But nothing of the kind ever happened. The archmage carefully nurtured and conserved his strength. Tonight would be different, Raistlin reflected with a sigh and scowl. But it couldn’t be helped.
“Guard,” he murmured.
“M-my lord?” the guard stammered in some confusion. The archmage rarely spoke to anyone, let alone a mere guard.
“Where is Lady Crysania?”
The guard could not suppress a curl of his lip as he answered that the “witch” was, he believed, in General Caramon’s tent, having retired for the evening.
“Shall I send someone for her, my lord?” he asked Raistlin with such obvious reluctance that the mage could not help but smile, though it was hidden in the shadows of his black hood.
“No,” Raistlin replied, nodding as if pleased at this information. “And my brother, have you word of him? When is his return expected?”
“General Caramon sent word that he arrives tomorrow, my lord,” the guard continued in a mystified tone, certain that the mage knew this already. “We are to await his arrival here and let the supply train catch up with us at the same time. The first wagons rolled in this afternoon, my lord.” A sudden thought struck the guard. “If—if you’re thinking of changing these orders, my lord, I should call the Captain of the Watch—”
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Raistlin replied soothingly. “I merely wanted to make certain that I would not be disturbed this night—for anything or by anyone. Is that clear, uh—what is your name?”
“M-michael, lordship,” the guard answered. “Certainly, my lord. If such are your orders, I will carry them out.”
“Good,” Raistlin said. The archmage was silent for a moment, staring out into the night which was cold but bright with the light from Lunitari and the stars. Solinari, waning, was nothing but a silver scratch across the sky. More important, to Raistlin’s eyes, was the moon he alone could see. Nuitari, the Black Moon, was full and round, a hole of darkness amid the stars.
Raistlin took a step nearer the guard. Casting his hood back slightly from his face, he let the light of the red moon strike his eyes. The guard, startled, involuntarily stepped backward, but his strict training as a Knight of Solamnia made him catch himself.
Raistlin felt the man’s body stiffen. He saw the reaction and smiled again. Raising a slender hand, he laid it upon the guard’s armored chest.
“No one is to enter my tent for any reason,” the archmage repeated in the soft, sibilant whisper he knew how to use so effectively. “No matter what happens! No one—Lady Crysania, my brother, you yourself … no one!”
“I—I understand, my lord,” Michael stammered.
“You may hear or see strange things this night,” Raistlin continued, his eyes holding the guard’s in their entrancing gaze. “Ignore them. Any who enters this tent does so at the risk of his own life … and mine!”
“Y-yes, lord!” Michael said, swallowing. A trickle of sweat rolled down his face, though the night air was exceedingly cool for autumn.
“You are—or were—a Knight of Solamnia?” Raistlin asked abruptly.
Michael seemed uncomfortable, his gaze wavered. His mouth opened, but Raistlin shook his head. “Never mind. You do not have to tell me. Though you have shaved your mustaches, I can tell it by your face. I knew a Knight once, you see. Therefore, swear to me, by the Code and the Measure, that you will do as I ask.”
“I swear, by the Code and … the Measure …” Michael whispered.
The mage nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned to reenter his tent. Michael, free of those eyes in which he saw only himself reflected, returned to his post, shivering beneath his heavy, woolen cloak. At the last moment, however, Raistlin paused, his robes rustling softly around him.
“Sir Knight,” he whispered.
Michael turned.
“If anyone enters this tent,” the mage said in a gentle, pleasant voice, “and disturbs my spellcasting and—if I survive—I will expect to find nothing but your corpse upon the ground. That is the only excuse I will accept for failure.”
“Yes, my lord,” Michael said, more firmly, though he kept his voice low. “Est Sularas oth Mithas. My Honor is My Life.”
“Yes.” Raistlin shrugged. “So it generally ends.”
The archmage entered his tent, leaving Michael to stand in the darkness, waiting for the new-gods-knew-what to happen in the tent behind him. He wished his cousin, Garic, were here to share this strange and forbidding duty. But Garic was with Caramon. Michael hunched his shoulders deeper into his cloak and looked longingly out into the camp. There were bonfires, warm spiced wine, good fellowship, the sounds of laughter. Here, all was wrapped in thick, red-tinged, starlit darkness. The only sound Michael could hear was the sound of his armor jingling as he began to shake uncontrollably.
Crossing the tent floor, Raistlin came to a large, wooden chest that sat upon the floor beside his bed. Carved with magical runes, the chest was the only one of Raistlin’s possessions—beside the Staff of Magius—that the mage allowed no one but himself to touch. Not that any sought to try. Not after the report of one of the guards, who had mistakenly attempted to lift it.
Raistlin had not said a word, he simply watched as the guard dropped it with a gasp.
The chest was bitterly cold to the touch, the guard reported in a shaken voice to his friends around the fire that night. Not only that, but he was overcome by a feeling of horror so great it was a wonder he didn’t go mad.
Since that time, only Raistlin himself moved it, though how, no one could say. It was always present in his tent, yet no one could ever recall seeing it on any of the pack horses.
Lifting the lid of the chest, Raistlin calmly studied the contents—the nightblue-bound spellbooks, the jars and bottles and pouches of spell components, his own black-bound spellbooks, an assortment of scrolls, and several black robes folded at the bottom. There were no magical rings or pendants, such as might have been found in the possession of lesser mages. These Raistlin scorned as being fit only for weaklings.
His gaze passed quickly over all the items, including one slim, well-worn book that might have made the casual observer pause and stare, wondering that such a mundane item was kept with objects of arcane value. The title—written in flamboyant letters to attract the attention of the buyer—was Sleight-of-Hand Techniques Designed to Amaze and Delight! Below that was written Astound Your Friends! Trick the Gullible! There might have been more but the rest had been worn away long ago by young, eager, loving hands.
Passing over this book that, even now, brought a thin smile of remembrance to the mage’s lips, Raistlin reached down among his robes, uncovered a small box, and drew it forth. This, too, was guarded by runes carved upon its surface. Muttering magical words to nullify their effects, the mage opened the box reverently. There was only one thing inside—an ornate, silver stand. Carefully, Raistlin removed the stand and, rising to his feet, carried it to the table he had placed in the center of the tent.
Settling himself into a chair, the mage put his hand into one of the secret pockets of his robes and pulled forth a small crystal object. Swirling with colors, it resembled at first glance nothing more sinister than a child’s marble. Yet, looking at the object closely, one saw that the colors trapped within were alive. They could be seen constantly moving and shifting, as though seeking escape.
Raistlin placed the marble upon the stand. It looked ludicrous perched there, much too small. And then, suddenly, as always, it was perfectly right. The marble had grown, the stand had shrunk … perhaps Raistlin himself had shrunk, for now the mage felt himself to be the one that appeared ludicrous.
It was a common feeling and he was accustomed to it, knowing that the dragon orb—for such was the shimmering, swirling-colored crystal globe—sought always to put its user at a disadvantage. But, long ago (no—in time to come!), Raistlin had mastered the dragon orb. He had learned to control the essence of dragonkind that inhabited it.
Relaxing his body, Ra
istlin closed his eyes and gave himself up to his magic. Reaching out, he placed his fingers upon the cold crystal of the dragon orb and spoke the ancient words.
“Ast bilak moiparalan/Suh akvlar tantangusar.”
The chill of the orb began to spread through his fingers, causing his very bones to ache. Gritting his teeth, Raistlin repeated the words.
“Ast bilak moiparalan/Suh akvlar tantangusar.”
The swirling colors within the orb ceased their lazy meandering and began to spin madly. Raistlin stared within the dazzling vortex, fighting the dizziness that assailed him, keeping his hands placed firmly upon the orb.
Slowly, he whispered the words again.
The colors ceased to swirl and a light glowed in the center. Raistlin blinked, then frowned. The light should have been neither black nor white, all colors yet none, symbolizing the mixture of good and evil and neutrality that bound the essence of the dragons within the orb. Such it had always been, ever since the first time he had looked within the orb and fought for its control.
But the light he saw now, though much the same as he had seen before, seemed ringed round by dark shadows. He stared at it closely, coldly, banishing any fanciful flights of imagination. His frown deepened. There were shadows hovering about the edges … shadows of … wings!
Out of the light came two hands. Raistlin caught hold of them—and gasped.
The hands pulled him with such strength that, totally unprepared, Raistlin nearly lost control. It was only when he felt himself being drawn into the orb by the hands within the shadowy light that he exerted his own force of will and yanked the hands back toward him.
“What is the meaning of this?” Raistlin demanded sternly. “Why do you challenge me? Long ago, I became your master.”
She calls.… She calls and we must obey!
“Who calls who is more important than I?” Raistlin asked with a sneer, though his blood suddenly ran colder than the touch of the orb.
Our Queen! We hear her voice, moving in our dreams, disturbing our sleep. Come, master, we will take you! Come, quickly!
The Queen! Raistlin shuddered involuntarily, unable to stop himself. The hands, sensing him weakening, began to draw him in once more. Angrily, Raistlin tightened his grip on them and paused to try to sort his thoughts that swirled as madly as the colors within the orb.
The Queen! Of course, he should have foreseen this. She had entered the world—partially—and now she moved among the evil dragons. Banished from Krynn long ago by the sacrifice of the Solamnic Knight, Huma, the dragons, both good and evil, slept in deep and secret places.
Leaving the good dragons to sleep on undisturbed, the Dark Queen, Takhisis, the Five-Headed Dragon, was awaking the evil dragons, rallying them to her cause as she fought to gain control of the world.
The dragon orb, though composed of the essences of all dragons—good, evil, and neutral—would, of course, react strongly to the Queen’s commands, especially as—for the present—its evil side was predominant, enhanced by the nature of its master.
Are those shadows I see the wings of dragons, or shadows of my own soul? Raistlin wondered, staring into the orb.
He did not have leisure for reflection, however. All of these thoughts flitted through his mind so rapidly that between the drawing of one breath and the releasing of it, the archmage saw his grave danger. Let him lose control for an instant, and Takhisis would claim him.
“No, my Queen,” he murmured, keeping a tight grip upon the hands within the orb. “No, it will not be so easy as this.”
To the orb he spoke softly but firmly, “I am your master still. I was the one who rescued you from Silvanesti and Lorac, the mad elven king. I was the one who carried you safely from the Blood Sea of Istar. I am Rai—” He hesitated, swallowed the suddenly bitter taste in his mouth, then said through clenched teeth, “I am … Fistandantilus—Master of Past and of Present—and I command you to obey me!”
The orb’s light dimmed. Raistlin felt the hands holding his own tremble and start to slip away. Anger and fear shot through him, but he suppressed these emotions instantly and kept his clasp firmly upon the hands. The trembling ceased, the hands relaxed.
We obey, master.
Raistlin dared not breathe a sigh of relief.
“Very well,” he said, keeping his voice stern, a parent speaking to a chastened child (but what a dangerous child! he thought). Coldly, he continued, “I must contact my apprentice in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas. Heed my command. Carry my voice through the ethers of time. Bring my words to Dalamar.”
Speak the words, master. He shall hear them as he hears the beating of his own heart, and so shall you hear his response.
Raistlin nodded.…
CHAPTER
2
alamar shut the spellbook, clenching his fist in frustration. He was certain he was doing everything right, pronouncing the words with the proper inflection, repeating the chant the prescribed number of times. The components were those called for. He had seen Raistlin cast this spell a hundred times. Yet, he could not do it.
Putting his head wearily in his hands, he closed his eyes and brought memories of his Shalafi to mind, hearing Raistlin’s soft voice, trying to remember the exact tone and rhythm, trying to think of anything he might be doing wrong.
It didn’t help. Everything seemed the same! Well, thought Dalamar with a tired sigh, I must simply wait until he returns.
Standing up, the dark elf spoke a word of magic and the continual light spell he had cast upon a crystal globe standing on the desk of Raistlin’s library winked out. No fire burned in the grate. The late spring night in Palanthas was warm and fine. Dalamar had even dared open the window a crack.
Raistlin’s health at the best of times was fragile. He abhorred fresh air, preferring to sit in his study wrapped in warmth and the smells of roses and spice and decay. Ordinarily, Dalamar did not mind. But there were times, particularly in the spring, when his elven soul longed for the woodland home he had left forever.
Standing by the window, smelling the perfume of renewed life that not even the horrors of the Shoikan Grove could keep from reaching the Tower, Dalamar let himself think, just for a moment, of Silvanesti.
A dark elf—one who is cast from the light. Such was Dalamar to his people. When they’d caught him wearing the Black Robes that no elf could even look upon without flinching, practicing arcane arts forbidden to one of his low rank and station, the elven lords had bound Dalamar hand and foot, gagged his mouth, and blindfolded his eyes. Then he had been thrown in a cart and driven to the borders of his land.
Deprived of his sight, Dalamar’s last memories of Silvanesti were the smells of aspen trees, blooming flowers, rich loam. It had been spring then, too, he recalled.
Would he go back if he could? Would he give up this to return? Did he feel any sorrow, regret? Without conscious volition, Dalamar’s hand went to his breast. Beneath the black robes, he could feel the wounds in his chest. Though it had been a week since Raistlin’s hand had touched him, burning five holes into his flesh, the wounds had not healed. Nor would they ever heal, Dalamar knew with bitter certainty.
Always, the rest of his life, he would feel their pain. Whenever he stood naked, he would see them, festering scabs that no skin would cover. Such was the penalty he had paid for his treachery against his Shalafi.
As he had told the great Par-Salian, Head of the Order, master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth—and Dalamar’s master, too, of a sort, since the dark elf mage had, in reality, been a spy for the Order of Mages who feared and distrusted Raistlin as they had feared no mortal in their history—“It was no more than I deserved.”
Would he leave this dangerous place? Go back home, go back to Silvanesti?
Dalamar stared out the window with a grim, twisted smile, reminiscent of Raistlin, the Shalafi. Almost unwillingly, Dalamar’s gaze went from the peaceful, starlit night sky back indoors, to the rows and rows of nightblue-bound spellbooks that li
ned the walls of the library. In his memory, he saw the wonderful, awful, beautiful, dreadful sights he had been privileged to witness as Raistlin’s apprentice. He felt the stirrings of power within his soul, a pleasure that outweighed the pain.
No, he would never return. Never leave.…
Dalamar’s musings were cut short by the sound of a silver bell. It rang only once, with a sweet, low sound. But to those living (and dead) within the Tower, it had the effect of a shattering gong splitting the air. Someone was attempting to enter! Someone had won through the perilous Shoikan Grove and was at the gates of the Tower itself!
His mind having already conjured up memories of Par-Salian, Dalamar had sudden unwelcome visions of the powerful, white-robed wizard standing on his doorstep. He could also hear in his mind what he had told the Council only nights earlier—“If any of you came and tried to enter the Tower while he was gone, I would kill you.”
On the words of a spell, Dalamar disappeared from the library to reappear, within the drawing of a breath, at the Tower entrance.
But it was not a conclave of flashing-eyed wizards he faced. It was a figure dressed in blue dragonscale armor, wearing the hideous, horned mask of a Dragon Highlord. In its gloved hand, the figure held a black jewel—a nightjewel, Dalamar saw—and behind the figure he could sense, though he could not see, the presence of a being of awesome power—a death knight.
The Dragon Highlord was using the jewel to hold at bay several of the Tower’s Guardians; their pale visages could be seen in the dark light of the nightjewel, thirsting for her living blood. Though Dalamar could not see the Highlord’s face beneath the helm, he could feel the heat of her anger.
“Lord Kitiara,” Dalamar said gravely, bowing. “Forgive this rude welcome. If you had but let us know you were coming—”
Yanking off the helm, Kitiara glared at Dalamar with cold, brown eyes that reminded the apprentice forcibly of her kinship to the Shalafi.
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