“And what is that article, Madam?” Trevalin demanded, impatient to get on with his duties.
“The Key to the Portal of the Abyss,” said the Nightlord.
“But … that’s impossible!” Palin cried.
“The decision is not yours, young man,” the Nightlord replied coolly. “You are under the jurisdiction of the Wizards Conclave. They must decide. The Key to the Portal is not like the Staff of Magius. It belongs to the Conclave. It may be exchanged.”
Palin shook his head. “What you ask for will not—cannot—be granted. You might as well take my life now. I could not,” he added softly, his hand resting on the shoulder of his dead brother, “die in better company.”
“Judgment has been passed, White Robe. You are our prisoner and must submit yourself to our will.” Trevalin was firm. “You will travel, in company with Knight Brightblade, to the Tower of Wayreth, there to make your ransom known to the Wizards Conclave. If they refuse, your life is forfeit. You will be brought back to us, to die.”
Palin shook his head, but said nothing, apparently not caring much one way or the other.
“You, Steele Brightblade, accept responsibility for the prisoner. If he escapes, you take his parole upon yourself. Your life will be required in payment. You will be sentenced to die in his place.”
“I understand, Subcommander,” said Steele. “And I accept the penalty.”
“You have a fortnight to complete your journey. On the first night that the red and silver moon are both in the sky, you must report to me, your commander, no matter whether you have succeeded or failed. If your prisoner escapes, you must report to me at once, without delay.”
Steele saluted, then left to saddle his blue dragon. Trevalin returned—thankfully—to his duties, ordered a squire to prepare the two corpses for transport. The bodies of the other knights were loaded onto a cart, to be conveyed to the tomb. Palin stayed close to his brothers, doing what he could to clean the bodies, wash off the blood, shut the clouded, staring eyes.
The Nightlord remained near Palin, watched him closely, intently. She was not afraid he would escape. She was searching, rather, for some clue. Why had this young mage—of all the young mages in the world—been sent here, to fight in this battle? Why had he been the only person to survive? And, most importantly, why had Palin Majere been brought into contact with his cousin, Steele Brightblade?
She conjured up the image of the two of them, walking together, talking together. No immediate family resemblance. In fact, the two could not have been—on first glance—more dissimilar. Steele Brightblade was tall, muscular, well built. Long, dark, curling hair framed a face that was strong and well proportioned, the eyes dark and large and intense. He was undeniably a handsome man. But though many women looked at Steele Brightblade with admiration once, they tended not to look again. He was comely, certainly, but all attraction ended there. It was obvious to everyone that he belonged, heart and soul, to a stern mistress: War.
War alone could satisfy his lusts, his desires. His cold, proud, haughty mien came alive only during the charge, the fight. The clash of arms was the music he adored, the song of challenge the only love song he would ever sing.
By contrast, his cousin, Palin Majere, was slight of build, with auburn hair and a light-complexioned face. Fine-boned, with penetrating, intelligent eyes, he reminded the Nightlord immediately of his uncle. She had once seen Raistlin Majere and she had recognized his nephew the moment she came in contact with him. It was the hands, she thought. He has his uncle’s delicate, deft touch.
Cousins, the same blood running in each. Yes, the resemblance was there, in the soul, if not the body. Steele knew his strength. Palin had yet to discover his. But it was in him as it had been within his uncle. How to turn it to Her Dark Majesty’s advantage? For surely, there had to be some reason the two had been brought together!
Not coincidence. No, a greater Plan was at work here, but as yet the Nightlord could not unravel it. The answer would come. Of that, she had no doubt. She had merely to be patient. And so she watched and she waited.
Palin—either thinking he was alone or not caring—began to talk to his brothers.
“It was my fault, Tanin,” he said softly, through a voice husky with tears. “My fault you died. I know you will forgive me. You always forgive me, no matter what I do. But how can I forgive myself? If I had been stronger in my magic, had studied harder, learned more spells … If I hadn’t frozen in fear, forgot all I knew, I would not have failed you at the end. If I had been more like my uncle …”
More like my uncle!
The Nightlord heard those words. A shiver of awe and excitement raised the flesh on her arms. She saw the Plan. Her Dark Majesty’s thoughts were made clear to her, or at least as clear as they could ever be to a mortal mind. It had to be! This had tobe the reason. The two men—one in his doubt and insecurity, the other in his haughty pride—would be each other’s downfall.
The Nightlord did not trust Steele Brightblade. She had never trusted him, not since she had discovered his parentage. She had argued long against his admittance into the elite ranks of the Knights of Takhisis. The omens were bad; the seeing stones prophesied doom.
A white stone on the left—that was the father, Sturm Brightblade, renowned and revered Solamnic knight, honored even by his enemies for his courageous sacrifice. A black stone to the right—that was the mother, Kitiara uth Matar, leader of one of the dragonarmies, renowned for her skill and fearlessness in battle. Both were dead, but—the Nightlord could sense—both were reaching out to the son who had been brought into the world by accident, not design.
Though seemingly calm and steadfast in his loyalty and devotion to the Dark Queen, Steele Brightblade must be a raging sea of turmoil within. At least, so the Nightlord speculated. And she had good reason. Steele Brightblade wore the sword of a Knight of Solamnia—his father’s sword. And he also wore (though this was a well-guarded secret) a jewel of elven make. Known as a starjewel, it was nothing more than a token exchanged between lovers. It had been given to Sturm Brightblade during the War of the Lance by Alhana Starbreeze, Queen of the Silvanesti elves. And Sturm Brightblade—or rather the corpse of Sturm Brightblade, if you believed Steele’s account—had given the jewel to his son.
A white stone to the left, a black stone to the right, and in the center a stone marked with a fortress. Falling on top of the fortress, a stone marked with fire. Thus the Nightlord read the signs: the young man was torn in two and this inner conflict would result in disaster. What else could a fortress being devoured by flames represent?
The Nightlord had argued long and hard, but no one had listened. Even the Lord of the Skull, a powerful priestess—an old, old woman who was said to be a favorite with Queen Takhisis—had recommended that Steele be admitted into the knighthood.
“Yes, he wears the starjewel,” the old crone had mumbled through her toothless mouth. “The jewel is the only crack in his iron facade. We will use it to see into his heart and from that vantage point we will see into the hearts of our enemies!”
Blithering old fool.
But now, the Nightlord understood. She threw the idea on the black cloth of her mind, much as she tossed her seeing stones. It fell to the table clean, did not roll or tumble, landed right side up. Pondering, choosing her words with care, she approached the young mage.
“You spoke of your uncle,” she said, standing over Palin, staring down at him, her arms folded across her chest. “You never met him, did you? Of course not. You are too young.”
Palin said nothing, gripped the Staff of Magius a bit tighter. The young man had done what he could for his brothers. Now all that remained would be the bitter task of taking them home, of breaking the news to his father and his mother. He was weak and vulnerable now. The Nightlord’s task was almost too easy.
“Raistlin left this world before you were born.”
Palin glanced up, and in that flashing glance revealed everything, though he continued to s
ay nothing.
“Left the world. Chose to remain in the Abyss, where he is tormented daily by our dread Queen.”
“No.” Palin was stung into speaking. “No, that is not true. For his sacrifice, my uncle was granted peace in sleep. My father was given this knowledge by Paladine.”
The Nightlord knelt down, to come level with the young man. She moved closer to him. She was an attractive woman and, when she chose, could be charming, fascinating as a snake.
“So your father says. So he would say, wouldn’t he?”
She felt the young man stir restlessly beside her, and she thrilled, deep within. He did not look at her, but she felt his doubt. He’d thought about this before. He believed his father—yet part of him didn’t. That doubt was the crack in his armor. Through that crack, she slid her poisoned mental blade.
“What if your father is wrong? What if Raistlin Majere lives?” She sidled closer still. “He calls to you, doesn’t he?”
It was a guess, but the Nightlord knew immediately she was right. Palin flinched, lowered his eyes.
“If Raistlin were back in this world, he would take you on as his apprentice. You would study with the greatest mage who ever walked this plane of existence. Your uncle, who has already given you a precious gift. What more would he not do for a loved nephew?”
Palin glanced at her, nothing more than a glance, but she saw the fire kindle deep in his eyes and she knew it would consume him.
Satisfied, the Nightlord rose, walked away. She could leave the prisoner now. He was safe—safely entangled in the coils of temptation. And he would, inadvertently, draw his cousin in with him. That was the reason the Queen had brought the two together.
The Nightlord thrust her hand into a black velvet bag, grabbed a handful of stones at random. Muttering the incantation, she tossed the stones on the ground. The Nightlord shuddered.
What she had surmised was correct. Takhisis must have both souls—and quickly.
Doom was very near.
Chapter 3
The city of Palanthas
A weary search, not quite fruitless
The heat of the midday sun poured like flaming oil on the waters of the Bay of Branchala. The noon hour was the busiest hour of the day on the docks of Palanthas, when Usha’s boat joined the throng of boats crowding the harbor. Unaccustomed to such heat, noise, and confusion, Usha sat in her bobbing craft and stared around her in dismay.
Enormous merchant galleys, with minotaur crews, rubbed up against the large fishing vessels piloted by the sea-going, black-skinned humans of Northern Ergoth. Smaller “market” barges bumped and nosed their way among the crowd, bringing down a storm of curses and the occasional bucket of bilge water or fish heads when they piled up against a larger craft. To add to the confusion, a gnome ship had just entered port. The other ships were hauling up anchor, endeavoring to put as much sea between themselves and the gnomes as possible, no one with any sense risking life and limb by staying anywhere near the steam-burping monstrosity. The harbor master, in his specially painted boat, sailed hither and thither, mopping his sweating bald head and shouting up at the captains through a speaking trumpet.
Usha very nearly hoisted her sail, turned her boat around, and went back home. The cruel-sounding curses of the minotaur (she had heard of them, but never seen one) frightened her; the gnome ship—its smoking stacks looming dangerously close—appalled her. She had no idea what to do or where to go.
An elderly man, bobbing placidly on the outskirts of the turmoil in a small fishing skiff, saw her and, appreciating her difficulty, drew in his line and rowed his boat over.
“Being a stranger to these parts, er you?” the old man asked, by which Usha understood him (eventually) to be inquiring if she was a stranger.
She acknowledged that she was and asked him where she might dock her boat.
“Not here,” he said, sucking on a battered pipe. Removing it from his mouth, he gestured at the barges. “Too dang many farmers.”
At that moment a minotaur clipper hove up behind Usha’s boat, nearly swamped her. The captain, leaning over the side, promised to split her boat—and her—in two if she didn’t move out of his way.
Usha, panic-stricken, laid her hands on the oars, but the old man stopped her.
Standing up in his own boat—a marvelous feat, Usha thought, considering that the boat was rocking wildly—the old man answered the captain in what must have been the minotaur’s own language, for it sounded like someone crunching up bones. Just exactly what the old man said, Usha never knew, but the minotaur captain ended by grunting and taking his own boat about on a new tack.
“Bullies,” muttered the old man, reseating himself. “But damn fine sailors. I should know. I crewed with ’em regular.” He eyed her boat curiously. “A fine craft, that Minotaur-built, if I’m not mistaken. Where did you come by it?”
Usha evaded his question. Before she left, the Protector had warned against her revealing anything about herself to anyone. She pretended not to have heard the old man—an easy thing, amidst the clashing of oars, the swearing, and the harbor master’s trumpeting. Thanking him for his help, she asked, again, where she should dock.
“Over t’east.” The old man pointed with the pipe stem. “Thar’s a public pier. Usually a docking fee, but”—he was eyeing her now, not the boat—“with that face and them eyes, likely they’ll let you in fer naught.”
Usha flushed in anger and shame, bit back a scathing retort. The old man had been kind and helpful. If he wanted to mock her homely appearance, he’d earned the right. As for the rest of what he’d said—something about a “fee,” and letting her in for “naught,” she had no idea what he was talking about. Peering through the tangle of masts, she located the pier to which he referred, and it seemed a haven of peace, compared to the main docks. Thanking the old man again—rather coolly—Usha sailed her boat that direction.
The public harbor was far less crowded, being restricted to small boats, primarily the pleasure craft of the wealthy. Usha lowered her sails, rowed in, found a pier, and dropped anchor. Gathering up her possessions, she slung one pouch over her shoulders, hung the other around her waist, and climbed out of the boat. She tied the boat to the dock, started to leave it, then paused to take one last look.
That boat was the last tie to her homeland, to the Protector, to everyone she loved. When she walked away from it, she would be walking away from her past life. She recalled the strange red glow in the sky last night and was suddenly loathe to leave. She ran her hand over the rope that linked her to the boat, the boat that linked her to her homeland. Her eyes filled with tears. Half-blind, she turned and bumped into something dark and solid that caught hold of her sleeve.
A voice, coming from somewhere around waist-level, demanded, “Where do you think you’re going, girlie? There’s a small matter of the docking fee.”
Usha, embarrassed to be caught crying, hurriedly wiped her eyes. Her accoster was a dwarf, with a gray, scruffy beard, the weathered face and squint eyes of those who spend their days watching the sun beat on the water.
“Fee? I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Usha returned, trying not to stare. She’d never seen a dwarf either, although she knew them from Prot’s stories.
“A fee to leave your boat where you’ve parked it! You don’t think the people of Palanthas run this operation out of the goodness of their hearts, do you, girlie? There’s a fee! How long are you leaving the boat? Day, week, month? The fee varies.”
“I … I don’t know,” Usha said helplessly.
The Irda had no concept of money. Their needs being simple, each Irda made what he or she needed, either by handcrafting it or magicking the object into being. One Irda would never think of exchanging anything with another. Such an act would be tantamount to an incursion into another’s soul.
Usha was beginning to recall stories Prot told her about dwarves. “Do you mean that if I give you something, you will let me leave the boat here in exchange?”
Usha’s face burned. She had no steel, wasn’t even certain what he meant by that term. But a crowd of grinning men, some of them rough-looking, was starting to gather around the two of them. Usha wanted only to get away. Fumbling in one of her pouches, her fingers grasped hold of an object She pulled it out and thrust it in the dwarf’s direction.
“I … don’t have any steel. Will this do?”
The dwarf took hold of it, examined it closely. The squint-eyes opened wider than they’d probably opened in a hundred years. Then, noting the interest of the men around him, the dwarf glowered at them all, closed his hand hastily over the object.
“Platinum, by Reorx’s beard. With a ruby,” he was overheard to mutter. He waved his hand at the men. “Be gone, you gawkers! Go about your business or I’ll have the lord’s guardsmen down on you!”
The men laughed, made a few ribald remarks, and drifted off. The dwarf took hold of Usha’s sleeve, drew near her down to his level.
“Do you know what this is, mistress?” He was much more polite.
“It’s a ring,” Usha said, thinking he might not know what a ring was.
“Aye.” The dwarf licked his lips. His gaze went hungrily to the pouch. “A ring. Might … might there be more, where that came from?”
Usha didn’t like his look. She pressed her hand over the pouch, drew it close to her body. “Will that be enough to leave the boat in your care?”
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