Darkness and Light

Chapter 30

On high the air was as clean and sharp as an elvem sword. Without the constant beating of wings, there was no sensation of movement aboard the Cloudmaster. Quite to the contrary, it seemed as if the sun, stars, and Lunitari itself were moving, while the ship stood anchored in the sky. The effect of this mode of flight was curiously timeless. Only the wind-up clock in the wheelhouse showed that time was passing at all.

After they had been airborne almost five hours, Lunitari was far enough below them to resemble a sphere again. Of

Krynn there was no sign, and that worried the travelers.

Sighter assured them that their home world would appear as Lunitari turned on its course through the heavens. "We have a better than even chance of reaching Krynn," he said severely. "As the largest body in the heavens, it naturally has the greatest attraction for us, just as it attracts a greater amount of sunlight than Lunitari. Still, we must be wary and release the proper amount of ethereal air when the pro pitious moment comes, so that we can descend homeward."

The strange, motionless flight bothered Sturm, so he kept below deck. There the hull and deck creaked as a proper ship should, and it comforted him. He'd always been fond of sailing ships.

The patch over the hole in the hull was finished, but it was not the finest example of the shipwright's art. Planks and laths and blocks of wood were nailed and mortised over the gap wherever they could fit. The gnomes strolled across the patch without a care, but Sturm did not trust it to support his weight. He prowled on past the patch to the forward end of the ship, which at sea would have been the forecastle.

The hull there was barren of gear, and all the interior parti tions had long since been ripped away. There was nothing forward at all but beams and planking. It was like being inside the skeleton of some great beast, all bones and no flesh.

Sturm ascended the fore ladder into the wheelhouse.

There was no wheel, for there was no tail to be turned by a wheel. All the finely wrought brass fixtures had been ripped out for scrap or merely to lighten the ship. Only Stutts's chair remained, though its plump velvet cushions were gone.

Kitiara was there, sitting on the deck, gazing out the win dows at nothing.

"Are you ill, Kit?"

"Do I look ill?"

"No." Sturm sat down on the deck opposite her.

Kitiara looked away, toying with the drawstring of her leggings. "Sturm, are you still having visions?"

"No, not for some time."

"Do you remember them?" she asked.

"Of course I do."

"What was the first one?"

"Why, it was the — when I saw — " A perplexed look came over Sturm's face. "Something about my father?" His high forehead became a mass of wrinkles as he tried to recall what he'd seen.

"What about the last one?" Kitiara asked.

He shook his head. "There was a sorcerer — I think."

"We've lost it," Kitiara said softly. "The effect the natural magic of Lunitari had on each of us. You've forgotten the substance of your visions. I'm losing my strength. Here

— look." She took out her dagger and planted her thumbs on the back of the blade. Fingers knotting, Kitiara slowly bent the slim steel blade to a blunt angle.

"You seem very strong to me," said Sturm.

"Yesterday I could've folded this blade in half with two fingers." She tossed the bent dagger aside.

"We're better off without the powers," Sturm said.

"That's easy for you to say! I like being strong — powerful!"

"Mighty fighters live and die in every generation, the past ones forgotten by the present, the present destined to vanish in the memories of the future. Virtue, not ferocity or cun ning, are what make a fighter a hero, Kit."

Kitiara straightened her stooped shoulders and said reso lutely, "You're wrong, Sturm. Only success is remembered.

Nothing else matters but success."

He opened his mouth to reply, but the wheelhouse door flew open and a blast of icy air rushed in. Cutwood, swathed to the top of his pink bald head in flannel rags and quilting, posed dramatically in the doorway, one stubby arm flung out, pointing astern.

"The dragon!" he said. "Cupelix is faltering!"

The whole crew was assembled aft. When Sturm and Kiti- ara joined them, the concentration of weight made the ship tip steeply back. Stutts said, "Spread out! We can't all stand in the same p-p-place!"

Wingover shook his head. "You stuttered," he said.

"Never mind that now," said Kitiara.

Cupelix was far back and nearly fifty feet below the rising

Cloudmaster. He was holding his wings out in glide posi tion, flapping only once every few seconds. His long neck was arched down, his head low. The dragon's large hind legs, normally held tightly against his belly when in flight, likewise dangled limply.

"Cupelix! Cupelix, can you hear me?" Kitiara called through cupped hands.

Yes, my dear.

"You can make it, beast. Do you hear me? You can make it!"

No. Done in… too weak. The dragon's tail dropped, making him waver.

"Flap, damn you! Don't give up. Remember, you're a brass dragon!" she cried. "This is your chance, Cupelix!

Your chance to come to Krynn."

Can't fly… not meant to be, dear Kit.

Sturm called, "Is there anything we can do?"

Tell others, I live. Tell others to visit Lunitari.

"We will," shouted Rainspot.

Bring books. Bring philosophers. Bring — His thought trailed off. Cupelix was flapping weakly now.

Kitiara grabbed Wingover by his collar. "Why can't he fly? Why does he keep going down?" she demanded.

"The air is too thin. His wings aren't big enough to sup port him this high," said the wide-eyed gnome. Sturm broke her grip and put Wingover back on his feet. The gnome exhaled gustily. "Cloudmaster was able to stay aloft because we had two sets of wings and the ethereal air bag to hold us up. The dragon has neither."

Farewell.

Kitiara flung herself at the rail. The crimson orb of Luni tari looked no bigger than a dinner plate. Against the light colored moon, the dark figure of the dragon moved, an agonized silhouette. Cupelix, the ill-named Pteriol, was going down. Wingover gave his colleagues a running com mentary on the dragon's failing flight. The massive muscles in the dragon's back writhed in ferocious cramps. His wings spasmed, sending him into a heart-stopping plummet. With great effort and much obvious pain, he regained his balance and slowed his descent. Trailing behind him in the wind was a steady swirl of brass scales, torn off by his terrible exer tions.

"Cupelix! Don't leave me! Our bargain!" Kitiara cried desperately. "My strength is fading, do you hear? I need you — our plans — " Sturm took hold of her shoulders and pulled her firmly away from the rail. Her fingers clutched at the smooth wood.

Farewell, dear Kit, was all they heard, and the tickling touch of the dragon's telepathic voice was gone. Sighter climbed up on the rail and scanned the moon with his spy glass. He could see nothing. "Good-bye, dragon!" he said.

Sighter snapped his telescope shut and slipped back to the deck. The little men quietly dispersed.

Kitiara sobbed against Sturm's chest "I'm sorry," he said.

Her tears unsettled him more than Cupelix's tragic failure.

She pushed him away suddenly and snapped, "Stupid beast! He and I had a deal! Our plans, our great plans!" Sud denly ashamed, Kitiara scrubbed the tears from her cheeks and sniffed loudly. "Everyone leaves me. There's no one I can rely on."

Sturm felt his sympathy for Kit drain away. "No one you can rely on?" he said coldly. "No one at all?" When she didn't answer, Sturm turned his back and left Kitiara alone.

Cupelix, defeated by the heights he had hoped to con quer, glided down in a wide spiral to the moon that had been, and always would be, his home. His flying muscles burned with fatigue, and the invidious cold of the upper air numbed his heart and soul. He skimmed over familiar land scapes, now cloaked in night, until the cliffs of his valley dropped away beneath his hanging feet. Striking heavily,

Cupelix's horned head plowed into the red dust.

He raised his head and sneezed. A voice said, "Bless you!"

"Thank you," replied the dragon weakly. "Wait — who said that?"

A diminutive figure appeared from behind a pile of goods left behind by the gnomes. It resembled a gnome itself, except that it was as hairless as an egg and colored red — skin, eyes, clothes, everything.

"I said it," said the little red creature. "It's a common wish to express when someone sneezes."

"I know that," said the dragon peevishly. He was far too tired to play gnomish games. "Who are you?"

"I was hoping you might know," said the little red fellow.

"I woke up a day ago, and I've been wandering since."

Cupelix raised himself on his hind legs and carefully furled his wings. The bending of his joints caused him con siderable pain, and he hissed louder than a hundred snakes.

"Does it hurt?" asked the red man.

"Very much!"

"I saw a bottle of liniment over there. Perhaps that would help." A small red hand went to the dark red lips. "Though

I'm not sure what liniment is."

"Never mind, Little Red Man," said Cupelix. "Fetch it, if you would."

"Is that my name?"

"If you like it, it is."

"Seems to fit, doesn't it?" The Little Red Man trotted off to find the bottle of Dr. Finger's Efficacious Ointment. He stopped and called back, "What's your name?"

"Cupelix," said the dragon. He was here to stay, all right, but at least he had someone to talk to. All things considered, it wasn't too bad a state of affairs.

"Little Red Man," Cupelix called across the valley, "would you like something to eat?"