Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [105]
The smith walked after the two.
“For the sake of my cold feet, I’d follow them into a dragon’s den, if he’d warm my toes!” Flint stamped on the ground. “Come on, let’s go.” Grabbing the kender, he dragged Tas along after the blacksmith.
Laurana remained standing, alone. That she would follow was settled. She had no choice. She wanted to trust Theros’s words. One time, she would have believed the world ran that way. But now she knew much she had believed in was false. Why not love?
All she could see in her mind were the swirling colors of the dragon orb.
The companions traveled east, into the gloom of gathering night. Descending from the high mountain pass, they found the air easier to breathe. The frozen rocks gave way to scraggly pines, then the forests closed in around them once more. Silvara confidently led them at last into a fog-shrouded valley.
The Wilder elf no longer seemed to care about covering their tracks. All that concerned her now was speed. She pushed the group on, as if racing the sun across the sky. When night fell, they sank into the tree-rimmed darkness, too tired even to eat. But Silvara allowed them only a few hours of restless, aching sleep. When the moons rose, the silver and the red, nearing their fullness now, she urged the companions on.
When anyone questioned, wearily, why they hurried, she only answered, “They are near. They are very near.”
Each assumed she meant the elves, though Laurana had long ago lost the feeling of dark shapes trailing them.
Dawn broke, but the light was filtered through fog so thick Tasslehoff thought he might grab a handful and store it in one of his pouches. The companions walked close together, even holding hands to avoid being separated. The air grew warmer. They shed their wet and heavy cloaks as they stumbled along a trail that seemed to materialize beneath their feet, out of the fog. Silvara walked before them. The faint light shining from her silver hair was their only guide.
Finally the ground grew level at their feet, the trees cleared, and they walked on smooth grass, brown with winter. Although none of them could see more than a few feet in the gray fog, they had the impression they were in a wide clearing.
“This is Foghaven Vale,” Silvara replied in answer to their questions. “Long years ago, before the Cataclysm, it was one of the most beautiful places upon Krynn … so my people say.”
“It might still be beautiful,” Flint grumbled, “if we could see it through this confounded mist.”
“No,” said Silvara sadly. “Like much else in this world, the beauty of Foghaven has vanished. Once the fortress of Foghaven floated above the mist as if floating on a cloud. The rising sun colored the mists pink in the morning, burned them off at midday so that the soaring spires of the fortress could be seen for miles. In the evening, the fog returned to cover the fortress like a blanket. By night, the silver and the red moons shone on the mists with a shimmering light. Pilgrims came, from all parts of Krynn—” Silvara stopped abruptly. “We will make camp here tonight.”
“What pilgrims?” Laurana asked, letting her pack fall.
Silvara shrugged. “I do not know,” she said, averting her face. “It is only a legend of my people. Perhaps it is not even true. Certainly no one comes here now.”
She’s lying, thought Laurana, but she said nothing. She was too tired to care. And even Silvara’s low, gentle voice seemed unnaturally loud and jarring in the eerie stillness. The companions spread their blankets in silence. They ate in silence, too, nibbling without appetite on the dried fruit in their packs. Even the kender was subdued. The fog was oppressive, weighing them down. The only thing they could hear was a steady drip, drip, drip of water plopping onto the mat of dead leaves on the forest floor below.
“Sleep now,” said Silvara softly, spreading her blanket near Gilthanas’s, “for when the silver moon has neared its zenith,