An Ordinary Pendant

by Kevin James Kage 


        It was autumn again in Palanthas, although no one payed much heed 
to it this year. The impovrished trees of the summer drought had 
consented, at last, to release their hold on what little green they had 
had the luck to come by, and bore, instead, a fragile ocean of oranges, 
yellows, and reds. And though the wind came in cool breezes now instead 
of humid gasps, it did little to ease the pain of the farmers as they 
watched it lift the parched and dusty soil from their barren lands; each 
time the wind danced among the colors of the trees, it did nothing more 
than remind people of a distant conflagration that had once burned 
across the horizon during a torturous night in the hottest of summers.

        It was during that Summer that the world ended.

        And yet the world did not end. People lived, worked, and rebuilt 
their lives from the devastating drought. They fought on, as they had 
done before, in the face of adversity. They loved and had families. And 
in all respects, the lands of Ansalon continued to exist and support 
them. It relinquished what meager offerings it still held willingly, and 
the people gathered what they could to prepare for the Palanthan winter.

        But still, this living, breathing world lay dead: not of famine or 
drought, and not of wars. Nor was it dead of despair, for hope was still 
a common gleam in many an eye, albeit desperation gleamed there more 
strongly in these days.

        What had died with the conflagrations on that terrible night was 
something far more difficult to regain.

        The people of Krynn had lost their faith.

        When the Great Battle was long ended, and the minstrels of the lands  
began to weave songs of the fallen knights and dragons; of Light and 
Darkness combined to overcome the Father of All and Nothing, the Humans 
and Elves and Dwarves and Kender truly realized what had happened. Until 
then they had merely reassured themselves with talk of stars realigning, 
of the moons returning. They sat and stared at an unfamilliar sky and a 
cold white moon, content that soon their ways of life would return.

        But when they found that the stars weren't realigning and the 
imposter moon was content to remain alone in the night, they knew that the 
gods had truly departed, as the minstrels said, that magic had departed 
with them, and that their promise never to return was quite real.

        That was when their faith had died.

        The clerics of Paladine did what they could. They aided those 
suffering from the drought and calmed the frightened with soothing 
parting words from the Gods. They were the force that kept the crowds 
from panicking. They were the devoted and strong.  But there was a 
desolation and loneliness in their eyes as well. Bereft of their life 
giving magic, they, too, felt powerless to help the world. Many gave up 
their beliefs, felt it safer to be the abandoner than the abandoned. The 
clerics that remained were thus shunned, and often, in these late days, 
poorly treated.

        In its desire to "correct part of the damage," the Conclave sealed 
itself up in towers that no longer held magic, and no longer had 
defenses. They studied day after day -- trying to regain the magic that 
had come so simply to them before. Poring over ancient texts and 
scrolls, they searched for a solution to their problem. They seemingly 
found none, for not a spark of magic had been seen since the battle, and 
all the while, the days grew shorter, and the Imposter Nights  grew 
longer.

        The younger wizards slowly grew tired of their search, and each 
day, another worker appeared with supple, callousless hands -- too perfect 
to do the labor they now did. Older wizards soon joined, until only the 
oldest, most devoted mages continued the search.

        And so, the people of Palanthas, like those everywhere, went on 
with a life that was Godless, magicless, and completely lifeless.

        Oddly enough, no one was terribly surprised by the disappearence 
of Astinus, Dalamar, and Lady Crysania, though the rumors of where they 
had gone to were as distinctly different and wonderous as the contents of 
any well-travelled kender's pockets. The minstrels insisted that they had 
joined the gods in the Beyond. The clerics of Paladine, however, 
maintained steadfastly that Lady Crysania would not leave her followers, 
and that she is traveling across Ansalon, helping those in need. The 
Aesthetics' stories were even quite varied among themselves, and they had 
trouble substantiating anything, since the Chronicler had not chronicled 
his trip or destination. The Conclave talked to no one -- especially of 
Dalamar....

        Still, most agreed that the disappearance of the three was the sign 
that marked the loss of magic and the gods forever.

                
                      ************************


        It was midday. The sun was high in the blue, cloudless sky, but it 
cast little warmth on the old stone bench. The bench itself was smooth and 
unadorned: its maker had been a practical craftsman. It was comfortable, 
as stone benches went -- which meant that it wasn't comfortable, 
but it wasn't quite uncomfortable either. It was sturdy, though a little 
worse for wear. It was probably quite old. Many things were in this part 
of Palanthas.

        A cool breeze was blowing softly again from the north. A young man 
shivered as he sat. He was a slender looking fellow, though that might 
have been more from famine than fitness. His face was long and angular, 
and though he was clearly in his twenties, his face wore the marks of 
the resent suffering the world had endured. He was clad in white robes 
-- the robes of a cleric of Paladine. The were trim and lacking in 
ornamentation. Only a simple gold pendant hung from his neck. Upon the 
pendant was the symbol of the god Paladine. Were Paladine present the 
young man might have called upon magic. He might have healed the world. 
He might have brought hope to the people. He might have made them feel 
alive.

        But the god was gone, and so was his magic.

        The young man glanced down at his pendant suddenly. A thought 
touched his mind. His hand touched the pendant.

        A prayer touched his lips.

        He concentrated for a moment, eyes closed. He waited for the 
warmth, the guiding hand, the feeling of incomprehensible good. He waited 
for a voice to speak to him.

        But he was not answered.

        Angrily he pulled hard at the chain that held the pendant firmly 
upon him. It was a very heavy, sturdy chain, and did not yield. In 
truth, he could  have easily slipped the pendant over his head and been 
done with it, but it was the resistance he truly wanted. He knew this, 
and it angered him  as well. He pulled again, harder this time. He 
thought he felt a link give a little this time. 

        "May I sit with you, my friend?" came a soft voice.

        The young man looked up, startled. Standing before him was an 
aged man. His face was ancient and kind, and he smiled good-naturedly 
with his request. His eyes were bright, set among a hundred tiny 
wrinkles. He was short, and his billowy red robes -- those of a red 
wizard -- enveloped him and seemed to engulf him.

        "Walking becomes tiring at my age," the old man continued. "I 
find I must rest more than I like."

        The young cleric was stunned into silence, and for a few moments, 
did nothing. Then, remembering this manners, he slid over on the bench 
and allowed his new companion room.

        "Thank you, my friend." said the wizard, easing himself onto the 
bench. "I am known as Caleb."

        "Alec," said the young man, "though if you are looking for 
company, I'm afraid I won't be much of a help."

        "Indeed?" said the said the old man. "You seem to be in need of 
some company yourself."

        "If that's why you came up...."

        "Oh, no!" The wizard chuckled, "I assure you, I came here to rest 
these weary bones." He rubbed his leg softly. "Tell me, why are you here?"

        The young man was quiet for a moment, then he said, "I suppose 
it's calm, peaceful. No one comes here. I remember when they did, but it 
was before this cursed drought, before the gods...."

        "Abandoned us?" offered the wizard.

        "I wasn't going to say that." said the young man defensively.

        "No, no..." said the old man gently. "Certainly not."

        The young man tugged at the pendant reflexively. The old man 
watched and was silent for a time. When he spoke, his voice was somber.

        "Does that pendant weigh so heavily on you now that you seek to 
remove it?" he said.

        "It's just an ordinary pendant, now," replied the young man. "It 
means nothing anymore. It doesn't even shine brightly anymore, nothing 
more than a dull glister, anyway. All it does is..."

        "Remind you that the gods are gone," finished the old man. "Yes. 
It does that well, I see."

        The young man lowered his head.

        "It was different before?" asked the old man.

        "Yes. Of course!" answered the cleric. "Once, this pendant and 
those like it shined as bright as the sun. It was different then. We 
could feel the gods moving with us then! We could heal the sick with a 
touch! Now the gods are gone and..." his voice trailed.

        Again, there was a long pause. At last the old man broke the silence.

        "It is sad to see that one of your age became so dependent on an 
ordinary pendant such as that." The mage said, quietly. Then with a 
disarming jerk of the head, he said, "My friend, have you heard of the 
Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth?"

        "Is there anyone who doesn't know of the tower and its magical 
forest?" countered the young man.

        "Do you know about the forest?" asked the wizard, skeptically.

        "Of course! All know the forest is magical; it keeps those who 
were never meant to find the tower away." the young cleric said, 
remembering the stories he'd heard of the powerful Conclave.

        "Today, our tower stands in an open field. The forest vanished with the 
magic." said the wizard. "Our tower is vulnerable to attack from anyone. 
WE certainly can no longer defend it! Yet wizards remain there."

        "Why?" said the cleric, though he was sure he knew a partial 
reason at least. "Is it only to search for the magic?"

        "Oh, the magic isn't in the tower! It's quite an ordinary tower, 
I can assure you." The old man chuckled. "They stay at the tower because 
it is what they remember. We are as children who have let the stitchings 
of our favorite toy come undone, and now since we cannot restitch our 
beloved plaything ourselves, and our parents are gone, we simply hold onto 
the tattered remnants of that which we love and adore what we have lost." 

        "You see? Everything we know is gone!" cried the young man.

        "Everything THEY knew is gone, my boy!" said the wizard. "They 
have lived in this world so long that they are helpless without their 
magic. For them, life as they know it is dead. They are either too old or 
too arrogant to give up that life, but YOU are young! A cleric, 
to be sure but what? Twenty-five? No more, certainly! You are the future. 
Don't live by spiting the world, my son! Don't lay the blame on an 
ordinary pendant!"

        "I blame it's failure on those who have forgotten us!" cried the 
young man.

        "But it hasn't failed! You see?" the old man clasped the young's 
shoulders excitedly with frail hands. "Look around! Look at the trees, at 
the blue sky! Listen to the wind! The world lives! It is not dead! If it 
fails, it will be because we don't try to keep it living!"

        "But the gods have forsaken us!" said the cleric, too upset now to 
notice the sacrelige.

        "Not forsaken us! They saved us! They saved the world by leaving."

        "And made us powerless. We cannot heal without their magic. How 
are we to help the people anymore? How are we to prove to them what we 
say is true? In time, all will be forgotten!" tears swam in the young 
man's eyes. "We will live in an age of false gods, of charlatans and cheats."

        "Then you must teach the people to have faith, for that is all 
you have. Teach them to have faith in the gods, to have faith in the 
church, and to have faith in themselves! It will not be easy. Your 
generation's children will grow up in a world where dragons do not fly 
the skies, where gods do not command armies, and where mankind has lost 
their magic. They will not believe because they did not see, but you must 
tell them. You must teach them not to look to the gods, but to look to 
what the gods taught us. This is the legacy of your generation, my 
friend. This is your legacy."

        "What do I teach them?" said the young man, softly.

        "Teach them to love, to hope and to sacrifice! Teach them what 
the gods taught us. The gods created us. They could have consigned us to 
the ashes, but they loved us. For us, they sacrificed everything they 
had. They gave up everything they'd created to save us. Teach that to the 
people! Tell them to sacrifice everything they know, as the gods have 
done. Tell them to rebuild our world without magic."

        A chill wind blew. The old man coughed hard and drew his robes 
close. 

        "I will tell you this," he said, quietly, "and then I must go. 
There is more magic in this world than we can ever hope to attain. It is 
here, but we have no way to understand it. If we rebuild our world, we 
will find it. I know this! It is the way of all things! It is the way of 
magic! Build a world for yourself, for your children! The magic will 
return on its own."

        With that, the aging wizard embraced the young cleric and glided 
softly away. The young man stayed for some time, until the chill of evening 
drove him from his seat.

        That night he watched the stars for the first time in ages 
without cursing them. They weren't the stars of his childhood, and they 
weren't constellations he remembered, but they were stars, and they would 
be there for a long time. As he glanced from star to star, he smiled. His 
eyes fell upon a small red star.

        "How like lunitari it is!" he spoke to no one but himself and 
decided that he would have his first sermon under the stars. "It seems so 
far away, but even at that distance it still seems to care about this 
world. Perhaps the gods aren't far away at all. Perhaps they are even 
still with us."

        Something shone as brightly as the sun that night, but it wasn't 
a gold pendant.

        It was a young man's heart.


                                THE END



Your humble and obedient Renaissance Man,
Bard
"If music be the food of love, play on!" - Shakespeare