Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [151]
“Now I want everyone to take his seat. Yes, you, too, Lord Gunthar. Come along, Solostaran, I’ll help. We old men have to stick together. Too bad you’re such a damn fool.”
Muttering into his beard, Fizban led the astounded Speaker to his chair. Porthios, his face twisted in pain, stumbled back to his seat with the help of his warriors.
Slowly the assembled elves and knights sat down, murmuring among themselves—all casting dark looks at the shattered dragon orb that lay beneath the Whitestone.
Fizban settled the Speaker in his seat, glowered at Lord Quinath, who thought he had something to say but quickly decided he didn’t. Satisfied, the old mage came back to the front of the Whitestone where Tas stood, shaken and confused.
“You,” Fizban looked at the kender as if he’d never seen him before, “go and attend to that poor chap.” He waved a hand at the gnome, who was still out cold.
Feeling his knees tremble, Tasslehoff walked slowly over to Gnosh and knelt down beside him, glad to look at something other than the angry, fear-filled faces.
“Gnosh,” he whispered miserably, patting the gnome on the cheek, “I’m sorry. I truly am. I mean about your Life Quest and your father’s soul and everything. But there just didn’t seem to be anything else to do.”
Fizban turned around slowly and faced the assembled group, pushing his hat back on his head. “Yes, I’m going to lecture you. You deserve it, every one of you—so don’t sit there looking self-righteous. That kender”—he pointed at Tasslehoff, who cringed—“has more brains beneath that ridiculous topknot of his than the lot of you have put together. Do you know what would have happened to you if the kender hadn’t had the guts to do what he did? Do you? Well, I’ll tell you. Just let me find a seat here.…” Fizban peered around vaguely. “Ah, yes, there …” Nodding in satisfaction, the old mage toddled over and sat down on the ground, leaning his back against the sacred Whitestone!
The assembled knights gasped in horror. Gunthar leaped to his feet, appalled at this sacrilege.
“No mortal can touch the Whitestone!” he yelled, striding forward.
Fizban slowly turned his head to regard the furious knight. “One more word,” the old mage said solemnly, “and I’ll make your moustaches fall off. Now sit down and shut up!”
Sputtering, Gunthar was brought up short by an imperious gesture from the old man. The knight could do nothing but return to his seat.
“Where was I before I was interrupted?” Fizban scowled. Glancing around, his gaze fell on the broken pieces of the orb. “Oh, yes. I was about to tell you a story. One of you would have won the orb, of course. And you would have taken it—either to keep it ‘safe’ or to ‘save the world.’ And, yes, it is capable of saving the world, but only if you know how to use it. Who of you has this knowledge? Who has the strength? The orb was created by the greatest, most powerful mages of old. All the most powerful—do you understand? It was created by those of the White Robes and those of the Black Robes. It has the essence of both evil and good. The Red Robes brought both essences together and bound them with their force. Few there are now with the power and strength to understand the orb, to fathom its secrets, and to gain mastery over it. Few indeed”—Fizban’s eyes gleamed—“and none who sit here!”
Silence had fallen now, a profound silence as they listened to the old mage, whose voice was strong and carried above the rising wind that was blowing the storm clouds from the sky.
“One of you would have taken the orb and used it, and you would have found that you had hurled yourself upon disaster. You would have been broken as surely as the kender broke the orb. As for hope being shattered, I tell you that hope was lost for a time, but now it has been new born—”
A sudden gust of wind caught the old mage’s hat, blowing it off his head and tossing it playfully away from him. Snarling in irritation, Fizban crawled forward to pick it up.
Just as the mage leaned over, the sun broke through the clouds. There was a