Welcome to DragonLance Saga Readings. Today I am reading Hanging in the Balance by Chris Androu from Dragons of Ash and Twilight. Originally distributed on May 6, 2026. You can pick up a copy here: https://dlsaga.com/dragons-of-ash-and-twilight/
About Dragons of Ash and Twilight
Step into a world where the echoes of ancient wars collide with the desperate struggles of a new age. Dragons of Ash and Twilight is a pulse-pounding anthology of original short stories, exploring the raw edges of a realm defined by high stakes, dark magic, and the heavy price of destiny.
From the embers of a broken pantheon to the frontlines of a world at war, this collection pushes the boundaries of the DLSaga. Experience the grit of legendary battles, the brilliance of forgotten sorcery, and the untold stories of those living in
the shadow of giants.
Epic in scope. Uncompromising in spirit.
Whether you are a devoted chronicler of high fantasy or a newcomer drawn to the flame, this is where the saga continues.
Hanging in the Balance
By Chris Androu
The hero’s lifeless body dangled from the Vallenwood sapling, rocking back and forth in the wind. Such is the state of the world right now, Weston thought, as the fate of the free people of Ansalon also hung in the balance. Weston stared hopelessly at the body of the knight Theos Dawnbringer as Theos’ squire Fidel and the five assembled ambassadors representing the allied races stood in shock. Despite the translucent magical shield covering the courtyard, the cold early morning air and wind passed through unabated and echoed the chill in Weston’s heart.
He gazed at the magical dome above them; it was supposed to have protected them from the evils of the outside world. These were dark times where dragon looking men could change shape and dark magic users could cast illusions at whim. But now the shield seemed to Weston to be like one of his bread warmers, trapping the heat inside below without respite.
Weston, a middle-aged cook and caretaker of the Knights of Solamnia, had a portly belly and a notable sweet tooth, so his thoughts would often coalesce into metaphors about baked goods. He’d spent many years behind the stove, far removed from the field of battle, yet in this troubled world, danger was never far away. The squire Fidel locked eyes with him. Weston had known Fidel for several years, but they’d become closer over the past few weeks during the preparations for the signing of the treaty to formalize the Whitestone Alliance.
Fidel, a tall lanky young man in his late teenage years, and Weston shared an unspoken realization – they were standing next to a murderer.
Fidel spoke to the assembled group, mustering up the courage to speak with yet unearned authority, “You know the situation as well as I do. Par Salian enacted this magical barrier around us as a boon to Lord Gunthar for one week only to allow you diplomats to formalize our alliance and iron out the details before your leaders arrive to officially sign the treaty. That means no outside influence or creature could have penetrated the barrier to carry out this deplorable act. It’s been a year since the fall of Neraka but the remaining forces of Takhisis are strong. If they win, everything we’ve fought for these past few years will have been for nothing!” Fidel shouted that last part for emphasis.
Weston nodded solemnly, but it was the Mountain Dwarf diplomat Dirge Lodestone who spoke up next, “Aye laddy, I understand. Let me help you hold his body while you cut the rope.”
“No!” yelled Fidel. “There’ll be no one touching his body. I can’t have anyone tampering with evidence.”
Dirge Lodestone was especially stubborn, even for a dwarf, yet he was chosen by Glade Hornfel of Thorbardin as their ambassador because he was good at reading others. “So be it,” Dirge replied. “But Theos Dawnbringer was a powerful man, almost as tall and strong as the great Caramon Majere. Why don’t you get your friend Weston to help. Obviously, a fellow human wouldn’t have killed one of your greatest heroes.”
Dirge gave a quick side eye glance at Werber, the representative of the Hill Dwarves after that remark, before glaring at the Qualinesti elf and Silvanesti elf representatives with suspicion. Weston could tell that the elves were who Dirge wanted blamed for this act.
“Our hero?!” Fidel shouted, his voice cracking. Despite being old for a human squire, he was still younger than anyone else here and the weight of his new responsibility at this moment was heavy. “Lord Gunthar chose Theos to represent the knights here for a reason, because he had been a part of all of YOUR struggles! He fought against raids against elves in Southern Ergoth. He fought in Thorbardin to repel the Draconian invaders, and there were many a Hill Dwarf among his comrades in the Vingaard campaign. After the fall of Neraka, he still refused to rest, spending time in Silvanesti recently while fighting the remnants of Lorac’s folly.”
Weston watched heartbroken as Fidel’s anger now gave way to tears.
“He even spared me of that nightmare to let me travel home to be with my baby daughter. She still suffers night terrors ever since my wife was killed by the Dragon Armies. Armies that still remain! Theos was the very best of us ALL!!” Fidel shouted. After taking a few moments in silence to regain his composure, he continued, “Look, in three days the shield will fall. I’ll be running this investigation, and Weston will assist me.”
Mefiantil the Qualinesti diplomat spoke up, “How do we know you didn’t kill him yourself?” Mefiantil was an older elf who had lived long enough to have seen the cataclysm, caused by the human Kingpriest’s arrogance. Rumors were that Mefiantil loved Solostaran’s daughter Laurana like his own, never having had a daughter himself, and had been a staunch advocate of supporting the Golden General and the new allied forces. Still, his mistrust of humans was evident.
“I squired for Theos for these past few years and loved him like a brother. I would trade places with him in a heartbeat if it would bring him back!” Fidel said defiantly.
Weston felt the need to speak up for his friend, “Look, you’ve only known me a few days. I was given the honor of cooking and caring for you whilst you prepare for the treaty. Despite public opinion of the Knighthood, I’ve always wanted to be a knight myself. However, the fates dealt me a cruel blow when I was born with a deformed left leg. As a result, I’ve had to stay in one place and spent a great deal of time with Fidel and witnessed his and Theos’ close friendship. I swear on my family’s honor that Fidel didn’t do this!”
“Your vow seems sincere. However, it would be meaningless if you were the one to have killed Theos,” the sharp witted Silvanesti elf ambassador Salinjaris opined. “Though, one of the dwarves seems just as likely, the cumulative effect of dwarf spirits on the brain has been wildly under-researched.”
Weston recalled that Salinjaris had been at the first Whitestone council meeting the previous year when legendary weapons were reintroduced to the world and the tide began to turn in the war. This year’s council was certainly off to a more inauspicious start, Weston lamented.
Werber reacted angrily to Salinjaris’ comment. “How dare you! My brothers and sisters have been on the front lines blocking dragon fire with our very flesh and bones, shielding your kind for almost a year while you cowards shoot arrows from trees! And you accuse US of murder?!”
“Look at this one, he acts like a mindless berserker. Aren’t you supposed to be a diplomat? Perhaps that is your first suspect,” Mefiantil responded.
Fidel tried to interject with facts before an elf versus dwarf fight broke out, “Here’s what we know. The Gnomish representative Gnozzle was the first to discover Theos’ body. He woke me and Weston at the same time, as unlike the rest of you, we share the same room, and we raced outside to the courtyard. I grabbed that ladder and climbed to the top and checked Theos’ neck, hoping for a heartbeat,” Fidel shuddered. “I’m no cleric, but I imagine he’s been dead for at least several hours,”
“This war has enacted a great toll on us all, particularly a soldier like Theos Dawnbringer who had seen many horrors both on the field of battle and in Silvanesti. Could it be that he chose…” Mefiantil started to say but was interrupted by Fidel.
“I’m going to stop you right there. Theos dedicated his life to this world and would never have left it willingly! Besides, I also saw blood on the side of his head and a massive wound.”
Weston flinched at Fidel’s revelation. Despite his low status, even he knew that revealing that much information out loud was like trying to put raisins into muffins after they were already baked.
Werber commented, “I’d like to hear from the person who discovered the body, who has been suspiciously quiet this whole time.”
All eyes turned to Gnozzle, the gnome representative having sat down during this discussion and was furiously drawing sketches in a journal. He seemed to Weston to be completely oblivious that he was being watched.
“Gnozzle!” Fidel shouted. The squire – turned investigator – went over to him and shook him by the shoulders with both hands. The gnome looked up, momentarily frustrated but then he saw the tear-streaked squire and the body of Theos hanging behind him and his face sparked recognition and softened into one of concern.
Gnozzle spoke patronizingly slowly, accustomed to speaking to non-Gnomish races, “I woke up before dawn and went outside to the well to get more water to cool my machines and saw the knight hanging from that tree.”
“I know your Lord Gunthar is fond of these things,” Salinjaris commented angrily. “But it really is quite ridiculous that he invited a gnome to such crucial negotiations. These creatures care nothing of the fate of the world, only how to make their next useless toy.”
“Yeah, at least the Kender ambassador had the decency to wander off, days before the shield came down and spared us the nightmare of being trapped under a dome with a Kender for a week,” Mefiantil agreed.
“All right, everyone please return to your rooms and remain there for the time being,” Fidel commanded. “Weston will bring your food to you, and you can draft any letters to your leaders pertaining to the negotiations that will be delivered in a few days when the shield comes down. But I implore you to make no mention of Theos’ death. If news travels outside of this council of his murder, the old prejudices may return to our lands.”
Weston was relieved to see that all of the ambassadors nodded in agreement and went back to their rooms.
As soon as they were alone, Fidel spoke to Weston, “You haven’t known me for as long as you knew Theos, but I hope you can trust me. I swear that I will honor him and bring his killer to justice.”
Fidel, keenly aware of Weston’s limp as he got to the ladder said, “Stay here. I’ll climb up and lower the body down to you.”
Weston looked at the young Vallenwood tree, from which Theos’ body dangled from, ten feet off the ground, with profound sadness. The tree had been imported from a small town named Solace several weeks ago as a symbol of rejuvenation and rebuilding for this upcoming council meeting. Solace had been razed by the red dragon armies to the ground, but the resilient Vallenwood trees were already starting to grow back. This sapling in particular was said to have been blessed by Elistan himself to survive here in this part of the continent, and outside of its natural habitat. Seeing it being used in this way, holding up the body of a murdered hero like a simple cloak hanger, seemed sacrilegious to Weston.
The killer had picked a good place to bring the body, Weston noted, as the courtyard had been trampled upon by people setting up chairs and tables for the upcoming treaty signing. It was impossible to determine which set of footprints belonged to the killer.
Fidel climbed the six-foot ladder to free his friend. The noose appeared to be made from crudely crafted rope from a nearby tree and easily gave way to Fidel’s sword, the very same sword that Theos had given him after naming Fidel as his squire. Theos’ body dropped from where it was perched, and Weston caught it with some exertion. The two then hoisted their friend’s body upon a long drafting table meant for treaties and signatures.
They examined the body closely. The left side of Theos’ head revealed a large gash above the ear that was caked with dried blood and matted his hair. They noticed two puncture marks in the middle of that gruesome wound.
“The murder weapon had to have two prongs, look how evenly spaced the puncture marks are. This had to be the killing blow and must have required strength, possibly from a dwarf?” Weston asked.
“Perhaps, but it also required precision, like that from an elf,” Fidel retorted. “I’ve seen many a battle where this area of the head is specifically targeted for a quick kill if there’s no helmet, because it’s the thinnest part of the skull. There seems to be a lot more bleeding that comes from that area, so it must be an important, um, brain spot.”
Despite desperately wanting to be smart enough to figure out this crime, Weston knew Fidel’s knowledge was limited. As was his. Weston could taste a dish and instantly tell you every single ingredient, but his culinary knowledge was utterly useless in this instance.
“Can we rule out the Gnome at least?” Weston asked.
“Not really,” Fidel replied. “This gnome may have human blood in him, Gunthar had once speculated to Theos and me. Gnozzle seems able to take various Gnomish inventions and make them work occasionally, maybe he has an invention that could make these marks? I know Gnozzle has been a bit of an outcast among his kind for his unusual successes, perhaps he blames the knights somehow for contributing to his social status among his kind?”
“I can’t think of a motive for any of them. We’re still allies and this war is far from over. We’re supposed to be on the same damn side!” Weston exclaimed.
“Maybe that’s the motive. Perhaps someone doesn’t want this treaty to be signed and wants to break up the alliance. Why else hang a knight at the sacred Whitestone council after killing him?” asked Fidel.
“If that’s the motive, then we’re back to square one, because you can make a case why each race would want to back out of the alliance. Old wounds cut deep and overcoming them is like trying to salvage burnt chocolate sometimes. Where do we start?” Weston asked.
“My dear Weston, we begin at the scene of the crime,” replied Fidel in earnest.
Fidel and Weston approached Theos’ room, stopping first to make sure all five ambassadors were in their allocated rooms. There was no noise outside of the clanging and whistles of Gnomish machinery coming from the study. Fidel realized that the Gnome’s inventions and their accompanying din had been running constantly for several days and conveniently would have drowned out any sounds of a struggle the previous night.
Fidel gritted his teeth, pulled out his longsword and entered the room. Weston followed behind him holding a kitchen knife he’d grabbed on their way to Theos’ chambers. The room did not smell of struggle. The bed sat against the far wall, unremarkable except for the dark, dried blood by the pillow.
Weston stepped back to scan the chamber more critically. The writing desk near the window was orderly. A chair tucked in. A quill resting in its groove. Shelves undisturbed.
“If he’d been struck in anger,” Fidel said slowly, “there would have been a struggle.”
“And an axe or a sword,” Weston replied, “wouldn’t leave such a tidy stain. I’ve broken down many a stag for cooking and I can tell you how messy things can get.”
“No,” Fidel agreed as his gaze shifted toward the far corner of the room.
“The chest,” he said.
Weston followed his line of sight. A heavy oak treasure chest sat beneath a tapestry depicting some long-forgotten battle. Its brass lock caught the light.
Weston crossed the room first and knelt beside it and ran his thumb along the lock plate. “It’s intact,” he said. “No break.”
The hinges creaked as he lifted the lid. Inside lay neat stacks of steel coins. A velvet pouch tied with gold thread. Two small Dwarven figurines carved from ivory along with gifts from grateful leaders of different races.
“It’s all here,” Weston said as reached for the lock mechanism and tilted it toward the light. He could see the faintest marks on the metal near the keyhole, with small, deliberate scratches as well as a broken metal fragment.
“This was picked, and likely with nimble fingers as gruff hands would have had a tough time with a lock tumbler this narrow,” Fidel said.
“There aren’t any Kender to blame this time,” Weston added.
“A Kender over the age of two wouldn’t have broken their lockpick in a lock this simple,” Fidel added.
“But… why pick a lock and take nothing? Some of this looks quite valuable.” Weston asked.
Fidel leaned closer. “If theft wasn’t their motivation, maybe they did take something. Something small that they knew to look for.”
Weston exhaled slowly. His gaze shifted toward the desk and a small object underneath it. Weston reached down and picked it up. A small strip of leather. Dark. Worn. Rough-edged on one side as though torn. He held it up, and Fidel stepped closer.
“It’s thick. Work leather.”
“Werber’s axe grip is wrapped in leather,” Weston commented.
They exchanged a look of resolution.
“With what we’re accusing him of, we’re gonna need more evidence. Keep looking,” said Fidel, returning to the dark stain on the pillow.
“Theos likely was asleep.” Weston surmised grimly. “If Werber is the killer, what do we do?”
“Simple. We ask him,” Fidel replied.
On their way to visit Werber, they had to cross through the study in the common area. The building had been built by the knights so that the dignitaries could be closer to one of the holiest places on Krynn, the Whitestone Glade. And inside, the study had been a place of much needed respite for Gunthar and his fellow knights in the past, yet at this moment it was being occupied by an unusual Gnome and his very loud inventions.
“Gnozzle!” Fidel yelled. “What are you doing here, you’re supposed to stay in your room!”
“Oh yes, quite right. Gnozzle will return to his room,” replied Gnozzle, speaking about himself. “He, I mean I, just needed to make one adjustment to the FireSuppressor3000 before the idea left my mind.”
Weston asked, “What about this one?” He pointed to an invention, the shape of a rectangle box with a hammer-like object protruding from the top and a flat metal bowl connected to its base.
“That’s formerly our SealVerificationStamper223 and recently recommissioned to RockPulverisor1. It was supposed to stamp an authorized seal onto missives to verify authenticity, but I found that it goes right through the paper, and pretty much anything else you put under the mechanized hammer component,” Gnozzle sighed.
“Do you mind if I try it?” Fidel asked.
Gnozzle eagerly agreed and brought over a smoothed circular rock from another invention. He placed the rock in the metal bowl and pulled on a small lever. The hammer smashed the rock in extremely rapid succession until there was only powder and smoke remaining. The device was a bit quieter than Weston had expected, barely louder than the normal sounds emanating from the other devices in the room. Gnozzle was about to pour a bucket of water onto the now smoking device, but Fidel stopped him with his hand.
“Wait!” Fidel demanded as he explored the bowl of powder and small bits of material closely.
In addition to the destroyed rock residue, there was also a bit of gold and ruby dust, along with a speck of dried blood on the inside wall of the bowl. Fidel positioned Weston to look at the bowl without Gnozzle seeing what they were doing.
Fidel whispered to Weston, “Can you think of a reason someone would want to pulverize what appears to have been a valuable jewel?”
Weston shook his head. “Could it have been something that was taken from Theos’ chest?”
Fidel nodded and examined the floor beneath the device. There was a tiny ruby crystal shard stuck between the floorboards. Fidel plucked it up after several tries, and handed it to Weston, who noted that the ruby color of the crystal matched the residue in the device’s bowl.
Fidel turned back to Gnozzle. “Who else would know how to use this device besides you?”
Gnozzle replied, “Just me. Well actually, come to think of it, I did show all the ambassadors the first day while you were taking their belongings into their rooms.”
Darn, thought Weston. That doesn’t eliminate any of the suspects, not even Gnozzle.
“What about that weird horn-shell device?” asked Fidel as he pointed to two flat wooden boards filled with metallic looking curved seashells and connected by bells, whistles, and thin metal strings.
“That’s Soundbringer9638,” Gnozzle replied. “Mr. Gunthar always asks me about this one. It was supposed to capture your voice and send it in the air to the other board thousands of feet away. This way, commanders could give exact orders from one side of the battlefield to the other.”
“I believe mages can easily accomplish that feat with a sort of messaging spell,” Weston added, having heard stories of recent battles where knights, rather reluctantly, had fought alongside white robed wizards.
“Magic? Magic is for children who aretoodumbtowanttolearnhowthingswork!” Gnozzle raged.
Fidel had never seen the gnome this angry before and it caught him off guard. He stepped backwards and paused to consider him closely.
Weston tried to ease the tension. “Gnozzle, why so many versions of this invention, what’s wrong with it?”
Gnozzle, still breathing heavily, replied, “Lots! It’s always capturing sound on its own, even when you don’t want it to, for weeks until it degrades. So, you have to adjust the shells for hours to find the important battle commands you’re looking for. Also, it doesn’t send the sound any further than about ten feet away from the board.”
Weston stifled a smile in response to Gnozzle’s genuine frustration, as that seemed less efficient than simply shouting the desired order.
Fidel continued the interrogation, “What about this last one? I’m no inventor but even I can tell that this looks like a small catapult.”
“This is just a small-scale model of our RockThePault23. Theos, he was really excited about this one. He told everyone that he was going to advise Lord Gunthar to have one of these in every single battalion. I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about this before now.”
“Why is that?” Fidel asked.
“Because that device is the reason Theos and Werber had that loud argument yesterday.”
Weston’s jaws dropped like a souffle collapsing in an oven.
Hours later, Fidel and Weston were sitting with Werber of the Hill Dwarf coalition who sat fidgeting with the butt of his axe. The axe was never far from his hands, Weston noted. It was currently leaning against Werber’s leg, the axe’s twin-pronged spike head resting against the floor. Werber seemed agitated.
“Tell me again what the argument in Theos’ room was about?” Fidel questioned.
“Theos wanted my people to provide a contingent of Hill Dwarves around each of these stupid gnome catapults, to guard them and help maneuver them from site to site,” Werber replied.
“What was your response?”
“I told him it was a bad idea, that I wasn’t going to lose my people to a Gnomish explosion. It’s bad enough I lost a good friend in a minor skirmish outside Relgoth to a poorly aimed elven arrow from behind. Who fires a ranged weapon into melee combat?!” Werber raised his voice at the difficult memory.
“It happens more often than you think” responded Fidel, determined to remain on track. “Did you say it calmly like you’re telling us now?”
“Eh, perhaps I expressed it a little more colorfully, and I did slam my axe on the table to make my point. You have to understand, I loved Theos, but he was no diplomat. He and I would often have loud shouting matches. He always thought he could make people do whatever he wanted, all because of his many victories in battle.”
Weston’s gaze kept straying to the axe, whose missing strap of leather that they’d found in Theos’ chamber was currently in his pocket.
He whispered to Fidel, “Should we mention the strip of leather to him?”
“Not yet, we need more evidence. If every angry dwarf were a murderer, we’d all be extinct.”
Werber, sensing the question on Fidel’s lips, spoke up. “Yes, I’ve killed many a human in my day, but they were all wicked men and in face-to-face combat, not like some damned coward in the middle of the night!”
Deciding not to agitate the Hill Dwarf further, they thanked Werber for his time, and next visited the room of Mefiantil of the Qualinesti. Despite Werber being their main suspect, Fidel was determined to be thorough. Weston had thought the venerable Qualinesti elf to be the least likely suspect due to his advanced age, but that thought evaporated the moment they walked in the door.
Thunk! A dart flew from the elf’s hands into the wooden dart board at the far end of his quarters. Judging by the pattern arranged around the center of the bullseye, the elf was highly skilled. But it was the force and dexterity with which he threw the dart that impressed Weston. It belied Weston’s previous misconceptions about the elves’ physical limitations.
“That’s quite impressive, ambassador,” Fidel commented.
“It’s important to stay active to stave off the ravages of time,” replied Mefiantil.
Weston noted that the diplomat’s hands were slightly shaking as he retrieved the sharp darts from the board. Nervousness perhaps? Weston looked around the room. The elf’s quarters were immaculate, in the controlled manner of someone who believed disorder to be a moral failing. On the far wall hung a wide wooden display chest. Weston stepped closer to observe. There were dozens of arrowheads mounted in careful rows, each labeled in elegant elvish script. Some looked Kagonesti in design, some Silvanesti, while others were made with Dwarven iron or Gnomish alloy.
Fidel noticed them too. “You keep trophies?” the squire asked.
“Gifts.” Mefiantil corrected. “From dignitaries and generals across Ansalon. Symbols of cooperation. It’s well known that I’m quite fond of ancient arrowheads. Each one of these represents blood not shed amongst my allied brethren.”
“You’re missing two.” Fidel pointed out.
Mefiantil’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“What happened to them?”
“The Kender ambassador happened to them.”
“The one who wandered off before the shield was raised?” Fidel asked.
“Yes.”
“Which ones are missing?”
“A Silvanesti ceremonial point, and a Solamnic Composite Bow arrowhead from Lord Gunthar himself.”
Fidel exchanged glances with Weston.
Long. Narrow. Designed to pierce armor. Or bone.
“You noticed they were gone before Theos’ death?” Fidel asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Four days ago. Before the shield came down.”
“Did you report it?”
“If I reported every time a Kender stole something, there’d be no time for negotiations.”
Weston moved closer to the empty mounts, gently tracing the outline. Slender. Barbed. His mind returned to the wound above Theos’ ear. Two punctures. Clean. Precise.
“You mentioned earlier you believe humans to be easily persuaded by money and power,” Fidel remarked.
“I did.”
“Did you distrust Theos?”
A pause.
“It is not right to speak ill of the dead.”
“This is a murder investigation sir, and we can’t omit anything.” Fidel pursued. Despite their dire predicament, Weston was proud of his friend’s performance so far in this interrogation.
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t trust him around my daughter, if I had one. His love of elf women was well known among my kind.” Mefiantil spoke with reluctance, but thinly veiled disdain as well.
“I never noticed that when I was his squire,” Fidel responded defensively.
“Don’t get me wrong, I never saw it progress beyond flirtatious behavior and there’s no one among your kind I would trust more than Theos Dawnbringer to protect my kin from being attacked; he truly was a hero.” Mefiantil spoke magnanimously.
After departing, they next visited the other elf dignitary Salinjaris of the Silvanesti. He was seated cross-legged near the narrow window, hands resting lightly upon his knees, eyes closed in meditation. The faint scent of spruce lingered in the air; sharp, clean, forest-sweet coming from the large tree outside in a meditation grove just next to the open window.
“We would like a word, ambassador,” Fidel said.
Salinjaris opened his eyes slowly, as though surfacing from deep water.
“You already are.” His voice was smooth. Level. Superior. Dripping with impatience. This elf was the polar opposite of his Qualinesti counterpart, seemingly younger and more detached somehow.
The elf rose in one fluid motion and gestured toward two chairs opposite his writing desk.
“You may sit.”
They did not.
“Very well,” Salinjaris stated.
“Did you speak with Theos yesterday?” Fidel asked.
“Yes.”
“About?”
“A number of matters. The treaty. The Gnomish Artillery Proposal. His
relentless optimism.”
“You argued?”
“On the contrary, I agreed to all of his terms. The rest of my negotiations were going to focus exclusively on the Qualinesti and the Dwarves. I’m in lock step with the Solamnics and all that Theos asked for on their behalf.”
Weston studied the room quietly. Immaculate. Bed made tight enough to bounce a copper piece. Desk ordered. On the windowsill was a bowl containing a smattering of whittled down sticks and leaves along with a small knife. Only one point on the knife, Weston noted. No weapons or signs of blood anywhere.
“You bring branches inside?” Fidel asked.
“Yes. I find the scent calming.”
“Do you often handle rope?” Weston spoke up, surprising even himself.
Fidel glanced sharply at him.
“No.” Salinjaris replied cooly, obviously aware of Weston’s insinuation.
Fidel swiftly changed the subject. “How would you describe Theos?”
“He was a typical human. He lived life too quickly. He laughed too loud, he drank too often, and he wanted too much.”
“Meaning elf women?” Fidel asked suddenly, and it was Weston’s turn to be caught off guard.
“I’m aware of the rumors.” Salinjaris was unflappable though Weston thought he noticed a twitch in his thin but well-manicured eyebrow at that question. The elf studied Fidel for a long moment, then said calmly, “Elves do not give their hearts lightly. To anyone. Least of all, a human.”
Weston tried to steer the conversation to more fertile ground. “Ambassador, we found Theos’ chest in his room was picked, and something might have been taken.”
“And you think I would do this?”
“It’s important to be thorough.”
Salinjaris nodded. “As you should. But as you both know, or should, I’m from one of the wealthiest families in Silvanesti, there’s simply nothing I would ever want from Theos, or any of you for that matter.”
He walked past them, unhurried, and opened his chamber door.
“I grow tired from today’s events. I’ll retire for the evening but I’m available for further questions tomorrow,” he said dismissively. Annoyed at this elf’s lack of respect, Fidel stormed out with Weston limping along, struggling to keep up.
Before the end of a very long day, they went to interrogate their last suspect, Dirge Lodestone of Thorbardin. When Fidel knocked, the door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been standing behind it, waiting. He filled the doorway like a barricade — broad shoulders, thick beard braided in iron clasps, his dark eyes alert.
“I’ve been sitting by myself for almost the entire day, drinking this poor excuse for an ale that you’ve given me. I welcome the company. Grab a stool and I’ll fix ye a mug.”
“No thank you Dirge, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Fidel responded.
Weston noted that the dwarf’s quarters were sparse compared to the elves. Functional. A bit messy. A traveling chest reinforced with iron bands sat against one wall, with a war hammer lying across it. Crumpled parchments littered the floor, beneath a desk of messy scrolls. On top of the table lay chunks of ivory that were in various stages of being whittled into the likeness of Theos.
“I know you were fond of Theos, but how did you feel about the war? I heard that the cost of financing the war has been taxing on the Dwarves,” Fidel questioned.
“Oh? Where have ye heard that?” asked Dirge.
“From you. You said that during the first day of negotiations.”
Dirge smiling broadly. “Ha! You were listening. I thought you were busy polishing armor for your Knight in the other room. Look boy, you have to say a lot of things when you’re in negotiations. Sometimes it’s to get the best deal for your people. Other times it’s to prevent the others from getting too greedy.”
While Fidel and Dirge spoke, Weston was on the other side of the room out of Dirge’s eyeline. Though, given the amount of ale the Mountain Dwarf had seemingly consumed that day, it may not have mattered much. He rifled through the crumbled parchments, most of which contained messages on the status of the negotiations, though one in particular caught his eye. He took Fidel aside to show him.
Fidel turned back to the dwarf. “Dirge, it seems this note implies that you were told to bribe Theos into allowing the majority of your forces to bolster our allied troops in Abanasinia. You and I both know that there aren’t any major threats remaining in that area and it just happens to be closer to Thorbardin,” Fidel stated.
Dirge responded congenially, “Look boy, the bulk of the war is over. The Queen’s been defeated. We’re willing to do our part to provide weapons and supplies, but my kin want our friends and relatives back under the mountain. We don’t belong above the surface, it’s like asking you to help fight a war while swimming in an ocean.”
“I don’t know what’s more disturbing about this letter, Dirge. The fact that you tried to bribe a Knight of Solamnia or the fact that his response was to ask for more,” Fidel said, disgusted.
Dirge replied almost apologetically to Fidel, “Aye, he did surprise me a bit with that request, but he also deserves it, in my book. Theos saved me personally when a Draconian tried to stab me from behind. Saved my son as well. I don’t want his legacy tarnished, which is why I crumbled up that parchment after his demise, and I’d ask ye to do the same,” Dirge replied.
“I noticed you brought several weapons, many of which have sharp prongs on them,” Fidel said.
“What sort of weapon doesn’t have sharp things on them?” The dwarf chuckled. “Look, you didn’t exactly confiscate any weapons when we first arrived.”
“We’re supposed to be allies! But you’re absolutely right Dirge, and I’m going to correct that oversight now before there’s any further bloodshed.”
Two fruitless days of searches and sleepless interrogations yielded nothing. They had checked the meditation grove but couldn’t find a single footprint. They had searched all weapons and rooms for blood. None of the suspects had an alibi as the murder took place when they were all supposedly asleep in separate rooms. They stayed up late into the night reviewing the evidence they’d gathered, beyond exhausted.
“I almost wish it was one of the two of us, to be honest,” Fidel finally said, at his wit’s end.
“Why is that?” Weston asked.
“I’m worried that if we reveal that it’s either elf or dwarf, the opposite’s delegations will re-kindle their old hatreds due to mistrust and refuse to sign. Or worse.”
“What if it was Gnozzle?” Weston asked.
“That would solve that problem, but I really don’t think it was Gnozzle, do you? And I’m not about to blame an innocent person just for convenience.”
Weston nodded in agreement.
“Let’s sleep on it and make our decision in the morning, as the shield will likely fall sometime in the afternoon,” Fidel suggested tiredly. Weston went to bed, consumed by the mystery as time was running out.
In the morning, Weston was awoken suddenly by Fidel shaking him. “Weston, I think I know who killed Theos, but I have to check out one more thing to be certain. I want you to gather Mefiantil and the two Dwarves and bring them to the courtyard. I’ll get Salinjaris and Gnozzle and meet you there,” Fidel stated.
After waiting a while in the courtyard, Weston grew anxious. It had been over an hour and Werber, Dirge and Mefiantil were looking to him for answers he did not have. Gnozzle had arrived on his own, having been told to do so by Fidel, but the squire and Salinjaris were nowhere to be found. Weston had a bad feeling in his gut, like eating custard that had clearly curdled. He left the courtyard and rushed inside, and after a quick check of all rooms, he headed to the study.
What he saw haunted him till his dying days.
Fidel lay still on his back, his tabard soaked in blood. A knife protruded from his stomach, buried to the handle, his left hand clenched around it as if he had tried to hold it in. Across from him, Salinjaris lay twisted on his side, his robes also covered in blood. Fidel’s sword was in his stomach. The Gnomish devices in the study soullessly whistled and clanged as if unaffected by the horror they bore witness to.
It took a moment for Weston to move.
He reached for what appeared to be parchment in Fidel’s right hand, which was written in his own blood, Fidel’s finger still wet.
“I AM TO BLAME.”
Below that was written.
“THEOS.”
And beneath that.
“JEALOUSY.”
Next to the word jealousy was what looked like a drawing of a crown, but he had clearly died before finishing it. Fidel had wanted to become a Knight of the Crown so badly mused Weston that this must have been his final thought.
Weston staggered forward and dropped to his knees beside his dead friend. The squire’s eyes were half-open, unfocused. His lips parted slightly, as though he’d been trying to speak when his last breath abandoned him.
“Why?!” Weston cried to the heavens though the sound couldn’t penetrate the building, much less the magic shield that had entrapped them all.
He pressed shaking fingers to Fidel’s neck, but there was nothing. He checked Salinjaris, but it was also too late. Weston lay on the ground and sobbed, not just for himself but for the fate of the world.
“The treaty is off!” Weston heard Lord Quinath inform Lord Gunthar as he poured them each a glass of wine. Only he and Gunthar were in the room with Quinath, the acting leader of the Silvanesti. Cleared of any wrongdoing by Fidel’s confession note and Weston’s presence among the diplomats when Fidel and Salinjaris had died, Weston had tried to return to his normal duties after the magical shield had fallen. That had been nearly a week ago, but the events had shaken him, and he found himself continually distracted. Fidel’s handwriting with his own blood indicated his motive to kill Theos was jealousy, but why kill Salinjaris?
Lord Quinath continued, “Despite Queen Alhanna’s influence, there’s no way the elders of Silvanesti will ratify this treaty now with the Knighthood or any human militia involvement.”
“But yet, you agreed to terms with the Qualinesti and the Dwarven clans? Without us as a part of it?” Gunthar enquired.
“Yes, the Dwarves and Elves need each other more than ever now that the humans have shown their true colors once again. The other diplomats are leaving in the morning and are ready to sign the treaty tonight without the knights,” Quinath replied.
“After all we’ve sacrificed. Sturm. The High Clerists Tower. The Golden General,” Gunthar remarked despondently.
“It seems the other races correctly value our fleet of ships and moral certainty over the chaos you offer them. They’ve left your involvement in the treaty up to my discretion and I’ve made my answer clear. One of our most esteemed ambassadors has been murdered in cold blood by one of your men. I want this pretend Knight’s family stripped of all titles and their holdings sold, with the proceeds going to support Salinjaris’ wife! She has been distraught for over two weeks, perhaps fearing for her husband’s safety and rightly so, it seems!”
Lord Gunthar seemed flustered, stammering parts of an apology and about overcoming their differences for the good of the world.
Weston fidgeted with Fidel’s note. Gunthar had given it to Weston to dispose of, but he had secretly kept and read it several times since. Moving away from the heated discussion, he read it again now and finally knew what had been bothering him. The crown that Fidel had started to draw next to the word JEALOUSY might have been the letter W with a circle around it. W for Weston. Fidel was sending him a message just as clearly as an audio message from that damned Gnomish device. Weston hastily put down the tray and ran out of the room, leaving the red wine sloshing back and forth and spilling some onto the hardwood floor, like the blood from so many casualties of this war.
He returned holding the Soundbringer9638.
“Where have you been?” Gunthar asked, puzzled by the look of resolve on the middle-aged cook’s face.
Weston placed the device on the table, and explained to Quinath, “You’re going to sign that treaty unless you want the world to know the truth.”
“By Eli, Gunthar, you really have lost all control of your order, haven’t you? Get this wretch out of my sight before the next treaty I sign is against you, not with you!”
“Weston, what in the abyss has gotten into you?” Gunthar asked.
“Fidel suspected Salinjaris of murdering Theos but needed more proof, so he went to confront him,” Weston began, his voice strengthening with every word.
Gunthar, still skeptical, asked, “What evidence did Fidel find?”
Weston continued without waiting, “For starters, the tree branch where Theos was hung was over ten feet high. Even with the ladder, it would have been impossible for either dwarf or the gnome to hoist Theos that high, without aid.”
“Fidel was almost as tall as the elves,” Quinath remarked.
“Next, the rope used to make the noose came from a Spruce tree, and the only Spruce tree within the shield stood in the meditation grove just outside Salinjaris’ room.”
“You mean the grove in the common area that everyone had access to?” Quinath stated.
“Yes, but there were no footprints on the ground, meaning the killer likely acquired the rope branches by going through Salinjaris’ window. Next, there was Theos’ chest whose lock was picked by delicate hands like that of a Kender or an Elf.”
Gunthar felt the stir of hope, but felt compelled to say, “Look Wes, I want just as badly to belie…”
“You’re also forgetting Gunthar, that we have a signed confession from the actual killer!” Lord Quinath said derisively, interrupting the Knight. “I’m through indulging this blasphemy. Guards!” Footsteps could be heard by Weston outside the door, running down the hallway.
“Stop!” Weston yelled. “Call off your guards. This is your last chance before we take our evidence to Queen Alhana herself!”
Quinath examined Weston with sharp eyes before relenting. “Stand down guards! Return to your posts! I’ll be there momentarily.” His cool gaze returned to Weston. “Cook, I suggest you choose your next words very carefully. Unless you want to go to war with the nation of Silvanesti.”
“Don’t take my word for it, let’s have Salinjaris explain,” Weston replied cooly.
Weston activated the Gnomish Sound Recorder just as Gnozzle had shown him. Scratching and whistling noises for several tense moments filled the room, before Salinjaris’ voice could be heard coming from the device.
“Why are you bringing me into the study? This gods-forsaken racket is awful in here, can’t that miserable gnome leave his inventions outside?” Salinjaris asked.
“I have only one more question for you,” Fidel responded.
Gunthar and Quinath stared at the device in shocked disbelief.
“What wizardry is this? It’s an illusion, some trickery!” Quinath appealed.
“No wizardry at all. The magical shield was in place during this conversation, remember?” Gunthar remarked.
Salinjaris seemed louder now, “I don’t expect you to understand! Three hundred years of marriage and she gives him a Starjewel! HIM? After knowing him for less than a Solinari cycle? She bore me nothing in all these years! Nothing but contempt! I just wish I could have been there to see her face when the jewel’s light faded as he died. As will you!” Salinjaris seethed.
Over the recording, sounds of a struggle could be heard. Finally, a terrible gurgling sound from Salinjaris followed by the sound of Fidel cursing in frustration.
The three of them had to strain to hear the rest, which now consisted only of Fidel’s voice.
No!… Too… deep!…
Wes… hear me… my… honor… is… my… life… but… my… life… for… my daughter’s… future…
Oh… my…
Then nothing but the familiar sounds of bells and whistles.
“I don’t understand, this squire wasn’t even a Knight. Yet in his final moments he took the blame for killing Theos to protect the anonymity of his own killer? Why?” Quinath asked, still shaken by what he had heard.
Gunthar knew why. He knew it as clearly as he knew his own soul. “Not every hero dies standing against a dragon, sunlight reflecting off their polished armor. Some die in the shadows that light projects, unknown, and unsung by the bards. Those heroes sacrifice not for glory, but for the honor within their own hearts. This young man knew that the Dwarves would never have signed the treaty if they knew that the Elvish ambassador had killed Theos Dawnbringer. Our entire alliance hangs on the width of a spider’s strand, and it won’t take much of a wind to blow us over the edge.” Gunthar explained. “I’ve visited Sturm Brightblade’s tomb many times and I’ve seen the Starjewel he is buried with. Laurana explained it to me, and it sounds awfully similar to the one Salinjaris referenced. Gold and ruby set with eight evenly spaced prongs.”
Evenly spaced prongs… Lord Quinath thought of the puncture wounds on Theo’s head that he had been briefed on. Now it was Quinath’s turn to stammer, “Would you both be willing to swear to secrecy? That no one is to know about the events that took place here? Salinjaris’ family is very powerful among the Silvanesti.”
“Sign the treaty on behalf of the Silvanesti with ALL council member races included and I’ll give you my word that no one will ever learn of this. Weston, do you swear to abide by this agreement?” Gunthar asked.
“It was literally the dying wish of my friend Fidel that he wanted to take the blame, so yes – I will honor his sacrifice and do swear,” Weston answered.
“What about the honor of Theos Dawnbringer? Doesn’t this break some sort of code you Knights have by hiding his killer?” Quinath asked Gunthar skeptically.
“Theos tragically died from wounds received in Silvanesti, when he failed to protect his flank against an age-old enemy,” Gunthar remarked.
“A lie?” asked Quinath.
“A truth. From a certain point of view. His actions with the wife of an elvish dignitary would bring dishonor to the Knighthood. Due to his lifelong commitment to bettering the world, I’m willing to draw up the missive today as I described. Fidel acted alone, out of jealousy,” Gunthar said. “Let’s go forward together in pursuit of peace.” Peace, thought Weston, seems to be as elusive as Truth. When you’re content you’ve achieved it, is when it’s most likely to vanish. He mused that the world may never learn of the truth behind the Whitestone Alliance Treaty. Like a secret family recipe, lost to time.
