Betrayal

Chapter Twenty Reflections of Madness

Black scales formed a curtain so wide Dhamon couldn’t see around it. After a few moments, there was a break in the darkness—immense yellow eyes that glowed dully, cut by black-slitted pupils that stared straight ahead.

The eyes closed and there was only the black wall of scales again. Dhamon shook his head, banishing the dream and waking in darkness with a pounding head. He leaned against a paneled wall covered with mildew. The air was still and musty, carrying with it the strong scent of decay and a softer odor hinting of a blacksmith’s shop. The sivak was nearby. After a few moments his keen eyes perceived shades of black and gray, and something paler that was evidently giving off heat.

“Ragh?” he whispered. He could hear the draconian breathing. Concentrating, he swore he could also hear its heartbeat, much slower than a human’s. “Ragh.”

The draconian made a sound.

Dhamon brushed his sweat-damp hair away from his eyes and pressed his ear against the wall. There were at least two spawn talking beyond the wall, arguing softly in their odd, sibilant language, which featured a smattering of human words. It seemed they were discussing something about an elven trapper who had caught a most unusual lizard. They talked for several minutes, then moved away. Dhamon reached a hand to his waist, discovering that the sivak had returned his sword.

Dhamon’s legs were cramped, and he tried to straighten them but only managed to kick the sivak. He had little room to move. “Where are we?” he whispered.

“A house box,” Ragh returned.

“A what?”

“A house box.” The draconian paused. “I believe you humans call it a… closet.”

Wonderful, Dhamon thought.

“After I killed the spawn, I had to find some spot to put you, somewhere that spawn or draconians wouldn’t think to go. You were…” the sivak searched for the words.

“Unconscious. Delirious. I know.” Dhamon almost thanked Ragh, but caught himself. He could not bring himself to acknowledge that he owed the draconian anything. Again he wondered why the sivak hadn’t left him or turned him over to some authority in this place. He knew if Ragh hadn’t found somewhere to hide him, he would probably have been discovered and captured, possibly killed. He made a move to stand, bumping his head on a shelf, softly swearing. There were garments hanging in here, rotting ones that felt small, as if they belonged to an elf or to a child.

“This isn’t the home of a healer or sage,” Dhamon said, careful to keep his voice to a whisper.

“Maybe at one time, but not now. Let’s go find Maldred.”

Finally he maneuvered himself around until he was standing straight and feeling about for a latch. Pressing his ear to the door to make sure no creatures were beyond, and keeping his hand on the pommel of the long sword, he eased outside.

The sivak followed him into a narrow, torchlit, curving hallway. Dhamon caught himself staring at Ragh. The draconian wore the form of a spawn, black as pitch, with wings that swept gracefully down to the back of his thighs. There was no trace of the scars that had riddled his silver body.

“I forgot,” Dhamon said quietly, “that you take on the form of what you kill.”

“Can take on the form,” the draconian corrected. “If I choose too.” He pointed to his right, where the hallway curved and the torchlight barely reached. “There is another staircase,” he indicated. “It goes up and smells unused. There are several other halls and rooms here, two smelling of recent death. I was about to leave you in the closet to investigate, but more spawn came along, and I decided to avoid them.”

“And I woke up.” Dhamon looked down the hallway in the other direction. “Do you know how to get out of here?”

A nod.

“Let’s…” He stared past the sivak. The hair prickled at the back of his neck. “Let’s investigate just a bit more.” He found himself thinking of Palin Majere. It was many long months since the two of them had worked against the great dragons. He remembered that Palin favored the higher levels of the Tower of Wayreth.

“Sorcerers build towers, I think, because they put themselves above the common man. They look down on the world from the top. The sage was a Black Robe sorcerer, so she might be found as high as she could climb.”

Dhamon hurried toward the staircase, Ragh following him, quietly objecting. “You said the healer could not possibly be here.”

The stairs were confining, the slate steps worn. Dhamon had to tuck his shoulders in and put his head down to make his way up them. Ragh had much more difficulty, with his nine-foot frame. He scraped his scaly skin against the stone and left a stripe of blood on each side of the stairwell. The steps wound upwards for more than thirty feet, emerging onto to a small landing made of chips of volcanic glass, and branching into an equally narrow corridor with a high ceiling. Straight ahead was a thin wooden door, its black paint chipped and faded.

“At least we will not have to worry about spawn up here,” Ragh said. His shoulders were bleeding from rubbing against the stone. “The stairwell was made for imps and faeries.”

“And sorcerers,” Dhamon said. Sorcerers tended to be on the slight side, he thought with grim amusement.

The sivak stared down both directions of the hallway, which, though high-ceilinged, was practically as narrow as the stairwell. “Smells like nothing has been up here for years. Maybe a child could traverse these halls.”

Dhamon shut out the sivak’s comments and strained his ears, listening. The only sound he heard was a steady drip-drip, this coming from where the roof was leaking. Water had pooled on the floor, making it look even more shiny, a black mirror in which he could see his haggard reflection. There were no torches, yet there was light. Dhamon noticed a trio of thick black candles set in a sconce several yards down on the wall on either side. The wicks burned steadily, yet there was no smoke and no trace of wax running.

“Magic,” he said in a hushed voice.

There were no windows, nor had he noted any when he viewed the building from the outside, but the air here smelled fresh, it must be flowing in from somewhere. He glanced up at the ceiling and guessed it to be twenty feet high. There were marks in the center of the ceiling, perhaps what was left of a painting or mosaic. Dhamon could make out a few images of men in dark robes, but the paint was so faded he could not tell what the figures were supposed to be doing.

“What do we want with this place?” the sivak asked. “Your healer can’t be—”

“I don’t know what I want,” Dhamon told him. “We’re here, so we’ll look around. I’ve a feeling there’s something to this place.” He drew his sword as a precaution and headed down the hall to his right. The sivak pressed itself against the wall as Dhamon squeezed past. Dhamon passed by a narrow wooden door and continued to follow the hallway. He passed two more doors, both oddly narrow, both dangling from their rusted hinges. He swore he’d seen the end of the hallway from the landing, but when he reached that spot, the hall snaked abruptly to his left and turned sharply again as if doubling back on itself.

Finally Dhamon came to an impressive bronze and ebonwood door, the trim of which gleamed in the light of more black candles. He reached for the latch but stopped himself, turning and sidling toward a narrow door with cracked paint that looked like patches of black scales.

“Someone is in here,” he whispered. “I can smell them.”

Dhamon reached for the latch, his fingers trembling slightly. Nerves. Behind him, Ragh flexed his claws. The two stood for several moments, both of them listening and hearing only the sounds of each other breathing.

After several moments, Dhamon tightened his hand on the latch and swung it open. He raised the long sword high and was greeted with a blackness as intense as a starless sky. Even his acute vision could discern nothing. He heard Ragh back away, spawn claws clicking softly against the floor. A moment later the sivak returned with one of the candles and passed it to Dhamon. It cut the darkness only a little. Dhamon stepped inside. The sivak stood in the doorway, alternately glancing down the hall and into the room.

It felt colder than in the hall, and the air was fresher still, carrying with it the scent of spring wildflowers. There were other odors, too, a mustiness of old clothes, human waste, and the unmistakable smell of strong spirits. Dhamon sniffed. Animals too? Mice or rats, he decided.

“Do not be shy, young man. Come in. Come in. My sister and I have not had visitors in quite some time. Certainly not since… was it yesterday?”

The voice startled Dhamon. It was velvety and rich, as though the speaker was exotic or a little inebriated, or perhaps both.

“Who are you?” Dhamon ventured. He wanted to add and what and where are you?

“Not your enemy.”

Dhamon sheathed the sword. At the same time he took a few steps forward. “I can’t see…” he began.

He heard flint struck. A moment later an oil lamp glowed on a small pedestal and chased away the shadows.

“Is that better?”

Dhamon nodded.

The woman was tiny, a wizened old thing with rounded shoulders, head thrust forward, looking like a turtle because of the moth-eaten cloak that swelled away from her back. She was seated on a wooden stool, which made her look smaller still. Diminutive slippered feet hung several inches above the floor. Dhamon guessed she was little more than four feet tall. The myriad of deep creases across her face suggested great age. Her ice-blue eyes hinted she might be even older. The room seemed large because of its sparse furnishings. There was a bed with several chamber pots beneath it, the pedestal with the lamp at her side, a bench that contained a half dozen jugs of the alcohol Dhamon smelled, and a large cage full of mice. The walls were covered with mosaics made of black and gray stone, except for one spot where a thin beveled mirror hung, reflecting the old woman.

Dhamon tried to blow out his candle, but the light refused to even flicker. The woman cackled and gestured with her fingers to douse it.

“My sister and I wonder, what brings you to our castle? The servants didn’t announce you. Perhaps it is late, and they are in bed. Or perhaps they are lazy, and we will need to replace them. Again.”

She glanced at the mirror and nodded. “What’s that you say, sister? Oh, sorry. She tells me I have forgotten my manners.”

The old woman extended a crooked hand to Dhamon. It was skeletal, skin stretched tight over bones, so pale and thin that the blue veins stood out beneath it. The joints were knobby, especially at her wrist. He spotted a curving black tattoo beginning just past her wrist and extending up her sleeve, but he couldn’t see enough of it to determine what it was. This close to her, he could smell the alcohol heavy on her breath. Her hand was cold, and he held it for only a moment.

“My sister points out that I have been rude again. She is right. She always is. My name is Maab.”

She added another cackle and a smile, her eyes shining. There were no whites to her eyes, and no pupils that Dhamon could see, just solid ice-blue. She made an attempt to straighten her back.

“I am Lady Maab of High Elkhorn, mistress of this castle. And you are…?”

“Dhamon Grimwulf,” he answered, bowing his head. “My companion is called Ragh.”

“Ragh.” The old woman nodded as well and spoke again to her reflection in the mirror. “No, sister, I didn’t know those spawn creatures had names either.”

She looked back at Dhamon. “You make sure your beast stays outside. I’ve never cared for those sorts of things—smelly and boorish they are. If it comes in, I will be forced to slay it.”

The sivak held his place in the doorway, looking between Dhamon and the woman, then glancing down the hall to make sure no one was coming. He tapped his foot, showing Dhamon he was perturbed and didn’t want to linger here.

Dhamon stared at the old woman, wanting to ask her a dozen questions. Maab. That was the name the dwarf shopkeep gave to the sage. He looked past her to the mosaics. Perhaps some of his answers were on the walls.

“My sister wonders if you are thirsty? Our servants brought us some jugs of ale last week.” Maab gestured to the bench. Dhamon sniffed at each container.

“Ale,” he said, “and bitter rum. That’s all they bring you?”

“We ask for water and wine, but it seems they cannot find any. We make our own water from time to time, causing it to rain in the town so the leaky ceiling will bring some in here. But it also makes the floor slippery, and I am afraid I will fall. Hungry?” She gestured to the cage filled with mice.

“My sister and I have plenty to share.”

Dhamon gritted his teeth. “Your servants bring you mice to eat and spirits to drink?”

She nodded, softly sighing. “We are not very satisfied with our help. We slay some of them from time to time, but the ones who eventually replace them are just as bad, if not worse.”

“Your servants. Are they humans?”

“Mmmm.”

Dhamon took that as a yes.

“They did not come to attend me for quite a while this summer,” she added. “We think they got angry at my sister and me and were trying to starve us so they could inherit this castle and our fortune. We think they were trying to kill us.”

“Kill you?” This sarcastic jab came from the sivak. “Why would they want to inherit this place?”

Maab scowled. “Oh, we did not let them starve us. We cast a spell, a nasty one, that turned the air beyond this room most foul and unpalatable. We were fed shortly after that.” A pause, and then she added, “Fed by the ones left alive.”

Dhamon swallowed hard. “You are a sorceress?” he asked hesitantly. She cackled madly. “My sister and I are most powerful ones,” she returned.

“Of the Black Robes.”

“Of course.” She smiled slyly, revealing a row of broken, yellowed teeth. Some were missing on the bottom. “We are, perhaps, the most powerful Black Robe sorceresses remaining on this desperate world. The most powerful sorceresses of any color.”

Dhamon looked at the mirror, then at the woman. “Your sister…”

“Her name is Maab, too. She doesn’t speak.”

“She’s probably as mad as you,” Dhamon muttered to himself.

“My sister? Ha! No, she’s not mad. She’s never been angry a day in her life.”

“Are you… a healer?”

“I used to be.” With some effort she got off the stool and brushed by Dhamon, careful to stay within sight of her reflection in the mirror. She reached for one of the jugs, uncorked it, and took a sip. She offered it to him, but he declined. Though he was certain strong drink would sit well with him right now, he didn’t trust what was in the jug.

“Why you need healing?”

“I…” Dhamon looked at her as he searched for the right words. “What I need is…”

“Help obviously,” she finished, “else you wouldn’t have found your way into our castle.” She returned to the stool, huffing and wheezing and managing to climb atop it. “What is it Maab and her sister can do for you? Have you a palsy or a curse? A gaping wound we can’t see?”

Ragh cleared his throat. “He has a dragon scale affixed to his leg. From an overlord. The thing is poison to him. More are growing.”

“And they are slowly killing me.”

She wrinkled her nose. “My sister and I do not pay attention to such creatures as dragons. Not any more. They are bad-tempered and irrational. We do not like them.” She fixed Dhamon with a baleful stare. “We do not like dragons at all. We never did.”

Dhamon clenched his jaw, his breath hissing out between his teeth. “I would pay you,” he began.

“Pay me with what? You haven’t a coin in your pocket.”

“I would find a way to pay you.” Dhamon was impressed that she could see past the fabric and leather. Or perhaps she was looking into his mind. He balled his fists in frustration. Physically, the sorceress would be no match for him, but she obviously commanded magic.

“Still,” she mused, “although we have no need of money, and we don’t need more magical trinkets, a dragon scale on a human is interesting.” She closed her eyes in thought for a moment, then opened them. “I think it was days past—or was it decades—my sister and I studied dragons. Never ever liked them, I tell you, but they were worth studying. In fact, studying them consumed us for a while. We thought of nothing else, explored no other magic. Red dragons in particular. In fact we—”

“In fact it is a red dragon’s scale.” He tugged up the leg of his pants, fingers fumbling excitedly. The smattering of small scales and the bottom of the single large scale showed and gleamed in the lamp light.

“No, no,” she clucked. “That is clearly from a black dragon.”

Dhamon explained to her about the overlord Malys and how the scale was thrust on him by a Knight of Takhisis, and how, some time after that, a shadow dragon and a silver dragon broke the connection between him and the Red.

“The scale turned black in the process,” he said.

“Touched, he is,” Maab told her reflection in the mirror. “The young man is mad, I think. Ill in the head. Don’t you agree? Color-blind, too.” She waited, cocked her head and listened. “Very well. Perhaps we can help him anyway. Just because he was nice enough to come and visit us.” She returned her gaze to Dhamon, eyes narrowing. The wrinkles on her face seemed even more pronounced in the uncertain light.

“You might not have a single coin, but there is a price for our magic.”

“This is foolishness,” the sivak grumbled. “She is the mad one. We should leave here.”

“Name it,” Dhamon snapped. “Name your price and I’ll find a way to pay it.”

She twisted her head to look in the mirror again and twirled her fingers. “We will think of something, my sister and I. Something we would like you to get for us. But it will be expensive. Very.”

The sivak groaned. “You can’t be serious to consider this, Dhamon. She cannot help you. We are wasting our time.” Ragh tapped his clawed foot faster. “Besides, Dhamon, I cannot hold…”

Dhamon turned, watching with wide eyes as the image of the spawn shimmered. In the passing of a few moments the black spawn guise melted away and the scarred, wingless draconian stood in its place.

“…the form very long.”

“So I see.”

“Interesting,” Maab said. “Keep your odd pet outside my room, please.”

“The scale on my leg…” Dhamon prompted, returning his attention to the old woman. “I was told if I removed it, I would die.”

“Probably,” she said, “but it would be another matter entirely if my sister and I were to remove it. We understand dragon magic. Of course, we would need my tools. My books. There are some powders that would be handy” She looked at the mirror. “Oh, yes. We would need that, too, dear sister. That precious little trinket Raistlin gave us. When we are done, and he is rid of all those black scales, we will establish a price for our services.”

Dhamon looked around the room again. He saw none of the tools she mentioned. “Where are these powders and books?”

With considerable effort she eased herself off the stool again. “Downstairs.” She padded toward the doorway, waving a gnarled hand at the sivak, as if dismissing him. “Deep downstairs. My sister knows the way” She turned, not able to see herself in the mirror, looking panicked and clutching her hands to her chest, then shuffled back to where she could see the mirror. She relaxed.

“So sorry. We cannot help you after all, young man. My sister doesn’t want to leave our room today. She is not, feeling so well. Come back tomorrow and see if she feels better.”

Dhamon growled. “You don’t have a sister, old woman.”

She looked hurt and her shoulders folded inward even more. “You insult us.”

“It’s a mirror,” he said. “It’s nothing but a damn mirror, and you’re looking at your reflection. You’re all alone here. You have no sister.” And you are no sorceress or healer and this was all a wasted trip, he added to himself.

She shook her head. “Young man, I feel sorry for you. To have walked so few years on this world and to be plunged so far into madness as you are! How can you enjoy life in your state? Indeed, I believe you have entirely lost your mind.” She raised a bony finger and shook it at him. “My sister and I can cure your scale and your insanity—a simple matter for us, though admittedly the madness is a tougher feat to purge. We might not be able to cure you of that.”

She crossed her arms, keeping her eyes on her reflection. “But we cannot help you today if my sister refuses to budge from the room. She is quite stubborn. Always has been. Worse now that she is older. Come back tomorrow or the day after. Perhaps she will be persuaded to leave this room then.”

Dhamon closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. He took a step toward the mirror and raised his fist to smash it but found he couldn’t move.

“Don’t you dare threaten my sister,” Maab warned. “I would be forced to slay you. That would end your problem with the black dragon scale, wouldn’t it?”

His chest felt tight, as if all the air had been sucked from the room. A wave of dizziness struck him like a hammer. After a moment, he was released from the spell. He dropped his hand to rub at his throat, taking in great gulps of the fetid air.

“There, that’s better,” she said. “As I said, come back tomorrow, and we’ll see if my sister feels like traveling.”

“No.” Dhamon moved to stand in front of the old woman. “I will not come back tomorrow. I need your help now.”

She shook her head. “So sorry.”

He felt the air growing thin.

The sivak tapped at the door frame. “We should leave, Dhamon.”

What am I doing here? Dhamon thought, feeling dizzy again.

“My sister is not so powerful as I, but she is handy in the laboratory,” Maab continued. “I cannot help you without her. Besides, you are rude, and perhaps I should not help at all.”

Dhamon ran his fingers through his hair. What if she really is powerful enough to help?

“Let me see if I can get your sister to come along with us. I can be quite persuasive.”

He walked to the mirror slowly so Maab wouldn’t think him a threat. His fingers quickly worked at the fastenings that held the mirror in place. After a moment, he carefully tugged the mirror off the wall. He held it in front of him so Maab could see her reflection. As she moved toward the door this time, Dhamon walked alongside her.

“Dear sister, too bad this mad young man hasn’t come by before to coax you from our room. I would’ve liked to have taken a stroll before now.”

They worked their way back along the twisting corridor, the sivak leading the way and Dhamon, holding the mirror, walking just ahead of Maab.

“I hope this isn’t a fine dose of foolishness,” Dhamon whispered, grateful that Maab seemed to be hard of hearing. “I hope she really is my cure.”

Several minutes later they found themselves at the bottom of the narrow stairway. The draconian’s arms and shoulders had fresh wounds from scraping against the walls.

“My sister thinks you should have that looked to,” Maab told Ragh. “Not that we would help.” She turned up her nose. “We will not treat your kind.”

“What I would love is to kill Nura Bint-Drax when she arrives in this town,” the sivak hissed.

“We do not like your pet, young man,” Maab scolded. “My sister thinks you should keep it outside where it will not soil the floor.”

They passed by the closet where Dhamon and the sivak had hid, and Maab insisted on stopping to get a warmer cloak. “It is cold and damp very far downstairs,” she said. Dhamon managed to open the door while still keeping the mirror trained on the old woman. The grumbling sivak pulled down one rotting cloak after the next until Maab was satisfied with one made of black wool.

Dhamon tried to pass the mirror to the draconian, but Ragh, eyes filled with venom, refused to carry it. However, the draconian was quick to tug the long sword from Dhamon’s sheath.

“I know how to use blades well,” the sivak stated, “and they have a longer reach than what are left of my claws.”

Dhamon returned the draconian’s narrow stare, but made no move to protest. He knew he couldn’t hold the mirror and the sword.

Again the sivak took the lead, slaying a spawn that was trundling up the stairs and again taking on the sleek black form.

“It is a most amazing pet you have,” Maab observed. “Reminds my sister and me of Takhisis’s children, the sivak draconians. They are able to do such deadly and wondrous things. They have beautiful forms, and they have beautiful wings and can fly.”

The sivak hissed, gesturing down the staircase. “Is this the way to your books, old woman?”

She shook her head, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She shuffled to the wall opposite the stairway. She poked one stone after the next until a section of the wall spun around, revealing a staircase nearly as narrow as the one that had led to her room.

“Too dark,” she complained. A twirl of her fingers, however, remedied that. A globe of pale rosecolored light appeared in the palm of her hand. Dhamon stared. He remembered Palin Majere casting a similar spell when they were in the great blue dragon’s desert.

“My sister knows the way better than I. She says follow these stairs to the very bottom.”

Ragh paused, rubbing a clawed hand across its chin and looking decidedly unhappy about scraping his shoulders raw again. “Does your sister know anything of Nura Bint-Drax, the naga who is coming here in the next few days?”

Maab shook her head. “Of course not. My sister hates the hideous creatures and pays them no heed.”

The sivak sighed and started down the tight stairwell.

“However, I know a little of Nura Bint-Drax and where she travels,” Maab added. “While my sister is not so interested in such creatures, I make it my business to know what slithers across every inch of this town.”

“Tell me about her,” Ragh said, his voice echoing softly. “Where does she travel?”

“If you are polite to us. After we are done helping your master.”

Dhamon steadied himself against the stairwell, with considerable effort walking sideways, going slowly, matching the old woman’s pace, while holding the mirror so she could watch it. He risked a glance down at the sivak, catching a glint of the sword the creature held high.