“We must go to the Wastes.”
“Just for Goldmoon’s wishful heroes, Majere?” the Shadow Sorcerer’s soft voice was laced with doubt. “Do you truly think they can accomplish anything? What can they do that we can’t? And what can you do, what can any of us do, to help them?”
Palin stepped back from the window and returned to his seat at the head of the long table. He rested his elbows on the tabletop, steepled his fingers, and glanced down. His troubled reflection was mirrored in the polished dark wood.
“Everyone looks at the world differently, my friend,” Palin finally returned. “They might see something we haven’t, discover something we’ve overlooked. They’re not like us—entrenched in a tower going through musty, old books and guessing what the dragons will do next. Besides, Goldmoon has faith in them. And I have faith in her.”
“We will summon ourselves there, then,” the Master said. “And we will do our best to help them.”
“But I won’t be going,” the Shadow Sorcerer said. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps one individual—not entrenched in a massive tower—can see the Red. If she is indeed, as we suspect, the most powerful and dangerous of the dragon overlords, someone needs to watch her, discover her plans.”
“It could be risky,” Palin warned.
“I know that.”
“You’ll rejoin us?” the Master asked.
“Of course. I’ll find you in the Northern Wastes.”
“Good luck to you,” Palin said as he rose from the table and rotated his head, working a crick out of his neck. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He strode from the room and climbed one more set of stairs, throwing back a heavy wooden door and climbing out onto the roof.
He inhaled deeply and gazed about, then padded near the edge. The air was still and warm. He closed his eyes and tilted his chin toward the sun, focusing his energy. Several moments passed, his breathing slowed, and he felt a soft breeze play over his skin.
“Goldmoon,” he whispered.
“It has been too long since we talked,” replied a wispy image.
Goldmoon hovered several feet in front of him, her feet floating in the air off the edge of the parapet. She was nearly translucent, but Palin could make out her flawless face and starlike eyes. Her golden hair slowly writhed in the breeze created by magic.
“We will be going to the Wastes late tonight to await your champions,” he began. “The Lonely Refuge is—”
“The haft?” the image interrupted.
“Has been retrieved,” Palin added. “After I meet your champions, I will go into Palanthas with them. Goldmoon, do you think your plan will work?”
“The new heroes are made of sturdy stuff,” she answered. “As is the lance. But they can’t set things aright on Krynn by themselves.”
“But they are a beginning...” Palin finished.
Then the breeze picked up and blew the image away.
Later that night Palin put away his uncle’s books, returned to the Academy and found Usha. She was diligently painting a scene she’d remembered from her childhood. A dense forest of oak and pine was taking shape, and next to the largest tree stood an incredibly handsome man of indeterminate age, an Irda that Usha called the Protector. The man had raised her, taken care of her, and sent her away when the rest of the Irda deemed it time for her to rejoin her own people. If he hadn’t sent her away, she would have died with the Irda on their idyllic island when the Graygem exploded.
Usha had been toiling over the painting for a few weeks, and it was nearly finished, one of her best.
“It’s beautiful,” Palin said, coming up silently behind her.
“But it doesn’t do him justice,” she said. “His eyes. They burned with hope. They laughed at me when I did something foolish. They scolded me when I was wrong. And they cried when I left. His eyes spoke to me. I just can’t capture that.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted you to,” Palin offered. “Maybe the meaning of his eyes was for you alone, and not for whoever admires his image hanging on a wall. The painting is beautiful. Exquisite.”
Usha had started painting after the children were grown, and after Palin started spending an increasing amount of time studying the dragons and Raistlin’s notes. She had to have something to occupy herself, and that something now decorated several walls in the Academy. She’d improved with each painting, teaching herself subtle techniques to shade and highlight and add texture. There were paintings of Ulin and Linsha, friends she and Palin had met, fantastical creatures they’d witnessed, and sunsets viewed from Solace. This was the only one she’d attempted of an Irda.
“Beautiful, maybe. But I still don’t think it does him justice.” Backing away from the easel, she swirled the brush in a mug of water, shook it clean, and set it gingerly on a tray. “He was a wonderful man.”
“More wonderful for sending you to me.” Palin took her hands and pulled her close. He kissed her gently.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen you for days, locked in that room with those men.”
“We’ve been...”
“I know, the dragons.”
“We’ll be heading for the Northern Wastes tomorrow,” he said, looking to her hopefully.
She sighed heavily. “We?”
“It might not be safe. When we find a means to combat the dragons, we will become targets.”
Usha pursed her lips. “Can you tell me that any place is truly safe, Palin Majere?”
Palin scowled.
“Well, can you?”
“Some places are safer than others,” he said tersely. Palin drew her toward the stairs. “I need to know you are looking after the Academy. I need to know you are here. I continue to have dreams about the Blue. Now I am finally going to his realm.”
“Maybe if you see Khellendros in the flesh and scales, you’ll quit dreaming about him,” she said with a chuckle.
Palin pursed his lips. “The Blue is nearly as powerful as the Red.”
She edged up the stairs ahead of him. “Maybe I could paint him,” she mused. “I have lots of blue paint.”
When they reached the landing, he paused before an oak door. “I have talked you into staying, haven’t I?”
She shook her head “yes” and said, “I can talk you into something, Palin Majere.”
Usha smiled slyly, opened the door, and gently tugged him inside.
24
Blister’s Gloves
Dhamon led three dun-colored mares, two of them saddled, to the western gate of Palanthas. The largest carried packs that bulged with dried meat, cheese, and waterskins.
“Three horses. Four of us,” Blister dryly commented. “And I don’t see any pony.”
“I didn’t have enough coins. I couldn’t even buy a third saddle.”
“Well, you could have asked us to help,” the kender said huffily. “I’ve some coins left—and Raph’s spoon collection.” She demonstrated by jiggling one of her pouches and the coins inside clinked together.
Dhamon offered her a weak smile. “Maybe it’s better if we have a few coins to spare among us, Blister. Just in case other expenses arise,” he said. “You’ll have to double up with Shaon or Feril. Sorry.”
He vaulted onto the saddleless horse.
“You’re used to riding,” Blister observed caustically. Her eyes narrowed, and she said more softly, “I’m used to riding, too—at least I could’ve ridden a pony bareback.”
Feril took the smaller of the two remaining horses, and settled the kender in front of her. The Kagonesti ran her fingers along the horse’s flank and made soft clucking noises. The horse responded with a whinny.
“These horses are old, Dhamon,” she said.
“They were all I could afford,” he replied testily.
Dhamon’s gaze drifted to Shaon. The sea barbarian was staring at her mare, looking from the saddle to the stirrup to the bulging pack. She shifted her weight back and forth on the balls of her feet and toyed with the reins.
“I think I’d rather walk for a while,” Shaon said. “If the horse is old, it doesn’t need me weighing it down. No need to hurt it. Besides, I could use the exercise, and—”