The Messenger

great winged serpents, threatened the existence of his homeland. The most recent of these had been barely four centuries earlier, when the elven armies-with some aid, admittedly, from the human hero called Huma-had turned the tide of evil and preserved Krynn for the enlightened races. At that time, the eternal plague of the world, dragons, had been banished forever, and a new age, marked by human ascension, swept over the world. For the reclusive elves of Silvanesti, life returned to the pattern of yore. They neither traded with nor worried about the humans beyond their borders.

In the royal palace the masters of House Protector also taught him and the other pages the vital art of swordsmanship. Kerrick excelled in weaponry and was eventually awarded the fine steel blade now hanging in his cabin. Upon his promotion from page to squire even the king took note of the pleasant young elf. Nethas remarked that Kerrick was proving to be a worthy inheritor of his father’s name. Following that ceremony, which Dimorian and his wife attended, his father had announced that he was embarking on a great quest, pursuing a mystery as ancient as Silvanesti.

Was there a fabled land of gold somewhere over the sea? One of Dimorian’s mates had convinced him that the question was worth a vigorous quest. So he bade his son farewell and embarked, seeking gold in the name of his family and his king.

There came a long year, and after that, a cold and sunless progression of winter after winter after winter. Kerrick had been reluctant to face the truth, though others whispered it and some, cruel and arrogant young men of Waykand Isleletter’s ilk, had spoken it boldly to his face until reality could no longer be denied.

Dimorian Fallabrine would not be coming home.

For twelve years there had been no word, nothing, though even then Kerrick refused to accept the worst. One day, however, he was told to meet someone in the garden below his apartment. He could still remember the dour figure of Tartaniad, master of the royal squires, waiting near the central fountain. The water splashed like raindrops as Kerrick halted, then approached the elf who had been a teacher, mentor, and friend to him, in the king’s court.

Tartaniad held out a small circle of gold, though at first Kerrick didn’t understand.

“This was something your father left. He wanted you to have it as you reached manhood.”

“A ring?” Kerrick said, somehow forcing out the words.

“Yes.”

The elf reached out to take the circlet. He recognized the pattern-oak leaves-carved into the surface, felt the heavy weight of the heirloom as he cradled it in his palm.

“From who? How did you come by it now?” he asked.

“It was left in the temple of Zivilyn Greentree by your father before he departed on his last voyage. The high priest was instructed to hold it in trust for Dimorian, until the event of his return. Or until such time as his auguries indicated that your father would not ever be coming home.”

He had looked at the ring, seen the intricate pattern of oak leaves, felt the warm enchantment that he would come to associate with the band of thick, yellow metal, and at last he had accepted that his father would never return.

“Your father insisted that, should the ring be given to you, it must also be delivered with a warning,” Tartaniad noted.

“What warning?”

The courtier drew a breath and closed his eyes, remembering the exact words. “You must not wear the ring, unless your life is in imminent danger. It can give you the strength to survive great peril-but if you wear it too much, it can also sap your life.”

“I understand … and thank you,” Kerrick had said, though in fact he wasn’t sure what his father meant. He took the warning seriously, resolving to cherish the ring but never to wear it unless, as his father had said, his life was in “imminent danger.”

He was restless in his grief, and finally he sought and received the king’s permission to embark in Cutter, the small boat that had been his father’s first vessel. For a time he made his way back and forth on small coastal voyages, until finally he set himself on the solo voyage to Tarsis, a journey that took him more than a year to complete. When at last he returned to the palace, he was welcomed back to court and rewarded by the king’s proclamation.

His eyes fell again upon the silken sheet in his hands, the ink smearing, the lettering even more obscured by drops of water. Whether this was spray coming over the side, or tears dropping from his own eyes, he could no longer be sure.

How many times had he tried to imagine his mother and father in the depths of the Courrain Ocean? How much had they suffered? Had pirates slain them? Or had some ravenous sea-monster brought them to doom? Perhaps Silvanos Oak had merely gone down in a storm, though he found that unthinkable.

He had wondered about all this countless times before. Whenever he was alone in the boat such questions seemed to bubble up from the depths. On his voyage to Tarsis-that “solitary voyage ranking high in the annals of elven seamanship” as the king himself had proclaimed-there had been times when he felt as if his father was at the tiller right beside him. He had often imagined his mother busy at the cookstove. Once he woke up to the smell of oats boiling and leaped up to throw open the hatch-only to be confronted by an empty galley, a cold stove, nobody.

Perhaps the long months on that lonely journey had changed him. In any event, after he returned home and received the king’s honor, he found himself drifting into a new, irresponsible kind of life. He laughed off the slights of those who fancied themselves his betters and allowed himself to be drawn into the lively circle of Silvanost’s high society. His good looks, newly won and slightly notorious reputation, along with his demeanor of cool calm, attracted many women, and he enjoyed romances with a long string of willing lovers. His conquests included certain wives of other elves as well as many a virginal maiden-though few were as appealing as Gloryian Diradar. Their affair had lasted better than half a year, at a pitch of high passion until-he snorted in wry amusement as he remembered-it had been ended in passionate acts of a different kind.

Did he hate Patrikan Diradar, and Darnari and Waykand? Not to mention Gloryian herself for her utter reversal of affection? He supposed that he could, but now it seemed like too much work to muster up any emotion.

Indeed, every action was tiring. Even his head seemed like a leaden weight. He was exhausted, woozy. Once more pain suffused him. He forced himself to rise, enter the cabin, and collapse on the bunk. He saw the little strongbox and remembered the proclamation from the king-he had left it in the cockpit, beside the tiller.

He remembered right where he had put it, but when he left the cabin he could see that it was already gone- probably snatched away by a gust of wind. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t care about that, either.

6

Warriors of Bayguard

Tuskers! I saw a whole tribe of them on the beach!” Little Mouse came sprinting up, his voice breaking with excitement. He was panting and staggering by the time he halted before Moreen and Bruni.

“Where on the beach?” asked the chieftain’s daughter. “How far away?”

“Two miles, maybe more,” gasped the youth. He pointed to the north, toward the rim of coastal hills that stood between the little band of Arktos and the blue waters of the White Bear Sea.

“What were you doing over there?” Garta demanded, coming up behind the other two women. “You told me you were looking for berries in the marsh downstream!”

“I didn’t find any,” the lad said defiantly. “And, well, I just kept walking and looking. I wanted to see where the stream went, and maybe I hoped I’d find some berries farther down. So I went to the shore.”

“All the way to the beach?” Garta’s stern face was locked into a ferocious scowl. “If you remember, one of the reasons Moreen took us inland was so that we could scout these upcountry marshes for food! Why, if your father was here-”