She had good reason to celebrate. She would be leaving Dargaard Keep soon. A few days earlier, Queen Takhisis had summoned her Highlords to Neraka for a council of war.
“There is speculation that Takhisis will decide Ariakas has made one mistake too many in his handling of the war,” Kitiara had told her brother. “She will choose another to take over the empire, someone in whom she has more confidence. Someone who has actually done something to advance our cause.”
“Such as yourself,” Raistlin had said.
Kitiara had smiled her crooked smile.
Raistlin drew near his sleeping sister. She lay sprawled on her back, her black curls in disarray, one arm flung over her forehead. He remembered watching her sleep when they had been children. He had watched her during the nights he was ill, the fever burning his frail body, the nights Caramon had entertained his ill brother with his silly hand shadows. Raistlin remembered Kit waking and coming to him to bathe his forehead or give him a drink. He remembered her telling him, irritably, that he really should work on getting well.
Kit had always been impatient with his weakness. She had never been sick a day in her life. To her way of thinking, if Raistlin had just put his mind to it, he could have willed himself healthy. Yet despite that, she had treated him with a rough sort of gentleness. She had been the one who had recognized his talent for magic. She had been the one to seek out a master to teach him. He owed her a great deal, possibly his life.
“And I am wasting time,” he said to himself.
He reached into his pouch for the rose petals.
Kit’s eyes moved beneath her closed eyelids. She was deep in a dream, for she was mouthing words and starting to twitch and shift restlessly. Suddenly she gave a terrible cry and sat up in bed. Raistlin cursed and drew back, thinking he had awakened her. Kit’s eyes were wide with fear.
“Keep him away, Tanis!” Kitiara cried. She reached out her hands in pleading. “I have always loved you!”
Raistlin realized she was still asleep. He shook his head and gave a snort. “Love Tanis? Never!”
Kitiara moaned and slumped back down onto the pillow. Curling up into a ball, she pulled the rumpled blanket over her head, as though she could hide from whatever horror pursued her.
Raistlin stole near her and, opening his fingers, he let the rose petals drift down onto her face.
“Ast tasarak sinuralan krynawi,” he said.
He noticed as he spoke that the words did not feel right to him. They seemed dry, lifeless. He put it down to his own weariness. He waited until he was certain she was under the enchantment, sleeping soundly, then he left.
He was gliding out the door when the voice stopped him, the voice he’d hoped and prayed never to hear again.
“The wise say two suns cannot travel in the same orbit. I am weak now, after my imprisonment, but when I have recovered, this matter between us will finally be resolved.”
Raistlin did not respond to Fistandantilus. There was nothing to say. He was in complete agreement.
Raistlin had memorized the route Kitiara had taken to reach the secret vault below Dargaard Keep. He traveled the dark and silent corridors, following the map in his head. He carried with him the Staff of Magius, which he had left in Dargaard Keep to await his return.
“Shirak,” he said, and though the word again sounded tinny and flat, the crystal ball atop the staff began to glow.
Raistlin was glad for the light. The keep was empty; its master and undead warriors were gone; the banshees were silent. But fear and dread and horror remained full-time occupants. Death’s bony fingers plucked at his robes or brushed, cold and horrifying, against his cheek. The ground shook, the stones fell from the walls, and the walls began to collapse. He could hear the screams of the dying woman, begging Soth to save her child, and the piercing cries of a small child being burned alive.
The horror almost overwhelmed him. His hands started to shake; his vision blurred. He could not catch his breath, and he leaned against a wall and made himself breathe deeply, clear his head, reassert his own will.
After he had recovered, he continued down the stairs that spiraled into the stone. He doused the staff’s light when he reached the steel door, for he wanted to see before he was seen. Fumbling in the impenetrable darkness, he placed his hand on the door and felt with his fingers for the graven image of the goddess. He invoked the name of Takhisis, and white light glowed. He spoke the name four more times, as Kitiara had done, and each time a different-colored light flared beneath his palm. The door clicked open.
Raistlin did not immediately enter the room. He remained in the darkness, quiet, unmoving, holding his breath so as not to make a sound. The room appeared to be empty except for the Hourglass of Stars standing upon its pedestal. As he watched, the small grain of sand dropped into the narrow opening between the top half and the bottom and hung there.
Raistlin breathed a sigh of relief. The night was almost over. The gods of magic must have won their battle. Odd, though, that they had not destroyed the hourglass …
His stomach tightened. Something was not right. He walked into the room, his black robes rustling around his ankles. He leaned the Staff of Magius against the wall and went to stare intently into the hourglass. Three moons, the silver and the red and the black, glimmered in the darkness at the bottom of the hourglass. Their light still shone, but it was dim and would not shine for long. What had happened?
Raistlin did not understand and reached out his hand for the hourglass.
A voice stopped him, nearly stopped his heart. “You are wrong, Baby brother,” she said softly. “I do love Tanis.”
Kitiara emerged from the darkness, her sword on her hip.
Raistlin lowered his hand and slipped it into the folds of his robes. He managed to keep his voice under careful control and said with a shrug, “You are incapable of loving anyone, my sister. In that, you and I are alike.”
Kitiara gazed at him, her dark eyes shining in the starlight glimmering from the hourglass. “Perhaps you are right, Baby brother. It seems we are incapable of love. Or loyalty.”
“By loyalty I assume you are referring to your betrayal of Iolanthe,” said Raistlin.
“Actually I was speaking of your betrayal of our Queen,” said Kitiara. “As for Iolanthe, I did feel a small twinge of conscience about handing her over to the death squads. She saved my life, you know. She rescued me from prison when Ariakas had sentenced me to death. But she couldn’t be trusted. Just as you, Baby brother, cannot be trusted.”
Kitiara drew nearer. She walked with a swagger, her hand resting casually on her sword’s hilt.
Raistlin’s hand, hidden in the folds of his robes, slipped into one of his pouches.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said. “I did what I promised I would do.”
“Right now you are supposed to be in the Tower of Wayreth, betraying your wizard friends to Lord Soth.”
Raistlin gave a grim smile. “And you are supposed to be asleep.”
Kitiara began to laugh. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, Baby brother? Takhisis gave you the gift of her magic, and you used it to betray her. Ariakas gave me my command, and I plan to do the same to him.”
She sighed and added, “You left poor Caramon to die. And now I must kill you.”
She shifted her gaze to the hourglass. Raistlin saw the three waning moons reflected in her dark eyes, and he understood the truth. She was not asleep because the magic spell he had cast on her had not worked. And it had not worked because there was no magic. He had been duped. He watched the grain of sand slide down the narrow opening, falling a little closer to the darkness.
“There were never any Gods of the Gray, were there?” Raistlin said.
Kitiara shook her head. “Takhisis had to find some way to lure Nuitari and his cousins into her trap. She knew that the idea of new gods coming to supplant them would be too much for them to bear.” She passed her hand over the smooth, clear crystal. “Think of th
is as a whirlpool in time. Your gods have fallen into the whirlpool, and they cannot escape.”
Raistlin stared into the glass. “How did you know I would warn the gods? Bring them here?”
“If you didn’t, Iolanthe would have. So it really didn’t matter.” Kitiara drew her sword from the scabbard. The blade made a ringing sound as it slid out. She held it expertly, wielding it with easy, practiced skill. She was implacable, remorseless. She might feel some regret, perhaps, for having to kill Raistlin. But she would go through with it, of that he had no doubt, because that was what he would have done.
Raistlin did not move. He did not try to flee. What was the point in that? He could picture himself racing in terror down the hall, his robes flapping around him, running until his legs faltered and his breath gave out, and he would stumble and his sister would stab from behind. …
“I remember the day you and Caramon were born,” Kitiara said suddenly. “Caramon was strong and healthy. You were weak, barely alive. You would have died if it hadn’t been for me. I gave you life. I guess that gives me the right to take it. But you are my little brother. Do not fight me, and I will make your death quick and clean. Over in an instant. All you have to do is give me the dragon orb.”
Raistlin thrust his left hand into the pouch. His fingers grasped hold of the orb, closed over it. He kept his eyes fixed on Kit, holding her gaze, her attention.
“What good is the dragon orb?” he asked. “It is dead. The magic is gone, after all.”
“Gone from you, perhaps,” said Kitiara, “but not from the dragon orb. Iolanthe told me all about how the orb works. Once an object is enchanted, it will always remain enchanted.”
“You mean, like this?” Raistlin spoke the word, “Shirak,” and the Staff of Magius burst into flaring light.
Momentarily blinded, Kit tried to shield her eyes from the bright glare and raised her sword, jabbing wildly into the darkness. Raistlin dodged the attack easily and, bringing out a fistful of marbles, he tossed them on the floor under Kit’s feet.
Unable to see clearly, Kitiara trod on the marbles and slipped, losing her footing. Her feet went out from under her. She fell heavily to the stone floor, striking her head.
Raistlin snatched up his staff and stood over his sister, ready to smash in her skull if her eyelids so much as twitched. She lay still, however, her eyes closed. He thought perhaps she was dead, and he knelt down to feel the lifebeat in her neck, still strong. She would wake with a terrible headache and blurry vision, but she would wake.
He probably should kill her, but as she had said, she had given him life. Raistlin turned away. One more debt repaid.
He turned his attention to the Hourglass of Stars. The three moons glimmered in the glass like fireflies trapped in a jar.
He heard Fistandantilus shout, “Smash it!”
Raistlin picked up the hourglass. Expecting it to be heavy, he found it was deceptively light, and he almost dropped it. He was about to smash it, as the old man urged. Then he paused. Why was Fistandantilus helping him?
Raistlin held the hourglass poised above the floor. His thought had been to smash the hourglass and free the gods. But what if that didn’t happen? What if, by smashing it, he sealed them in the darkness forever?
Raistlin stared at the hourglass. The shining grain of sand quivered, about to fall. And then came the ghastly song of the banshees lifted in a terrible wail of welcome and revulsion.
Lord Soth had returned to Dargaard Keep.
Raistlin could hear, beneath the song, the death knight running down the stairs. Raistlin had some thought of trying to hide, and he was about to replace the hourglass on the pedestal when the shining grain of sand started to fall …
Raistlin watched it, and suddenly light flashed in his mind as the light had flared from his staff. Hoping he wasn’t too late, he swiftly turned the Hourglass of Stars upside down.
The grain of sand reversed, fell back into the top half, which had become the bottom.
The three moons vanished.
Raistlin could not see the moons’ blessed light. He did not know if his desperate act had succeeded or failed. He extended his hands, palms upward.
“Kair tangus miopiar!” he said, his voice shaking.
He felt nothing for a moment, and his heart stopped in fear; then the familiar, soothing, exciting, searing warmth burned in his blood and fire flared in his hands. He watched the flames leap from his palms, and he was weak with relief. The gods were free.
Raistlin hurled the Hourglass of Stars against the stone wall. The crystal shattered into a myriad of sharp shards. Spilled sand glittered in the light like tiny stars.
Raistlin picked up the dragon orb from among the marbles and held it fast. The door was opening, pushed by the death knight’s hand. He had just strength enough left to speak the words of magic …
… Barely.
10
No Rest For The Wizard. Revenge.
25th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
aistlin emerged from the corridors of magic into his bedroom in the Broken Shield. He was exhausted, and he was looking forward to his bed, to falling into exhausted sleep.
He found, to his astonishment, that his bed was occupied.
“Welcome home,” said Iolanthe.
She was seated on the bed. As she lifted her head, he saw her face was battered and bruised. Both eyes were blackened, one almost completely swollen shut. Her lip was split. Her fine clothes were torn. Purple bruises covered her neck.
“Thank you for saving my life this night, my dear,” she said, mumbling through her bloody lips. “Too bad I can’t return the favor.”
She cast a sidelong glance at the man who was standing at the window, gazing out at the three moons, which had just come together to form one unblinking eye. Emperor Ariakas did not bother to turn around. He merely glanced over his broad shoulder. His face was dark, expressionless.
Raistlin felt nothing. He was going to die in the next few moments, and he was too worn, too drained to care. He supposed he should try to defend himself, cast some sort of deadly spell. The words of magic fluttered in his brain and flew off before he could catch them.
“If you’re going to kill me, do so now,” he said wearily. “At least that way I will get some rest.”
Iolanthe tried to smile, but it hurt. She winced and pressed her fingers to her lip.
“My lord wants the dragon orb,” she said.
Raistlin tore the pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the floor. The pouch opened. Marbles and the dragon orb rolled out onto the floor and lay there, gleaming in the moonlight. The three moons were starting to separate, drifting apart, yet never far apart.
The moonlight—silver and red—shone on the orb and, as if basking in the magic, the orb seemed to grow and expand. Its own colored lights swirled in response.
Ariakas gazed at the orb, entranced. He left the window and squatted down on his haunches to peer at it. The hands in the orb reached out to him. Ariakas’s fingers twitched. He must be longing to touch it, to see if he could control it. He actually started to reach for it. With a dark smile, he drew back.
“Nice try, Majere,” said Ariakas, standing up. “I’m not as stupid as King Lorac—”
“Oh, yes, you are, my dear,” said Iolanthe.
A blast of frigid air, chill as the frozen wastes of Icewall, struck Ariakas from behind. The magical cold turned his flesh blue and stole his breath. His hair and beard and armor were rimed with hoarfrost. His limbs shuddered. His blood congealed. A look of fury and astonishment froze on his face. Unable to move, he crashed to the floor with a thud like a block of ice.
“Never turn your back on a wizard,” Iolanthe advised him. “Especially one you just beat up.”
Raistlin watched, stupid with fatigue, as Iolanthe walked to Ariakas’s side. She knelt down, put her hand to his neck, and began to swear.
“Damn it to the Abyss and back! The bastard is still alive! I thought I had killed him for
certain. Takhisis must love him.”
Iolanthe thrust a small crystal cone into her bosom and reached out her hand to Raistlin. “I know you’re tired. I’ll transport you. Hurry! We have to get out of here before his guards come to see what has happened to him.”
Raistlin stared at her. He was too tired to think. He had to cajole his brain into working. He shook his head and, ignoring her outstretched hand, he picked up the glowing dragon orb. It shrank at his touch, and his hand closed over it tightly.
“You go,” he said.
“You can’t stay in Neraka! Ariakas isn’t dead. He will send the Black Ghost after you—”
“He tried that tonight, didn’t he?” said Raistlin, looking at Iolanthe intently.
A blush suffused her face. She was beautiful and alluring. Small wonder those unsuspecting Black Robes had opened their doors to her sultry whispers in the dead of night.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“I count stairs, remember. How long have you been working for Hidden Light?”
“Ever since—” Iolanthe stopped then shook her head. “It’s a winter’s tale, meant to be told around the fire. We don’t have time for it now. My friends and I are leaving Neraka. Come with us.”
Raistlin was gazing into the dragon orb, watching the colors. Black and green, red and white and blue twined and writhed and twisted.
“I have to change the darkness,” he said.
She stared at him, not understanding. Then she squeezed his hand and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Thank you, Raistlin Majere. You saved the people who are most dear to me.”
She flung her magical clay on the wall. The portal opened, expanded, and Iolanthe stepped into it.
“Go with the gods,” she called to him.
The portal shut behind her.
“I plan to,” said Raistlin.
He held the glowing dragon orb in his hands and looked out the window to the three moons.
“You owe me,” he told them.
The hands in the dragon orb reached out to him, caught him up, and carried him away.
Dragons of the Hourglass Mage Page 26
