Tasslehoff, digging in with his heels, grabbed hold of the mane. “Now what?” He had to shout to be heard above the clamor the horse was making.
“Go the High Clerist’s Tower,” Usha instructed.
“How?” Tas cried.
“Wish it!” Usha closed her eyes and wished.
Raistlin sat in a chair in Astinus’s study, engrossed in a book the chronicler had just completed, dealing with the fall of Qualinesti into the hands of the dark knights, a fall that had been accomplished without a fight.
The knights and their blue dragons had encircled Qualinesti, ringed it round with sword and spear, and yet had not attacked. Ariakan, in what had become almost standard procedure, sent in an envoy, demanding the elves surrender. In secret, he met with representatives of the elven senate.
Within the elven kingdom, the people were divided, torn asunder by fear of the knights and the blue dragons that circled with impunity overhead. The elves sent messages to the golden and silver dragons to come to their rescue, but they received no answer.
At this point, a faction of younger elves demanded that the nation go to war. Porthios and his troops were out in the wilderness, keeping an eye on Ariakan and his troops. Porthios could not hope to attack such a large force with his small band of guerilla fighters, but if the elves would attack from within Qualinesti, Porthios and his forces would attack from their side and catch the dark knights in a closing vice.
The elves were prepared to follow this plan when a senator rose to announce that Qualinesti had sued for peace. The senate had voted for surrender, provided that their king—Gilthas, son of Tanis Half-Elven and his wife Laurana—be allowed to remain the ruler.
The meeting had ended in a near riot; many of the younger elves were arrested, led away in chains by their own people. Gilthas stood silently by, watching, saying nothing. His widowed mother, Laurana, was at his side. All knew then that Gilthas was nothing but a puppet, who danced when the knights pulled his strings.
At least, that’s what they thought they knew. Raistlin, reading, smiled now and then.
The water clock on the mantle ticked the passage of time; Astinus’s pen recorded it. Second Watch had come and gone. From within the library came an odd sound.
Raistlin lifted his head. “A horse?” he said in wonderment.
“That’s what it is,” Astinus said calmly, continuing to write.
Raistlin raised an eyebrow. “Inside the Great Library?”
“That’s where it is.” Astinus wrote on. “Or was.”
The sound of the horse was replaced by the sound of sandals, flapping in haste on the floor.
“Enter, Bertrem,” said Astinus, before the monk had knocked.
The door opened; Bertrem’s head appeared. Receiving no rebuke for disturbing his master, Bertrem’s head was soon followed by the rest of him.
“Well,” Raistlin demanded, “have they left?”
Bertrem looked to his master.
Astinus, irritated, ceased his work, glanced up. “Well, answer the archmage’s question! Have the woman and the kender left?”
“Yes, Master,” Bertrem answered with a sigh of thankfulness.
Bertrem had once fought off an attack by draconians, when they had tried to burn the library during the war. He never had nightmares about draconians, however. Bertrem had nightmares about kender—kender loose in the Great Library, kender whose pockets were bulging with books.
“They are gone. They brought in a horse!” he added in shocked disapproval. “A horse in the Great Library!”
“A noteworthy event,” Astinus said, and made a note of it. He glanced at Raistlin. “They have gone to rescue your nephew. I am surprised you are not with them.”
“I am with them, in my own way,” Raistlin said, and returned to his reading.
14
The nightlord accuses. Palin responds.
A dark omen.
he two knights who had escorted Steel to his execution now assisted him to stand up from the block. They were forced to lift him to his feet, then prop him up. Steel had been so intent on the next world, had given himself so completely to death, that he was weak and shaking in life. He tottered on unsteady legs and gazed around in bewilderment, wondering what this new life now held for him.
Lord Ariakan had lowered the sword, though he still held it. He commanded discipline in the ranks, silenced the clamor.
Palin stood on the spot where he had materialized. He had not moved, had not spoken since his initial, startling pronouncement. Lord Ariakan had, of course, halted the execution, but it was obvious—from the way he was shifting his gaze from Steel to Palin and back again—that His Lordship had questions.
Ariakan turned to the assembled knights. “Is there someone here who can tell me what is going on? Who is this White Robe? Is this truly the prisoner we seek? Can anyone here identify him?”
Two knights stepped forward, both pushing eagerly out of the crowd, though each had differing motives for their haste. One was Subcommander Trevalin, newly arrived from the triumph in Qualinesti. His face was alight with pleasure, and he cast Steel a congratulatory glance as he came to stand before his lord. The other was the Nightlord, who had eyes only for Palin.
Trevalin would have spoken out immediately, but the Nightlord outranked him. He was forced to contain his eagerness. Lillith had first say.
“My lord Ariakan.” The Nightlord bowed. She seemed disturbed, troubled. “This is indeed the prisoner, Palin Majere, for whom Steel Brightblade gave his parole. I was the one who captured this young mage in battle. I know him. I so swear before our queen. Yet, I would say, my lord, that this mage’s recovery should not, in any way, affect your lord’s judgment passed on Steel Brightblade. He lost his prisoner. It was not Brightblade who recovered him. My lord said he was to die. I urge Your Lordship to carry out the sentence!”
Lord Ariakan regarded the woman with a troubled expression, then turned away from her, cutting short her attempt to say more. Ariakan looked to Trevalin.
“Subcommander, do you recognize this White Robe? Will you swear to his identity?”
“I do indeed know this mage, my lord,” Trevalin said. “He is the prisoner, Palin Majere, I so swear by my queen and all her hosts! This frees Steel Brightblade of the sentence of death!” He cast a defiant look at the Nightlord.
Ariakan smiled slightly. “That will do, Subcommander.” He looked next to Steel. “Brightblade, is this your prisoner?”
“Yes, my lord.” Steel spoke in a daze. “This is Palin Majere.”
“Nephew of Raistlin Majere, who once again walks this realm!” The Nightlord was avid. “My lord Ariakan, I urge you! Hand this mage and his cousin over to the Thorn Knights at once. Let us deal with both of them. I warn you, Lord, they are plotting together! Why else would this young man arrive and voluntarily give himself up to death? He thinks that he will escape! Kill them both now, my lord, immediately! Otherwise, I warn you, these two will bring about the downfall of the knights!”
The gathered knights glanced at each other, spoke in low, troubled voices. Vehement, impassioned, Lillith was alarmingly convincing.
Ariakan raised his hand for silence, gazed intently at the young mage who stood alone, near the bloodstained marble block.
“I will take the matter of Steel Brightblade under advisement. As to the mage, the Thorn Knights may interrogate the prisoner at their leisure. Only pray let him speak for himself now, before the morning grows any hotter and we are broiled alive.”
Though the sun had just risen, its heat was already intense. The sun had a strange look to it as well. It was larger, seemed to have drawn closer to the world, if such a thing was possible. The heat beat relentlessly on the black armor of the knights, causing more than one to cast longing glances at the shadows.
Ariakan wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm, continued his questioning. “Palin Majere, have you come to ransom yourself?”
“He has come to destroy us!” the Nightlor
d said loudly.
Ariakan sternly glanced at her, and she fell into a seething silence.
Palin shook his head. “No, I have not,” he answered.
“Are you, in fact, allied in treachery with your cousin, Steel Brightblade? Answer me the truth, young mage,” Ariakan cautioned. “I have ways of catching you in a lie, ways you would not find pleasant.”
“I wear the White Robes,” Palin said proudly “Do you think it likely, my lord, that I would be allied with a knight of evil?”
Ariakan nodded, appeared to accept the response. Lillith ground her teeth in frustration, muttered beneath her breath.
Ariakan, ignoring the Nightlord, continued with the young mage. “You were sentenced to death on your capture if you did not provide ransom. I order that sentence to be carried out forthwith. Have you anything to say before you die?”
“My lord, I do,” Palin replied. “I gave my word to return. Before I am put to death, I want to apologize to this knight and explain to him why I broke my word.”
“Do not let him speak!” The Nightlord was insistent. “This is a trick of our enemies! Do not trust this mage. He is the nephew of one of the most powerful wizards who ever lived. As I told you, my lord, I met Raistlin Majere near the Forest of Wayreth. He has escaped from the Abyss—”
“My uncle was never in the Abyss!” Palin refuted.
The Nightlord did not care to dispute the point. “Raistlin has returned,” she maintained. “He was the one who sent you here, isn’t that true?”
“It is not true,” Palin said, a faint flush staining his pale cheeks. “I came here of my own accord. If anything, my uncle would have stopped me.”
Ariakan intervened. “If I might have a word, Nightlord? Thank you. I am familiar with the exploits of members of the Majere family. Courage, it seems, runs in the blood. I want to speak to this young man. If you are so afraid of him, Lillith,” Ariakan added dryly, “then bind him with what enchantments you will.”
The Nightlord, scowling, stalked over to stand beside Palin. She scorned to touch the bags and pouches containing his spell components. Whatever magic he cast with those she could easily counter. Her eyes fixed covetously, jealously, and suspiciously on his staff.
“He holds the Staff of Magius, Lord Ariakan—one of the most powerful magical artifacts in all of Ansalon.”
“Take it, then,” Ariakan said impatiently.
“I want him to give it to me, my lord. That will prove to me that this is no trick of his uncle’s.”
Palin did not look at the Nightlord. He kept his gaze on Ariakan. “You may take up the staff when it falls from my dead hand, my lord, not before. This is no trick, I assure you. I am not involved in some plot with my cousin. May I speak freely, my lord?”
“You cannot trust him!” the Nightlord cried. “You see, he refuses to surrender the staff. It could do us all great harm.”
“If he wanted to do us harm, Lillith, I am certain he would have done so before now. I have granted him the right to speak his apology to Brightblade, whom he has wronged. I, for one, would like to hear it.”
Palin, nodding his thanks, walked over to stand in front of Steel.
“Cousin, you acted honorably and nobly in bringing the bodies of my two brothers back to be buried in the soil of our homeland. You escorted me safely to the Tower of High Sorcery, that I might try to fulfill the geas laid on me by these gray sorcerers. I think we both knew, in our hearts, that the quest was a false one, given to us for some obscure purpose.”
The Nightlord fumed, but she could do nothing at this point to stop Palin from having his say. Ariakan had given his command, and she dared not disobey.
Palin continued. “Each of us continued on to the Tower of High Sorcery in pursuit of our objective. Steel Brightblade was always loyal to his queen in his pursuits. I was perhaps not so honorable in mine. Be that as it may, I entered the laboratory of my uncle, fully expecting that Steel Brightblade should accompany me. The door slammed shut, however, and I could not open it again. Since I could do nothing else, I searched for and found the Portal. I entered it—”
“He lies!” the Nightlord interrupted shrilly. “No mage of his low rank could enter the great Portal to the Abyss! It is written that only a black-robed wizard accompanied by a cleric of Paladine—” The Nightlord suddenly sucked in her breath, aware of what she had said.
Ariakan’s eyebrow quirked. “But I thought you sent this young man to open the Portal. Perhaps he found the key. Continue, Palin Majere. You almost make me forget the heat.”
“I entered the Portal,” Palin repeated. “I needed no key. No constraints were laid on me. The Portal stood open. The Queen of Darkness had abandoned it.”
“Lies!” muttered Lillith, but she did not say the word loudly, only loud enough for those standing near to hear.
Ariakan frowned at hearing this part of the tale. The knights in the courtyard exchanged questioning glances.
Palin swallowed, started to continue, coughed, and said faintly, “My lord, may I beg a drink of water?”
Ariakan waved his hand. A squire brought over a dipper full of water. Palin drank thankfully. Steel Brightblade stood unmoving. He had waved off assistance. His dark eyes never left Palin’s face.
“Thank you, my lord,” Palin said. “Inside the Abyss, I found my uncle. He was not being tortured, as the stories have it. He took me and my companion, the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, to witness a most extraordinary event—a gathering of the gods.”
The knights’ murmurings grew loud. There was much shaking of heads and exclamations of disbelief, even derisive laughter. Commanders ordered silence among their men.
Ariakan now regarded Palin with suspicion, murmured to an aide, “Are we permitted to put to death the insane?”
Palin overheard, proudly lifted his chin. “I swear to you, my lord, by Solinari and by Paladine, by Mishakal and all the gods of the white pantheon, that what I speak is the truth. I know it sounds unbelievable,” he continued, with rising passion, “but what I heard in the Abyss is more unbelievable still.
“The world—our world—is in terrible danger. The Irda recently captured the Graygem and, in an attempt to use its magic to stop you, my lord, from invading their land, they inadvertently broke it open. The Father of the Gods, Chaos, had been imprisoned in the Graygem. When the Irda broke it, they freed Chaos.
“The father has denounced his children and has sworn to destroy their creation. The gods are in league to fight him, and they hope and expect that we mortals will join them. If not, our world is doomed. All of us, every living being on this world, and eventually the world itself, will perish.”
Heat rose in waves from the stones in the courtyard. Flies buzzed incessantly around the dried blood on the marble block. The Nightlord rolled her eyes and shook her head, smiled mockingly, making certain all knew what she thought of Palin’s tale.
Ariakan’s brow furrowed.
“I don’t suppose you have any proof to back up your claims, Palin Majere? You must admit, this is a monstrous story you bring us.”
“I have no hard proof, my lord,” Palin said calmly. He had never expected to be believed—except perhaps by one person, and that was the only person who counted. His gaze went to Steel. “But I heard Paladine make a bargain with your queen. The dark knights were given control over Ansalon, in order that they might unify all the warring people, bring them together to take a stand against the armies of Chaos. The tower fell to your forces, the first time the tower has ever fallen to the armies of darkness.”
“I would like to think our overwhelming superiority of arms and men had something to do with our victory,” Ariakan said wryly.
Steel turned to face Ariakan. “My lord, may I speak?”
“Certainly, Brightblade. I’m surprised you haven’t spoken before now.”
“My lord, I believe Palin Majere. I’m not sure why”—Steel shrugged—“except that I journeyed with him and I know him to be a man of honor. This a
ct—his coming here in order to spare my life, at peril of his own—proves it. I ask my lord to recall one strange occurrence during the Battle of the High Clerist’s Tower: the withdrawal of the silver and gold dragons. We thought they retreated, expected them to regroup. But they have not reappeared. What other explanation, except that Paladine ordered them to leave?”
Ariakan gave this due consideration. He was a man of faith. He had himself brushed up against the gods. His mother, so many believed, was Zeboim, goddess of the sea. And long ago Ariakan himself had been honored by an audience with Queen Takhisis, had obtained her personal blessing to form the knighthood that was dedicated to her.
“Send for the high priestess,” he commanded. “We will soon have the truth of this.”
A courier departed. The knights stood, sweating and uncomfortable, in the courtyard, beneath the infernal sun.
A high, piercing shriek split the stillness. A cry of horror and anguish, it raised the hair on the back of the neck, raised the flesh on the arm.
“Now what?” Ariakan demanded.
A commotion broke out among a group of knights standing near the entryway. They all parted, hastening to clear the way.
The courier reappeared, his face chalk white. “My lord! The high priestess is dead!”
Stunned silence descended on the knights. After what they had heard of Palin’s story, this sudden death of their highest-ranking cleric seemed the worst possible omen.
“How did it happen?” Ariakan asked, shaken.
“I have with me the woman who was with her at the time, my lord.” The courier motioned, and a cleric of Takhisis came forward. The young woman was livid, her hair torn, her robes rent in the transports of her grief.
“Her Holiness was deeply troubled, my lord. Ever since she went to the prison cells to visit the condemned this morning, she seemed abstracted, preoccupied. Her Holiness approached the altar to offer prayer. She was making the ritual sacrifices when her arm brushed up against a vial of holy oil, knocked it onto the altar. The oil spilled, spread over the altar. A bit of flaring wick fell from one of the candles and caught the oil on fire. The fire spread swiftly, consuming the sacrifices before they had been properly anointed. The high priestess stared into the flame with such a look of horror on her face that I shall never forget it, as long as I live. Then, my lord, she dropped down before the burning altar. The flames went out, but when we tried to raise Her Holiness, we discovered that she was dead.”
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