Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [93]
The current carried them swiftly to a fork in the river where two streams joined together. One flowed from the north, the other—the stream they traveled—flowed into it from the east. Both merged into one wide river, flowing south into the sea. Suddenly Theros pointed.
“There, dwarf, is your answer,” he said solemnly.
Drifting down the branch of the river that flowed from the north was another boat. At first, they thought it had slipped its moorings, for they could see no one inside. Then they saw that it rode too low in the water to be empty. The Wilder elves slowed their own boats, steering them into the shallow water, and held them steady, heads bowed in silent respect.
And then Laurana knew.
“A funeral boat,” she murmured.
“Aye,” said Theros, watching with sad eyes. The boat drifted past, carried near them by the current. Inside they could see the body of a young Wilder elf, a warrior to judge by his crude leather armor. His hands, folded across his chest, clasped an iron sword in cold fingers. A bow and quiver of arrows lay at his side. His eyes were closed in the peaceful sleep from which he would never waken.
“Now you know why it is called Thon-Tsalarian, the River of the Dead,” Silvara said in her low, musical voice. “For centuries, my people have returned the dead to the sea where we were born. This ancient custom of my people has become a bitter point of contention between the Kaganesti and our cousins.” Her eyes went to Gilthanas. “Your people consider this a desecration of the river. They try to force us to stop.”
“Someday the body that floats down the river will be Qualinesti, or Silvanesti, with a Kaganesti arrow in his chest,” Theros predicted. “And then there will be war.”
“I think all the elves will have a much more deadly enemy to face,” Sturm said, shaking his head. “Look!” He pointed.
At the feet of the dead warrior lay a shield, the shield of the enemy he had died fighting. Recognizing the foul symbol traced on the battered shield, Laurana drew in her breath.
“Draconian!”
The journey up the Thon-Tsalarian was long and arduous, for the river ran swift and strong. Even Tas was given an oar to help paddle, but he promptly lost it overboard, then nearly went in headfirst trying to retrieve it. Catching hold of Tas by his belt, Derek dragged him back as the Kaganesti indicated by sign language that if he caused any more trouble, they’d throw him out.
Tasslehoff soon grew bored and sat peering over the side, hoping to see a fish.
“Why, how odd!” the kender said suddenly. Reaching down, he put his small hand into the water. “Look,” he said in excitement. His hand was coated in fine silver and sparkled in the early morning light. “The water glitters! Look, Flint,” he called to the dwarf in the other boat. “Look into the water—”
“I will not,” said the dwarf through chattering teeth. Flint rowed grimly, though there was some question as to his effectiveness. He steadfastly refused to look into the water and consequently was out of time with everyone else.
“You are right, Kenderken,” Silvara said, smiling. “In fact, the Silvanesti named the river Thon-Sargon, which means ‘Silver Road.’ It is too bad you have come here in such dismal weather. When the silver moon rises in its fullness, the river turns to molten silver and is truly beautiful.”
“Why? What causes it?” the kender asked, studying his shimmering hand with delight.
“No one knows, though there is a legend among my people—” Silvara fell silent