Palin was looking. He had never seen the Portal, not really, only in the illusion Dalamar had created. But Palin had studied the Portal—as do all mages. A huge oval door mounted on a raised dais, the Portal was ornamented and guarded by the heads of five dragons, their sinuous necks snaking up from the floor. The five heads looked inward: two on one side, three on the other. Their five mouths were open, singing endless, silent paeans to the Dark Queen.
Inside the Portal was a darkness that only the eyes of magic could penetrate.
Whenever the curtain concealing the Portal was lifted, the five heads would come to life, glowing with light: blue, green, red, white, black. They would kill and devour any mage foolish enough to attempt to enter on his own, as it had been during his Test.…
The light blinded Palin. He blinked painfully and rubbed his burning eyes. The dragon heads shone only more brilliantly, and now he could hear them each begin to chant.
The first: From darkness to darkness, my voice echoes in the emptiness.
The second: From this world to the next, my voice cries with life.
The third: From darkness to darkness, I shout. Beneath my feet, all is made firm.
The fourth: Time that flows, hold in your course.
And finally, the last head: Because by fate even the gods are cast down, weep ye all with me.
… His vision blurred, and tears streamed down his cheeks as he attempted to see through the dazzling light into the portal. The multicolored lights began to whirl madly, spinning around the outside of the great, gaping, twisting void within the center.…
“Why, would you look at that!” Tas said suddenly. Jumping to his feet, he ran over to tug on Palin’s sleeve. “I can see inside! Palin, I can see inside! Can you?”
Palin gasped. He could see inside the Portal. A flat, empty gray landscape spread out beneath a flat, empty gray sky.
The five dragon heads were silent, gray. The eyes of the dragons, which should have been gleaming in fierce warning at this attempt to break through their guardianship, were dull, lackluster, empty.
“That’s the Abyss,” said Tas solemnly. “I recognize it. That is, I sort of recognize it. But it’s the wrong color. I don’t know if I’ve told you or not—”
“You have,” Palin murmured, knowing it would make no difference.
Tas continued. “But I was in the Abyss once, and I was considerably disappointed. I’d heard such a lot about it: fiends and imps and revenants and ghosts and souls in torment, and I was really looking forward to a visit. But the Abyss isn’t like that. It’s empty and horrible and boring. I was very nearly bored to death.”
One man’s heaven is another man’s hell, as the saying went, and that was certainly true of kender.
“Almost as boring as it is around here,” Tas added—an ominous statement for a kender, as Palin should have noted.
He was lost in thought, however, trying to explain the inexplicable. What was the matter with the Portal?
Tas rambled on. “But I clearly remember that the Abyss was not this gray color. It was sort of pinkish, like a fire burning in the distance. That’s how Caramon described it. Maybe the Dark Queen decided to redecorate.” The kender brightened at the thought. “She could have chosen a better color scheme—all that gray just doesn’t quite do it for me. Still, any change would be an improvement.”
Tas gave his tunic a tug, checked to make sure he had all his pouches, and started forward. “Let’s go take a look.”
Palin was only half paying attention; his mind was occupied in recalling everything he’d ever heard or read about the Portal and the Abyss. The part of him that was constantly on the alert when around kender—a survival trait many humans developed—rang a warning, interrupted his thoughts.
Jumping forward, tripping over the dais in his haste, Palin managed to grab hold of Tas seconds before the kender would have walked straight into the Portal.
“What?” Tas asked, wide-eyed. “What’s wrong?”
Palin was having difficulty breathing. “The spell … might have activated.… Not permitted inside … Could have … been killed …”
“I suppose I could have,” Tas said on reflection. “Then, on the other hand, I suppose I couldn’t. That’s the way the fireball bounces, as Fizban used to say. Besides, Raistlin seems to be getting impatient. I don’t think it would be polite to keep him waiting any longer.”
Palin stopped breathing altogether. His flesh went cold; his heart shriveled. “My … uncle …”
“He’s standing right there.” Tas pointed into the Portal, into the empty gray landscape. “Can’t you see him?”
Palin gripped the Staff of Magius, leaned on it for support. He looked inside the Portal again, fearing what he would see.…
Raistlin’s body hung limply from the wall by his wrists, the black robes in tatters, the long white hair falling across his face as his head lolled forward.… From chest to groin, Raistlin’s flesh had been ripped apart, torn asunder by sharp talons, exposing living organs. The dripping sound Palin heard was the sound of the mage’s lifeblood, falling drop by drop into a great stone pool at his feet.
Raistlin stood, wearing the black robes, his arms folded across his chest. His head was bowed, brooding, but he would occasionally glance in the direction of the Portal, as if waiting for someone. Then he would return to his thoughts; unpleasant ones, to judge by the grim expression on the thin, pale face.
“Uncle!”
It was only a whisper; Palin barely heard himself speak the word.
But Raistlin heard him. The archmage lifted his head, turned the gaze of the golden, hourglass eyes on Palin.
“Why do you hesitate, Nephew?” a dry, rasping voice demanded irritably. “Hurry! You’ve already wasted enough time! The kender has been here before. He will guide you.”
“That’s me,” cried Tas in excitement. “He means me! I’m going to be a guide! I’ve never been a guide before. Except to Tarsis, which wasn’t by the sea when it should have been, but that wasn’t my fault.” He grabbed hold of Palin’s hand. “Come on, follow me. I know exactly what to do.…”
“But I can’t!” Palin wrenched his hand out of Tas’s pinching grip. “Uncle!” he called. “What about the Portal? According to the laws of magic, we can’t—”
“Laws,” Raistlin said softly, musingly. He looked away, looked at the distant horizon, the pale gray of the endless sky. “All laws are suspended, Nephew, all rules broken. You may enter the Portal safely. No one will stop you. No one.”
Laws suspended. Rules broken. What a strange thing to say. Yet, Palin had evidence of that—or something like that—right before his eyes. He could enter the Portal without hindrance. The Dark Queen would not try to stop him. He was in no danger.
“Wrong, Nephew,” said Raistlin, answering Palin’s thoughts. “You are in very great danger, you and every other mortal on Krynn. Come to me, and all will be explained.” The hourglass eyes narrowed. “Unless you are afraid …”
Palin was afraid. He had good reason to be afraid, but he said quietly, “I’ve come this far, Uncle. I won’t go back.”
“Well said, Nephew. I’m glad to see I haven’t wasted my time on you. When you are here, come find me.”
Palin drew in a deep breath, held fast to the staff in one hand and took hold of Tasslehoff with the other.
Together the two walked up to stand before the five dragons’ heads.
“We will enter,” Palin told them, and he took a step forward.
The dragons did not move, did not speak, did not see, did not hear.
“The Portal isn’t broken,” Palin said to himself softly. “It’s … dead!”
Tas and Palin entered the Portal to the Abyss with the same ease as they would have walked through Tika’s kitchen door.
7
The abyss. The search.
An immortal council.
hey stood in the midst of gray: gray ground, gray sky. There was no sign of life, not even cursed life.
Raistlin was nowhere in sight.
“Uncle!” Palin started to call.
“Shh! Hush! Don’t!” Tas cried, clutching at Palin and nearly knocking him over. “Don’t say a word. Don’t even think it!”
“What? Why not?” Palin asked.
“Things happen in a very strange way around this place,” Tas whispered, glancing furtively about. “When I was here, I thought about how nice it would be to see a tree. And one appeared—right like that. Only it wasn’t a green, leafy tree. It was a dead tree. And then I thought about Flint, ’cause, according to Fizban, I’m supposed to meet Flint under a tree in the Afterlife. And a dwarf appeared, only it wasn’t Flint. It was an evil dwarf named Arack and he came at me with a knife and—”
“I understand,” Palin said softly. “What we wish for, we receive, only not quite the way we want it. Do you suppose, then, that Raistlin … that he was just an illusion? Because I wanted to see him?”
“He seemed awfully real, didn’t he?” Tas said after a moment’s reflection. “That mysterious bit about laws suspended and rules broken—that’s Raistlin all over. And the way he told us to meet him here and then left before we came. That’s like him, too.”
“But he told us to hurry.…” Palin considered the matter. “ ‘Laws suspended … rules broken … When you are here, come to find me …’ Tas,” he said, with a sudden idea. “How do you travel through this place? You don’t walk, do you?”
“Well, you can, but the scenery’s nothing special, not to mention that we don’t know where we’re going … Do we know where we’re going?”
Palin shook his head.
“Then I wouldn’t advise it,” Tas said. “The last time I was here, I remember this really gruesome character with a beard that sprouted out of his skull and a smell like a gully dwarf picnic only worse. He was the one who found me and took me to see the Dark Queen. She was not nice,” Tas added severely. “She said to me—”
“How did you get to see the queen?” Palin interrupted, keeping tight hold of the reins of conversation, well knowing that, if allowed to run loose, the kender would veer off into any of a half-dozen conversational side roads.
Tas’s brows wrinkled in thought. “Well, it wasn’t by carriage. I would have remembered that. I believe … Yes. The gruesome character put his hand—it was more of a claw than a hand, as I recall—put it around a medallion he wore on his neck and one minute we were someplace and the next minute we were someplace else.”
“You’re sure he wore a medallion?” Palin asked, disappointed.
“Yes, positive. I remember because it was such an interesting-looking medallion—it had a five-headed dragon on it—and I would have liked to borrow it for a while, just to get a closer look, and—”
“The staff,” said Palin.
“No. Medallion. I’m certain. I—”
“I mean, we might be able to use the staff to find my uncle. Here, take hold of my hand.” Palin grasped the staff more tightly.
“Magic?” Tas asked eagerly. “I do love magic. I remember once when Raistlin magicked me into a duck pond. It was …”
Palin paid no attention. Closing his eyes, he grasped the staff in his hand, felt the smooth wood warm beneath his touch. He thought about his uncle, remembered him as he had seen him, heard his voice, heard it clearly.
Hurry! Come to me.…
“Oh!” Tas gasped. “Palin! Look! It worked! We’re moving.”
Palin opened his eyes.
The gray, unchanging landscape slid beneath his feet; the gray sky revolved around him, swirled around them, faster and faster, until Palin was sick and dizzy at the sight.
The swirling gray surrounded him, spun around him. The ground fell away, but the gray held him, would not release him.
Round … and round … and round …
Round … and round … and round …
Spinning his senses away, drawing consciousness from him like a thread drawn from the spindle, spinning, spinning on a great wheel, round and round … and round … spun thinner and thinner and—
Snap.
Palin couldn’t breathe. A hand was pressed over his mouth. He struggled, tried to lift his own hands to break the smothering grip …
“Hush!” said a whispering voice. “Speak no word! Make no sound. We are not supposed to be here.”
Palin opened his eyes, stared into golden, hourglass eyes. The hand covering his mouth was thin and bony, the fingers long and delicate. The skin was gold-tinged. It was his uncle’s hand, his uncle who held him.
Palin nodded to indicate he understood. Raistlin released his grip, and Palin drew a deep breath.
Something wriggled at his side. Tasslehoff.
The kender was saying something, but Palin couldn’t hear him. He knew Tas was talking, because the kender’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out.
Tasslehoff, looking extremely puzzled, felt his throat, spoke again. Nothing.
Cupping his hand over his ear, Tas tried again. No sound came out.
In desperation, the kender stuck out his tongue, nearly went cross-eyed trying to see what was wrong with it.
Raistlin, moving close to Palin, spoke softly. “The spell is not permanent. Don’t let go of him.”
Again Palin nodded, though he couldn’t help wondering why Raistlin had brought the kender along at all. He was about to ask, but Raistlin—glaring at him—sternly enjoined silence.
Palin and Raistlin and Tas were hidden in deep shadows behind an enormous marble column, gleaming white, with black and red striations. Next to Palin was another column—black marble, with red and white striations. And beyond that, a third column of red marble, with white and black markings swirled through it. There was no floor or ground beneath their feet; only darkness.
Palin gasped slightly. A strong hand closed over his; thin fingers dug painfully into his arm.
Raistlin said no word. None was necessary. Palin shut his mouth, resolved to make no further sound. He grabbed hold of Tas, who was starting to creep away. Together, they looked down.
A group of people stood in a circle. Beneath their feet was a marble floor. In the center of the floor was a black circle of nothingness. Radiating out from that circle were bands of alternating color: white, black, red. The people—men and women—stood on the edge of the circle, each one on his or her own color. The people were talking, arguing.
Palin glanced at Raistlin in puzzlement.
The archmage inclined his hooded head in the direction of the people, touched his ear.
Palin listened closely, and, when he realized the import of their conversation, the enormity of what they were saying stole his voice away. He could not have made a sound if he had wanted to. He listened and watched with rapt attention while his soul trembled. Even Tas was, at last, truly quiet, overawed.
The people on whom they were spying were the gods of Krynn.
“It is all Hiddukel’s fault!” Chislev, a goddess, clad in spun green cloth, her brown hair wreathed in leaves and flowers, pointed an accusing finger at a stout god standing on a black band. “He tricked me and the dwarf. Isn’t that true, Reorx?”
The dwarf, whose fine clothes were considerably the worse for wear, held his plumed hat in his hands. He was subdued, but anger smoldered in his eyes.
“Chislev speaks truly. I was the one who forged the blasted rock—at her insistence, I might add. Still, it was Hiddukel who thought up this whole scheme.”
The god—a large, gross god with a slick manner—smiled aloofly, feigned indifference. His gaze, from out of slit eyes, slid nervously sideways to a beautiful, cold-faced, cold-eyed woman wearing shining black armor, who stood at the head of the circle.
“Well, Hiddukel?” Takhisis’s voice seemed to embody darkness. “What have you to say for yourself?”
“What I did was perfectly legitimate, my queen,” Hiddukel replied, oiled and smooth. “We all know the history of the Graygem. There’s no need to repeat it. A harmless little
plot, intended merely to further expand the glory of Your Majesty.”
“And turn a profit for yourself?”
“I look out for myself,” Hiddukel whined, shrinking back from Takhisis’s anger. “What’s the harm in that? If some people”—his greasy face turned to Chislev—“are so naive as to fall for it, then that’s their problem, isn’t it? And if some”—Hiddukel glanced disparagingly at the dwarf—“are so stupid as to try to capture Chaos—”
“That was an accident!” Reorx roared. “I intended to snatch only a part of Chaos—a wee morsel. You must believe me, sir.”
The dwarf turned humbly to a tall, grim-faced god wearing silver armor, who occupied a white band next to Takhisis. “I had no intention of capturing Himself,” Reorx added in subdued tones.
“I am well aware of that,” said Paladine. “We are all to blame here.”
“Some more than others. Powerful magic was needed to hold Chaos,” growled Sargonnas, a tall, horned god who stood near Takhisis. “It seems to me that the blame lies with our rebellious children.”
The three gods of magic drew together.
“It wasn’t our fault,” Lunitari said.
“We knew nothing about it,” Nuitari replied.
“No one consulted us,” Solinari protested.
Reorx grumbled. “It was Lunitari who lost the Graygem!”
“Your grubby little gnome stole it!” Lunitari flashed back.
“If only someone had asked me,” Zivilyn complained, “I could have looked into the future and warned you—”
“When?” Morgion asked sarcastically. “In another six or seven millennia? It would take you that long to make up your mind about which future was which.”
The lesser gods began to argue loudly, each blaming the other. In each voice, on each face, strain and fear were evident. The bickering and accusations dragged on interminably. Gilean read long passages from his book, attempting to either fix blame or shift it, as the various gods requested. Reorx gave an impassioned speech in his own defense. Hiddukel held forth at great length, talking very long and saying very little. Sargonnas blamed everything on the weak, puny, and sniveling races of humans and elves and ogres, claiming that if they’d only had sense enough to become servants of the minotaur, this calamity would never have happened. Zivilyn responded by showing innumerable versions of the future and past, which completely confused and confounded the issue, resolved nothing.
Dragons of Summer Flame Page 39