Many of the buildings on the site were permanent. They had been built by those vendors who attended the fair frequently, were boarded up during the rest of the year. Flint’s was one of these—a small stall with a sheltering roof. Hinged doors swung wide to permit customers a good view of the merchandise, displayed to best advantage on tables and shelves. A small room in back provided sleeping quarters.
Flint had an ideal location, about halfway into the fairgrounds, near the brightly colored tent of an elven flute maker. Flint complained a lot about the constant flute music that resonated from the tent, but Tanis pointed out that it drew customers their direction, so the dwarf kept his grumbling to himself. Whenever Tanis caught Flint tapping his toe to the music, the dwarf would maintain that his foot had gone to sleep and he was only attempting to revive it.
There were some forty or fifty vendors at the fair, plus various venues for entertainment: beer tents and food vendors, dancing bears, games of chance designed to part the gullible from their steel, rope walkers, jugglers, and minstrels.
Inside the grounds, those merchants who had already arrived had unpacked and set up their merchandise, ready for tomorrow’s busy day. Taking their leisure, they rested near their fires, eating and drinking, or ventured around the grounds to see who was here and who wasn’t, exchanging gossip and wineskins.
Tanis had provided the twins with directions to Flint’s booth; a few additional questions asked of fellow vendors led the two straight to the location. Here they found Kitiara pacing back and forth in front of the stall, which was closed up for the night, its doors bolted and padlocked.
“Where have you been?” Kitiara demanded irritably, her hands on her hips. “I’ve been waiting here for hours! You’re still planning to go to the temple, right? What have you been up to?”
“We were—” Caramon began.
Raistlin poked his brother in the small of the back.
“Uh … just looking around town,” Caramon concluded with a guilty blush that must have betrayed his lie if Kit hadn’t been too preoccupied to notice.
“We didn’t realize how late it was,” Raistlin added, which was true enough.
“Well, you’re here now, and that’s what matters,” Kit said. “There’s a change of clothing for you, little brother, inside that tent. Hurry up.”
Raistlin found a shirt and a pair of leather breeches belonging to Tanis. Both were far too big for the slender young man, but they would do in an emergency. He secured the breeches around his waist with the rope belt from his robe or they would have been down around his knees. Tying back his long hair and tucking it up beneath a slouch hat belonging to Flint, Raistlin emerged from the tent to chortles of raucous laughter from Caramon and Kitiara.
The breeches chafed Raistlin’s legs, after the freedom of the comfortable robes; the shirt’s sleeves kept falling down his thin arms, and the hat slid over his eyes. All in all, Raistlin was pleased with his disguise. He doubted if even the Widow Judith would recognize him.
“Come along, then,” said Kit impatiently, starting off toward town. “We’re going to be late as it is.”
“But I haven’t eaten yet!” Caramon protested.
“There’s no time. You better get used to missing a few meals, young man, if you’re going to be a soldier. Do you think armies lay down their arms to pick up frying pans?”
Caramon looked horrified. He had known that soldiering was dangerous, the life of a mercenary a rough one, but it had not occurred to him that he might not be fed. The career he had been looking forward to ever since he was six suddenly lost a good deal of its luster. He stopped at a water well, drank two gourdfuls, hoping to quiet the rumblings of his stomach.
“Don’t blame me,” he said in an undertone to his twin, “if these growls scare the snakes.”
“Where are Tanis and Flint and the others?” Raistlin asked his sister as they retraced their steps back into Haven.
“Flint’s gone to the Daft Gnome, his favorite alehouse. Sturm went on ahead to the temple, not knowing if you two were going to honor us with your presence or not. The kender vanished—good riddance, I say.” Kit never made any pretense of the fact that she considered Tasslehoff a nuisance. “Thanks to the kender, I managed to get rid of Tanis. I didn’t think we wanted him along.”
Caramon shot an unhappy glance at his brother, who frowned and shook his head, but Caramon was upset and doggedly ignored his twin’s subtle warning.
“What do you mean, you got rid of Tanis? How?”
Kit shrugged. “I told him that a messenger had come by with word that Tasslehoff had been thrown into prison. Tanis promised the town guard that he’d be responsible for the kender, so there wasn’t much he could do but go see to the matter.”
“There’s the temple—where that bright light is shining.” Raistlin pointed, hoping his brother would take the hint and drop the subject. “I suggest we turn down this road.” He indicated the Hostlers Street.
Caramon persisted. “Is Tas in prison?”
“If he’s not now, he soon will be,” Kit answered with a grin and wink. “I didn’t tell much of a lie.”
“I thought you liked Tanis,” Caramon said in a low voice.
“Oh, grow up, Caramon!” Kit returned, exasperated. “Of course I like Tanis. I like him better than any other man I’ve ever known. Just because I like a man doesn’t mean I want him hanging around every minute of every hour of every day! And you have to admit that Tanis is a bit of a spoilsport. There was this time I captured a goblin alive. I wanted to have some fun, but Tanis said—”
“I believe that this is the temple,” Raistlin stated.
The temple of Belzor was a large and imposing structure, built of granite wrested from the nearby Kharolis Mountains and dragged into Haven on ox-drawn skids. The building had been erected hastily and possessed neither grace nor beauty. It was square in shape, short, and squat, topped with a crude dome. The temple had no windows. Carvings—not very good carvings—of hooded vipers adorned the granite walls. The building had been designed to be functional, to house the various priests and priestesses who labored in Belzor’s name, and to hold ceremonies honoring their god.
About twenty priests formed a double line outside the temple, funneling the faithful and the curious into the open door. The priests held blazing torches in their hands and were friendly and smiling, inviting all to come inside to witness the miracle of Belzor. Six huge wrought-iron braziers, their iron legs made in the image of twisted snakes, had been placed on either side of the doorway. The braziers were filled with coal that, by the smell, had been sprinkled with incense. Flames leapt high, sending sparks flying into the night sky, filling the air with smoke laced with a cloying scent.
Kit wrinkled her nose. Caramon coughed; the smoke seemed to seize him by the throat. Raistlin sniffed, choked. “Cover your nose and mouth! Quickly!” he warned his brother and sister. “Don’t breathe the smoke!”
Kit clapped her gloved hand over her nose. Raistlin covered his face with his shirt sleeve. Caramon fumbled for a handkerchief, only to find it missing. (It would be discovered the next day, inside Tasslehoff’s pocket, where the kender had put it for safekeeping.)
“Hold your breath!” Raistlin insisted, his voice muffled by his sleeve.
Caramon tried, but just as he was entering the temple, shuffling along with a crowd of people going the same way, an acolyte used a gigantic feather fan to waft the smoke directly into Caramon’s face. He blinked, gasped, and sucked in a huge breath.
“Get that thing away from us!” And when the acolyte didn’t move fast enough to please her, Kit gave the youth a shove, nearly knocking the youngster down.
Kit caught hold of Caramon, who had veered drunkenly off to the right. Dragging him along, she swiftly mingled with the crowd entering the temple. Raistlin slid through the press of bodies, keeping close to his brother and sister.
They entered a wide corridor, which opened into a large arena located directly beneath the dome
. Granite benches formed a circle around a recessed center stage. Priests guided the people to their seats, urging them to move to the center in order to accommodate the crowd.
“There’s Sturm!” said Kit.
Ignoring a priest’s instructions, she barged down several stairs to reach the front of the arena.
Caramon stumbled after her. “I feel awful strange,” he said to his twin. He put his hand to his head. “The room’s going round and round.”
“I told you not to breathe in the smoke,” Raistlin muttered, and did what he could to guide his brother’s fumbling steps.
“What was that stuff?” Kit asked over her shoulder.
“They are burning poppy seeds. The smoke brings about a feeling of pleasant euphoria. I find it interesting to note that Belzor apparently likes his worshipers in a state of befuddlement.”
“Yes, isn’t it,” Kit agreed. “What about Caramon? Will he be all right?”
Caramon wore a foolish grin on his face. He was humming a little song to himself.
“The effects will wear off in time,” said Raistlin. “But don’t count on him for any action for a good hour or so. Sit down, my brother. This is neither the time nor the place for dancing.”
“What’s been going on in here?” Kit asked Sturm, who had saved front row seats, right next to the arena.
“Nothing of interest,” he said.
There was no need to lower their voices, the noise in the chamber was deafening. Affected by the smoke, people were giddy, laughing and calling out to friends as the priests directed them to their seats.
“I arrived early. What’s the matter with everyone?” Sturm gazed about in disapproval. “This looks more like an alehouse than a temple!” He cast Caramon a reproving glance.
“I’m not drunk!” Caramon insisted indignantly and slid off the bench onto the floor. Rubbing his buttocks, he stood up, giggling.
“Those braziers burning outside. They’re giving off some sort of poisoned smoke,” Kit explained. “You didn’t get a whiff of it, did you?”
Sturm shook his head. “No, they were just preparing the fires when I entered. Where is Tanis? I thought he was coming.”
“The kender got himself arrested,” Kit replied with an easy shrug. “Tanis had to go rescue him from jail.”
Sturm looked grave. Although he was fond of Tasslehoff, the kender’s “borrowing” distressed him. Sturm was always lecturing Tas on the evils of theft, citing passages from a Solamnic code of law known as the Measure. Tas would listen with wide-eyed seriousness. The kender would agree that stealing was a terrible sin, adding that he couldn’t imagine what sort of wicked person would walk off with another person’s most prized possessions. At this point, Sturm would discover he was missing his dagger or his money belt or the bread and cheese he was intending to eat for lunch. The missing objects would be found on the person of the kender, who had taken advantage of the lecture to appropriate them.
In vain, Tanis advised Sturm that he was wasting his time. Kender were kender and had been that way since the time of the Graygem, and there was no changing them. The aspiring knight felt it his duty to try to change at least one of them. So far he wasn’t having much luck.
“Perhaps Tanis will come later,” Sturm said. “I will save him a seat.”
Kit caught Raistlin’s eye, smiled her crooked smile.
Once they were settled, with the drugged Caramon seated between Kit and himself, where his twin could keep a firm hand on him, Raistlin was free to inspect his surroundings. The inside of the arena was very dimly lit by four braziers which stood on the floor of the arena itself. Raistlin sniffed carefully, trying to detect the odor that had first warned him of the presence of an opiate. He smelled nothing unusual. Apparently the priests wanted their audience relaxed, not comatose.
The brazier’s light illuminated a large statue of a hooded snake, which loomed at the far end of the arena. The statue was crudely carved and, in direct light, would have looked grotesque, even humorous. Seen by the flickering firelight, the statue was rather imposing, particularly the eyes, which were made of mirrors and reflected the light of the fires. The gleaming eyes gave the giant viper a very lifelike and frightening aspect. Several children in the audience were whimpering, and more than one woman screamed on first sighting it.
A rope stretched around the arena prohibited entry. Priests stood guard at various points, preventing the crowd from venturing inside. The only other object in the center of the arena was a high-backed wooden chair.
“That’s some big snake, huh?” said Caramon in loud tones, staring glassy-eyed at the statue.
“Hush, my brother!” Raistlin pinched the flesh of his twin’s arm.
“Shut up!” Kit muttered from the other side, digging her elbow into Caramon’s ribs.
Caramon subsided, mumbling to himself, and that was all they heard out of him until his head lolled forward onto his broad chest and he began to snore. Kit propped him against the granite riser of the seat behind them and turned her attention to the arena.
The outer doors slammed shut with a resounding boom, startling the members of the audience. The priests called for silence. With much shuffling, coughing, and whispering, the crowd settled down to await the promised miracles.
Two flute players entered the arena and began to play a dolorous tune. Doors on either side of the statue opened, and a procession of priests and priestess clad in sky-blue robes entered. Each carried a viper coiled in a basket. Raistlin examined the priestess closely, searching for the Widow Judith.
He was disappointed not to find her. The flute music grew livelier. The vipers lifted their heads, swaying back and forth with the motion of their handlers. Raistlin had read an account in one of Master Theobald’s books on snake charming, a practice developed among the elves, who killed no living thing if they could help it but used the charming to rid their gardens of deadly serpents.
According to the book, the charm was not magical in nature. Snakes could be put into trances by means of music, a fact Raistlin had found difficult to credit. Now, watching the vipers and their reactions to the changes in the flute music, he began to think there might be something to it.
The audience was impressed. People gasped in awe and thrilled horror. Women gathered their skirts around their ankles and pulled children onto their laps. Men muttered and grasped their knives. The priests were unconcerned, serene. When their dance in honor of the statue concluded, they set the baskets containing the snakes on the floor of the arena. The vipers remained inside the baskets, their heads moving back and forth in a sleepy rhythm. Those people seated in the front rows watched the snakes warily.
The priests and priestesses formed a semicircle around the statue and began to chant. The chanting was led by a middle-aged man with long, gray-streaked black hair. His robes were a darker color than the robes of the other priests, were made of a finer cloth. He wore a gold chain around his neck, a chain from which hung the image of a viper. Word whispered around the room that this was the High Priest of Belzor.
His expression was genial, serene, though Raistlin noted that the man’s eyes were much like the eyes of the statue; they reflected the light, gave none of their own. He recited the chants in a somnambular monotone that was punctuated with an occasional shout at odd moments, shouts perhaps intended to jolt into wakefulness members of the audience who had dozed off.
The chanting droned on and on. From mildly annoying, it soon became quite irritating, rasping on the nerves.
“This is intolerable,” Sturm muttered.
Raistlin agreed. Between the echoing noise, the smoke of the fires burning in the braziers, and the stench of several hundred people crowded into a single windowless room, he was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. His head ached, his throat burned. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand this and hoped it would end soon. He feared he might fall ill and have to leave, and he had yet to find Judith. He had yet to witness these purported miracles.
/> The chanting ceased abruptly. An audible sigh whispered among the audience, whether of reverence or relief, Raistlin couldn’t tell. A hidden door located inside the statue opened up, and a woman entered the arena.
Raistlin leaned forward, regarded her intently. There was no mistaking her, though it had been many years since he had last seen her. He had to make absolutely certain. Grabbing hold of Caramon’s arm, Raistlin shook his twin into wakefulness.
“Huh?” Caramon gazed around dazedly. His eyes focused, he sat upright. His gaze was fixed on the priestess who had just entered, and Raistlin could tell from the sudden rigidity of his brother’s body that Caramon had also recognized her.
“The Widow Judith!” Caramon said hoarsely.
“Is it?” Kit asked. “I only saw her once. Are you sure?”
“I’m not likely to ever forget her,” Caramon said grimly.
“I recognize her as well,” Sturm stated. “That is the woman we knew as the Widow Judith.”
Kit smiled, pleased. Crossing her arms over her chest, she settled back comfortably, her bent leg propped over one knee, and stared at the priestess to the exclusion of anyone else in the temple.
Raistlin also watched Judith attentively. though the sight of her brought back intensely painful memories. He waited to see her perform a miracle.
The High Priestess was clad in sky-blue robes similar to those the others wore, with two exceptions: Hers were trimmed in golden thread, and whereas the sleeves on the robes of the others fit tightly over their arms, her sleeves were voluminous. When she spread her arms wide, the sleeves made a rippling motion, providing her with an eerie, not-of-this-world aspect. This was further enhanced by her extremely pale complexion, a pallor that Raistlin suspected was probably enhanced by the skillful use of chalk. She had darkened her eyelids with kohl, rubbed coral powder on her lips to make them stand out in the flickering light.
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