“Well, g-night,” he mumbled. Backing out of the tent precipitously, he returned to his bed, shaking his head, puzzled. What was the matter with everyone? It was only a dream.
For long moments, no one spoke. Then Flint sighed. “I don’t mind having a nightmare.” the dwarf said dourly. “But I object to sharing it with a kender. How do you suppose we all came to have the same dream? And what does it mean?”
“A strange land- Silvanesti.” Laurana said. Taking her candle, she started to leave. Then she looked back. “Do you-do you think it was real? Did they die, as we saw?” Was Tanis with that human woman? she thought, but didn’t ask aloud.
“We’re here.” said Sturm. “We didn’t die. We can only trust the others didn’t either. And-” he paused-“this seems funny, but somehow I know they’re all right.”
Laurana looked at the knight intently for a moment, saw his grave face calm after the initial shock and horror had worn off. She felt herself relax. Reaching out, she took Sturm’s strong lean hand in her own and pressed it silently. Then she turned and left, slipping back into the starlit night.
The dwarf rose to his feet. “Well, so much for sleep. I’ll take my turn at watch now.”
“I’ll join you.” said Sturm, standing and buckling on his swordbelt.
“I suppose we’ll never know,” Flint said, “why or how we all dreamed the same dream.”
“I suppose not,” Sturm agreed.
The dwarf walked out of the tent. Sturm started to follow, then stopped as his eyes caught a glimpse of light. Thinking perhaps that a bit of wick had fallen from Laurana’s candle, he bent down to put it out, only to find instead that the jewel Alhana had given him had slipped from his belt and lay upon the ground. Picking it up, he noticed it was gleaming with its own inner light, something he’d never seen it do before.
“I suppose not.” Sturm repeated thoughtfully, turning the jewel over and over in his hand.
Morning dawned in Silvanesti for the first time in many long, horrifying months. But only one saw it. Lorac, watching from his bedchamber window, saw the sun rise above the glistening aspens. The others, worn out, slept soundly.
Alhana had not left her father’s side all night. But exhaustion had overwhelmed her, and she fell asleep sitting in her chair. Lorac saw the pale sunlight light her face. Her long black hair fell across her face like cracks in white marble. Her skin was torn by thorns, caked with dried blood. He saw beauty, but that beauty was marred by arrogance. She was the epitome of her people. Turning back, he looked outside into Silvanesti, but found no comfort there. A green, noxious mist still hung over Silvanesti, as though the ground itself was rotting.
“This is my doing.” he said to himself, his eyes lingering on the twisted, tortured trees, the pitiful misshapen beasts that roamed the land, seeking an end to their torment.
For over four hundred years, Lorac had lived in this land. He had watched it take shape and flower beneath his hands and the hands of his people.
There had been times of trouble, too. Lorac was one of the few still living on Krynn to remember the Cataclysm. But the Silvanesti elves had survived it far better than others in the world-being estranged from other races. They knew why the ancient gods left Krynn-they saw the evil in humankind although they could not explain why the elven clerics vanished as well.
The elves of Silvanesti heard, of course, via the winds and birds and other mysterious ways, of the sufferings of their cousins, the Qualinesti, following the Cataclysm. And, though grieved at the tales of rapine and murder, the Silvanesti asked themselves what could one expect, living among humans? They withdrew into their forest, renouncing the outside world and caring little that the outside world renounced them.
Thus Lorac had found it impossible to understand this new evil sweeping out of the north, threatening his homeland. Why should they bother the Silvanesti? He met with the Dragon Highlords, explaining to them that the Silvanesti would give them no trouble. The elves believed everyone had the right to live upon Krynn, each in his own unique fashion, evil and good. He talked and they listened and, at first, all seemed well. Then the day came when Lorac realized he had been deceived-the day the skies erupted with dragons.
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