“Bah! That is nothing but a story Konnal puts about in order to distract us,” Drinel asserted. “Name me one person who has seen this monster! No one. The dragon is rumored to be here. He is rumored to be there. We go here and we go there and never find a trace of him. I think it odd, Rolan, that this Cyan Bloodbane is always sighted just when Konnal feels himself under pressure to answer to the leaders of the Households about the state of his rule.”
“True, no one has seen Cyan Bloodbane,” Rolan agreed. “Nevertheless, I confess I believe that the dragon is in Silvanesti somewhere. I once saw tracks I found very difficult to explain otherwise. Be careful, therefore, Your Majesty. And take my sword. Just in case.”
Silvan refused the sword. Thinking back to how he had almost skewered Samar, Silvan was ashamed to let the others know he could not handle a weapon, ashamed to let them know that he was completely untrained in its use. He assured Rolan that he would keep careful watch and walked into the glittering forest. His mother, he recalled, would have sent an armed guard with him.
For the first time in my life, Silvan thought suddenly, I am free. Truly free.
He washed his face and hands in a clear, cold stream, raked his fingers through his long hair, and looked long at his reflection in the rippling water. He could see nothing of his father in his face, and he was always somewhat irritated by those who claimed that they could. Silvan’s memories of Porthios were of a stem, steel-hard warrior who, if he had ever known how to smile, had long since abandoned the practice. The only tenderness Silvan ever saw in his father’s eyes was when they turned their gaze to his mother.
“You are king of the elves,” Silvan said to his reflection. “You have accomplished in a day what your parents could not accomplish in thirty years. Could not. . . or would not.”
He sat down on the bank. His reflection stirred and shimmered in the light of the newly risen moon. “The prize they sought is within your grasp. You didn’t particularly want it before, but now that it is offered, why not take it?”
Silvan’s reflection rippled as a breath of wind passed over the surface of the water. Then the wind stilled, the water smoothed, and his reflection was clear and unwavering.
“You must walk carefully. You must think before you speak, think of the consequences of every word. You must consider your actions. You must not be distracted by the least little thing.
“My mother is dead,” he said, and he waited for the pain.
Tears welled up inside him, tears for his mother, tears for his father, tears for himself, alone and bereft of their comfort and support. Yet, a tiny voice whispered deep inside, when did your parents ever support you? When did they ever trust you to do anything? They kept you wrapped in cotton wool, afraid you’d break. Fate has offered you this chance to prove yourself. Take it!
A bush grew near the stream, a bush with fragrant white flowers shaped like tiny hearts. Silvan picked a cluster of flowers, stripped the blossoms from the leafy stems. “Honor to my father, who is dead,” he said and scattered the blossoms in the stream.
They fell upon the reflection that broke apart in the spreading ripples. “Honor to my mother, who is dead.”
He scattered the last of the blossoms. Then, feeling cleansed, empty of tears and empty of emotion, he returned to the camp.
The elves started to rise, but he asked them to remain seated and not disturb themselves on his account. The elves appeared pleased with his modesty.
“I hope my long absence did not worry you,” he said, knowing well that it had. He could tell they had been talking about him. “These changes have all been so drastic, so sudden. I needed time to think.”
The elves bowed in acquiescence.
“We have been discussing how best to advance Your Majesty’s cause,” said Rolan.
“You have the full support of the kirath, Your Majesty,” Drinel added.
Silvan acknowledged this with a nod. He thought on where he wanted this conversation to go and how best to take it there and asked mildly, “What is the ‘kirath’? My mother spoke of many things in her homeland but not of this.”
“There is no reason why she should,” Rolan replied. “Your father created our order to fight the dream. We kirath were the ones who entered the forest, searching for the parts that were still held in thrall by the dream. The work took its toll on body and on mind, for we had to enter the dream in order to defeat it.
“Other kirath served to defend the Woodshapers and clerics who came into the forest to heal it. For twenty years we fought together to restore our homeland, and eventually we succeeded. When the dream was defeated we were no longer needed, and so we disbanded, returned to the lives we had led before the war. But those of us in the kirath had forged a bond closer than brothers and’sisters. We kept in touch, passing news and information.
“Then the Dark Knights of Takhisis came to try to conquer the continent of Ansalon, and after that came the Chaos War. It was during this time that General Konnal took control of Silvanesti, saying that only the military could save us from the forces of evil at work in the world.
“We won the Chaos War, but at a great cost. We lost the gods, who, so it is said, matle the ultimate sacrifice—withdrawing from the world so that Krynn and its people might continue on. With them went the magic of Solinari and healing powers. We grieved long for the gods, for Paladine and Mishakal, but we had to go on with our lives.
“We worked to continue to rebuild Silvanesti. Magic came to us again, a magic of the land, of living things. Though the war was over, General Konnal did not relinquish control. He said that now the threat came from Alhana and Porthios, dark elves who wanted only to avenge themselves on their people.”
“Did you believe this?” Silvan asked indignantly.
“Of course not. We knew Porthios. We knew the great sacrifices he had made for this land. We knew Alhana and how much she loved her people. We did not believe him.”
“ And so you supported my father and mother?” Silvan asked.
“We did,” Rolan replied.
“Then why didn’t you aid them?” Silvan demanded, his tone sharpening. “You were armed and skilled in the use of arms. You were, as you have said, in close contact with one another. My mother and father waited on the borders, expecting confidently that the Silvanesti people would rise up and protest the injustice that had been done to them. They did not. You did nothing. My parents waited in vain.”
“I could offer you many excuses, Your Majesty,” Rolan said quietly. “We were weary of fighting. We did not want to start a civil war. We believed that over time this breach could all be made right by peaceful means. In other words”—he smiled faintly, sadly—“we pulled the blankets over our heads and went back to sleep.”
“If it is any comfort to you, Your Majesty, we have paid for our sins,” Drinel added. “Paid most grievously. We realized this when the magical shield was erected, but by that time it was too late. We could not go out. Your parents could not come within.”
Understanding came to Silvan in a flash, dazzling and shocking as the lightning bolt that had struck right in front of him. All had been darkness before and in the next thudding heartbeat all was lit brighter than day, every detail clear cut and stark in the white-hot light.
His mother claimed to hate the shield. In truth the shield was her excuse, keeping her from leading her army into Silvanesti.
She could have done so anytime during the years before the shield was raised. She and her father could have marched an army into Silvanesti, they would have found support among the people. Why hadn’t they?