Dragons of Spring Dawning - Margaret Weis [174]
Laurana smiled, and then Tika smiled. It didn’t matter. Coming to her swiftly, Laurana put her arms around her, and Tika held her close.
All alone, the kender stood for a moment on the edge of the circle of firelight, his eyes on the old man who stood near it. Behind the old man, a great golden dragon slept sprawled out upon the ridge, his flanks pulsing with his snores. The old man beckoned Tas to come closer.
Heaving a sigh that seemed to come from the toes of his shoes, Tasslehoff bowed his head. Dragging his feet, he walked slowly over to stand before the old man.
“What’s my name?” the old man asked, reaching out his hand to touch the kender’s topknot of hair.
“It’s not Fizban,” Tas said miserably, refusing to look at him.
The old man smiled, stroking the topknot. Then he drew Tas near him, but the kender held back, his small body rigid. “Up until now, it wasn’t,” the old man said softly.
“Then what is it?” Tas mumbled, his face averted.
“I have many names,” the old man replied. “Among the elves I am E’li. The dwarves call me Thak. Among the humans I am known as Skyblade. But my favorite has always been that by which I am known among the Knights of Solamnia—Draco Paladin.”
“I knew it!” Tas groaned, flinging himself to the ground. “A god! I’ve lost everyone! Everyone!” He began to weep bitterly.
The old man regarded him fondly for a moment, even brushing a gnarled hand across his own moist eyes. Then he knelt down beside the kender and put his arm around him comfortingly. “Look, my boy,” he said, putting his finger beneath Tas’s chin and turning his eyes to heaven, “do you see the red star that shines above us? Do you know to what god that star is sacred?”
“Reorx,” Tas said in a small voice, choking on his tears.
“It is red like the fires of his forge,” the old man said, gazing at it. “It is red like the sparks that fly from his hammer as it shapes the molten world resting on his anvil. Beside the forge of Reorx is a tree of surpassing beauty, the like of which no living being has ever seen. Beneath that tree sits a grumbling old dwarf, relaxing after many labors. A mug of cold ale stands beside him, the fire of the forge is warm upon his bones. He spends all day lounging beneath the tree, carving and shaping the wood he loves. And every day someone who comes past that beautiful tree starts to sit down beside him.
“Looking at them in disgust, the dwarf glowers at them so sternly that they quickly get to their feet again.
“ ‘This place is saved,’ the dwarf grumbles. ‘There’s a lame-brained doorknob of a kender off adventuring somewhere, getting himself and those unfortunate enough to be with him into no end of trouble. Mark my words. One day he’ll show up here and he’ll admire my tree and he’ll say, “Flint, I’m tired. I think I’ll rest awhile here with you.” Then he’ll sit down and he’ll say, “Flint, have you heard about my latest adventure? Well, there was this black-robed wizard and his brother and me and we went on a journey through time and the most wonderful things happened—” and I’ll have to listen to some wild tale, ’ and so he grumbles on. Those who would sit beneath the tree hide their smiles and leave him in peace.”
“Then … he’s not lonely?” Tas asked, wiping his hand across his eyes.
“No, child. He is patient. He knows you have much yet to do in your life. He will wait. Besides, he’s already heard all your stories. You’re going to have to come up with some new ones.”
“He hasn’t heard this one yet,” Tas said in dawning excitement. “Oh, Fizban, it was wonderful! I nearly died, again. And I opened my eyes and there was Raistlin in Black Robes!” Tas shivered in delight. “He looked so—well—evil! But he saved my life! And—oh!” He stopped, horrified, then hung his head. “I’m sorry. I forgot.