Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

by Weis Margaret

  The glass in the lead-paned windows had been broken and never replaced. A chill wind hissed through what was left of the latticework, like breath through rotting teeth. Raistlin looked out that window onto a scene of desolation, destruction, and death. Ghostly warriors with visages of fire kept horrible vigil, walking the parapets that had been gloriously red for the color of the rose and were transformed to a hideous red with their own blood.

  Dargaard Keep, so legend said, had once been one of the wonders of the world. The keep had been designed to resemble the symbol on the family crest, the rose. Petal-shaped stone walls had once glistened in the morning sun. Rose-red towers had proudly soared into the blue skies. But the rose had been afflicted by a canker, destroyed from within by the knight’s dark passions. The rose walls were blackened, stained with fire, death, dishonor. Broken towers were shrouded in storm clouds. Some said that Soth wrapped himself and his keep in a perpetual tempest, deliberately banishing the sun, so he might shield his eyes from the light that had become hateful to him.

  Raistlin gazed on the ruin of a noble man, led to his downfall by his inability to control his passions, and Raistlin thanked whatever gods had blessed him at his birth that he was not afflicted by such weakness.

  He turned his eyes from the dread sight outside the window to his sister. Kitiara was seated at a desk, writing orders that could not wait. She had asked her visitors to be patient until she finished.

  Raistlin took the chance to study her. He had seen Kit briefly in Flotsam, but that hardly counted, for she had been riding her blue dragon and wearing the armor and helm of a Dragon Highlord. Five years had passed since they were together, when they had vowed to meet again in the Inn of the Last Home, a vow Kit had broken. Raistlin, who had changed beyond all measure in five years, was surprised to see that his sister had not.

  Tall and lithe, with a warrior’s strength and hard-muscled body, Kitiara, who was in her mid-thirties, looked much the same as she had looked at twenty. Her crooked smile still charmed. Her short, black curls clustered around her head, luxurious and rampant as when she was young. Her face was smooth, unmarred by lines of sorrow or joy.

  No emotion ever touched Kitiara deeply. She took life as it came, living each moment to the fullest, then forgetting the moment to leap to the next. She had no regrets. She rarely thought about past mistakes. Her mind was too busy plotting and scheming for the future. She had no conscience to sting her, no morals to get in her way. The one crack in her armor, her one weakness, was her obsession with Tanis Half-Elven, the man she had not wanted until he turned his back on her and walked away.

  Iolanthe roamed nervously around the room, her arms clasped beneath her cloak. The room was chill, and she was shivering, though perhaps not so much from the cold as from dread. She had insisted they arrive early in the day, so they could be gone before nightfall. Raistlin continued to watch Kit, who was struggling with her missive.

  Writing was laborious work for Kitiara. Fond of action and excitement, easily bored, she had always been a poor student. She had never had a chance to go to school. Their mother, Rosamund, had an affinity for magic that she would later pass onto her son. Sadly, Rosamund was not able to cope with the gift. For her, the gift became an affliction. After her twin sons were born, she drifted for years on a sea of strange dreams and fantasies, barely clinging to sanity. When her husband died, Rosamund’s hand slipped from the last bit of reality that had been keeping her afloat and sank beneath the waves. Kit had taken over raising her younger brothers. She had remained with the boys until she determined that they were old enough to take care of themselves. Then she had gone off on her own, leaving her brothers to fend for themselves.

  Kitiara had not forgotten her half brothers, however. She had returned to Solace some years later to see how they were getting along. It was then that she had met their friend Tanis Half-Elven. The two had begun a passionate affair. Raistlin had known at the time that the affair would end badly.

  The last Raistlin had seen of Kitiara, she had been riding on the back of her blue dragon, Skie, and he had been on board a ship sailing to its doom in the Blood Sea. Caramon had wrung an admission from Tanis that he had been spending his time in Flotsam dallying with Kit, that he had betrayed his friends to the Dragon Highlord. Raistlin recalled Caramon’s outraged anger, yelling accusations at Tanis as their ship was swept up into the storm.

  “So that’s where you’ve been these four days. With our sister, the Dragon Highlord! …”

  “Yes, I loved her,” Tanis had said. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Raistlin doubted if Tanis understood himself. He was like a man who cannot overcome his thirst for dwarf spirits. Kitiara intoxicated him, and he could not get her out of his system. She had been the ruin of him.

  Kitiara was dressed for combat. She wore her sword, boots, and blue dragonscale armor, with her blue cape thrown over her shoulders. She was wholly absorbed in her work, hunched over the desk like a child in the schoolroom, forced to complete some hateful assignment. Her head, with its mass of black curls, almost touched the paper. Her teeth were clamped on her lower lip; her brow furrowed in concentration. She wrote, muttering, then scratched out what she had written and started again.

  At last Iolanthe, mindful of the passing time, gave a delicate cough.

  Kitiara held up her hand. “I know you’re waiting, my friend.” Kit stopped to sneeze. She rubbed her nose and sneezed again. “It’s that gods-awful perfume of yours! What do you do? Bathe in it? Give me a moment. I’m almost finished. Oh, damn it to the Abyss and back! Look what I’ve done!”

  In her haste, Kit had passed the heel of her hand over the page, smearing the last sentence she had written. Swearing, she flung down the pen, spattering ink over the page and contributing to its final demise.

  “Ever since that fool Garibaus got himself killed, I must write all my orders myself!”

  “What about your draconians?” Iolanthe asked, glancing toward the closed door, through which they could hear the scraping of claws and subdued voices of Kit’s bodyguards. The draconians were grumbling. Apparently even the lizardmen found Dargaard Keep a loathsome place. Raistlin wondered how Kit could stand living here. Perhaps it was because, like much else in her life, the tragedy and horror of Dargaard Keep skidded off her hard surface, like skaters on ice.

  Kitiara shook her head. “Draconians are good warriors, but they make lousy scribes.”

  “Perhaps I might be of assistance, Sister,” said Raistlin in his soft voice.

  Kitiara turned to face him. “Ah, Baby brother. I am glad to see you alive. I thought you had perished in the Maelstrom.”

  No thanks to you, my sister, Raistlin wanted to say caustically, but he kept quiet.

  “Your baby brother conned Ariakas out of one hundred steel to come here to spy on you,” said Iolanthe.

  “Did he?” Kitiara smiled her crooked smile. “Good for him.”

  The two women laughed conspiratorially. Raistlin smiled in the shadows of his cowl, which he had kept deliberately drawn low over his face, so he could observe without being observed. He was pleased to find his suspicions about Iolanthe confirmed. He decided to see what more he could discover.

  “I do not understand,” he said, glancing from one woman to the other. “I thought—”

  “You thought Ariakas hired you to spy on me,” said Kitiara.

  “That is precisely what we wanted you to think,” said Iolanthe.

  Raistlin shook his head, as though deeply puzzled, though in truth he had already suspected as much.

  “I will explain later,” said Kit. “As I said, I was glad to hear from Iolanthe that you were still alive. I feared you and Caramon and the others would not escape the Maelstrom.”

  “I escaped,” said Raistlin. “The others did not. They died in the Blood Sea.”

  “Then you don’t know … ?” Kitiara began, then stopped. “Know what?” Raistlin asked sharply.

  “Your brother did not di
e. Caramon survived, as did Tanis and that red-haired barmaid whose name I can never recall, as well as that woman with the blue crystal staff and her barbarian hulk of a husband.”

  “That can’t be possible!” said Raistlin.

  “I assure you it is,” Kit replied. “They were all in Kalaman yesterday. And there, according to my spies, they met up with Flint and Tas and that elf woman Laurana. You knew her too, I think.”

  Kit continued to talk about Laurana, but Raistlin wasn’t listening. He was glad he had kept his hood covering his face, for his mind reeled and staggered around like a drunkard. He had been so certain that Caramon was dead. He had convinced himself of it, repeated it over and over, every morning, every night … He closed his eyes to keep the room from spinning and gripped the arms of the chair with his hands to try to regain control of himself.

  What do I care whether Caramon is alive or dead? Raistlin asked himself, digging his fingers into the wood. It is all the same to me.

  Except that it wasn’t. Somewhere deep, deep inside, some weak and much-despised part of him, a part he had long tried to excise, could have wept.

  Kitiara was watching him, waiting for him to reply to some question he had not heard.

  “I did not know my brother was alive,” Raistlin said, working to keep his emotions in check. “It’s odd that he would be in Kalaman. That city is half a world away from Flotsam. How did our brother come to be there?”

  “I did not ask. It was neither the time nor place for a family reunion,” said Kitiara, laughing. “I was too busy telling the populace what they would have to do to ransom their so-called Golden General.”

  “Who is that?” asked Raistlin.

  “Laurana, the elf maid.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Raistlin. “I heard the Knights selected her when I was in Palanthas. It seems the choice was inspired. She has been winning.”

  “A fluke,” said Kitiara angrily. “I have put an end to her victories. She is now my prisoner.”

  “And what do you intend to do with her?”

  Kitiara paused, then said, “I intend to use her to gain the Crown of Power. I told the people of Kalaman that if they want her back, they must hand over Berem Everman.”

  Raistlin was starting to understand. He recalled the man at the wheel of the ship. The man who had steered the ship into the Blood Sea. An old man with young eyes. “Berem is with Tanis, isn’t he?”

  Kit stared at him, surprised. “How did you know?”

  Raistlin shrugged. “A hunch, nothing more. You think Tanis will trade Berem for Laurana?”

  “I know he will,” said Kitiara. “And I will trade Laurana for the crown.”

  “So this is your secret plan. Where are Tanis and my brother now?” Raistlin asked.

  “Trying to find some way to rescue the elf maid. My spies were on their trail, but they lost track of them, though they did come across someone who remembered a kender resembling Tasslehoff asking for directions to a place called Godshome.”

  “Godshome …” Raistlin repeated thoughtfully.

  “Have you heard of it?”

  Raistlin shook his head. “I am afraid not.” Though of course he had heard of it. Godshome was a sacred, holy site dedicated to the gods. He wasn’t going to impart such information to his sister. Knowledge is power. He wondered why Tanis and his brother and the others would be traveling there.

  “It is said to be located somewhere near Neraka in the Khalkist mountains,” Kit continued. “I have patrols out searching. They will soon find them, and Tanis will lead me to Berem.”

  “What is so important about this man?” Raistlin asked. “Why is half the army looking for him? What makes him worth the Crown of Power?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “If you want my help, I do.”

  “My baby brother is a self-serving bastard.” Kitiara grinned at him. “But that’s how I raised you. I will tell you a story.”

  She drew up a chair and sat down. Since there were only two chairs in the room, Iolanthe sat cross-legged on the bed.

  “You’ll find this story interesting,” said Kitiara, her lips parting in a crooked smile. “It’s about two siblings, one of whom kills the other.”

  If she expected Raistlin to react, she was disappointed. He sat still, unmoved, and waited.

  “According to the tale,” said Kit, “this man named Berem and his sister were out walking when they came across a broken column covered in rare and precious jewels. The two were poor, and the man, Berem, decided to steal an emerald. His sister opposed him and, to make a long story short, he bashed her head in.”

  “She fell and hit her head on the stone,” said Iolanthe.

  Kitiara waved her hand. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Berem ended up cursed by the gods with the emerald stuck in his chest. He’s been wandering the world since, trying to escape his guilt. Meanwhile, his sister forgave him, and her good spirit entered the stone, and when Takhisis tried to get around her, she couldn’t. She was blocked from coming into the world.”

  Raistlin would have been dubious of the remarkable story, except he had seen for himself the emerald embedded in Berem’s chest.

  I was right, he thought, Takhisis cannot enter the world in all her might. A good thing. Otherwise this war would have ended before it began.

  “The broken column is the Foundation Stone from the Temple of Istar,” Iolanthe explained. “Takhisis found it and brought it to Neraka and built her temple around it. She seeks Berem in order to destroy him, for if he joins his sister, the door to the Abyss will slam shut.”

  “And what am I to do?” Raistlin asked. “Why bring me into this? It seems you have thought of everything.”

  Kitiara cast a glance from beneath her lashes at Iolanthe, a glance the witch was not meant to see. The glance told Raistlin, You and I will discuss this in private. She changed the subject. “Are you in such a hurry to leave? I haven’t seen you in years. Tell me, what do you think of this elf female?”

  “Kitiara,” said Iolanthe in warning tones. “The walls have ears. Even burnt walls.”

  Kit ignored her. “Everyone raves about her beauty. She’s so pale and all one color, like bread dipped in milk. But then, I saw her at the High Clerist’s Tower right after the battle. She was not looking her best.”

  “Kitiara, we have more important matters—” Iolanthe began, but Kit silenced her.

  “What did you think of her?” Kit insisted.

  What did Raistlin think of Laurana? That she was the only beauty left for him in the world. Even his accursed vision, which saw all things age and wither and die, had not been able to sabotage her. Elves were long-lived, and age touched the elf maiden gently. The years made her, if possible, more beautiful still.

  Laurana had been a little in awe of him, a little afraid of him. She had trusted him, however. He had not known why, except that she had seemed to see something in him others could not, something even he could not see. He had appreciated her trust, been touched by it. He had loved her … no, not loved her, cherished her, as a man parched with thirst and lost in the desert cherishes a sip of cool water.

  “She is everything you are, my sister, and all that you are not,” Raistlin said softly.

  His sister laughed, pleased. She took it as a compliment.

  “Kitiara, I need to speak to you,” Iolanthe said, exasperated. “In private.”

  “Perhaps I could finish writing that letter for you,” Raistlin suggested.

  Kitiara waved him toward the desk and walked over to the window, where she and Iolanthe put their heads together to talk in hushed tones.

  Raistlin sat down. He placed the Staff of Magius at his side, keeping it near his hand. His thoughts busy, he began mechanically to copy the words of the blotted and misspelled original onto a new sheet of paper. He wrote smoothly, swiftly, and far more legibly than Kit.

  As Raistlin worked, he gently pushed his cowl behind his ear to try to hear what the two were discuss
ing. He caught only a few words, enough to give him a general impression of what they were discussing.

  “… Ariakas suspects you … That’s why he sent your brother … We have to think of something to tell him …”

  Raistlin continued the letter. Absorbed in listening, he had been paying little attention to the words he was writing until a name seemed to catch fire, blaze a hole in the page.

  Laurana. The orders were about her.

  Raistlin paid no more heed to Kit and Iolanthe. He gave all his attention to the letter, reading over what he had written. Kit was sending the missive to a subordinate, telling him that his orders had changed. He was no longer to bring the “captive” to Dargaard Keep. He was to take her directly to Neraka. The subordinate was to make certain Laurana was alive and unharmed—at least until the exchange for the Everman was complete. After that, when Kitiara had the crown, Laurana would be given in sacrifice to the Dark Queen.

  Raistlin pondered. Kitiara was right. Tanis was certain to come to Neraka to try to save Laurana. Was there some way Raistlin could help? Kitiara wanted him here for some reason; he could not figure out why. She did not need him to capture Berem. That plot was well advanced, and there was nothing for him to do. Ariakas had sent him to betray Kit. Hidden Light had sent him to betray Kit and Ariakas. Iolanthe had some scheming plot of her own. Everyone had a knife drawn, ready to plunge it into someone else’s back. He wondered if they would all end up stabbing each other.

  His musings were interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls ringing hollowly on the stone floor. Iolanthe went deathly pale.

  “I must take my leave,” she said hurriedly and flung her cloak around herself. “Raistlin, come see me when you return to Neraka. We have much to discuss.”

  Before he could say a word, Iolanthe threw her magical clay against the wall, squeezed inside the portal before it was halfway open, and shut it swiftly behind her.

  The footfalls drew closer, moving slowly, resolutely, purposefully. A chill like death flowed into the room.