Raistlin placed the dragon orb on the table, steadying the small globe so it did not roll off onto the floor. He took from another pouch a crudely carved wooden stand he had constructed during those days when he and Caramon and the others had traveled by wagon across Ansalon.
Raistlin had been happy then, happier than he had been in a long time. He and his brother had rediscovered some of their old camaraderie, remembering what it was like in their mercenary days, when it had been just the two of them relying on steel and magic for their survival.
He brushed dust from the table off the dragon orb and brushed the dust of Caramon from his mind. He placed the orb in the center of the wooden stand. The orb was cold to the touch. He could see, in the staff’s light, the varied shades of green swirling around slowly inside. He knew what to expect, having used the orb before, and he waited, counseling patience, battling fear.
He thought back to the writings of an elf wizard named Feal-Thas, who had once possessed a dragon orb. Raistlin recalled one line.
Every time you try to gain control of a dragon orb, the dragon inside is trying to gain control of you.
The dragon orb began to grow to its original size, about the span of his hand measured with his fingers spread wide, from the tip of his thumb to the tip of his little finger.
He reached out to the orb.
“You will regret this,” Fistandantilus said.
“I will add it to my list,” Raistlin said, and he placed his hands upon the cold crystal of the dragon orb. “Ast bilak moiparalan. Suh tantangusar.”
He spoke the words he had learned from Fistandantilus. He spoke them once; then spoke them a second time.
The green color swirling around in the orb was subsumed by a myriad of colors, all whirling so rapidly that if he looked at them, they would make him dizzy. He shut his eyes. The crystal was cold, painful to the touch. He kept firm hold of it. The pain would ease, only to be replaced by far worse.
He said the words a third time and opened his eyes.
A light glowed in the orb. A strange light, formed of all the colors of the spectrum. He likened it to a dark rainbow. Two hands appeared in the orb. The hands reached out for his hands. Raistlin drew in a deep breath and took hold of the hands, clasped them tightly. He was confident, felt no fear. In the past, the hands had supported him, soothed him as a mother soothes a child, and he was startled, alarmed, to feel the hands close over his in a crushing grip.
The table, the chair, the staff, the tavern, the street, the Tower, Palanthas—everything disappeared. Darkness—not the living darkness of night, but the horrible darkness of everlasting nothingness—surrounded him.
The hands pulled on his hands, trying to drag him into the void. He exerted all his will, all his energy. All was not enough. The hands were stronger. They were going to drag him down.
He looked at the hands and saw, to his horror, that they were not the hands of the orb. The flesh of the hands had rotted and fallen off. The nails were long and bone yellow, like those of a corpse. The bloodstone pendant, its green surface spattered with the blood of so many young mages whose lives the old man had stolen, dangled from the scrawny neck.
The battle sapped Raistlin’s fragile strength. He coughed, spitting blood, and since he dared not let go of the hands, he was forced to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his new black robes. He spoke to the dragon, Viper, whose essence was trapped inside the orb.
“Viper, you acknowledged me as your master!” he said to the dragon. “You have served me in the past. Why do you abandon me now?”
The dragon answered.
Because you are prideful and weak. Like the elf king Lorac, you fell into my trap.
Lorac was the wretched king who had been arrogant enough to think he could control the dragon orb. The orb had seized control of Lorac and duped him into destroying Silvanesti, the ancient elven homeland.
“He destroyed what he loved most. I destroyed Caramon,” Raistlin said feverishly, not even thinking about what he was saying. “The dragon has duped me …”
The hands tightened their grip and pulled him inexorably into the endless emptiness. Raistlin fought against it with a strength born of desperation. He had no idea what was going on, why the orb had turned on him. His arms trembled from the strain. He was sweating in the black robes. He was growing weaker.
“You float on the surface of Time’s river.” Raistlin gasped, struggling for breath against the choking sensation in his throat. “The future, the past, the present flow around you. You touch all planes of existence.”
That is true.
“I have an enemy on one of those planes.”
I know.
Raistlin looked into the orb, looked beyond the hands. He could see, on the other side of the River of Time, the face of Fistandantilus. Raistlin had seen rats on battlefields swarming over the corpses of the dead. He’d watched them devour flesh, strip it from the bones. The ruins the rats left behind were all that was left of the old man.
His eyes remained, burning with resolve and ruthless determination. His skeletal hands held Raistlin fast, one hand on his hand, one hand on his heart. Fistandantilus was fighting Raistlin for control of the dragon orb. And he was using Raistlin’s own life- force to do it.
“I see the irony does not escape you,” said Fistandantilus. His voice softened, grew almost gentle. “Stop fighting me, young magus. No need to continue to endure the struggle, the pain, the fear that is your wretched life. You stand before me naked and vulnerable and alone. All those who ever cared for you now loathe and despise you. You do not even have the magic. Your skills, your talent, your power come from me. And deep inside, you know it.”
He speaks the truth, Raistlin thought in despair. I have no skill of my own. He told me the words to the spells. His knowledge gave me power. He watched over me, protected me as Caramon watched over me. And now Caramon is gone, and I have no one and nothing.
He is wrong. You have the magic.
The voice that spoke was his voice, and it came from his soul and drowned out the seductive voice of Fistandantilus.
“I have the magic,” said Raistlin aloud, and he knew that pronouncement to be the truth. For him, it was the only truth. He grew stronger as he spoke. “The words may have been your words, but the voice was mine. My eyes read the runes. My hand scattered the rose petals of sleep and flared with magical fire of death. I hold the key. I know myself. I know my weaknesses, and I know my worth. I know the darkness and the light. It was my strength, my power, my wisdom that mastered this dragon orb.”
Raistlin drew in a deep breath, and life filled his lungs. His heartbeat was strong and vital. For a moment, the curse that had been laid on his hourglass eyes was lifted. He no longer saw all things withering with age. He saw himself.
“I have been afraid all my life. I fell victim to you because of my fear.”
He saw his foe as a shadow of himself, cast across space and time. Raistlin gripped the hands firmly, confidently.
“I am afraid no longer. Our bargain is broken. I sever the tie.” “Only death severs our tie!” said Fistandantilus. “Seize him,” Raistlin commanded.
The blue and red, black and green, and white lights inside the orb swirled violently, dazzling Raistlin’s eyes and bursting inside his head. The colors coalesced, with green predominant. The dragon, Viper, began to form inside the orb, various parts of the beast visible to Raistlin as it thrashed about: a fiery eye, a green wing, a lashing tail, a horned snout and snarling mouth, dripping fangs, ripping claws. The eye glared at Raistlin, and then shifted its glare to Fistandantilus.
Viper lifted his wings and, still inside the orb, he soared through time and space.
Fistandantilus saw his danger. He looked frantically around, seeking some means of escape. His refuge had become his prison. He could not flee the plane of his tenuous existence.
“To use your magic against the dragon, you must have your hands free,” Raistlin said. “Let go of me, and I’ll let go o
f you.”
Fistandantilus swore and his grip on Raistlin tightened. Raistlin’s shoulder and arm muscles burned, and his hands trembled with the strain. He could see, in the mists of the dragon orb, the dragon, Viper, swooping down on the wizard.
Fistandantilus shouted words of magic. They came out as so much meaningless drivel. With one hand caught in Raistlin’s grip and the other clutching his heart, Fistandantilus could not use the gestures needed to unleash the power of his spell. He could not trace the runes in the air, could not cast balls of flame or send spiked lightning jabbing from his fingers.
The dragon opened his fanged mouth and extended his talons.
Raistlin was almost finished. Yet he would not let go. If the strain killed him, death would only tighten his grip, not break it.
Fistandantilus set him free. Raistlin sank onto the table, gasping for breath. Though his hands were weak and shaking, he managed to keep his hold on the dragon orb.
“Let go of me!” Fistandantilus raved. “Release me! That was our bargain.”
“I do not have hold of you,” said Raistlin.
He heard a shriek of rage and saw a rush of green; the dragon was returning to the dragon orb. Raistlin stared inside the orb, into the swirling mists.
He saw the face of an old man, a ravaged face, gnawed by time. Fleshless hands beat against the crystal walls of his prison. His yammering mouth shrieked threats.
Raistlin waited tensely to hear the voice in his head. The mouth gibbered and gabbled, and Raistlin smiled.
He heard nothing. All was silence.
He ran his hand over the smooth, cold surface of the dragon orb, and it began to shrink in size. When it was no larger than a marble, he picked it up and dropped it into the pouch. He dismantled the crude stand and slid the pieces into a pocket of his black robes.
He paused a moment before he left the tavern to look around at the empty tables and chairs. He could see the wizards sitting there, drinking elven wine and dwarven ale.
“One day I will come here,” Raistlin told them. “I will sit with you and drink with you. We will toast the magic. One day, when I am the Master of Past and Present, I will travel through time. I will come back. And when I come back, I will succeed where he failed.”
Raistlin drew the cowl of his black robes over his head and left the Wizard’s Hat.
5th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
Raistlin woke that morning after a sound night’s sleep, a sleep uninterrupted by coughing fits. He drew in a deep breath of the morning air and felt it fill his lungs. He breathed freely. His heart beat strong and vibrantly. He was hungry and ate the bread soaked in milk, which was the monks’ breakfast, with relish.
He was well. He was whole. Tears of joy stung his eyes. He brushed them away and packed up his few belongings, his spell components, his spellbooks, and the Staff of Magius. He was ready to depart, but first he had an errand to run. He needed to repay his debt to Astinus, who had given him, albeit inadvertently, the key: self-knowledge. And he owed a debt to the Aesthetics, who had cared for him, fed him, and clothed him.
Raistlin sought out Bertrem, who was generally to be found hovering near Astinus’s chamber, guarding his privacy or ready to dash forth at his command.
Bertrem’s eyes widened at the sight of Raistlin’s black robes. The Aesthetic swallowed several times. His hands fluttered nervously, but he blocked the way to Astinus’s chamber.
“I don’t care what you do to me. You will not harm the master!” said Bertrem bravely.
“I came only to take my leave of Astinus,” Raistlin said.
Bertrem cast a fearful glance at the door. “The master is not to be disturbed.”
“I think he will want to see me,” said Raistlin quietly, and he advanced a step.
Bertrem stumbled back a step and bumped up against the door. “I am quite certain he would not—”
The door flew open, causing Bertrem to fall inside, nearly trampling Astinus. Bertrem ducked out of the way and flattened himself against the wall, trying in vain to become one with the marble.
“What is this banging and shouting outside my door?” Astinus demanded in acerbic tones. “I cannot work with all this commotion!”
“I am leaving Palanthus, sir,” Raistlin said. “I wanted to thank you—”
“I have nothing to say to you, Raistlin Majere,” said Astinus, preparing to shut the door. “Bertrem, since you are a failure at providing me with the peace and quiet I desire, you will escort this gentleman out.”
Bertrem’s face flushed with shame. He sidled out the door and, greatly daring, plucked at Raistlin’s black sleeve. “This way—”
“Wait, sir!” Raistlin said, and he thrust his staff into the doorway to prevent Astinus from closing the door. “I ask you the question you asked me the day I arrived: What do you see when you look at me?”
“I see Raistlin Majere,” Astinus replied, glowering.
“You do not see your ‘old friend’?” Raistlin said.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Astinus said, and again he tried to shut the door.
Bertrem tugged harder at Raistlin’s black sleeve. “You must not disturb the master—”
Raistlin ignored him and spoke to Astinus. “When I lay dying, you said to me, ‘So this ends your journey, my old friend.’ Your old friend, Fistandantilus, the wizard who crafted the Sphere of Time for you. Look into my eyes, sir. Look into the hourglass pupils that are my constant torment. Do you see your ‘old friend’?”
“I do not,” said Astinus after a moment. Then he added with a shrug, “So you won.”
“I won,” said Raistlin proudly. “I came to pay my debt—”
Astinus made a gesture as though brushing away gnats. “You owe me nothing.”
“I always pay my debts,” Raistlin said sharply. He reached into a pocket of the black velvet robes and drew out a scroll wrapped in black ribbon. “I thought perhaps you would like this. It is an account of the battle between us. For your records.”
He held out the scroll. Astinus hesitated a moment; then he took the scroll. Raistlin removed the staff, and Astinus slammed shut the door.
“I know the way out,” Raistlin told Bertrem.
“The master said I was to escort you,” said Bertrem, and he not only walked with Raistlin to the door, but accompanied him down the marble stairs and out into the street.
“I washed the gray robes and left them folded on the bed,” Raistlin said. “Thank you for the use of them.”
“Of course,” said Bertrem, babbling with relief at finally being rid of his strange visitor. “Any time.”
He flushed, suddenly, and stammered, “That is … I don’t mean ‘any time.’”
Raistlin smiled at the Aesthetic’s discomfiture. He reached into his pouch and clasped his hand around the dragon orb and made ready to cast his spell. It would be the first powerful spell he had cast without hearing that whispering voice in his head. He had bragged that the power was his. He would finally know whether or not he had spoken the truth.
Gripping the Staff of Magius in one hand and the dragon orb in the other, Raistlin spoke the words of magic.
“Berjalan cepat dalam berlua tanah.”
A portal opened in the midst of space and time. He looked through it and saw the black, twisted spires of a temple. Raistlin had never been to Neraka, but he had spent time in the Great Library reading descriptions of the city. He recognized the Temple of Takhisis.
Raistlin entered the portal.
He looked out of it to see poor Bertrem, his eyes bulging, frantically pawing the empty air with his hands. “Sir! Where have you gone? Sir?”
Unable to find his vanished guest, Bertrem gulped and turned and fled up the stairs to the library, running as fast as his sandaled feet would carry him.
The portal closed behind Raistlin and opened on his new life.
1
The Court of the Nightlord.
5th Day, Month of Mishamo
nt, Year 352 AC
olanthe’s formal title was “Wizardess to the Emperor.” She was known informally as Ariakas’s Witch or by other names even less flattering, though those were spoken only behind her back. No one dared say them to her face, for the “witch” was powerful.
The guards at the Red Gate saluted as she approached them. The Temple of Takhisis had six gates. The main gate was in the front. That gate, the Queen’s Gate, was manned by eight dark pilgrims whose duty was to escort visitors through the temple. Five other gates were placed at various points around the temple’s perimeter. Each of those gates opened into the camp of one of the five dragonarmies, which were fighting the Dark Queen’s war of conquest.
Iolanthe avoided the main gate, for although she was the Emperor’s mistress and under his protection, she was a wielder of magic, a worshiper of the gods of magic, and though one of those gods was the Dark Queen’s son, the dark pilgrims viewed any wizard with deep suspicion and mistrust.
The dark pilgrims would have allowed her to enter the temple (not even the Nightlord, who was the head of the Holy Order of Takhisis, dared incur the wrath of the Emperor), but the clerics would have made her visit as unpleasant as possible, insulting her, demanding to know her business, and finally insisting upon sending one of the loathsome pilgrims as an escort.
By contrast, the draconians of the Red Dragonarmy, who were charged with guarding the Red Gate, fell over their clawed feet to be accommodating to the beautiful wizardess. A languishing glance from her lavender eyes, which glittered like amethysts beneath her long, black eyelashes; a gentle brush of her slender fingers on the sivak’s scaly arm; a charming smile from carnelian lips; and the sivak commander was only too happy to permit Iolanthe to enter the temple.
“You are here late, Mistress Iolanthe,” said the sivak. “It is well after Dark Watch. Not a good time to walk the halls of the temple alone. Would you like me to accompany you?”
“Thank you, Commander. I would appreciate the company,” Iolanthe replied, and she fell into step beside him. He was new and she tried to recall his name. “Commander Slith, isn’t it?”
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