Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

by Weis Margaret

  Arriving at the temple entrance, Raistlin presented his pass, also provided by Kit, and waited with unconcealed impatience as the draconian guard studied it. The draconian finally waved a clawed hand.

  “You have leave to enter, Spiritor.”

  Raistlin started to walk through the ornate double doors, which were adorned with the representation of Takhisis as the five-headed dragon, when another guard, a human, halted him.

  “I want to see your face. Remove your hood.”

  “I wear my cowl for a reason,” said Raistlin.

  “And you’ll take it off for a reason,” said the guard, and he reached out his hand.

  “Very well,” said Raistlin. “But be warned. I am a follower of Morgion.”

  He drew back his hood.

  The guard’s face twisted in fear and revulsion. He wiped his hand on his uniform to remove any possible contamination. Several clerics waiting their turn in line behind Raistlin shoved each other aside in their haste to move away from him. Of all the gods in the dark pantheon, Morgion, god of disease and corruption, was the most loathsome.

  “Would you like to see my hands?” Raistlin asked and started to pull off the black gloves.

  The guard muttered something unintelligible and jerked his thumb toward the doors. Raistlin drew his hood over his head, and no one stopped him. As he entered the temple, he could hear, behind him, the shocked comments from the onlookers.

  “Chunks of flesh falling off …”

  “… lips rotted away! You could see the tendons and the bone …”

  “… living skull …”

  Raistlin was pleased. His illusion spell had worked. He considered maintaining the illusion, but keeping the spell going all day would be draining. He would simply keep his hood over his face.

  Raistlin joined a black mass of clerics milling around in the entryway. He asked one how to find the council chamber.

  “I have traveled from the east. This is my first time visiting Her Dark Majesty’s temple,” Raistlin said by way of explanation. “I do not know my way around.”

  The dark pilgrim was pleased to be singled out by a cleric of such high office, and she offered to personally escort the Spiritor. As she led him through the convoluted corridors to the council hall, she described the events planned for the war council, or the “High Conclave,” as Ariakas termed it.

  “The meeting of the Highlords will commence with the setting of the sun. An hour after”—the pilgrim’s voice grew soft with awe—“our Dark Queen, Takhisis, will join her Highlords to declare victory in the war.”

  A trifle premature, Raistlin thought.

  “What happens during the High Conclave?” he asked.

  “First the Emperor’s troops will take their places at the foot of his throne. Then the troops of the Highlords will enter and, after that, the Highlords themselves. Last to come will be the Emperor. When all are assembled, the Highlords will swear their loyalty to the Emperor and Her Dark Majesty. The Highlords will present the Emperor with gifts to the goddess as a mark of their devotion.

  “We hear,” the dark pilgrim added in a confidential tone, “that one of the gifts will be the elf woman known as the Golden General. She will be sacrificed to Takhisis in the Dark Watch rites. I hope you will be able to attend, Spiritor. We would be honored by your presence.”

  Raistlin said he looked forward to it.

  “This is the council chamber,” announced the pilgrim, bringing him to the main door. “We are not permitted to go in, but you can see inside. It is most impressive!”

  As with all other chambers in the temple, the circular council hall existed half on the ethereal plane and half in the real world and was designed to unsettle all who looked upon it. Everything was as it appeared to be, and nothing was what it appeared. The black granite floor was solid and shifted underfoot. The walls were made of the same black granite, making the observer feel the dark rising all around him in a tidal wave meant to drown the world.

  Raistlin, peering upward to the domed ceiling, was astonished and displeased to see several dragons perched among the eaves. He was staring at the dragons and wondering how they might affect his plans, when he suddenly had the horrible impression that the ceiling was falling on him. He ducked involuntarily, then heard the dark pilgrim give a dry chuckle. Raistlin stared at the ceiling until the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach subsided.

  “On those four platforms,” said the guide, gesturing, “are the sacred thrones of the Dragon Highlords. The white is for Lord Toede, the green for Salah-Kahn, the black for Lucien of Takar, and the blue is for the Blue Lady, Kitiara uth Matar.”

  “The platforms are rather small,” said Raistlin.

  The guide bristled, taking offense. “They are most imposing.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Raistlin. “What I meant was that the platforms are not large enough to hold the Highlord and all his bodyguards. Don’t you fear assassins?”

  “Ah, I see what you mean,” said the guide stiffly. “No one other than the Highlord is permitted on the platform. The bodyguards stand on the stairs that lead up to the platform, and they encircle the platform itself. No assassin could possibly get by.”

  “I assume the large, ornate throne with all the jewels at the front of the hall is for the Emperor?”

  “Yes, that is where His Imperial Majesty will sit. And you see the dark alcove above his throne?”

  Raistlin had found it difficult to look at anything else. His eyes were constantly drawn to that shadowy area, and he had known what the alcove housed before the guide told him.

  “That is where our Queen will make her triumphant entrance into the world. You are fortunate, Spiritor. You will be there with her.”

  “I will?” Raistlin asked, startled.

  “The Emperor has his throne beneath her. Our Nightlord stands close to Her Dark Majesty, and dignitaries such as yourself, Spiritor, will be standing alongside her.”

  The guide sighed with envy. “You are very lucky to be so close to Her Dark Majesty.”

  “Indeed,” said Raistlin.

  He and Kit had planned that he would join her on her own platform. He could work his magic from there. There were risks in that. He would be in full view of everyone in the council hall, including Ariakas. And though Raistlin was disguised as a cleric, the moment he started to cast his spell, everyone in the hall would know he was a wizard. The longer he thought about it, the more he realized that the Nightlord’s platform would serve him far better.

  I will be standing above Ariakas, he reflected. The Emperor will have his back to me. True, I will be close to Takhisis, but she will not be paying attention to me. Her attention will be focused on her Highlords.

  “We should be going,” the guide said abruptly. “It is almost time for midday rituals. You can accompany me.”

  “I do not want to be a burden,” said Raistlin, who had been wondering how to get rid of the woman so he could go exploring on his own. “I will find my own way around.”

  “Attendance is mandatory,” said the guide sternly.

  Raistlin swore beneath his breath, but there was no help for it. His guide steered him away from the hall and into the maze that was the temple, where they immediately got caught up in a confused mass of dark clerics and soldiers, all attempting to enter the council hall. The heat from the hundreds of bodies was intense. Raistlin was sweating in his velvet robes. His palms in the black, leather gloves were itchy and wet. He disliked the feeling, and he longed to rip the gloves off. He dared not do so. His golden skin would have caused comment; he feared he would be recognized from the time when he’d been imprisoned here.

  Just as the crowd seemed about to thin out, a large baaz draconian appeared out of nowhere and barged into them.

  “Make way!” the draconian was yelling. “Dangerous prisoners. Make way! Make way!”

  People fell back as ordered. The prisoners came into view. One of them was Tika, walking directly behind the guard. Her red curls
were limp and bedraggled, and she had long, bloody scratches on her arms. Whenever she slowed down, a baaz draconian gave her a shove from behind.

  Caramon came next, carrying Tasslehoff, slung over his shoulder. Caramon was protesting loudly that they had no reason to arrest him, he was a commander in the dragonarmy, they’d made a big mistake. So what if he didn’t have the right papers? He demanded to see whoever was in charge.

  Tas’s face was bloody and bruised, and he must have been unconscious because he was quiet. And Tasslehoff Burrfoot, in such an interesting situation, would have never been quiet.

  Where is Tanis? Raistlin wondered. Caramon—insecure and self-doubting—would never abandon his leader. Perhaps Tanis was dead. The fact that Tasslehoff was injured suggested a fight had taken place. Kender never did know when to keep their mouths shut.

  There was one other person in the group, a tall man with a long, white beard. Raistlin didn’t recognize him at first, not until Tika stumbled. The baaz draconian shoved her, and she fell against the bearded man. His false beard slipped and Raistlin knew him—Berem.

  Tika put her hand to Berem’s face, pretending to be concerned about him, but in reality to repair the damage, swiftly sticking the beard back into place.

  The group passed so close by Raistlin that he could have reached out his hand and touched Caramon’s arm, the strong arm that had so often supported him, held him, comforted him, defended him. Raistlin turned his attention to the man with the false beard.

  Raistlin had promised to deliver Berem Everman to Takhisis, and there was the Everman, not an arm’s length away.

  Raistlin drew in a soft breath. The idea burst like an exploding star inside his head, dazzling him. His heart leaped with excitement; his hands shook. He had thought only to see his sister, Kitiara, wear the crown. That had been the extent of his ambition, his desire. He had never dreamed he would be handed the ability to bring down Queen Takhisis. He quickly squelched the thought, mindful of the voice in his head. Fistandantilus was out there, watching, waiting, biding his time.

  Two suns cannot travel in the same orbit.

  Raistlin dragged his hood over his face and shrank back against a wall. Clerics and soldiers shoved past him, shielding him from sight. The draconians continued on, bullying their way through the crowd, until Raistlin lost sight of them.

  “Where are they taking the prisoners?” he asked his guide.

  “To the dungeons below the temple,” she replied. Her lip curled in disapproval. “I don’t know why the stupid guards brought that filth into the main level. The dracos should have entered through the proper gate. But what can you expect of those lizard-brains? I always said creating them was a mistake.”

  True, thought Raistlin, but not for the reason the guide imagined. The Dark Queen’s draconians, born into the world to help her conquer it, were taking the one man in the world who could cause her to lose it to the one place in the world where he needed to be:

  The Foundation Stone.

  14

  A reunion of sorts. The spell trap.

  26th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  idday services were held at various locations throughout the temple. Raistlin’s guide led him up twenty-six stairs to a place known simply as the Abbey.

  “A place of worship and meditation,” according to his guide, “where no sight or sound intrudes on the senses that might distract one from adoring our Queen.”

  Apparently that included light. They entered a winding passageway that was utterly, impenetrably dark. Raistlin had to feel his way along, keeping one hand on the stone wall and shuffling his feet over the floor so as not to trip over something. His guide considered the darkness deeply symbolic.

  “We mortals are blind and must rely upon our Queen to guide us. We are deaf and hear only her voice,” the pilgrim told him before they entered the sacred place. “No light is permitted in the Abbey. No one is allowed to speak. Holy spells maintain the darkness and the silence.”

  Raistlin thought it all highly annoying.

  He knew the passage ended only when he bumped into a wall and bruised his forehead. He could not see anything; he could not hear anything. He could smell and he could feel, however, and both those senses told him that the room was filled with people. Raistlin’s guide pressed her hand on his shoulder, indicating he was to kneel. Raistlin pretended to do so, and the moment she let loose of him, he slipped away from her. Not wanting to become lost, he kept near the door, and remained standing by the entrance, leaning on the Staff of Magius.

  At least, he reflected, he had time to think, examine his plan, go over it in his mind. He was settling down to enjoy the silence when he was startled and unnerved to hear voices rising in a chant. A shiver crept over his flesh. The room was silent, yet the voices were loud and dinned in his ears.

  “Everything happens for a reason—because Takhisis wants it to happen,” the clerics intoned.

  “Everything I do is done by Her Dark Majesty’s grace. Everything I do is at Her Dark Majesty’s behest. Freedom is an illusion.”

  As Raistlin listened, the terrible thought came to him. What if they are right? What if everything I am doing is because Takhisis is telling me to do it? What if she is the one who brought me to Neraka? What if she is the one who has protected me, saved me, guided me? She is leading me to my destruction …

  He was standing by the door, and he had only to turn and leave. He turned and found himself pressed against a wall. He slid along the wall, hoping he was going the right way, only to find his path blocked by the bodies of devout clerics. He tried another direction, and by that time he was turned around in the blinding, suffocating night. He could not find the way out.

  He was sweating. The gold medallion around his neck was like a stone, seeming to weigh him down. He shuffled along the floor, tripping over people. A hand reached out and clutched at his ankle, and his heart nearly stopped beating.

  This will be my future if I give in to her, Raistlin realized suddenly. I will be lost in the darkness, disembodied, like Fistandantilus. I will be alone and afraid, always afraid.

  “Everything I do is done by Her Dark Majesty’s grace. Everything I do is at Her Dark Majesty’s will.”

  Lies … all lies, he thought. Fear, that is her will.

  Raistlin came to a halt. He stared fixedly into the darkness. And it seemed to him that the darkness blinked.

  When the hour of prayer and meditation finally ended, the dark pilgrims rose stiffly from where they had been kneeling on the floor and began to wend their way out. The darkness spell remained, and they moved slowly, feeling their way. Raistlin found the exit easily. He had been standing right next to it all the time.

  He breathed an inward sigh of relief when he once more returned to the main part of the temple. Although the light here was dim, it was light.

  “I must attend to my duties now,” his guide told him apologetically. “Will you be all right on your own?”

  Raistlin assured her he would be fine. She told him where to find the dining hall and said that he was free to see the wonders of the rest of the temple.

  “There are only a few areas which are prohibited,” she said. “The chambers of the Highlords, which are in the tower, and the council chamber.”

  “What about the dungeons?” Raistlin asked.

  The guide frowned. “Why would you want to go there?”

  “I am a servant of Morgion,” said Raistlin in his soft voice. “I am commanded to bring my god new followers. I find that those rotting in prison cells tend to be receptive to his message.”

  The guide grimaced in disgust. Most dark pilgrims loathed Morgion and his priests and their methods of preying upon the sick, luring them with false promises of renewed health to draw them into a hideous bargain from which not even death would free them. Raistlin’s guide said caustically that if he wanted to visit the dungeons, he could do so. She cautioned him not to get lost.

  “The Nightlord and the other dignitaries wi
ll be gathering here an hour prior to the time of the council meeting. You should be here if you want to join them.”

  Raistlin said that nothing would make him happier, and he promised to be back two hours before he was wanted. His guide left him, and he found his way down from the upper level of the temple to the lower. He counted the stairs as he descended and marked his mental map accordingly.

  Raistlin found his friends in a holding cell. He did not approach, but observed them from a distance. The passageways in the dungeons were narrow and twisted and shadowy. Torches in iron baskets set at intervals on the walls shed puddles of light on the floor. The stench was frightful, a combination of blood, decaying flesh (corpses were often left chained to the walls for days before being removed), and filth.

  A bored hobgoblin jailer sat tilted back in a chair, amusing himself by throwing his knife at rats. He held his knife in his hand, and whenever a rat skittered out of the shadows, he would hurl the knife at it. If he hit the rat, he would scratch a mark upon the stone wall. If he missed, he would scowl and grumble and make another mark in a different place on the wall. His aim was poor and, judging by the number of marks for their side, the rats were winning.

  Absorbed in his contest, the hobgoblin paid no attention to his prisoners. There was no reason he should. They were obviously not going anywhere, and even if they managed to escape, they would lose their way in the convoluted tangle of planar-shifting tunnels, or tumble into a pool of acid, or fall victim to one of the other traps placed in the corridors.

  In the dim light, Raistlin could see Caramon slumped on a bench at the far end of the holding cell. He was pretending to be asleep and, not being a very good actor, was doing a poor job of it. Tika, at the opposite end, held Tas’s head in her lap. Tas was still unconscious, though, by his moaning, he was at least alive. Berem sat on a bench, his vacant eyes staring into the darkness. His head was cocked, as though he were listening to a loved one’s voice. He spoke softly in reply.