frothing through the snow. Together the two large serpents skidded into the sloping glacier, tumbling down the incline in an avalanche of loose snow and flailing silver coils. Dragonwings beat rhythmically, driving up great drifts of powdery whiteness, and the pair rolled over and over, sliding for an eternity down the vast, rippling incline.
They reached the bottom and lay together as waves of loose, light snow cascaded around them. Still entangled, Darlantan shook his head, clearing away enough snow that they could breathe. His glistening brow was draped with tufts of frost as he looked over the surroundings, secure for the moment that the skies and snowfields were free of danger. Content with the icy landscape, he lowered his head to lie beside Kenta in the depression they had worn in the snow.
When next he awakened, spring had warmed the glacier, melting the loose powder into slush. Kenta was stirring beneath him, and stiffly, awkwardly, Darlantan dug them out of the deep trough their bodies had impressed into the snow. He shook himself, sending a cascade of ice crystals flying, and blinked at the bright skyline. He knew where he was, but how he had gotten here remained a hazy memory.
The draft of Kenta’s wings pulled his attention around, and he watched the silver female take wing with serene, aloof grace. She made no move to look backward as she flew toward the mountains on the northern horizon. Restlessly Darlantan took to the air himself, choosing to fly in a southeasterly direction, possessed of an urge to find Aurican again.
Many winters had come and gone since last he had spent time at his golden nestmate’s side, but even so, it wasn’t hard to know where to look. Flying steadily, Darlantan soon left the mountains behind. He enjoyed the sight of the woodland blanketing the landscape below. A layer of treetops, lush and green in the ripeness of early summer, stretched to all sides, fading into the distant flatlands. He knew from earlier reconnaissance that this forest extended from the Kharolis Mountains to the glaciers in the south, the jagged Khalkists to the east, and countless leagues to the north, until the forestlands gradually merged into the plains.
Now, as he crossed over a broad river of clear aquamarine waters, his eyes were attracted by something in the distance, a bright image that broke the serene perfection of the forest. Soon he discerned spires, like giant, leafless tree trunks jutting high from a vast clearing. These towers were made of metal and shiny crystal, and it was the reflection of sunlight from these surfaces that had first drawn his eye.
Closer still, Darlantan saw that many elves labored in this clearing, bustling like ants with blocks of stone, sluices of water, and panels of glimmering metal or clear crystal. Only as he saw other elves working at the forest’s edge with axe and chisel did he perceive the whole truth: The elves had created this clearing on purpose and were actively removing a great swath of formerly pastoral woodland.
Indeed, much had already been changed. Darlantan flew low, ignoring the waves of welcome from elven watchmen, gliding over an expanse of carefully formed ponds and bright gardens scored by paths of crushed white marble. Figures walked along these paths or gathered in sheltered groves around ponds and fountains, and the silver dragon knew instinctively that he would find Aurican here.
Settling to the ground on one of the few patches of grass broad enough to accommodate his arching wings, Darlantan lifted his head above the surrounding greenery.
“Hello, my silver friend. The elves wish to thank you for sparing their flowers.”
The figure of a tall, golden-haired elven patriarch emerged from a nearby bower, striding toward Darlantan with long, graceful steps. In his hands, the elf held a large emerald, passing the stone back and forth with smooth, well-practiced gestures. Though his eyebrows were the snowy white of an elder’s, his face scored by the lines of many centuries of life, Dar knew this was not an aged elf-indeed, it was not an elf at all.
“Greetings, Aurican. It is not hard to find the tribe now that they have smashed such a spread of forest.”
“It is already a wonder, is it not?” asked Auri, gesturing with both hands to the gardens, the vista of lakes and swans and fountains. “Perhaps you would find a smaller form more comfortable while you have a look around.”
Darlantan agreed his real body would be a liability here, and so he smoothly shifted into his favored alternate guise, the bearded elder he had selected for his first shapeshifting.
Aurican led his kinsman through a bower of roses, where another elf, tall and elegantly clad in golden robes, rose to meet them.
“Welcome, Darlantan,” declared the serene patriarch, with a dignified bow.
“I thank you, Silvanos.”
“He is the architect of this great project,” Aurican said. “The elf who has brought his people together under one clan… and now would create a city as a proper holding for that clan.”
“You do me great honor, Auri,” declared the handsome elf, startling the silver dragon with the familiar nickname. “As you do, Darlantan. It is a rare privilege to entertain you as our guest.”
“Thank you,” replied Dar, nodding with the bearded sage’s head. “Your transformation is extensive and… remarkable.” Patersmith had trained him well. He wouldn’t allow himself to be rude. Still, he found himself wondering at the vast scope of the construction. Why did these elves find it necessary, and why did Aurican seem to like it so much?
The silver dragon in the guise of the sage allowed himself to be shown the network of gardens. He accepted an invitation to dinner and enjoyed the finest feast of his life in a grand outdoor pavilion. Succulent roasts of meat were accompanied by breads and cheese, fruits and wines and puddings, until even the hungriest of the guests, which arguably was Darlantan, had been fully sated.
“Have you been to see the grotto recently?” asked Aurican, leaning back easily as the guests relaxed after the meal.
“It has been many winters,” admitted the silver dragon through the sage’s whiskers.
“For me as well,” Auri said dreamily. “But I will go to see Patersmith… soon.”
“That is a good idea,” declared Darlantan, touched by a surprising wave of melancholy. “He has the females to keep him company, but I suspect he misses us.”
“Yes… and there are changes, things occurring in Krynn, that I must bring to his attention.”
Darlantan was about to ask what his Kin-dragon meant when a trill of flute music wafted through the pavilion. Aurican’s elven eyelids closed, and the music so clearly pleased him that Dar found it impossible to interrupt his nestmate’s contentment. Later, elven dancers enacted a graceful epic beneath a canopy of stars, and finally, around midnight, the balladeers began their interminable labors. Strings were tuned, and flutes chirped their light and airy notes in a growing melody of joyous music.
Aurican had already risen, his eyes fixed upon a chorus of male elves. The emerald he had been holding floated in the air, trailing after him as the gold dragon stepped precisely toward the gathered musicians. “I… I must join them,” he declared absently as Darlantan stood at his side.
“I understand,” the silver serpent replied to his ancient nestmate. “But you will understand, too, that it is time for me to depart.”
The lyrics of the song had barely passed into their second verse by the time the body of the elder sage had carried Darlantan to the edge of the grove. Stepping into the middle of a large, grassy swath, he suddenly shimmered as starlight reflected in dazzling array from his silver wings, his cold and gleaming scales. And then he was in the air, leaving the swath of the city behind, a wound that was at last masked by a bandage of distance.
For many seasons, he flew aimlessly, following the great woodlands toward the foothills of the Khalkists. Where the plains began, he saw the distant blot on the horizon of a great, sprawling city, a place far larger than Silvanos’s gathering of his clans. He had heard Smelt speak of this place, calling it Xak Tsaroth, and he had no desire to fly closer to it. Let the brass dragon serve as ambassador to man.
He skirted to the east, flying above the snow-frosted foothills of the Khalkists. Finally he came to one of his favorite places, a high mountain far to the south of the smoking heartland of the range. Upon this peak, Darlantan came to rest. He crouched on the shoulder of the lofty summit, eyes staring across the realms to the south. Soon he saw that which he sought: the wild elf Kagonos, alone, away from his people, running on one of his pathfinding treks, which often lasted for many days.
The warrior was painted with swirls of dark ink. His black hair trailed in a long braid, and he was naked and unarmed. Yet there was a lethal capability in his gait, in the calm assurance with which he crossed precipitous heights and trotted down loose, slippery, shale that belied his apparent helplessness. At his side, he bore the ram’s horn, twin to the instrument hanging on Darlantan’s silver chain.
