Love and War

A Good Knight's Tale

In those chaotic years just after the Cataclysm, when the frightened citizens of Xak Tsaroth were fleeing their beloved but decimated city, there was among them a certain half-elf by the name of Aril Witherwind, who, while others sought only refuge, took to roaming the countryside, carrying upon his bent back a huge, black tome.

Even without his peculiar burden, which he held by a leather strap thrown across one shoulder, Aril Witherwind was, as far as half-elves went, a strange one. Though he was properly tall and willowy, and he had the fair hair, pale skin, and blue eyes typical of his kind, he seemed not at all interested in his appearance and had, indeed, a slovenliness about him: His shoes were often unbuckled, his shirt hung out of his pants, and his hair was usually in a tangle. He often went days without shaving so that fine, blond hairs covered his jaw like down. In addition to everything else, he wore thick, metal-rimmed eyeglasses.

All this, though, had a simple enough explanation:

Aril Witherwind was, by his own definition, an academic. More particularly, he was one of the many itinerant folklorists who appeared on Krynn just after the Cataclysm.

"The Cataclysm threatens to extinguish our rich past," he would explain in his gentle but enthusiastic voice to whoever gave him a moment of time. "And if peace should ever again come to Krynn, we will want to know something of our traditions before everything was destroyed."

"But this is not the time to do it!" often came the curt response from some fleeing traveler, sometimes with everything he owned in a wagon or in a dogcart or even upon his own back, his family often in tow.

"Ah, but this is exactly the time to do it," returned Aril Witherwind automatically, "before too much is forgotten by the current sweep of events."

"Well, good luck to you, then!" would as likely be the answer as the party hurried off to some hopefully safer comer of Krynn.

Undaunted, Aril Witherwind criss-crossed the countryside, traversing shadowy valleys, sun-lit fields, and sombre forests. He stopped at the occasional surviving inn, passed through refugee encampments, and even marched along with armies, all the time asking whomever he met if he or she knew a story that he could put into his big black book.

In time, it became clear to Aril that he usually had the best luck with the older folks — indeed, the older the better. These grayhairs were not only the most likely to remember a story or two, but they were the ones most likely to be interested in relating it. Perhaps it was because they welcomed the opportunity to slow down and reminisce awhile. Or perhaps it was because they had not much of a future to give to Krynn, only their pasts.

In any case, Aril Witherwind soon learned to seek them out almost exclusively, and his book slowly began to fill with stories from before the Cataclysm, when Krynn had been in what he considered its Golden Age.

He gave each story an appropriate title, and then he gave due credit to the source by adding: "… as told by Henrik Hellendale, a dwarven baker" or "… as told by Verial Stargazer, an elven shepherd" or "… as told by Frick Ashfell, a human woodchopper" and so forth.

People often asked Aril what his favorite story was, but, with the professional objectivity proper to an academic, he'd say only, "I like them all."

But, really, if you could read his mind, there was a favorite, and that was one "… as told by Barryn Warrex, a Solamnic Knight."

It had been on a particularly lovely spring day — a day, indeed, when all of nature seemed happy and unconcerned with the political upheaval miles away — when Aril, while traversing the length of a grassy and flower-dotted valley, espied a knight, kneeling at the base of the valley wall. The knight, as luck would have it, was an old one.

"Perfect," murmured Aril to himself as he strode toward the grand man, stopping several paces away.

At first, the old knight didn't seem to realize he had an audience. He simply continued his kneeling, his head bowed in either deep meditation or perhaps even in respectful prayer to the recently deposed gods of Krynn. Behind him was a low, rocky overhang, almost a cave really, which was apparently serving as his humble, if temporary, shelter — The Order of the Solamnic Knights, you see, had been destroyed in the Cataclysm and fallen into disrepute, its few remaining members scattered by the four winds.

It seemed to Aril Witherwind that such events must have taken a truly terrible toll on this fellow, maybe making him look even older than he was, for he had a drawn, haggard face; his hair, though thick, was totally white; and his hands, clenched before him, were gnarly, almost arthritic.

Still, Aril could see much in the man that boasted of the old grandeur of his order. He was dressed in his full plate armor, a great sword hanging at his side, his visorless helmet and shield resting nearby on a flat rock. And though he was kneeling, he did seem to be quite tall — that is, long of limb. But what impressed Aril Witherwind the most was his truly copious moustache, a long white one that drooped with a poignant flourish so that its tips nearly brushed the ground as he knelt there.

A lot of pride must go into that moustache, mused Aril as he waited patiently for the knight to finish whatever he was doing.

Now, all that time, the itinerant folklorist thought he was unobserved, so he was startled when the knight, not so much as lifting his head or moving a muscle, spoke up in a deep, though tired, voice:

"What do you want?"

"Oh! Pardon me," said Aril Witherwind, stepping ahead, bent forward as if he were bowing, though, in fact, he was merely carrying his heavy tome. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything. Only, if you are done, I would like to speak with you."

"I am in meditation."

"So you are. But perhaps you could return to it in a moment," suggested Aril. "This will not take long."

The old knight sighed deeply. "Actually, you're not interrupting much," he said, his body slumping from its disciplined pose. "I no longer have the concentration I once did."

"Then we can talk?"

The knight began to rise to his feet, though it clearly took some effort. "Ach, it's getting so I can't distinguish between the creaking in my armor and the creaking in my bones."

"I believe it was your armor that time," said Aril with a smile.

At his full height, the knight indeed proved to be a very tall man, as tall as Aril, who himself, when he did not carry his book, was a gangly fellow. And when the knight faced him fully, Aril got goosebumps because engraved upon the knight's tarnished breastplate was a faint rose, the famous symbol of his order.

"On the other hand, I do not feel much like talking," said the knight sullenly, walking right past the half-elf and seating himself upon a large rock where he leaned back against another and gazed languidly up at the blue sky and white clouds bracketed by the opposing walls of the valley. "I am a man of action only."

"I quite understand," said Aril, following. "But it does seem to me you are at the moment — um — between actions. The thing is, I am a folklorist — »

"Aril Witherwind."

"Yes, that's right. You've heard of me? I'm flattered."

The knight squinted at the gangly blond person with the large book upon his back. "You are indeed a strange one."

"It takes all kinds," said Aril Witherwind, again with a smile. "In any case, you know why I'm here."

"I do not wish to talk."

"Oh, but you must make yourself. A knight such as you surely has many wonderful tales of derring-do, bravery. Why, this may be one of your few opportunities to set the record straight about your order before the world forgets."

The knight appeared unmoved at first. But then, despite himself, he tugged contemplatively at the tip of his long moustache. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "if I do think about it "

"Yes, do think about it!" said Aril Witherwind as he hurried to another, smaller rock, where he sat down, his bony knees pulled up. He brought forth his book and propped it open on his legs. He then took from his pouch a quill and inkwell, placing the inkwell on the ground.

"You're a pushy one," said the knight, arching an imperious eyebrow.

"These days, a folklorist must be," said Aril. "Now then, first thing's first: What is your name?"

"Warrex," said the knight growing ever more interested. He even sat up. "Barryn Warrex."

"Is Warrex spelled with one 'r' or two?"

"Two."

"Fine. Now what do you have for me? Some tale, I bet, of epic battles and falling castles, of heroic missions — »

"No," said the knight thoughtfully, again pulling on his moustache, "no, I don't think so."

"Oh? Then perhaps a tale of minotaur slaying or a duel with some fierce ogre — »

"No, no, not those either, though I've done both."

"Then, by all means, you must tell of them! People one day will want to read such knightly adventures — »

"Please!" snapped Barryn Warrex, his old milky eyes flashing in anger. "I have no patience for this unless you will listen to the story that I WANT to tell!"

"Of course, of course," said Aril, closing his eyes in contrition. "Forgive me. That is, of course, just what I want you to do."

"To a Solamnic Knight — at least to this old Solmanic Knight — there is one thing as important — more important — than even bravery, duty, and honor."

"More important? My, and what would that be?"

"Love."

"A tale of love? Well, that's good, too," said Aril Witherwind, nodding his approval and dipping his quill into the inkwell. "A knight's tale of chivalry — »

"I did not say 'chivalry', " snarled Barryn Warrex.

"Pardon me, I just assumed — »

"Stop assuming, will you? This is a tale told to me when I was a mere child, long before I ever thought of becoming a knight. And though much has happened to me since, this tale has stayed with me all these years. Indeed, these days, it aches my heart more than ever."

Aril was already scribbling in his book. "… more — than

ever," he repeated as he wrote.

Barryn Warrex settled back once more, calming himself. "It is about two entwined trees in the Forest of Wayreth — »

"The Entwining Trees?" interrupted Aril, lifting his pert nose from his book and pushing his slipping glasses back up with a forefinger. "I've heard of them! You know their story?"

"I do," returned Warrex, trying to stay calmer. "Indeed, my garrulous friend, I intend to tell it you if you would but be quiet long enough."

"Forgive me, forgive me, it's just that this is exactly the sort of story I look for. The Entwining Trees, yes, do go ahead, please. I won't say another word."

The knight looked at Aril Witherwind in disbelief. But, sure enough, as he had promised, the bespectacled half-elf said nothing further. He only hunched over his book, quill at the ready.

Satisfied, Barryn Warrex rested his head back. Then an odd change came over him: His eyes glassed over with a distant look, as if they were seeing something many years ago; his ears perked as if they were likewise hearing a voice from that long ago; and when he spoke, it seemed to be in the voice of someone else — so very long ago…

Once, when the world was younger, there lived in a small, thatched cottage on the outskirts of Gateway — where cottages were a stone's throw from each other — a certain widower by the name of Aron Dewweb, a weaver by trade, and his young daughter, Petal, who was considered, if not THE most beautiful, then certainly among the most beautiful human girls for miles in any direction. Petal was slender and delicate, with a long, elegant neck, large brown eyes, and long fair hair that reached her narrow waist.

It came as no surprise, then, that when Petal reached marriageable age, she found at her doorstep every young bachelor who was looking for a wife. These fellows would wander by the front fence, sometimes pretending to be going on a stroll, when they'd "by chance" notice the young girl gardening in her front yard, and they'd begin chatting with her.

"Why, hello," they'd say, for instance, "what lovely roses you have."

Naturally, Petal was very flattered to receive so much attention, and she'd leave her gardening and go flirt with the young men, which only encouraged them.

Now, Aron, though he had always been the kindest and happiest of fathers when Petal was growing up, turned stem and dark of expression. He stopped smiling. He grumbled a lot. He became, in a word, jealous.

True, he tried, at first, to view the situation with pleasure. After all, the attention she was receiving was that due a young, beautiful, marriageable girl, and he tried to pretend that he was prepared for it.

But he couldn't help himself. Whenever one of Petal's would-be suitors came calling at the front fence, offering Aron a wave and a "hello," Aron Dewweb could only grunt back, or more likely, ignore the young man and stalk into his cottage.

Several neighbors told him, "Look, Aron, you can't keep nature from taking its course."

Aron listened politely, but that was because his neighbors were also customers for his weaving. Really, he didn't give a damn about nature or its course or their opinions. He just couldn't bear the thought of some swain taking away his only, precious daughter. As far as he was concerned, no matter how old she got, Petal would always be that little girl who laughed and squealed when he bounced her lightly on his knee.

So he said, "Dash it all, I don't care what anyone thinks! I don't like what's happening!" And he took to chasing off the young men with a knobby walking stick he kept handy near his loom. "Stay away!" he would cry as he came running out of his cottage toward the fence. The young man of the moment, startled by the attack, would leave Petal standing by the gate and flee. "And tell your boorish friends to stay clear, too!"

Petal was always very embarrassed by this display. "Daddy, why can't they visit me?" she'd ask, near tears. "I'm old enough!"

"Because!" answered Aron, his face red, his knuckles white as he clenched his walking stick. "Just — just because!" And then he'd storm back into the cottage.

Well, «because» wasn't good enough for Petal, and she continued to encourage her suitors. A wink from her was enough to draw them back like bees to a bright, fragrant flower — though none of them dared actually enter the gate.

From his loom — which, incidentally, was a clever, if noisy, contraption operated by various levers and pedals — the stern weaver could look out his window and see the way his daughter was behaving. And he saw the effect it had on her callers, who were growing ever bolder, some even venturing to open the gate. Apparently, waving a stick at them was no longer enough to drive them away (which was just as well since Aron was getting tired of running out every other moment). So, finally, he decided there was only one thing left to do: He would have to take Petal away from Gateway.

This he did. He piled his loom and other possessions high on a wagon, put Petal on the seat next to him, and off they went, pulled by a tired, old ox, which he borrowed from a neighbor. Petal sighed deeply as she waved farewell to all her would-be lovers, who lined up along the road in front of their own cottages to see her off. They waved back, their hearts heavy.

Aron took Petal far away. The road became unpaved and overgrown, and eventually it led to the Forest of Wayreth. There, Aron had to leave behind most of his possessions for the time being because there was no path between the trees wide enough to allow the wagon to pass. He would have to make several trips, but he loaded up his goods on his back, took Petal by her slender hand, and off they went through the sunless forest.

When he had gone far enough — that is to say, when he became too exhausted to continue — Aron put down his load and said, "Here! Here is where we shall live!" And right on that bosky spot, he built a new cottage of sticks and thatch. He included a small room for Petal, a larger one for himself, and a still bigger one for the cooking hearth, table, chairs, and, of course, his loom, which he had the ox drag through the forest before he returned the beast to its owner.

Convinced at last that his daughter was now where no young man would find her, or at least where she'd be too far away to be worth the bother, Aron resumed his weaving. Such a location among the reputedly magical woods was inconvenient for him, for he had to make long trips to his customers in Gateway, but it was worth the peace of mind that came from knowing that his daughter was safe from anyone who would dare try to take her from him.

As for Petal, she cried for days and days. She wanted to go back to Gateway. She wanted to flirt with her suitors.

But Aron said, "You'll get used to it here. Soon, things will be back the way they were before all this foolishness started."

Petal did, in fact, stop crying, but things never quite went back to the way they were. Petal was lonely, and she never looked happy.

"What's the matter?" Aron finally snapped one day from his loom while Petal, long-faced, was sprinkling fragrant pine needles on the floor. "I was good enough company all these years!"

"Oh, Father," said Petal, pausing in her work, her eyes watering, "I still love you but as MY FATHER. Now it's time I loved another, as my husband."

"Nonsense!" said Aron with a wave of his hand. "There'll be plenty of time for that when I'm dead!"

"Don't talk that way!" said Petal, stepping toward her father, dropping the rest of the pine needles.

"What way? One day I'll be gone, and then you'll be able to entertain all the young men you want!" And, with that, Aron turned his back on his daughter and continued his weaving.

The arguments usually went that way, and they always broke Petal's heart. Finally, she stopped bringing up the subject, which was what Aron wanted, anyway.

The days settled into a routine. Aron worked methodically and constantly at his loom, and Petal tended the cottage and the garden. Neither said much to the other. Petal continued to look sad, and Aron, even way out in the forest, continued to feel uneasy:

What if one of those tom cats should sniff his way to the cottage, after all? What if a whole gang of them should arrive and start wailing at his door?

Or, worse yet: What if Petal sneaked away?

This last thought truly began to worry Aron. He kept a constant eye on his daughter, which caused many uneven threads in his weaving. He became so nervous that if Petal were out of his sight for any length of time — and he did not hear her, either — he'd jump up from his loom, knocking over his chair, and cry out, "Petal! Come here!"

"What is it, Father?" she'd call, hurrying into the cottage, with, say, a basket of mushrooms she had been gathering.

Aron never answered. He was just glad to see his daughter, and, relieved, he'd pick up his chair and resume his weaving.

Nights, though, proved even worse for Aron than the days. It was then he had to sleep, and so it was then he could keep neither eye nor ear on his daughter. He kept waking at the slightest sound, thinking Petal might be sneaking away, and he kept checking up on her in her room. She was always there, curled up beneath her blanket on a mattress filled with her fragrant pine needles.

But then, on one warm summer night, shortly after midnight, Aron peeked into her room and found her bed empty.

"Petal!" he bellowed, stepping from her door back into the large room. "Petal!"

She didn't answer.

Aron ran outside into the benighted woods, where only sprinkles of silver moonlight fell through the canopy and broke up the dark forest floor, the way Petal's pine needles broke up the cottage floor.

"Petal! Petal!"

There was no answer except for the hoot of a lone, unseen owl.

All the rest of that night, Aron scrambled about the dark woods, calling his daughter's name and bruising himself as he hit his head on low limbs and banged fully into unseen tree trunks.

By the time the sun rose, sending its early morning rays to light the misty air and awaken the birds, who promptly began their warbling, Aron was ready to faint from exhaustion. He had been searching and calling all night. Defeated and heartbroken, but determined to march to Gateway to fetch his daughter if need be, he trudged to his cottage to get his stick.

Yet, when he got there, whom did he find, sleeping curled up in her bed as innocently as a doe, but Petal.

Aron rubbed his swollen eyes. His heart soared with joy. Was it possible, in his great concern, that he had missed her sleeping there the night before? Everything was as it was supposed to be — except, Aron noted, that there were little puddles of water, footprints really, leading up to Petal's bed. This was curious, but Aron didn't give it much thought. He was happy to have his daughter back. He told himself he would try to be nicer to her from then on, for the last thing he wanted was to drive her away.

That morning, when his daughter awoke, Aron acted more chipper at the breakfast table. Petal was surprised by his new demeanor, but she welcomed it. She, too, was happier.

"You see?" said Aron as he sipped his tea. "Do you see how easy it is for us to be friends?"

"Yes, Father," said Petal as she nibbled at a muffin. "Forgive me for my pouting."

"No, no, it is I who must ask for forgiveness. I've been an ogre."

"Only because you love me. I know that, now."

Aron reached over and patted his daughter's soft, fair hair, which felt, strangely, a little damp. Again, he gave this little thought. For the rest of the day, he whistled at his loom while Petal hummed in her front garden — which, actually, wasn't growing as well in the constant shade of the woods as it had in Gateway.

In any case, for all his outward pleasantness, Aron, that very night, tossed and turned uncomfortably in his bed, certain once more that his daughter had indeed disappeared the previous night. And those puddles popped into his mind, perplexing him.

It was no use. Aron jumped out of bed. He had to check up on his daughter. But he didn't want her to know, for then she'd be truly angry at him. So he tiptoed ever so quietly to her room.

She was gone.

Aron grew frantic. He bolted out of the cottage. But before he could call his daughter's name, he saw in the moonlight that sprinkled through the tree cover Petal herself, dressed in her flowing white gown, just disappearing silently between two enormous tulip trees.

Again, Aron was about to call to her, but he stopped himself. Was she meeting someone? He had to know. He decided to follow and catch her in the act. He rushed back into his cottage, grabbed his stick, and hurried out to catch up to his daughter.

He passed between the two tulip trees and found himself on a path, one that he had not even known existed. It was narrow, virtually covered with fern fronds, but it was illuminated clearly by the full moon, for there was a slit in the tree canopy that followed the path exactly.

Aron failed to see his daughter, but he walked along the bending path, confident it would take him to her. Using his walking stick for its intended purpose, he proceeded as quickly as he could without making too much noise. All around him, just a step away to his right or left, was the gloomy forest. Only those trees nearest the path were partly lit, their dark and gray trunks marking his way. Behind them, the trees were cast in shadow. And farther from the path still, the trees were in total blackness.

The croaking of frogs grew louder, and soon he came to a small glade, in the middle of which was a pond. Petal was standing on its bank near an old beaver dam, her long white gown bathed in the sky's ghostly light. For several moments she did nothing but gaze at the black water, upon whose surface floated many lily pads, their white blossoms open to the moonshine.

Then she softly called, "My love, my love, take me to your home."

At that, some of the lily pads were jostled from beneath. Petal then slipped off her gown and stepped into the water. She waded toward the center of the pond, pressing past some lily pads. The water rose steadily up her slender legs, reaching her narrow waist, and continued to rise as she went forward.

Aron was confused as to what was happening. But when he saw his daughter in the pond up to her delicate neck, her fair hair floating behind her, he burst from his hiding place.

It was too late. Petal's head dipped below the surface, her hair floating momentarily, then it, too, vanished below.

"Petal! What are you doing?" cried Aron. "Petal!" He ran back and forth along the shore as he squinted and tried to peer into the inky water. But he saw only the round, white moon above and his own dark silhouette gazing up at him. Finally, he jumped in.

The water was cold and black, and he couldn't see a thing. He came up for air, then dove even deeper, grabbing blindly at the water, ripping at lily pad stems and smacking a few startled fish. But after becoming so tired that he nearly drowned, Aron finally pulled himself onto the bank and collapsed. There he slept, his legs and arms twitching as if he were still diving, until he was awakened by the morning sun and the warbling of birds.

Convinced that his daughter had drowned, Aron mulled over the idea of taking his own life as he returned to his cottage. But, lo and behold, who did he find there, once more curled up in her bed as if nothing had happened, but Petal!

Aron shook his head. He was almost ready to believe he had dreamed the whole adventure, except that, once more, he saw puddles on the floor leading to his daughter's bed.

Though he was overjoyed, Aron was also furious. He was about to shake his daughter awake and demand an explanation when he decided, No, let her confess to me on her own. It would be better that way.

But confess what exactly? That she had gone for a midnight swim? Surely that's all there was to it. Surely there was nothing — no one — in the pond waiting for her.

Still, in the Forest of Wayreth, you never know.

So all that day, Aron waited for his daughter to tell him what happened. From his loom he kept eyeing her, but all she did was go happily about her duties.

Fine! thought Aron in frustration. Let her think she's fooled the old man! I will just have to catch her in the act!

For the rest of the day, Aron played the innocent, too. He smiled at his daughter, engaged her in polite conversation during lunch and dinner, and generally acted as if nothing were on his mind — except that, while at his loom, he was busy weaving a plot.

Then, in the evening, earlier than usual, he said, "I'm tired. I think I'll turn in."

Petal, darning in a rocking chair near the fire, said, "All right, Father. I'll put out the fire."

Aron stretched a phony stretch and went to his room. But he had never been more awake. He crouched by his bedroom window and peered out into the night air, waiting for his daughter to leave the cottage.

He waited so long, though, that he nodded off for a moment. When he stirred himself, he hurried into Petal's room and saw that she had left. Nearly panic-stricken that he had lost an opportunity, Aron grabbed his stick, a lantern, and a net, and he hurried outside and passed between the two tulip trees.

By the time he reached the pond, Petal was already standing on its banks and calling toward the abandoned beaver dam, "My love, my love, take me to your home." Then she slipped off her gown and stepped into the water.

Aron waited. He wanted to catch both Petal and whoever came to her. When the water reached Petal's neck, her long fair hair floating behind her, Aron sprang out and tossed the net across the water. But Petal dropped below too quickly, and Aron pulled in only a turtle and two frogs. He quickly lit his lantern and held it over the water. What he saw below horrified him.

Just beneath the surface, but sinking ever deeper, was the pale form of Petal, hand-in-hand with another being, a shadowy creature made indistinct by both night and water. Aron pressed so close to the water to see that his nose and lantern went under, the flame extinguishing with a hiss. The two forms disappeared.

Aron pulled back and sat on the bank near his daughter's gown, which he took in his hand. His heart was pounding, but this time he would remain calm. He fully expected Petal to return. And this time he would be waiting for her.

Alas, lulled by the croaking of the frogs, he fell asleep.

In the morning when he awoke, the gown was gone from his hands. He dashed straight back to his cottage where he found, sure enough, Petal curled up in her bed, the puddles of water on the floor.

"How innocently you sleep there," muttered Aron, his eyes asquint, "just like the little girl I once knew, eh? But look here, these puddles belie that innocence. Well, sleep soundly, my daughter, for you will be deceitful no more."

Aron left the room, knowing what he had to do. For one more day, he would play the innocent. For one more day, he would pretend he had nothing burdensome on his mind. He even whistled again at his loom, which had the intended effect of reassuring Petal.

But as soon as night fell and Petal went to bed, Aron dropped his pose. He quietly secured both her window shutter and door with braces of wood. Taking up his lantern and stick, he hurried to the pond.

When he got there, he placed himself near the old beaver dam. There, in a high voice, he called out, "My love, my love, take me to your home." Then, his lantern lit, he crouched down and waited for the creature to rise to the surface.

It didn't do so, either because it was fearful of the light, or because it knew that it was not Petal who called.

No matter, thought Aron. He stood up. "You shall reveal yourself whether you like it or not." And, with that, he gripped his walking stick with two hands and started to break apart the beaver dam.

He stabbed at the dam repeatedly, prying it, pulling out the limbs, branches, and mud. The water rushed out of each break, swelling the stream on the other side. The pond itself slowly began to shrink, leaving behind a widening shore of mud that was laced with stranded lily pads and their limp stems. Several frogs left high and dry began burrowing by backing into the mud, their bulbous eyes disappearing last with a blink.

His heart pounding ever faster, Aron worked all the harder. "Come, come!" he called out over the increasingly loud rush of water. "Don't be shy! Let me see your fishy face!" He put down his stick and eagerly held his lantern over the surface.

He was rewarded for his efforts. He saw, swimming among an ever thicker riot of fish, a large, human-shaped something — no, two human-shaped some-things, both still vague in the muddy, benighted water.

For a moment, one of them seemed to be the pale form of Petal, and Aron had to remind himself that he had secured her in her room. He was tempted to run back to the cottage just to make sure, but the water was very low now, and he would see everything soon enough.

Finally, though, as the water dropped to a depth of a mere hand's span and the fish were bumping into each other, many of them forced out and flopping about the muddy shore, the two creatures began joining the frogs and burrowing into the mud.

"No! Where are you going?" cried Aron, stepping forward, his foot sinking in the mud with a slurp.

But the two forms burrowed deeper, even as the pond became only a mud hole, leaving behind a mere trickle of a stream that meandered among the stranded lily pads, flopping fish, and stunned turtles, which just stood there stupidly, not knowing which way to go. In the center of all that was the writhing mud, as the two creatures dug down to escape the lantern light, or the air, or Aron himself.

Eventually, the writhing slowed, the mounds flattened, and the ground was still. All was quiet. Even the fish lay exhausted, their gills opening and closing uselessly. Aron felt cheated not to see the face of the creature whom Petal had called "My love, my love," but he was satisfied that it would be a problem no more.

But who was that second creature?

Aron returned quickly to his cottage and, first thing, checked Petal's room. He saw, to his relief, that she was indeed there, curled up in her bed. So he went to bed himself and slept more peacefully than he had in a long time.

The next morning he awoke and went directly to his loom, waiting for Petal to rise and make him some breakfast. But she slept late that morning. Finally, his stomach rumbling, Aron called out, "Petal! Come on! Make your old father some breakfast."

She didn't answer.

Perhaps she knows what I did and is being spiteful, thought Aron. "Come on, girl! Up!"

She didn't answer.

Aron went to her room and found her still lying in her bed, curled up. Naturally, there were no puddles this morning, a fact that gave Aron much satisfaction.

"Up, my girl!" he called, walking over to her and brashly pulling away the covers.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. It was not Petal at all but pillows set up to mimic her form.

Without a moment's hesitation, Aron dashed from the room, grabbed one of Petal's large gardening shovels, and ran to the dried pond.

When he got there, he saw what, in his eagerness, he had missed the night before: his daughter's gown, lying rumpled on the bank. He immediately stepped into the mud to get to the center, but the farther he went, the deeper his legs went into the mud. At one point the mud came nearly up to his knees, and he could hardly walk. But he pressed on, thinking only of his darling Petal lying buried in the mud.

Then, as he neared the center of the pond, Aron noticed something odd. There, right where he meant to dig, was a tiny green plant shoot. Or rather two tiny green plant shoots. They were entwined delicately about each other. And before Aron could pull his right leg from the mud, those two green shoots, right before his eyes, began to grow.

In a matter of moments, they transformed into long, elegant tree saplings, both still entwined about each other. But they didn't stop there.

They continued to grow toward the sun, their trunks thickening as they grew. And as they did so, they encircled each other. They put out ever more branches, tiny leaves, and even some reddish fruit that hung in clusters.

Soon, what had been two delicate shoots only moments before were now two sturdy trees in full-grown glory, their thick, nearly merged trunks coiled around each other, their roots bulging from the mud, their lofty crowns meshed and arching over the entire width of what had been the pond.

Aron pulled himself out of the mud by one of the roots. He gazed at the two entwining trunks and at the leaves overhead, which now filtered out the sun. "Petal," he whimpered, "forgive me. I believed my love was enough."

And there, in the shade of the two trees, Aron Dewweb sat and wept. By the time the sun had set and the moon had risen, sending its sprinkles of silver light through the two trees' crowns, Aron died of a broken heart, and little green leaves fell gently to cover him…

So ended Barryn Warrex's tale.

When Aril Witherwind looked up from his book, he detected in one of the old man's eyes a solitary tear. The half-elf himself sighed from sadness and had to brush away from his page a teardrop or two that threatened to make his ink run. "Well, I must say, that is not a story I expected from a knight," he said.

Barryn Warrex stirred, his eyes and ears once more seeing and hearing what was before him. And when he spoke, it was once more with his own deep but tired voice. "I warned you," he said. "It is what has been in my heart." With a creaking of his armor and bones, he slowly rose to his feet.

"Well, now it's in my book, as well," said the half-elf, blotting the page and shaking off his own sadness. "But as to the title. How about, 'A Tale of Eternal Love'? — no, no, too corny. How about, 'A Tale of Two Loves'? You see, it's about two kinds of love, get it?"

Barryn Warrex, not much caring what title the folklorist gave the story, trudged over to the flat rock where his helmet and shield were lying.

"Well, I'll have to give that some thought," continued Aril, tapping his quill feather against his downy chin. "By the way, this is most important: Should I put this story down as fact or as fable?"

The knight put on his visorless helmet, his grand white moustaches flowing well out from it on both sides like two elegant handles. "The story is true enough as far as I'm concerned."

"Well, I don't know," said Aril, squinting at the page through his spectacles. "It seems pretty incredible — even for the Forest of Wayreth. Perhaps if you had seen those Entwining Trees yourself, it would lend credibility — »

With some effort, Barryn Warrex stooped and lifted his heavy, dull shield. "My friend, all I know is that I, too, once had a beautiful daughter, and that one day, she, too, reached marriageable age. I behaved no better than this Aron Dewweb."

"Oh — I'm so sorry," said Aril Witherwind awkwardly, not sure how to respond to such a confession. "Uh, I myself have never had children — »

The old knight slung the shield across his back, and he became as stooped under its weight as Aril was under his tome. Even as he spoke, Barryn Warrex started off down into the grassy, flower-dotted valley, where butterflies flitted about him as if to cheer him up. "It is many years since my own daughter ran away with her lover."

Aril remained perched on his rock, and, trying to hear the retreating knight, he started a new page and began scribbling once more in his book.

"Now this old knight has but one last mission in his life," said Warrex, walking ever farther off, his voice growing fainter, "and that is to find my daughter and this husband of hers — »

" — and," murmured Aril, repeating the knight's words exactly as he wrote them down, " — give — them — my — blessing."

A Painter's Vision

Barbara Siegel and Scott Siegel

"It looks so real," said Curly Kyra with awe. She brushed long ringlets of black hair away from her eyes and stared at the painting, ignoring calls from down the bar for another round of ale. "It's a beautiful boat." Softly, with wonder in her voice, she added, "It seems as if it could almost sail right off the canvas."

"Almost, but not quite," replied Sad-Eye Seron, the painter. He was a skinny man with a gentle face. His eyebrows drooped at the edges, giving him the perpetually sad expression that had earned him his nickname. But he smiled now, enjoying the effect his new painting was having on the lovely, young barmaid he had courted all summer long.

"Will it make a lot of money?" asked Kyra hopefully.

Seron's smile vanished. "I sometimes think that you're the only one who likes my work. Everybody else in Flotsam says, 'Why buy pictures of things that I can see whenever I look out my window?'»

"Hey, Kyra," bellowed a patron with an empty mug. "Am I going to get a refill, or should I just come back there and pour my own?"

The tavern owner stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Tend to business," he warned his barmaid.

"All right, I'm going," Kyra said. But she didn't move. Instead, she shook her head at the magnificent sailing scene and stood there in admiration of Seron's artistry.

If Seron was an underappreciated painter, the same could not be said of the pretty picture known as Curly Kyra. Every unmarried man — and plenty of the married ones — had hopes of bedding her. She had alabaster skin, bright brown eyes, and full lips that seemed created expressly for kissing. Even more inviting than her lips, however, was the purely feminine shape of her figure; since coming of age this summer, she had to slap men's hands more often than she had to slap at bugs.

It was different, though, with Seron. Oh, he wanted to bed her and made no pretense about it, but he truly cared for her and made that clear in a thousand different ways. He helped patch the roof of her family's cottage without asking for so much as a cup of water in return. He gave her painting lessons, teaching her everything from mixing colors to the techniques of his brushstroke. And when she was terribly sick with an unknown disease — and looked like a particularly ugly dwarf he had once painted — Seron risked his own health to help care for her.

The two of them leaned over the bar near each other, the sea-faring picture between them. "You're wasting your time working in this tavern," Seron said earnestly. "I've said it from the very beginning — you're smart, talented, perceptive; you can do more with your life than just serve ale."

"You're only saying I'm smart," teased Kyra, "because I like your work."

He smiled, but shook his head. "I really mean it," he insisted.

Involved in their intimate discussion, Kyra paid no attention to the growing clamor of angry voices calling out for service.

As for Seron, he hadn't yet tried to sell his latest painting, but he saw that Kyra was so enamored of the picture (and he was so enamored of her) that he suddenly blurted, "I want you to have it. It's a gift."

Kyra was stunned by his offer. Her face turned red, and it looked as if she couldn't breathe.

"Are you all right?" he asked worriedly.

She answered by throwing her arms around him and kissing him on the lips.

That night Kyra lost her job but found a husband.

Her belief in Seron's talents was not misplaced;

soon after they were married, he finally began to sell some of his paintings. He didn't receive much for them, but at least it was a beginning. He supplemented their meager income by painting family portraits for the local tradesmen. Still, it wasn't enough.

"Why don't you give art lessons?" asked Kyra one late afternoon as she took down the wash that had dried on the line.

"What? And create my own competition?" he said, laughing as he folded the clothes she handed him.

"You have a wonderful talent," she continued, ignoring him. "You could give classes. I know the kender would love it; they couldn't possibly pass up a chance to try their hand at drawing."

"What makes you think I'd be any good as a teacher?" he asked.

"Because you were so good at teaching me."

"I was good at teaching you," he said, "because you were an excellent student. You could do anything you set your mind to," he continued. "You settle for too little from yourself. If only you — »

"Please! Not that speech again," she complained.

"But you could be so much more if only you tried," he insisted, touching his fingers to the palm of her hand.

"Isn't that the same thing your brother always says to YOU?" she countered. "Doesn't he always say that you're wasting yourself on all these pictures?"

He scowled. "Don't change the subject. We're talking about you — and you know I'm right. You're capable of doing all sorts of things; you're too easily content."

"Content? Me?" she laughed seductively. "Never." And with that, she dropped the sheet she had been holding and began unbuttoning her blouse.

"No one stops an argument like you," he chuckled, removing his own shirt.

Their bed was a sheet on the soft grass, their roof was the afternoon sky, and their souls were one soul long after their passion was spent.

As the afternoon light faded, Kyra felt a chill. She snuggled up close to her husband, who tenderly embraced her. She felt safe in his arms, protected. When he held her like that, she knew both the strength and the tenderness of his love. For her, there was nothing in all of Krynn to match that feeling. Nothing.

Dutifully, Seron gave art lessons to the kender, and anyone else who was willing to pay. Not that anything valuable ever changed hands. Despite their enthusiasm, the kender were inattentive students, and they generally walked off with the paint, the brushes, and half of tomorrow's lunch.

To better provide for his wife, Seron took a job during the evenings as a cook at the Sea Master Inn. Kyra didn't want him to take the time away from his art, but he couldn't bear to see her go hungry. He promised her he would work at the inn only until his paintings brought in more money.

He hoped that would happen soon, for he had chanced upon an entirely new and exciting subject when he met his very first dragon…

"Do you have a red blanket?" asked the young male brass dragon standing at the edge of a clearing in the forest.

Seron could hardly believe his eyes, let alone his ears; the dragon was talking to him!

"Are… are you real?" stammered the painter.

"That doesn't seem like an appropriate answer to the question, 'Do you have a red blanket?' Would you like to try again?"

Seron's curiosity was greater than his fear. He stepped closer and touched the dragon's wing. "You are real," he mumbled, astonished. He quickly stepped back again.

"I seem to have this effect on everybody," the dragon said, shaking his head sadly. "Have you never seen or heard of my kind before?"

"Only — only in legends," replied Seron as he carefully examined the tall, majestic dragon standing before him. He didn't want to forget any detail for the picture that he knew he must paint. Finally, he thought, I'll be able to succeed for Kyra. This painting will be worth a fortune!

"It's terrible," complained the dragon. "Wherever I go, people stop and gawk at me. And really," he continued, "I don't understand it. It's not as if I'm wearing flashy colors. Which, by the way, brings me back to the question of the red blanket. Do you have one or not?"

Seron didn't want the dragon to leave. Not yet. He needed more time to study this wonderful creature. "I'll get you a red blanket," he promised. "Just wait right here."

The painter raced to the hut.

"Kyra, where are you?" he cried when he found their home empty.

"I'm in the back… in the vegetable garden."

Not wanting to waste any time, he quickly looked through their trunk and closet. He was sure they had some sort of red blanket — a strange request, come to think of it — but he couldn't find it.

"Any luck?" called out the dragon, who was now standing at the front door.

"You were supposed to stay where you were," said Seron nervously, stepping out to meet the creature. He was afraid the dragon might harm his wife.

"Is someone there?" Kyra called out gaily, walking around the side of the hut. "I thought I heard another voice and — »

She stopped in her tracks with a look of wonder on her face.

"A red blanket!" cried the animal happily, gesturing toward the red shawl Kyra wore around her shoulders.

Seron blinked. That's what he had been looking for.

Kyra smiled at the dragon. She had grown up on tales of these magical beasts. To Seron's surprise, she wasn't afraid of the creature. "Do you like this?" she asked, sweeping the shawl off her shoulders and holding it before her.

"Very much," replied the dragon.

"Then it's yours," she said. "I think you'll look wonderful in it. Much better than I."

"Now, you're a human I could grow to like," the dragon said. "What's your name?"

"Kyra," she replied with a warm smile. "What's yours?"

"Tosch. And may I say," said the dragon with a bow, "I am very pleased to meet YOU. Him," he added, pointing at Seron, "I must ponder."

"You must not offend me," Kyra reproached gently. "Seron is my husband, and if you like me, you must also like him."

The dragon made a frown. "Is this a rule of the humans?"

"It's my rule," said Kyra.

The dragon nodded.

"Good. Now come, let me give you your new cape."

Tosch lowered his head, and Kyra tied the red cloth around the dragon's neck. It was a pitifully small splash of red against the creature's massive body, but Tosch didn't seem to care. He was thrilled with his new appearance and he revelled in it — posturing every which way and asking how he looked in every pose.

To Seron, it was all rather silly, but Kyra took the dragon seriously, giving him her best advice on how to wear the cape to his best advantage.

Finally, Tosch stood still and turned to Seron. "Your wife gave me a wonderful gift," stated the dragon. "What are YOU going to give me?"

"I'm going to paint your picture," he calmly replied. "Once humans have seen your portrait, they won't be so surprised when they see you in the flesh. Isn't that what you want?"

Tosch looked at Kyra. "Can he draw?" he asked.

"Raise your right wing just a little higher," said Seron, as he painted Tosch's picture in the forest clearing where they had first met. "Just a bit higher. Yes. Good. Don't move."

"I think I look better with my wings lower and my head higher," complained Tosch. "And I've got a great profile from the left side. You said so, yourself."

"My purpose is to create a dramatic effect," the painter reminded him, "not necessarily to make you look your best."

"I don't understand the difference," sniffed the dragon. "If I look good, the picture looks good, right?"

"It's the other way around, my friend," laughed Seron. "If the picture looks good, you'll look good."

"Hmmph."

No one else was offering to paint pictures of Tosch, so he remained a willing model despite differences with Seron. The peacemaker was Kyra. She often joined them in the forest clearing, stroking the dragon's head when her husband released him from a long, torturous pose.

Tosch, however, was not the easiest model to paint. The brass dragon would often arrive late for sittings;

sometimes he wouldn't come at all. Often, he would quietly mutter a magical incantation, slap his tail against the ground three times, and make Seron's brushes disappear. The dragon seemed bent on driving the artist to distraction.

But Kyra always soothed Seron's anger by explaining yet again that the dragon tales of her youth told of the creatures' freewheeling nature. "A brass dragon," she said, "comes and goes as he pleases and likes to play tricks. It's his nature; don't blame him."

And so the painting continued. At least for a short while…

Tosch might have stayed for years instead of a few short months, but when the Highlord and her forces invaded Flotsam, the young dragon fled to the mountains.

Seron and Kyra might have done the same, but Flot sam was all they had ever known; they had both been born there, and neither of them had ever been anywhere else.

The truth was they were afraid to leave. Times were hard after the dragonarmy took over. But even so, Seron eked out a living. He managed to sell his pictures of Tosch, despite the fact that dragons were now far more commonplace. One of Seron's portraits went to the owner of the inn where he worked as a cook. He sold another to a fierce female ship captain who said she would hang it in her cabin. Yet another was bought by a traveling peddler. All of the buyers admired how skillfully the artist had, at once, captured both the youthful innocence and the natural arrogance of the dragon.

With each sale, Kyra became ever more proud of her husband. His reputation as a painter was growing, yet nothing really changed. They still lived in the same small hut, their clothes were still second-hand rags skillfully repaired by Kyra, and Seron still had to work at the inn to supplement their income.

"You won't believe it!" exclaimed Seron in a rush of words as he burst into their one-room home. "I was up on Cold Rock Point," he explained, "and I saw the Highlord atop her blue dragon. She was leading a whole phalanx of soldiers riding their own dragons. The entire sky was filled with them. Everywhere you looked there were dragons! Their wings were flapping with a power that nearly blew me off the cliff, and their great mouths were screaming in cries that nearly deafened me. But the sight of it, Kyra! I've got to paint it!"

For days, then weeks, he worked on the image he had seen. It consumed him. He had to finish it before he forgot how it looked, how it felt, what it meant.

Kyra watched him work. At first she saw only dark outlines, then the dragons appeared, one at a time. And each of the dragons was more malevolent than the last. There was danger in the picture. The Highlord and her dragonarmy soldiers took shape with menacing faces, and the sky was dark and forbidding. Kyra could feel the cold wind from the wings of the huge beasts, sense the hot breath from their snarling jaws, and she knew — all at once — that the painting had captured the ineffable horror of their conquerors.

Of course, they couldn't sell the painting. If the Highlord or any of her soldiers ever saw it, they'd cut off Seron's hands. Nonetheless, he wasn't sorry that he had done it. And neither was Kyra. They both hoped that eventually the dark days would pass, and his picture would be a valued — and valuable — reminder of this evil time. More than that, they both hoped it would forever establish Seron as Krynn's pre-eminent artist.

They kept the bleak masterpiece hidden in a wooden crate under their bed. However, it soon began to rankle them both that Seron's greatest work had no audience. What was the point of having painted the picture if no one ever saw it?

It was then that they conceived their daring plan to smuggle the painting to Palanthas where it might be prominently displayed in a gallery. But they would need help.

"Let's send word to Tosch," suggested Kyra. "He could fly here one dark night and take the painting away with him."

"Do you think Tosch would really do it; would he risk his life for a painting?"

"We have nothing to lose by asking," she said.

Two days later, the peddler who had bought a Seron painting of Tosch carried a coded note out of the city and into the mountain warrens. The note asked their friend to come to them after sunset during the night when the two moons were at their smallest. It was a great favor, and they didn't ask it lightly. And they said as much in the note. If Tosch felt it was too dangerous, they said, he shouldn't come; they would understand.

But still they hoped he would glide down to them out of the dark sky.

The nights passed as slowly as a gnome builds a machine. The days were even longer. Eventually, though, the moons went through their glowing phases. It was almost time.

As the sun descended, sending long shadows across a sad, beleaguered city, Kyra and Seron grew anxious. Tonight was the night.

"Do you think the note actually reached Tosch?" wondered Kyra.

"I don't know."

"What if the peddler were intercepted? If the Highlord deciphered our message — »

Suddenly a loud knock sounded at their door. Instinctively, they both reached for each other. Neither of them uttered a word. The worst, it seemed, had happened. They had been found out.

The pounding on the door continued, matched only by the pounding of their hearts. Seron took a deep breath and kissed his wife lightly on the forehead. "Let's try to be brave," he said in a voice that nonetheless betrayed his fear.

She nodded.

Seron got to his feet and opened the door.

"What did I do, roust you two out of bed?" roared Seron's brother, Long-Chin Cheb. "What took you so long to open up? It's not as if you had so far to go to reach the door," he added, glancing disdainfully at the walls of the tiny hut.

"We… we didn't expect to see you," said Seron, catching his breath. "This is quite a surprise. What brings you to Flotsam? Is — is anything wrong?"

"Must something be wrong for me to visit my only family?"

"Seron didn't mean that," piped up Kyra in her husband's defense. "He's glad to see you, just as I am."

Cheb smiled at his sister-in-law. "That's nice of you to say. And let me tell you, you're still a pleasure to look at," he added. "I've always said, my brother's done an awful lot of foolish things in his life, but marrying you wasn't one of them."

To accept the compliment was also to accept the slap at her husband, and that Kyra would not do. She simply nodded curtly and offered her brother-in-law a chair at the table.

He was dressed like a prince, but his clothes lookedbetter than he did. His face was long and sallow, with deep set green eyes that gave him a cadaverous, if mesmerizing, appearance.

As Cheb strutted through the doorway, Seron nervously glanced out the window into the deepening twilight. Tosch would not show himself if he saw a third person in the hut; they had to get rid of Cheb. Assuming, that is, that Tosch was actually coming.

"You'll be glad I made this surprise visit," Seron's brother announced grandly, "when you hear what I have to say. But first — " he dropped his satchel to the floor and plopped down into the most comfortable chair in the house — "pour me some ale, girl."

When she returned with a full mug, he winked and said, "A barmaid never forgets her craft."

Kyra stepped across the room to stand with her hus band. "You said you had news," she said coolly.

The older man downed the mug of ale in one long draught. "Good for what ails you," he said. Then he laughed. "Hey, I made a joke. 'Good for what ail's you.' Get it?"

"The news?" asked Seron.

"Of course. You must be anxious to hear it. It's obviously clear," he added gesturing at their home, "that you're in need of glad tidings. Well," he continued, "one day, lo and behold, I received a request for twenty paintings from a wealthy man who wanted to decorate his new home with an artistic touch. Naturally, he didn't want to pay very much, but we managed to settle on a fair price. Of course, I never told him that I had a brother who was a painter. Nor did I tell him that this brother of mine had a hut overflowing with his unsold works of art."

"At what price did you propose this sale of my paintings?" asked Seron.

"Never mind the price," Cheb said with a wave of his hand. "It isn't important. All you need to know is that I will take twenty of your paintings — of my choosing — and give you five percent of everything I make."

Seron physically flinched at his brother's words. Though he could almost feel the knife wound of betrayal, he fought his temper and quietly said, "Forgive me if I choose to ignore this opportunity. I know how you made your fortune — buying unsold goods at a fraction of their cost in one city and then selling them at a generous markup somewhere else. You're entitled to your profits, but five percent of twenty paintings means I'm giving nineteen away for free. No, thank you."

"Come now," said Cheb. "Don't be foolish. This is money in your pocket. Why hesitate? You can't sell this stuff, anyway. Might as well let me take it off your hands."

Seron was silent. He had turned away to look out the window, then glanced back at Kyra. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I say no," she said with firm resolution. "Someday soon," she added pointedly, following his gaze into the dark sky, "your paintings — all of them — will be worth a great deal more."

"You have your answer," said Seron to his brother.

"This is ridiculous," insisted Cheb. "I found a willing buyer and you turn me down. But I'll be magnanimous. I'll raise the offer to a full ten percent. Now what do you say?"

"No," Seron answered emphatically. "You'd best be on your way," he added, afraid that his rage was beginning to break through his calm exterior.

The two brothers glared at each other. Cheb could not understand such an empty-headed artist, while Seron knew, from sad experience, that he could never explain himself to such a money-hungry man.

"Here, take a candle," offered Kyra. "You can light one of our torches outside and use it to find your way along the path."

Seron led the grumbling Cheb to the door. "If you hurry," he said, "you'll still find a bed at the Sea Master Inn. Tell the owner that I sent you. He knows me."

Cheb was already out the door, lighting his torch, when he realized he'd left his satchel in the hut. He rushed back in with the torch aflame and reached for the bag on the floor by the chair.

At the same time, Kyra said, "Here, let me help you."

They accidentally collided while both reached for the satchel, and Cheb lost his balance. Falling over backward, the torch went flying out of his grasp.

The burning torch landed in the comer of the hut, right in the middle of Seron's paints. They exploded in a ball of bright orange flame!

Cheb quickly scrambled to his feet. "Run for your lives!" he cried. He snatched up his satchel and ran out the door without ever looking back.

"Get out! Save yourself!" Seron shouted to his wife, who was trying to drag the heavy wooden crate out from beneath the bed.

"I'm not leaving without your painting," she cried. The fire quickly spread far beyond the comer of the hut. Soon, the bed and all the rest of their furniture were burning. Two of the walls were aflame, as was part of the roof; a heavy, deadly smoke filled their one-room home.

Seron grabbed his wife around the waist and hauled her to her feet. Both of them were coughing, their eyes were tearing, and their skin was beginning to blister. The fire snapped at the edges of their clothing as he carried his wife to the door of the hut and threw her onto the soft grass outside the door.

But he didn't follow her out into the safety of the night. Instead, he rushed back into the burning hut, diving to the floor next to the bed. The wooden crate was beginning to char, but he knew there was still time; the painting inside had not yet been damaged. He hauled the crate out from beneath the bed and lifted it. The door was just a few yards away…

Though the doorway was open, the smoke and flames were too thick for Kyra to see inside the hut. "Forget the painting!" she screamed. "Seron! Get out of there! Hurry!" she begged.

The roof caved in. The hut collapsed. Seron was buried in an avalanche of fire, and Kyra gave out an anguished cry of pain that stretched on for minutes. When there was nothing left inside her, she crumpled to the dew-wet grass.

Kyra didn't move. There was no reason. Much later, in the darkest hour of the night, a voice whispered in her ear…

"Am I late?"

At first, Kyra was startled. She lifted her head and saw Tosch. The familiar sight of the brass dragon set Kyra crying all over again. He did his best to comfort her, nestling her frail, shivering frame between his right wing and his body. But he couldn't see what was so upsetting.

As best she could, she told Tosch what had happened. Then she wept throughout the rest of the night. Finally, just before dawn, Kyra fell into an exhausted sleep. The dragon sighed. The sun would be coming up soon — and he supposed he had better take her with him. There was nothing for Kyra here. He lifted her onto his back and then gently took wing.

Tosch watched a female brass dragon sailing in small, lazy circles overhead. Without thinking, he turned his good profile in her direction.

"I don't think I ever told you, but I do like Palanthas," Kyra announced from her seat on a nearby tree stump.

Tosch nodded absently, glancing down at the blue, yellow, and orange clothes Kyra was sewing together for him. "When will my new cape be finished?" he asked.

"I told you it would take six months," she said. "It's only been four."

"You know only humans count time," he replied with a shrug of his gigantic shoulders. "Has it really been four months?"

"I can't quite believe it, either," she said in an aching, hollow voice.

"Ah, you seem so… lonely, Kyra. Perhaps you should marry again."

"No!" she said emphatically. A moment later, a sad smile washed over her face. "I know you mean well," she said, "but I could never love another man after Seron. We were best friends as well as lovers. We finished each other's thoughts, laughed at each other's jokes." She closed her eyes. "I can't sleep without him. I reach for him at night," she softly admitted, and then rubbed her eyes open. "I saw you preening for that female up there," she gestured with a wan smile on her face, "and my first thought was that I wanted to tell Seron that you hadn't changed a bit."

"Please don't point," he said, embarrassed. "She'll know that we're talking about her."

Kyra lowered her hand. "Sorry," she said. "Apology accepted," he said indulgently. She reached out and stroked his head the way she used to back in the old days. He smiled.

Kyra had spent all her waking hours — and many of her sleeping hours, as well — reliving her life with Seron. Over and over again, every conversation, every hug, every night of passion played in her mind. She remembered he had always wanted her to do something more with her life. He had said she was capable of doing anything she set her mind to. The only thing she had set her mind to, though, was loving him. Shouldn't that have been enough?

He had tried so hard for her. He never brought home a pocketful of money, but he always brought home kindness, laughter, and a sweetness of spirit. If he had wanted her to accomplish more with her life, why couldn't she try to do that for him now?

She laughed at herself. He would have said, 'Don't do it for ME, do it for YOU!"

Was it too late now to do it for either of them?

She glanced down at her hands. Tentatively, she allowed herself to ask the question, If I can do anything I set my mind to, what should I do?

Her mind was blank.

"So, what do you think of the way I'm wearing my scales?" asked Tosch, interrupting her reverie.

"What?"

"My scales… on my back," said the dragon, turning to give her a better look. "I've forced the edges up just a bit. Pretty stylish, huh?"

"It looks very modem. You might start a trend."

"You think so?"

"If anyone can," she laughed, "it's you."

"Well, the only way I can start a trend is if I am seen by everyone," Tosch said thoughtfully. "So I guess I'd better be on my way."

He flapped his wings and slowly rose off the ground. "I'll be back soon to pick up my new cape. Bye, now."

She went back to the only trade she knew — serving ale. She worked long hours at a new tavern where the owner favored her and the customers appreciated her diligence. But the years of hard work and scraping by had taken a toll on her. Now, the younger barmaids had to fend off the pinches and the propositions, and only the regulars took notice of the pale, disheveled Kyra. She did not care — she did not care about much.

Six years passed before Tosch returned. Kyra understood that to a brass dragon, six years was hardly more than a week; she wasn't angry with him. Besides, in her great and enduring sadness, there was precious little happiness. Seeing her old friend was a welcome relief from her neverending sense of loss.

They sat on a sandy beach at the edge of the bay. She glanced up and smiled, slightly averting her eyes. It was self-preservation. Tosch was covered with every imaginable color of cloth; it nearly blinded her whenever she tried to gaze at him. He obviously was not interested in the three-color cape that she had painstakingly made.

"Look," he said, insisting that she focus her eyes on him, "I've had my teeth chiseled. What do you think? Good and straight now, right?"

She shielded her eyes and glanced at his mouth. "Every time I see you, you're different," she said. "I

can hardly remember what you looked like six years ago."

A tear suddenly ran down her cheek. Her chin trembled.

"Now what's wrong?" asked Tosch, perturbed. "I'm sorry. It's just that I sometimes forget what Seron used to look like, too."

The dragon lowered his plummaged head and sighed with exasperation. "You still think of him?" "I never stop."

"Well, I still can't understand what you saw in him. I grant you, he was a passable painter, but after all, he had a wonderful subject. You know," Tosch added, "he was never very nice to me."

"He liked you very much," Kyra said defiantly. "And I don't want you to say another bad word about Seron. Not ever."

"Sorry," apologized Tosch, shrinking just a bit under her wrath. He thought it wise, just then, to say somethingnice about her late husband. "It's too bad he never did a self portrait," offered the dragon. "He would

have done a fine job. And then you would have had a picture of him always."

Kyra nodded sorrowfully. "Listen, let me take you for a ride," suggested the dragon, trying to change the subject. "It'll lift your spirits. Where would you like to go?"

"Home," she said sadly. "I'm not very good company when I'm feeling like this."

She lay in bed for hours, unable to keep from crying. It's been six years, she thought to herself. Why am I still grieving? Why can't I stop?

The answer was as plain as the tears on her face:

Her love did not die in that fire. Yes, her memory was fading, but her feelings were as strong as ever.

Finally, late that afternoon, she climbed wearily out of bed and built a fire in order to make herself a light meal. Later, after sitting down at her rickety wooden table to eat, she noticed that her hands were smeared with charcoal. Without thinking, she absently cleaned her fingers by etching an image of her husband in charcoal on her faded white tablecloth.

When she realized what she had done, she stopped and stared at her work. The picture stared back at her. It wasn't a very good likeness of Seron, but it was still undeniably him. More than that, though, while she had been sketching, she had sensed — for the first time in more than six years — the peace and security she had felt in her husband's arms.

After all this time, Kyra finally knew what she could do with her life besides serving ale. Still staring at the sketch, she whispered, "I'm going to paint you, Seron. I may not be the artist that you once were, but I'll do my best to be as good as I can be. I won't settle for less; I can't settle for less, because it's the only way I can have you close to me."

With paints, brushes, and a canvas bought out of her meager savings, Kyra started the memory portrait of her husband that very night. Painting by firelight, she worked until dawn. Her body ached, her eyes were strained, and she was thoroughly exhausted. And when the sun came up, she was also thoroughly disgusted. She hurled the canvas to the floor, where it landed face down. "Terrible," she muttered. "He didn't look anything like that."

It was then that Tosch flew to her door, calling out, "Come look at my new wings!"

Kyra stuck her head out the window and saw gold sparkles on Tosch's wings, dancing in the dawn light.

"You've outdone yourself," she declared.

"And so have you," Tosch cried happily, seeing the paint smears on her face. "Are you coloring your body now, too?"

"No," she sighed wearily. "But I have decided to do some painting."

"Ooh, let me see. I want to see." Tosch bubbled with excitement.

"There's nothing for you to look at yet," she explained. But she knew deep in her heart that even if there had been, she would not have shown it to anyone, not even Tosch. Her painting was too private, too personal. Later, when she improved her craft, when she had captured Seron the way she remembered him, only then would she let the world see her work. Not before.

Tosch was disappointed that he couldn't see her pictures, but the color on her face buoyed him up nonetheless. "I'll fly you over to the tavern," he offered cheerfully. "Lets go."

"Not today," she said. "I want to keep working."

Her old friend shrugged and said, "Okay. I'll see you later."

Tosch did, indeed, see her later… fourteen years later. By then, Kyra was an aging barmaid, working only to earn enough money to keep her in paints, brushes, and canvas. She had never stopped painting her beloved Seron.

"Notice anything different?" the dragon said easily, as if he were just picking up yesterday's conversation.

Kyra was used to it, though, and happily beamed with joy at his appearance in front of her crumbling shack. "It's your nose," she said, after looking him over. "It's changed..

it's smaller!"

"That's right!" he exclaimed. "I knew you'd notice."

"But what happened to it? It looks, well, sort of pinched and turned-up."

"Isn't it cute?"

"Well…"

"I asked a bunch of gnomes to do it for me. I just had to have a smaller nose. I don't know exactly what they did. They built a strange contraption, but I think it worked. Look at me. Isn't it darling?"

"Can you breathe all right?"

"Not too bad. You do like it, don't you?" he asked, suddenly concerned that he had made a mistake.

"I'll show you what I think of it," she said. "Lean down close to me."

The great brass dragon lowered its head close to Kyra, and she gave him a loving kiss on the nose. "You'll always be the handsomest, cutest, most adorable dragon to me," she said.

Tosch blushed, though it was hard to tell against the multi-colored cape he wore. To hide his embarrassment, he cleared his throat and asked, "How is your painting coming along? Can I see your pictures now?"

"I'm sorry," she replied evasively. "They're really not good enough yet. Someday," she promised.

"Soon?"

A smile creased her worn, but still lovely face. "By your standards, yes. Soon."

Highlords came and went. Great cities rose and fell. Wars were fought, lost, and won. But Tosch, in his fashion, was ever constant. Throughout the years, he visited his aging friend, coming to see her eleven years later, then nine years, then finally twelve years after that. But during none of those visits, did she ever show him her paintings.

It was beginning to annoy him. While the dragon was as young and vibrant as the day he had met Kyra and Seron, she had reached an age where it seemed she was always cranky. Especially on his latest visit. He had seen her earlier in the day and found her to be strangely unimpressed with his new purple hat. All she wanted to do was get back to her painting. She said she was finally getting close to achieving what she'd been after all these years. That was just fine with him, but why couldn't she pay more attention to his hat? After all, everyone else thought it was boldly original. There was no doubt in his mind; he had to talk with her about her moods. He resolved to go see her that very night.

Kyra always felt a sweet melancholy after Tosch's visits ended; it was only then that she was truly aware of her loneliness. This time it was no different, but after a hectic evening of waiting tables she was anxious to pick up her brushes and paint while she still had some strength.

She had no idea how many pictures she had painted of Seron; she had long ago forgotten the count. In fact, she had forgotten many things — but not the face of her husband.

Her husband's image, with all of its sweetness, hung above her bed.

Seron's likeness, with all of its ambition and drive, hung in the alcove that she called her studio.

Even where she cooked and ate, his face looked down upon her with all of its childish charm and humor.

Everywhere there were pictures of Seron. They were piled one upon another, and hung in every corner of her shack. She was surrounded by his image. And yet she was not finished with her work.

Frail and sickly, she had continued to paint. With eyesight fading, her joints aching, her fingers shaking, she kept on dabbing at the canvas with her brush, hoping to finally capture the perfect image of the man she still loved.

On this late night, painting by the light of red coals in a dying fire, Kyra's breath came in short gasps. She was tired. But she didn't want to stop — not before she completed her latest work.

In this picture of Seron, he was lying on a sheet that was spread out on the grass behind their hut. A pile of neatly folded laundry was off to the left. There was a look of longing on his sad-eyed face. He was alone in the picture, facing forward, with his arms outstretched, reaching.

Was that the way it really was? she wondered.

She gazed at the image of Seron. The sad eyes of her husband stared back at her. Slowly, just as the red mist on the Blood Sea would disappear when the sun reached its zenith, so did the fog lift away from Kyra's memory.

That was exactly how it was. It was Seron in every detail. His hands, with their long, shapely fingers, his prominent cheekbones, his jutting chin, the shoulders she so often lain her head upon — it was all just right.

Or was it?

Kyra's heart began to beat wildly in her chest. Was there something wrong with the painting? Something missing? The picture seemed to cry out to her for its final perfection. But, somehow, she had left something vital out, and she didn't know what it was.

In that moment, she felt so unworthy of her Seron that she turned her back to the wet canvas. Except there was no escaping her husband's sad eyes; he looked down upon her from every wall.

She lifted her arms to him and wailed, "I wanted all of Krynn to stand before you and look up lovingly, just like I did. I wanted them to feel something of what I felt. But look," she sobbed, her arms sweeping in a

wide arc, "I never captured your love in a single painting. Not one!"

Kyra fell to her knees and wept with as much anguish as the night the fire took her husband away from her. Against a deep crushing pain in her chest, she cried out, "Did I fail you all these years? Are you

ashamed of me? Oh, Seron, am I even half the woman you hoped I would be?"

When Tosch arrived at Kyra's shack, he called out to his old friend… but he heard no answer. Again he sang her name out. And again there was silence.

Finally, in exasperation, he roared, "Kyra!" as loudly as he could.

Half the inhabitants of Palanthas were stirred out of their beds by the frightful sound.

But Kyra didn't answer him.

Tosch had no patience left. He slammed one of his huge feet against the door and it flew wide open.

The brass dragon's anger instantly turned to pity when he saw the crumpled form of Kyra lying on the floor at the foot of a painting.

Tosch let out a deep, mournful sigh. As old as Kyra was, he never really thought she would act like just another human and die. She was always there to tell him how he looked, to tell him what he should wear — to be his friend. And now she was gone.

She had died all alone in this old, dilapidated shack.

He peered inside and, for the first time, focused on the picture that loomed over Kyra's body. Tosch's eyes opened wide. It was Seron, just the way he used to be. It was a magnificent likeness that caught every bit of character, every nuance of emotion, in the long-dead painter's face.

The dragon stuck his head farther inside and saw scores upon scores of Seron's image. Seron in every imaginable pose and activity. But Tosch's gaze kept coming back to the picture on the easel. The paint on that one was still wet. He knew that this had been Kyra's last, impassioned work.

He had never known, never guessed, what she had been painting all these years. Even now, staring at the evidence of Kyra's lifelong devotion to Seron, Tosch could only shake his head in wonder. He couldn't quite understand how she could have loved Seron so much. But then again, maybe he could. After all, didn't he love her in his own way, too?

He felt his wings quivering and he knew he was going to do a rare thing — he was going to cry. Kyra had meant so much to him, and he had done so little for her. He felt suddenly ashamed, realizing that he had been selfish, always taking. Why didn't he give her gold dust for her clothes? Why didn't he chisel her teeth, too? He could have done all sorts of things for her. But he hadn't. And what could he give her now?

He stared at her limp, cold body and then lifted his gaze to the painting of Seron. Then he looked a bit closer…

Something was missing. The picture didn't seem quite right. He studied it for a long, quiet moment, trying to discover what was overlooked.

Ah, I know what it is, Tosch said to himself. It's so obvious! He spoke a magical incantation and then slapped his tail against the ground three times.

Kyra was in the picture with Seron. Now it was right.

They were laughing and crying in each other's arms alive in their art. Within the bounds of the canvas, Seron and Kyra were living, breathing, loving souls.

Tosch flapped his wings with joy. He had made Kyra happy. When he turned to fly away, he heard Seron say to his beloved, "You are ALL the woman I had hoped you would be."

"Now that's a good painting," said the dragon as he flew off into the night. "Then again," he mused as he soared among the clouds, "a little more color wouldn't have hurt"