Weis Margaret

by Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (v5)

  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.

  “I’m coming, Jasla. Don’t leave me.”

  Raistlin toyed with the idea of freeing Berem. He discarded it almost immediately. Now was not the time. Takhisis was watching. Better to wait until nightfall, when her attention was focused on the battle for power among her Highlords.

  The only problem with that plan was that Berem was likely to be discovered long before night fell. The false goat-hair beard he wore to conceal his features was starting to slip off. His laced shirt front gaped open slightly, and Raistlin could see a faint gleam of green light from the emerald in his chest. If Raistlin could see it, so could the hobgoblin jailer. All he had to do was look away from his contest with the rats …

  “You are in danger, Caramon,” Raistlin warned silently. “Open your eyes!”

  And that moment, as though Caramon had heard his brother’s voice, he opened his eyes and saw the glint of green. Caramon yawned and heaved himself to his feet, stretching his arms as though stiff from sitting.

  He glanced at the jailer. The hobgoblin was watching a rat that was trying to make up its mind if it would be safe enough to emerge from its hole in the wall. Caramon sauntered nonchalantly over to Berem and, keeping one eye on the hobgoblin, swiftly drew the lacings to Berem’s shirt front closed. The glint of light from the emerald vanished. Caramon was about to try to stick the false beard back in place when the hobgoblin hurled his knife, missed, and swore. The knife clanged against the wall. The rat, chittering in glee, made a dash for it. Caramon sat down hurriedly, crossing his arms over his chest and feigning sleep.

  Raistlin fixed his gaze, his thoughts on Caramon. “You can do this, my brother. I have often called you a fool, but you are not. You are smarter than you think. Stand on your own. You don’t need me. You don’t need Tanis. I will create the diversion. And you will act.”

  Caramon sat bolt upright on the bench.

  “Raist?” he called out. “Raist? Where are you?”

  Tika had been patting Tas’s cheek, trying to rouse him. Caramon’s shout made her jump. She stared at him reproachfully. “Stop it, Caramon!” she said wearily, her eyes filling with tears. “Raistlin is gone. Get that into your head.”

  Caramon flushed. “I must have been dreaming,” he mumbled.

  Tika sighed bleakly and went back to trying to rouse Tas.

  Caramon slumped down on the bench, but he didn’t close his eyes.

  “I guess it’s up to me,” he said with a sigh.

  “Jasla’s calling,” said Berem.

  “Yeah,” said Caramon. “I know. But you can’t go to her now. We have to wait.” He laid his hand on Berem’s arm, calming, protecting.

  Raistlin thought how often he’d been annoyed by that same protective hand. He turned away, retracing his steps along the passage, moving away from the main prison area, deeper into the darkness. He was not certain where he was going, though he had some idea. When he came to the place where the corridor branched off in different directions, he chose the passage that sloped downward, the passage that was darkest, the passage that smelled the worst. The air was dank and fetid. The walls were wet to the touch; the floor, covered with slime.

  Torches lit the way, but their light was feeble, as though they, too, struggled to survive in the oppressive dark. Raistlin spoke the word that caused his staff to shine, and the globe of crystal glimmered palely, barely enough for him to see. He moved quietly, treading softly, alert to any sound. Arriving at the top of a staircase, he paused to listen. Voices—the guttural, sibilant voices of draconian guards, drifted up from below.

  Hidden in the darkness, Raistlin removed the golden medallion of faith from around his neck and dropped it into a pocket. He took several pouches from around his neck and tied them to the belt of his black robes. Then, dousing the light of his staff, he crept down the stairs.

  Rounding a corner, he saw a guard room with several baaz draconians seated at a table with their bozak commander, playing at bones beneath the light of a single torch. Two more baaz stood at attention in front of a stone arch. Beyond the arch was darkness vaster and deeper than the darkness of death.

  Raistlin remained on the landing at the bend of the staircase and listened to the draconians talk. What he heard confirmed him his theory. He gave a loud “ahem” and walked loudly down the stairs, his staff thumping on the stone.

  The draconians leaped to their feet, drawing their swords. Raistlin came into view and, at the sight of his wizard’s robes, the draconians relaxed, though they kept their clawed hands on their sword hilts.

  “What do you want, Black Robe?” asked the bozak.

  “I have been commanded to renew the spell traps that guard the Foundation Stone,” said Raistlin.

  He was taking an enormous risk mentioning the Foundation Stone. If he had made the wrong surmise and those draconians were guarding something else, he would soon be fighting for his life.

  The bozak commander eyed Raistlin suspiciously.

  “You’re not the usual wizard,” said the bozak. “Where is he this night?”

  Raistlin heard the inflection on the word; realizing it was a test, he gave a snort. “You must have extremely poor eyesight, Commander, if you mistook Mistress Iolanthe for a man.”

  The baaz draconians hooted and made rude comments at their commander’s expense. The bozak silenced them with a growl and slid his sword back into its sheath.

  “Get on with it, then.”

  Raistlin crossed to the arch that was festooned with cobwebs. He lifted his staff and let the magical light play over the web. He spoke a few words of magic. The strands glistened with a faint radiance that almost immediately died. The draconians went back to their game.

  “A good thing I came,” said Raistlin. “The magic is starting to fail.”

  “Where is the witch tonight?” the bozak asked in casual tones that were a little too casual.

  “I hear she is dead,” said Raistlin. “She tried to assassinate the Emperor.”

  He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the bozak and the baaz exchange glances. The bozak muttered something about her death being “a waste of a fine female.”

  Raistlin started to walk through the arch.

  “Stop right there, Black Robe,” said the bozak. “No one allowed past this point.”

  “Why not?” asked Raistlin, feigning surprise. “I need to check the other traps.”

  “Orders,” said the bozak.

  “What is out there, then?” Raistlin asked curiously.

  The bozak shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  Guards were not posted to guard nothing. Raistlin was now firmly convinced that the Foundation Stone lay through that arch. He tried to catch a glimpse of the fabled stone, but if it was there, he could not see it.

  He looked up at the arch. A strange feeling came over him. His flesh crawled, as when someone steps on your grave. He could not figure out why, except that he had the oddest impression he had seen the archway before.

  The stonework of the arch was ancient, far older than the guard room, which appeared to have been recently built. Raistlin could discern the faint outlines of carvings on the marble blocks that formed the arch, and though the carvings were faded and damaged, he recognized them. Each marble block was engraved with a symbol for the gods. Raistlin looked to the keystone, the center point of the arch, and though the lines were faint he could see the symbol of Paladine.

  He closed his eyes, and the Temple of Istar filled his vision, beautiful and graceful, white marble shining in the sunlight. He opened his eyes and l
ooked into the twisted darkness of the Temple of Takhisis, and he knew with unerring certainty what lay beyond:

  The past and the present.

  “What’s taking you so damn long?” the bozak demanded.

  “I cannot figure out what type of spell Mistress Iolanthe has cast,” said Raistlin, frowning in seeming puzzlement. “Tell me, what would happen if someone were to pass through the arch?”

  “All holy hell breaks loose,” said the bozak with a relish. “Trumpets sound the alarm, or so I hear. I wouldn’t know myself. It’s never happened. No one has ever gone through that arch.”

  “These trumpets,” said Raistlin. “Can they be heard in all parts of the temple? Even in the council hall?”

  The draconian grunted. “From what I’m told, the dead can hear them. The noise will sound like the end of the world.”

  Raistlin cast a rudimentary spell on the cobwebs, then started to leave. He paused and said as an afterthought, “Do any of you know by chance where they have taken the elf woman they call the Golden General? I am supposed to interrogate her. I thought she would be in the dungeons, but I cannot locate her.”

  The draconians had no idea. Raistlin sighed and shrugged. Well, he had tried. He climbed back up the stairs, thinking as he went that the trap he had set was so obvious, only a complete moron would stumble into it.

  15

  The Nightlord. Paying A Debt.

  26th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  emple bells rang the hour. The time of the council meeting was drawing near, and Raistlin still had to make his way back to the upper level. Once he was out of sight of the guards, he removed his pouches and concealed them once more beneath his robes. He put on the golden chain and the medallion of faith, transforming himself from wizard to cleric and left the dungeons, counting the stairs to find his way to the upper regions of the temple where the Nightlord’s entourage was gathering.

  Raistlin joined the group of Spiritors in an antechamber outside the council hall. He kept apart from the others, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He did not speak to anyone, but stood in the shadows, his head bowed, his hood over his face. His limp was pronounced. He leaned heavily on his staff. A few of the Spiritors glanced at him, and one started to approach him.

  “He’s a follower of Morgion,” said another, and the cleric changed his mind.

  After that, everyone left Raistlin severely alone.

  The Nightlord made his appearance, accompanied by an aide. The Nightlord was clad in a black velvet robe over which he wore vestments shimmering with the five colors of the five heads of the dragon, Takhisis. The Spiritors, dressed in their own ceremonial garb, clustered around him. The Nightlord was in an excellent humor. He greeted each Spiritor in turn; then his flat and empty eyes turned upon Raistlin.

  “I am told you are a worshiper of Morgion,” said the Nightlord. “It is not often we have one of his followers among us, especially one of such high rank. You are welcome, Spiritor—”

  The Nightlord stopped talking. His eyes narrowed. He studied Raistlin.

  “Have we met, Spiritor?” the Nightlord asked, and though his tone was pleasant, the expression in his eyes was not. “Something about you seems familiar. Put back your hood. Let me see your face.”

  “My face is not pleasant to look upon, Nightlord,” said Raistlin in a harsh voice, as different from his own as he could make it.

  “I am not easily shocked. This very morning I cut off a man’s nose and gouged out his eyes,” said the Nightlord, smiling. “He was a spy, and that is what I do to spies. Let me see your face, Spiritor.”

  Raistlin tensed, cursing his luck. He should not have come up here. He should have foreseen the danger that the Nightlord would recognize him. They would not bother taking him to the dungeons. The Nightlord would kill him here, where he stood.

  “Take off the hood! Show him your face,” said Fistandantilus.

  “Shut up!” Raistlin hissed under his breath. Aloud he said, “My lord, I have sworn an oath to Morgion—”

  “Show your face!” The Nightlord took hold of his medallion of faith and began to chant, “Takhisis, hear my prayer …”

  “He will kill you where you stand! Take off the hood! As you said, we are both in this together. For the moment …”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Raistlin took hold of the hood and drew it from his head.

  One of the Spiritors covered her mouth with her hand and gagged. The others averted their eyes and shrank back from him. The Nightlord looked away not from disgust, but because he had lost interest. He had not unmasked a spy, merely a diseased follower of a loathsome god.

  “Cover your face,” said the Nightlord, waving his hand. “My apologies to Morgion if I have offended him.”

  Raistlin drew his hood over his head.

  “Once again, I have saved you, young one.”

  Raistlin pressed his hand against his temple, longing to reach into his skull and rip the voice out of his head.

  Fistandantilus chuckled. “You owe me. And you pride yourself on paying your debts.”

  A hand squeezed Raistlin’s heart. His chest hurt. He struggled to breathe and was seized by a fit of coughing that doubled him over. He pressed his hand to his mouth. His fingers were covered in blood. Raistlin cursed inwardly, impotently. He cursed and coughed until he was dizzy, and he sagged back against a wall.

  The Spiritors eyed him in alarm. The word contagion was on everyone’s lips, and they nearly came to blows trying to get away from him. Then the sound of a gong reverberated throughout the temple. The Spiritors forgot Raistlin in their excitement.

  “The bell summons us, my lord,” said the aide, and he opened the double doors that led from the chamber into the council hall.

  The Spiritors crowded around the door, eager to witness the procession of Highlords and the arrival of the Emperor.

  “Must you gawk like peasants?” the Nightlord said angrily.

  The Spiritors, looking chastened, left the door and returned to the antechamber.

  “The Emperor’s troops are gathering around his throne,” reported the aide from his position at the door. “They are making ready for the Emperor.”

  “We enter after Ariakas,” said the Nightlord. “Line up.”

  The aide bustled around, forming the Spiritors into two lines. The Nightlord took his place at the end. No one paid attention to Raistlin, who was leaning on his staff, gasping for breath and trying to clear his mind. The thunder of tramping feet, marching in time to the rhythmic thumping of a drum and shouted commands of officers, caused the floor to shake.

  “First will come the Procession of Pilgrims,” the Nightlord told his Spiritors. “When all of you have assembled on the platform, I will enter and take the place of honor beside Her Dark Majesty.”

  The soldiers in the hall began to cheer.

  “See what is going on,” the Nightlord commanded his aide.

  “The Emperor has entered the hall,” the aide reported.

  “Is he wearing the Crown of Power?” the Nightlord asked tersely.

  “He wears the armor of a Dragon Highlord,” reported the aide, “a cape of royal purple, and the Crown of Power.”

  The Nightlord’s face contorted in anger. His outraged voice sounded shrill above the thunderous ovation. “The crown is a holy artifact. When Queen Takhisis has conquered the world, we will see who wears this crown.”

  The Spiritors stood in line, expectant, excited, awaiting the signal and the arrival of their Queen. Raistlin fell in at the end. He began to cough. The cleric in front of him whipped around to glare at him.

  Ariakas’s troops cheered him and kept on cheering. Ariakas appeared to be in no hurry to stop them, for the cheering grew louder and more raucous. The soldiers struck the floor with their spears and banged their swords against their shields and roared his name. The Spiritors were growing tired of waiting. They began to mutter and shift impatiently. The Nightlord scowled and demanded to know what was happening.
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  “Ariakas is making his reverence to the throne of the Dark Queen,” the aide reported from his place at the door. He had to shout to make himself heard.

  “Has Her Dark Majesty arrived?” the Nightlord asked.

  “No, your lordship. Her throne remains empty.”

  “Good,” said the Nightlord. “We will be there to welcome her.”

  The Spiritors fidgeted. The Nightlord’s foot tapped the floor. Finally, the cheering began to die. A hush settled over the troops. Another gong sounded.

  “That is our signal,” said the Nightlord. “Make ready.”

  The Spiritors readjusted their hoods and smoothed their robes. A trumpet sounded and cheers again erupted in the hall, as loud or louder than those that greeted the Emperor. The Nightlord was pleased. He made a gesture, and the line of Spiritors began to move toward the door. From there, they would walk out onto the narrow stone bridge that led from the antechamber to the throne of the Dark Queen. The first two Spiritors were at the door when the aide suddenly cried out for them to stop.

  “Why? What for?” the Nightlord asked, frowning in displeasure.

  “The signal was for Highlord Kitiara, your lordship!” the aide said, trembling. “The Blue Lady and her troops are coming into the hall now.”

  The Nightlord paled with fury. The Spiritors broke ranks and clustered angrily around their leader, all of them clamoring to be heard. The entrance of a draconian wearing the insignia of the Emperor’s guard brought sudden, chill silence.

  “What do you want?” asked the Nightlord, glowering.

  “His Imperial Majesty Ariakas extends his respects to the Nightlord of Queen Takhisis,” said the draconian. “The Emperor has sent me to inform your lordship that there has been a change in plans. Your lordship and these honored holy men will enter the hall after the Highlord of the White Dragonarmy, Lord Toede. The Emperor—”