You have made your decision. Proclaim it proudly! Don’t lie to yourself, Nephew! the voice whispered. You can go. You have the ring, Dalamar’s ring. The kender gave it back to you. You can be standing in the High Clerist’s Tower before the next beat of your heart.
Palin trembled. The wood of the Staff of Magius was suddenly warm, warmer than the black cloth in his hand. The ring would take him. He had only to wish it.
But what a terrible wish! He looked up at Astinus. “You’ve heard?”
“Yes. I hear all words, even those of the soul.”
“Is … what he says true? Could I stop the execution?”
“If you reached the High Clerist’s Tower in time, yes, the knights would halt the execution.” Astinus regarded Palin with mild curiosity. “They would halt Steel’s execution. Are you prepared for me to cross out his name and insert your own?”
Palin’s throat closed; he could barely breathe. No. No, I am not ready to die. I’m afraid of death, afraid of the pain, the unending darkness, the unbroken silence. I want to see the sun rise, listen to music, drink a cup of cold water. I have found someone to love. I want to feel again the tingle of the magic. And my parents. Their grief would be bitter. I don’t want to leave this life!
Then don’t, Nephew, came the whispering voice in his mind. Steel Brightblade has dedicated his soul to the Dark Queen. Many would account it a good deed to let him die.
I gave my word. I promised to go back.
Broken word? A broken promise? What is that? Once Steel Brightblade is dead, who will know or care?
I will, Palin answered.
And what did you expect, Nephew? What did you think the word “sacrifice” meant? I will tell you. It means exchanging everything—everything!—love, honor, family, your soul itself—for the magic. Isn’t that what you wanted? Or did you expect to gain it all without giving something in return?
“You’re asking me to give my life,” said Palin.
Of course.
“Either way,” Palin realized, “I give my life.”
Either way, said Raistlin.
11
The execution.
teel Brightblade lay upon a pallet of straw, spread on the stone floor of his cell. He had not slept, but had spent the night before his execution in silent, bitter vigil. He did not fear death. He had made peace with death, looked forward to it.
And death had not come, not taken him as he had wanted to die—in honor, in battle. His death would be inglorious, shameful, without honor. He would die in shackles, die the death of the thief, the coward, the traitor.
He could not see the dawn from his windowless cell, but he could hear them call the watch. He’d listened to it all night long. He heard the Last Watch shouted throughout the tower, imagined what it would be like for those standing guard duty.
They would smile, stretch, and yawn. The end of their watch was near. In another hour, they could leave their posts, return to the barracks, slip into the welcome darkness of sleep. Out of that darkness they would return, wake to curse the bedbugs, the heat, the snoring of the man next to them.
Steel Brightblade, in an hour, would slip into the darkness from which there was no return, not unless Chemosh got hold of him, sent him walking the world as one of the restless undead. Steel feared nothing in this life, but the thought of that dread fate shriveled his soul. He had once met the death knight Lord Soth. Awed at the undead’s power, Steel had still gazed at the death knight’s faceless visage with revulsion and pity and the whispered prayer, “Takhisis, Ruler of the Dark, let any fate be mine except this.”
That had been his agony throughout the night. Would Takhisis forgive him? Or would she hand him over to skull-masked Chemosh, to spend eternity as Death’s slave.
The thought left him chilled, quaking with terror, his body bathed in a cold sweat. Shuddering, he crouched on the straw pallet and was praying for Her Dark Majesty’s mercy, when the key rattled in the cell door.
“Visitor,” called out the jailer. His voice was subdued, reverent, and the unusual tone warned Steel that this visitor was not ordinary.
He straightened, rose to his feet. He was clad in the garment he would wear for the execution, a plain, crude black shift, similar to the garment used to clothe the bodies of paupers before they were thrown into unmarked graves. He waited tensely, nervously, thinking, fearing, wildly hoping that perhaps it was Lord Ariakan, come to rescind the sentence of death. The cell door creaked open.
A figure draped in black robes entered. The figure was stooped, bent with age. Steel could not tell, in the shadows of his cell, if the figure was male or female. It seemed little more than a shambling bundle of darkness. The figure was not alone. Another, also robed in black, walked at its side, supportive of the feeble steps.
Yet the voice which spoke was neither weak nor faltering. “Shut the door and lock it.”
Memory stirred in Steel. He had seen this, encountered this before. He fell to the damp, dank stone, lying prone upon it, his arms extended out above his head.
“Holiness!” he whispered.
“Light,” the high priestess ordered the acolyte who served her.
The younger woman spoke a word, and light gleamed from an unseen source. The light did not banish the darkness. Rather, it seemed to deepen it, make it stronger, give it life.
The high priestess of Takhisis hobbled forward until she came to stand above him.
“Rise,” she hissed. “Look at me.”
Overcome with awe, Steel raised himself to his knees.
The high priestess had seemed ancient to him when she had blessed his investiture, years ago. She was now old past understanding, past comprehension. Gray hair hung in wisps around her face. Her skin was stretched over bone, seemingly without flesh beneath. Her lips were blue, bloodless, as were the veins on her bone-ivory hands.
Stretching one of those hands forth—the other clutched the acolyte’s arm—the priestess took hold of Steel’s chin. Her fingers were like talons; long nails, yellowed and sharp, dug into his flesh.
“Your queen has heard your prayers. She is pleased with you, Steel uth Matar Brightblade. You have served Her Majesty well, better than you know. She stands to gain two souls this day. A place has been prepared for you in Her Dark Majesty’s dread guard, a place of honor …”
Steel shut his eyes. Tears of relief and thankfulness seeped from beneath the lids. “I honor and thank Her Majesty with all my heart—”
“One requirement.” The priestess interrupted him.
Steel’s eyes flared open.
The priestess’s nails stabbed his flesh, drawing blood. She loosed his chin. Her hand lowered, a skeletal finger extended, pointing. “Remove the talisman.”
Steel’s hand went to his neck, to the chain of fine silver he wore around his neck. From that chain dangled an ornament Steel had always kept hidden. Only four people knew he possessed it, and one of those persons, Tanis Half-Elven, was now dead. Lord Ariakan knew, for Steel had told his lord himself; the priestess knew; and Caramon Majere, who had been a witness, knew. Steel’s hand closed over the talisman, the starjewel.
Steel often wondered why he wore it. The jewel was an irritant; its sharp edges scratched and annoyed him. He had, more than once, decided to rid himself of it, had grasped the jewel in his hand, prepared to break its chain, fling it to the dust.
Yet, every time he touched it, a cooling, calming feeling of serenity spread through him, like cold water assuaging a burning thirst. The sensation eased his almost constant inner turmoil, cleared his thoughts, left them crystalline, clean-cut and sharp-edged, like the jewel. Nagging doubts vanished, while confidence in himself, his abilities, was restored.
His fingers touched the silver chain. Knowing how the jewel affected him, Steel was reluctant to touch it. His thoughts were calm now, his inner doubt settled. His queen had forgiven him his sin, had prepared a place of honor for him at her side. The jewel would now only confuse and disturb him.
&nbs
p; Yes, the priestess was right. He should remove it, remove it now, so that his soul stood before Takhisis free of restraint.
“I will,” he said, and, grasping the chain, he gave it a sharp tug.
The chain did not break.
“Remove it!” ordered the priestess, displeased. Her red-rimmed eyes narrowed. “Or risk Her Majesty’s wrath!”
A vision rose before Steel’s eyes, a vision of a fleshless hand, scrabbling up from the smothering ground of the Shoikan Grove, seeking the warmth of living blood to banish the chill that could never be banished, and he knew—with stark terror—that the hand was his.
Frantic, desperate, he pulled and tore at the chain until it bit deep into his neck. “Let me go, Father!” he cried, not realizing what he was saying, not even knowing he was saying it. “Let me go! I have made my choice—”
His hand slid along the chain. He grasped the jewel, thinking to use it as leverage.
Light, warm and bright, welled out from between his fingers. His fears, which were like the nightmares of a child, alone in darkness, eased, as if the father’s strong arm were there to support him, comfort him, protect him from harm.
He was filled with peace, calm. He was no longer bitter. He knew, suddenly, that though his death might seem dishonorable to some, he would be honored by others. His soul was his own. Takhisis could not claim it, not unless he gave himself willingly. He had yet to make that choice.
He must have faith, if that faith was only in himself.
Steel’s hand opened wide, released the jewel, let it fall back against his breast.
The high priestess hissed in displeasure, snarled. “You are doomed! You have betrayed your queen. May your torment be endless!”
Steel shivered at the terrible curse, yet he did not flinch or crouch or grovel. He felt nothing now, was drained of all emotion, even fear.
“Take me away from here!” the priestess ordered.
The acolyte raised her bowed head, flashed Steel a look of hatred, enmity, then did as the priestess commanded, guided the faltering footsteps over the rough stone.
Steel should say something, he knew, but he was suddenly tired, very tired. He was tired of this life. He was impatient to end it, end the suffering and doubt, the feeling of being two separate beings trapped in one body, end the struggle between them for the possession of his soul.
The battle would be over soon. He found himself looking forward to it.
A single trumpet, its note pure silver, sounded First Watch.
Booted footsteps marched with solemn tread outside the cell door. Steel rose to his feet. They would find him standing straight and proud when they came inside to take him.
The door swung open. Two knights, high-ranking knights, members of Lord Ariakan’s own personal staff, entered. Steel recognized the honor being accorded him; he was humbly grateful.
“Steel uth Matar Brightblade,” said one, speaking in low, solemn tones, “you are hereby summoned to face our lord’s judgment. Do you have anything to say in your defense in this, your final hour?”
“No, my lord,” Steel answered steadily, “I accept my lord’s judgment as just. I accept my punishment as right.”
“So be it,” said the knight, his tone grim.
Steel was astonished then to realize that the man had been hoping for a different response.
The decision made, the knight’s expression hardened. He and his companion approached Steel. They bound his hands with strips of black leather behind his back. They gathered up and tied his long, thick hair with another cord of leather, in order to lay bare his neck to meet the sword. This done, they started to grasp hold of his arms.
He shrugged loose from their grip.
“I will walk on my own,” he said.
He walked out the cell door.
The jailer stood to one side, muttered, in a gruff voice, “May the Dark Queen judge you fairly, Sir Knight.”
From the darkness of the cells around his came a multitude of voices, “May Paladine defend you, Brightblade!”
Somewhere, in the darkness, someone began to sing, “Sularus Humah durvey. Karamnes Humah durvey …”
It was the Song of Huma, hero of the Knights of Solamnia. One by one, the other prisoners joined in, their voices rising strong and poignant in the dawning.
“Make them stop that row,” said one of the dark knights, but he said it softly, and the jailer walked away, pretending he hadn’t heard.
Steel wanted to respond, could find no words, no voice to speak them if they had existed. He nodded his silent thanks. His eyes dim with tears, he walked on.
It was not a long distance from the cell block to the central courtyard, where Steel had fought courageously, where Tanis Half-Elven had died in his arms. Not a long walk to where Steel himself was to die by his own sword, his father’s sword.
He was astonished to find that the route was lined with knights. At first, he thought they had gathered to revile him. But, as he walked past, barefoot, clad in his robes of shame, each man or woman present saluted him gravely, solemnly.
All the knights blended together in a blur of shining armor that coalesced into the image of his father, striding before him, silver armor shining in the first rays of the dawn.
Steel emerged into the courtyard, which was filled with knights, all standing in a circle. In the center was a block of black marble, stained and crusted with dried blood. An area had been hollowed out, where Steel would place his head.
With firm, unfaltering step, accompanied by his two knightly guards, Steel Brightblade walked up to the block, stood before it.
Lord Ariakan, as Steel’s sponsor and judge, would also be his executioner. Ariakan held in his gloved hands the sword of the Brightblades. His Lordship’s face was as cold and unrelenting as the stone.
He looked, not at Steel, but at the two knights. “Has the prisoner any argument to make why this sentence should not be passed on him?”
“No, my lord,” answered one of the knights, “he does not.”
“He deems the sentence just, my lord,” said the other. “The punishment right.”
“Then so the sentence will be performed on him.” Lord Ariakan’s gaze shifted to Steel.
“Her Dark Majesty will be your next judge, Steel uth Matar Brightblade. You will assure her, as you have told us, that you were judged fairly, that you were given every chance to speak in your own defense, and that you refused this opportunity.”
“I will do so, my lord,” Steel answered, his voice strong and carrying through the air, which was already, even in the early morning, breathlessly hot. “I hold you blameless in my death, my lord. I take it completely upon myself.”
Lord Ariakan nodded, satisfied. It was not unknown for Queen Takhisis to take exception at the judgment of mortal men, to send back the soul of the victim to seek revenge on those who had falsely executed him.
“Let the sentence be carried out.”
One of the knights escorting Steel offered him a blindfold. Steel, with a shake of his head, proudly refused. The two knights took hold of Steel by the arms, assisted him to kneel before the block. One of them brushed back the black hair, leaving the neck bare.
“Strike him there!” came a hissing voice, the voice of the high priestess. “Strike him along the red mark on his flesh.”
The mark left by the silver chain.
Steel turned his head, rested his face on the block of marble, which, despite the heat of the day, was as cold as death itself.
“Pray to your queen, Brightblade,” said Lord Ariakan.
“My prayers are made,” Steel replied steadily. “I am ready.”
He could see the sword rising above him; Ariakan lifted it high, ready to bring it down with a blow that would sever Steel’s head from his body. He watched it arc upward. When the blade reached its zenith, it caught the sun’s light, flared with a white brilliance like a star.
Steel closed his eyes. The memory of that beautiful flash would be his last. He waite
d, tensely, for the blow.
What he felt, instead, was a heavy weight, as of another body, crashing into his, knocking him off balance. His hands tied, he had no way to catch himself; he lurched over sideways.
Astonished, almost angry at the interruption, he opened his eyes to see what was going on.
A young man in white robes stood protectively over Steel. In his hands he held a staff topped with a crystal ball, clutched in a dragon’s claw.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Ariakan thundered. “Who, in the name of the Dark Queen, are you?”
“I am the one you want,” said the young man in a halting voice that strengthened as he continued, “I am Palin Majere.”
12
Old friends.
A proposed meeting.
aistlin Majere stood in the study of Astinus of Palanthas. The archmage was restless, he roamed about the room, his gaze roving coldly and without interest over the volumes of recent history stacked neatly on the shelves. Astinus worked at his desk, writing in the book. At intervals, one of the Aesthetics would appear and, very silently, not disturbing the master, gather up the completed volumes and bear them away to the library, where they were then arranged in chronological order.
The two men had not spoken since Astinus’s return to his study. The bells in the town rang out First Watch. Raistlin paused in his restless pacing, looked out the open door and down the hall, as if he were expecting someone.
No one came.
He stood long moments, then, walking back, circled around Astinus’s chair, looked to read what the historian had just written. Satisfied, Raistlin nodded to himself.
“Thank you, my friend,” he said quietly.
Astinus did not lift his pen from the paper; the flow of ink ceased only when he stopped to dip that pen in the inkwell, and that he did so swiftly that the eye scarcely noticed it.
“I did very little,” Astinus replied, continuing to write.
“You showed Palin the book,” Raistlin said. “I grant this is not unusual, but you showed him the book in order to force him to make a decision. And you dislike meddling in mankind’s affairs.”
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