“Ariakas is doing this deliberately to unsettle the rest of us,” Kitiara muttered. She was sitting hunched over a small table, her head in her hands, massaging her throbbing temples. “He’s trying to intimidate us, Gakhan, and I won’t stand for it.”
Gakhan made a noise, a kind of snort and sneer. The bozak grinned, his tongue flicked out of his mouth.
Kitiara raised her head and looked at him sharply. “You’ve heard something. What’s going on?”
Gakhan had been with Kitiara since before the beginning of the war. Though officially known as her aide-de-camp, his unofficial title was Kitiara’s Knife. Gakhan was loyal to Kitiara and to his Queen, in that order. Some said he was in love with the Blue Lady, though they were always careful to say that behind his back, never to his face. The bozak was smart, secretive, resourceful, and extremely dangerous. He had earned his nickname.
Gakhan glanced out the tent flap, then drew it shut and tied it securely. He leaned over Kitiara and spoke softly, “My lord Ariakas is late because he was wounded. He very nearly died.”
Kitiara stared at the bozak. “What? How?”
“Keep your voice down, my lord,” the draconian said solemnly. “News like this, should it leak out, might embolden the Emperor’s enemies.”
“Yes, of course, you are right,” said Kit with equal solemnity. “Do you trust your source for this … um … disturbing information?” “Completely,” said Gakhan.
Kitiara smiled. “I need details. Ariakas has not been in battle lately, so I assume someone tried to assassinate him.” “And very nearly succeeded.”
“Who was it?”
Gakhan paused to build the suspense, then said with a grin, “His witch!”
“Iolanthe?” Kitiara said loudly, forgetting in her astonishment that she was supposed to be circumspect.
Gakhan cast her a warning glance, and Kit lowered her voice. “When did this happen?”
“The Night of the Eye, my lord.”
“But that’s not possible. Iolanthe died that night.” Kitiara gestured to some dispatches. “I have the reports—”
“Fabricated, my lord. It seems that Talent Orren—”
Kitiara glared at him. “Orren? What does he have to do with this? I want to know about Iolanthe.”
Gakhan bowed. “If you will be patient, my lord. It seems that Orren found out about the plot to kill him and his fellow members of Hidden Light. He sent word around among the troops that the Church was going to try to ‘clean up’ the city of Neraka. Orders had been given to burn the Broken Shield and the Hairy Troll. Naturally, the soldiers were not pleased. When the death squads arrived to carry out their orders, they found armed soldiers guarding the taverns. Orren and his friends escaped.”
“What has this to do with Iolanthe?” Kit demanded impatiently.
“She is a member of Hidden Light.”
Kitiara stared. “That’s impossible. She saved my life!”
“I believe she had some thought of serving you at the time, my lord. She grew disenchanted with you, however, after you wanted to take away the magic. She had been doing odd jobs for Orren. The two became lovers, and she threw in her lot with him.”
“So how does Ariakas fit into this?” Kit asked, confused.
“The Emperor wanted the dragon orb your brother has in his possession. Ariakas saved Iolanthe from the death squads, though not from love. He told her that if she valued her own life, she would have to kill Raistlin. Ariakas went with her to make certain she did as she was told and to obtain the dragon orb.”
“But Iolanthe, instead of attacking Raistlin, turned on Ariakas,” said Kitiara.
“I am told that if it were not for the intervention of the Nightlord, at the behest of Her Dark Majesty, the Emperor would have died of frostbite.”
Kitiara threw back her head and laughed.
Gakhan permitted himself a smile and a flick of his tail, but that was all.
“Has Ariakas thawed out?” asked Kitiara, still chuckling.
“The Emperor has been restored to health, my lord. He will arrive in Neraka tomorrow.”
“What happened to Iolanthe?”
“She fled, my lord. She left Neraka with Orren and the rest of Hidden Light.”
“It’s a shame I underestimated her.” Kitiara shook her head. “I could have used her. What about Raistlin?”
“He has vanished, my lord. It is assumed he also left Neraka, though no one knows where he went. Not that it matters,” said Gakhan with a shrug. “He is a marked man. The Emperor wants him dead. Queen Takhisis wants him dead. The Nightlord wants him dead. If Raistlin Majere is still in Neraka, he is a monumental fool.”
“And whatever my brother is, he was never that. Thank you for the information, Gakhan. I must think about all of this,” said Kitiara.
The bozak bowed and departed. One of the aides came in to light a lantern, for night had fallen, and ask her if she wanted supper. Kit ordered him to leave.
“Post a guard outside. No one is to disturb me this night.”
Kitiara sat staring at the flickering flame of the candle, seeing Ariakas’s brutish face. He believed she was conspiring against him.
Well, she was.
And he had no one to blame but himself. He had always encouraged rivalry among his Highlords. The knowledge that each Highlord was in danger of being replaced by a rival kept them all on their toes. The flaw in that was that some Highlord might decide to slit another Highlord’s throat and that throat could be Ariakas’s.
Ariakas distrusted all his Highlords, but he distrusted her the most. Kitiara was popular among her forces, far more popular with her troops than Ariakas was with his. She saw to it that her soldiers were paid. Most important, Kitiara was looked upon with favor by the Dark Queen, who was not viewing Ariakas fondly those days. He had made too many mistakes.
He should have won the war with a few swift and brutal, crushing blows, ending it before the good dragons entered to fight on the side of Light. He should have taken the High Clerist’s Tower before the knights could reinforce it. He should have relied on dragons, who could attack from the air, where they had the advantage, and far less on ground troops. And he should not have allowed Kitiara to ally herself with the powerful Lord Soth.
Takhisis was undoubtedly regretting having chosen Ariakas to lead her dragonarmies. Kitiara seemed to feel Her Dark Majesty’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her toward the throne, urging her to take the Crown of Power.
Strange … Kitiara really did feel a hand on her shoulder.
“What the—”
Kitiara jumped to her feet and drew her sword all in the same swift movement. She was about to strike when she saw who it was. “You!” she gasped.
“The monumental fool,” said Raistlin.
Kitiara held her sword poised and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Why are you here? Why have you come?”
“Not to kill you, my sister, if that’s what you fear. You were going to kill me, that is true, but I am willing to put our quarrel down to sibling rivalry.”
Kitiara smiled, though she did not sheathe her sword.
“I’ll keep my weapon handy just in case you feel the stirrings of sibling rivalry. So why are you here, Baby brother? You are in danger. You’ve made powerful enemies. The Emperor wants you dead. A goddess wants you dead!” Kit shook her head. “If you’re expecting me to protect you, there’s nothing I can do.”
“I expect nothing from you, my sister. I came with something for you.”
Raistlin stood with his hands hidden in the sleeves of his robes, his cowl thrown back. The lantern light flickered in the strange hourglass eyes.
“You want the Crown of Power,” he told her. “I can help you take it.”
“You are mistaken,” said Kitiara gravely. “Ariakas is my Emperor. I am his loyal subject.”
“And I am the king of the elves,” said Raistlin with a sneer. Kitiara’s lips twitched. “In truth, I am concerned for the Emperor’s health.”
She ran her index finger along the groove in the sword that allowed the blood to run down the blade and keep from fouling it. “Ariakas wears himself out with affairs of state. He should take a rest … a long, long rest. So what do you have in mind? How can you help me?”
“I have many arrows in my quiver,” said Raistlin coolly. “Which I choose to use will depend on the circumstances in which I choose to use it.”
“You blather like the king of the elves,” said Kit irritably. “You won’t tell me because you do not trust me.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t, my sister, otherwise I would be dead by now,” Raistlin said dryly.
Kitiara stared at him a moment; then she sheathed her sword and resumed her seat. “Let us say I accept your offer. You help make me Emperor. What do you expect in return?”
“The Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas.”
Kitiara was astonished. “That monstrosity? It’s cursed! Why would you want that?”
Raistlin smiled. “This from the woman who lives in Dargaard Keep.”
“Not for long,” Kitiara said. “You can have your cursed Tower. I don’t suppose anyone else would want it.” She put her elbows on the table and regarded him expectantly. “What is your plan?”
“You must get me inside the Temple tomorrow when the council meets.”
Kitiara stared at him. “You are a monumental fool! You might as well just walk into a dungeon cell and lock yourself up and be done with it. All your enemies will be there, including Queen Takhisis! If she or any of them discovered you, you would not survive long enough for death to rattle in your throat.”
“I have the ability to conceal myself from my mortal enemies. As for the immortal, you must persuade Takhisis that I am of more use to her alive than dead.”
Kit snorted. “You thwarted her plot to destroy the gods. You betrayed her trust on more than one occasion. What could I possibly say to convince Takhisis to let you live?”
“I know where to find Berem Everman.”
Kitiara caught her breath. She gazed at him in disbelief, and then she leaped to her feet and seized hold of his arms. He was bone and skin, no muscle, and she was reminded of the sickly, little boy she had helped to raise. As if he were that little boy, she gave him an impatient shake.
“You know where Berem is? Tell me!”
“Do we have a bargain?” Raistlin countered.
“Yes, yes, we have a bargain, damn you! I’ll find a way to get you inside the temple, and I’ll talk to the Queen. Now—tell me, where is the Everman?”
“Our mother gave birth to only one fool, my sister, and that was Caramon. If I tell you now, what is to prevent you from killing me? To find Berem, you must keep me alive.”
Kitiara gave him a shove that nearly knocked him down. “You’re lying! You have no idea where Berem is! Our deal is off.”
Raistlin shrugged and turned to go.
“Wait! Stop!” Kitiara gnawed her lip and glared at him. Finally she said, “Why should I go along with you?”
“Because you want the Crown of Power. And Ariakas wears it. I have read about this crown, and I know how the magic works. Anyone who wears the crown is invincible to—”
“I know all that!” Kitiara interrupted impatiently. “I don’t need a damn book to tell me.”
“I was about to say the crown is ‘invincible to physical attacks and most types of ordinary, magical assaults,’” Raistlin finished coolly.
Kitiara frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“I have never been ‘ordinary,’” said Raistlin.
Kitiara’s eyes gleamed beneath her long, dark lashes. “We have a deal, Baby brother. Tomorrow will be a momentous day in the history of Krynn.”
13
The Spiritor. Temple of the Dark Queen.
26th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
he sun rose, bloodshot and bleary eyed and sullen after a night of drunken chaos. The gutters of the streets of Neraka ran red with blood in the predawn hours of that momentous day, and yet the enemy was nowhere in sight. The forces of the Dragon Highlords were fighting among themselves.
Since the Emperor had been late in arriving, the troops of the other Highlords had been forbidden to enter the city of Neraka, which meant they were forbidden to partake of Neraka’s ale and dwarf spirits and other pleasures. The soldiers, many of whom had been forced-marched in order to reach Neraka in time, had made the march and endured the floggings, the putrid water, and the bad food because they were promised a holiday in Neraka. When they were told that they could not enter the city and they had to keep eating the same bad food and drink nothing but water, they mutinied.
Two Highlords, Lucien of Takar, half-ogre leader of the Black Dragonarmy, and Salah-Kahn, leader of the Green, had been waging their own private war for a month; each wanted to extend his holdings into the other’s territory. The humans of Khur, under the leadership of Salah-Kahn, had always hated the ogres, who, for their part, had always hated the humans. The two races had become reluctant allies in the war, but with the war going badly, every Highlord was looking out for himself. When fights broke out among their troops, each blamed the other and neither did anything to stop the fighting.
The White Dragonarmy was in the worst state, for the army had no leader. The hobgoblin Toede, who held that position, had not shown up for the meeting, and rumor had it that he was dead. Draconian and human commanders began fighting among themselves for leadership, each hoping to ingratiate himself with the Emperor and no one doing anything to maintain discipline and order in the ranks.
Only one Highlord, the Blue Lady, Kitiara, managed to keep her forces under control. Her officers and troops were loyal to her and highly disciplined. They were proud of their Highlord and proud of themselves, and though some grumbled that they were missing out on the fun, they stayed in their camp.
Soldiers of the Red Dragonarmy were already in the city, and they had been given orders to keep the others out until the Emperor arrived. That proved a difficult task since draconians could simply fly over the walls, and they crowded into the Broken Shield and the Hairy Troll (both under new management).
When the Nerakan Guard, backed by the soldiers of the Red Dragonarmy, tried to expel the draconians during the night, fights broke out. The Nightlord, seeing that the Nerakan Guard was unequal to the task of dealing with the unruly mobs and afraid that the fighting would spill over onto temple grounds, dispatched temple guards to assist. That left the temple undermanned at a critical time, right when the Nightlord was preparing for the war council.
The Nightlord was furious and laid all the blame on Ariakas, who, whispers said, had been so stupid as to nearly get himself done in by his own trollop. The Nightlord ordered every dark pilgrim in the city and surrounding environs to assemble at the temple to assist with security.
Raistlin was up before dawn. He had spent the night in the tunnels beneath Lute’s shop. That morning, he took off his dyed black robes. He ran his hand over the cloth. The dyer had not lied; the black color had not faded, had not turned green. They had served him well. He folded them and laid them neatly on the chair.
He tied the pouches containing his spell components and the dragon orb onto a strip of leather and hung the pouches around his neck. He attached the thong with the silver knife onto the wrist of his hand and tested it to make certain the knife would fall into his palm at a flick of his wrist. Finally, he dressed himself in the black velvet robes and golden medallion of a Spiritor, a high-ranking cleric of the gods of Darkness. Kitiara had given Raistlin the disguise, telling him how she had encountered the Spiritor during her escape from Ariakas’s prison.
The soft cloth slid down Raistlin’s neck and shoulders. He arranged the bulky fabric so his pouches were underneath, concealed from sight. Clerics drew their holy magic from prayers to their gods, not from rose petals and bat guano.
That done, he set the dragon orb on the table and placed his hands upon it.
“Show me my
brother,” he commanded.
The colors of the orb shimmered and swirled. Hands appeared in the orb, but they were not the familiar hands. They were skeletal hands, fleshless with bony fingers and the long, hideous nails of a corpse …
Raistlin gasped, abruptly breaking the spell. He snatched his hands away. He heard the sound of laughter and the hated voice.
“If your armor is made of dross, I will find a crack in it.”
“We both want the same thing,” Raistlin said to Fistandantilus. “I have the means to achieve it. Interfere, and we both lose.”
Raistlin waited tensely for the reply. When it did not come, he hesitated; then, not seeing any hands, he grabbed the orb and thrust it into the pouch. He did not use the orb again, but made his way through the tunnels that took him underneath the city wall and into Neraka.
A large crowd of dark clerics was gathered in front of the temple by the time Raistlin arrived. The line extended down the street and wrapped around the building.
Raistlin was about to take his place at the end when it occurred to him that a Spiritor such as he was pretending to be would not wait in line with lowly pilgrims. To do so might look suspicious. Raistlin rapped the shins of those in front of him with the end of the Staff of Magius, ordering them to get out of the way.
Several rounded on him angrily, only to shut their mouths and swallow their ire when they saw the sunlight flash on his medallion. Sullenly, the dark pilgrims drew aside to allow Raistlin to bully his way through to the front of the line.
Raistlin kept his hood pulled low over his head. He was wearing black leather gloves to conceal his golden skin as well as his knife. He feigned a limp, giving him a plausible reason for leaning on a staff. And though the Staff of Magius garnered some curious glances, the staff had a way of appearing nondescript as circumstances required.
Dragons of the Hourglass Mage Page 28