Dragons of a Lost Star

4 The Traitor

The room was quiet. Gilthas sat at his desk, writing his speech, the pen moving swiftly across the page. He had spent the night thinking of what to say. The words came rapidly, so that the ink seemed to flow from the heart and not his pen. Planchet was laying out a light breakfast of fruit, bread, and honey, although it seemed unlikely anyone would have much appetite. Marshal Medan stood at the window, watched Gerard depart through the garden. The Marshal saw the young Knight pause, perhaps he even guessed what Gerard was thinking. When Gerard turned and left, Medan smiled to himself and nodded.

“That was good of you, Marshal Medan,” said Laurana, coming to stand at his side. She kept her voice low so as not to interrupt Gilthas in his work. “To send the young man safely away. For you do not truly believe the Solamnic Knights will come to our aid, do you?”

“No, I do not,” said the Marshal, equally quiet. “Not because they will not, but because they cannot.” He looked out the window, across the garden to the distant hills to the north. “They have their own problems. Beryl’s attack means that the so-called Pact of the Dragons is broken. Oh, I am certain that Lord Targonne is doing his best to try to placate Malys and the others, but his efforts will be for naught. Many believe that Khellendros the Blue plays a game of cat and mouse. He pretends to be oblivious to all that is going on around him, but that is only to lull Malys and the others into complacency. In fact, it is my belief that he has long had his eye on Solanthus. He held off attacking only for fear that Beryl would consider such an attack a threat to her own territory to the south. But now he will feel that he can seize Solanthus with impunity. And so it will go from there. We may be the first, but we will not be the last.

“As to Gerard,” Medan continued, “I returned to the Solamnic Knighthood a good soldier. I hope his commanders have sense enough to realize that.”

He paused a moment, watching Gilthas. When the king had reached the end of a sentence, Medan spoke. “I am sorry to interrupt Your Majesty’s work, but a matter has arisen that must be dealt with swiftly. A matter of some unpleasantness, I fear.”

Medan shifted his gaze to Laurana. “Gerard reported to me that your servant, Kalindas, waits downstairs. It seems that he heard you were in the palace and was worried for you.”

Medan watched Laurana carefully as he spoke. He saw her color wane, saw her troubled gaze flash across the room to Kelevandros, who was still sleeping.

She knows, Medan said to himself. If she does not know which of them is the traitor, yet she knows that one of them is. Good. That will make this easier.

“I will send Kelevandros to fetch him,” Laurana said through pallid lips.

“I do not believe that would be wise,” Medan replied. “I suggest that you ask Planchet to take Kalindas to my headquarters. My second-in-command, Dumat, will look after him. Kalindas will not be harmed, I assure you, Madam, but he must be kept safe, where he cannot communicate with anyone.”

Laurana looked at the Marshal with sorrow. “My lord, I don’t think . . . Is this necessary?”

“It is, Madam,” he said firmly.

“I don’t understand,” Gilthas said, his voice tinged with anger. He rose to his feet. “My mother’s servant is to be thrown in prison! Why? What is his crime?”

Medan was about to answer, but Laurana forestalled him.

“Kalindas is a spy, my son.”

“A spy?” Gilthas was astonished. “For whom?”

“The Dark Knights,” Laurana replied. “He reports directly to Marshal Medan, unless I am much mistaken.”

Gilthas cast the Marshal a look of unutterable disgust.

“I make no apology, Your Majesty,” Medan said calmly. “Nor, do I expect you to make any apology for the spies you have planted in my household.”

Gilthas flushed. “A dirty business,” he muttered.

“Indeed, Your Majesty. This makes an end of it. I, for one, will be glad to wash my hands. Planchet, you will find Kalindas waiting downstairs. Remove him to—”

“No, Planchet,” said Gilthas peremptorily. “Bring him here to me. Kalindas has the right to answer his accusor.”

“Do not do this, Your Majesty,” Medan said earnestly. “Once Kalindas sees me here with you, he will know he has been unmasked. He is a dangerous man, cornered and desperate. He has no care for anyone. He will stop at nothing. I cannot guarantee Your Majesty’s safety.”

“Nevertheless,” said Gilthas steadily, “elven law provides that Kalindas have the chance to defend himself against these charges. For too long, we have lived under your law, Marshal Medan. The law of the tyrant is no law at all. If I am to be king, then I make this my first act.”

“Madam?” Medan turned to Laurana.

“His Majesty is right,” said Laurana. “You have made your accusations, and we have listened. Kalindas must have his turn to tell his story.”

“You will not find it a pretty one. Very well,” Medan said, shrugging.

“But we must be prepared. If I might suggest a plan of action . . .”

“Kelevandros,” Laurana said, shaking the slumbering elf by the shoulder. “Your brother waits downstairs.”

“Kalindas is here?” Kelevandros jumped to his feet.

“The guards refuse to allow him to enter,” Laurana continued. “Go down and tell the guards they have my permission to bring him here.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Kelevandros hastened out the door. Laurana looked back at Medan. Her face was very pale, but she was calm, composed.

“Was that satisfactory?”

“Perfect, Madam,” said Medan. “He was not the least suspicious. Take your seat at the table. Your Majesty, you should return to your work.”

Laurana sighed deeply and sat down at the dining table. Planchet selected the very best fruit for her repast and poured her a glass of wine. Marshal Medan had never admired Laurana’s courage more than now, as he watched her take bites of fruit, chew and swallow, though the food must have tasted like ashes in her mouth. Opening one of the doors that led to the balcony, Medan moved outside, leaving the door ajar, so that he could hear and see what took place in the room without being seen himself.

Kalindas entered at his brother’s heels.

“Madam, I have been frantic with concern for your safety. When that loathsome Marshal took you away, I feared he meant your death!”

“Did you, Kalindas?” Laurana said gently. “I am sorry to have caused you so much concern. As you see, I am safe here. Safe for the time being, at least. We have reports that Beryl’s armies are marching on Qualinesti.”

“Indeed, Madam, I heard that terrible rumor,” said Kalindas, advancing until he stood close to the table at which she sat. “You are not safe here, Madam. You must take flight immediately.”

“Yes, Madam,” said Kelevandros. “My brother has told me that you are in danger. You and the king.”

Gilthas had completed his writing. The parchment in his hand, the king rose from his desk, preparing to leave.

“Planchet,” he said, “bring me my cloak.”

“You are right to act swiftly, Your Majesty,” said Kalindas, mistaking Gilthas’s intent. “Madam, I will take the liberty of fetching your cloak, as well—”

“No, Kalindas,” said Gilthas. “That is not what I meant.”

Planchet returned with the king’s cloak. Holding the garment over his right hand and arm, he moved to stand next to Gilthas.

“I have no intention of fleeing,” Gilthas was saying. “I go now to make a speech to the people. We begin immediately to evacuate the population of Qualinost and make plans for the defense of the city.”

Kalindas bowed to the king. “I understand. Your Majesty will make his speech, and then I will take you and your honored mother to a place of safety. I have friends waiting.”

“I’ll wager you do, Kalindas,” said Marshal Medan, stepping through the door. “Friends of Beryl’s waiting to assassinate both His Majesty and the Queen Mother. Where would these friends of yours happen to be?”

Kalindas’s eyes darted warily from the Marshal to Gilthas and back to the Marshal. The elf licked dry lips. His gaze slid to Laurana. “I don’t know what has been said about me, Madam—”

Gilthas intervened. “I will tell you what has been said, Kalindas. The Marshal has made the accusation that you are a spy in his employ. We have evidence that appears to indicate that this is true. By elven law, you are granted the right to speak in your defense.”

“You don’t believe him, do you, Madam?” Kelevandros cried. Shocked and outraged, he came to stand stolidly beside his brother. “Whatever this human has told you about Kalindas is a lie! The Marshal is a Dark Knight, and he is human!”

“Indeed, I am both those,” said Medan. “I am also the one who paid your brother to spy upon the Queen Mother. I’ll wager that if you search his person, you will find on him a stash of steel coins with the head of Lord Targonne stamped upon them.”

“I knew someone in my household had betrayed me,” Laurana said. Her voice ached with sorrow. “I received a letter from Palin Majere, warning me. That was how the dragon knew to wait for him and for Tasslehoff. The only person who could have warned the dragon was someone in my house. No one else knew.”

“You are mistaken, Madam,” Kelevandros insisted desperately. “The Dark Knights were spying on us. That is how they came to know. Kalindas would never betray you, Madam. Never! He loves you too well.”

“Does he?” Medan asked quietly. “Look at his face.”

Kalindas was livid, his skin whiter than the fine linen of the bed sheets. His lips curled back from his teeth in a sneer. His blue eyes were pale and glittering.

“Yes, I have a bag of steel coins,” he said, spittle flecking his lips.

“Coins paid to me by this human pig who thinks that by betraying me he may win the chance to crawl into your bed. Perhaps he already has. You are known to enjoy rutting with humans. Love you, Madam? This is how much I love you!”

Kalindas’s hand darted inside his tunic. The blade of a dagger flashed in the sunlight.

Gilthas cried out. Medan drew his sword, but he had placed himself to guard the king. Medan was too far across the room to save Laurana. She snatched up a wine glass and flung the contents into Kalindas’s face. Half-blinded by the wine stinging his eyes, he stabbed wildly. The blow aimed for Laurana’s heart struck her shoulder.

Cursing, Kalindas lifted the knife to strike again.

He gave a terrible cry. The knife fell from his hand. The blade of a sword protruded from his stomach. Blood soaked his shirt front. Kelevandros, tears streaming down his cheeks, jerked his sword out of his brother’s body. Dropping the weapon, Kelevandros caught hold of Kalindas, lowered him to the ground, cradled his dying brother in his arms.

“Forgive me, Kalindas!” Kelevandros said softly. He looked up, pleading. “Forgive him, Queen Mother—”

“Forgive!” Kalindas’s lips, flecked with blood, twisted. “No!” He choked. His last words were squeezed out. “I curse them! I curse them both!”

He stiffened in his brother’s arms. His face contorted. He tried again to speak, but blood gushed from his mouth, and with it went his life. Even in death, his eyes continued to stare at Laurana. The eyes were dark, and when the light of life faded in them, the shadows were lit with the cold glitter of his hate.

“Mother!” Gilthas sprang to her side. “Mother, you are hurt! Come, lie down.”

“I am all right,” Laurana said, though her voice shook. “Don’t fuss”

“That was quick thinking on your part, Madam. Throwing the wine at him. He caught the rest of us flat-footed. Let me see.” Medan peeled back the fabric of the sleeve that was soaked with blood. His touch was as gentle as he could make it. “The wound does not appear to be serious,” he reported, after a cursory examination. “The dagger glanced off the bone. You will have a scar there, I am afraid, Madam, but the wound is clean and should heal well.”

“It would not be the first scar I’ve borne,” Laurana said with a wan smile. She clasped her hands together, to try to stop the trembling. Her gaze went involuntarily to the corpse.

“Throw something over that!” Medan commanded harshly. “Cover it up.”

Planchet grabbed hold of the cloak he had been holding, spread it over Kalindas. Kelevandros knelt beside his brother, one hand holding the dead hand, the other holding the sword that had slain him.

“Planchet, summon a healer—” Gilthas began.

“No,” Laurana countermanded his order. “No one must know of this. You heard the Marshal. The wound is not serious. It has already stopped bleeding.”

“Your Majesty,” said Planchet. “The meeting of the Thalas-Enthia . . . it is past time.”

As if to emphasize this statement, a voice came from below, querulous and demanding. “I tell you I will wait no longer! A servant is permitted to see His Majesty, and I am kept waiting? You do not intimidate me. You dare not lay a hand on me, a member of the Thalas-Enthia. I will see His Majesty, do you hear? I will not be kept out!”

“Palthainon,” said Medan. “After the last act of the tragedy, they send in the clowns.” The Marshal started toward the door. “I will stall him as long as possible. Get this mess cleaned up!”

Laurana rose hurriedly to her feet. “He should not see me wounded like this. He must not know anything is wrong. I will wait in my own chambers, my son.”

Gilthas was obviously reluctant to leave, but he knew as well as she did the importance of his talk before the Senate. “I will go to the Thalas-Enthia,” he said. “First, Mother, I have a question to ask Kelevandros, and I want you to be here to hear it. Kelevandros, did you know of your brother’s foul scheming? Were you part of it?”

Kelevandros was deathly pale and covered with his brother’s blood, yet he faced the king with dignity. “I knew he was ambitious, yet I never thought. . . I never . . .” He paused, swallowed, and said quietly, “No, Your Majesty. I did not.”

“Then I grieve for you, Kelevandros,” said Gilthas, his harsh tone softening. “For what you had to do.”

“I loved him,” said Kelevandros in a low voice. “He was all the family I had left. Yet I could not let him harm our mistress.”

Blood was starting to seep through the cloak. Kelevandros knelt over his brother’s body, wrapped the cloak around it more tightly.

“With your permission, Your Majesty,” he said with quiet dignity, “I will take my brother away.”

Planchet made as if to help, but Kelevandros refused his assistance.

“No, he is my brother. My responsibility.”

Kelevandros lifted Kalindas’s body in his arms and, after a brief struggle, managed to stand upright. “Madam,” he said, not raising his eyes to meet hers, “your home was the only home we ever knew, but I fear it would be unseemly—”

“I understand, Kelevandros,” she said. “Take him there.”

“Thank you, Madam.”

“Planchet,” Gilthas said, “go with Kelevandros. Give him what help he needs. Explain matters to the guard.”

Planchet hesitated. “Your Honored Mother is wise. We should keep this secret, Your Majesty. If the people were to discover that his brother had made an attempt on the Queen Mother’s life, I fear they might do Kelevandros some harm. And if they heard that Marshal Medan had been using elves to spy . . .”

“You are right, Planchet,” Gilthas said. “See to it. Kelevandros, you should use the servant’s—”

Realizing what he had been about to say, he stopped the words.

“The servant’s entrance around back,” said Kelevandros finished. “Yes, Your Majesty. I understand.”

Turning, he bore his heavy burden out the door.

Laurana looked after them. “The curses of the dead always come true, they say.”

“Who says?” Gilthas demanded. “Toothless old grannies? Kalindas had no high and noble goals. He did what he did out of greed alone. He cared only for the money.”

Laurana shook her head. Her hair was gummed with her own blood, stuck to the wound. Gilthas started to add comforting words, but they were interrupted by a commotion outside the door. Marshal Medan could be heard tromping heavily up the stairs. He had raised his voice, to let them know he was coming and that he had company.

Laurana kissed her son with lips that were as pale as her cheeks. “You must leave now. My blessings go with you—and those of your father.”

She left hurriedly, hastening down the hall.

“Planchet, the blood—” Gilthas began, but Planchet had already whisked a small ornamental table over the stain and planted himself in front of it.

Senator Palthainon entered the room with fuss and bustle. Fire smoldered in his eyes, and he began talking the instant his foot crossed the threshold.

“Your Majesty, I was told that you convened the Thalas-Enthia without first asking my approval—”

The senator halted in midword, the speech he had been rehearsing all the way up the stairs driven clean from his head. He had expected to find his puppet lying limp on the floor, tangled in his own strings. Instead, the puppet was walking out the door.

“I convened the Senate because I am king,” said Gilthas, brushing past the senator. “I did not consult you, Senator, for the same reason. I am king.”

Palthainon stared, began to burble and sputter. “What— What— Your Majesty! Where are you going? We must discuss this.”

Gilthas paid no attention. He continued out the door, slammed it shut behind him. The speech he had written so carefully lay on the desk. After all, he would speak the words from his heart.

Palthainon stared after him, confounded. Needing someone to blame, he rounded on Marshal Medan. “This is your doing, Marshal. You put the fool boy up to this. What are you plotting, Medan? What is going on?”

The Marshal was amused. “This is none of my doing, Senator. Gilthas is king, as he says, and he has been king for many years. Longer than you realize apparently. As for what is going on”— Medan shrugged—”I suggest you ask His Majesty. He may deign to tell you.”

“Ask His Majesty, indeed!” returned the senator with a blustering sneer. “I do not ask His Majesty anything. I tell His Majesty what to think and what to say, just as I always have. You are blathering, Marshal. I do not understand you.”

“No, but you will,” Medan advised the senator’s retreating back, as the elf picked up what shreds of dignity remained him and swept out of the chamber.

“Planchet,” said Medan, after king and senator were gone and the palace was again quiet. “Bring water and bandages. I will attend to the Queen Mother. You should pull up the carpet. Take it out and burn it.”

Armed with a wash basin and a roll of linen, Medan knocked at the door to Laurana’s chambers. She bade him enter. He frowned to see her on her feet, looking out the window.

“You should lie down, Madam. Take this time to rest.”

She turned to face him. “Palthainon will cause trouble in the Senate. You may be assured of that.”

“Your son will skewer him, Madam,” said the Marshal. “With words, not steel. He will let so much air out of that windbag I would not be surprised to see him come whizzing past the window. There,” he added, “I made you smile.”

Laurana did smile, but the next moment she swayed on her feet and reached to steady herself on the arm of a chair. Medan was at her side, helping her to sit down.

“Madam, you have lost a vast quantity of blood, and the wound continues to bleed. If I would not offend . . .” He paused, embarrassed. Coughing, he continued. “I could clean and dress the wound for you.”

“We are both old soldiers, Marshal,” said Laurana, sliding her arm out of the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I have lived and fought with men under circumstances where I could not afford to indulge in modesty. It is most kind of you to offer.”

The Marshal reached to touch the warm skin and saw his hand—coarse, large, thick-fingered, and clumsy—in sharp contrast to the slender white shoulder of the elven woman, her own skin as smooth as the silken coverlet, the blood crimson and warm from the jagged cut. He snatched his hand back, the fingers clenched.

“I fear I hurt you, Madam,” he said, feeling her flinch at his touch. “I am sorry. I am rough and clumsy. I know no other way.”

Laurana clasped her hair with her hand, drew it over her shoulder, so that it was out of his way. “Marshal Medan, my son explained his plan for the defense of Qualinost to you. Do you think it will work?”

“The plan is a good one, Madam,” said the Marshal, wrapping the bandage around her shoulder. “If the dwarves agree to it and do their part, it even has a chance of succeeding. I do not trust dwarves, however, as I warned His Majesty.”

“A great many lives will be lost,” said Laurana sadly.

“Yes, Madam. Those who remain to fight the rearguard action may not be able to escape in time. The battle will be a glorious one,” he added, tying off the bandage with a knot. “Like the old days. I, for one, would not miss it.”

“You would give your life for us, Marshal?” Laurana asked, turning to look him full in the face. “You, a human and our enemy, will die defending elves?”

He pretended to be preoccupied with the wound, in order not to meet her penetrating gaze. He did not answer the question immediately but thought about it for a long time.

“I do not regret my past, Madam,” he said at last. “I do not regret past decisions. I was born of common stock, a serf’s son. I would have been a serf myself, illiterate, unschooled, but then Lord Ariakan found me. He gave me knowledge, he gave me training. Most important, he gave me faith in a power greater than myself. Perhaps you cannot understand this, Madam, but I worshipped Her Dark Majesty with all my soul. The Vision she gave me comes to me still in my dreams, although I cannot understand why, since she is gone.”

“I understand, Marshal,” said Laurana softly. “I stood in the presence of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness. I still feel the awe and reverence I experienced then. Although I knew her power to be evil, it was awful to behold. Perhaps that was because when I dared try to look into her eyes, I saw myself. I saw her darkness inside me.”

“You, Madam?” Medan shook his head.

“I was the Golden General, Marshal,” Laurana said earnestly. “A fine title. People cheered me in the streets. Children gave me bouquets of flowers. Yet I ordered those same people into battle. I orphaned many of those children. Because of me thousands died, when they might have lived to lead happy and productive lives. Their blood is on my hands.”

“Do not regret your actions, Madam. To do so is selfish. Your regret robs the dead of the honor that is theirs. You fought for a cause you knew to be just and right. They followed you into battle—into death, if you will—because they saw that cause shining in you. That is why you were called the Golden General,” he added. “Not for your hair.”

“Still,” she said, “I would like to give something back to them.”

She fell silent, absorbed in her own thoughts. He started to leave, thinking that she would like to rest, but she detained him.

“We were speaking of you, Marshal,” she said, resting her hand light upon his arm. “Why you are prepared to give your life for elves.”

Looking into her eyes, he could have said he was prepared to lay down his life for one elf, but he did not. His love would not be welcome to her, whereas his friendship was. Counting himself blessed, he did not seek for more.

“I fight for my homeland, Madam,” he replied simply.

“One’s homeland is where one is born, Marshal.”

“Precisely, Madam. My homeland is here.”

His response gave her pleasure. Her blue eyes were soft with sympathy, glimmered with sudden tears. She was warmth and sweetness and perfume, and she was low in her spirits, shaken and hurt. He rose to his feet quickly, so quickly that he clumsily overturned the bowl of water he had used to wash the wound.

“I am sorry, Madam.” He bent to wipe up the spill, glad to have the chance to hide his face. He rose again, did not look at her. “The bandage is not too tight, is it, Madam?” he asked gruffly.

“No, not too tight,” said Laurana.

“Good. Then if you will excuse me, Madam, I must return to headquarters, to see if there have been any further reports of the army’s progress.”

With a bow, he turned on his heel and departed in haste, leaving her to her thoughts.

Laurana drew the sleeve of her gown over her shoulder. She flexed her fingers, rubbed her fingers over old calluses on her palm.

“I will give something back,” she said.