“How much?” Raistlin asked.
The dyer named the price, and Raistlin winced. It would considerably diminish the number of coins in the small leather pouch he had hidden in a conjured cubbyhole in the monk’s cell he was occupying in the Great Library. He should settle for the less costly dye. But then he thought of appearing before the wealthy, powerful Black Robes of Neraka, and he cringed as he imagined walking among them in black robes that were not black but “slightly green.”
“The indigo,” he stated, and he handed over his red robes.
“Very good, Revered Sir,” said the dyer. “May I have your name?”
“Bertrem,” Raistlin replied with a smile that he kept hidden in the shadow of the cowl. Bertrem was the name of Astinus’s long-suffering and harried chief assistant.
The dyer made a note.
“When may I return for these?” Raistlin asked. “I am—that is, my friend is in a hurry.”
“Day after tomorrow,” said the dyer.
“Not sooner?” Raistlin asked, disappointed.
The dyer shook his head. “Not unless your friend wants to walk the streets dripping black dye.”
Raistlin gave a curt nod and took his leave. The moment Raistlin’s back was turned, the dyer spoke a word to his assistant then hurried out of the building. Raistlin saw the man hastening down the street, but exhausted from the long walk and half suffocated by the choking fumes, he paid no heed.
The Great Library was located in the Old City. The hour being High Watch, when shops normally closed for lunch, more people thronged the streets. The noise was appalling, dinning in Raistlin’s ears. The long walk had taxed Raistlin’s strength to such an extent that he was forced to stop frequently to rest, and when he finally came in sight of the library’s marble columns and imposing portico, he was so weak that he feared he could not make it across the street without collapsing.
Raistlin sank down on a stone bench not far from the Great Library. Winter’s long night was drawing to a close. The dawn of spring was near. The bright sun was warm. Raistlin closed his eyes. His head slumped forward onto his chest. He dozed in the sun.
He was back on board the ship, holding the dragon orb and facing his brother and Tanis and the rest of his friends …
“… using my magic. And the magic of the dragon orb. It is quite simple, though probably beyond your weak minds. I now have the power to harness the energy of my corporeal body and the energy of my spirit into one. I will become pure energy—light, if you want to think of it that way. And becoming light, I can travel through the heavens like the rays of the sun, returning to this physical world whenever and wherever I choose.”
“Can the orb do this for all of us?” Tanis asked.
“I will not chance it. I know I can escape. The others are not my concern. You led them into this blood-red death, half-elf. You get them out”
“You won’t harm your brother. Caramon, stop him!”
“Tell him, Caramon. The last Test in the Tower of High Sorcery was against myself. And I failed. I killed him. I killed my brother…”
“Aha! I thought I’d find you here, you doorknob of a kender!”
Raistlin stirred uneasily in his sleep.
That is Flint’s voice and that is all wrong, Raistlin thought. Flint isn’t here. I haven’t seen Flint in a long time, not for months, not since the fall of Tarsis. Raistlin sank back into the dream.
“Don’t try to stop me, Tanis. I killed Caramon once, you see. Or rather, it was an illusion meant to teach me to fight against the darkness within. But they were too late. I had already given myself to the darkness.”
“I tell you, I saw him!”
Raistlin woke with a start. He knew that voice as well.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot stood quite close to him. Raistlin had only to rise up from the bench and walk a few paces and he could reach out his hand and touch him. Flint Fireforge was standing beside the kender, and though they both had their backs to Raistlin, he could picture the exasperated look on the old dwarf’s face as he tried arguing with a kender. Raistlin had seen the quivering beard and flushed cheeks often enough.
It can’t be! Raistlin told himself, shaken. Tasslehoff was in my mind, and now I have conjured him up whole.
But just to be safe, Raistlin pulled down the cowl of the gray robe, making sure it covered his face, and he thrust his gold-skinned hands inside the sleeves of his robes.
The kender looked like Tas from the back, but then all kender looked alike either from the front or the back: short in stature; dressed in the brightest clothing they could find; their long hair done up in outlandish topknots; their small, slender bodies festooned in pouches. The dwarf looked the same as any dwarf, short and stocky, clad in armor, wearing a helm decorated with horsehair … or the mane of a griffon.
“I saw Raistlin, I tell you!” the kender was saying insistently. He pointed to the Great Library. “He was lying on those very stairs. The monks were all gathered around him. That staff of his—the Staff of Maggots—”
“Magius,” the dwarf muttered.
“—was on the stairs beside him.”
“So what if it was Raistlin?” the dwarf demanded.
“I think he was dying, Flint,” said the kender solemnly.
Raistlin shut his eyes. There was no longer any doubt. Tasslehoff Burrfoot and Flint Fireforge. His old friends. The two had watched him grow up, him and Caramon. Raistlin had wondered frequently if they were still alive, Flint and Tas and Sturm. They had been parted in the attack on Tarsis. He now wondered, astonished, how they had come to be in Palanthas. What adventures had brought them to that place? He was curious and he was, surprisingly, glad to see them.
Drawing back his cowl, he rose from the bench with the intention of making himself known to them. He would ask about Sturm and about Laurana, the golden-haired Laurana …
“If the Sly One’s dead, good riddance,” Flint said grimly. “He made my skin crawl.”
Raistlin sat back down on the bench and pulled the cowl over his face.
“You don’t mean that—” Tas began.
“I do so too mean it!” Flint roared. “How do you know what I mean and don’t mean? I said so yesterday, and I’ll say it today. Raistlin was always looking down that gold nose of his at us. And he turned Caramon into his slave. ‘Caramon, make my tea!’ ‘Caramon, carry my pack.’ ‘Caramon, clean my boots!’ It’s a good thing Raistlin never told his brother to jump off a cliff. Caramon would be lying at the bottom of a ravine by now.”
“Ah, I kind of liked Raistlin,” said Tas. “He magicked me into a duck pond once. I know that sometimes he wasn’t very nice, Flint, but he didn’t feel good, what with that cough of his, and he did help you when you had the rheumatism—”
“I never had rheumatism a day in my life! Rheumatism is for old people,” said Flint, glowering.
“Now where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, seizing hold of Tasslehoff, who was about to cross the street.
“I thought I’d go up to the library and knock on the door and I would ask the monks, very politely, if Raistlin was there.”
“Wherever Raistlin is, you can be sure he’s up to no good. And you can just put the thought of knocking on the library door out of your rattle-brained mind. You heard what they said yesterday: no kender allowed.”
“I figured I’d ask them about that, too,” Tas said. “Why won’t they allow kender into the library?”
“Because there wouldn’t be a book left on the shelves, that’s why. You’d rob them blind.”
“We don’t rob people!” Tasslehoff said indignantly. “Kender are very honest. And I think that’s a disgrace, kender not being allowed! I’ll just go give them a piece of my mind—”
He twisted out of Flint’s grasp and started to run across the street. Flint glared after him; then, with a sudden gleam in his eye, he called out, “You can go if you want to, but you might want to listen to what I came to tell you. Laurana sent me. She said somet
hing about you riding a dragon …”
Tasslehoff turned around so fast that he tripped himself and tumbled over his own feet, sprawling flat on his face on the street and spilling half the contents of his pouches.
“Me? Tasslehoff Burrfoot? Ride a dragon? Oh, Flint!” Tasslehoff picked up himself and his pouches. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“No,” Flint said glumly.
“Hurry up!” Tasslehoff said, tugging on Flint’s shirt. “We don’t want to miss the battle.”
“It’s not happening right this minute,” Flint said, batting away the kender’s hands. “You go on. I’ll be along.”
Tas didn’t wait to be told twice. He dashed off down the street, pausing at intervals to tell everyone he met that he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, was going to be riding a dragon with the Golden General.
Flint stood long moments after the kender had left, staring at the Great Library. The old dwarf’s face grew grave and solemn. He was about to cross the street, but then he paused. His heavy, gray brows came together. He thrust his hands in his pockets and shook his head.
“Good riddance,” he muttered, and he turned and followed Tas.
Raistlin remained sitting on the bench a long time after they had gone. He sat there until the sun had gone down behind the buildings of Palanthas and the night air of early spring grew chill.
At last he rose. He did not go to the library. He walked the streets of Palanthas. Even though it was night, the streets were still crowded. The Lord of Palanthas had come out to publicly reassure his people. The silver dragons were on their side. The dragons had promised to protect them, the lord said. He declared a time for celebration. People lit bonfires and began dancing in the streets. Raistlin found the noise and the gaiety jarring. He shoved his way through the drunken throng, heading for a part of the city where the streets were deserted, the buildings dark and abandoned.
No one lived in that part of the great city. No one ever went there. Raistlin had never been there, but he knew the way well. He turned a corner. At the end of the empty street, surrounded by a ghastly forest of death, rose a tower of black, silhouetted against a blood-red sky.
The Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas. The accursed Tower. Blackened and broken, the crumbling building had been vacant for centuries.
None shall enter save the Master of Past and Present. Raistlin took a step toward the Tower, then stopped. “Not yet,” he murmured. “Not yet.”
He felt a cold and corpselike hand brush his cheek, and he flinched away.
“Only one of us, young magus,” said Fistandantilus. “Only one can be the Master.”
2
The Last of the Wine.
2nd Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
he gods of magic, Solinari, Lunitari, and Nuitari, were cousins. Their parents formed the triumvirate of gods who ruled Krynn. Solinari was the son of Paladine and Mishakal, gods of Light. Lunitari the daughter of Gilean, God of the Book. Nuitari was the son of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness. From the day of their birth, the cousins had formed a strong alliance, bound together by their dedication to magic.
Eons earlier, the Three Cousins gave to mortals the ability to be able to control and manipulate arcane energy. True to form, mortals abused their gift. Magic ran amok in the world, causing terrible destruction and loss of life. The cousins realized that they must establish laws governing the use of the power, and thus, they created the Orders of High Sorcery. Ruled by a conclave of wizards, the order established laws regarding the use of the magic that strictly controlled those who practiced the powerful art.
The Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth was the last of the five original centers of magic on Ansalon. The other three towers, those located in the cities of Daltigoth, Losarcum, and Istar, had been destroyed. The Tower of Palanthas still existed, but it was cursed. Only the Tower of Wayreth, located in the wayward and mysterious Forest of Wayreth, remained active and very much alive.
Since people tend to fear what they do not understand, wizards trying to live among ordinary folk often found life difficult. No matter whether they served the God of the Silver Moon, Solinari, or the God of the Dark Moon, Nuitari, or the Goddess of the Red Moon, Lunitari, wizards were generally reviled and mistrusted. Small wonder that mages liked to spend as much time as possible in the Tower of Wayreth. There, among their own kind, they could be themselves, study their art, practice new spells, purchase or exchange magical artifacts, and enjoy being in the company of those who spoke the language of magic.
Before the return of Takhisis, wizards of all three orders had lived and worked together in the Tower of Wayreth. Black Robes had rubbed elbows with White Robes, waging debates related to magic. If a spell component required the use of cobweb, was it better to use cobweb spun by spiders in the wild or those raised in captivity? Because cats pursued their own secret agendas, did they make untrustworthy familiars?
When Queen Takhisis declared war upon the world, her son, Nuitari, broke ranks with his cousins for the first time since the creation of magic. Nuitari loathed his mother. He suspected her flatteries and promises were lies, yet he wanted to believe. He joined the ranks of the Dark Queen’s army, and he took many of his Black Robes with him. The wizards of Ansalon continued to present a united front to the world, but in truth, the orders were being torn apart.
The wizards were ruled by a governing body known as the Conclave, which was made up of an equal number of wizards from each order. The head of the conclave during such turbulent times was a white robe wizard named Par-Salian. In his early sixties, Par-Salian was deemed by most to be a strong leader, just and wise. But given the rising disorder among the ranks of the wizards, there were those who began to say that he had lost control, that he was not fit for the job.
Par-Salian sat alone in his study in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The night was cold, and a small fire burned in the grate—a real fire, not a magical one. Par-Salian did not believe in using magic for the sake of convenience. He read by candlelight, not magical light. He swept his floor with a plain, ordinary broom. He required everyone living and working in the Tower to do the same.
The candle burned out, and the fire dwindled, leaving Par-Salian in darkness, save for the glow of the dying embers. He gave up trying to study his spells. That required concentration, and he could not concentrate his mind upon memorizing the arcane words.
Ansalon was in turmoil. The forces of the Dark Queen were perilously close to winning the war. There were some glimmerings of hope. The meeting of the Whitestone Council had brought together elves, dwarves, and humans. The three races had agreed to set aside their differences and unite against the foe. The Blue Lady, Dragon Highlord Kitiara, and her forces had been defeated at the High Clerist’s Tower. Clerics of Paladine and Mishakal had brought hope and healing to the world.
Yet for all the good, the mighty force of the dragonarmies and the terrifying threat of the evil dragons were arrayed against the Forces of Light. Even now, Par-Salian waited in dread for the news that Palanthas had fallen …
A knock came on the door. Par-Salian sighed. He was certain it was the news he feared to hear. His assistant having long since gone to bed, Par-Salian rose to answer the knock himself. He was astonished to find his visitor was Justarius, the head of the Order of Red Robes.
“My friend! You are the last person I expected to see this night! Come in, please. Sit down.”
Justarius limped into the room. He was a tall man, strong and hale, except for his twisted leg. An athletic youth, he had been fond of participating in contests of physical skill. All that had ended with the Test in the Tower, which had left him permanently maimed. Justarius never spoke of the Test and he never complained about his injury, other than to say, with a shrug and a half smile, that he had been most fortunate. He might have died.
“I am glad to see you safe,” Par-Salian continued, lighting candles and adding wood to the fire. “I thought you would be among those battling the dragonarmies in Palanthas.”
&n
bsp; He paused in his work to look at his friend in dismay. “Has the city already fallen?”
“Far from it,” said Justarius, seating himself before the blaze. He positioned his injured leg on a small footstool, to keep it elevated, and smiled. “Open a bottle of your finest elven wine, my friend, for we have something to celebrate.”
“What is it? Tell me quickly. My thoughts have been filled with darkness,” said Par-Salian.
“The good dragons have entered the war!”
Par-Salian stared at his friend for long moments; then he gave a great, shuddering sigh. “Praise be to Paladine! And to Gilean, of course,” he added quickly with a glance at Justarius. “Tell me the details.”
“Silver dragons arrived this morning to defend the city. The dragonarmies did not launch their anticipated attack. Laurana of the Qualinesti elves was named Golden General and made leader of the forces of Light, including the Knights of Solamnia.”
“This calls for something special.” Par-Salian poured wine for them both. “My last bottle of Silvanesti wine. Alas, there will be no more elven wine from that sad land for a long time, I fear.”
He resumed his seat. “And so they have chosen the daughter of the elf king of Qualinesti to be Golden General. The choice is a wise one.”
“A politic one,” said Justarius wryly. “The Knights could not settle on a leader of their own. The defeat of the dragonarmies at the High Clerist’s Tower was due in large part to Laurana’s courage and valor and quick thinking. She has the power to inspire men with both words and deeds. The knights who fought at the Tower admire and trust her. In addition, she will bring the elves into the battle.”
The two wizards lifted their glasses and drank to the success of the Golden General and to the good dragons, as they were popularly known. Justarius replaced the silver goblet on a nearby table and rubbed his eyes. His face was haggard. He settled back into his chair with a sigh.
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