The Spiritors swept out of the room, their robes rustling with righteous indignation. Raistlin started to join them. He took a step then, clutching at his chest, cried out in pain. His staff fell from his limp hand. He stumbled, staggered, and sank to his knees, coughing and spewing up blood. With a groan, he slumped onto his belly and lay on the floor, twitching and writhing in agony.
The Spiritors stopped, staring at him in alarm. Several looked uncertainly at the Nightlord.
“Should we help?” asked one.
“Leave him. Morgion will see to his cleric,” said the Nightlord, and he waved his hand dismissively and hastened off.
The Spiritors did not wait to be told twice. Covering their mouths and noses with their black sleeves, they tried to get away from Raistlin as fast as possible.
Once he was certain he was alone, Raistlin rose to his feet. He picked up the Staff of Magius and walked to the door and looked out into the hall.
A narrow bridge of black stone extended some distance ahead of him. At the end was the shadowy alcove and the throne of the Dark Queen. She had not yet made an appearance. Perhaps she was in the Abbey, listening to the complaints of her Nightlord. In the hall, drums beat and soldiers cheered. Another Dragon Highlord was making his grand entrance. Raistlin ventured out onto the bridge. He did not go far. He wanted to see, not be seen.
The bridge had no rails, no barriers. Raistlin peered over the edge, looking down on the heads of the crowd that was far below him. The soldiers surged and heaved and wriggled, reminding him of maggots feeding off rotting flesh. The platforms on which the Dragon Highlords had their thrones rose high above the floor. Narrow, stone bridges extended from the antechambers of each Highlord to the throne. Thus, the Highlords were spared the need of walking among the masses.
Ariakas’s throne reared above all the others. His throne was in the place of honor, directly beneath the Dark Queen’s alcove.
The Emperor’s throne was made of onyx and was plain and unadorned. Takhisis’s throne, by contrast, was hideously beautiful. The back of the throne was formed of the gracefully curving necks and heads of five dragons, two on the right, two on the left, and one in the center. The arms of the throne were the dragon’s legs; the seat, the dragon’s breast. The throne was made entirely of jewels: emeralds, rubies, sapphires, pearls, and black diamonds.
From his vantage point on the bridge, Raistlin could see two of the other Highlords: the handsome and disdainful face of Salah-Kahn and the ugly, cunning face of the half-ogre Lucien of Takar. The white throne was empty. Ariakas had been shouting for Lord Toede, Highlord of the White, but no one by that name was answering.
The same Toede who had been Fewmaster in Solace. The same Toede whose search for the blue crystal staff had plunged Raistlin and his friends into danger and started them on the bright and shining, dark and tortuous paths they walked.
Raistlin could not see Kitiara from where he stood. She must be seated on the throne to Ariakas’s right. Raistlin advanced along the bridge. He no longer worried about anyone below seeing him. The domed ceiling of the hall was wreathed in smoke from the breath of the dragons, who were watching from their alcoves high above and from the hundreds of torches mounted on the walls and the fires burning in iron braziers. In his black robes, Raistlin was just another shadow in a hall of shadows.
Takhisis would be watching him, as she was watching with avid interest everything that was going on. The air in the hall reeked of smoke and steel, leather and intrigue. Certainly Ariakas must have smelled the stench. And yet he sat on his throne alone, isolated, apart, supremely confident and invincible. He had no armed guards, only the Crown of Power. Let his underlings ring themselves round with steel. Ariakas feared nothing and no one. He had the backing of his Queen.
“But does he?” Raistlin wondered.
A ruler is supposed to appear confident. Even arrogance has its place upon the throne. But no god can forgive hubris. The last living man who had worn the crown had suffered from that malady. The Kingpriest of Istar had believed himself to be as powerful as any god. The gods of Krynn had shown him power; they had sent a fiery mountain crashing down upon his head. Ariakas had made the mistake of thinking too well of himself.
Raistlin was finally in a position where he could see Kitiara.
And with her was Tanis Half-Elven.
16
Crown of Love. Crown of Power.
26th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
aistlin had not anticipated finding Tanis there, and he was annoyed. The presence of the half-elf could seriously disrupt his plans. Tanis was not standing at Kit’s side; no one was allowed on the platform with the Highlord. But he was as close to her as he could manage, however, standing on the step leading to the throne.
Raistlin’s lip curled. Tanis had come to Neraka to save the woman he loved. But did he know, even at that moment, which woman that was?
The council meeting proceeded. Raistlin, high above the thrones of the Highlords, could hear Ariakas’s deep bellow, but much of what he was saying was swallowed by the vastness of the chamber. From what he could gather, Highlord Toede was not there because he had been slain by kender. And that news prompted a sound Raistlin could hear clearly—Kitiara’s scornful laughter.
Ariakas was furious. He rose to his feet and started to descend the platform. Kitiara did not move. Her soldiers grabbed their weapons. Raistlin was amused to see Tanis take a protective step toward Kit, who remained seated on her throne, regarding Ariakas with a look of unutterable scorn. The other two Highlords were on their feet, watching with interest, neither offering any support, both probably hoping Ariakas and Kit would kill each other.
Raistlin walked to the edge of the bridge and looked down on Ariakas, who was directly beneath him. That was the moment to strike. No one was paying any attention to him. Everyone was watching the Highlords. Raistlin readied his magic.
Then he went blind. Darkness obliterated his sight, filled his mind, his heart, his lungs. He froze in place, for he was standing on the edge of the bridge. A wrong step would carry him over. He could always use the magic of his staff, which would allow him to float like a feather through the air, but everyone in the hall would see him, including Ariakas, unless they were all blind as he was at the moment. Reading his thoughts, an unseen hand tore his staff from his grasp and smote him in the back. His heart lurching in terror, he pitched forward. He landed, hard, on his knees, and though his wrists tingled and his knees were bruised, he shook with relief, for he had not plunged over the edge.
He reached out a shaking hand and felt nothing in front of him except air and realized how close he had come. He longed to crawl to safety, but he had lost all sense of direction and he feared that he might yet fall. The hand was pounding him, grinding him, crushing him into the stone. Then suddenly, when it seemed his heart would burst, the hand released him, the darkness lifted from his eyes. Raistlin scrambled back until he bumped into something solid, the Dark Queen’s throne.
Raistlin turned to face her not because he wanted to, but because she compelled him. And that was her mistake.
She was a shadow, and for Raistlin the shadows held no terror.
He looked down to see his sister and the rest groveling in fear. Kitiara cowered on her throne. Tanis Half-Elven had been driven to his knees. Ariakas knelt before his Queen. They were nothing, and she was everything. Takhisis had her foot on their necks. Once she was assured of their submissiveness, once she was certain that they knew she owned them, she lifted her foot and permitted them to rise.
Her gaze flicked over Raistlin, and he knew himself forgotten. He was nothing, a nonentity, a grain of sand, a speck of dust, a drop of water, a flake of ash. Her attention was focused on those who held the power, those who were important to her: her Highlords and the struggle that would end with the most powerful among them ascending to the throne and dealing the death blow to the forces of Light.
Raistlin blended into the darkness, became the darkness. H
e watched and waited for his chance.
Takhisis began to orate. Kitiara looked pleased; Ariakas, baleful. Raistlin could not hear what the Queen was saying. She was talking to those who mattered. He watched the proceedings, feeling as though he were watching a play from the last seat in the very last row.
Kitiara left her throne and, motioning to Tanis, descended the stairs and advanced onto the floor of the hall. The soldiers fell back to give her room. Tanis walked behind her like a whipped dog brought to heel.
A platform reared up like a striking snake from the middle of the hall. Kitiara climbed the spiky stairs that were difficult to traverse, apparently, for Tanis, coming after her, kept slipping, much to the amusement of the onlookers. Following the analogy of a play, Tanis was the understudy called on to perform at the last moment. He had not rehearsed, did not know his lines.
Kitiara made a grand gesture, and Lord Soth entered, his awful presence overpowering all the other actors in the piece. The death knight carried in his arms a body wrapped in white cloth. He laid the shrouded figure at Kitiara’s feet; then he vanished, a dramatic exit.
Kitiara reached down and unwound the cloth. The light shone on golden hair. Raistlin moved closer to the edge of the bridge for a better view as Laurana struggled to fight her way out of the winding sheet. Tanis instinctively reached out to help her. Kitiara stopped him with a look. When he obeyed her, she rewarded him with that crooked smile.
Raistlin watched with interest. Together at last were the three who had started it all. The three who symbolized the struggle. The Darkness and the Light and the soul that wavered in between.
Laurana stood tall and proud in her silver armor, and she was all that Raistlin remembered of beauty. He looked down on her, and he sighed softly and pressed his lips together grimly. He knew loss in that moment, but he also knew she had never been his to lose.
Tanis looked at Laurana, and Raistlin saw that the wavering soul had finally made the choice. Or perhaps Tanis’s soul had made the choice long before, and his heart had just now caught up. Love’s light illuminated the two of them, shutting out Kitiara, leaving her alone in the darkness.
Kit understood and the knowledge was bitter. Raistlin saw her crooked smile twist and harden.
“So you are capable of love, my sister,” said Raistlin. And he knew then that he would have his chance.
Kitiara ordered Tanis to lay his sword at the foot of the Emperor, swear fealty to Ariakas. Tanis obeyed. What else could he do when the woman he loved was a prisoner of the woman he had once imagined he loved?
It was strange that Laurana, the prisoner, was the only one of the three who was truly free. She loved Tanis with her entire being. Her love had brought her to this place of darkness, and her light shone more brightly still. Her love was her own, and if Tanis did not return it, that no longer mattered. Love strengthened her, ennobled her. Her love for one opened her heart to love for all.
Kitiara, by contrast, was tangled in a web of her own passions, always reaching for the prize that hung out of reach. Love to her meant power over one, and that meant power over all.
Tanis climbed the stairs leading to the throne of Ariakas, and Raistlin saw the half-elf’s eyes go to the crown. Tanis’s gaze fixed on it. His lips moved, unconsciously repeating the words, Whoever wears the crown rules! His expression hardened; his hand clenched on the hilt of the sword.
Raistlin understood Tanis’s plan as clearly as if he and the half-elf had spent years working on it. In a sense, perhaps they had. The two of them had always been close in a way none of their friends had ever understood. Darkness speaking to dark, perhaps.
And what of Takhisis? Did the Queen know that the half-elf, shaved clean of the beard that had once hidden his shame, climbed the stairs toward destiny, prepared to sacrifice his life for the sake of others? Did she know that in the heart of her darkness, down in her dungeons, a kender and a barmaid and a warrior were grimly prepared to do the same? Did Takhisis realize that the wizard wearing the black robes that marked his allegiance to self-serving ambition would be ready to sacrifice his life for the freedom to walk whatever path he chose?
Raistlin raised his hand. The words to the spell he had memorized the night before blazed in his mind like the words he’d written in blood on the lambskin.
Tanis climbed the stairs, his hand clutching his sword’s hilt. Raistlin recognized the sword. Alhana Starbreeze had given it to Tanis in Silvanesti. The sword was Wyrmsbane, the mate to the sword Tanis had received from the dead elf king Kith-Kanan in Pax Tharkas. Raistlin remembered that the weapon was magical, though he could not remember at that moment what magic the sword possessed.
It didn’t matter. The sword’s magic would not be powerful enough to pierce the magical field generated by the Crown of Power. When his sword struck that field, the blast would blow him apart. Ariakas would remain safe behind the shield; not so much as a splatter of blood smearing his gleaming armor.
Tanis reached the top of the stairs, and he started to draw his sword. He was nervous; his hands shook.
Ariakas stood up from the throne, planting his powerful legs and crossing his bulging arms over his chest. He was not looking at Tanis. He was staring across the hall at Kitiara, who had her own arms crossed and was staring defiantly back. Multicolored light flared from the crown and shimmered around Ariakas, making it seem as though he were being guarded by a shield of rainbows.
Tanis slid his sword from the sheath and, at the sound, Ariakas’s attention snapped back to the half-elf. He looked down his nose at him, sneered at him, trying to intimidate him. Tanis didn’t notice. He was staring at the crown, his eyes wide with dismay. He had just realized his plan to kill Ariakas must fail.
Raistlin’s spell burned on his lips; the magic burned in his blood. He had no time for Tanis’s eternal wavering.
“Strike, Tanis!” Raistlin urged. “Do not fear the magic! I will aid you!”
Tanis looked startled and he glanced toward the direction of the sound that he must have heard more with his heart than with his ears, for Raistlin had spoken softly.
Ariakas was starting to grow impatient. A man of action, he was bored with the ceremony. He considered the council meeting a waste of time that could be spent more profitably pursuing the war. He gave a snarl and made a peremptory gesture, indicating Tanis was to swear his fealty and get on with it.
Still, Tanis hesitated.
“Strike, Tanis! Swiftly!” Raistlin urged.
Tanis stared straight at Raistlin, but whether he could see him or not, whether he would act or not, Raistlin could not tell. Tanis started to lay the sword down on the floor; then, resolve hardening his expression, he shifted his stance and aimed a blow at Ariakas.
Raistlin and Caramon had often fought together, combining sorcery and steel. As Tanis’s sword arm started to rise, Raistlin cast his spell.
“Bentuk-nir daya sihir, colang semua pesona dalam. Perubahan ke sihir-nir!” Raistlin cried and, drawing a rune in the air, he hurled the spell at Ariakas.
The magic flowed through Raistlin and burst from him, crackling out of his fingertips, blazing through the air. The magic struck the rainbow shield, dispelling it. Tanis’s sword met no obstacle. Wyrmsbane pierced Ariakas’s black, dragon-scale breastplate, sliced through flesh and muscle and bone, and sank deep into his chest.
Ariakas roared, more in astonishment than in pain. The agony of dying and the terrible knowledge that he was dying would come to him with his next and final breath. Raistlin did not linger to see the end. He did not care who would win the Crown of Power. For the moment, the Dark Queen was intent upon the struggle. He had to make good his escape.
But the powerful spell he had cast had weakened him. He stifled a cough in the sleeve of his robes and, grabbing the staff, ran along the bridge, heading back toward the antechamber. He had almost reached the entrance when a mass of draconian guards blocked his way.
“The foul assassin!” Raistlin gasped, gesturing. “A wizard. I trie
d to stop him—”
The draconian didn’t wait, but shoved Raistlin aside, slamming him back into the walls. Soldiers flowed around him, dashing down the bridge.
They would soon realize they had been duped, and they would be back. Raistlin, coughing, fumbled in his pouch and took out the dragon orb. He barely had breath enough left to chant the words.
The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of Caramon’s cell. The door was open. The cell was empty. A charred patch on the floor was all that remained of a bozak draconian. A pile of greasy ash denoted the demise of a baaz draconian. Caramon and Berem, Tika and Tas were gone. Raistlin heard guttural voices shouting that the prisoners had escaped.
But where had they gone?
Raistlin swore under his breath and looked around for some clue. At the end of the corridor, an iron door had been torn off its hinges.
Jasla was calling, and Berem had answered.
Raistlin leaned on the staff and drew in a ragged breath. He could breathe easier; his strength was returning. He was about to go in pursuit of Berem when a hand snaked out of the shadows. Cold fingers closed painfully over his wrist. Long nails scraped his skin and dug into his flesh.
“Not so fast, young magus,” said Fistandantilus. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
The voice was real and close, no longer in his head. Raistlin could feel the old man’s breath warm on his cheek. The breath came from a living body, not a live corpse.
The hand held him fast. The bony fingers with their long, yellowed nails tightened their grip. Raistlin could not see the face, for it was hidden in the shadows. He had no need to see it. He knew the face as well or better than he knew his own. In some ways, the face was his own.
“Only one of us can be the master,” said Fistandantilus.
The green bloodstone mottled with red striations glistened in the light of the Staff of Magius.
17
Dragons of the Hourglass Mage Page 31