The Odyssey of Gilthanas

Reader's Companion

Douglas Niles, Steve Miller, and Stan!

 

A Guide to Gilthanas's Odyssey

 

From the beginning, the dragonlance Saga has belonged to two different worlds: the worlds of literature and of adventure gaming. While novels and game products have always relied on one another to tell parts of the Saga, and while the two have often worked hand-in-hand to delve into tales with a greater depth than either medium could do alone, games and books have remained distinct from one another. Role-playing gamers read the novels, readers used game products as reference material, but there was never a single book that served both communities at the same time—until now.

The Odyssey of Gilthanas was originally going to be a game resource titled "Mystic Places," but when the opportunity arose to try this new format, the dragonlance team jumped at it. After all, what better way to celebrate the fifteenth anniversary of the dragonlance Saga, the first world created for both fiction and roleplaying, than to take that natural link to the next stage of evolution.

This book addresses two distinct needs. First, it tells the tale of what happened to Prince Gilthanas between his final appearance in Kalaman near the end of the Chronicles trilogy and his release from Khellendros's prison camp in the Dragons of a New Age trilogy by Jean Rabe. Secondly, this book provides source material in the appendix for several intriguing sites that have existed on dragonlance maps for years but have never made their way into a book or game product. As it turns out, these sites are places Gilthanas visited during his odyssey. For players of the dragonlance: fifth age or the advanced dungeons & dragons games, the information in this appendix applies directly to their campaigns.

Off the Coast of Solamnia, 28sc

 

The water dripped down the surface of dank timbers in a regular cadence, approximately in time to the beating of the prisoner's heart. He had no idea how many heartbeats, how many hours or even days had passed since that persistent plopping had formed the framework of his existence, but he took comfort in it, for the very act of counting, of feeling his heart beat, confirmed that he was indeed alive.

And while he lived, he should feel hope ... shouldn't he?

He tried to resist the part of him that answered: perhaps not, perhaps hope was over. After years of wandering, after escapes and fruitless quests, after deceit and betrayal, he was back where he had begun. A prisoner, locked in the darkness, left alone to rot.

This time his cell was a ship—a vessel of the Dark Knights bearing him to an unknown destination. He felt the gentle rocking of the hull and heard the straining of the timbers as the swells rose and fell. He had thought that it was utterly dark, but when the throbbing in his skull subsided slightly, he recognized that his eyes were too swollen to open. Either that, or a beating at the hands of the guards had blinded him, and he had been mercifully unconscious at the time.

Yet he gradually became aware that, in this damp and chilly hold, he was not alone. He examined his surroundings by smell and by sound. The air was musty, stained with the ordure of mold and urine, and underlaid by the more vile stenches of feces and rotten flesh. No breeze caressed his skin, and the sense of dampness came from more than the steady dripping—it permeated him in the chill of the stagnant air, in the lack of any suggestion of warmth from the sun or any source of Krynn-bound fire.

Cruel shackles bound his wrists to a wall, holding him spread-eagled in a sitting position. His arms and hands, suspended to the sides, felt numb, and his buttocks and legs were stiff from bearing his weight on cold, unforgiving timbers. When he fully understood his position, he took heart from the fact of his iron manacles: the shackles served as a confirmation of time. It had not been weeks or months since he had been placed in this hold. In fact, he had not changed posture to eat, nor even to drink, so he knew that he had not been like this for very many days—else he would be dead by now.

He was below decks on a large ship that was bound for he knew not where. But he could take some minimal comfort from the knowledge that others were in this place with him. He heard hushed whispers—people's voices scarcely daring to make a sound. He heard someone shuffle close to him with bare feet gliding almost soundlessly across the smooth boards.

And then he heard words, and his life began to return to him.

"My Prince . . . O Royal Master—can you ever forgive me?"

The voice was a groan and was followed by emphatic shushing; obviously other prisoners wanted the speaker to keep his voice down to spare them the risk of punishment by the stern Dark Knights who guarded them.

"Please," whispered the prince. "Try to be silent... and know that I have forgiven you. You but acted upon the impulse of your heart—and if I had not done the same, we neither of us would be here today."

"I... I'm sorry," replied the one the prince remembered as Lethagas. Leth was a young elf, but he had served faithfully and well. Now his guilt, and his grief, were burdens that the prisoner neither needed nor deserved.

For a time the hold was silent save for the gradual creaking of the ship. He tried to let his mind drift away, to recall an image of silver beauty, a laugh like the music of the cosmos... gods, how he missed her. He had crossed a world to find her, sought for years, for decades... only to come to this. And still he would not acknowledge defeat.

The swelling around the prince's eyes gradually lessened, and he could at last get a blurred look at his surroundings. Six other prisoners shared the hold with him, though only he was so rudely chained to the wall. He recognized Lethagas among them. The others, like Leth and himself, were male elves. To a man ragged garments barely covered their filthy skin, and they bore unkempt golden hair. Pale skin suggested that the prisoners had languished below decks for quite some time.

Eventually, a hunchbacked turnkey silently brought a bowl of food and a pail of water under the watchful eyes of a pair of Dark Knights. These guards, cloaked from head to foot in black, observed like very dangerous statues as the grotesque servant unlocked the door in the iron bars at the front of the cell. He opened the portal only wide enough to push the bowl and bucket into the hold. A single grimy ladle floated in the brownish water.

When the guards left, the elven prisoners took turns scooping out bites of vile chowder and drinking putrid water. The prince was pleased to see none of the bickering, even fighting, erupt as it would among humans or dwarves entrusted with a similar regimen. The others even allowed Lethagas to offer the prince the first serving, though he declined and supped in turn with the rest.

The eating ended before the hunger. Afterward, the prisoners gathered around him—the elf with the long scar on his face who wore leggings of silver and a tunic of burnished leather. Apparently they knew that the guards would stay for a while because one, an elder who was missing one eye and limped awkwardly on a withered leg, at last spoke up.

"He called you prince, noble elf. What is your name?"

"I am Gilthanas Solostaran, prince of Qualinesti," he replied simply.

"We know of you, O Prince," said the crippled elf. "And we hail your family's name. But tell me: How do you come to be the prisoner of the Dark Knights, hauled in this ship of death?"

"That is a story that I, myself, don't even understand," replied the elf with a wry chuckle. "And it would take a very long time to tell."

"Then we are indeed fortunate," declared the elder. "For there is only one thing in which we are wealthy, and that is time."

Gilthanas looked at the group, all of whom regarded him with attentive eyes. Truly, he didn't know how his road had brought him here, but perhaps it would help him to understand if he were to put the story into words....

 

*****

 

"Once I had a great deal more than mere time," Gilthanas began. His thoughts drifted back, and it seemed as though he might have been looking at an earlier life—an existence before dungeons and quests and wanderings had given shape to his days. Indeed, he might have been considering the life of someone else for all the similarities he could bring to his present circumstances.

"I had power and wealth... I had a reputation known far and wide, status as a hero in the greatest cause of the world ... and yet, I could not find happiness."

"I remember," said the elder prisoner. "You were lord of some city in the north ... Kalaman, was it not?"

"Indeed, good friend. But pray, tell me your name."

"I am called Banatharl, of Qualinesti Vale." The elf's voice was soft, distant, and Gilthanas knew that he, too, was trying to reconstruct a well-removed past. "I was a follower of your brother Porthios, until the Dark Knights made me their pet."

"Ah, Porthios ... he has a place in my tale, though our stories are not as intertwined as many brothers might be."

"To Kalaman, then?" prodded a younger elf, who introduced himself as Carranias, also of Qualinesti. "Was that not your fiefdom after the War of the Lance?"

"Indeed. I came to that city at the culmination of the Vingaard Campaign, the spring season of battles resulting in the defeat of Highlord Ariakas, the Dragon Emperor of Ansalon."

"You came at the head of the liberating army, did you not?" prodded Lethagas.

"As a part of that army ... my sister Laurana was the Golden General, appointed by the Knights of Solamnia to lead them in the triumphant campaign. I flew upon Silvara ... greatest, wisest, most beautiful silver dragon in all the world. Together we battled the wyrms of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness. We slew many powerful serpents of blue. And when the Dark Queen's armies fled Kalaman, Silvara and I came to rest in the city's great plaza. It was soon after our ultimate victory at Neraka that the people of Kalaman sent for me and asked me to be their Lord Mayor."

"But were you not a prince of Qualinesti?" asked Banatharl.

"Indeed, but that realm was the fiefdom of my brother Porthios. His rulership seemed secured, and it even bore splendid portents for the future. You will remember that shortly after the War of the Lance, he married Alhana Starbreeze, who was herself heir to the other elven realm, Silvanesti."

"She was a queen to Qualinesti as well," nodded the elder. "And the people held out great hope that she would bear a child to the king and queen—an elf who would bring the promise of the unification of our ancient race."

"True. And with my homeland thus in good hands, I had cause to use my talents elsewhere, to go where I was needed."

"And you were needed in Kalaman?"

"So it seemed . . . but still, it was not as easy as that." Gilthanas fell silent as the rest of the story unfolded in his memory. He could not speak of his love for Silvara, of the beautiful silver-haired elfmaid who had torched his heart into fire as if kindling it from chilly coal. She was his perfect lifemate. She should have been his bride and borne him children. ...

But then he had learned the truth: Though she could choose to look like a woman, with beauty so deep that it tore his heart, she was not an elf. In her heart and soul and true flesh she was a silver dragon. Silvara had lived for more years even than the decades-old elven prince. She was a creature of ancient might and nearly immortal wisdom. He had loved her, and he thought she had loved him, but their differences were too great. It had seemed to both of them that their lives had been ordained to be stories in separate books.

It had not been the silver dragon who had made the initial, fateful decision. Instead, the elf had turned his back... Gilthanas had sent Silvara away and turned his life to helping the humans who needed him.

For many years, he almost convinced himself that he had done the right thing.

 

*****

 

The other elves in the cell maintained a respectful silence, obviously aware that Gilthanas was reliving memories he did not wish to share. But the prince was conscious of his audience, of the tale he had started to tell, and so he drew a deep breath.

"Let me just say that my years in Kalaman went by in a blur... that I was effective there, I even dare to say popular. But I wasn't really needed. Nor did I find in the work the kind of usefulness that let me know I was doing the right thing. Instead, I grew more and more restless, and as the years turned to decades, I knew that I would have to leave."

"Did you know where you wanted to go?" asked Banatharl.

Gilthanas laughed ruefully, shaking his head. "It was only that fact that kept me in the city for as long as I remained ... thirty full years after the War of the Lance. But as time passed I became increasingly restless, longing for... for someone I had lost.

"History passed in the rest of Krynn, of course. I learned that my brother Porthios was in Silvanesti, working hard to drive corruption from that land, to clean the detritus left in the wake of the war—which war, as every elf knows, was particularly cruel to that land of our hallowed ancestors."

"It is said that the late Silvanesti king's nightmares became real," whispered the younger elf, Carranias.

"It is said truthfully," whispered another ancient elf.

"And when the realm's own regent, Konnal, failed to conquer the corruption, Porthios arrived. It was he who led the Silvanesti to victory in their own realm." Carranias asserted his knowledge of elven history, while the other listeners nodded in mute agreement.

"And as reward for his service," Banatharl said bitterly, "Konnal had him arrested, thrown into a prison cell and sentenced to death. I know this, for I flew with those who would have rescued him in Silvanesti... but even then, our lord took care to see that war was avoided between the two elven nations."

"Aye. But I knew none of this as I decided to visit my brother. I merely wished to see the hallowed kingdom he had restored and to learn from him about the lives of the rest of our family. It was with a sense of freedom, even exhilaration, that I departed Kalaman. I traveled by sea to Sanction, and then overland until I had reached the border of Silvanesti."

"Did you tell your brother you were coming?" This question came from Carranias, whose eyes had widened with his imaginings about these royal doings.

"No . . . fool that I was, I wanted to surprise him. Of course, if I had gotten in touch with him, he might have warned me away, or I might have been able to help him. As it was, Konnal's agents seized me before I had ridden many miles down the peaceful forest trails.

"Despite that bitter assault—or perhaps because of it—I still remember the wondrous sensations of my entrance into the elven kingdom: Silvanesti spread like a garden around me, with fragrant blooms drooping heavily from lush branches, trees sculpted into such perfection that they formed arches overhead, and a natural canopy that extended for miles. I came to a pond—a still pool that reflected the sky with mirrored perfection—and here I dismounted to enjoy an afternoon's rest beneath the shade of a lush evergreen.

"And this is where Konnal's agents took me . . . they rushed from all sides, threw nets, and beat me with clubs. Before I knew what was happening, they had made me a prisoner."

"Did they take you to the palace or to some prison in Silvanost?" Banatharl wondered, speaking of the capital of the realm and one of the oldest cities in the world.

"Would that they had ... but instead I was taken to a mere hole in the ground, a dirt-walled dungeon where I was the only prisoner, and my guards were picked from Konnal's personal agents." "Where was that place?"

"I did not learn until much later ... but I languished there for a long time. It turned out to be a dozen years, while so many things passed in the world beyond. My guards gleefully related the events I was missing: of Porthios shamed before the ruling Sinthal-Elish, of his arrest and imprisonment in the Tower of Stars." The prince's voice tightened. "They joked about the irony, boasted of how the two princes of Qualinesti were the prisoners of Silvanesti because they foolishly tried to bring the Qualinesti and Silvanesti nations together. My own fate, I was assured, remained a secret from the outside world..."

"While Porthios made his escape," Banatharl interjected.

"Aye ... Tanis Half-Elven and two loyal griffins, plucking Porthios from the high tower and bearing him to safety. My guards were infuriated by his escape—they beat me bloody in their vexation—but the cruel fellows gloated about the fact that my brother had gone away, and he didn't even know that he was leaving me behind. They also mentioned how Alhana, the rightful ruler of Silvanesti, had also been exiled."

Gilthanas drew a breath. In the silent prison, his elven listeners remained rapt.

"Of course, it was not long after that the Chaos War wracked Krynn—the summer of heat that marked the departure of the old gods, the vanishing of magic. That fact I encountered even in my cell, where the tiny incantations I had performed to make my imprisonment more tolerable—a glimmer of flame, a small cloak of warmth or coals for drying—all ceased to function.

"I tell you, good elves, that was the beginning of years when I felt utterly bereft. I longed for my homeland and convinced myself that I would die in that hole—that I would never see Qualinesti, nor the one I missed above all others, again...."

 

The Hill of Sol-Fallon, 11sc

 

The key turned in the lock with a harsher sound than usual, perhaps because this time it was twisted with anger, or perhaps gloating delight. Whatever the emotion of the person who unlocked the door, Gilthanas knew that this was not his usual jailor come with his repast of stale bread or vile stew.

Scrambling to his feet, the elven prince stood erect and glared at the shadowed hallway beyond. Years of confinement had paled his skin and, no doubt, weakened his muscles, but they had done nothing to break his spirit. And when he saw the one who had opened his door, that spirit compelled him into a furious rush—a wild attack of swinging fists and inarticulate curses.

Naturally, Konnal had not come alone. The two guards of Silvanesti's military governor stepped forward with upraised staffs. Gilthanas paid no heed, desiring only to get his fingers around Konnal's throat. But while he saw only the sneering face of his enemy, the guards did their efficient work, one knocking his hands aside with a sweep of the pole, the other cracking the prisoner across the skull with a blow that dazed the prince, sent him stumbling against the door and then slowly slumping to the floor.

"Your brother never displayed such rash immaturity," said the self-appointed leader of Silvanesti in a tone of gentle rebuke. "He had the grace to accept his imprisonment with dignity intact."

"I know that he escaped!" growled Gilthanas, dismayed by his own weakness and trying with bluster to cover up his frailty.

"You believe that old tale? In truth, I set him free ... I had no more use for him here. And perhaps you also know that I compelled him to return to Qualinesti, where he was treated as an outlaw—a traitor to elvenkind. Since then there have been rumors that he was killed during the Chaos War. I choose to believe them."

Qualinesti! Even the name of his homeland brought longing to the heart of Gilthanas. When he pictured the broad swaths of forest, the crystalline towers of his nation's capital, and the serene and beautiful elves who were his people, he needed all of his willpower not to allow his grief to show in his face and eyes.

"But now," Konnal's tone was lofty, gloating, "it is time to turn our attention to more immediate concerns. You will come with me."

The haughty Silvanesti stepped back from the door. Gilthanas didn't want to go with him, but the prospect of even a few minutes outside the constricting cell was enough to overcome his loathing for the one who had imprisoned him. He ignored Konnal and held his head high as he passed through the door, and past the dirt-walled jailroom beyond.

One of the guards preceded him and the other followed as the little procession advanced up the stairs and through a narrow doorway that emerged onto a sloping field beneath the open, sunlit sky. Gilthanas was blinded by the brilliance, squeezing his eyes shut because of the mind-numbing brightness that overloaded his senses and threatened to shut down his brain. At the same time, he exhilarated in the vastness of his surroundings, by drawing fresh air through his nostrils and delighting in the odors of trees and grass, of fresh air and a warm, dry breeze.

"Move!" One of the guards pushed him roughly from behind, and by opening his eyes to slits he could see at least the ground beneath his feet. He sensed that they were moving uphill, and by the time they had gone a hundred paces, his eyes had become attuned enough that he could open them and look around.

Together with Konnal and the two staff-wielding elven warriors, he stood atop a high, rounded hill. The sculpted forests of Silvanesti spread to the far horizons, though the elevation itself was smooth and grassy. Around him were several columns of white marble, and the crest was paved in similar alabaster stones.

"Do you recognize this place?" asked Konnal.

"No."

"I'm not surprised. You Qualinesti are indeed ignorant savages, with little knowledge of our race's proud heritage. This is the Hill of Sol-Fallon."

"The place where the first Sinthal-Elish met and formed the pact of elves that created Silvanesti." Gilthanas felt a perverse pleasure in demonstrating some awareness of elven history.

"Precisely. Your cell is a small cave that has been excavated into the hillside below."

"Perhaps it is fitting that, in your hate and prejudice, you have imprisoned an elf from a different realm here. How like you, Konnal, to debase a place that should be hallowed."

The military governor of Silvanesti just laughed. "Enjoy your chances for bluster, 'Prince.' This will be your last opportunity to speak such words, or any others."

"You're going to kill me." Gilthanas stated the fact, unsurprised—but also, with a tingle of energy, unaccepting. He tried to think, to imagine some means of escape, resolving that his life would not end easily.

"Yes. Right here, in honor of the sacrifices made by our ancestor Silvanos and his fellows, who left us such a legacy—"

"Legacy of hatred and blindness!" snapped the prince of Qualinesti. "Yes, I suppose my blood will be a fitting offering to your dark furies."

Konnal's eyes narrowed and his hand went to the longsword at his waist. Then he shrugged. "I can't expect a fool such as yourself to understand."

"Why kill me now?" Gilthanas asked. "I have been a prisoner for... how long? Ten years?"

"Twelve. They have been years of dramatic changes across Krynn, though you might not know about that."

In truth, the prince didn't, except for one case. Shortly after his capture, he had noticed the failure of his magical abilities. It was as though during the familiar ritual of spellcasting he had been trying to drink from an empty vessel— his words, his arcane gestures, had called forth nothing at all. The practice of magic might as well have been the gibbering discourse of an infant, for all the effect it had produced.

He didn't want to admit his ignorance, yet he had to do something, if only to stall for time. "What are these changes of which you speak?"

"Our world has entered a new age ... an Age of Mortals. The gods have abandoned us and taken their powers with them, leaving elves and dwarves and humans to make their way on their own. But Krynn is beset by new threats, as well... creatures of chaos that would destroy our lands from within. There are stories, too, of great dragons—massive creatures, beyond the ken of previous knowledge—who threaten to claim all the world from without."

"And so you decided to kill me?" Gilthanas retorted wryly. "I'm not sure I follow your logic."

"The only reason I have kept you alive this long is that I wondered if, at some point in the future, your life might be useful to us... a bargaining chip, so to speak, in such interactions as the Qualinesti forced upon us. But now, as of tomorrow, to be precise, there will be no interactions between Silvanesti and Qualinesti—or, indeed, between Silvanesti and the rest of the world."

The prince was curious in spite of himself. "How are you going to achieve this?"

Konnal laughed, and there was a hint of madness in the sound. Even the two guards, Gilthanas noticed, looked warily at their leader.

"Tomorrow we will raise a barrier around our land—a fence of magic that will sever all ties between Silvanesti and the rest of the world. The Qualinesti will never learn of your fate, because after the barrier is raised neither they, nor anyone else, will know anything that happens within our realm."

"You're insane!" Gilthanas spat out, reacting by reflex. "You would cut yourself off from everything else in the world? Think of the cost, of the loss to yourselves!"

Konnal sneered. "We have everything we need. Indeed, we have much that is coveted by others. The barrier will see that our possessions remain intact and that none may interfere with the hallowed lives within this forest."

"This 'forest' is a tamed garden! Think of it, you fool—all your children will grow up knowing nothing more of life!"

"All they need to know they will find right here," Konnal shot back. The pure conviction rang in his voice, and Gilthanas was aware that this deranged elf actually thought he might convince his prisoner of the rightness of his actions. "We have the world's highest levels of art, and a true sense of our own history—of our own rightful dominance in the story of Krynn. And with the barrier, we will ensure that this status remains unchanged and secure throughout the rest of time."

As he listened to Konnal, Gilthanas had been looking around, wondering about his chances for escape. He might get away from Konnal and these two guards with a quick dash, but he saw more elves in the red tunics of House Protector gathered in knots about the base of the hill. And he had no illusions about his stamina after twelve years of languishing in prison. Perhaps he could take the governor hostage, use him to compel the guards to stay back....

Even as Gilthanas had the thought, Konnal stepped back and his two attendants moved to block the prince's path. Staffs raised, they stood ready to prevent him from attacking Konnal.

It was then that Gilthanas caught the first glimpse of wings overhead—of proud creatures gliding lazily through the skies. He looked up to see griffins, a dozen or more of them, circling over the top of the hill. The mighty fliers had long served as aerial mounts for elven warriors, and for just a moment he longed for the speed that might carry him away.

"You see that even the griffins await your execution," Konnal declared with a laugh. "They know of our plans for the barrier, and you might be surprised to learn that they fully support it."

The shadow of wings grew broader across the hilltop, and the governor raised his arms to the sky, crying out in glee. "Come, my feathered allies . . . watch the demise of our enemy!" With a flourish he drew his sword, while the two guards advanced to flank Gilthanas.

The first griffin flew over, and with a contemptuous flick of his taloned foreclaws, it knocked Konnal to the ground, drawing a startled oath. Gilthanas saw that two more had pushed the guards away, while another grasped his shoulders firmly. He felt his feet rise from the ground, and though the claws supporting him pressed painfully into his skin, he laughed aloud at the fury on his former captor's face. Konnal brandished his weapon wildly, but already the griffins were twenty feet overhead, gliding away from the hilltop.

Another of the graceful fliers glided underneath him, and the griffin supporting Gilthanas let go, dropping the elf onto the broad back. He looked at the white-feathered wings stroking the air, carrying him westward, and watched as the Hill of Sol-Fallon and the gardened forest of Silvanesti surrounding it receded below.

"Perhaps not all of your clan wants to stay within the new fence of Silvanesti?" the prince murmured, looking into the wise, yellow eye of griffin flying beside him.

The creature merely nodded his head, and then the flight spread through the skies, angling toward the border of the ancient elven realm, and to all the world beyond.

 

Shadow of the Mind: The Missing City, 11sc

 

Her name is Mala—well, that's what I call her, anyway. She's never corrected me, so I guess it doesn't bother her. But then nothing I do seems to bother her in the slightest. I walk with Mala to the well every morning as she fetches water for her family. We never talk. I'm not even sure she knows I'm there—I usually stay a few yards behind her, or I run ahead and just watch her pass by. It's a comfort just to be near her.

I've never seen such a beautiful woman in all my life. Not just physical beauty either (though I've never met anyone else whose merest smile caused my heart to ache); her spirit is just as beautiful as her face. Mala has rejected a handful of suitors because she can't leave her parents all alone.

Sometimes her sisters come to visit in their husbands' carriages; servants drive them down from the Garden District. They bring extravagances like fruit from Silvanesti, and they coddle and fawn over their aging parents, but they never do any real work around the house. And before night falls (usually long before), they climb into their carriages and ride back to their mansions, leaving behind the squalid home they escaped by finding rich merchants to marry. They leave Mala to do all the chores, to sit up with their mother when the cold night makes her joints ache, and to help their father do nearly everything—a brain seizure has left the poor old man unable to walk or take care of himself (though he's still quite practiced at berating Mala when he doesn't get his way quickly enough).

So life just passes Mala by. Her future days will be nothing but the same routine of chores until the work bends her back and the worry wrinkles her face. She'll wake up one morning to find herself transformed from a fair maiden to a venerable spinster virtually overnight. Her youth will disappear. Her looks will disappear, too. But she will still have me. Mala always will have me.

The trouble is, she'll never know.

I think about this as I follow her on the morning trip to the well. We live in two different worlds. There is no future for us, no hope that the passion in my heart, my love for Mala, will overcome the boundaries that keep us apart—they are too great. I can only walk along in the periphery of her world and take what joy I can from watching her and silently sharing her days and nights.

You'd think such thoughts would sour my disposition and lead me to despair. But Mala is smiling that hopeful grin she sometimes gets, and that wipes away all the sadness from my heart. What is she thinking? What makes her hum happily as she walks to the well? Something has happened. In the time between now and when I last saw her, just before I blew out my candle last night, something has occurred—some news has been delivered, or a revelation has been reached. Mala has hope, and I am delirious.

As we round the corner, Mala's gait speeds up. She fairly skips to the water, but I come to a dead stop. There's something lying at the foot of the well. At first it seems to be a bundle of rags, but then I notice a hand and a strand of hair.

It's a person!

Mala walks right by, taking as little notice of the prone form as she does me. While she lowers her bucket into the well, I run up to the body. Where did it come from? Who is it? Perhaps one of the Legionnaires from the port? Or a seaman from that trading ship that put in last night? Put enough rum in one of those sailors and he'll wander halfway to Icewall before passing out. This one is lucky to have staggered only this far.

As I near the body, though, I realize this is no sailor sleeping off too much drink. His clothes are too threadbare, his skin too fair (though he's severely sunburned). Rolling him over, the stranger's hair falls away from his face revealing finely chiseled features and slender tapering ears. An elf!

We've seen a few elves passing in the weeks since Military Governor Konnal sent word that all loyal Silvanesti elves should return to their homeland, and the ones we have seen were all headed toward the forest as quickly as possible (though I hear that even they can't get through the invisible barrier that's gone up around the elf lands). This one looks like he's crossed the desert alone and unsupplied. I can only guess that he's coming from Silvanesti, that he somehow got out before the shield was raised and fled across the sands. It's not terribly far, but without the proper clothing and a sufficient supply of water, the trip still can be deadly.

While I check to see that the elf is indeed still among the living, Mala retrieves her full bucket, grips the handle with both hands, and carries it off. Completely oblivious to the elf's plight or my ministrations, she rounds the corner, heading for her house—a good idea.

There is nothing I can do for the elf here. I have to get him out of the sun and find a healer to tend to his wounds. I'll leave him at Mala's house. He'll be safe there while I go down to the port. Falaius Taneek and his Legionnaires are always looking for ways to help folks. I can't think of anyone who needs help more than this poor fellow.

 

*****

 

The healer was right, after a few days of rest and lots of water, the elf is looking much better. He still hasn't awakened—well, not fully. He's opened his eyes a few times and mumbled all sorts of crazy things in his sleep. He's talked quite a bit about "the war" (though with the long lives that elves lead, I can't really be sure which war he's talking about) and silver dragons, and he even looked me square in the eye and called me "Tanis." I'm sure that when he wakes up, he'll have some interesting tales to tell.

But wait—his eyelids are fluttering. I think my guest is finally conscious. Yes. Yes, I can see this is no waking dream he's having. He rubs his eyes as the world swims into focus. Look at him, gazing around the room unsure of where he is, not even certain whether or not this is a dream. I should speak to him instead of sitting back in the shadows, but this is the best way to determine his intentions. You can't be too careful these days.

The elf stands and walks slowly across the room, staring at everything with undisguised wonder. He clearly doesn't even know what city he's in. Reaching out, his hand passes straight through the chair standing in the middle of the room.

This is cruel. I shouldn't torture him so. But it is fascinating to watch him try to puzzle it out. Is he a ghost? Why can't he touch the chair? He's an educated and well-trained one, this elf. Despite the peculiar (some would say unnatural) surroundings, he doesn't panic. Instead, he tries to think of an explanation for the phenomenon he sees. I'll just watch another moment before I—no! Mala enters the room, that same hopeful smile on her face.

The elf sees her. "What manner of place is this?" he asks and reaches out to grab her shoulders. First his hands, then arms, and finally the whole of his body passes straight through her. And she goes about her business, taking no notice of him in the least.

"She cannot see you," I say from the corner, finally stepping out of the shadows and into the candlelight.

"Am... am I dead?" the elf asks.

"No." I laugh. "And before you ask, neither is Mala. She's just somewhere else. Don't ask me to explain it. That's simply how things are here in Gal Tra'kalas. Get used to it."

He stares at Mala as she bustles out of the room with an armful of towels, clearly amazed at what he sees. She's full of life and beauty, but as Mala passes between us, he still can see me through her body; she's more real than a phantom, but not fully of this world.

"Gal Tra'kalas? The Missing City! How did I get here?"

"If you don't know, then I'm not sure anyone does, friend." I try to calm him. The first few hours in Gal Tra'kalas can be very disorienting. "Sit down. The bed is quite real, I assure you. You slept soundly on it these past few days."

"This is your home, then?" The elf tries to act casual, but he's obviously still disoriented and more than a little distracted by what he sees.

"Yes, mine. But hers as well. It's a little difficult to explain."

A knock on the front door breaks the awkward moment. The elf turns to me as if to ask if that's a real knock or a phantom one.

"That's for me—or more likely for you." I get up and move to the door in the front room. "You can't hear anything that goes on in Mala's world."

When I open the door, the frame is filled with a giant of a man. This is Falaius Taneek, leader of the local Legion of Steel cell. They maintain the port and govern the Missing City (though they have no influence on the spectral happenings in Gal Tra'kalas). After the healer finished with the elf, he told me Falaius likely would check on things when the elf was up and around. Apparently Falaius deserves his reputation for always being in the right place at the right time. Either that or the healer has an uncommon gift for judging recuperative powers.

"Good day, Aman Daun" Falaius rumbles with his usual terse formality. For a barbarian, he's terribly well-mannered, but it never comes off naturally; he always seems to be forcing civility into his voice, and, in the end, it makes him seem all the more imposing (quite a trick for a man whose shoulders spread wider than the broadest oak tree). "Is your house guest feeling better?"

"Very much so," I answer and invite the Legionnaire into my home with a flourish of my arm. I always feel the need to respond to his stiff courtesy with my best interpretation of courtly grace. "In fact, he just awakened. Mala put quite a scare into him, and I've been trying to explain the situation."

"No explanation is necessary." The elf has gathered his wits and comes to meet us at the door. My sham of courtly behavior is evident by his every move—this elf is used to moving in the company of kings. "I know the tale of Gal Tra'kalas. The city was destroyed in the first Cataclysm, yet somehow clung to spectral life. Phantom buildings rose from the rubble, and ghosts continued walk its streets in an unnatural mockery of life."

Ah, I forgot how deeply elves detest the undead. Of course, such feelings are only natural for a people whose culture is so closely tied to life. Restless spirits foul any area they touch, leaching the beauty and life from the most verdant site.

"You do not know the tale well enough, my friend" I say, trying to put the elf at ease.

"True," adds Falaius in his soothingly deep voice. "The people of Gal Tra'kalas may be ghostly, but they are not ghosts. None of the scholars, mystics, or sages who've passed this way can tell me what they are, but they are clearly not undead monsters."

"Bah! I've told you time and again what they are—who they are." I always lose my patience when we have this conversation. No one wants to believe the truth of the matter.

"Yes, Aman, you have. Forgive me for being so thick-headed that I cannot see the truth, but I am just a simple warrior. The workings of the magical world confuse me." Falaius tries to placate me. He doesn't really accept the truth, but for my sake, he pretends. I believe he thinks I'm on the brink of madness and it's best to humor my "delusions."

Just then, Mala strides through the room (and through both Falaius's and the elf's bodies) carrying a bundle of neatly folded shirts. What's she doing? Perhaps she's going to donate old clothing to the poor. That would be just like her. They barely can afford to put food on the table, yet she still wants to give to the needy.

"I must say, I know some small bit about magic, but even the little I've seen today is beyond my ken." The elf again passes his hand through a piece of furniture, then shakes his head wryly.

"Yes." Falaius uses the word to clear his throat. He's not one to waste time in idle conversation. "Forgive my lack of manners, friend, but now that Aman has brought you back to health, I have some questions that need answering, most of them concerning who you are and how you arrived in the Missing City."

"Of course. My name is Gilthanas Solostaran, and I am at your service." With this, he bows deeply and is overcome by a wave of dizziness, nearly collapsing in a heap at our feet. "If it is not too much of an imposition," he asks after regaining his composure, "may we continue in the other room? I believe I have not yet recovered fully from my ordeal."

We return to the bedroom where Gilthanas sits on the corner of the cot—only after making sure there truly was a solid object under the hazy blanket and sheets. Apart from occasional bouts of fatigue, he seems to be fine. Falaius sits cross-legged against the wall, his left shoulder and knee swallowed up by a phantom dressing table, and I return to my accustomed spot in the dark corner.

As Gilthanas tells his tale, filled with intrigue and adventure befitting a Hero of the Lance, Mala continues to flit around the house bundling more and more of her family's worldly goods into towels, sacks, and even a small crate. I find that my attention to Gilthanas's story wavers, then disappears entirely. What is she up to?

Finally, while Gilthanas describes a harrowing escape from certain death, Mala enters and strips the bed on which he sits (something both he and Falaius find particularly distracting). However, she doesn't lay fresh sheets on the bed, as she does every week when changing the linen. When she merely gathers up the bedding and carries it into the other room, I can take no more. I leave behind the elf's account of a harrowing, headlong flight into the desert and follow Mala into the main room.

Practically everything the family owns is packed and stacked near the doorway. Mala's mother ties a knot in a towel containing the few pieces of jewelry she owns, then cinches the towel around her waist like a belt Her father sits on a barrel, his familiar scowl much less severe than usual. Meanwhile, Mala runs about making sure that all the packages are sealed tight. Her lips never rest all the while; she obviously is bubbling happily about the reason for all this activity—whatever that is. Obviously, they are going somewhere, but where? This is more than a short excursion— they're taking everything they can carry.

They must be moving!

Perhaps one of Mala's sisters finally has offered to bring their parents to live in her husband's mansion. More likely, the husband has decided that it is too embarrassing to have his wife visit this dilapidated section of town and so has paid for his in-laws to relocate. They'll finally get the comfort and care that they deserve. I knew Mala's hard work would be rewarded.

But will Mala move with them? Surely neither of her sisters would want to have to tend the parents herself. They will have to bring Mala with them to continue to act as their care-taker.

After I built my home literally within hers, just so that we can be close to one another, is Mala going to leave me? Certainly, I can visit her wherever in Gal Tra'kalas she goes, but it will take me months, possibly even years to rebuild. And just think how expensive it will be, since the new home is sure to be much more opulent that this one.

But what if someone else already has built a home in that part of the Missing City? The Garden District is one of the most popular locales for merchants and Legion officers to live. What if the sister's home already has been claimed by that foul-smelling Khurrish trapper? Or worse, that gray-haired Legion scout? That lecherous old ruffian will spend his idle time watching Mala bathe, or taking target practice at her mother hobbling around the house! I will not stand for such things!

Whoever lives there now simply will have to move. There are plenty of Gal Tra'kalan homes that have not yet been reconstructed. I'll do the work for them myself, but Mala and I must stay together! I cannot bear for us to be apart.

Look at her. Flitting around so happily, completely unaware of the agony this causes me. Oh, Mala, if only I could talk to you. If only you could tell me what's happening. But wait! She takes a piece of paper out of her apron pocket and opens it up. As she reads it, her face flushes with joy and anticipation. What does it say?

I rush to look over her shoulder, but she dances out of the room and into the kitchen. Following her, I find that it's too dark to read anything in there, but Mala doesn't put the paper away; she gazes at it even in the dark. The words are so joyous, she can read them with her eyes closed.

What could be on that paper? It looked like a letter. Why would her sister send a letter with the news? Perhaps they aren't moving in with one of Mala's sisters. But why else would they be moving? And why would Mala be so happy?

I follow close on her heels as she goes back into the bedroom where Gilthanas's story is reaching its conclusion. He recalls seeing the city after a day and night in the desert.

"After so long in a Silvanesti prison, the crossing nearly killed me. I was half-crazed with thirst when I saw that well. And when I could see the water, even watch people drink it, but found that it was all ephemeral as a dream, I fell unconscious. The next thing I knew ..."

Gilthanas's voice trails off as I rush hurriedly past him over to the dresser. Mala laid the paper down in order to gather another bundle of towels. Now I can read ...

 

*****

 

I can hear the comforting drone of hushed conversation long before the words become clear. It's Gilthanas and Falaius. They're not in this room, but they are nearby.

"I must say, I still don't understand the nature of this place," I hear Gilthanas say. He still isn't certain that the spectral people he sees aren't undead spirits; you can hear it in his voice. He expects for Mala and her family to suddenly give up their charade and reveal themselves to be life-draining fiends.

"I'm not sure anyone does" Falaius answers.

"My host seems to think he has an insight others cannot perceive."

"You must forgive, Aman" the Legionnaire says. "His sense of perspective is, shall we say, impaired when it comes to the woman he calls Mala." Yes. He would say that. Falaius has spent many years living here, but he has never truly accepted Gal Tra'kalas for what it is.

"Though you were half-blind with dehydration, your reaction to the Missing City was quite normal. Most people see the towers and walls waving in the desert heat and assume they are seeing a mirage. However, when they get here and see the amazing detail in the buildings and even the ghostly inhabitants, people change their minds, believing instead that the city is all one tremendous illusion cast by a long dead sorcerer, or perhaps even by the gods themselves."

"Yes," Gilthanas adds with authority. "I came to that conclusion myself, though I know no sorcerer of any robes who could create such an effect."

"But the truth is even more fantastic. The mirage really is Gal Tra'kalas." Falaius has a sense of wonder in his voice that I've never heard before. Perhaps he does understand the grandeur around him. "As near as I can tell, the city belongs to a world where the first Cataclysm didn't happen. I don't pretend to understand how it is possible, but the people we see are real. They are far too complex to be simple illusions. They are born, grow, fall in love, and die just like anyone you know. The city is alive too ... well, as alive as any city is. Buildings are built, others are razed. Businesses open and prosper. Animals run the back alleys looking for scraps of food. If you make it your business to pay attention to a particular building or person or family, you'll see the unmistakable rhythm of life unfold before you. Make no mistake about it, Gal Tra'kalas is real."

"If that is true," Gilthanas wonders aloud, "then how can anyone bear to live here?" The elf has faced many strange things in his life, but I dare say that other than the return of the gods, this must be the most bizarre.

"Well, we didn't know. When the Legion first came here, there was only the mirage and a city's worth of ruins—crumbled walls, and mountains of brick and mortar debris half-hidden by the mirage, which we too mistook for a magical reconstruction of Gal Tra'kalas. My tribe has always called this spot the Missing City, and it seemed like an ideal place to build an outpost. If we built exactly behind the illusion, doing our best to recreate the facades of the buildings, only the closest inspection would reveal our presence. We'd have a town that no one could find—truly a Missing City."

Even though I know the story backward and forward, I lie here listening to Falaius. The cot is comfortable, and I feel a little light-headed. Odd. I don't remember going to bed.

"It was only after we'd been here several months that anyone began to suspect the truth. And by the time we were certain, our outpost had grown into a town. Most people stopped building in the 'occupied' sections of town. When you feel well enough to come down to the pier, you'll see that the newest buildings all stand just past the end of Gal Tra'kalas's city limits."

Gilthanas considers what he's heard. "And the people who already built their homes in the shadow city?"

"Each made a choice" the Legionnaire says noncommittally. "Many of them relocated, but the Legion maintained their original building. After all, the 'phantom folk,' as some of my men call them, can't see, hear, or touch anything of ours.

"Of course, most of the civilians chose to move. The wealthy merchants in particular were uncomfortable with the notion of sharing their homes with others, even if those others are not of this Krynn."

"But there are others who chose to stay?"

"Obviously. Most of them simply refuse to accept the people of Gal Tra'kalas as anything other than illusions. They take pride in the fact that they maintained their homes while their neighbors were run off by mere tricks of the light. But others, like your benefactor, Aman, consider them wholly real. They build their lives around people from both worlds, neither more or less important than the other. My men call these folks 'shadow walkers,' because they tread the edge of two worlds. Most others just call them crazy."

"So the people in this house—Mala and her parents—are real to Aman?"

"They're more than real. They are his family. And Mala . . . well, let's just say that I don't think I've ever felt as strongly about anyone as he does for that ghostly woman."

I'm shocked. Not only does Falaius understand the city, but he also understands me. I always thought he snickered behind my back like the rest of them, mocking my feelings for Mala. I have to apologize to him.

I sit up on the bed, and the room spins. I have a lump on the back of my head the size of a dagger's pommel. What happened?

"Yes," Gilthanas sighs, "I understand. His life is very similar to the one I've led these past years. The only things that matter to him are untouchable. For me, they were memories—shadows of the mind—but no less real because I too could not touch them. At times, it was easier to believe they were reality and my cell was a recurring nightmare. Silvanesti is full of those memories."

"But the people of Gal Tra'kalas are not memories," Falaius replies. "They are here, as much a part of the Missing City as we are."

"And how much the worse for our friend if he cannot separate his dream from his waking world?" the elf pauses. "We ought to awaken him for this."

Falaius clicks his tongue, as he always does when wrestling with a difficult question. "I think it may be kinder to let him sleep. There's nothing he can do. Watching this would be too painful."

What's wrong? Did Mala's father have another seizure? Did he die? We all knew it was coming, but no one is ever prepared for such a thing.

"If Aman must lose the one he loves, it's best that we afford him the opportunity to bid her farewell. In the years to come, he will draw solace from the closure. Otherwise, this will be a wound that never heals."

Mala? Has something happened to Mala? By all the departed gods, no!

I stand on uncertain legs.

If she's dying I must go to her. I have to be there for her, with her—even if she doesn't know it.

"What will happen when they leave the city?" Gilthanas asks.

Another tongue click announces that Falaius doesn't have a definite answer. "People leave Gal Tra'kalas all the time. They just disappear as the pass through the gates. Who can say where they go after that? The merchants come and go on a regular schedule, and they always return with carts full of goods from Silvanesti or Nordmaar. Do they really go to those places? Who can say? Maybe there's a whole other Ansalon for our ghostly neighbors to explore. For Mala's sake, I hope so, though that will be no real comfort to Aman."

Leave the city?

Now I remember!

The note that had Mala so excited was an invitation for the family to come live with her aunt in Shoole. They are leaving the city. That realization must have been too much for me. I think I blacked out. That must be how I got this lump on my skull. How long have I been unconscious? What does it matter? What matters is that Mala is leaving!

I've got to stop her!

My legs already are moving. I stumble out the door of my house—our house. Gilthanas and Falaius stare like I'm a wild beast. Perhaps I am. My heart beats with the same desperation as a rabbit's when the scent of the fox is in the air. The wagon rounds the corner pulled, I'm sure, by the horse Mala's sisters have given them—a cheap price to have their embarrassing relatives leave the city for good.

Gilthanas catches my gaze. I can see he knows the panic that sweeps through me. "Do what you can," his eyes seem to say. "In the end, it will do no good."

Meanwhile, Falaius walks toward me with a sad expression on his face. He holds out his massive hand, obviously meaning to lay it sympathetically on my shoulder. As heart-felt as that consolation might be, I know his true thought is to keep me here until it is too late.

Before Falaius can clasp my shoulder, I dash down the street. If Mala's going to Shoole, she'll take the wagon out the North Gate, and that's only a few blocks away. On the streets, I'll never catch the horses, but I have an advantage: I don't live in Gal Tra'kalas—I'm in the Missing City!

In the middle of the block, I turn right and run straight through the front wall of the candle-maker's shop. Leaping over the pile of rocky debris that used to be the kiln, I pass out the back and into the alley that cuts across the Northern District. Gilthanas can't possibly keep up with me; he's still too weak from his ordeal. In most instances, Falaius would have no trouble overtaking and subduing me, but he doesn't know this section of the Missing City as well as I do. He doesn't know which spectral buildings can be passed easily through and which hide dangerous piles of rubble, or even open pits. No, my well-meaning friends will have to take the streets just like Mala.

Through the Tan Griffin Inn and around the livery stable (it's been impassable since that merchant rebuilt the colossal barn), I see the North Gate ahead. I run heedlessly through the Gal Tra'kalans on the street. Usually I treat them with the same courtesy I do the more solid citizens of the Missing City, but right now I'd run straight through anyone who stood in my way.

At the gate, I stop and look back down the street. Nothing. No carriage. No Mala. Just the usual spectral pedestrian traffic. Did I read the note wrong? Is she heading for the West Gate instead? I can't possibly get there in time.

Before my fear sharpens to panic, a flat wagon pulled by two horses rounds the corner. Driving the team at a slow trot is my own Mala, a smile of breathless anticipation painted on her face.

"No!" I shout, waving my arms back and forth wildly. "Mala, stop! Don't go! Don't leave me!"

I know she can't hear me, but I have to take the chance. I yell like the madman everyone already thinks I am.

Now Falaius and Gilthanas round the corner. I can see them through the wagon, racing toward me, afraid that I'll do myself some harm (though what I could do, I can't imagine).

Despite my shouting and arm-waving, Mala drives her horses straight through me. Of course she does. What else could she do?

I sink to my knees in the dusty, haunted road.

As my companions reach me, I look over my shoulder to watch as Mala, my one true love, is about to dissipate into nothingness.

She stops the wagon, lays down the reins, and turns around for one last look at her home. A smile full of hope and the promise of a happier future plays across Mala's face, and she waves good-bye.

I wave back, too stunned to speak. I know she doesn't see me, but it doesn't matter.

Picking up the reins, she urges the horses on. One step, two, three ... she fades into the swirling sand. Mala is gone. I throw back my head and howl to the cloudless sky.

There is no one left in this world. I'm all alone. If only the desert could swallow me up the way it has Mala. "I have nothing," I whisper to the wind. But the only answer I get is a hand laid gently on my shoulder.

Gilthanas bends down on one knee behind me, a look of painful memory on his face. Falaius stands back, giving us a sense of privacy while still being close enough to intervene should it become necessary.

"You have your memories, friend Aman. That is all any of us truly carry through this life."

"Memories? Memories of what? She was never real! I spent all these years chasing after a woman who is nothing more than a wisp of smoke. Gilthanas, you may have walked in the company of the gods themselves, but you have no idea how I feel."

"Don't I?" He takes his hand from my shoulder and stands, looking down at me the way a parent looks at a petulant child. "You've just lost the one you love, a pain everyone sooner or later must face. It matters not one whit whether you had a few months or a lifetime together, or whether you ever were ever actually together at all. Do not confuse yourself by finding the faults in your past—they have no bearing on the emotional chasm before you.

"A hole has been torn in your heart. It will heal, but the process takes time. Will you spend that time wisely? Will you savor the sweet moments and release the rest? If you do, the scar your heart bears will be light."

I whirl on the elf. None of this is his fault, but he makes a convenient target for my rage.

"What if I don't want it to heal?" I growl.

Gilthanas looks at me ruefully.

"Then you have two choices. You can stay here and wallow in the memories, see all the things you used to see, do all the things you used to do. This is a tried and true method to keep your heart from healing, though as many before you have discovered, the pain will never cease. Or, you can devote yourself to finding the missing piece of your heart and returning it to its rightful place."

I sneer derisively.

"That's impossible, and you know it."

"Perhaps," Gilthanas smiles. "But no more impossible than finding a silver dragon who wishes to remain hidden."

Laughing I say, "And you've told us how well that worked out. How many years were you in that Silvanesti prison?"

"Enough," the elf points out, "to reconcile my past and put it behind me. There were days when the only thing that kept me alive were my memories. Now that I'm free, I live for the future. What will you live for, Aman, the future or the past?"

"The future," I say uncertainly. He's right; whatever happened before doesn't matter. Mala is gone, and nothing I do will change that. But if I take the love we had and build upon it, then that is the best way to honor the past. As long as I remain true to my inspiration, Mala will still be with me. "Do your memories no longer haunt you?"

Gilthanas pauses. I think he's unsure how to answer the question. "Perhaps they haunt me still, but they no longer rule me. I have more pressing matters to attend. I am a prince of Qualinesti. I have a duty to my people."

"When your duty is done," I ask, "then what will you live for?"

Falaius, sensing our conversation is nearing its end, steps forward and helps me to my feet.

"My duty will never end." The elf stiffens. He looks into the dirt, unwilling to meet my gaze. "This is my life."

"Then you are an even sadder creature than I."

 

*****

 

A week later, Gilthanas was well enough to resume his trip back to Qualinesti. Falaius Taneek brought him a pack of supplies, and a map of the easiest route to Purstal. From there, he planned to follow the merchant trails across the Plains of Dust.

I sit on a mound of rocks amid the ancient ruins of Shoole. Unlike those in the Missing City, no ghostly buildings rise from this site. The sea wind constantly blows through this place, sounding mournful.

He was right, I have to live for the future.

This part of the city seems roughly equivalent to the Garden District in Gal Tra'kalas. I imagine that the stones I sit on form the wall of the home where Mala lives now.

I'm heading up to the north—to the Isle of Schallsea, in fact. I hear that Gilthanas's old companion, Goldmoon, has founded a "Citadel of Light" there, and that she teaches people to speak with spirits. Now, I realize you're not a spirit, Mala, but this is the best place I know to start. Who knows what this new magic is capable of?

I hop down and gather my supplies. The road, and my future, lay in front of me. But before I head off, I turn and take one last look at the ruins. There's nothing there to see, but I smile and wave a fond good-bye.

Wherever she is, Mala waves back.

 

The Ancient City of Purstal, 11sc

 

For days Gilthanas walked across the dry wastes. Each morning he awakened to the same vista: flat, brown land stretching to the far horizons. And each day he wondered if he might not have been smarter to stay in the city and wait—the gods only knew how long—for some ship that might carry him all the way to Qualinesti.

But he had also learned things, disturbing things, about developments in his homeland. Most significantly, the Knights of Takhisis, dark warriors who served the five-headed queen of Evil dragonkind, had conquered the elven realm during the Summer of Chaos. The elven Speaker, the prince's nephew Gilthas, was serving as a puppet on the throne, manipulated by his Dark Knight masters. Waiting for a ship had become too aggravating when the memories and fears about his homeland had so filled his thoughts, and so he had set out on foot.

At least he had begun to banish the memories of Silvara and convince himself that his life must run its course without her. Somehow he believed that when he reached his homeland, everything would make sense and his life would have fulfillment and purpose. At night, sometimes, this hope seemed translucent and intangible, but with the coming of dawn he once again seized it like the bottom rung of a solid ladder.

He knew little of the lands he passed through, but with his vigor and strength regained and the protection offered by a cheap iron sword he had purchased for the wages of a week's hard labor, he felt capable of overcoming any obstacle fate might lay in his path. In the city he had learned that he could walk to the Torath River and follow that watercourse until it eventually reached Elial. There, he would strike out along the Duntollik Run and continue west until he made it to Qualinesti. He had been warned about dragons and bizarre creatures of chaos that might lie along the way, which would destroy him if he was so much as noticed.

The elf had reached the riverbank some ten days ago, now, and had failed to see any sign of a rivercraft—or any kind of habitation or village. He found the river clean enough to refresh his water supply every day, and sometimes he caught fish. Though there were dumps of brush along these waterways— the only vegetation other than grass he encountered here—he endured the chill of the near arctic clime rather than risk a fire. His supply of elven hardbread was sufficient for more than a month of travel, so he didn't particularly worry when, most days, that was the only food he could provide for himself.

As to hideous creatures waiting to prey upon him, he saw no sign. True, he occasionally heard rumbles of supernatural storms beyond the horizon to the south or west, but he maintained his vigilance and never observed any immediate threat. If a dragon appeared, the elf had a simple plan: He would lie down on the dry ground and cover himself with as much dusty dirt as he could quickly gather. Then he would simply wait, eyes on the sky, confident that the serpent would never notice him—even should it fly directly overhead.

It was on the eleventh day after he had reached the river that he first noticed an irregularity in the horizon. The river had grown to a wide, sluggish expanse to his left. The sun was beginning to set, reflecting off the broad flowage when before him he observed a series of shapes scattered across the flat ground. They stood perhaps a mile away from the water, and as he walked closer he got the unmistakable impression that these were ruins. That was a wall, here before him, and beyond he saw the tattered remnants of great stone houses surrounded by tangles of bramble.

Below his feet the dust had scattered away from some patches of ground to reveal smooth, interlocking paving stones—a wide avenue leading from a crumbled gate, between the buildings. A stone basin, cracked and dry, indicated where a splendid fountain or wading pool must once have gathered cool waters. A gust of wind carried dry powder through the air, stinging his eyes and irritating his nostrils.

Before him rose the greatest edifice in this ancient city of the dead. Surely it must once have been a palace—the gaunt outline of an ancient doorway gaped like a hungry mouth in the broken facade of a wall. His eyes widened with wonder as he slowly climbed the marble stairs leading to the doorway. The roof had long since collapsed, but within, outlined by fading sunlight, Gilthanas saw the remnants of corridors and columns, and of a sweeping expanse that might have been a throne room or a chamber suitable for hosting a great ball.

He passed beneath the still-intact arch of the doorway and kicked through the rubble on the floor. These were mostly loose tiles of slate, obviously scattered here when the roof had caved in. He crossed the hallway and passed into the entryway of the great room.

Something scuttled through the shadows at the base of the wall beside him, a little shape scurrying through the hall. Reflexively he placed his hand on his sword, even as he heard more noises to the rear. Gilthanas spun, but he saw nothing save thickening shadows as the sun continued its relentless descent.

He passed into the great room and saw that columns had once stood around the entire periphery of the place. Now many of these had fallen, but enough remained—some splintered at knee or head height, others rising more than a dozen feet toward a vanished ceiling—to provide a glimpse into the splendor of the past. He advanced across a floor of mosaic tiles and was vaguely surprised to see the colored stone at his feet. With a sense of eeriness he realized that something, or somebody, had cleaned off this surface, tending it with more care than anyplace else in these ruins.

Once again saw movement in the corner of his vision and he turned, the heavy iron blade drawn from its sheath and waving in the cool air.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"Just us."

The reply came from behind and he spun about again, then burst out laughing at the sight of the short, pudgy, and unkempt figure regarding him from a dozen paces away.

That fellow immediately twisted to look anxiously over his own shoulder, then turned back to glare at Gilthanas. "What so funny?" he demanded.

"Just... nothing," replied the elf, mastering his amusement to render a deep and acceptably formal bow. "It is a pleasure to meet you ... one of the Aghar, I am assuming."

The gully dwarf's chest puffed out nearly as far as his bulging belly. "And yes so it is to I myself... I am ass ... ass ... ass-you-ming," he parroted, insofar as he could remember what Gilthanas had said.

"I am Gilthanas of Qualinesti," said the wanderer, still maintaining the air of dignity.

"Me too!" cried the gully dwarf. "That is, me got name too ..." If the little creature remembered his cognomen, he apparently had no desire to share it.

"Is this your city?" inquired the elf.

"Me . . . my clan . . . we build this place!" boasted the other.

"I see." Gilthanas forced himself to keep a straight face. The Aghar, after all, were known across Krynn as the ultimate scavengers, moving into any dwelling or ruin that had become viewed as uninhabitable by its original owners. "And what is the name of your great metropolis?"

"This Purstal... Great Capital of the Aghar. This is, and Elial is too! That our other great capital, many days that way from here." He pointed in a vaguely northwestern direction.

Gilthanas was suddenly struck by a sense of melancholy. He wondered about the folk, humans most likely, who had built these once-splendid edifices. What had happened to them, that they left their cities to fall into ruin and be claimed by the lowest of the low. Would this happen to Qualinesti one day? The pang of homesickness grew, quickened by a more urgent question: Was it happening already?

"I... I have to go," he said, suddenly wanting to be out of this place, to be on the way to his homeland.

At that moment another gust of wind snaked between the ruined walls and more dust wafted past Gilthanas's face. He felt that irritation in his nose and then, before he knew what was happening, he exploded with a convulsive sneeze.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, shaking his head to clear the water from his eyes. He noticed with some surprise that the gully dwarf was staring up at him with an expression bordering on awe.

"It... it is you. The Sneezer has come!" proclaimed the Aghar. He shouted, waving his hands, dancing a shambling jig around the stunned Gilthanas. "The Sneezer comes! The Sneezer comes!"

"I don't understand," the elf tried to interject, beginning to worry. "And I really have to move—"

"But wait... you sleep here, sleep good. My tribe cook you one really fine feast tonight! We wait alla time for the Sneezer ... now you come, now you get big party! And then you sleep ... and we give you stuff, gifts we make for you. Only then you be on your way!"

"I don't think...." Gilthanas's voice trailed off. He was mystified, but admittedly intrigued.

"Where you go in such hurry, anyplace? I mean, 'anyway?'" demanded the rotund dwarf, glowering suspiciously. "You not like our stuff?"

"No, it's just that...." For a moment Gilthanas felt his thoughts run away with him. He remembered a dragon of silver, supple, curves and a graceful neck. She was an elf maid, and his beloved, and at that instant his longing for her was an emotion more powerful than he thought he could survive. But he shook his head—she was gone, and he had his life before him. "I'm going home," he said quietly, almost sadly.

"Well, go home—but not before you have our feast, take our stuff. You da Sneezer, right? We been waitin' for you. Now you come, see our stuff!"

Gilthanas didn't have the strength to resist.

 

*****

 

Aghar hospitality proved to be as insanely frenetic as the gully dwarves themselves, but Gilthanas was surprised to find himself enjoying the attention and the friendship of the filthy runts. He learned that the legend of "The Sneezer" had been handed down from generation to generation... that the Aghar here in Purstal, and in the nearby sister city—or sister ruin—of Elial, both had been living their days waiting for the arrival of the one who would sneeze.

Of course, the gully dwarves had no real understanding of what the Sneeze meant to them, which was just as well, from Gilthanas's point of view. He drank their wine, which was not bad, and ate their food, which was bad. He listened to their tales, enjoying one old would-be mystic who loudly sang of an arch on the glacier to the south.

"The Frozen Past Arch!" screeched the Aghar, in a quasi-sing-song. "It is the place where true hearts can seek their desire!" With a few questions, Gilthanas learned that the arch was reputedly a relic from a very ancient civilization, and that its powers were real, but difficult to unlock.

Finally, the Aghar brought forth gifts for their honored Sneezer. Gilthanas was agreeable and prepared himself to accept some moldy rat-skin cloak or perhaps a backpack with no straps. He was stunned when his humble hosts instead gave him real treasures, including a cloak and boots that would keep him warm in all weather, a decanter that would always pour fresh beverage, a scroll that mapped out for him the Plains of Dust and the adjacent Icewall Glacier, and finally a fine sword, a blade of elven steel that had been forged more than two thousand years ago.

Touched and more than a little drunk, he embraced many of the gully dwarves, danced with them, and fell asleep on a heap of rags in the same room with a hundred Aghar. When he awakened, his hosts were still sleeping. Despite his thick tongue and pounding headache, Gilthanas gathered his new treasures, gave his hosts a whispered farewell, and once again started on the road toward his home.

 

Reflections on a Rose of Stone: Stone Rose, 12sc

 

Welcome to the garden!

Oh, my friends, I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that so few people come here anymore that I am terribly glad for the company. Here, I've a skin full of mulled wine—allow me to make amends for spoiling your solitude by sharing it with you.

No, no, no ... I insist. What kind of caretaker would I be if I scared away my only guests? A poor one, let me assure you!

No. It is my job to make sure you enjoy your visit. Hopefully, you'll have such a good time that you'll tell all your friends and relations to also make the journey. So pass around the skin and drink your fill. Today, you are the guests of Tarn Granger, the keeper of the garden—an uninspired name, but when your entire town is named Stone Rose, there's really no reason to think of a fancy title for the main attraction.

Just about the only people who come through here these days are merchants and mercenaries, and neither of them have time to stop and smell the roses—so to speak. Pilgrims and explorers rarely make the trip to Stone Rose anymore. I can't say I blame them for staying home, what with the Knights of Takhisis holding Qualinesti in their iron grip, and Sable the Black Dragon turning all the New Coast into a bloody swamp! But those who make the trip see something so amazing—I'm not fibbing one bit when I tell you it's unique on all of Krynn.

Walk with me a ways, and I'll show you what I mean.

Pardon my saying so, but by the look of your tattered clothing and that haunted tint to your eyes, I'd hazard to guess that you're refugees from Qualinesti. I thought so! The way you flinched when I mentioned the Dark Knights was a dead giveaway.

It's a sad, sad time, I tell you. "Age of Mortals" indeed! If it was our age, would half the land be ruled by dragons the size of small castles? No, sir! But you take your beauty where you can—and I don't know of anywhere more beautiful than the garden in Stone Rose.

Look out there. It takes your breath away, doesn't it? Over an acre of rosebushes in all shapes and sizes. Those over there are trimmed in the shapes of dragons, a griffin, and a pegasus. Off to the north, you can see lattices covered with vines and flowers the size of your fist. But the centerpiece, literally, is the maze. Now, it's not much of a maze—you can see the hedges are only about waist high—but that circle at the center sits under the shade of a rosebush grown and pruned into the shape of a miniature vallenwood. It's the best place in the whole town to sit and quietly sip your mulled wine. (Why do you think we're heading there, eh?)

Yes, all this would be marvel enough, considering the fact that we're on the edge of a desert! But it's even more fantastic than you think. You see, all the roses, every bush, vine, and tree, are made of stone. And not some crumbled granite either. The stone is smooth and polished, and shines like the marble statues you'll find in Solamnian noble homes.

Look at them!

The detail is so fine that you can hardly tell the difference between these and the real thing—well, except for the color .. . and the smell. If these were live flowers, the air would be thick with perfume. Our roses don't smell so nice as the normal kind, but you never have to sweep up the petals in the fall! As the groundskeeper, let me tell you, that makes me very happy. We also don't have to deal with bees and other nuisance bugs, so all in all, I'd say we get the best of both worlds.

Careful, though. Those thorns are just as sharp as they look, and they're sturdy enough to do some real damage. I remember one little kender who got curious about whether the bushes were made of stone on the inside as well as the out. He stuck his whole arm in through a gap in the branches. Not the brightest thing I've ever seen done, but you know how kender are when they get a notion in their heads.

Well, he got his arm wedged in there as far as it would go and grabbed onto the first branch he found. Sure enough, it was made of stone—and covered in thorns. He yelped like a dog that had stuck its nose up a beehive. The kender then tried to pull his arm out as quick as can be. That was his second mistake.

Instead of just having a few holes in his hand, he snagged his arm on just about every thorn on the way out. He yanked the arm a ways, yelped again, yanked some more, yelped even louder, until finally, he got himself free. It wasn't a pretty sight, let me tell you. Luckily, Sondra Softtouch, the mayor's daughter, heard the commotion and came running. Sondra spent a year studying up there with Goldmoon and her mystics on Schallsea and came back quite the little healer. She patched the kender up quick enough. And though he was still very curious about the flowers, that kender kept his hands in his deep little pockets the rest of his stay.

Yes, I've got a whole lot of stories about the garden. I suppose that's what comes from spending my whole life tending the place.

What? You don't think stone roses need tending?

Weeds grow here just as well as they do anywhere else. They may not be a threat to these bushes, but they still look a mess. And who wants to visit a messy garden? Then there's the mess that people make. You wouldn't believe the kind of things folks will just up and leave behind if they don't actually live in a place. I've found everything from torn clothing to rotten eggs just sitting in the garden. And you'd faint dead away if I told you how often I find daggers and short swords with their blades chipped (and sometimes broken clean off) by someone who got it into his fool head to try to take a genuine stone rose home with him. Do you know I've even seen a minotaur battle-ax with a goodly chunk missing thanks to one of these stems? Even I'm amazed.

Are the roses magic?

Well, that's hard to say. Magic would explain why they stand up so well to normal blades. But then again, I'd think the same thing if you started taking swings at a boulder—no sword was meant to strike a rock over and over again.

Some folks say the garden is a cursed site.

 

*****

 

The story goes that a long time ago, back before the gods rained fire down on ancient Istar, back when this part of the land was green and fertile, a great castle stood where our little town is now. In that castle, they say, lived a very wise king and his only son, Prince Dottaard.

As the fingers of age tightened on the king, he began to worry about the fate of his kingdom, for his son was yet unmarried. In order to remedy this situation, the king sent his four swiftest riders, one in each direction, to make this proclamation known throughout the land: Whatever woman Prince Dottaard married would not only become princess (and eventually queen) of the realm, but also would receive all the lands south of the castle and half of the kingdom's treasury to do with as she pleased. The prince, he thought, would never choose to marry a woman who would abuse such a gift.

The next day, hundreds of young ladies visited the palace, each more beautiful and elegant than the next. The only one the prince had eyes for, though, was Rosella. Rosella wore a cape of deepest black, and though she kept the hood pulled low (hiding her eyes in constant shadow), the flowing red locks that spilled over her shoulders and her ruby lips said this was a woman of exquisite beauty.

By midday, Prince Dottaard dismissed all the ladies except Rosella, and by sundown, he was sure no other woman matched him so perfectly. The wedding, it was decided, would take place one month hence.

The king was beside himself with joy. His son would have a wife, his kingdom would have a princess, and he could die a happy man.

That evening, however, as the king passed Rosella's chamber, he heard a strange, ancient voice coming from within. Peeking through the cracked door, he saw Rosella remove her hood to reveal that she was not a youthful maiden at all, but rather an ancient sorceress. The cloak she wore was really her wizards robes—black robes—and she cast a spell so that when it was pulled tight about her, she would have the visage of a princess.

"I have cast a spell," Rosella cackled to herself, "to make that fool prince fall in love with me. In one month, we will marry and half the kingdom will be mine!"

The king ran off to tell his son the terrible news, but Rosella's spell was so powerful that the prince did not believe a word of it. He was going to marry Rosella, and his father could do nothing about it. As the wedding day grew closer, the king plotted and planned, but he could find no way to save his son and his kingdom from this terrible woman.

Then, one week before the wedding, a palace maid overheard Rosella talking to the captain of the guard. "I am terribly allergic to roses," she said, "so you must not allow any guests to bring them to my wedding. Not even the tiniest rosebud may be woven into a lady's headdress, is that clear?"

It certainly was clear to the maid, and she hurried to tell the king what she had heard. It gave him a clever plan.

On the day of the wedding, the king came to his son and apologized for his rude behavior toward the bride-to-be. "In order to make amends," the king said, "I have arranged the most glorious event ever. The wedding will take place in our own courtyard, and everyone in the kingdom will be there." This pleased the spellbound prince, and he went to tell Rosella the wonderful news.

As the bride and groom walked out arm-in-arm, Rosella gasped, then drew back in horror. The entire courtyard had been transformed into a rose garden with trees, bushes, and shrubs of all varieties, each at the height of bloom.

While the entire kingdom watched, Rosella sneezed so hard that her hood flew off, revealing her true form. As panic swept through the crowd, Rosella sneezed again and again. Finally, her concentration was so shattered that she could no longer maintain the spell that bewitched Prince Dottaard.

Freed from Rosella's control, the prince immediately announced that the wedding was off and called for the palace guard. Though they were no match for the sorceress, the guards drove Rosella off. Before she left, she turned to the king and said, "Your roses have beaten me, but they will never do so again!"

With that, she waved her hands in the air and every bush, tree, and shrub turned to stone. Then she repeated the motion and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

When the king explained what had happened, Prince Dottaard went to thank the palace maid. In the end, though, the two fell in love, and one month later, they married.

The wedding was held in the garden of stone roses, which bride, groom, and king all agreed was the loveliest place in all the kingdom.

 

*****

 

Quite a story, eh? It was my daughter's favorite when she was a wee girl. Most folk don't take it as truth, but it's the one we usually tell visitors.

The story we like to believe is about a sculptor and a princess. (Funny how they all seem to be about royalty, eh?)

 

*****

 

In the Age of Might, shortly after the Kingpriest of Istar made his Proclamation of Manifest Virtue, there lived Princess Kojen, a beautiful and mighty warrior of the House of Kharolis. She railed against the doctrines of the Kingpriest, who declared that any woman who engaged in battle or other "manly duties" was a follower of Evil and should be put immediately to death.

Princess Kojen, as was the fashion for ladies in the kingdom of Kharolis, was a strong leader—a position the Proclamation strictly forbade her to hold—and often enjoyed the pleasures of archery, fencing, and horseback riding. In fact, just about the only thing she did which would have met remotely with the Kingpriest's approval was the time she spent with her lover, a sculptor by the name of Serran.

Though Serran would beg Kojen not to flaunt the Proclamation so boldly, she just laughed at him. "It is who I am," she told him. "You would not want me to ask you to give up your chisel and mallet, would you? No. Then how can you ask me to give up all of the things my blood aches to do? And how can anyone who forces me to do so possibly be the living embodiment of all that is Good?"

Serran blanched at the question. "That is heresy, Kojen! Do not ever say that again!"

The princess merely laughed at her lover. Her will was too strong to allow her to do anything other than speak her mind at all times, no matter what the consequences. And when word of Kojen's unrepentant ways reached the Kingpriest, he sent a force of one hundred soldiers to arrest the princess.

When the soldiers approached Serran's workshop, Princess Kojen met them with cold steel. The battle raged for three days and three nights, and when the sun rose on the fourth day, Princess Kojen was the only one left standing.

"This is not the end of this, Serran," she said as he tended her wounds. "More soldiers will come—perhaps a thousand or more. And I will not be their only target. In order to get to me, they will strike at you, and I cannot have that. Tomorrow morning, I must leave so that you will be safe."

Though it broke his heart, the sculptor knew it must be so.

"I have a present for you," Serran whispered as he held Kojen in his arms for the last time before she left. He held out his hand, and in it was a sculpture of a rose, delicate and perfect in every detail. "As this flower will never fade and wilt, neither will my love for you, dear Kojen. For every day that we are apart, I will carve another rose so that when we are reunited, we will have a monument worthy of our love."

The princess left the next morning at dawn.

A week later, a thousand soldiers arrived at Serran's home looking for Kojen. And though a hundred different officers questioned him as to the princess's whereabouts, the only answer he ever gave was, "She has gone." And all the while, he never looked up from the perfect blooming rose he carved from a block of solid marble. When the soldiers left, Serran carried the rose out to his garden and placed it in a wooden lattice alongside six other perfect stone roses.

From time to time, the sculptor would hear rumors of his princess. If they were all to be believed, Kojen traveled from one end of Ansalon to the other and back. She may have even visited the fabled Dragon Isles. But the one place her wanderings never took her was back to Serran's side.

Before he died, Serran sculpted more than twenty thousand individual roses as well as every leaf, limb, and lattice that you find in the garden today.

 

*****

 

Who wouldn't face an entire army to defend a love as true as Kojen and Serran's?

If that story is even partly true, then it's no wonder the garden is such an inspirational site. In the forty years that I've tended it, I've seen all manner of man, woman, and beast come into the garden and leave changed to the core.

There was a man who traveled here all the way from the Estwilde, where he ran a grist mill. Seems that all his life he had heard of the garden at Stone Rose and felt an unexplainable urge to see it. He sold his mill, packed the few things that mattered most to him in this world, and hiked across mountain, desert, and dragon realm to get here. Let me tell you, I could see every mile he'd crossed caked onto his face or frayed off his shirt, but a happier man I'd never met. That is, until he sat on the bench under the shade tree.

You see, sitting on that bench was a woman who had taken every last copper from her dowry to pay for a similar trek, all the way from a farm in Tanith.

They took one look at each other, and it was as if they'd known one another all their lives. They sat under that tree and talked deep into the night. When I came back the next day, I found them curled in one another's arms, asleep beneath a stone hedge.

Well, the mayor performed their marriage ceremony that evening. They live on a farm just down the road. See, even those of us who visit the garden every day still get swept up in the emotions it brings out.

One morning, I arrived at work to hear a piteous yowling coming from somewhere in the hedge maze. After searching around for a while, I came across a black kitten—it couldn't have been more than four weeks old—whose matted fur had become caught on a stone thorn. I haven't a clue what happened to the mother or the rest of the litter, but it was plain to see this little fellow was all alone in the world and in need of some looking after. So I brought him home in spite of the fact that my nose clogs up and my eyes tear every time I so much as touch an animal. And don't you know it, that cat loves to be petted.

Yes, the beauty of the place will make a body do some awful strange things, like this elf that passed through here the other day. He was a strange one, a Qualinesti just like you folks. But instead of running away from the Dark Knights and their minions, he was headed straight back into the forest. Still, in the end, I think the garden helped him find the right path to walk.

 

*****

 

When I came into the garden that morning, the elf was already there, standing in front of that bush over there, staring hard at that rose—the one that is partly open and faces almost due west.

His clothing marked him as a vagabond, but his bearing made me look twice. Now, to us humans, all elves look more or less proud. The way you carry yourselves, tall and thin and straight, makes you seem as though you expect to be congratulated for just walking into the room. I don't mean this as an insult, just as a comparison to us humans. Because the elf I saw that morning had an air that made him seem ... well... haughty is the only word I can think of to capture it.

Being as how I leave people alone unless they look like they need help or a friendly ear, I went about my business and let the elf go about his. When I finished my weeding, though, I noticed the elf was still staring at the same rose.

Coincidence, I told myself. I just happened to catch him at the same place I saw him earlier. A lot of visitors wander the garden for hours, stopping and gazing at the same three or four sculptures that appeal to them most.

When I came back from my noon meal, though, the elf was still there. So I decided to make sure that he was all right. I walked up next to him, yet he didn't even know I was there!

I cleared my throat. "Good afternoon." I said and waited for a response. When he didn't give one, I continued, "There are plenty of pretty roses here in the garden. Mind if I ask what makes that one so interesting to you?"

He finally turned to look at me, and I could see a single tear welled up in his eye.

"Nothing. It is just the first one that caught my eye." His voice was dry and distant. "It is ... they are all so ... perfect."

"Yes, they sure are. Beautiful, too."

"And terribly, terribly sad" he added.

"What?"

"The roses. They are very sad. Can you not see that?"

I really had no idea what he was talking about, but I thought it best to listen a while longer. I couldn't figure out if he was the wisest elf to ever visit the garden or just the plumb craziest.

"No," I told him. "Why are the roses sad?"

"Because they cannot be what they were meant to be."

I told him that I still didn't understand and offered him a sip of water. I was sure that he was heat-mad.

"The rose," he began, speaking very patiently—the way you do when you're explaining something very important, "wants to bloom. That is what all roses want: to grow from tiny buds full of promise to exquisite flowers that please the eye and the nose, and finally to move on, for beauty in this world is merely transitory."

"But these roses are always beautiful," I said.

He looked at me as if I was speaking in the goblin tongue.

"The roses don't want to be beautiful—that's just what they are, they can't help it. No matter what they do, they always will be beautiful. What they want is to grow. And that is the one thing these roses may never do. They have a duty."

"A duty?" He was heat-mad for sure. If I was lucky, he'd just pass out and I could get Sondra to heal him.

"Yes, a duty—like me. My duty is to return to Qualinost, to help my people, to lead them out from oppression. That is a beautiful thing—a proud and noble destiny."

"But it's not what you want?"

"No! With all my heart I want to follow another path. My heart, my past, and my love all call out for me to go to the frozen lands to the south, but my duty calls me westward."

His madness was beginning to make more sense.

"And don't you ever follow your heart?" I asked. "Is duty always your master?"

"Always," the elf replied. "It is all I've ever known. I am truly like the flowers in this garden. Their stone skin prevents them from blooming, from ever reaching their potential. They are trapped in a state halfway between their beginning and their end. I too am trapped. For if I go to perform my duty now, then as surely as I stand before you, duty will keep me trapped the rest of my days. There will never be a day when I am free to follow my heart's desire."

I didn't know what to say.

"Well, you're here now, and you have a choice. Why don't you follow your heart?"

The elf stood completely still for a very long time. So long that I thought the heat finally had cooked his brain.

"I don't know if I have the strength to. I've followed duty my whole life. Can I ignore it now?" He looked at me, his eyes aflame with confusion. "Can the rose ever break through its stone skin and truly bloom?"

I hadn't a clue how to answer him. Truth be told, I wasn't even really sure what the question meant. So we just stared at one another for a very long few moments. And when we looked back at the stone roses, we saw something remarkable.

A slight wind blew through the garden, and from amid the very stone rose bush we stared at, a red shape bobbed back and forth. It was a rose—a real living rose. Now, I'll often find small rosebushes sprouting around the garden. I take care to dig them up and bring them to my own garden at home. They somehow seem to detract from the beauty of the statues. But I hadn't seen any plant budding in this particular stone hedge all year—yet there one was.

The elf smiled.

"I have my answer," he said, then turned to me and bowed deeply. "Thank you for your time and thoughts. They have been most enlightening."

With that, he turned and left the garden.

 

*****

 

I'm not sure what answer the elf received, and I surely don't know whether he headed home to Qualinesti or south to the frozen plains (though what he expected to find there, I haven't a clue). But I do know that I let that little rose stay in the garden—there it is, poking out from the top of the stone hedge. It seems important somehow.

Oh, but storytelling is a thirsty job—even more thirsty than gardening.

Pass me the wine, and when I'm done, I'll tell you the tale of how we cured the mayor of sleepwalking through the garden on the nights of the full moon!

 

The Frozen Past Arch, 13sc

 

The farther across the ice he went, the more Gilthanas convinced himself that the huldrefolk portal would prove the key to his journey. He trudged steadily, day after day, across a wilderness of unrelieved frost and snow. The Courrain Ocean was somewhere off to his left, but he would worry about that later—for now, it was just important to keep making progress south.

Fortunately, the enchanted cloak the gully dwarves had given him kept him warm even in the most harsh arctic conditions. He slept directly on the snow but never felt a chill underneath him so long as he kept the scarlet fabric between himself and the glacier. Also, no matter how harsh the wind that tore across the flat swath of ice blew, it could not penetrate the tight weave of the cape that he kept wrapped around him.

Fondly he recalled the simple generosity of the gully dwarf clans in Purstal and Elial. On this cold expanse he actually found himself missing the companionship of his hosts in those ruined cities.

Eventually he arrived at the great precipice, the Icewall, and here at last he turned his course toward the east. For many more days he plodded, always looking up at the sun-dazzled face of blue-white cliff. He began to ration his food, though—thanks to the magical decanter of Purstal—he had no worries about drink. Alternately he poured sweet nectar of squeezed citrus fruit to invigorate his limbs, or tart red wine to warm his torso, and with the singleminded purpose that had driven him since the garden of Stone Rose he continued on.

And then he saw it.

The arch was so tall that it rose from beyond the horizon, even though it towered a mile or more past the crest of the Icewell. As Gilthanas walked closer, the arch seemed to sink from his view behind the nearer skyline, until at last he stood at the foot of the great cliff and could see no sign of the massive stone shape rising into the sky above. Darkness settled around him as he was studying the sheer surface, though the ice seemed to glow even in the pale light shed by a crescent moon.

After an hour of study, the elf conceded that he could not climb this cliff anywhere along here. Of course, in the days before the Summer of Chaos, he could have cast a spell, using his training and talent to control the arcane powers he had mastered for most of his adult life. A spell of levitation would have carried him easily up the cliff, or—if he was really in a hurry—he could simply have teleported himself and his possessions up the precipice, or even into the very shadow of the arch, for that matter.

However, that magic had departed with the gods who had abandoned the world to its mortal masters. And so Gilthanas found himself faced with the prospect of an impossible climb.

Instead, he resolved to find another way. For the next day he marched across the glacier, now following the foot of the cliff until, at sunset, he reached the sharp dividing line between ice and sea. Here the glacier ended in broken shards and spires—a treacherous landscape that shifted and surged with tempest and tide. However, Gilthanas was not interested in going further.

Instead, he saw where the cliff of the Icewall ended and where the vast shelf of bedrock became a tumble of boulders and rubble spilling into the harsh, cold sea. Icicles draped many of the large stones, and here and there great swaths of loose snow had swept avalanche channels through the slope. At least the surface was irregular, though, allowing Gilthanas to climb it.

He began ascending at dawn, using his sword as an icepick and counting on the grip of his boots to cling even to the slipperiest of surfaces. He avoided the worst of the avalanche chutes, and when forced to cross a lesser ravine, he hastened with reckless abandon. Once he leaped out of a gully seconds before a rumble of icy snow roared from the precipice down to the sea.

By nightfall he found that he was only halfway up, but he rested in a windswept crevasse between two boulders. Even the protective ability of the cloak was taxed, causing Gilthanas to move out before the dawn. To remain still any longer meant he'd risk freezing to death.

Thus it was that the first rays of the sun fell across him as he pulled himself over the ultimate crest of the Icewall. Before him, ten miles or more away but rising in crystalline relief against the azure sky, the Frozen Past Arch crested in glorious perfection.

It must have taken hours for Gilthanas to cross that distance, but he was not aware of time passing. Instead, he had eyes only for the massive semicircle of stone—the portal that swept into the sky and then curled back down to the ground. It seemed to the elf that this course must be symbolic of the promise for his life and future. He had a destiny—a path to follow—and its course was before him!

Finally he stood beneath the stone surface. It might have risen a thousand feet over his head, but he had no way to make an objective reckoning. He sniffed the air, he listened and tasted and touched, seeking for some sign of the portal's power. But he wasn't surprised to find no glimmer of a magical aura.

He did not take this as evidence of failure. Instead, he had anticipated this—surely the power of such an ancient and hallowed place would not be focused so directly that any dumb brute that wandered beneath it would be affected. No, to reach the center of the arch's power, Gilthanas knew he would have to do more.

He would have to climb.

For the first time he took stock of the arch's surroundings. He realized that other unnatural shapes softened and masked by a permanent snow cover stood around him. In one place a great dome mounded out of the icepack's surface, appearing too smooth and symmetrical to be anything but a designed structure. Of course any outer surface it may have displayed was buried beneath millennia worth of glacial accumulation.

Beyond the dome was the suggestion of a crooked wall, also smooth and icy on its exterior. Other structures that might have been elaborate towers or giant statues were now buried beneath the ice, though they still jutted upward enough to suggest imaginative design and incredible workmanship.

Gilthanas walked a circle around the base of the arch—a span with a diameter of nearly a thousand paces. The body of the structure seemed to be a curving shaft of solid stone. Each footing was only twenty or thirty feet across, and no broader than the trunk of a full-grown vallenwood tree. Yet these pillars swept upward and in, somehow bearing the weight of a span that seemed to deny possibility. The prince knew that no one in the world, not even the most skilled of dwarven stonemasons, could have built anything resembling this in the modern era. He needed no further proof of the arch's origins—this was clearly an artifact of a long-vanished race, boasting workmanship of a quality lost to the world.

At the foot of one of the stone legs he saw that narrow steps had been carved into the surface. The climb, especially at the beginning, looked to be treacherous and steep. Still, Gilthanas wasted no time in dropping his satchel of treasures given to him by the gully dwarves. He wrapped his cloak around the bundle and, wearing his sword in its sheath and using the soft boots on his feet, he started up the stone stairway.

For its lower course this was more accurately a ladder, since the arch started out rising nearly straight up into the air. The steps were only wide enough for his toes, but his fingers could cling to the higher notches in the stone surface, and he made his way without a great deal of difficulty. Soon the wind began to whip at him, and he felt the chill through his wool tunic, but he clung tightly to his handholds and made sure that each foot was firmly planted before he advanced to the next step.

By the time he had risen a hundred feet above the surface of the glacier, the angle of incline had decreased enough that Gilthanas could climb without the use of his hands. Even so, he remained hunched forward, and as the wind rose to howling force, he frequently grabbed at the stone surface to steady himself. He began to take note of the irregularities in the surface of the ice below—the shrouded structures of the ancient huldrefolk city.

This was not a ruin in the same sense as Purstal, where it was possible to guess at the nature of the structures and clearly perceive their purposes. Here, any purposes eluded his understanding—except, perhaps, for one great bowl that might have served as some kind of amphitheater. Otherwise the walls, domes, irregular shapes, and icy spires that extended for miles inland made no sense in the context of any city Gilthanas had ever seen.

Finally he stood at the top of the arch, where he found a smooth platform no larger than the main table in a typical inn. Like the rest of the arch, this flat expanse was clear of snow and ice—a fact which, for the first time, struck him as unusual. With a steady stride he walked to the center of the platform and turned to face the sun. He spread his arms wide, braced himself against the wind buffeting him, and raised his voice to the heavens.

"Silvara!" he cried. "I seek you! May the power of the arch fulfill my quest!"

He waited, feeling the chill of frostbite on his cheek, seeking some sensation of ancient power—some magic that would sweep him away from here. But he sensed no indication—no smell or taste of an aura. He listened, but the sound that reached his ear evoked a much earthier company.

"Jump!"

The word was followed by a hearty laugh—the speaker apparently greatly enjoying his suggestion.

Immediately Gilthanas opened his eyes. Stepping forward, heedless of the long drop, he looked down to see a trio of tiny figures standing in the snow below.

"Jump!" shouted one of them, and this time all three bent over from the force of their fulsome guffaws. "We'll catch you!" he hollered, spreading his great arms in an expansive, ludicrous gesture.

"Thanoi," muttered the elf, recognizing the tusked faces and the powerful and hulking bodies of the walrus-men. His memories of the crude race were bad, dating back to his first quest on this glacier—a search for an orb of dragonkind that had brought him here more than forty years ago.

"Go away," he shouted in reply. "Or perhaps you'd care to catch one of my arrows!"

He tried the bluff, hoping that the creatures hadn't seen that he wasn't armed with a bow. He was disappointed when they only laughed harder. "Are you going to throw them down? Perhaps we can catch them in your pretty cloak!"

Now he saw that the largest of the walrus-men, the speaker and presumed leader, was holding out a scarlet bundle. The other two pawed through the robe, howling as they picked up the elf's treasured belongings.

Gilthanas flushed with rage. Not for the first time did he truly miss his magic, knowing that in years past he could have unleashed his power on these insolent wretches to punish them thoroughly—while barely batting his own eyes from the effort. Gritting his teeth, he checked that his sword was loose in its scabbard and started back down the stairs he had ascended

Only then did he stop and reflect. He had felt no power— no arcane effect atop the arch—but he had been so sure he could find Silvara by using it somehow. Purposefully he stepped back across the platform, this time turning his face to the east. Again he beseeched the ancient power of the huldre, calling Silvara by name, straining his mind for some sensation, some suggestion of an image, of his silver dragon maid.

But there was nothing beyond the howling of the wind and the increasingly mocking laughter from below. He squinted in the distance, following his tracks back across the snow, and then he saw it:

A brown shape, clearly the hull of a sleek boat, lay in a notch on the icy shoreline. Had the thanoi come here in that craft? Certainly he hadn't seen any sign of them in the ruined city beforehand. Yet, though his tracks were clearly visible, there was no spoor leading from the boat, or anything suggesting that the walrus-men had come from other than the snow right below.

Once more Gilthanas started down the arch. On the lower, steepest stretch, he was forced to face the steps and thus turn his back to the thanoi, who had gathered in a loose ring below him. The elf startled the hulking bullies by spinning when he was twenty feet off the ground and leaping to the snow to land beyond the ring of walrus-men. By the time they had recovered from their surprise, turning to face him, he was standing with his sword drawn.

"It has been years since I have killed one of your clan," Gilthanas declared coldly. "But it is not a knack I have lost."

"Hoark, hoark!" laughed the largest thanoi. "A big sting for a little fellow." The creature hefted his formidable weapon, which was a wooden shaft with a vast sheet of clear ice forming an ax-blade at one end. Gilthanas didn't let the crude appearance of the weapon fool him; he knew that the frostreaver was a weapon as deadly as any razor-edged blade of steel.

"Give me my things, and I will go," the elf declared boldly. "Unless you choose to fight."

"We give your things back—but only if you go that way," grunted the thanoi, pointing inland.

Immediately Gilthanas remembered the boat. Did they want to keep him away from the craft? Or did they merely intend to follow him across the glacier and kill him at their leisure?

"I have a mind to go there," he replied, indicating the coast. "But I will take my things, regardless."

"No! Go away!" bellowed the greatest of the walrus men.

"Are you thieves?" the elf scoffed. "You wouldn't know what to do with those things if you kept them!"

"Do?" The thanoi's voice dropped to a menacing growl. "Do this!"

Gilthanas was startled when one of the thanoi hoisted the decanter of Purstal and smashed the glass against the stone arch. Another tore asunder the scroll—the precious map that had brought him to this point. And the third rent his cloak into small pieces with savage, grunting tears.

The elf lost his temper and charged in to attack. His steel sword shattered one frostreaver, then cut down two of the lumbering thanoi. He stabbed the last one in the back, furiously twisting the blade, then kicking the corpse as his trembling rage lingered long after his enemies were dead. Most of his magical treasures were gone, destroyed uselessly, mindlessly ... and for what?

Finally, cold and thirsty, he plodded across the ice, seeking the wooden hull he had seen from so far above. Darkness fell, but now he couldn't stop, for to sleep was to die. The cold wind tore through his tunic, and he longed for the cloak. If the boat proved useless, or even barren of provisions, he would undoubtedly perish from exposure to frost or sea. But now it was his only chance.

He discovered the craft and was astonished to see that it appeared new—at least, it showed no signs of weathering. It floated in a natural slip between two jutting prongs of ice. The planks were smooth, and the hull was polished to a high sheen. There was no snow in it, nor were there tracks in the fresh powder around it. He scrambled over the gunwale, estimating the vessel at a good twenty-five feet long. More to his delight, he found a cask of water—somehow, miraculously unfrozen—and a crate containing many fresh loaves of elven warbread. The provisions should last for a month or more. Furthermore, he looked under the foredeck and found clean blankets and several plush furs. However, the boat held no oars, and he could not find any sign that a mast had ever been mounted.

Most curious was an elaborate scrollwork of words carved into the transom. He recognized the structure of verse, though the letters themselves were arcane and utterly foreign to him. Nevertheless, he ran his fingers over the words, whispering to himself. He decided to camp here and warm himself in the furs while he made his plan.

He dozed off, and the last thing he did was mumble the words "Elian Wilds," with the vague notion that he could get supplies there.

Suddenly, the boat began to move.

 

A Moment in Time: Elian Wilds

 

Time is a strange thing.

Years. Months. Days. Hours. Minutes. Seconds. Even the briefest of moments. They can all drag on for what seems like eternity, or they can fly by in a split second. No matter how long one spends with a lover, it is never long enough, but the time spent with a reviled commander seems twice as long than it actually was.

Some say that the moment of a man's death lasts forever and that he has enough time to relive his entire life and even experience how things might have been. As Gilthanas and I both dropped our guard and lunged at each other in all-out attacks, it was clear to me that only one of us would be trapped in that eternal final moment while the other's life would proceed forward in fits and starts, with each day, hour, and minute seeming to vary in length.

 

The Meeting, 18sc

I never thought it would come to this when I first met Gilthanas. He was the most wondrous thing to have entered my life up to that point.

I had just survived the Test the month before, and the Superior Master said that he had been impressed with my performance. One of the foes I had bested was actually of a rank far higher than I thought I would ever be skilled enough to attain—in fact, to this very moment, all these years later, I feel that it was more luck than skill that allowed me to succeed.

When I received the message that the Superior Master wanted me to meet him on the docks of the Forbidden City, my heart filled with both elation and dread. I felt elated because an audience with the Superior Master is something that he reserves only for the greatest of the ranks, the Red's Emissary, or those who had earned a special mission from which they do not return. It would be the greatest of honors for the Superior Master to select one as young as I am for such a mission, but it would also mean that I would not have an opportunity to take a woman and carry on my family line. Although I would be counted among the honored dead, it would be a death without meaning for I would have no children to recite the achievements of my life.

I hurried through the streets of the Forbidden City, trying to ignore the strange sounds that occasionally came from within the buildings and staying well clear of the bloodsucking vines that had helped me defeat one of my foes during the Test. Even though my peers considered me strong enough to walk in the Forbidden City, the crystal buildings still seemed like places from which unfathomable horrors could spill forth at any moment. Several times during the Test, I had thought I had caught sight of the golden-skinned dwarves that had forced my forebears into a state of slavery through their powerful magic. But whenever I stared in that direction, I discovered that the image was a mirage—just the light reflecting off a crystal doorway or a spot where the crystalline building had healed itself of some damage it had incurred. The combination of the crystal and dried blood— for all the crystal buildings bled when damaged—often caused men of higher rank than I am to make mistakes. I took it as a sign that my courage and steadiness were increasing when my imagination played only one such trick on me that day.

When I reached the dock, I found the Superior Master standing on the outermost point of the pier, gazing upon the turbulent waters beyond our island. As I moved closer, I noticed that a thick fog was rolling in, obscuring the sea.

Before I announced my presence or spoke my name, he said, "Welcome, young one. I brought you here because I had a dream that made me believe that you will find your destiny here. Behold."

From within the fogbank, a wondrous vessel emerged. Intricate carvings covered its transom. A single passenger sat within the boat, and as the vessel drew swiftly toward the docks, I saw that the passenger appeared human yet somehow did not. I first thought that it was a child, but when the boat drew close enough, I saw the curious bone structure of his face, as well as the large, slanted eyes, and the ears that ended in points.

He moved with a grace that was unlike any I had ever seen, as he leapt from the boat onto the dock. He said a few words in a language I did not understand, eyeing us carefully, his hand resting near the sword by his side. He was trying to appear nonthreatening, but it was clear to me that he was ready to defend himself if we should have hostile intentions.

The Superior Master spoke to him, saying something in what sounded like a different language than what the stranger had spoken, but the strange one then responded in that same tongue. They bowed to each other and the Superior Master said something and indicated me. All I understood was my name.

The stranger then turned to me and spoke in heavily accented Elian, "I am Gilthanas of Qualinesti. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master of Rank Solov."

"What manner of person are you?" I asked. "You are unlike any man we have here on the Elian."

"I am Qualinesti," he replied, a momentary look of confusion upon his face. Then he suddenly gained understanding. "You have never seen an elf before? Is that what you mean?"

I looked at the Superior Master, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Gilthanas sounded so surprised that I felt as though I may have missed something in my education. The Superior Master said, "We rarely leave our island, Your Highness," the Superior Master told him. "The young one has never been to the mainland. I think he would find it very illuminating if you were to tell him of your race, yourself, and whatever undertaking has brought you here."

We retired to the Superior Master's dwelling and Gilthanas told me of wonders such as I never knew existed and made it clear that he was a wonder himself. He was a prince of his people, the Qualinesti elves and had already lived as long as two human lifetimes and would live at least seven more if he did not die through misadventure. All of his people lived such long lifespans, he said. He also told me of dragons that were not destructive like the Great Red who was our Mistress but were instead kind and gentle. He was in love with one, and he was currently attempting to reach her. He had put into port in Claren Elian, hoping to find supplies here, but his trip had been much shorter than he had anticipated. "The magical boat I travel in apparently journeys much swifter than any other craft."

"Yes and no," the Superior Master said. "I have read of craft such as the one you travel within in one of the libraries here in Claren Elian, Your Highness, and it may seem faster to you but in fact it travels much more slowly. You are trading safety and comfort for time."

Gilthanas frowned at him. "I'm not sure I understand."

"This magical craft has the ability to take you unerringly where you want to go," the Superior Master began, "yet, no matter what destination you seek, five years will pass while you travel."

"It didn't seem like five years, though," Gilthanas refuted, still frowning slightly.

"Ah, that's the magic of the vessel at work. Though you may spend what seems like hours on the boat, five years will pass in the lives of others not onboard the craft with you. You can go wherever you wish, and no one can detain you," he finished.

Gilthanas sat quietly for a long while, his handsome face wearing a thoughtful expression. Then he said, "Silvara and I both have many centuries ahead of us. It is better that I travel unerringly to where I think my search can start than to just wander aimlessly."

The two moved onto other topics, such as the world beyond our island. At first their conversation revolved mostly around the Superior Master espousing the glory of our Red Mistress and warning him of her might. Gilthanas learned much about the terrible dragons who now controlled lands that once belonged to others, such as humans and elves. I myself found out more about the world outside our island home, including the fact that these dragons of colors blue, red, white, and black could twist the lands they controlled into terrain that favored their natures.

The Superior Master and Gilthanas also discussed the silver dragons—who could change their shape at will, more miracles!—and many other beings that I could barely conceive of. Gilthanas even showed me some combat techniques his people commonly employed and congratulated me on how swiftly I mastered what he considered very complex dueling maneuvers. I told him that it was only natural that I should, as I was a Master of Rank, one of the greatest fighting men on all of Krynn. He agreed and said earnestly that for a human as young as I, I was truly an amazing warrior. His words filled me with pride, for he was a brilliant swordsman himself, and he was also a being with far more life experience than I could ever accumulate.

After sharing a meal with him, I walked with Gilthanas to the docks. Here, he boarded the boat, and it headed out to sea. He turned and waved as the fog rolled in and swallowed him.

I told the Superior Master that I was grateful for the opportunity to meet Gilthanas, but that I failed to see how this would affect my destiny.

Still watching the elf fade in the fog, he said, "It will become clear shortly, young one."

Suddenly, I heard the silky voice of the Emissary behind us. I whirled swiftly and fell to my knees, daring not to look at the slender, robe-wrapped form of the one who spoke for our Mistress. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "I have been waiting in your chambers, Superior Master. Have you forgotten your place?"

The Superior Master did not kneel before the Emissary. I am told the Superior Master did not kneel before her even when she bested him in battle but instead merely admitted that she was his better. With this admission, the Ranks of the Masters started to do the Red's bidding until such time as a member of the Ranks proved their better. I, however, was no Superior Master, and I had seen the Emissary destroy men greater than I for lesser offenses than failing to kneel.

The Superior Master stood his ground and replied, "We have had a visitor. The young Master and I were attending to him and seeing him back on his way."

"You should have just killed the fool," the Emissary stated. "Who was this person?"

The Superior Master responded by relating Gilthanas's tale. I glanced up at the Emissary, who was listening in silence, her mottled gray robes swirling around her in the wind. The hood fluttered, affording me a brief glimpse of the blue-black metal mask that hid her face. I quickly dropped my eyes again.

When the Superior Master revealed that Gilthanas was searching for a silver dragon, the Emissary interrupted with a shriek, "A silver dragon?! I will brook no mention of silver dragons! Our Mistress will not tolerate such creatures anywhere near her domains, save those that she intends to slay to power her totem! I want you to pursue and slay this elf immediately!"

I looked toward the fogbank where Gilthanas had vanished moments before, my blood running cold. We could not pursue the elf, nor did we have any way of discovering where he may have gone. As the Superior Master explained this to the Emissary, I noticed her delicate, glove-clad hands clenching and unclenching. When he was done, she said, "You have five years to prepare then. You will find him and kill him. His silver dragon too, if you fail to kill him first. There will be no solace for silver dragons or their human companions, so says our Mistress. Prepare your Ranks. I will report to our Mistress in person." With a swirl of her billowing cloaks, she was gone.

The Superior Master told me to rise. He asked me what I thought of the elf and his dragon lover. I said he seemed like a good man, and that he and his lady seemed as though they deserved happiness. The Superior Master nodded in agreement and then asked me if I could kill the elf and the silver dragon if so charged.

I said, "I am one of the Masters. I do whatever you bid, Superior Master."

He said, "I am charging you with a very important mission. You will have time to find a woman and to start a family, but at the end of four years from this day, you and nine others—whom I will allow you to handpick from the Ranks—will venture forth into the world beyond Elian and learn what you can about Gilthanas and Silvara so that you may destroy them both."