“You know who my parents are,” she cried, and her hand closed over his. “You know who I am! Tell me, please. How did you find out? Did you go to see Prot. Is he well? Does he miss me?”
“I did not visit the Irda,” Raistlin replied. “I had no need. I was once known as the Master of the Present and the Past. Time holds no constraints for me. The river’s waters carry me wherever I want to go.”
He drank his tea, moistened his throat. His voice grew stronger, and he continued.
“When I first heard of you, heard of your claim, I disregarded it. My brother, Caramon, told me the legend, of how a mysterious woman seduced me, bore away my seed within her, and cast on me a magic spell of forgetfulness. I did not believe it. What magic exists that could be powerful enough to banish the knowledge from my heart that I had once been loved. Not even death can do so much,” he added softly, almost to himself.
Usha kept silent, hoping, dreading.
“And so I paid little attention to your claims,” Raistlin went on. “Caramon assured me there had been others before you and, I assume, there will be others to come after. I thought little more of the matter until I attended the Wizards’ Conclave in Wayreth Tower. Again your name was spoken in connection with mine, only this time it was spoken seriously. Dalamar the Dark made the claim.”
Raistlin’s voice hardened. “Yes, Usha, you do well to shiver at that name. He intended to use you, if the claim proved true, use you to gain a hold over me. I had no choice. I must know for certain. I waded Time’s dark river; I ventured into the still waters of the Irda’s stagnant pond. I found the truth.”
He coughed again, but only briefly.
“I do not know where your parents were from originally. I did not venture back so far. When I first saw them, they had been captured and made slaves by minotaur, were sent to serve aboard a minotaur ship. The minotaur do not treat their slaves kindly. One night, believing that death could hold no terrors for them equal to what they already knew, your mother and father gave their lives into the hands of Zeboim. They cried to her for mercy and jumped overboard into a raging sea.
“Zeboim is a capricious goddess. She will turn with savage fury on those who serve her faithfully. She rewards those who might seem least deserving. She was flattered that these two had sought her protection and provided them with the wreckage of a raft. Her breath guided them to a safe landfall and, in this, I think the goddess intended mischief. She led them to the secret isle of the Irda.
“The Irda took pity on the two, who were discovered cast ashore, more dead than alive. The Irda gave your parents shelter and food. They took care of your mother when it was apparent that you were on the way. Yet, though not brutal or cruel as were the minotaur, the Irda inflicted their own form of torture. They did not intend it,” Raistlin added, shrugging. “They simply could not understand the needs of two humans. When your parents were well, they wanted to leave, to return to their homeland. The Irda refused. They feared that your parents would betray them to the rest of the world. They made them virtual prisoners. Your father rebelled, defied them openly.”
Raistlin gaze steadily at her. “The Irda killed him.”
“No!” Usha faltered, shocked. “That can’t be true. I don’t believe it! They could never have done such a thing! Why, Prot wouldn’t even crush a spider!”
“The Irda didn’t mean to. You know them, Usha. Can’t you picture how it was? They were repulsed and angered by the man’s anger, his violence. They intended only to teach him a lesson. But their magic was too powerful, they went too far. None of their healing arts, none of their prayers, would revive him.
“Not long after that, you were born. Your mother, in her grief, wrapped you well one night, laid you down in your cradle. Then she walked into the sea and drowned. The Irda found her footsteps on the shore, but they never found her body. Perhaps, after all, Zeboim demanded a price for her previous kindness.”
Usha sat with her head lowered, tears clinging to her lashes.
“Remorseful, the Irda raised you,” Raistlin continued with the story. “They lavished on you all kindness, denied you nothing except the knowledge of who you are. They could not tell you the truth without telling you all. And that they would never do.”
“I understand,” Usha said, choking. “The Irda did not want to make me unhappy.”
“They did not want to admit that they had acted wrongly,” Raistlin said, his voice sharp. “The pride and arrogance of the Irda, which in ancient days brought ruin on their own race, is now likely to bring ruin to us all. Still,” he added grimly, “I must not be uncharitable. They have paid for their folly.…”
Usha was not listening. She had been lost in her own thoughts, seeking back through her childhood, hoping to find some fragment of memory, a scrap of a lullaby, the last loving look of her mother’s eyes. Only half hearing, she looked up. “What did you say? I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Never mind. It wasn’t important.” Raistlin rose from the table. “I must go. But, first, I give you this advice, Usha, whose name means ‘the dawn.’ You are thinking of fleeing Palanthas in an effort to escape your ‘teachers.’ ”
Usha stared. “How did you—”
“There is no need,” he said, cutting short her question. “Your training is complete. You are free to leave the guild this night and never return.”
“They won’t let me,” Usha began.
“I think that, once they know who you are, they’ll let you go.”
“What do you mean?” Usha lifted her eyes. “You’re … not going to tell them …”
“I see no reason to do so. This remains between you and me and, perhaps, Dalamar, if he oversteps his bounds. Besides, I have a reason for wanting you to stay. Someone is on his way to Palanthas now. He comes seeking you, and you, I think, will want to be where you can be found. This is someone,” Raistlin added dryly, a slight smile touching his thin lips, “who will be very glad to know that you and he are not related.”
“Palin?” Usha whispered. “He’s safe? He’s coming here, for me?”
“I gave him that task,” Raistlin said. “It was one he accepted with alacrity.”
Usha’s face grew hot, as if she’d been drinking sparkling wine. She sat wrapped in warmth, reveling in the sweet, bubbling taste of youthful, joyous love, thrilling in the knowledge that she was loved in turn. But the bubbles soon burst upon her tongue, the taste of the wine turned sour. It occurred to her that she would have to admit to Palin that she had told a lie, a monstrous lie.
The realization was like a bitter draft poured into her sweet drink. She started to ask Raistlin for help, only to find that Raistlin was gone.
Startled, uneasy, Usha looked around. She had not seen him leave, yet the door stood open to the night. She went to the door, stared out into the alley. But if the archmage were there, he had melted into the night, become one with the shadows.
“Raistlin?” she risked calling, once.
Overhead, a crow circled, answered with a single, mocking “Caw!”
Shivering, despite the heat, Usha went into the hall, grabbed her possessions, and made her way back to her lodgings.
5
Return to palanthas.
The mage ware shop.
A gray knight’s suspicions.
hen the mists of the ring’s magic cleared, Palin stood on a street inside a city that, after a moment’s brief disorientation, he recognized as Palanthas. The blood-tipped minarets of the Tower of High Sorcery gleamed sullenly in the bright sunlight. Nearby, the Temple of Paladine was in shadow, its white marble dimmed, as if obscured by clouds. But there were no clouds in the eye-aching, brilliant blue sky.
Palin glanced around the street in which he’d materialized. Fortunately, it was a side street, probably in the merchandising part of the city. Shops, not residences, lined the paved road. Several passersby, startled by his sudden appearance, had paused to stare, but—noting the white robes of a mage—they merely gave him
a wide berth and continued on about their business. Palin quickly drew the ring off his finger, slid it into a pouch, and tried to appear nonchalant.
He was amazed at the sight of the large number of people in the street, most of them walking along calmly, moving about as if this were just another ordinary business day. He wasn’t certain what he’d expected in a city occupied by the dark knights—people locked up inside their houses, perhaps, troops patrolling the streets, gangs of slaves being marched along with their legs in irons. But here were housewives off to market, their children tugging at their skirts; guildsmen trotted along, looking—as always—as if they were in a hurry to be somewhere important. There were even the usual loafers and loungers and ne’er-do-wells hanging about outside the ale houses, beggars on the corners.
The city was so much like the Palanthas he’d known from years past that Palin wondered if his uncle hadn’t been mistaken. Perhaps Palanthas had not fallen to the Knights of Takhisis. It was all very perplexing. And perhaps the most perplexing question of all: Why was he standing on a strange street corner?
He had expected the ring to take him to the tower. Why had it brought him here? Dalamar must have had a reason.
Palin looked closely at the signs hanging above the doors, hoping to find out what part of town he was in. Almost immediately he had what he thought was the answer to his question. Directly across the street was a mage-ware shop, as denoted by the sign with three moons—the silver, the red, and the black—hanging over the door.
Thinking that even if Dalamar didn’t mean him to come here, this would be a good place to start—and perhaps trade for a few useful magical items while he was here—Palin crossed the street.
The door to the mage-ware shop was open wide in welcome, not unusual, since it was midafternoon of a busy market day. But Palin was surprised to see that no hulking guard stood outside, ready to turn away tourists, gawkers, and kender, who are drawn to mage-ware shops like bees to sugar water.
Palin entered the shop and stood for a moment just inside the door, waiting for his eyes to accustom themselves to the deep shadows after the glaring sunlight. The familiar scents made him feel at home, relieved his uneasiness: the sweet fragrance of dried flowers, not quite able to mask the underlying reek of decay and death, mingled with the musty smell of mildew and the scent of old leather.
The shop was a large one and, apparently, quite prosperous. No fewer than six wooden display cases with glass covers were filled with rings and brooches, pendants and crystals, bracelets and bracers—some of them beautiful, some hideous, some relatively ordinary in appearance. Glass jars containing everything from newt eyeballs suspended in some sort of viscous liquid to what appeared to be licorice whips in another were arranged on shelves. (No spell that Palin had ever heard of involved candy, and he could only assume the licorice was for mages with a sweet tooth.) Rows of spellbooks lined the walls, categorized by the color of their bindings and the occasional rune engraved on their spines. Scrolls, rolled and tied neatly with variously colored ribbons, were ensconced in dusty little nooks. Scroll cases and pouches made of leather, velvet, or plain cloth (for poorer mages) were displayed upon a table, along with a fine selection of small knives.
Everything was in the shop except the shop’s owner.
A red curtain sealed off the back end of the shop. Assuming the owner was there, Palin was about to call out when a voice spoke right behind him.
“If you’re hunting for Mistress Jenna, she’s just stepped out a moment. Perhaps I could help?”
A man, clad in the gray robes of a mage, but wearing a sword at his side, stood next to Palin.
A Knight of the Thorn, Palin realized. The knight must have been hiding in the shadows behind the door.
Palin recognized the name of the owner: Mistress Jenna, a powerful red-robed sorceress and Dalamar’s lover, by all accounts.
“Thank you, no,” Palin said politely. “I’ll wait for Mistress Jenna’s return. I need to ask her a question about a spell component.”
“Perhaps I can answer your question for you,” said the Gray Knight.
“I doubt it,” Palin returned. “The spells I cast and those you cast have nothing whatsoever in common. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait for Mistress Jenna. Don’t let me keep you from leaving. You must have been on your way out the door when I came in.”
“I wasn’t leaving,” the Gray Knight said. His tone was pleasant; he even seemed amused. “I am posted here. By the way, I don’t believe you have signed the book. If you’d step over here …”
The Gray Knight led the way to a small desk that stood to the left of the door. On the desk was a large, leather-bound book with neatly spaced lines drawn across it. Palin, looking down, saw a list of names, followed by what appeared to be a record of purchases or trades. There were not many names, he noted, and the date of the last one was two days prior to this.
“Sign here.” The Gray Knight indicated a line. “And then I’m going to have to ask you to show me all your arcane paraphernalia. Don’t worry. I’ll return the items to you—those which are not on the list of contraband deemed to be a hazard to the state. If they are, they’ll be confiscated. But you will be compensated.”
Palin couldn’t believe he’d heard right. “Hazard … Confiscated! You … you can’t be serious!”
“I assure you, White Robe, I am extremely serious. That is the law, as you undoubtedly knew when you walked in here. Come, come. If the guards let you in at the front gates, you must not be carrying anything too powerful.”
I didn’t enter at the front gates, Palin started to say, caught himself just in time. He could fight, but with what? His little knife against this wizard’s sword? And how came these wizards to be wearing swords anyway? No wizard on Krynn had, up until now, been permitted to combine sword and sorcery! The Dark Queen was certainly granting her minions favors!
Palin knew without doubt that this knight-wizard was more powerful than he was. He could only go along with the man, pretend to be cooperative and pray to Solinari that the Gray Knight didn’t get too curious about the Staff of Magius.
Letting the staff fall against a counter, as if it were nothing of value or important, Palin feigned great reluctance in taking off and handing over his pouches and the few scroll cases he carried. He spread them out in front of the Gray Knight, who did not touch any of them. Muttering a few words, he cast an enchantment on them.
Each pouch and scroll case began to glow with an eerie light—some with a red cast to it.
Satisfied that they were all magic, the Gray Knight ordered Palin to empty the contents of pouch and scroll case onto the table.
Palin put up a brief protest, but did as he was told. Rings, including the one given him by Dalamar, rolled out onto the tabletop. He removed the scrolls, untied the ribbons, permitted the Gray Knight to glance over the spells. All the while, his anger at this treatment mounted, as did his concern.
What would happen when the Gray Knight turned his attention to the Staff of Magius?
Palin glanced surreptitiously around the shop in hopes of finding something to use as a weapon. The brooches and other enchanted objects were locked in cases, which were undoubtedly further guarded by magical spells. He had no idea what any of them did, might well grab a ring that would be more harmful to himself than the Gray Knight. The same held true with the scrolls and the spellbooks; he didn’t have time to go leafing through them.
If nothing else, I can always hit him over the head with a jar, Palin determined grimly, and chose the one he would grab.
The knight had his head bent, scanning the contents of one of Palin’s small spellbooks.
Palin began edging his way over to the shelves, was just reaching out his hand to take hold of the jar, when the Gray Knight raised his head.
“Oh, there you are! What are you doing over there?”
“Just looking to see if this marjoram in here is fresh,” Palin replied, lifting the jar down from the shelf. He removed the sto
pper, sniffed. “Quite nice. Care to smell for yourself?”
The Gray Knight’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Put the jar down and come back over here. These I’m keeping.” He gestured to a large pile of scrolls, rings—including Dalamar’s—and other objects. “These”—he pointed to the spellbook, a pouch containing sand, and one containing bat guano—“you can have back.”
Palin flushed in anger, started to protest, but the Gray Knight turned away. He reached for the staff. “Now, let’s take a look at this.”
“It’s an ordinary walking staff,” Palin said, barely able to speak past the tightness in his throat. “You can see for yourself that I am of low rank. What would I be doing with a magical staff?”
“What indeed? But that’s quite an unusual adornment for a walking staff—a dragon’s claw clutching a crystal. You won’t mind if I inspect it more closely?”
The Gray Knight spoke his words, cast the spell that would reveal the magical properties of the staff, just as it had revealed the magical properties of everything else Palin carried.
Palin tensed, waited for the telltale glow to spread over the staff. The moment the knight went to touch it, Palin was ready to hurl himself bodily at the man, wrestle him to the floor.
The staff did nothing.
Palin gaped in astonishment. The Staff of Magius, one of the most powerful arcane artifacts in all of Krynn, stood propped against a counter, looking as plain and innocent as any kender hoopak.
The Gray Knight frowned. He was certain that the staff was magical, but could not very well admit that he doubted his own spell-casting. He glared at Palin suspiciously, thinking that perhaps the young mage had managed to slip one past him.
Palin stood with his hands folded in the sleeves of his robes. He smiled deprecatingly. “I told you.”
Dragons of Summer Flame Page 48