Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [92]
“Maybe if I stayed,” Laurana murmured, “I could help—” Then she realized that was ridiculous. What could she do? She wasn’t even accepted by her own people!
“You can’t be in all places at the same time,” Sturm said. “The elves must solve their problems, Laurana. You are doing the right thing.”
“I know,” she said, sighing. She turned her head, looking behind her, toward the Qualinesti camp. “I was just like them, Sturm,” she said, shivering. “My beautiful tiny world had revolved around me for so long that I thought I was the center of the universe. I ran after Tanis because I was certain I could make him love me. Why shouldn’t he? Everyone else did. And then I discovered the world didn’t revolve around me. It didn’t even care about me! I saw suffering and death. I was forced to kill”—she stared down at her hands—“or be killed. I saw real love. Love like Riverwind’s and Goldmoon’s, love that was willing to sacrifice everything—even life itself. I felt very petty and very small. And now that’s how my people seem to me. Petty and small. I used to think they were perfect, but now I understand how Tanis felt—and why he left.”
The boats of the Kaganesti had reached the shore. Silvara and Theros walked down to talk to the elves who paddled them. At a gesture from Theros, the companions stepped out of the shadows of the trees and stood upon the bank—hands well away from their weapons—so the Kaganesti could see them. At first, it seemed hopeless. The elves chattered in their strange, uncouth version of elven which Laurana had difficulty following. Apparently they refused outright to have anything to do with the group.
Then horn calls sounded from the woods behind them. Gilthanas and Laurana looked at each other in alarm. Theros, glancing back, stabbed his silver finger at the group urgently, then thumped himself on the chest—apparently pledging his word to answer for the companions. The horns sounded again. Silvara added her own pleas. Finally, the Kaganesti agreed, although with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
The companions hurried down to the water, all of them aware now that their absence had been discovered and that pursuit had started. One by one, they all stepped carefully into the boats that were no more than hollowed-out trunks of trees. All, that is, except Flint, who groaned and cast himself down on the ground, shaking his head and muttering in dwarven. Sturm eyed him in concern, fearing a repetition of the incident at Crystalmir when the dwarf had flatly refused to set foot in a boat. It was Tasslehoff, however, who tugged and pulled and finally dragged the grumbling dwarf to his feet.
“We’ll make a sailor of you yet,” the kender said cheerfully, prodding Flint in the back with his hoopak.
“You will not! And quit sticking me with that thing!” the dwarf snarled. Reaching the edge of the water, he stopped, nervously fumbling with a piece of wood. Tas hopped into a boat and stood waiting expectantly, his hand outstretched.
“Confound it, Flint, get in the boat!” Theros ordered.
“Just tell me one thing,” the dwarf said, swallowing. “Why do they call it the ‘River of the Dead’?”
“You’ll see, soon enough,” Theros grunted. Reaching out his strong black hand, he plucked the dwarf off the bank and plopped him like a sack of potatoes on to the seat. “Shove off,” the smith told the Wilder elves, who needed no bidding. Their wooden oars were already biting deep into the water.
The log boat caught the current and floated swiftly