Medan had been inside the tower before for various ceremonies. Its beauty never failed to impress him. The tower rose hundreds of feet into the air with one central spire and two smaller ones jutting out to the sides. A person standing on the floor could see straight up to the top, to a wondrous mosaic. Windows placed in a spiral pattern in the tower’s walls were positioned to capture the sunlight and reflect it downward upon the rostrum that stood in the center of the main chamber.
It was too dark for him to see the mosaic that portrayed the sky by day and the sky by night. Thus symbolically had the Qualinesti portrayed their relationship with their cousins, the Silvanesti. The creator of the mosaic had been optimistic, separating the two by a rainbow. He would have done better to separate them by jagged lightning.
“Perhaps this is the reason,” Laurana said softly, looking upward to the mosaic not yet illuminated by the sunlight but hidden in darkness and in shadow. “Perhaps the sacrifice of my people is necessary for a new beginning—a beginning in which our two sundered people are finally one.”
Medan could have told her that the reasons for the destruction of Qualinost had nothing to do with new beginnings. The reasons were evil and hideous, embedded in a dragon’s hatred for all that she admired, the need to tear down that which she could never build and destroy that which she most desired to possess.
He kept his thoughts to himself. If her idea brought Laurana peace, he was more than willing to let her believe it. And, maybe, after all, their thoughts were but two sides to the same coin. Her side the light, his side the dark.
Leaving the main chamber, Laurana led the Marshal up one flight of stairs and onto a balcony that overlooked the main chamber. Doors made of silver and of gold lined the circular hallway. Laurana counted the doors as she went. When she came to the seventh door, counting from either direction, she drew a key from a blue velvet bag attached to her wrist. The key was also made of silver and of gold. The seventh door was decorated with an image of an aspen tree, its arms extended upward to the sun. Medan could see no lock.
“I know what is in this room,” Medan said. “The Royal Treasury.” He placed his hand over hers, stopped her from continuing. “Are you certain you want to reveal this to me, Madam? In there are secrets the elves have kept for a thousand years. Perhaps it would not be wise to betray them, even now.”
“We would be like the miser in the story who hordes his money against the bad times and starves to death in the process. You would have me keep locked up that which well might save us?” Laurana asked.
“I honor you for your trust in me, Madam,” said the Marshal, bowing. Laurana counted seven tree limbs up from the bottom branch, counted seven leaves upon the trees and touched her key to the seventh leaf. The door did not open. It vanished.
Medan stared into a vast hall that held the wealth of the elven kingdom of Qualinost. As Laurana lifted the lantern, the sight was more dazzling to the eyes than the sunlight striking the tower. Chests of steel coins, golden coins, and silver covered the floor. Weapons of fabulous make and design lined the walls. Casks of gems and pearls stood on the floor. The royal jewels— crowns and scepters and diadems, cloaks heavy with rubies and diamonds and emeralds—were displayed on velvet stands.
“Don’t move, Marshal,” Laurana warned him.
Medan had no intention of moving. He stood frozen inside the door. He gazed around and was angry. Coldly furious, he turned to Laurana.
“You speak of misers, Madam,” he said, gesturing. “You have wealth enough here to buy the swords of every mercenary in Ansalon, and you horde gold while you spend the lives of your people!”
“Once, long ago, in the days of Kith-Kanan, such wealth was ours,” said Laurana. “This is only its memory.”
The moment she said the word, he understood. He saw through the illusion to the reality.
A large hole gaped at his feet. A single spiral staircase carved of stone led straight down into blackness. Anyone who did not know the secrets of that room would take no more than two steps across that illusory floor before plunging to his death.
Their only light was the single ray shining from the small lantern. By its steady and unwavering light, Medan followed Laurana down the stairs. At the bottom lay the true wealth of the elven kingdom of Qualinost: a single chest with a few bags of steel coins. Several empty chests, whose lids stood open, the homes of spiders and mice. Weapons had once been displayed on the walls, but these had long since been removed. All except one. Hanging on the wall was a footman’s lance. The beam of light from her lantern struck it, caused it to shine silver as once had shone the silver moon of Solinari.
“A dragonlance,” said Marshal Medan, his voice tinged with awe. “I have never seen one before, yet I would know it anywhere.”
Laurana looked up at the lance with quiet pride. “I want you to have it, Marshal Medan.” She glanced back at him. “Do you now understand what I have in mind?”
“Perhaps I do,” he said slowly. He could not take his rapt gaze from the dragonlance. “Perhaps I am starting to.”
“I wish I could tell you it had some heroic history,” she said, “but if it does, we do not know it. The lance was given to Tanis shortly after we were married. A woman brought it to him. She said they had found it among her husband’s possessions after his death. He had taken loving care of it, and he’d left a note saying that he wanted it given to someone who would understand. She knew he had fought in the war, but he never spoke of his deeds-He would say that he had done his duty, as did many others—He’d done nothing special.”
“Yet, as I recall, only renowned and proven warriors were granted the honor of carrying the dragonlance,” said Medan.
“I knew him, you see, Marshal. I remembered him. Oh, not him personally. But I remembered all those who gave up so much to join our cause and who were never honored with songs or immortalized with tombs or statues. They went back to their lives as butchers, seamstresses, farmers, or shepherds. What they did they did for no other reason than because they felt it was their duty. I thought it appropriate we should use this lance.
“As to the other weapons that were stored here, I sent many of them with those who departed Qualinost. I gave many more to those who remain to fight. In this casket”—Laurana ran her hand over a box carved plainly and simply of rosewood—”are the truly valuable jewels of antiquity. They will remain here, for they represent the past and its glory. Should a time come in the future when we are at peace, they will be recovered. If the time should come when no one lives who remembers us, perhaps these will be discovered and bring back the dreams of the elves to the world.”
She turned from the rosewood casket, rested her hand on a tree limb. Odd, he thought, that a tree limb should be lying in the room. Kneeling beside it, she reached down and removed a piece of wood that was all but invisible in the center of the tree limb. Now Medan could see that the limb had been split lengthwise to form a case. Laurana lifted the lid. Inside lay a sword. The weapon was enormous—a two-handed broadsword—and it would require two immensely large and strong hands to wield it. The blade was of shining steel, perfectly kept, with no spot of rust anywhere, no notches or scratches. The sword was plainly made, with none of the fancy ornamentation that sends the amateur into raptures but that veterans abhor. The sword had only a single decoration. Set into the pommel was a lustrous star sapphire, as big as a man’s clenched fist. h The sword was lovely, a thing of deadly beauty. Medan reached out his hand in longing, then paused.
“Take it, Marshal,” said Laurana. “The sword is yours.”