Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

by Weis Margaret

  11

  Godshome. Old friends.

  25th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  aistlin woke to find himself lying on hard rock, cold and polished, so it seemed he was resting on the surface of a glittering, black ice-bound lake. He was surrounded by a circle of twenty-one pillars of stone, shapeless and roughhewn. The pillars stood separate and apart, yet so close together that Raistlin could not see what lay beyond them.

  He had no idea how long he had been asleep. He recalled periods of drowsy semiconsciousness, thinking that he should wake, that the sands in his hourglass were falling fast, the world was turning beneath him, events were happening, and he was not there to shape them. He tried several times to grasp hold of the rim of consciousness and pull himself out of sleep’s deep well, only to find he lacked the strength.

  Once he was awake, he was loath to move, as one is reluctant to rise from bed on a gray morning when raindrops pelt gently on the window pane. The air was still and pure, and it carried to him the scent of spring. But the scent was faint, the season far away, distant, as though there, in that vale, the passing of years did not matter.

  Raistlin looked up into the sky and judged by the position of the stars that the time was early morning, though what the date might be, he had no idea. The sky was black as death above. Faint light, glimmering in the east, promised a rosy dawn. The stars shone bright, none brighter than the red star, the forging fire of Reorx. The constellations of the other gods were visible, all of them at once, which was not possible.

  The previous autumn, Raistlin had looked into the sky and seen that two constellations were missing: that of Paladine and that of Takhisis. How long past that seemed! Autumn’s leaves had gone up in flame and smoke. Winter had honored the dead with snow, white and pure. The snow was melting and new life, born of death and sacrifice, was stubbornly fighting to push its way through the frozen ground.

  “Godshome,” said Raistlin to himself softly.

  He had slept on the hard rock without even a blanket, yet he was not stiff or sore. He rose to his feet and shook out his robes and checked to make certain that the Staff of Magius was at his side. He could see the constellations reflected in the shining, black surface.

  Stars above and stars below, much like an hourglass.

  The pillars that surrounded him were much like prison bars. He saw no way to pass between them.

  For some, faith is a prison, he reflected. For others, faith brings freedom.

  Raistlin walked steadily toward the pillars and found himself on the other side without knowing how he came to be there. “Interesting,” he murmured.

  He was thirsty and hungry. He rarely ate much at the best of times, and he had undergone such tension and inner turmoil the previous day that he had forgotten to eat at all. As if thinking made it so, he found a stream of clear water, running down from the mountains. Raistlin drank his fill and, dipping a handkerchief in the water, he laved his face and body. The water had restorative powers, it seemed, for he felt strong and revived. And though there was nothing to eat, he was no longer hungry.

  Raistlin had read something of Godshome, though not much, for not much had been written. The Aesthetic who had traveled to Neraka had tried to find Godshome, which was very near that dread city, but he had been unsuccessful. Godshome was the most holy site in the world. Who had created it and why were not known. The Aesthetic had offered various theories. Some said that when the gods had finished creating the world, they came together in this place to rejoice. Another theory held that Godshome was man made, a holy shrine to the gods erected by some lost and forgotten civilization. What was known was that only those chosen by the gods were permitted to enter.

  Raistlin felt a sense of urgency, the gods breathing down his neck.

  Everything happens for a reason. I need to make sure the reason is mine.

  Raistlin settled himself on the rocky floor near the stream and drew the dragon orb from the pouch. He placed the dragon orb on the surface before him and, chanting the words, reached out to the hands that reached out to him. He had no idea if his plan would work, for he was still discovering the orb’s capabilities. From what he had read, the wizards who created the orb had used it to look into the future. If the orb’s eyes could see into the future, why not the present? It seemed a much easier task.

  “I am looking for someone,” he told the orb. “I want to know what this person is doing and hear what he is saying and see what he is seeing at this very moment. Is that possible, Viper?”

  It is. Think of this person only. Concentrate on this person to the exclusion of all else. Speak the name three times.

  “Caramon,” said Raistlin, and he brought his twin to mind. Or rather, he no longer attempted to drive him away.

  “Caramon,” Raistlin said again, and he stared into the orb that was swirling with color.

  “Caramon!” Raistlin said a third time, sharply, as when they were young and he was trying to waken him. Caramon had always been fond of sleeping in.

  The orb’s colors dissipated like morning mists. Raistlin saw pouring rain, the wet face of a rock wall. Standing around in a sodden group were his friends: Tanis Half-Elven; Tika Waylan; Tasslehoff Burrfoot; Flint Fireforge; and his twin brother, Caramon. With them was an old man in mouse-colored robes and a disreputable hat.

  “Fizban,” Raistlin said softly. “Of course.”

  Tanis and Caramon wore the black armor and the insignia of dragonarmy officers. Tanis had put on a helm that was too big for him, not so much for protection as to conceal the pointed ears that would have revealed his elven blood. Caramon was not wearing a helm. He had probably not been able to find one big enough. His breastplate was a tight fit; the straps that held it on were stretched to their limit over his broad chest.

  As Raistlin watched, Tanis—his face distorted with anger—looked swiftly around at the small group. His gaze focused on Caramon.

  “Where’s Berem?” he asked in urgent tones.

  Raistlin’s ears pricked at the name.

  His brother’s face went red. “I—I dunno, Tanis. I—I thought he was next to me.”

  Tanis was furious. “He’s our only way into Neraka, and he’s the only reason they’re keeping Laurana alive. If they catch him—”

  “Don’t worry, lad.” That was Flint, always Tanis’s comforting father. “We’ll find him.”

  “I’m sorry, Tanis,” Caramon was mumbling. “I was thinking—about Raist. I—I know I shouldn’t—”

  “How in the name of the Abyss does that blasted brother of yours work mischief when he’s not even here?”

  “How indeed?” Raistlin asked with a smile and a sigh.

  So Tanis had captured Berem and was apparently planning to exchange him for Laurana. Only Caramon had lost him. Raistlin wondered if Tanis knew the reason the Dark Queen wanted Berem so desperately. If he knew, would he be so eager to hand him over? Raistlin did not hazard a guess. He did not know these people. They had changed; the war, their trials had changed them.

  Caramon, good-natured, cheerful, outgoing, was lost and alone, seeking the part of himself that was missing. Tika Waylan stood beside him, trying to be supportive, but unable to understand.

  Pert and pretty Tika, with the bouncing, red curls and hearty laughter. Her red curls might be wet and drooping, but their fire was still bright in the spring rain. She carried a sword, not mugs of ale, and wore pieces of mismatched armor. Raistlin had been annoyed by Tika’s love for his brother. Or perhaps he had been jealous of that love. Not because Raistlin had been in love with Tika himself, but because Caramon had found someone else to love besides his twin.

  “I did you a favor by leaving, my brother,” Raistlin told Caramon. “It is time for you to let go.”

  His attention shifted to Tanis, the leader of the group. Once he had been calm and collected, but he was falling apart as Raistlin watched. The woman he loved had been taken from him, and he was desperate to save her, though it meant destroying the
world in the process.

  Fizban, the befuddled old wizard in the mouse-colored robes, standing apart, watching and waiting quietly, patiently.

  Raistlin remembered a question Tanis had asked him once, long in the past, when the autumn winds blew cold.

  “Do you believe we were chosen, Raistlin? … Why? We are not the stuff of heroes …”

  Raistlin remembered his answer. “But who chose us? And for what purpose?”

  He looked at Fizban, and he had his answer. At least that was part of the answer.

  Tasslehoff Burrfoot, irrepressible, irresponsible, irritating. If Berem was the Everman, Tas was the Everchild. The child had grown up. Like Mari. More’s the pity.

  As Raistlin watched, Tanis angrily ordered the rest of the group to search for Berem. They wearily retraced their steps, backtracking along the trail to see if they could find where Berem had left it. It was Flint who discovered Berem’s footprints in the mud and gave chase, leaving the others behind.

  “Flint! Wait up!” Tanis yelled.

  Raistlin lifted his head, startled. The shout had not come from the orb. It had come from the other side of the rock wall! Raistlin looked in the direction of Tanis’s voice and saw a narrow, tunnel-like opening in the wall, an opening he could have sworn had not been there earlier.

  He had no time for wonder and no more need for the dragon orb, apparently. Kitiara had been right. His friends had been searching for Godshome, and it seemed they had found it.

  Raistlin returned the orb to its pouch. Picking up the staff, he hurriedly whispered the words to a spell, hoping as he did so that magic worked in that sacred place.

  “Cermin shirak dari mayat, kulit mas ente bentuk.”

  Raistlin had cast a spell to make himself invisible. He looked into the stream. He could not see his own reflection, and if he could not see himself, his friends would not be able to see him. The magic had worked.

  The one possible exception might be Fizban. Taking no chances, Raistlin glided between the pillars of stone and concealed himself behind them just as a man crawled through the opening in the rocks.

  It was the man with the old face and young eyes, the man who had been onboard the ship in Flotsam, the man who had steered them into the whirlpool. As Berem rose to his feet, an emerald, embedded in his chest, flashed green in the morning sun.

  Berem Everman. The Green Gemstone Man. Jasla’s brother. The man who could set Queen Takhisis free or keep her forever imprisoned in the Abyss.

  Berem looked fearfully behind him. He wore a hunted expression, a fox fleeing the hounds. He ran across the stone floor of the vale. Flint and the others would not be far behind, but for the moment, Berem and Raistlin were alone in Godshome.

  A few magical words and Raistlin could spellbind Berem, make him a prisoner. He could use the dragon orb to transport them back to Neraka. He could present Takhisis with a gift of inestimable value. She would be grateful. She would give him whatever his heart desired. He might even be able to bargain for Laurana’s freedom. But he would always have to sleep with one eye open …

  Raistlin watched Berem run past him. The Everman had sighted what appeared to be another opening in a far wall. And here came Flint, running after him. The dwarf’s face was flushed with excitement and exertion. Berem had a lengthy head start. It seemed unlikely that Flint would win the race.

  Hearing a shout behind him, Raistlin turned to see Tasslehoff crawling through the narrow tunnel. The kender emerged into the vale and was exclaiming loudly over the stone pillars and the stone floor and other wonders. Raistlin heard the voices of his friends on the other side of the tunnel. He could not make out what they were saying.

  “Tanis, hurry!” Tas called.

  “There’s no other way?” Caramon’s voice echoed dismally through the narrow hole.

  Tasslehoff searched the vale, trying to find Flint, but the pillars stood between the dwarf and the kender, blocking his view. Running back to the opening, Tas bent down and peered inside.

  He yelled something into the tunnel, and someone yelled back. By the sounds of it, they had tried to crawl through it. Caramon, it seemed, was stuck.

  Flint was actually gaining on Berem. The morning sunlight sent shadows crawling over the rock walls, and Berem had seemingly lost sight of the opening. He was running back and forth, like a rabbit trapped at a fence line, searching for the way out. Then he found it and made a dive for it.

  Berem was about to crawl through the hole. Raistlin was pondering what he should do, wondering if he should try to stop Berem, when suddenly Flint gave a terrible cry. The dwarf grabbed at his chest and, moaning in pain, sagged to his knees.

  “His heart. I knew it,” Raistlin said. “I warned him.”

  He started instinctively to go the dwarf’s aid, then brought himself up short. He was no longer a part of their lives. They were no longer a part of his. Raistlin watched and waited. There was nothing he could do anyway.

  Berem heard Flint cry out and turned fearfully around. Seeing the old dwarf drop to the ground, Berem hesitated. He looked at the opening in the wall, and he looked at Flint and then came running to help. Berem knelt beside the dwarf, whose face was ashen.

  “What is wrong? What can I do?” Berem asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Flint gasped for air. His hand pressed against his chest. “An upset stomach, that’s all. Something I ate. Just … help me stand. I can’t seem to catch my breath. If I walk around a little …”

  Berem assisted the old dwarf to his feet.

  From the opposite side of the vale, Tasslehoff had finally found them. But, of course, the kender got it wrong. He thought Berem was attacking Flint.

  “It’s Berem!” the kender shouted frantically. “And he’s doing something to Flint! Hurry, Tanis!”

  Flint took a step and staggered. His eyes rolled up in his head. His legs buckled. Berem caught the dwarf in his arms and laid him down gently on the rocks, then hovered over him, uncertain what to do.

  Hearing the sounds of feet pounding toward him, Berem stood up. He seemed relieved. Help was coming.

  “What have you done?” Tanis raved. “You’ve killed him!”

  He drew his sword and plunged the blade into Berem’s body.

  Berem shuddered and cried out. He sagged forward, his body impaled on the sword, falling onto Tanis, his weight nearly carrying them both to the ground. Blood washed over Tanis’s hands. He yanked his blade free and turned, ready to fight Caramon, who was trying to pull him away. Berem was moaning on the ground, blood pouring from the fatal wound. Tika was sobbing.

  Flint had seen none of it. He was leaving the world, starting on his soul’s next long journey. Tasslehoff took hold of the dwarf’s hand and urged him to get up.

  “Leave me be, you doorknob,” Flint grumbled weakly. “Can’t you see I’m dying?”

  Tasslehoff gave a grief-stricken wail and fell to his knees. “You’re not dying, Flint! Don’t say that.”

  “I should know if I’m dying or not!” Flint said irately, glowering.

  “You thought you were dying before, and you were just seasick,” Tas said, wiping his nose. “Maybe you’re … you’re …” He glanced around at the stone floor of the vale. “Maybe you’re ground-sick …”

  “Ground-sick!” Flint snorted. Then, seeing the kender’s misery, the dwarf’s expression softened. “There, there, lad. Don’t waste time blubbering like a gully dwarf. Run and fetch Tanis for me.”

  Tasslehoff gave a snuffle and did as he was told.

  Berem’s eyelids fluttered. He gave another moan and sat up. He put his hand to his chest. The emerald, soaked with blood, sparkled in the sunlight.

  Hope lives. No matter the mistakes we make, no matter our blunders and misunderstandings, no matter the grief and sorrow and loss, no matter how deep the darkness, hope lives.

  Raistlin left his place by the pillars and came, unseen, to stand over Flint, who lay with his eyes closed. For a moment, the dwarf was alone. Some distance away, Cara
mon was trying to restore Tanis to sanity. Tasslehoff was tugging on Fizban’s sleeve, trying to make him understand. Fizban understood all too well.

  Raistlin knelt beside the dwarf. Flint’s face was ashen and contorted with pain. His hands clenched. Sweat covered his brow.

  “You never liked me,” said Raistlin. “You never trusted me. Yet you were good to me, Flint. I cannot save your life. But I can ease the pain of dying, give you time to say good-bye.”

  Raistlin reached into his pouch and drew out a small vial containing juice distilled from poppy seeds. He poured a few drops into the dwarf’s mouth. The lines of pain eased. Flint’s eyes opened.

  As his friends gathered around Flint to say good-bye, Raistlin was there with them, though none of them ever knew it. He told himself more than once that he should leave, that he had work to do, that his ambitious plans for his future hung in the balance. But he remained with his friends and his brother.

  Raistlin stayed until Flint sighed and closed his eyes and the last breath left the dwarf’s body. Raistlin chanted the magic beneath his breath. The corridor opened before him.

  He walked into it and did not look back.

  12

  Kitiara’s Knife. Par-Salian’s Sword.

  25th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  itiara reached Neraka early on the morning of the twenty-fifth, fearing she was late for the council meeting, only to find that Ariakas himself had not yet arrived. The plans for the meeting were thrown into confusion, for none of the other Highlords or their armies could enter the city ahead of the Emperor. Ariakas did not trust his fellow Highlords. If they were allowed inside Neraka, they might shut its gates and fill its walls with warriors and try to keep him out.

  Kitiara had been expecting to move into her luxurious quarters in the temple. Instead, she was forced to camp outside the city walls, living in a tent that was so small and cramped, she could not pace about, as she was wont to do when she needed to think.

  Kitiara was in a foul mood. She was still suffering a headache from where she’d hit her head on the stone floor of the vault. She was glad for the excuse to leave Dargaard Keep. Though she felt like crap, she had summoned Skie and flown to join her army. The thought of challenging Ariakas for the Crown of Power had eased the pain in her head. But she had arrived here only to discover that no one knew where Ariakas was or when he would deign to grace them with his presence. And that left Kitiara nothing to do except fume and complain to her aide-de-camp, a bozak draconian named Gakhan.