearsay, mostly, but it had enough of a ring of truth to put everyone present on edge. Vague reports out of the north of a new Flight of the Dragons, like the one over the Moonsea and Dales seventeen years before, only wider-ranging and more deadly. A bulbous merchant from Hillsfar recalled the dragon slain over the city that time, so great that its corpse blocked the harbor for a month.
From a vacant table Khalt sat silent and listened. Most occupants of the tavern glanced at the elf occasionally but none dared approach him or question him. Wiry and leonine, with a tawny countenance and a huge dagger at his belt, he looked able and willing to fight at a moment's notice. The tattoo across his cheek told them that he was feral and dangerous, a reputation his people did little to discourage among outsiders. The fact that the tattoo was a dragon, its silver tail dangling down his chin and onto his neck, probably drew some interest, but Khalt didn't care to explain himself. Beregost was a merchant town, serving those traversing the Trade Way between Baldur's Gate and Amn, and certainly saw a great many types better not questioned.
Khalt kept his focus on a shadowy corner of the taproom and the two figures meeting there. If the others knew who they were or what they were talking about, they would have cause to be much more than concerned.
A traveler from Turmish told a story he had heard in Erlka-zar a tenday before. It concerned a dragon that supposedly emerged from its lair in the mountains near Saradash and laid siege to the city, destroying much of it before finally being slain by the town guard and two local wizards. The Turmishan saved the most shocking part for last: "It was a brass dragon."
A gnome roared in laughter, perched atop a tall stool. "If a metallic dragon did all that, Saradash must have done something to deserve it."
"Don't be so sure," the burly barkeep replied. "They say these Flights have been going on for centuries, and I always wondered why only the evil ones should be affected."
Khalt's eyes narrowed. One of the two figures in the shadowy corner, the one clad in purple with a wild shock of white hair, was a man Khalt trusted more than any being on Faerim. But Trinculo's face, rarely seen without a wide grin, looked grimmer than Khalt had ever seen it. The other man, whom Trinculo called Chalintash, had a ruddy complexion and hair the color of rust. Khalt didn't trust him in the slightest.
The two of them roared in laughter a moment but soon returned to solemnity. Khalt wondered what could be so funny.
"Listen to yourselves," the gnome protested. "Your minds drift comfortably to the worst case scenario."
"He's right," piped in a black-haired trader from Waterdeep. "If something new is going on with the dragons, the right people must already know about it and are now taking actions to protect us all."
"Spoken just like a Waterdhavian," the Hillsfarian scowled. "Put your faith in your lords and your Blackstaf f. Tell me, what actions did they take the last time this happened? What will they do to defend Hillsfar?"
"From what I've heard of Hillsfar," the gnome said, "it's a shame that dragon didn't raze it to the ground."
"Hold it now, little friend," said the barkeep. "The Lathand'rites run Beregost and they don't look kindly on that sort of talk. So either you-"
The gnome leaped off his stool in Khalt's direction. "Don't you know?" he proclaimed. "If you walked into his city, you'd be tossed in jail and fed to monsters in an arena!"
Khalt didn't say a word in response and kept his gaze trained on the pair across the room, but lowered his hand to the hilt of his dagger.
The two across the room, lost in conversation, took no notice of the disturbance.
"If you don't stop harassing my customers," said the bar-keep, his voice barely raised, "you'll be spending the night in a cell instead of in your nice, warm bed."
The gnome walked upstairs, huffing, and the various merchants returned to their conversation, switching suddenly to topics far away from dragons. But the tension stayed and Khalt's hand remained on his dagger.
Fools, Khalt thought. The world is blazing and they gossip over it. Pettiness turns them against each other. Truly the Rage will bring out the worst in all folks, dragons and otherwise.
Khalt watched Chalintash turn and look directly at him.
He extended a finger and pointed. And Khalt saw the anger sleeping in his eyes.
With a cool breeze and a rustle of leaves, the dragon swept among the branches like a flash of lightning, its slender body weaving in and out of the majestic trees with seemingly impossible speed and grace. Its long, thin tail slashed its way through the passing branches but disturbed nary a tree, while what sunlight flowed through the thick boughs caught the dragon's polished wings and sent silver light filtering all across the shadowed settlement below. Each of the Trunalor stopped and beheld the spectacle playing out in the high trees, even those who had seen it a thousand times before. It was a marvelous vision, to be sure, but it had far greater significance to those elves. It meant thatTrinculo had returned.
Each time, they suspected that he would not come back. Few voiced it, except perhaps in those periods when he had vanished and wandered Faerun for years on end. Mercury dragons were creatures ruled by whims, who catered to the moment's impulse and the instant's pleasure. Some called it freedom, others irresponsibility, but mercury dragons could rarely be tied down. The bonds of friendship and honor that held Trinculo to the Trunalor, the wild elves of Amtar, were tight indeed.
Khalt Laathine never doubted that his friend would always return. The dragon tattoo on Khalt's cheek was a constant mark of their connection. He knew Trinculo better than anyone, and even as the mirror-scaled dragon touched down amid the green shadows, he could tell something was wrong. As the children of the tribe came to greet him, his smiles were forced, his laughter mirthless.
Khalt finished setting a new snare on the perimeter of the camp and walked over to join them.
"Child of Avachel," said Ferla, the tribe's leader and shaman. Under centuries of his leadership, the Trunalor had survived near-constant hostilities from their many enemies, including gnolls and other evils spilling out of the Gate of Iron Fangs to the southwest and the degenerate drow-spawned men of Dambrath, who had hunted the Trunalor for sport for centuries. "We welcome you back to the heart of the forest. What news do you bring of the outside?"
Trinculo's vast silver bulk seemed to melt around him as his form shrank and contracted into the appearance he usually took with the Trunalor, of a white-haired yet youthful wild elf dressed in outlandish green and purple robes. The form was much more accommodating within the tight nest of trees, and he enjoyed interacting with the elves on their own level. Trinculo was so full of energy he could barely withstand a moment of stillness. He wore on the nerves of many Trunalor but he was so relentlessly upbeat and good-natured as to win over even the most hard-hearted.