of their wings shimmered even in the night sky. Many silver dragons circled overhead, most of them wheeling tirelessly far above the lakeside camp. A few dove, however, and one of these settled toward the great vallenwoods of the bluff's top, spreading her wings to land in a gush of wind beside the gathered elves and the great, crippled serpent.
'Greetings, Honored Father.' Saytica, proud and beautiful, bowed to the great silver dragon. Her body was not as huge as Lectral's, but Saytica was supple and slender in a way that suggested deep and abiding power.
'Welcome, my daughter.' Lectral's voice, firm with ritual, was nevertheless warm with the depth of his love.
'I am glad to find you,' she said respectfully. 'The time for flying is now.'
'Farewell, my friends,' Lectral declared with a bow of his head. Ashtaway watched in disbelief as the dragon's body abruptly shimmered and shifted, shrinking rapidly until he stood before them as an old human man. Shaggy white eyebrows concealed his yellow eyes-though Ash could still see those eyes flash in amusement at the elves' consternation.
'A-a human?' stammered the young chieftain after he regained his voice. 'Why not take the form of an elf?'
The old man's face wrinkled into a smile. 'Tradition, really. You see, my grandsire favored a body such as this. There were those who believed it to be his true form. In any event, I find that these whiskers, this old and wrinkled shape, suits me well.'
The old man hobbled to Saytica's side, and the sleek silver neck bent low to allow him to mount. Seated between her wings, the man gave a single, regal wave, and Ashtaway felt a brief tug of melancholy. It seemed that more than a part of his life was closing-indeed, it was the conclusion of an epoch of Krynn. A world without dragons… what would that mean?
Then Saytica took to the air in a downrush of wings and a powerful spring. The elves watched for several minutes as she and her rider climbed into the sky, until the pair merged with all the other shadowy outlines there. In a sweeping, grand formation, the serpentine shapes turned to the north, slowly winging toward the horizon.
Gradually Ashtaway become aware of Hammana's hand in his. Together they watched the dragons wing northward for many long minutes, until their shadowy forms disappeared over the distant horizon.
PART 3
14 PC
Northern Silvanesti Borderlands
Chapter 22
A bit of jealousy robispcrcd in Iydahoe's ear, tbougb the emotion was far from a consuming blaze. Instead, the warrior wrestled with a sense of unfairness, spurred by the envious knowledge that his older brother, Kawllaph, was a very lucky wild elf. Trotting through the woods on this mission for his brother, Iydahoe really wished that he, himself, would soon know good fortune in equal measure.
Kawllaph had asked Berriama to marry him,and she had agreed with almost shameless eagerness. Now Iydahoe ran to fetch Washallak Pathfinder from the village of the Silvertrout tribe, so that the muted notes of the Ram's Horn could signal the solemnity, the timeless commitment, of the wedding vows.
When he thought of his brother's good fortune, Iyda- hoe felt that pang of envy, the feeling that Kawllaph had all the luck. Iydahoe himself would like to court a maiden — indeed, lovely Moxilli, of the long, silken hair, came immediately to his mind. It would be splendid to have her as a companion, a lifemate. A wife was the perfect thing to make his life complete.
But then Iydahoe's thoughts became more practical. He became painfully shy and tongue-tied whenever he so much as greeted Moxilli. And he looked more carefully at his brother's situation-Berriama was certainly not the bride that Iydahoe would have chosen! Like so many wild elf females, Berriama had a noted tendency to nag, as well as a distressing sense of the importance of her own opinions.
Iydahoe felt that a true warrior should be vexed by such assertiveness. He remembered the tales of his grandfather's father, of the dangers that had menaced the tribes during the Dragon Wars, and the courage with which the warriors met multitudes of threats. For a thousand years since then, the wild elves had enjoyed the peace that had reigned across Ansalon. Young warriors like Iydahoe yearned for earlier times, and strong-minded females like Berriama became all too willing to unleash their tempers and their tongues.
Still, Kagonesti life was not bad-in fact, Iydahoe could imagine nothing better. They had the vast wealth of untrammeled forest, the lakes and the heights… They had the freedom to go where they wanted, to take the food that was offered everywhere by bountiful Ansalon.
His regrets vanishing in the cool stillness of the woods, Iydahoe raced easily along the forest trail, skirting the deeper woods to run among widely spaced pine trunks. This was the second day of his journey, and he would need to travel all day tomorrow before he reached the Silvertrout village.
Iydahoe tried to play over his arrival in his mind. The Pathfinder was a revered figure, after all, and the young warrior wanted to convey the invitation with proper formality. He would greet Washallak Pathfinder at his lodge on the low hillock, politely asking if the bearer of the Ram's Horn would journey to the settlement of the White- tail tribe at his earliest convenience to preside over the wedding of Kawllaph and Berriama.
Iydahoe welcomed his mission, grateful that his status as a warrior gave him the right to perform it. The stinging pain of the tattoo needle had faded weeks earlier, within hours after his father, the tribal shaman, had ritually marked him. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the twin symbols on his face still seemed to warm his skin in a way that was not a source of irritation as much as of wonder.
His left eye was encircled by the ornately detailed outline of a long-lobed oak leaf, with extensions reaching around his forehead and a stem that trailed down to one side of his chin. A plain circle enclosed the other hazel eye, and though Iydahoe would have loved to wear the spirals of a veteran warrior, for now he had to settle for the unadorned roundel of the untested but battle-ready brave.
A feather, Iydahoe thought, returning to the pleasant contemplation of his status. He would need to get one or two bright feathers to complete his adornment as a proud Kagonesti brave. Perhaps he would trek all the way to the coast and seek a snow goose. He imagined the pristine plumage against his black hair and tattooed, sun- bronzed skin. The picture was fierce and gratifying. Perhaps he would even tie one of the rare plumes to the haft of his long-bladed knife.
His thoughts wandering, Iydahoe was only vaguely aware of the mountainous shelves rising to his left, the great sprawl of the Solamnic flatland to his right. This was wild elf territory, well south of the Black Feather and Blue- lake villages but still near the wild heart of Kagonesti forest.
Iydahoe recalled his surroundings quickly when he saw a rising, crested pillar of rock. The unique structure triggered one of his prouder memories-knowledge of a place that he alone knew. Along the crest of the foothills, just beyond the rocky pillar, a narrow gorge twisted into the sheltered depths of a granite ridge. Delicate mosses grew on the floor of the gorge and showed no sign that any elf or human had ever visited the shadowy cut or the shady grotto hidden deep within. Iydahoe had found that path when he was younger-a decade before he had gotten his first warrior's tattoo. He had shown it to no one, preferring to keep the place as his own private sanctuary. Now, as a warrior, he felt that it was right and natural to know of such a place.
Before sunset, he killed a grouse with a quick arrow, cooking the unexpected delight on a small, smokeless fire. He reflected with serene pleasure on the bounty that the vast forest so willingly provided to the tribes. For a thousand years, the braves of the Kagonesti had been the sole explorers of this vast realm of forest land. Since the
