Amber and Blood

by Margaret Weis

  To their minds, the only good wizard was a wizard who lived somewhere else besides Palanthas.

  Raistlin Majere was carrying his red robes in a bundle under his arm, not wearing them. He was dressed in the robes of the Aesthetics, the monks who serve Astinus of Palanthas in the Great Library of Palanthas. Raistlin had “borrowed” the robes this morning.

  Borrowed. Raistlin’s thin lips pressed together grimly. The word made him think of Tasslehoff. The light-hearted and lighter-fingered kender never stole anything. When found with purloined goods upon his person, the kender would claim to have “borrowed” the sugar basin, “stumbled across” the silver candlesticks, and “was just coming back to return” the emerald necklace. Raistlin had “stumbled upon” the Anesthetic’s robes lying folded neatly on a bed this morning. He had every intention of returning the plain, gray robes in a day or two.

  If he had been wearing his wizard’s robes, no one would have come near him. Taken for one of the Aesthetics, he was either completely ignored or accidentally trod upon. Though occasionally some citizen would stop him to ask him what Astinus thought about the arrival of the metallic dragons, the dragons of Light.

  Raistlin didn’t know and he didn’t care. Keeping his cowl pulled low, to conceal the fact that his skin shimmered gold in the sunlight and that the pupils of his eyes were shape of hourglasses, he would mutter an excuse and hurry on. He hoped sourly that someone was working today, that everyone was not out gossiping in the street.

  He regretted deeply bringing Tasslehoff to mind. Thinking of the kender made him think of his friends and that made him think of his twin brother. Perhaps he should say late friends, late brother. His friend were almost certainly dead by now. As was his brother. Drowned in the Maelstrom, gone down in the ship, the Perechon. Left behind to die by Raistlin Majere, who had escaped by means of the magical dragon orb. He might have taken them with him. He might have saved them. He could be sure, though, and so he had saved himself.

  Himself and the other who was always with him.

  “Put this out of your mind!” the voice told him. “Your brother is dead. Tanis is dead. Riverwind, Goldmoon, Tika—all dead. Good riddance. They weakened you, diminished you. Now that you are free of them, you will go far. I will see to that.”

  You won’t see to anything! Raistlin thought dourly, only to immediately cut the thought short. He waited tensely to hear the derisive laughter echo in his mind, but the lich had either not heard or he’d decided to ignore it.

  Raistlin had been hearing the lich’s voice yammering in his head all morning and he was fast becoming a nuisance. Worse than a nuisance. Fistandantilus was a distinct threat.

  Last night, Raistlin Majere had been dying. This day, he was alive and as well as he could ever be, which meant that he had to stop every so often, for when his frail body was shaken by fits of coughing he could barely stand, much less walk. He had Fistandantilus to thank for his life, just as he had him to thank for having survived the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery.

  Fistandantilus seemed to think that Raistlin’s soul was to be his reward. The lich was going to be disappointed. Now that Raistlin’s soul was finally his own, he was not going to meekly hand it over to Fistandantilus.

  Raistlin considered that the lich had done well out of the deal he’d made with Raistlin in the Tower. The lich was, after all, leeching part of Raistlin’s life force in order to cling to his existence on whatever dark plane he inhabited. As far as Raistlin was concerned, the two of them were now even. It was time to end their bargain. He couldn’t figure out how to do that, however, without Fistandantilus knowing about it. The lich was constantly lurking about, eavesdropping on Raistlin’s thoughts. There had to be a way to shut the door and lock the windows.

  Raistlin left the central part of Old City behind and with it the crowds. The streets he walked were lined with shops and warehouses and businesses. The streets were known by their trade, so that there was Iron-Mongers Street and Butcher’s Row and the Horse Fair and Goldsmith Way. Raistlin walked on until he came to the street where wool merchants plied their trade. He was searching for the business he needed when he glanced down an alleyway and saw a mageware shop.

  The shop was small, a mere hole in the wall. Raistlin was surprised that someone had even bothered to open a shop dealing in objects related to the use of magic in Palanthas. He knew of only wizard who resided in the city and that was Justarius, head of Raistlin’s own order, the Red Robes. Raistlin supposed there must be others. He’d never given the matter much thought.

  His steps slowed. The mageware shop would have what he sought. It would be costly. He could not afford it. He had only a small sum of steel coins, hoarded up and hidden away. He had to save that for lodging and food in Neraka, the city to which he would soon be traveling. As soon as his business in Palanthas was done.

  Besides, the owner of the mageware shop would be bound to report his purchase to the Conclave. They could not stop him, but he would be summoned to Wayreth, called upon to explain himself. Raistlin didn’t have time for all that. Events were happening; momentous, world-changing events. The end was coming. The Dark Queen was going to be victorious. Raistlin did not plan to be one little person on the street corner cheering as she rode past in triumph. He planned to be leading the parade.

  Raistlin walked on, coming at last to the place he’d been seeking. The smell alone should have guided him. The business was located in a large, open-air yard filled with stacks of wood to stoke the fires. Smoke from the flames mingled with steam rising the huge kettles and vats. The neighborhood was redolent with the odors of the various ingredients used in the process, some of which were not at all pleasant.

  Raistlin covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and, clutching his bundle, entered a small building located near the compound where the work was going on. Inside was a clerk on a stool writing figures in a large book and a man glancing over long lists. Neither took any notice of Raistlin. Finally man looking over the lists raised his eyes, and saw Raistlin waiting in the entrance. He came over to inquire how he might serve one of the honored Aesthetics.

  “I have some cloth to be dyed,” said Raistlin, and he brought forth the red robes.

  He kept his hood over his face, but he could not very well hide his hands. Fortunately the building was shadowy and Raistlin hoped the man would not notice his odd-colored complexion.

  The dyer examined the color, ran his hands over the cloth. “A nice wool,” he pronounced. “Not fine, mind you, but good and serviceable. It should take the dye well. What color would you like, Revered Sir?”

  Raistlin was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a fit of coughing so severe that he was forced to lean against the doorframe. He missed his brother’s strong arm, which always been there to support him …

  The dyer eyed Raistlin, who was wiping his lips, and backed up slightly in alarm. “Not catching, is it, sir?”

  “Black,” Raistlin said, ignoring the question.

  “I am sorry, what did you say?” asked the dyer. He gestured to the compound behind him where women dunking the cloth in the kettles were yelling back and forth or exchanging barbed comments with the men stoking the fires.

  “Black,” Raistlin said, raising his voice. He generally spoke softly. Talking irritated his throat.

  The dyer quirked an eyebrow. Aesthetics who served Astinus in the Great Library wore robes of gray.

  “It is not for me,” Raistlin added, exasperated. “I am acting for a friend.”

  “I see,” said the dyer. He cast Raistlin a quizzical glance, which Raistlin, overtaken by another fit of coughing, did not notice.

  “We have three types of black dye,” stated the dyer. The first uses chromium, alum, and red argol, logwood and barwood. This produces a good black, though not very durable. It will fade with washing. The next dye utilizes camwood and copperas and logwood. This is better than the first, though the black can turn slightly green over a long period. The best is done with in
digo and camwood. This provides a deep, rich black that will not fade no matter how many times the cloth is washed. The latter is, of course, the more expensive.”

  “How much?” Raistlin asked.

  The dyer named the price. Raistlin winced. This would considerably diminish the number of coins in the small leather pouch he had hidden beneath his pillow in the monk’s cell he occupied in the Great Library. He should settle for the less costly dye, but then he thought of appearing before the wealthy, powerful Black Robes of Neraka and he cringed at the thought of walking among them in black robes that were not black, but “slightly green”.

  “The indigo,” he stated, and he handed over his red robes.

  “Very good, Revered Sir,” said the dyer. “May I have your name?”

  “Bertrem,” Raistlin replied with a smile that he kept hidden in the shadow of the cowl. Bertrem was the name of Astinus’s harried and slow-witted assistant.

  The dyer made a note.

  “When may I return for these?” Raistlin asked. “I am … That is, my friend is in a hurry.”

  “Tomorrow evening,” said the dyer.

  “Not sooner?” Raistlin asked, disappointed.

  “Not unless your friend wants to walk the streets in wet robes dripping black dye,” the dyer replied.

  Raistlin gave a curt nod and took his leave. If he had looked over his shoulder as he left, he would have seen the dyer watching him, then hurrying out of the building when Raistlin’s back was turned. Exhausted from the long walk and half-suffocated by the choking fumes, Raistlin left the neighborhood as fast as possible and did not look back.

  The return trip back to the Great Library through the crowded streets taxed Raistlin’s strength to such an extent that he had to pause frequently to rest. When he finally came in sight of the Library’s marble columns and imposing portico, he was so weak that he feared he could not make it across the street without collapsing. He had been found last night lying in a pitiful heap on the Library’s marble stairs yesterday and he was determined today to walk in on his own two feet, especially since he was wearing “borrowed” robes.

  Raistlin sat down on a stone bench not far from the Great Library. Winter’s long night was drawing to a close. The dawn of spring was near. The bright sun was warm. Raistlin closed his eyes. His head fell forward onto his chest. He sat dozing in the sun.

  “… Using my magic. And the magic of the dragon orb. It is quite simple, though probably beyond your weak mind. I now have the power to harness the energy of my corporeal body and the energy of my spirit into one. I will become pure energy—light, if you want to think of it that way. And, becoming light, I can travel through the heavens like the rays of the sun, returning to this physical world whenever and wherever I choose …”

  “Can the orb do this for all of us?” Tanis asked.

  “… I will not chance it … I know I can escape. The others are not my concern. You led them into this blood-red death, Half-Elf. You get them out.…”

  “… You won’t harm your brother. Caramon, stop him …”

  “Tell him, Caramon.… The last test in the Tower of High Sorcery was against myself. And I failed. I killed him … I killed my brother …”

  “Ah, ha! I thought I’d find you here, you doorknob of a kender!”

  Raistlin stirred uneasily in his sleep. Flint’s voice. This is all wrong. Flint isn’t here. I haven’t seen Flint in a long time, ever since the fall of Tarsis. Don’t try to stop me, Tanis. I killed Caramon once, you see. Or rather, it was an illusion meant to teach me to fight against the darkness within. But they were too late. I had already given myself to the darkness …

  “I tell you, I saw him!”

  Raistlin woke with a start.

  The kender stood quite close to him. Raistlin had only to rise up from the bench and walk a few paces and he could reach out his hand and touch him. The dwarf was standing beside the kender and though they both had their backs to Raistlin, he could picture the exasperated look on the old dwarf’s face.

  It isn’t! Raistlin thought, astonished. It can’t be. Tasslehoff was in my mind and now I have conjured him up whole. Raistlin pulled down the cowl of the gray robe, making sure they covered his face. He thrust his gold-skinned hands inside the sleeves of his robes.

  The kender looked like Tas from the back, but then all kender look alike either from the front or the back: them short in stature, dressed in the brightest clothing they could find, their long hair done up in top-knots, their small, slender bodies festooned in pouches. The dwarf looked the same as any dwarf, short and stocky, clad in armor, wearing a helm decorated with horse hair … or the mane of a griffin.

  “I saw Raistlin yesterday, I tell you!” the kender was saying insistently. He pointed. “He was lying on those very stairs. The monks were all gathered around him. That staff of his—the staff of Maggots—”

  “Magius,” the dwarf muttered.

  “—was lying on the stairs beside him.”

  “So what if it was Raistlin?” the dwarf demanded.

  “He looked like he was dying, Flint,” said the kender.

  Raistlin shut his eyes. There was no doubt. Tasslehoff Burrfoot and Flint Fireforge. His old friends. The two had watched him grow up, him and Caramon. Raistlin had wondered frequently if they were still alive, Flint and Tas and Sturm … He was surprised to find that he was glad to see them.

  Raistlin drew back his cowl and rose from the bench with the intention of making himself known to them. He would ask about Sturm, about Laurana, the golden-haired Laurana …

  “If he’s dead, good riddance,” Flint stated grimly. “He made my skin crawl.”

  “You don’t mean that—” Tas began.

  “I do so, too, mean it!” Flint roared. “How do you know what I mean and don’t mean! Raistlin treated us like pond scum and poor Caramon worse than that. Wherever Raistlin is, you can be sure he’s up to no good.”

  Raistlin sat back down. He pulled the cowl over his face.

  “Now where do you think you’re going?” Flint demanded, seizing hold of Tasslehoff, who was about to cross the street.

  “I thought I’d go up to the Library and knock on the door and ask the monks, very politely, if Raistlin was there. I know that sometimes he wasn’t very nice, Flint, but then he didn’t feel good, what with that cough of his, and he did help you when you had the rheumatism—”

  “I never had rheumatism a day in my life! Rheumatism is for old people,” said Flint huffily. “And you can just put the thought of going into the Library out of your rattle-brained mind. Kender aren’t allowed.”

  “They’re not?” Tas’s eyes opened wide in wonderment at the idea. “Why not?”

  “Because there wouldn’t be a book left on the shelves, that’s why. You’d rob them blind.”

  “Kender are very honest. We don’t rob people!” Tasslehoff returned indignantly. “And I think that’s a disgrace, kender not being allowed! I’ll just go give them a piece of my mind—”

  He twisted himself out of Flint’s grasp and started to run off across the street. Flint glowered after him, then called out, “Laurana sent me to find you. She said something about you riding a dragon …”

  Tasslehoff whipped around so fast that he tripped himself and tumbled over his own feet, spilling half the contents of his pouches.

  “Me? Tasslehoff Burrfoot? Ride a dragon? Oh, Flint!” Tasslehoff clasped his hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “No,” Flint growled. “Because I’ll probably have to go with you.”

  “Hurry up!” Tasslehoff began to tug on Flint’s shirt. “We might miss the battle!”

  “It’s not happening right this minute!” Flint exclaimed, batting away the kender’s hands. “You go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Tas didn’t wait to be told twice. He dashed off down the street, pausing at intervals to tell everyone he met that he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, was going to be riding a dragon with the Golden General.

&n
bsp; Flint stood long moments after the kender had left gazing at the Great Library. The old dwarf’s face grew grave and solemn. He seemed about to cross the street and then he paused. His heavy gray brows came together. He thrust his hands in his pockets.

  “Good riddance,” he muttered.

  He turned and followed after Tas. The old dwarf passed Raistlin on his bench, passed him quite closely, but he took no notice of him.

  Raistlin remained sitting on the bench a long time after they had gone. He sat there until the sun sank down behind the buildings of Palanthas and the air grew cool.

  At last Raistlin rose. He did not return to the library. He walked the streets of Palanthas, still crowded with excited people, until he came to a part where the streets were deserted, the buildings dark and abandoned.

  No one lived in this part of the great city. No one ever came here. Raistlin had never been here, but he knew the way well. He turned a corner and at the end of the empty street, silhouetted against a blood-red sky, rose a tower of black.

  The Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas. The accursed Tower. None shall enter save the Master of Past and Present.

  Raistlin took a step toward it and then stopped.

  “Not yet,” he murmured. Or perhaps it was the voice inside his head that spoke. “Not yet. But soon.”

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  About the Author

  Margaret Weis was born and raised in Independence, Missouri. In 1983, she moved to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, to take a job as book editor at TSR, Inc., producers of the DUNGEONS & DRAGONS® role playing game.