Raistlin continued his climb.
He sat on the high stool in the shabby, little kitchen that still smelled of boiled cabbage. Unwrapping the package, he gently withdrew the lambskin and placed it on the table in front of him. He smoothed it with his hands as he had as a child. He lifted the crow quill pen and dipped it in the ink. He saw his hand, and it was the hand of the child. He heard a voice, and it was the voice of his master, Theobald, hated and despised.
You will write down on this lambskin the words, ‘I, Magus’ If you have the gift, something will happen. If not, nothing.
The adult Raistlin wrote the words in sharply angled, bold, large letters.
I, Magus.
Nothing happened. Nothing had happened that first time either.
Raistlin turned inward, to the very core of his being, and he vowed, I will do this. Nothing in my life matters except this. No moment exists except this moment. I am born in this moment, and if I fail, I will die in this moment.
He remembered his prayer, the words forever seared on his heart.
Gods of magic, help me! I will dedicate my life to you. I will serve you always. I will bring glory to your names. Help me, please help me!
The prayer he prayed as an adult was different.
“Gods of magic,” he said, “I promised I would dedicate my life to you. I promised to serve you always. This day, I keep my promise.”
He stared down at the words he had written, at the simple words of a child’s test, and he thought of the sacrifices he had made, the pain he had endured, and the pain he would continue to endure until the end of his life. He thought of the blessings he had been given and how that made the pain worthwhile. He thought of how the magic, the pain, the blessings might be swept away, leaving him like the child he had been: weak and sickly, alone and afraid.
He thought of Antimodes, his mentor, a mage of practical mind, a businessman; Par-Salian, wise and far seeing but perhaps not wise and far-seeing enough; Justarius, whose leg had been crippled in the Test, who wanted only to be left in peace to raise a family. He thought of Ladonna, who had believed the Dark Queen’s promise and been betrayed and burned with fury.
They would all die this night unless he stopped Takhisis.
Raistlin raised his voice and looked to the heavens. “I know I have disappointed all of you. I know that you do not approve of what I am. I know that I have broken your laws. That does not mean I do not revere you or that I lack respect. This night I prove it. By coming to you, I risk my life.”
“Not much of a risk,” said Nuitari. “Without the magic, you have no life.”
The god stood over Raistlin. His face was round as a moon, and his eyes were dark and empty, which made the anger in them all the more terrible. He was dressed in black robes, and he held in his hand a scourge of black tentacles.
“You did, as you say, break our laws,” said Solinari, coming to stand beside his cousin. Dressed in white robes, the god held a scourge of ice. “The Conclave of Wizards was established for a purpose—to govern the magic and those who use it. You not only break the laws, you flout them, mock them.”
“Yet I understand him,” said Lunitari, beautiful and awful, her hair black streaked with white. Her robes were red, and she carried a scourge of fire. “I do not condone his actions, but I understand. What do you want of us, Raistlin Majere?”
“To save what will be lost this night. In Dargaard Keep, there is an underground chamber. Within this chamber is the Hourglass of Stars. Takhisis forged it. The sand she poured into it is the future she desires, a future in which she reigns supreme. Each grain that falls brings that future closer to coming to pass.
“This night, Takhisis will bring three gods—the Gods of the Gray, gods of ‘new magic’ to guard the Hourglass. She intends for these gods of no color to replace you. Her new gods will be loyal to her. All magic will flow through her. You three will no longer be needed.”
The cousins stared at him in silence, too amazed to speak.
“This night,” Raistlin continued, “you can ambush these three gods, and break the Hourglass. This night, you can save yourselves. You can save the magic.”
“If what you say is true—” Solinari began.
“Look into my heart,” said Raistlin tersely. “See if I speak the truth.”
“He does,” Lunitari said and her voice trembled with anger.
Solinari frowned. “To fight gods, we must exert all our power. We will have to withdraw our magic from the world. What will happen to our wizards? They will be left powerless.”
“The majority of wizards will be in the Tower of High Sorcery. I will undertake to protect them.”
“And we are supposed to trust you!”
Raistlin faintly smiled. “You have no choice.”
“If you do this, Takhisis will know you betrayed her. She will be your enemy not only in this life, but in the life beyond,” Lunitari warned.
“Join the Conclave of Wizards. Conform to the law,” said Solinari. “We will protect you.”
“Otherwise, you will be on your own,” said Nuitari.
“I will consider your proposal,” said Raistlin.
What else could he say, withering in the heat of the scourge of flame and burning in the cold of the scourge of ice and writhing with the sting of the black tentacles?
Solinari and Nuitari were not pleased, but they had work to do, and they did not stay to argue or cajole. The two departed, and only Lunitari remained.
“You have no intention of joining the Conclave, do you?”
Raistlin looked down at the words on the lambskin. Black ink on white. He traced over them with his finger.
“I, Magus,” he said softly.
He was startled to see the words turn red, as though written in blood. He shivered and crumpled the lambskin in his hand. When he looked up, Lunitari was gone.
Raistlin sighed deeply and closed his eyes and let his head sink into his hands. They were right. He was playing a dangerous game, a deadly game. He was risking not only his life, but his soul. Still, as Nuitari had said, it was not much of a risk.
Raistlin felt worn out, and there was still work to be done before the day turned into momentous night. He left the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka, never to return.
Raistlin entered the city proper, using his forged pass to get through the gate. He had to wait in long lines, for the gate was crowded with soldiers. He remembered Kitiara saying something to the effect that Ariakas had summoned all the Highlords to Neraka. She was coming herself, once the matter of the gods of magic was settled.
Raistlin went straight to the temple. He entered through the front, humbly requesting one of the dark pilgrims to act as his guide.
The pilgrim took him to the Abbey. Raistlin prostrated himself on the floor before the altar, lying down on his belly, his forehead touching the floor, and prayed to Takhisis.
“My Queen, I have done as you asked. I beseech your blessing.”
5
The Prayer Meeting.
24th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
he Night of the Eye was the time when the moons that were the representations of the gods of magic were in alignment, forming an unblinking eye in the heavens and granting power to their wizards throughout Ansalon.
But that night, the moons did not rise. The light of Solinari did not gild the lakes with silver. The red light of Lunitari did not set the skies aflame. The black light of Nuitari, visible only to those who had dedicated themselves to him, was invisible to all. The moons were gone. And so was the magic. The Eye had closed.
Across the continent, the death squads of Queen Takhisis went forth to seek out the hapless, powerless wizards and destroy them. Squadrons of draconians, armed with swords and knives, dutifully set out from the temple in Neraka. One squad went to the ramshackle Tower of High Sorcery. Finding no one there, they set it ablaze. Another went to the mageware store of Snaggle on Wizard’s Row. He was gone, much to their astonishment, for Snaggle
had never before been known to leave his shop.
Angry and frustrated, the draconians ransacked the shop, removing the neatly labeled containers from the shelves and emptying their contents into the street, then setting them on fire. The draconians smashed bottles and broke jars and confiscated artifacts to be taken back to the temple. When the shop was empty, they set fire to the building. Other squads were dispatched to the Broken Shield and the Hairy Troll to arrange for the “accidental” fires that would burn down the taverns and, by sad mischance, kill the owners.
The squadron sent to the Broken Shield was led by Commander Slith, and he was not happy. Slith didn’t give two clicks of his scales for wizards and would just as soon see them slit from gut to gullet as not. But he liked Talent Orren. Slith liked Talent and he especially liked the steel Talent paid him. Slith not only procured many of the goods Talent sold on his black market, the draconian was paid a commission on all customers he sent Talent’s way.
Slith was reflecting gloomily that with his income about to be reduced to nothing except his army pay, which he had not received, he no longer had a reason to hang around Neraka. Slith did not belong here. He was a deserter who had left the army long before, only stopping in Neraka because he’d heard there was steel to be made. The sivak tramped down the dark street, racking his brain, trying to figure out some way to disobey orders without actually having to disobey orders. He became aware that one of his subordinates was trying to claim his attention.
“Yeah, what?” Slith snarled.
“Sir, there’s something wrong,” said Glug.
“If you mean Takhisis forgot to give you a brain, that’s already common knowledge,” Slith muttered.
“It’s not that, sir,” said Glug. “Look at the tavern. It’s … well, it’s quiet, sir. Too quiet. Where’s the party?”
Slith came to a halt. That was a damn good question. Where was the party? There were supposed to be bonfires, crowds in the streets, crowds that had been paid well to set fire to the tavern. Slith saw lights in the Broken Shield, but there was no raucous laughter, rowdy merriment, or drunken revelry. The Broken Shield was quiet as a tomb.
That thought was not comforting. He looked up the street, and he looked down. He saw no one.
“What do we do, sir?” asked Glug.
“Follow me,” Slith said.
He marched across the street, his squadron scraping along behind.
Slith approached the door to the Broken Shield. A large human, who went by the name of Maelstrom and who was one of Slith’s particular pals, was acting as guard.
“No dracos,” Maelstrom said, and he pointed to the sign, “Humans only.”
“We’re here in the name of the Dark Queen,” said Slith.
“Oh, well, that’s different,” said Maelstrom, and he grinned and opened the door. “Go right in.”
“You men wait,” Slith ordered, leaving his squad in the street.
He walked inside the tavern and came to a dead stop, blinking in astonishment.
The tavern was packed. Every table was occupied, and those who hadn’t been able to find a seat lined the walls. Most of the patrons were soldiers, but a large number of dark pilgrims were there as well, seated in places of honor near the front. Slith recognized some of Talent’s best black market customers. As the sivak stood, gaping, one of the dark pilgrims rose and began to lead the crowd in prayer.
“Forgive us, Dark Majesty,” the pilgrim cried out, raising her hands. “We ask you to restore to us the moons you have swept from the heavens! Hear our plea!”
As the soldiers and pilgrims began to chant the name of Takhisis, Talent Orren, spotting Slith, made his way through the crowd.
“What in the Abyss is going on here?” Slith asked, staring.
“You are welcome, Commander,” said Talent solemnly. “You and your men. Come, join us in our supplications to the Dark Queen.”
Slith gave a snort. His tongue flicked in and out of his fangs. “Cut the crap, Talent,” he rasped.
“The Dark Queen has taken the moons out of the sky,” Talent continued in loud and reverent tones. “We have come together to seek her forgiveness.” His voice dropped. “All of us have come together, if you take my meaning.”
Slith saw old man Snaggle looking extremely irate. Judging from the way he was squirming, he was tied to his chair. A female kender sat beside him, grinning widely. And there was Lute, his great bulk overlapping a stool, his two dogs lying at his feet.
“You were tipped off,” Slith said in sudden realization.
“Join me in prayer!” Talent cried loudly.
He grabbed hold of Slith’s shoulder and drew him close and whispered in his ear. “I think it only fair to warn you, my friend, that these pious men, who have come here tonight to pray, are armed to the teeth and outnumber you three to one. They will take it very badly if you interrupt their prayers, and they’ll take it far worse if you burn down their tavern.”
Slith saw that everyone in the crowd was watching him. He saw hands resting on knives and clubs, the hilts of swords, or sacred medallions.
“I suppose they’re holding prayer services in the Hairy Troll tonight as well,” said Slith.
“Indeed they are,” said Talent.
Slith shook his head. “You won’t get away with it, Talent. The Nightlord will be furious when he finds out. He’ll come here himself to arrest you.”
“He’ll find the birds have flown the coop,” said Talent. “Maelstrom and Mari and Snaggle and myself.”
Talent’s expression grew serious and, under the cover of some particularly loud exhortations, he said softly, “Have you seen Iolanthe?”
“The witch? No.”
“I don’t know where she is. She was supposed to meet me here.”
Slith eyed his friend. The sivak was not particularly good at reading the emotions of humans, probably because he didn’t really give a rat’s ass, but Talent’s affliction was so obvious, the draconian couldn’t very well miss it. There being no female draconians, Slith had never experienced that particular emotion himself, and although sometime he regretted the loss, at times such as this, seeing the pain of worry and fear on Talent’s face, Slith considered himself lucky.
“Iolanthe’ll be all right,” Slith said phlegmatically. “The witch can take care of herself. If it’s any comfort, she wasn’t at home when they burned down her house.”
Since Talent didn’t seem particularly cheered by the news, Slith changed the subject, “Where will you go?”
“Wherever the forces of Light are fighting the Dark Queen. The army will be hunting for us. We need a couple of hours start.”
Talent pressed a large purse that jingled with the sound of steel coins into the draconian’s hand. Slith weighed it and did some rapid calculations in his mind.
“I hear the Hairy Troll is serving free dwarf spirits,” said Talent.
Slith grinned. His tongue flicked out of his mouth. “I suppose I should go investigate.”
He stuffed the purse into his belt, then gave a sigh. “I guess this means our little business venture has come to an end.”
“It’s all coming to an end, Slith,” said Talent quietly. “The long night is almost over.”
Slith patted his purse. “I’m thinkin’ all hell’s going to break loose around here. I might just take this opportunity to retire from the military—again. Join up with some buddies of mine.”
“Build that city you’re always talking about,” said Talent.
Slith nodded. “Good luck to you, Talent. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Same here. Good luck to you.”
The two shook hand and claw. Slith saluted Talent, then turned in brisk military fashion on his heel, and marched back out the door. He cast a glance and a grin at Maelstrom, who winked in return.
Slith’s troops were disappointed when they heard they were not to burn down the Broken Shield, but cheered up immediately when he told them they were going to the
Hairy Troll.
“Could be they’re serving bad dwarf spirits,” Slith said. “You’ll need to taste them to find out.”
“Where are you going, sir?” asked Glug.
“I’ll be along,” said Slith. “Take the boys and go on ahead. I’ll meet you there. Don’t drink all the dwarf spirits before I get there.”
Glug saluted and ran off. The squadron pounded eagerly behind him.
Slith stood in the streets, gazing at the temple that writhed in the distance. He lifted his clawed hand in farewell and turned and walked in the opposite direction.
“Good luck, Your Majesty,” he called out over his shoulder. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
6
The Night of No Moons.
24th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
he Tower of Wayreth was the oldest Tower of High Sorcery in Ansalon, one of two Towers left standing, and the only Tower still in use. Built after the end of the Second Dragon War, the Tower of Wayneth rose out of a disaster. In those days, magic was wild and raw. A spell cast by three powerful wizards, intended to end a war, slipped from their control and devastated much of the world. The gods of magic realized that something must be done to keep magic and those who wielded it under control. Nuitari, Lunitari, and Solinari taught the discipline of magic to three wizards and sent them forth to establish the three Orders of High Sorcery, which would be ruled by a governing body known as a Conclave.
The wizards needed a central location, a place where students of magic could come learn the skills of their art, where the newly designed Test of High Sorcery could be administered, where artifacts could be created and stored, spells tested, books written and archived. It would also need to be a fortress and refuge, for many in the world did not trust wizards and sought to do them harm.
Weis Margaret Page 23
