“She’s dead.…”
“I—I’m not sure, Caramon. I think—”
“I’ve seen death often enough, believe me. She’s dead. And it’s all my fault … my fault.…”
“Caramon, you imbecile!” Raistlin snarled with a curse. “What happened? What went wrong?”
As the mage spoke, Dalamar saw the kender look up quickly.
“Did you say something?” the kender asked the big human, who was working in the soil.
“No. It was just the wind.”
“What are you doing?”
“Digging a grave. We’ve got to bury her.”
“Bury her?” Raistlin gave a brief, bitter laugh. “Oh, of course, you bumbling idiot! That’s all you can think of to do!” The mage fumed. “Bury her! I must know what happened!” He turned to the Live One. “What did you see?”
“T-they c-camp in t-trees, M-master.” Froth dribbled from the creature’s mouth, its speech was practically unrecognizable. “Ddraco k-kill—”
“Draconians?” Raistlin repeated in astonishment. “Near Solace? Where did they come from?”
“D-dunno! Dunno!” The Live One cowered in terror. “I-I—”
“Shhh,” Dalamar warned, drawing his master’s attention back to the pond where the kender was arguing.
“Caramon, you can’t bury her! She’s—”
“We don’t have any choice. I know it’s not proper, but Paladine will see that her soul journeys in peace. We don’t dare build a funeral pyre, not with those dragonmen around—”
“But, Caramon, I really think you should come look at her! There’s not a mark on her body!”
“I don’t want to look at her! She’s dead! It’s my fault! We’ll bury her here, then I’ll go back to Solace, go back to digging my own grave—”
“Caramon!”
“Go find some flowers and leave me be!”
Dalamar saw the big man tear up the moist dirt with his bare hands, hurling it aside while tears streamed down his face. The kender remained beside the woman’s body, irresolute, his face covered with dried blood, his expression a mixture of grief and doubt.
“No mark, no wound, draconians coming out of nowhere …” Raistlin frowned thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, he knelt beside the Live One, who shrank away from him. “Speak. Tell me everything. I must know. Why wasn’t I summoned earlier?”
“Th-the d-draco k-kill, M-master,” the Live One’s voice bubbled in agony. “B-but the b-big m-man k-kill, too. T-then b-big ddark c-come! E-eyes of f-fire. I-I s-scared. I-I f-fraid f-fall in wa-water.…”
“I found the Live One lying at the edge of the pool,” Dalamar reported coolly, “when one of the others told me something strange was going on. I looked into the water. Knowing of your interest in this human female, I thought you—”
“Quite right,” Raistlin murmured, cutting off Dalamar’s explanation impatiently. The mage’s golden eyes narrowed, his thin lips compressed. Feeling his anger, the poor Live One dragged its body as far from the mage as possible. Dalamar held his breath. But Raistlin’s anger was not directed at them.
“ ‘Big dark, eyes of fire’—Lord Soth! So, my sister, you betray me,” Raistlin whispered. “I smell your fear, Kitiara! You coward! I could have made you queen of this world. I could have given you wealth immeasurable, power unlimited. But no. You are, after all, a weak and petty-minded worm!”
Raistlin stood quietly, pondering, staring into the still pond. When he spoke next, his voice was soft, lethal. “I will not forget this, my dear sister. You are fortunate that I have more urgent, pressing matters at hand, or you would be residing with the phantom lord who serves you!” Raistlin’s thin fist clenched, then—with an obvious effort—he forced himself to relax. “But, now, what to do about this? I must do something before my brother plants the cleric in a flower bed!”
“Shalafi, what has happened?” Dalamar ventured, greatly daring. “This—woman. What is she to you? I do not understand.”
Raistlin glanced at Dalamar irritably and seemed about to rebuke him for his impertinence. Then the mage hesitated. His golden eyes flared once with a flash of inner light that made Dalamar cringe, before returning to their flat, impassive stare.
“Of course, apprentice. You shall know everything. But first—”
Raistlin stopped. Another figure had entered the scene in the forest they watched so intently. It was a gully dwarf, bundled in layers and layers of bright, gaudy clothing, a huge bag dragging behind her as she walked.
“Bupu!” Raistlin whispered, the rare smile touching his lips. “Excellent. Once more you shall serve me, little one.”
Reaching out his hand, Raistlin touched the still water. The Live Ones around the pool cried out in horror, for they had seen many of their own kind stumble into that dark water, only to shrivel and wither and become nothing more than a wisp of smoke, rising with a shriek into the air. But Raistlin simply murmured soft words, then withdrew his hand. The fingers were white as marble, a spasm of pain crossed his face. Hurriedly, he slid his hand into a pocket of his robe.
“Watch,” he whispered exultantly.
Dalamar stared into the water, watching the gully dwarf approach the still, lifeless form of the woman.
“Me help.”
“No, Bupu!”
“You no like my magic! Me go home. But first me help pretty lady.”
“What in the name of the Abyss—” Dalamar muttered.
“Watch!” Raistlin commanded.
Dalamar watched as the gully dwarf’s small, grubby hand dove into the bag at her side. After fumbling about for several moments, it emerged with a loathsome object—a dead, stiff lizard with a leather thong wrapped around its neck. Bupu approached the woman and—when the kender tried to stop her—thrust her small fist into his face warningly. With a sigh and a sideways glance at Caramon, who was digging furiously, his face a mask of grief and blood, the kender stepped back. Bupu plopped down beside the woman’s lifeless form and carefully placed the dead lizard on the unmoving chest.
Dalamar gasped.
The woman’s chest moved, the white robes shivered. She began breathing, deeply and peacefully.
The kender let out a shriek.
“Caramon! Bupu’s cured her! She’s alive! Look!”
“What the—” The big man stopped digging and stumbled over, staring at the gully dwarf in amazement and fear.
“Lizard cure,” Bupu said in triumph. “Work every time.”
“Yes, my little one,” Raistlin said, still smiling. “It works well for coughs, too, as I remember.” He waved his hand over the still water. The mage’s voice became a lulling chant. “And now, sleep, my brother, before you do anything else stupid. Sleep, kender, sleep, little Bupu. And sleep as well, Lady Crysania, in the realm where Paladine protects you.”
Still chanting, Raistlin made a beckoning motion with his hand. “And now come, Forest of Wayreth. Creep up on them as they sleep. Sing them your magical song. Lure them onto your secret paths.”
The spell was ended. Rising to his feet, Raistlin turned to Dalamar. “And you come, too, apprentice”—there was the faintest sarcasm in the voice that made the dark elf shudder—“come to my study. It is time for us to talk.”
CHAPTER
9
alamar sat in the mage’s study in the same chair Kitiara had occupied on her visit. The dark elf was far less comfortable, far less secure than Kitiara had been. Yet his fears were well-contained. Outwardly he appeared relaxed, composed. A heightened flush upon his pale elven features could be attributed, perhaps, to his excitement at being taken into his master’s confidence.
Dalamar had been in the study often, though not in the presence of his master. Raistlin spent his evenings here alone, reading, studying the tomes that lined his walls. No one dared disturb him then. Dalamar entered the study only during the daylight hours, and then only when Raistlin was busy elsewhere. At that time the dark elf apprentice was allowed—no, required—to study the spe
llbooks himself, some of them, that is. He had been forbidden to open or even touch those with the nightblue binding.
Dalamar had done so once, of course. The binding felt intensely cold, so cold it burned his skin. Ignoring the pain, he managed to open the cover, but after one look, he quickly shut it. The words inside were gibberish, he could make nothing of them. And he had been able to detect the spell of protection cast over them. Anyone looking at them too long without the proper key to translate them would go mad.
Seeing Dalamar’s injured hand, Raistlin asked him how it happened. The dark elf replied coolly that he had spilled some acid from a spell component he was mixing. The archmage smiled and said nothing. There was no need. Both understood.
But now he was in the study by Raistlin’s invitation, sitting here on a more or less equal basis with his master. Once again, Dalamar felt the old fear laced by intoxicating excitement.
Raistlin sat before him at the carved wooden table, one hand resting upon a thick nightblue-bound spellbook. The archmage’s fingers absently caressed the book, running over the silver runes upon the cover. Raistlin’s eyes stared fixedly at Dalamar. The dark elf did not stir or shift beneath that intense, penetrating gaze.
“You were very young, to have taken the Test,” Raistlin said abruptly in his soft voice.
Dalamar blinked. This was not what he had expected.
“Not so young as you, Shalafi,” the dark elf replied. “I am in my nineties, which figures to about twenty-five of your human years. You, I believe, were only twenty-one when you took the Test.”
“Yes,” Raistlin murmured, and a shadow passed across the mage’s golden-tinted skin. “I was … twenty-one.”
Dalamar saw the hand that rested upon the spellbook clench in swift, sudden pain; he saw the golden eyes flare. The young apprentice was not surprised at this show of emotion. The Test is required of any mage seeking to practice the arts of magic at an advanced level. Administered in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, it is conducted by the leaders of all three Robes. For, long ago, the magic-users of Krynn realized what had escaped the clerics—if the balance of the world is to be maintained, the pendulum must swing freely back and forth among all three—Good, Evil, Neutrality. Let one grow too powerful—any one—and the world would begin to tilt toward its destruction.
The Test is brutal. The higher levels of magic, where true power is obtained, are no place for inept bunglers. The Test was designed to get rid of those—permanently; death being the penalty for failure. Dalamar still had nightmares about his own testing, so he could well understand Raistlin’s reaction.
“I passed,” Raistlin whispered, his eyes staring back to that time. “But when I came out of that terrible place I was as you see me now. My skin had this golden tint, my hair was white, and my eyes …” He came back to the present, to look fixedly at Dalamar. “Do you know what I see with these hourglass eyes?”
“No, Shalafi.”
“I see time as it affects all things,” Raistlin replied. “Human flesh withers before these eyes, flowers wilt and die, the rocks themselves crumble as I watch. It is always winter in my sight. Even you, Dalamar”—Raistlin’s eyes caught and held the young apprentice in their horrible gaze—“even elven flesh that ages so slowly the passing of the years are as rain showers in the spring—even upon your young face, Dalamar—I see the mark of death!”
Dalamar shivered, and this time could not hide his emotion. Involuntarily, he shrank back into the cushions of the chair. A shield spell came quickly to his mind, as did—unbidden—a spell designed to injure, not defend. Fool! he sneered at himself, quickly regaining control, what puny spell of mine could kill him?
“True, true,” Raistlin murmured, answering Dalamar’s thoughts, as he often did. “There live none upon Krynn who has the power to harm me. Certainly not you, apprentice. But you are brave. You have courage. Often you have stood beside me in the laboratory, facing those I have dragged from the planes of their existence. You knew that if I but drew a breath at the wrong time, they would rip the living hearts from our bodies and devour them while we writhed before them in torment.”
“It was my privilege,” Dalamar murmured.
“Yes,” Raistlin replied absently, his thoughts abstracted. Then he raised an eyebrow. “And you knew, didn’t you, that if such an event occurred, I would save myself but not you?”
“Of course, Shalafi,” Dalamar answered steadily. “I understand and I take the risk”—the dark elf’s eyes glowed. His fears forgotten, he sat forward eagerly in his chair—“no, Shalafi, I invite the risks! I would sacrifice anything for the sake of—”
“The magic,” Raistlin finished.
“Yes! The sake of the magic!” Dalamar cried.
“And the power it confers,” Raistlin nodded. “You are ambitious. But—how ambitious, I wonder? Do you, perhaps, seek rulership of your kinsmen? Or possibly a kingdom somewhere, holding a monarch in thrall while you enjoy the wealth of his lands? Or perhaps an alliance with some dark lord, as was done in the days of the dragons not far back. My sister, Kitiara, for example, found you quite attractive. She would enjoy having you about. Particularly if you have any magic arts you practice in the bedroom—”
“Shalafi, I would not desecrate—”
Raistlin waved a hand. “I joke, apprentice. But you take my meaning. Does one of those reflect your dreams?”
“Well, certainly, Shalafi.” Dalamar hesitated, confused. Where was all this leading? To some information he could use and pass on, he hoped, but how much of himself to reveal? “I—”
Raistlin cut him off. “Yes, I see I have come close to the mark. I have discovered the heights of your ambition. Have you never guessed at mine?”
Dalamar felt a thrill of joy surge through his body. This is what he had been sent to discover. The young mage answered slowly, “I have often wondered, Shalafi. You are so powerful”—Dalamar motioned at the window where the lights of Palanthas could be seen, shining in the night—“this city, this land of Solamnia, this continent of Ansalon could be yours.”
“This world could be mine!” Raistlin smiled, his thin lips parting slightly. “We have seen the lands beyond the seas, haven’t we, apprentice. When we look into the flaming water, we can see them and those who dwell there. To control them would be simplicity itself—”
Raistlin rose to his feet. Walking to the window, he stared out over the sparkling city spread out before him. Feeling his master’s excitement, Dalamar left his chair and followed him.
“I could give you that kingdom, Dalamar,” Raistlin said softly. His hand drew back the curtain, his eyes lingered upon the lights that gleamed more warmly than the stars above. “I could give you not only rulership of your miserable kinsmen, but control of the elves everywhere in Krynn.” Raistlin shrugged. “I could give you my sister.”
Turning from the window, Raistlin faced Dalamar, who watched him eagerly.
“But I care nothing for that”—Raistlin gestured, letting the curtain fall—“nothing. My ambition goes further.”
“But, Shalafi, there is not much left if you turn down the world.” Dalamar faltered, not understanding. “Unless you have seen worlds beyond this one that are hidden from my eyes.…”
“Worlds beyond?” Raistlin pondered. “Interesting thought. Perhaps someday I should consider that possibility. But, no, that is not what I meant.” The mage paused and, with a motion of his hand, beckoned Dalamar closer. “You have seen the great door in the very back of the laboratory? The door of steel, with runes of silver and of gold set within? The door without a lock?”
“Yes, Shalafi,” Dalamar replied, feeling a chill creep over him that not even the strange heat of Raistlin’s body so near him could dispel.
“Do you know where that door leads?”
“Yes … Shalafi.” A whisper.
“And you know why it is not opened?”
“You cannot open it, Shalafi. Only one of great and powerful magic and one of true holy po
wers may together open—” Dalamar stopped, his throat closing in fear, choking him.
“Yes,” Raistlin murmured, “you understand. ‘One of true holy powers.’ Now you know why I need her! Now you understand the heights—and the depths—of my ambition.”
“This is madness!” Dalamar gasped, then lowered his eyes in shame. “Forgive me, Shalafi, I meant no disrespect.”
“No, and you are right. It is madness, with my limited powers.” A trace of bitterness tinged the mage’s voice. “That is why I am about to undertake a journey.”
“Journey?” Dalamar looked up. “Where?”
“Not where—when,” Raistlin corrected. “You have heard me speak of Fistandantilus?”
“Many times, Shalafi,” Dalamar said, his voice almost reverent. “The greatest of our Order. Those are his spellbooks, the ones with the nightblue binding.”
“Inadequate,” Raistlin muttered, dismissing the entire library with a gesture. “I have read them all, many times in these past years, ever since I obtained the Key to their secrets from the Queen of Darkness herself. But they only frustrate me!” Raistlin clenched his thin hand. “I read these spellbooks and I find great gaps—entire volumes missing! Perhaps they were destroyed in the Cataclysm or, later, in the Dwarfgate Wars that proved Fistandantilus’s undoing. These missing volumes, this knowledge of his that has been lost, will give me the power I need!”
“And so your journey will take you—” Dalamar stopped in disbelief.
“Back in time,” Raistlin finished calmly. “Back to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when Fistandantilus was at the height of his power.”
Dalamar felt dizzy, his thoughts swirled in confusion. What would They say? Amidst all Their speculation, They had certainly not foreseen this!
“Steady, my apprentice.” Raistlin’s soft voice seemed to come to Dalamar from far away. “This has unnerved you. Some wine?”
The mage walked over to a table. Lifting a carafe, he poured a small glass of blood-red liquid and handed it to the dark elf. Dalamar took it gratefully, startled to see his hand shaking. Raistlin poured a small glass for himself.
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