Feal-Thas sets a trap. Derek dreams of dragons. pon his return to Ice Wall Castle from Neraka, Feal-Thas sent for the leader of the draconians to ask if any strangers had been seen in the vicinity. The draconians reported that a group of outsiders, including three Solamnic knights, had attacked two draconian guards. The knights and the rest of their companions were skulking about the camp of the Ice Folk. Feal-Thas had no doubt these were the knights sent by Kitiara, part of Ariakas’s scheme to plant the dragon orb among the Solamnics.
Ariakas had explained his plan to Feal-Thas when he’d been in Neraka. The emperor had used the analogy of besieging armies throwing the carcasses of plague-ridden animals over the walls into the enemy city so the disease could infect the defenders. Ariakas was applying the same principle here, except that the dragon orb would take the place of a plague-ridden cow. The knights would carry the dragon orb into Solamnia and there fall under its sway, as had the wretched King Lorac of Silvanesti.
Feal-Thas had agreed to go along with the scheme. He could do nothing else. Ariakas wore the Crown of Power. Takhisis loved him, while the Queen and Feal-Thas were barely on speaking terms. Feal-Thas took comfort in the fact that accidents happened, especially to glory-seeking knights. Ariakas could hardly fault Feal-Thas if this Solamnic ended up in the dragon’s belly.
There was another problem that Ariakas had not considered, because Feal-Thas had not told him. The dragon orb had its own plots and schemes.
For hundreds of years, ever since the dragons had gone to sleep following the Dark Queen’s defeat at the hands of Huma Dragonbane, the dragon orbs, made of the essence of dragons, had waited for their Queen’s return. Finally they heard Takhisis’s voice call out to them, as it had called out to her other dragons. Now this orb yearned to be free of its prison and back in the world. Feal-Thas heard its whispered temptations, but he was wise enough to shut his ears to them. Others-those who wanted to hear it, wanted to believe it-would listen.
Having heard the draconian report, Feal-Thas hastened to Sleet’s lair to make certain the dragon orb was safe. The white dragon had been ordered to guard the orb, and she would obey that order to the best of her abilities. Unfortunately, Sleet’s abilities did not fill the wizard with confidence. The white dragon was not particularly intelligent, nor was she clever, subtle, or cunning, whereas the dragon orb was all these and more.
Feal-Thas walked the frozen tunnels beneath the castle. He carried no light. At his coming, an icy enchantment caused the tunnels to shimmer with blue-white radiance. He passed the chamber that had once housed the orb and glanced inside. The traces left by the Guardian’s victims was still visible-blood covered the floor, spattered the walls. He paused to regard the gruesome scene. Some of that blood was Kitiara’s. Feal-Thas had been informed, just as he was leaving Neraka, that Kitiara had escaped her execution. Feal-Thas was disappointed, but hardly surprised. She was lucky, that one, lucky and fearless and smart-a dangerous combination. Ariakas should have never allowed her to live this long. Feal-Thas would be doing everyone a favor by getting rid of her.
He just had to find the way to get around that luck of hers.
Feal-Thas entered the white dragon’s lair. A magical snow, created by the dragon, drifted down around her. The snow kept her cool, kept her food-two dead thanoi and a human-from spoiling until she was at leisure to eat it. Sleet was dozing, but she woke up fast enough when she smelled elf. Her nostrils twitched. One eye was a red glittering slit. Her claws dug into the ice floor and her white lips curled back over her yellow fangs. She did not like Feal-Thas, and the feeling was mutual.
The whites are the smallest of the Dark Queen’s dragons and the least intelligent. They are good at killing and not much else. They obey instructions, but only if they are kept simple.
“What do you want?” Sleet muttered.
Her white scales glittered blue in the wizard-light. Her wings were folded over her back, her long tail curled around her massive, snow-covered body. Though small compared to a red dragon, she nearly filled the vast cavern she had inherited from some other white who had built it long, long ago, perhaps around Huma’s time. Pallid sunlight gleamed through the lair’s entrance at the far end, sparkling on walls coated with snow and hoarfrost from the dragon’s breath.
“I am here to ascertain that you are comfortable and have all you require,” said Feal-Thas smoothly.
The dragon snorted, blasting frost from her nose. “You came to check on your precious dragon orb because you don’t trust me. It’s safe. See for yourself. Then go bury your head in a glacier.”
The white dragon rested her head in the snow. Her red eyes watched Feal-Thas.
The orb stood upon an icy pedestal. Its colors static, suspended, the orb looked dead. As Feal-Thas approached the orb and his thoughts focused on it, it came to life. The colors began to swirl around the globe’s interior, making it look like a rainbow-glistening soap bubble-blue, green, black, red, white-changing and shifting, merging and separating.
Feal-Thas drew near. As always, his hands itched to touch it. He longed to try to exert his power over it, take command of it, become the orb’s master. He knew he could. It would be easy. He was powerful, the most powerful elf archmage who had ever lived. Once he had the orb, he would wrest the crown from Ariakas, challenge Queen Takhisis herself…
“Ha, ha.” Feal-Thas laughed gently. He came to stand before the dragon orb, his hands clasped tightly in his sleeves. “Nice try. You might as well give up,” he advised the orb. “I will not relinquish you. I know the danger you pose. You must try your blandishments on someone else, such as this Solamnic knight who has come to free you.”
The colors flashed briefly, swirled furiously, then settled back into a slow, drifting, seemingly-aimless motion.
“I thought that might interest you. I am certain if you apply yourself, you can snag him. You are the object of his desire. You should find it easy to seize hold of him, lure him to you, as your sister orb did Lorac.” Feal-Thas paused, then said quietly, grimly, “As you did me.”
The orb darkened, its colors blending, black with hatred.
“With me you failed,” Feal-Thas continued, shrugging. “You might well succeed with the knight. You could summon him here, then send the dragon away on some trumped-up errand. But you don’t need me to tell you that.” Feal-Thas wagged a finger at the orb. “You are toying with me, hoping to ensnare me.”
He again clasped his hands and said scornfully, “Spare yourself the trouble. Your tempting promises haven’t worked in three hundred years; they won’t work now.”
The colors swirled again, and this time green was uppermost.
“You are suspicious of my motives, as you should be. Of course it’s a trap. You bring the knight; I will slay him.” Feal-Thas gave another shrug. “Still, you might succeed. I might fail. Take the gamble.” He paused, then said quietly, “What choice do you have?”
Feal-Thas turned and walked away. He could see the light of the orb reflected on the ice walls flashing red, then purple, then going sullen, greenish black. He did not see, as he left, all the colors merging together in a riotous display of triumph.
Derek woke again from a dream of dragons. He gasped, breathing hard, not from fear, but with exultation. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, reliving the dream, which had been vividly real.
Usually his dreams were gray and black and nonsensical. He dismissed dreams, considering them wild forays of the slumbering, undisciplined mind. Derek never thought about his dreams or bothered to remember them, and he viewed with impatience those who yammered on about them.
But these dreams were different. These dreams were splashed with color: reds and blues, greens, blacks and shades of white. These dreams were filled with dragons, enemy dragons, clouding the skies. The sun shining on their scales made a hideous rainbow. People fled from them in open-mouthed, screaming terror. Blood, smoke, and fire spilled and billowed and crackled around him. He did not run. He stood firm, gazing up at the beating wings, the open mouths, the dripping fangs. He should have been holding his sword, but in its place he held a crystal orb. He raised up the orb to the heavens and he cried out a stern command and the dragons, shrieking in rage, fell from the skies, dying like shooting stars, trailing flame.
Derek was bathed in sweat and he threw off the fur blankets. The bitter cold felt good to him, slapped him out of the dream, brought him to conscious awareness.
“The orb,” he said softly, exultantly.