Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [189]
But here at the altar stood only an elfmaiden, clad in armor that was dented and stained with blood. Beside her stood an old dwarf, his head bowed in grief, and a kender, his impish face ravaged by sorrow. The only rose upon the altar was a black one, found in Sturm’s belt; the only ornament was a silver dragonlance, black with clotted blood.
The Guard carried the bodies to the front of the chamber and reverently laid them before the three friends.
On the right lay the body of Lord Alfred MarKenin, his mutilated, headless corpse mercifully shrouded in white linen. On the left lay Lord Derek Crownguard, his body covered with white cloth to hide the hideous grin death had frozen upon his face. In the center lay the body of Sturm Brightblade. He was not covered by a white sheet. He lay in the armor he had worn at his death: his father’s armor. His father’s antique sword was clasped in cold hands upon his breast. One other ornament lay upon his shattered breast, a token none of the knights recognized.
It was the Starjewel, which Laurana had found in a pool of the knight’s own blood. The jewel was dark, its brilliance fading even as Laurana had held it in her hand. Many things became clear to her later, as she studied the Starjewel. This, then, was how they shared the dream in Silvanesti. Had Sturm realized its power? Did he know of the link that had been forged between himself and Alhana? No, Laurana thought sadly, he had probably not known. Nor could he realize the love it represented. No human could. Carefully she had placed it upon his breast as she thought with sorrow of the dark-haired elven woman, who must know the heart upon which the glittering Starjewel rested was stilled forever.
The Honor Guard stepped back, waiting. The assembled knights stood with heads bowed for a moment, then lifted them to face Laurana.
This should have been the time for proud speeches, for recitals of the dead knights’ heroic deeds. But for a moment, all that could be heard was the wheezing sobs of the old dwarf and Tasslehoff’s quiet snuffle. Laurana looked down into Sturm’s peaceful face, and she could not speak.
For a moment she envied Sturm, envied him fiercely. He was beyond pain, beyond suffering, beyond loneliness. His war had been fought. He was victorious.
You left me! Laurana cried in agony. Left me to cope with this by myself! First Tanis, then Elistan, now you. I can’t! I’m not strong enough! I can’t let you go, Sturm. Your death was senseless, meaningless! A fraud and a sham! I won’t let you go. Not quietly! Not without anger!
Laurana lifted her head, her eyes blazing in the torchlight.
“You expect a noble speech,” she said, her voice cold as the air of the sepulcher. “A noble speech honoring the heroic deeds of these men who have died. Well, you won’t get it. Not from me!”
The knights glanced at each other, faces dark.
“These men, who should have been united in a brotherhood forged when Krynn was young, died in bitter discord, brought about by pride, ambition, and greed. Your eyes turn to Derek Crownguard, but he was not totally to blame. You are. All of you! All of you who took sides in this reckless bid for power.”
A few knights lowered their heads, some paled with shame and anger. Laurana choked with her tears. Then she felt Flint’s hand slip into hers, squeezing it comfortingly. Swallowing, she drew a deep breath.
“Only one man was above this. Only one man here among you lived the Code every day of his life. And for most of those days, he was not a knight. Or rather, he was a knight where it meant the most—in spirit, in heart, not in some official list.”
Reaching behind her, Laurana took the blood-stained dragonlance from the altar and raised it high over her head. And as she lifted the lance, her spirit was lifted. The wings of darkness that had hovered around her were banished. When she raised her