Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (8 page)

“Of what?” Laurana asked, fearing to know, yet fascinated.

“Nothing,” Raistlin whispered, lowering his eyes. “I am forbidden to speak of it.”

Laurana saw his hands tremble. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breath wheezed and he began to cough. Feeling guilty for having inadvertently caused such anguish, she
flushed and shook her head, biting her lip. “I—I’m sorry to have given you pain. I didn’t mean to.” Confused, she looked down, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face, a girlish habit.

Raistlin leaned forward almost unconsciously, his hand stretching out, trembling, to touch the wondrous hair that seemed possessed of a life of its own, so vibrant and luxuriant was it. Then, seeing before his eyes his own dying flesh, he withdrew his hand quickly and sank back in his chair, a bitter smile on his lips. For what Laurana did not know, could not know, was that, in looking at her, Raistlin saw the only beauty he would ever see in his lifetime. Young, by elven standards, she was untouched by death or decay, even in the mage’s cursed vision.

Laurana saw nothing of this. She was aware only that he moved slightly. She almost got up and left, but she felt drawn to him now, and he still had not answered her question. “I—I meant, can you see the future? Tanis told me your mother was—what do they call it—prescient? I know that Tanis comes to you for advice.…”

Raistlin regarded Laurana thoughtfully. “The half-elf comes to me for advice, not because I can see the future. I can’t. I am no seer. He comes because I am able to think, which is something most of these other fools seem incapable of doing.”

“But what you said. Some of us may not see each other again.” Laurana looked up at him earnestly. “You must have foreseen something! What—I must know! Was it … Tanis?”

Raistlin pondered. When he spoke, it was more to himself than to Laurana. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t even know why I said that. It’s just that—for an instant—I knew—”He seemed to struggle to remember, then suddenly shrugged.

“Knew what?” Laurana persisted.

“Nothing. My overwrought imagination as the knight would say if he were here. So Tanis told you about my mother,” he said, changing the subject abruptly.

Laurana, disappointed but hoping to find out more if she kept talking to him, nodded her head. “He said she had the gift of foresight. She could look into the future and see images of what would come to pass.”

“That is true,” Raistlin whispered, then smiled sardonically. “Much good it did her. The first man she married was a
handsome warrior from the northland. Their passion died within months, and after that they made life miserable for each other. My mother was fragile of health and given to slipping into strange trances from which she might not wake for hours. They were poor, living off what her husband could earn with his sword. Though he was clearly of noble blood, he never spoke of his family. I do not believe he even told her his real name.”

Raistlin’s eyes narrowed. “He told Kitiara, though. I’m sure of it. That is why she traveled north, to find his family.”

“Kitiara …” Laurana said in a strained voice. She touched the name as one touches an aching tooth, eager to understand more of this human woman Tanis loved. “Then, that man—the noble warrior—was Kitiara’s father?” she said in a husky voice.

Raistlin regarded her with a penetrating gaze. “Yes,” he whispered. “She is my elder half-sister. Older than Caramon and I by about eight years. She is very much like her father, I believe. As beautiful as he was handsome. Resolute and impetuous, warlike, strong and fearless. Her father taught her the only thing he knew—the art of warfare. He began going on longer and longer trips, and one day vanished completely. My mother convinced the Highseekers to declare him legally dead. She then remarried the man who became our father. He was a simple man, a woodcutter by trade. Once again, her far-sight did not serve her.”

“Why?” Laurana asked gently, caught up in the story, amazed that the usually taciturn mage was so voluble, not knowing that he was drawing more out of her simply by watching her expressive face than he was giving in return.

“The birth of my brother and I for one thing,” Raistlin said. Then, overcome by a fit of coughing, he stopped talking and motioned to his brother. “Caramon! It is time for my drink,” he said in the hissing whisper that pierced through the loudest talk. “Or have you forgotten me in the pleasure of other company?”

Caramon fell silent in mid-laugh. “No, Raist,” he said guiltily, hurriedly rising from his seat to hang a kettle of water over the fire. Tika, subdued, lowered her head, unwilling to meet the mage’s gaze.

After staring at her a moment, Raistlin turned back to Laurana, who had watched all this with a cold feeling in the pit of
her stomach. He began to speak again as if there had been no interruption. “My mother never really recovered from the childbirth. The midwife gave me up for dead, and I would have died, too, if it hadn’t been for Kitiara. Her first battle, she used to say, was against death with me as the prize. She raised us. My mother was incapable of taking care of children, and my father was forced to work day and night simply to keep us fed. He died in an accident when Caramon and I were in our teens. My mother went into one of her trances that day”—Raistlin’s voice dropped—“and never came out. She died of starvation.”

“How awful!” Laurana murmured, shivering.

Raistlin did not speak for long moments, his strange eyes staring out into the chill, gray winter sky. Then his mouth twisted. “It taught me a valuable lesson—learn to control the power. Never let it control you!”

Laurana did not seem to have heard him. Her hands in her lap twisted nervously. This was the perfect opportunity to ask the questions she longed to ask, but it would mean giving up a part of her inner self to this man she feared and distrusted. But her curiosity—and her love—were too great. She never realized she was falling into a cunningly baited trap. For Raistlin delighted in discovering the secrets of people’s souls, knowing he might find them useful.

“What did you do then?” she asked, swallowing. “Did Kit-Kitiara …” Trying to appear natural, she stumbled over the name and flushed in embarrassment.

Raistlin watched Laurana’s inner struggle with interest. “Kitiara was gone by then,” he answered. “She left home when she was fifteen, earning her living by her sword. She is an expert—so Caramon tells me—and had no trouble finding mercenary work. Oh, she returned every so often, to see how we were getting along. When we were older, and more skilled, she took us with her. That was where Caramon and I learned to fight together—I using my magic, my brother his sword. Then, after she met Tanis”—Raistlin’s eyes glittered at Laurana’s discomfiture—“she traveled with us more often.”

“Traveled with whom? Where did you go?”

“There was Sturm Brightblade, already dreaming of knighthood, the kender, Tanis, Caramon, and I. We traveled with Flint, before he retired from metalsmithing. The roads
grew so dangerous that Flint gave up traveling. And by this time, we had all learned as much as we could from our friends. We were growing restless. It was time to separate, Tanis said.”

“And you did as he said? He was your leader, even then?” She looked back to remember him as she had known him before he left Qualinost, beardless and lacking the lines of care and worry she saw now on his face. But even then he was withdrawn and brooding, tormented by his feelings of belonging to both races—and to neither. She hadn’t understood him then. Only now, after living in a world of humans, was she beginning to.

“He has the qualities we are told are essential for leadership. He is quick-thinking, intelligent, creative. But most of us possess these—in greater or lesser degree. Why do the others follow Tanis? Sturm is of noble blood, member of an order whose roots go back to ancient times. Why does he obey a bastard half-elf? And Riverwind? He distrusts all who are not human and half who are. Yet he and Goldmoon both would follow Tanis to the Abyss and back. Why?”

“I
have
wondered,” Laurana began, “and I think—”

But Raistlin, ignoring her, answered his own question. “Tanis listens to his feelings. He does not suppress them, as does the knight, or hide them, as does the Plainsman. Tanis realizes that sometimes a leader must think with his heart and not his head.” Raistlin glanced at her. “Remember that.”

Laurana blinked, confused for a moment, then, sensing a tone of superiority in the mage which irritated her, she said loftily, “I notice you leave out yourself. If you are as intelligent and powerful as you claim, why do you follow Tanis?”

Raistlin’s hourglass eyes were dark and hooded. He stopped talking as Caramon brought his twin a cup and carefully poured water from the kettle. The warrior glanced at Laurana, his face dark, embarrassed and uncomfortable as always whenever his brother went on like this.

Raistlin did not seem to notice. Pulling a pouch from his pack, he sprinkled some green leaves into the hot water. A pungent, acrid smell filled the room. “I do not follow him.” The young mage looked up at Laurana. “For the time being, Tanis and I simply happen to be traveling in the same direction.”

“The Knights of Solamnia are not welcome in our city,” the Lord said sternly, his face serious. His dark gaze swept the rest of the company. “Nor are elves, kender, or dwarves, or those who travel in their company. I understand you also have a magic-user with you, one who wears the red robes. You wear armor. Your weapons are blood-stained and come quickly and readily to your hands. Obviously you are skilled warriors.”

“Mercenaries, undoubtedly, milord,” the constable said.

“We are not mercenaries,” Sturm said, coming to stand before the bench, his bearing proud and noble. “We come out of the northern Plains of Abanasinia. We freed eight hundred men, women, and children from the Dragon Highlord, Verminaard, in Pax Tharkas. Fleeing the wrath of the dragonarmies, we left the people hidden in a valley in the mountains and traveled south, hoping to find ships in the legendary city of Tarsis. We did not know it was landlocked, or we would not have bothered.”

The Lord frowned. “You say you came from the north? That is impossible. No one has ever come safely through the mountain kingdom of the dwarves in Thorbardin.”

“If you know aught of the Knights of Solamnia, you know we would die sooner than tell a lie—even to our enemies,” Sturm said. “We entered the dwarven kingdom and won safe passage by finding and restoring to them the lost Hammer of Kharas.”

The Lord shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the draconian who sat behind him. “I do know somewhat of the knights,” he said reluctantly. “And therefore I must believe your story, though it sounds more a child’s bedtime tale than—”

Suddenly the doors banged open and two guards strode in, roughly dragging a prisoner between them. They thrust the companions aside as they flung their prisoner to the floor. The prisoner was a woman. Heavily veiled, she was dressed in long skirts and a heavy cape. She lay for a moment on the floor, as if too tired or defeated to rise. Then, seeming to make a supreme effort of will, she started to push herself up. Obviously no one was going to assist her. The Lord stared at her, his face grim and scowling. The draconian behind him had risen to its feet and was looking down at her with interest. The woman struggled, entangled in her cape and her long, flowing skirts.

Then Sturm was at her side.

The knight had watched in horror, appalled at this callous treatment of a woman. He glanced at Tanis, saw the ever-cautious half-elf shake his head, but the sight of the woman making a gallant effort to rise proved too much for the knight. He took a step forward, and found a hauberk thrust in front of him.

“Kill me if you will,” the knight said to the guard, “but I am going to the aid of the lady.”

The guard blinked and stepped back, his eyes looking up at the Lord for orders. The Lord shook his head slightly. Tanis, watching closely, held his breath. Then he thought he saw the Lord smile, quickly covering it with his hand.

“My lady, allow me to assist you,” Sturm said with the courtly, old-fashioned politeness long lost in the world. His strong hands gently raised her to her feet.

“You had better leave me, sir knight,” the woman said, her words barely audible from behind her veil. But at the sound of her voice, Tanis and Gilthanas gasped softly, glancing at each other. “You do not know what you do,” she said. “You risk your life—”

“It is my privilege to do so,” Sturm said, bowing. Then he stood near her protectively, his eyes on the guards.

“She is Silvanesti elven!” Gilthanas whispered to Tanis. “Does Sturm know?”

“Of course not,” Tanis said softly. “How could he? I barely recognized her accent myself.”

“What could she be doing here? Silvanesti is far away—”

“I—” Tanis began, but one of the guards shoved him in the back. He fell silent just as the Lord started to speak.

“Lady Alhana,” he said in a cold voice, “you were warned to leave this city. I was merciful last time you came before me because you were on a diplomatic mission from your people, and protocol is still honored in Tarsis. I told you then, however, you could expect no help from us and gave you twenty-four hours to depart. Now I find you still here.” He looked over at the guards. “What is the charge?”

“Trying to buy mercenaries, milord,” the constable replied. “She was picked up in an inn along the Old Waterfront, milord.” The constable gave Sturm a scathing glance. “It was a good thing she didn’t meet up with this lot. Of course, no one in Tarsis would aid an elf.”

“Alhana,” Tanis muttered to himself. He edged over to Gilthanas. “Why is that name familiar?”

“Have you been gone from your people so long you do not recognize the name?” the elf answered softly in elven. “There was only one among our Silvanesti cousins called Alhana. Alhana Starbreeze, daughter of the Speaker of the Stars, princess of her people, ruler when her father dies, for she has no brothers.”

“Alhana!” Tanis said, memories coming back to him. The elven people were split hundreds of years before, when Kith-Kanan led many of the elves to the land of Qualinesti following the bitter Kinslayer Wars. But the elven leaders still kept in contact in the mysterious manner of the elflords who, it is said, can read messages in the wind and speak the language of the silver moon. Now he remembered Alhana—of all elfmaidens reputed to be the most beautiful, and distant as the silver moon that shone on her birth.