by Kevin Stein
“No, he didn’t.” Catherine began to twist and tug at her apron.
Raistlin eyed the girl speculatively, then suddenly the golden skinned hand shot out and grabbed hold of her wrist. “Where have they taken him?”
“Ouch!” Catherine gave a little scream and began to squirm. “Please, sir. I— You’re hurting me!”
“Where have they taken him?” Raistlin tightened his grip. The girl’s face grew deathly pale. She tried to pull away.
“Raist—” Caramon began.
“Come, come, girl!” Raistlin ignored his twin. “You were in on it, weren’t you? You lured him into the trap.”
Catherine snatched her arm away. “It was him who told me to do it.”
“Who?”
“That man. Bast. He said your friend was in danger, because he wore that strange necklace. He said he and his men would protect him. All I had to do was see to it that the kender went with them peacefully. Not make any trouble.” She twisted her apron into a knot. “I never meant any harm! I only wanted to help!”
Tears slid down her cheeks. Lifting her arm, she wiped it across her nose.
“Where did they take him?” Raistlin persisted.
“The … the dead wizard’s cave, I think.”
“Where is it?”
“In the mountains, a half day’s journey from here,” Catherine said, jerking her thumb in a southeasterly direction. “There’s an old path that leads there, marked by black flowers.”
“Black flowers!” Raistlin stared at her. “Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not!” Catherine rubbed her hands across her eyes. “I’m sorry for what I did. He was nice to me. Just go and find him, will you?”
“Black flowers,” muttered the mage.
“What is it, Raist?”
“Black flowers have a certain meaning among us, my brother. They denote the spot of an evil wizard’s death.” Raistlin rose to his feet. “We must search for Earwig.”
“I didn’t think you cared that much about the kender,” said Caramon, pleased.
“Not him! The magic ring he’s wearing!” Raistlin began moving at a rapid pace down the street.
Caramon, shaking his head, was starting after his brother when he felt a gentle touch on his arm. He turned to see the girl. “Well, what is it now?” he asked gruffly. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Catherine flushed, her eyes lowered. “I just wanted you to … If you see Earwig, tell him”—she shrugged—“tell him that I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, sure!” muttered Caramon and stalked off.
Chapter 19
Earwig entered a long tunnel. The kender sighed. It was the fifth tunnel he’d encountered in his escape, and he was beginning to get tired of them. Even the pictures on the walls, interlaced with the gold, black, and white lines—pictures that had formerly been so fascinating—were starting to lose their charm. His stomach growled.
“I’m hungry, too,” said Earwig, patting his belly sympathetically.
The little torch he held in his hand continued to burn with a soft, yellow glow, the amber at the end of the wood sputtering occasionally. Such torches were the favorite of kender, and no respectable adventurer left home without a few in his pack. Earwig had started with five, and though each would stay lit for a couple of hours, he had already used up one in his wanderings.
“This isn’t fun anymore!” he shouted. “I want out of here, and I want out of here right now. I mean it! No nonsense!”
The sound of his thin voice echoed in the walkways, but not for very long or very far or else the kender would have done little more than stand and yell, listening for his voice repeated hundreds of times against the ancient stones. He heard no answer, however, and was disappointed. He walked off to his right and stepped in a warm puddle of amber.
“I’ve been here before! I’m walking in circles.” He remembered then, what his great-grandfather had always told him. Whenever you’re in a boring situation, turn left and keep turning left. Earwig thought this good advice, and so he decided to follow it now.
He came to more tunnels, with more pictures filling the walls, more gold and black and white lines. The kender ignored them. He went through several more hallways and suddenly noticed that the pictures began to fade. The lines ran together to form a single, great band of gold, black, and white.
“I don’t blame you,” the kender told the unknown artist. “I was getting tired of that other stuff, too.”
Earwig stopped short, dropping his torch and clutching a wall to keep himself from falling forward. He had stumbled into a room—a dome underneath the ground. Set in the bare walls at regular intervals were burning torches whose light did not fully penetrate the gray fog drifting through the air.
“Well, at least this is different from tunnels!” said the kender, feeling cheered.
He walked inside, staring about curiously. The floor was smooth and hard, and in the middle of the chamber sat a huge circular stone dais, taller than the kender.
“And that’s big!” he exclaimed, moving up to the stone, running his hands along its smooth, unmarked surface. “What’s it for? I know! It must be the way out.”
It wasn’t. Earwig moved around the circumference of the disk, using his hoopak as he did in the cell, searching for a secret door or hidden opening. Finding nothing, he looked over the rest of the room.
The torches were held in sconces set into the wall at regular intervals, ten in all. He tried to remove one, but didn’t have the strength to lift the pole out of its holder. The light they cast was yellow, like the sun on a hazy day. They gave off no heat and no smoke.
“Magic,” said the kender knowingly, and was bitterly disappointed that he couldn’t take one with him.
The chamber was small, and there was very little to see and no way out except the way he’d come, and that led to tunnels. His stomach growled more insistently.
“I’m trying to get us out of here, darn it!” said the kender to that unhappy portion of his anatomy. “And I could concentrate a lot better if you’d leave me alone!”
Earwig leaned against the dais, irritably tapping on it with the golden ring on his finger.
“Now what do I do?” he asked aloud.
Who calls? A voice rang in his head, hissing the words as a snake spits venom.
“Wow!” said the kender, awed.
The room began to grow dark. The torches dimmed in their holders. The gray mist turned black.
Who calls? the voice asked again.
“Me!” Earwig yelled in excitement. “My name’s Earwig Lockpicker.” He paused, then asked politely, “What’s yours?”
The space above him filled with points of light, nodes and motes swirling in a pool of darkness. The kender suddenly realized that he was seeing the stars in Krynn’s night sky, and the foremost constellation shown was—
What do you want of me, Wearer of the Ring?
“You don’t sound very friendly,” Earwig pointed out, in case the voice was interested. The stars kept swirling around him, he was starting to feel dizzy. “And after I’ve come all this way—”
What do you want of me? the voice thundered.
“Uh,” said Earwig, growing more and more confused. He thought it was a marvelous experience, watching the stars spin, but his stomach didn’t seem at all impressed. “Uh, I think I want to leave.…”
We leave through the gate!
“Good, now we’re getting somewhere. Where’s the gate?”
You know I cannot reveal its location! That would bring them to our door!
“First a gate, now a door.” The kender was growing dizzier and dizzier. He wondered if he might have consumed more Celebration Punch than he thought.
You must wait and take no part! Do not interfere with our agents lest you bring them to our door! They will find— They will find— They will— They—”
The voice faded away to a whisper, then disappeared completely. The dark closed in on the kender. He couldn’t see anyt
hing. He couldn’t hear anything.
His stomach rumbled loudly. “Oh, shut up,” said Earwig miserably. The ring burned his hand. He scratched at it violently, fingers clawing his flesh until he felt something warm and sticky run down his wrist.
“Stop it!” he cried frantically. “Stop it! Stop it!”
A carriage took the twins to the edge of the city, where they exited through Southgate.
“Good riddance,” said one of the guards.
“Don’t bother coming back,” added another.
“How are we going to get in the gate again?” Caramon asked.
Raistlin glanced behind him. “There are only four of them, my brother.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Caramon, flexing his sword arm.
The twins turned their steps in the direction the barmaid had indicated and soon left the city behind them.
“ ‘A journey by day, the map of a friend, and fair weather is all I crave,’ ” said a voice.
Caramon turned, his sword rattling in its sheath.
“Peace, my brother,” said Raistlin.
Bast was leaning up against a tree, his arms crossed in front of his chest. The shadow from his curling hair fell over his features, making his countenance appear even darker.
“You are well read,” Raistlin said, planting the Staff of Magius into the soft ground.
“Willians is a favorite of mine.” Bast moved over to the twins. He seemed to flow rather than walk. His footsteps were as silent as night stealing over the world.
“What do you want? And don’t tell me that I already know what you want,” Raistlin added dryly.
“But you do. I want to accompany you to the wizard’s cave.”
Caramon tensed. He could still feel the mysterious power emanating from the man. “We don’t need any com—” the big man began.
“Come along then,” Raistlin interrupted as though Caramon had not spoken. The mage pulled the hood of his red robes over his face.
The lands surrounding Mereklar were rich with crops and food-bearing trees, planted there since the first people inhabited the city. Wheat, corn, and various grains lay in measured patterns, interspersed between regular groves of bushes and other plants. But there were no farmers in the fields, and tools lay scattered about, as if they had been discarded hurriedly. The travelers ignored these sights, moving on the main road leading from the great south gate until they came to a lake.
“We turn east here,” said Bast.
“If my friend has come to any harm,” began Caramon hotly, “I’ll—”
The man in black turned, fixed him with his blue eyes. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”
Caramon didn’t argue.
It was midday when they reached the end of the planted lands, coming to a forest. They paused to observe the path that ran through the trees, the tracks of animals, and the leaves of previous winters scattered about. The smell of sap and flowers wafted among the scattered sunshine like a light perfume.
Raistlin walked forward, crushing branches under his heel. His brother followed, making more noise. Bast, however, padded after the twins without disturbing a blade of grass or leaf on the ground.
Suddenly the mage stopped and moved over to a tree. He bent down, studying the grass.
“What is it?” Caramon asked.
Raistlin pulled a flower from the roots of the tree. He held it up for the others to see. “A black lily.”
Caramon sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like … death.”
The sorcerer nodded, holding the flower up for Bast to inspect. The man in black did not appear interested. Shrugging, Raistlin, holding the lily carefully in his hand, stepped off the path into the woods.
“This way,” he said. He glanced at Bast. “Right?”
“The decision is yours,” said Bast. “I do not make use of this entrance. But you should, mage. You will find it … interesting.”
Raistlin’s eyes flickered. “What do you want of me?”
“Nothing. Everything. It all depends now, doesn’t it?”
The mage swept past the man in black and headed deeper into the forest. Following his brother, Caramon saw a carpet of darkness spread on the green floor, a path of black lilies. The mouth of a cave was visible in the distance—a circle of stones set in the shape of an animal’s paw.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” the fighter asked, starting forward.
The Staff of Magius swept out, rapping him lightly on the chest. “We will proceed with caution, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “This is the tomb of a wizard!”
The three moved up the path slowly—the mage in front, then the fighter, then Bast. Though it was midday, the sun’s rays were blocked by the thick trees and the ancient stones and rocks. Chill air flowed from the cave’s entrance.
Caramon rubbed his arms. “Trust that dratted kender to get himself in a place like this. It would serve him right if he had to get himself out. I suppose we go inside?”
“Of course!” Raistlin held the black staff over his head with one hand and whispered, “Shirak.” The pale blue orb in the golden dragon’s claw burst with light. The illumination did not reach far into the cavern, however.
Caramon started to draw his sword, but Raistlin shook his head. “Steel will do you no good here, my brother. Other skills are called for now.”
Raistlin bent to enter the cave’s mouth, motioning for the others to follow. The cave was not very large or very high, and Caramon had some difficulty standing. Despite what his brother had told him, he removed the bastard sword from his back and carried the weapon in both hands. He saw, by the staff’s light, curved walls and ceiling, extending back ten paces before smoothing out into the dirt floor.
In the middle of the cavern stood a replica of Mereklar. “Another model?” he asked, bending over to get a closer look. “It’s exactly the same as the model at Lord Brunswick’s.”
“Not exactly,” said Raistlin.
Caramon stared at it, and his eyes widened. “Where’s Shavas’s house?” The warrior’s head jerked up, and he grew suddenly cold and scared. “Where is it?”
“Where is the house of the Lady Shavas?” Raistlin asked, glancing at Bast. “Perhaps you could tell us.”
The man in black shook his head slowly. “No. I cannot tell you. But he can,” he said, pointing.
A sudden gust of wind made Caramon shudder. The cave grew dark, the light from the Staff of Magius covered by a hidden hand that blocked its illumination. A shadowy form at the rear of the cave coalesced into a man shrouded in black robes. His hands were bone, covered with rotting flesh. There were no eyes in the hollow sockets, yet Caramon knew the dead wizard could see them.
The warrior’s throat constricted as if the skeletal hands had clutched his windpipe. He tried to move, to keep near his brother to protect him, but he felt invisible ropes and coils wrap around his limbs.
Raistlin walked toward the wizard, holding the black staff in front of him. Reaching out, the wizard touched Raistlin’s forehead with a spectral finger. The mage went flying violently backward, his body crashing into the model of Mereklar.
Caramon strained against his prison, using all his strength and will to break free. But his legs were held by great chains, his arms pinioned to his sides by heavy weights. The warrior looked to Bast, pleading with him to help, but the black-skinned man stood motionless—a seemingly disinterested spectator.
Raistlin struggled to his feet from the wreckage of the model. Leaning on his staff, gazing at the wraith with narrowed eyes, he gritted his teeth and started again to walk toward him.
“You are brave, Red Robes. I admire that. We could have understood one another, I think. Look. Look behind you.”
Raistlin turned. The model was perfectly whole again. Three glowing white lines stretched from each gate to the center of the city, where a domed building stood, also glowing with power. Lines extended along the walls of the city, creating a triangle divided into three sections.
“Hear my words! You wear the mask of gold, but another wears a mask of flesh. Do not be deceived, for you have seen its true complexion. It was my downfall. If you falter, it will be yours.”
The wraith vanished. Raistlin collapsed, falling unconscious. Caramon saw Bast bending over his brother, and the warrior—freed from enchantment—lurched forward.
Something small and furry leaped at him from out of the shadows. Startled, Caramon staggered backward and hit his head on a rock. Pain shot through his head. He fell and lay, stunned, unable to move. Dimly, he heard voices.…
“Do I get rid of them, my lord?”
“No, they may yet be of some use. We can always destroy them later. The kender?”
“We lost him, my lord.”
“I told you to guard him carefully!”
“He appeared harmless.…”
“He is. The ring is not.”
“Your orders, my lord?”
“Let these two go. I have business elsewhere. Time runs short, and there are still seven left. Keep your eyes on these two.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Caramon shook his head to clear it. Putting a hand up, he tried to rub away the pain. “Raist?” he called, sitting.
His brother lay unconscious on the ground. Near him, curled up by his side, purring loudly, was a large tabby cat.
Chapter 20
“Raist!” Caramon glancing askance at the tabby cat, bent over his brother. “Raist, are you all right?” he asked helplessly. If his twin was suffering from some sort of magical affliction, Caramon had no idea what he would do.
Raistlin’s eyelids fluttered. He opened them and gazed around as if trying to recall where he was. Suddenly remembering, he sat bolt upright.
“How long was I unconscious?”
“Not long. Only a few moments.”
The mage looked sharply around. “Where’s Bast?”
“Gone, I guess,” said Caramon uneasily, remembering the dimly heard conversation, wondering if he’d dreamed it.