Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Page 4

  If it is not already upon us, Tanis thought grimly. And, with that in mind, he turned and walked rapidly back down the hill.

  The Inn of the Last Home was crowded that evening.

  While the war had brought devastation and destruction to the residents of Solace, the end of the war had brought such prosperity that there were already some who were saying it hadn’t been “such a bad thing.” Solace had long been a crossroads for travelers through the lands of Abanasinia. But, in the days before the war, the numbers of travelers had been relatively few. The dwarves—except for a few renegades like Flint Fireforge—had shut themselves up in their mountain kingdom of Thorbardin or barricaded themselves in the hills, refusing to have anything to do with the rest of the world. The elves had done the same, dwelling in the beautiful lands of Qualinesti to the southwest and Silvanesti on the eastern edge of the continent of Ansalon.

  The war had changed all that. Elves and dwarves and humans traveled extensively now, their lands and their kingdoms open to all. But it had taken almost total annihilation to bring about this fragile state of brotherhood.

  The Inn of the Last Home—always popular with travelers because of its fine drink and Otik’s famous spiced potatoes—became more popular still. The drink was still fine and the potatoes as good as ever—though Otik had retired—but the real reason for the Inn’s increase in popularity was that it had become a place of some renown. The Heroes of the Lance—as they were now called—had been known to frequent this Inn in days gone by.

  Otik had, in fact, before his retirement, seriously considered putting up a plaque over the table near the firepit—perhaps something like “Tanis Half-Elven and Companions Drank Here.” But Tika had opposed the scheme so vehemently (the mere thought of what Tanis would say if he caught sight of that made Tika’s cheeks burn) that Otik had let it drop. But the rotund barkeep never tired of telling his patrons the story of the night the barbarian woman had sung her strange song and healed Hederick the Theocrat with her blue crystal staff, giving the first proof of the existence of the ancient, true gods.

  Tika, who took over management of the Inn upon Otik’s retirement and was hoping to save enough money to buy the business, fervently hoped Otik would refrain from telling that story again tonight. But she might have spent her hope on better things.

  There were several parties of elves who had traveled all the way from Silvanesti to attend the funeral of Solostaran—Speaker of the Suns and ruler of the elven lands of Qualinesti. They were not only urging Otik to tell his story, but were telling some of their own, about the Heroes’ visit to their land and how they freed it from the evil dragon, Cyan Bloodbane.

  Tika saw Otik glance her direction wistfully at this—Tika had, after all, been one of the members of the group in Silvanesti. But she silenced him with a furious shake of her red curls. That was one part of their journey she refused ever to relate or even discuss. In fact, she prayed nightly that she would forget the hideous nightmares of that tortured land.

  Tika closed her eyes a moment, wishing the elves would drop the conversation. She had her own nightmares now. She needed no past ones to haunt her. “Just let them come and go quickly,” she said softly to herself and to whatever god might be listening.

  It was just past sunset. More and more customers entered, demanding food and drink. Tika had apologized to Dezra, the two friends had shed a few tears together, and now were kept busy running from kitchen to bar to table. Tika started every time the door opened, and she scowled irritably when she heard Otik’s voice rise above the clatter of mugs and tongues.

  “… beautiful autumn night, as I recall, and I was, of course, busier than a draconian drill sergeant.” That always got a laugh. Tika gritted her teeth. Otik had an appreciative audience and was in full swing. There would be no stopping him now. “The Inn was up in the vallenwood trees then, like the rest of our lovely city before the dragons destroyed it. Ah, how beautiful it was in the old days.” He sighed—he always sighed at this point—and wiped away a tear. There was a sympathetic murmur from the crowd. “Where was I?” He blew his nose, another part of the act. “Ah, yes. There I was, behind the bar, when the door opened.…”

  The door opened. It might have been done on cue, so perfect was the timing. Tika brushed back a strand of red hair from her perspiring forehead and glanced over nervously. Sudden silence filled the room. Tika stiffened, her nails digging into her hands.

  A tall man, so tall he had to duck to enter the door, stood in the doorway. His hair was dark, his face grim and stern.

  Although cloaked in furs, it was obvious from his walk and stance that his body was strong and muscular. He cast a swift glance around the crowded Inn, sizing up those who were present, wary and watchful of danger.

  But it was an instinctive action only, for when his penetrating, somber gaze rested on Tika, his stern face relaxed into a smile and he held his arms open wide.

  Tika hesitated, but the sight of her friend suddenly filled her with joy and a strange wave of homesickness. Shoving her way through the crowd, she was caught in his embrace.

  “Riverwind, my friend!” she murmured brokenly.

  Grasping the young woman in his arms, Riverwind lifted her effortlessly, as though she were a child. The crowd began to cheer, banging their mugs on the table. Most couldn’t believe their luck. Here was a Hero of the Lance himself, as if carried on the wings of Otik’s story. And he even looked the part! They were enchanted.

  For, upon releasing Tika, the tall man had thrown his fur cloak back from his shoulders, and now all could see the Mantle of the Chieftain that the Plainsman wore, its V-shaped sections of alternating furs and tooled leathers each representing one of the Plains tribes over which he ruled. His handsome face, though older and more careworn than when Tika had seen him last, was burned bronze by the sun and weather, and there was an inner joy within the man’s eyes which showed that he had found in his life the peace he had been searching for years before.

  Tika felt a choking sensation in her throat and turned quickly away, but not quickly enough.

  “Tika,” he said, his accent thick from living once more among his people, “it is good to see you well and beautiful still. Where’s Caramon? I cannot wait to see—Why, Tika, what’s wrong?’

  “Nothing, nothing,” Tika said briskly, shaking her red curls and blinking her eyes. “Come, I have a place saved for you by the fire. You must be exhausted and hungry.”

  She led him through the crowd, talking nonstop, never giving him a chance to say a word. The crowd inadvertently helped her, keeping Riverwind occupied as they gathered around to touch and marvel over his fur cloak, or tried to shake his hand (a custom Plainsmen consider barbaric) or thrust drinks into his face.

  Riverwind accepted it all stoically, as he followed Tika through the excited throng, clasping the beautiful sword of elven make close to his side. His stern face grew a shade darker, and he glanced often out the windows as though already longing to escape the confines of this noisy, hot room and return to the outdoors he loved. But Tika skillfully shoved the more exuberant patrons aside and soon had her old friend seated by the fire at an isolated table near the kitchen door.

  “I’ll be back,” she said, flashing him a smile and vanishing into the kitchen before he could open his mouth.

  The sound of Otik’s voice rose once again, accompanied by a loud banging. His story having been interrupted, Otik was using his cane—one of the most feared weapons in Solace—to restore order. The barkeep was crippled in one leg now and he enjoyed telling that story, too—about how he had been injured during the fall of Solace, when, by his own account, he single-handedly fought off the invading armies of draconians.

  Grabbing a panful of spiced potatoes and hurrying back to Riverwind, Tika glared at Otik irritably. She knew the true story, how he had hurt his leg being dragged out of his hiding place beneath the floor. But she never told it. Deep within, she loved the old man like a father. He had taken her in and raised her, wh
en her own father disappeared, giving her honest work when she might have turned to thievery. Besides, just reminding him that she knew the truth was useful in keeping Otik’s tall tales from stretching to new heights.

  The crowd was fairly quiet when Tika returned, giving her a chance to talk to her old friend.

  “How is Goldmoon and your son?” she asked brightly, seeing Riverwind looking at her, studying her intently.

  “She is fine and sends her love,” Riverwind answered in his deep, low baritone. “My son”—his eyes glowed with pride—“is but two, yet already stands this tall and sits a horse better than most warriors.”

  “I was hoping Goldmoon would come with you,” Tika said with a sigh she didn’t mean Riverwind to hear. The tall Plainsman ate his food for a moment in silence before he answered.

  “The gods have blessed us with two more children,” he said, staring at Tika with a strange expression in his dark eyes.

  “Two?” Tika looked puzzled, then, “oh, twins!” she cried joyfully. “Like Caramon and Rais—” She stopped abruptly, biting her lip.

  Riverwind frowned and made the sign that wards off evil. Tika flushed and looked away. There was a roaring in her ears. The heat and the noise made her dizzy. Swallowing the bitter taste in her mouth, she forced herself to ask more about Goldmoon and, after awhile, could even listen to Riverwind’s answer.

  “… still too few clerics in our land. There are many converts, but the powers of the gods come slowly. She works hard, too hard to my mind, but she grows more beautiful every day. And the babies, our daughters, both have silver-golden hair—”

  Babies.… Tika smiled sadly. Seeing her face, Riverwind fell silent, finished eating, and pushed his plate away. “I can think of nothing I would rather do than continue this visit,” he said slowly, “but I cannot be gone long from my people. You know the urgency of my mission. Where is Cara—”

  “I must go check on your room,” Tika said, standing up so quickly she jostled the table, spilling Riverwind’s drink. “That gully dwarf is supposed to be making the bed. I’ll probably find him sound asleep—”

  She hurried away. But she did not go upstairs to the rooms. Standing outside by the kitchen door, feeling the night wind cool her fevered cheeks, she stared out into the darkness. “Let him go away!” she whispered. “Please.…”

  CHAPTER

  2

  erhaps most of all, Tanis feared his first sight of the Inn of the Last Home. Here it had all started, three years ago this autumn. Here he and Flint and the irrepressible kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, had come that night to meet old friends. Here his world had turned upside down, never to exactly right itself again.

  But, riding toward the Inn, Tanis found his fears eased. It had changed so much it was like coming to some place strange, a place that held no memories. It stood on the ground, instead of in the branches of a great vallenwood. There were new additions, more rooms had been built to accommodate the influx of travelers, it had a new roof, much more modern in design. All the scars of war had been purged, along with the memories.

  Then, just as Tanis was beginning to relax, the front door of the Inn opened. Light streamed out, forming a golden path of welcome, the smell of spiced potatoes and the sound of laughter came to him on the evening breeze. The memories returned in a rush, and Tanis bowed his head, overcome.

  But, perhaps fortunately, he did not have time to dwell upon the past. As he and his companion approached the Inn, a stableboy ran out to grab the horses’ reins.

  “Food and water,” said Tanis, sliding wearily from the saddle and tossing the boy a coin. He stretched to ease the cramps in his muscles. “I sent word ahead that I was to have a fresh horse waiting for me here. My name is Tanis Half-Elven.”

  The boy’s eyes opened wide; he had already been staring at the bright armor and rich cloak Tanis wore. Now his curiosity was replaced by awe and admiration.

  “Y-yes, sir,” he stammered, abashed at being addressed by such a great hero. “T-the horse is ready, sh-shall I bring him around n-now, sir?”

  “No” Tanis smiled. “I will eat first. Bring him in two hours.”

  “T-two hours. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Bobbing his head, the boy took the reins Tanis pressed into his unfeeling hand, then stood there, gaping, completely forgetting his task until the impatient horse nudged him, nearly knocking him over.

  As the boy hurried off, leading Tanis’s horse away, the half-elf turned to assist his companion down from her saddle.

  “You must be made of iron,” she said, looking at Tanis as he helped her to the ground. “Do you really intend to ride further tonight?”

  “To tell the truth, every bone in my body aches,” Tanis began, then paused, feeling uncomfortable. He was simply unable to feel at ease around this woman.

  Tanis could see her face reflected in the light beaming from the Inn. He saw fatigue and pain. Her eyes were sunken into pale, hollow cheeks. She staggered as she stepped upon the ground, and Tanis was quick to give her his arm to lean upon. This she did, but only for a moment. Then, drawing herself up she gently but firmly pushed him away and stood alone, glancing at her surroundings without interest.

  Every move hurt Tanis, and he could imagine how this woman must feel, unaccustomed as she was to physical exertion or hardship, and he was forced to regard her with grudging admiration. She had not complained once on their long and frightening journey. She had kept up with him, never lagging behind and obeying his instructions without question.

  Why, then, he wondered, couldn’t he feel anything for her? What was there about her that irritated him and annoyed him? Looking at her face, Tanis had his answer. The only warmth there was the warmth reflected from the Inn’s light. Her face itself—even exhausted—was cold, passionless, devoid of—what? Humanity? Thus she had been all this long, dangerous journey. Oh, she had been coolly polite, coolly grateful, coolly distant and remote. She probably would have coolly buried me, Tanis thought grimly. Then, as if to reprimand him for his irreverent thoughts, his gaze was drawn to the medallion she wore around her neck, the Platinum Dragon of Paladine. He remembered Elistan’s parting words, spoken in private just before their journey’s beginning.

  “It is fitting that you escort her, Tanis,” said the now-frail cleric. “In many ways, she begins a journey much like your own years ago—seeking self-knowledge. No, you are right, she doesn’t know this herself yet.” This in answer to Tanis’s dubious look. “She walks forward with her gaze fixed upon the heavens,” Elistan smiled sadly. “She has not yet learned that, in so doing, one will surely stumble. Unless she learns, her fall may be hard.” Shaking his head, he murmured a soft prayer. “But we must put our trust in Paladine.”

  Tanis had frowned then and he frowned now, thinking about it. Though he had come to a strong belief in the true gods—more through Laurana’s love and faith in them than anything else—he felt uncomfortable trusting his life to them, and he grew impatient with those like Elistan who, it seemed, placed too great a burden upon the gods. Let man be responsible for himself for a change, Tanis thought irritably.

  “What is it, Tanis?” Crysania asked coldly.

  Realizing he had been staring at her all this while, Tanis coughed in embarrassment, cleared his throat, and looked away. Fortunately, the boy returned for Crysania’s horse at this moment, sparing Tanis the need to answer. He gestured at the Inn, and the two walked toward it.

  “Actually,” Tanis said when the silence grew awkward, “I would like nothing better than to stay here and visit with my friends. But I have to be in Qualinesti the day after tomorrow, and only by hard riding will I arrive in time. My relations with my brother-in-law are not such that I can afford to offend him by missing Solostaran’s funeral.” He added with a grim smile, “Both politically and personally, if you take my meaning.”

  Crysania smiled in turn, but—Tanis saw—it was not a smile of understanding. It was a smile of tolerance, as if this talk of politics and family were beneath her.


  They had reached the door to the Inn. “Besides,” Tanis added softly, “I miss Laurana. Funny, isn’t it. When she is near and we’re busy about our own tasks, we’ll sometimes go for days with just a quick smile or a touch and then we disappear into our worlds. But when I’m far away from her, it’s like I suddenly awaken to find my right arm cut off. I may not go to bed thinking of my right arm, but when it is gone.…”

  Tanis stopped abruptly, feeling foolish, afraid he sounded like a lovesick adolescent. But Crysania, he realized, was apparently not paying the least bit of attention to him. Her smooth, marble face had grown, if anything, more cold until the moon’s silver light seemed warm by comparison. Shaking his head, Tanis pushed open the door.

  I don’t envy Caramon and Riverwind, he thought grimly.

  The warm, familiar sounds and smells of the Inn washed over Tanis and, for long moments, everything was a blur. Here was Otik, older and fatter, if possible, leaning upon a cane and pounding him on the back. Here were people he had not seen in years, who had never had much to do with him before, now shaking his hand and claiming his friendship. Here was the old bar, still brightly polished, and somehow he managed to step on a gully dwarf.…

  And then there was a tall man cloaked in furs, and Tanis was clasped inside his friend’s warm embrace.

  “Riverwind,” he whispered huskily, holding onto the Plainsman tightly.

  “My brother,” Riverwind said in Que-shu, the language of his people. The crowd in the Inn was cheering wildly, but Tanis didn’t hear them, because a woman with flaming red hair and a smattering of freckles had her hand upon his arm. Reaching out still holding fast to Riverwind, Tanis gathered Tika into their embrace and for long moments the three friends clung to each other—bound together by sorrow and pain and glory.

  Riverwind brought them to their senses. Unaccustomed to such public displays of emotion, the tall Plainsman regained his composure with a gruff cough and stood back, blinking his eyes rapidly and frowning at the ceiling until he was master of himself again. Tanis, his reddish beard wet with his own tears, gave Tika another swift hug, then looked around.