“ A dream?” Silvan asked. He was thinking of Lorac’s dream, the dream of the song.
“I do not refer to the whispers of the dragon,” said Rolan.
“That dream is gone, but the sleeper refuses to wake and thus another dream has come to take its place. A dream of the past. A dream of the glories of days that have gone. I do not blame them,”
Rolan added, sighing. “I, too, love to think upon what has gone and long to regain it. But those of us who fought alongside your father know that the past can never be recovered, nor should it be. The world has changed, and we must change with it. We must become a part of it, else we will sicken and die in the prison house in which we have locked ourselves.”
Rolan ceased paddling for a moment. He turned in the boat to face Silvan. “Do you understand what I am saying, Your Majesty?”
“I think so,” said Silvan cautiously. “I am of the world, so to speak. I come from the outside. I am the one who can lead our people out into the world.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Rolan smiled.
“So long as I avoid the sin of hubris,” Silvan. said, ceasing his paddling, thankful for the rest. He grinned when he said it for he meant it teasingly, but on reflection, he became more serious.
“Pride, the family failing,” Silvan said, half to himself. “I am forewarned, and that is forearmed, they say.”
Picking up his paddle, he fell to work with a will.
The pallid sun sank down behind the trees. Day languished, as if it too was one of the victims of the wasting sickness. Rolan watched the bank, searching for a suitable site to moor for the night. Silvan watched the opposite shore and so he saw first what the kirath missed.
“Rolan!” Silvan whispered urgently. “Pull for the western shore! Quickly!”
“What is it, Your Majesty?” Rolan was quick to take alarm.
“What do you see?”
“There! on the eastern bank! Don’t you see them? Hurry! We are nearly within arrow range!”
Rolan halted his rapid stroking. He turned around to smile sympathetically at Silvan. “You are no longer among the hunted, Your Majesty. Those people you see gathered on that bank are your own. They have come to look upon you and do you honor.”
Silvan was astonished. “But. . . how do they know?”
“The kirath have been here, Your Majesty.”
“So soon?”
“I told Your Majesty that we would spread the word rapidly.”
Silvan blushed. “I am sorry, Rolan. I did not mean to doubt you. It’s just that. . . My mother uses runners. They travel in secret, carrying messages between my mother and her sister by marriage, Laurana, in Qualinesti. Thus we are kept apprised of what is happening with our people in that realm. But it would take them many days to cover the same number of miles. . . . I had thought—”
“You thought I was exaggerating. You need make no apology for that, Your Majesty. You are accustomed to the world beyond the shield, a world that is large and filled with dangers that wax and wane daily, like the moon. Here in Silvanesti, we kirath know every path, every tree that stands on that path, every flower that grows beside it, ever squirrel that crosses it, every bird that sings in every branch, so many times have we run them. If that bird sings one false note, if that squirrel twitches its ears in alarm, we are aware of it. Nothing can surprise us. Nothing can stop us.”
Rolan frowned. “That is why we of the kirath find it troubling that the dragon Cyan Bloodbane has so long eluded us. It is not possible that he should. And yet it is possible that he has.”
The river carried them within sight of the elves standing on the western shoreline. Their houses were in the trees, houses a human would have probably never seen, for they were made of the living tree, whose branches had been lovingly coaxed into forming walls and roofs. Their nets were spread out upon the ground to dry, their boats pulled up onto the shore. There were not many elves, this was only a small fishing village, and yet it was apparent that the entire population had turned out. The sick had even been carried to the river’s edge, where they lay wrapped in blankets and propped up with pillows.
Self-conscious, Silvan ceased paddling and rested his oar at the bottom of the boat.
“What do I do, Rolan?” he asked nervously.
Rolan looked back, smiled reassuringly. “You need only be yourself, Your Majesty. That is what they expect.”
Rolan steered closer to the bank. The river seemed to run faster here, rushed Silvan toward the people before he was quite ready. He had ridden on parade with his mother to review the troops and had experienced the same uneasiness and sense of unworthiness that assailed him now.
The river brought him level with his people. He looked at them and nodded slightly and raised his hand in a shy wave. No one waved back. No one cheered, as he had been half-expecting.
They watched him float upon the river in silence, a silence that was poignant and touched Silvan more deeply than the wildest cheering. He saw in their eyes, he heard in their silence, a wistful hopefulness, a hope in which they did not want to believe, for they had felt hope before and been betrayed.
Profoundly moved, Silvan ceased his waving and stretched out his hand to them, as if he saw them sinking and he could keep them above the water. The river bore him away from them, took him around a hill, and they were lost to his sight.
Humbled, he huddled in the stem and did not move nor speak. For the first time, he came to the full realization of the crushing burden he had taken upon himself. What could he do to help them? What did they expect of him? Too much, perhaps.
Much too much.
Rolan glanced back every now and again in concern, but he said nothing, made no comment. He continued to paddle alone until he found a suitable place to beach the boat. Silvan roused himself and jumped into the water, helped to drag the boat up onto the bank. The water was icy cold and came as a pleasant shock. He submerged his worries and fears of his own inadequacies in the Thon-Thalas, was glad to have something to do to keep himself busy.
Accustomed to living out of doors, Silvan knew what needed to be done to set up camp. He unloaded the supplies, spread out the bedrolls, and began to prepare their light supper of fruit and flatbread, while Rolan secured the boat. They ate for the most part in silence, Silvan still subdued by the enormity of the responsibility he had accepted so blithely just two nights before and Rolan respecting his ruler’s wish for quiet. The two made an early night of it. Wrapping themselves in their blankets, they left the woodland animals and night birds to stand watch over their slumbers.
Silvan fell asleep much sooner than he’d anticipated. He was wakened in the night by the hooting of an owl and sat up in fear, but Rolan, stirring, said the owl was merely calling to a neighbor, sharing the gossip of the darkness.
Silvan lay awake, listening to the mournful, haunting call and its answer, a solemn echo in some distant part of the forest. He lay awake, long, staring up at the stars that shimmered uneasily above the shield, the Song of Lorac running swift like the river water through his mind.
The tears of Lorac, held in thrall by the orb and by Cyan Bloodbane, minion of Queen Takhisis, minion of evil, who alone has the power.
The words and melody of the song were at this moment being echoed by a minstrel singing to entertain guests at a party in the capital city of Silvanost.