Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

1 A Roll of the Dye. An Unexpected Encounter.

The city of Palanthas had been awake most of the night, bracing for war. The city had not panicked; ancient aristocratic grand dames such as Palanthas never panicked. They sat rigid in their ornately carved chairs, holding tight to their lace handkerchiefs and waiting with stern countenances and straight backs for someone to tell them if there was going to be a war and, if so, would it be so rude as to interrupt their plans for dinner.

The forces of the feared Blue Lady, Dragon Highlord Kitiara, were rumored to be marching on the city. The Highlord’s armies had been defeated at the High Clerist’s Tower, which guarded the pass leading down from the mountains into Palanthas. The small group of knights and foot soldiers who had held the Tower against the initial assault were not strong enough to hold out against another attack. They had left the fortress and the graves of their dead, retreating to Palanthas.

The city had not been pleased at that. If the militant, warmongering knights had not entered her walls, Palanthas would have been left in peace. The dragonarmies would not dare to attack a city so venerable and revered. The wise knew better. Almost all other major cities in Krynn had fallen to the might of the dragonarmies. The baleful eyes of Emperor Ariakas were turned to Palanthas, to her port, her ships, her wealth. The glittering city, the jewel of Solamnia, would be the most magnificent gem in Ariakas’s Crown of Power.

The Lord of Palanthas sent his troops to the battlements. The citizens hunkered down in their houses, shuttered their windows. Shops and businesses closed. The city believed she was prepared for the worst, and if the worst came, as it had come to other cities, such as Solace and Tarsis, Palanthas would fight valiantly. For there was courage in the heart of the old grand dame. Her rigid spine was made of steel.

She was not tested. The worst did not come. The forces of the Blue Lady had been routed at the High Clerist’s Tower and were in retreat. The dragons sighted that morning, winging toward the city’s walls, were not the red fire-breathing dragons or the lightning-crackling blue dragons people feared. The morning sun sparkled on shining silver scales. Silver dragons had flown from their homes in the Dragon Isles to defend Palanthas.

Or so the dragons claimed.

Since war did not come, the citizens of Palanthas left their homes and opened their shops and surged out into the streets, talking, arguing. The Lord of Palanthas assured the citizens that the new dragons were on the side of Light, that they worshiped Paladine and Mishakal and the rest of the gods of Light, that they had agreed to assist the Knights of Solamnia, protectors of the city.

Some people believed their lord. Some didn’t. Some argued that dragons of any color were not to be trusted, that they were there simply to lull the people into a state of complacency, and that the dragons would attack in the dead of night and they would all be devoured in their beds.

“Fools!” Raistlin muttered more than once as he shoved his way through the crowds, or rather as he was bumped and jostled and nearly run over by a careening horse cart.

If he had been wearing his red robes that marked him a wizard, the people of Palanthas would have eyed him askance, left him severely alone, gone out of their way to avoid him. Clad in the plain gray robes of an Aesthetic of the Great Library of Palanthas, Raistlin was trampled and pushed and trod upon.

Palanthians were not fond of wizards, even those of the red robes, who were neutral in the war, or the white, who were dedicated to the side of Light. Both Orders of High Sorcery had worked and sacrificed to bring about the return of the metallic dragons to Ansalon. The head of their order, Par-Salian, knew that the sight of the spring dawn glistening on silver and golden wings would come as a punch in the gut to Emperor Ariakas; the first blow that had been able to penetrate his dragonscale armor. All during the war, the wings of Takhisis’s evil dragons had darkened the skies. Now the skies of Krynn shone with brightening light, and the Emperor and his Queen were starting to grow nervous.

The people of Palanthas did not know that the wizards had been working to protect them and would not have believed such a claim if they heard it. To their minds, the only good wizard was a wizard who lived somewhere besides Palanthas.

Raistlin Majere was not wearing his red robes because they were wrapped in a bundle tucked under his arm. He wore the “borrowed” gray robes of one of the monks of the Great Library.

Borrowed. Thinking of that word brought to mind Tasslehoff Burrfoot. The light-hearted and lighter-fingered kender never “stole” anything. When caught with purloined goods upon his person, the kender would claim to have “borrowed” the sugar basin, “stumbled across” the silver candlesticks, and “was just coming to return” the emerald necklace. Raistlin had “stumbled upon” the Aesthetic’s robes lying folded neatly on a bed that morning. He had every intention of returning the gray robes in a day or two.

Mostly people, absorbed in their arguments, ignored him as he fought his way through the crowded streets. But occasionally some citizen would stop him to ask what Astinus thought about the arrival of the metallic dragons, the dragons of Light.

Raistlin didn’t know what Astinus thought and he didn’t care. Keeping his cowl pulled low to conceal the fact that his skin shimmered gold in the sunlight and that the pupils of his eyes were the shape of hourglasses, he would mutter an excuse and hurry on. He hoped sourly that the workers at his destination were actually doing some work, that they were not out gossiping in the street.

He regretted thinking of Tasslehoff. The memory of the kender brought back memories of his friends and his brother. He should say his deceased friends, deceased brother: Tanis Half-Elven, Tika, Riverwind and Goldmoon, and Caramon. All of them dead. He alone had survived, and that was because he had been smart enough to have foreseen disaster and planned a way out. He had to face the fact that Caramon and the others were dead and quit obsessing over it. But even as he told himself he should stop thinking about them, he thought about them.

Fleeing the dragonarmies in Flotsam, he and his brother and their friends had sought to escape by taking passage aboard a pirate ship, the Perechon. They had been pursued by a Dragon Highlord—his half-sister, Kitiara, as it turned out. The crazed helmsman had steered the ship deliberately into the Blood Sea’s feared Maelstrom. The ship was being ripped apart, spars falling, sails being torn to tatters. The wild water was breaking over the decks. Raistlin had a choice. Either he could die with the rest of them or he could leave. The choice was obvious to anyone with a brain—which excluded his brother. Raistlin had in his possession the magical dragon orb that had once belonged to the ill-fated King Lorac. Raistlin had used the magic of the orb to escape. True, he might have taken his friends with him. He might have saved all of them. He might at least have saved his brother.

But Raistlin was only just learning about the powers of the dragon orb. He was not certain the orb had the ability to save the rest, and therefore, he had saved himself—and the other. The other who was always with him, who was with him even as he pushed his way through the streets of Palanthas. Once this “other” had been a whispered voice in Raistlin’s head, unknown and mysterious and maddening. But the mystery had been solved. Raistlin could put a hideous face to the disembodied voice, give the speaker a name.

“Your decision was logical, young magus,” Fistandantilus said, adding with a sneer, “Your twin is dead. Good riddance. Caramon weakened you, diminished you. Now that you are free of him, you will go far. I will see to that.”

“You won’t see to anything!” Raistlin retorted.

“I beg your pardon?” said a passerby, halting. “Were you speaking to me, sir?”

Raistlin muttered something and, ignoring the man’s offended stare, kept on walking. He had been forced to listen to the yammering voice all morning. He had even fancied he could see the black-robed, soul-sucking specter of the archmage dogging his footsteps. Raistlin wondered bitterly if the bargain he had made with the evil wizard had been worth it.

“Without me, you would have died taking the Test in the Tower at Wayreth,” said Fistandantilus. “You came out of our deal well enough. A bit of your life in exchange for my knowledge and power.

Raistlin had not been afraid he would die. He had been afraid he would fail. That was the true reason he had made the bargain with the old man. Raistlin could not have borne failure. He could not have endured his brother’s pity or the fact that he would have been dependent on his stronger twin for the rest of his days.

Just thinking about the undead leech of a wizard sucking the life out of him as one sucks the juice from a peach brought on a coughing fit. Raistlin had always been frail and sickly, but the bargain he had struck with Fistandantilus, which allowed the spirit of the archmagus to remain alive on his dark plane of tortured existence in return for Raistlin’s escape, had exacted its toll. His lungs seemed to be always filled with wool. He felt as though he were being smothered. He was subject to fits of coughing that almost doubled him over, as happened at that moment.

He had to pause and lean against a building for support, wiping the blood from his lips with the gray sleeve of the purloined robe. He felt weaker than usual. Using the magic of the dragon orb to transport him across a continent had taken far more out of him than he had anticipated. He had been half dead when he had arrived in Palanthas four days earlier, so weak that he had collapsed on the steps of the Great Library. The monks had taken pity on him and carried him inside. He was recovered somewhat, but he was still not well. He would not be well ever … not until he ended his bargain.

Fistandantilus seemed to think that Raistlin’s soul was to be his reward. The archmagus was going to be disappointed. Since Raistlin’s soul was finally his own, he was not going to meekly hand it over to Fistandantilus.

Raistlin considered that the archmagus had done well out of the deal he’d made with Raistlin in the Tower. Fistandantilus was, after all, leeching part of Raistlin’s life-force in order to cling to his miserable existence. But as far as Raistlin was concerned, the two of them were even. It was time to end their bargain. Except Raistlin couldn’t figure out how to do that without Fistandantilus knowing about it and stopping him. The old man was constantly lurking about, eavesdropping on Raistlin’s thoughts. There had to be a way to shut the door and lock the windows of his mind.

Raistlin finally recovered enough to be able to resume his errand. He continued through the streets, following directions that were given to him by people he met along the way, and soon left the central part of Old City behind and, with it, the crowds. He entered the working part of the city, where streets were known by their trade. He passed Iron-Mongers Avenue and Butchers’ Row and the Horse Fair and Goldsmith Lane on his way to the street where wool merchants plied their trade. He was searching for a particular business when he glanced down an alleyway and saw a sign marked with the symbols of three moons: a red moon, a silver, and a black. It was a mageware shop.

The shop was small, a mere hole in the wall. Raistlin was surprised to find such a shop at all, surprised that someone had even bothered to open a shop dealing in objects related to the use of magic in a city that despised those who wielded magic. He knew of only one wizard who resided in the city and that was Justarius, head of Raistlin’s own order, the Red Robes. Raistlin supposed there must be others. He’d never given the matter much thought.

His steps slowed. The mageware shop would have what he sought. It would be costly. He could not afford it. He had only a small sum of steel, hoarded up and hidden away over months. He had to save his steel for lodging and food in Neraka, his destination, once his health was restored and his business in Palanthas was finished.

Besides, the owner of the mageware shop would be bound to report Raistlin’s purchase to the Conclave, the body of wizards that enforced the laws of magic. The Conclave could not stop him, but he would be summoned to Wayreth and called upon to explain himself. Raistlin didn’t have time for all that. Events were happening—momentous, world-shaking events. The end was coming. The Dark Queen would soon be celebrating her victory. Raistlin did not plan to be standing on the street corner cheering as she rode past in triumph. He planned to be leading the parade.

Raistlin walked past the mageware shop and came at last to the place he’d been seeking. The stench alone should have guided him, he thought, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. The business was located in a large, open-air yard filled with stacks of wood to stoke the fires. Smoke mingled with steam rising from the huge kettles and vats and reeked with the odors of the various ingredients used in the process, some of which were not at all pleasant.

Clutching his bundle, Raistlin entered a small building located near the compound, where men and women were hauling wood and stirring the contents of the vats with big, wooden paddles. A clerk on a stool was writing figures in a large book. Another man sat on another stool, studying long lists. Neither took any notice of Raistlin.

Raistlin waited a moment; then he coughed, causing the man looking over the lists to raise his eyes. Seeing Raistlin waiting in the entrance, the man left his stool and came over to inquire how he might serve one of the honored Aesthetics.

“I have some cloth to be dyed,” said Raistlin, and he brought forth the red robes.

He kept his hood over his face, but he could not very well hide his hands. Fortunately the building was shadowy, and Raistlin hoped the man would not notice his gold-colored skin.

The dyer examined the color, running his hands over the cloth. “A nice wool,” he pronounced. “Not fine, mind you, but good and serviceable. It should take the dye well. What color would you like, Revered Sir?”

Raistlin was about to reply when he was interrupted by a fit of coughing so severe that he staggered and fell back against the doorframe. He missed his brother’s strong arm, which had always been there to support him.

The dyer eyed Raistlin and backed up slightly in alarm. “Not catching, is it, sir?”

“Black,” Raistlin gasped, ignoring the question.

“I am sorry, what did you say?” asked the dyer. “It’s hard to hear with all that jabbering.”

He gestured to the compound behind him, where women engaged in dunking the cloth in the kettles were yelling back and forth or exchanging barbed comments with the men who stoked the fires.

“Black,” Raistlin said, raising his voice. He generally spoke softly. Talking irritated his throat.

The dyer raised an eyebrow. Aesthetics who served Astinus in the Great Library wore robes of gray.

“It is not for me,” Raistlin added. “I am acting for a friend.”

“I see,” said the dyer. He cast Raistlin a quizzical glance, which Raistlin, overtaken by another fit of coughing, did not notice.

“We have three types of black dye,” stated the dyer. “Our cheapest grade uses chromium, alum, and red argol, logwood and barwood. This produces a good black, though not very durable. The color will fade with washing. The next grade dye utilizes camwood and copperas and logwood. This grade is better than the first I named, though the black can turn slightly green over a long period of time. The best grade is done with indigo and camwood. This provides a deep, rich black that will not fade no matter how many times the cloth is washed. The latter is, of course, the most expensive.”

“How much?” Raistlin asked.

The dyer named the price, and Raistlin winced. It would considerably diminish the number of coins in the small leather pouch he had hidden in a conjured cubbyhole in the monk’s cell he was occupying in the Great Library. He should settle for the less costly dye. But then he thought of appearing before the wealthy, powerful Black Robes of Neraka, and he cringed as he imagined walking among them in black robes that were not black but “slightly green.”

“The indigo,” he stated, and he handed over his red robes.

“Very good, Revered Sir,” said the dyer. “May I have your name?”

“Bertrem,” Raistlin replied with a smile that he kept hidden in the shadow of the cowl. Bertrem was the name of Astinus’s long-suffering and harried chief assistant.

The dyer made a note.

“When may I return for these?” Raistlin asked. “I am—that is, my friend is in a hurry.”

“Day after tomorrow,” said the dyer.

“Not sooner?” Raistlin asked, disappointed.

The dyer shook his head. “Not unless your friend wants to walk the streets dripping black dye.”

Raistlin gave a curt nod and took his leave. The moment Raistlin’s back was turned, the dyer spoke a word to his assistant then hurried out of the building. Raistlin saw the man hastening down the street, but exhausted from the long walk and half suffocated by the choking fumes, he paid no heed.

The Great Library was located in the Old City. The hour being High Watch, when shops normally closed for lunch, more people thronged the streets. The noise was appalling, dinning in Raistlin’s ears. The long walk had taxed Raistlin’s strength to such an extent that he was forced to stop frequently to rest, and when he finally came in sight of the library’s marble columns and imposing portico, he was so weak that he feared he could not make it across the street without collapsing.

Raistlin sank down on a stone bench not far from the Great Library. Winter’s long night was drawing to a close. The dawn of spring was near. The bright sun was warm. Raistlin closed his eyes. His head slumped forward onto his chest. He dozed in the sun.

He was back on board the ship, holding the dragon orb and facing his brother and Tanis and the rest of his friends …

Raistlin stirred uneasily in his sleep.

That is Flint’s voice and that is all wrong, Raistlin thought. Flint isn’t here. I haven’t seen Flint in a long time, not for months, not since the fall of Tarsis. Raistlin sank back into the dream.

Raistlin woke with a start. He knew that voice as well.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot stood quite close to him. Raistlin had only to rise up from the bench and walk a few paces and he could reach out his hand and touch him. Flint Fireforge was standing beside the kender, and though they both had their backs to Raistlin, he could picture the exasperated look on the old dwarf’s face as he tried arguing with a kender. Raistlin had seen the quivering beard and flushed cheeks often enough.

It can’t be! Raistlin told himself, shaken. Tasslehoff was in my mind, and now I have conjured him up whole.

But just to be safe, Raistlin pulled down the cowl of the gray robe, making sure it covered his face, and he thrust his gold-skinned hands inside the sleeves of his robes.

The kender looked like Tas from the back, but then all kender looked alike either from the front or the back: short in stature; dressed in the brightest clothing they could find; their long hair done up in outlandish topknots; their small, slender bodies festooned in pouches. The dwarf looked the same as any dwarf, short and stocky, clad in armor, wearing a helm decorated with horsehair … or the mane of a griffon.

“I saw Raistlin, I tell you!” the kender was saying insistently. He pointed to the Great Library. “He was lying on those very stairs. The monks were all gathered around him. That staff of his—the Staff of Maggots—”

“Magius,” the dwarf muttered.

“—was on the stairs beside him.”

“So what if it was Raistlin?” the dwarf demanded.

“I think he was dying, Flint,” said the kender solemnly.

Raistlin shut his eyes. There was no longer any doubt. Tasslehoff Burrfoot and Flint Fireforge. His old friends. The two had watched him grow up, him and Caramon. Raistlin had wondered frequently if they were still alive, Flint and Tas and Sturm. They had been parted in the attack on Tarsis. He now wondered, astonished, how they had come to be in Palanthas. What adventures had brought them to that place? He was curious and he was, surprisingly, glad to see them.

Drawing back his cowl, he rose from the bench with the intention of making himself known to them. He would ask about Sturm and about Laurana, the golden-haired Laurana …

“If the Sly One’s dead, good riddance,” Flint said grimly. “He made my skin crawl.”

Raistlin sat back down on the bench and pulled the cowl over his face.

“You don’t mean that—” Tas began.

“I do so too mean it!” Flint roared. “How do you know what I mean and don’t mean? I said so yesterday, and I’ll say it today. Raistlin was always looking down that gold nose of his at us. And he turned Caramon into his slave. ‘Caramon, make my tea!’ ‘Caramon, carry my pack.’ ‘Caramon, clean my boots!’ It’s a good thing Raistlin never told his brother to jump off a cliff. Caramon would be lying at the bottom of a ravine by now.”

“Ah, I kind of liked Raistlin,” said Tas. “He magicked me into a duck pond once. I know that sometimes he wasn’t very nice, Flint, but he didn’t feel good, what with that cough of his, and he did help you when you had the rheumatism—”

“I never had rheumatism a day in my life! Rheumatism is for old people,” said Flint, glowering.

“Now where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, seizing hold of Tasslehoff, who was about to cross the street.

“I thought I’d go up to the library and knock on the door and I would ask the monks, very politely, if Raistlin was there.”

“Wherever Raistlin is, you can be sure he’s up to no good. And you can just put the thought of knocking on the library door out of your rattle-brained mind. You heard what they said yesterday: no kender allowed.”

“I figured I’d ask them about that, too,” Tas said. “Why won’t they allow kender into the library?”

“Because there wouldn’t be a book left on the shelves, that’s why. You’d rob them blind.”

“We don’t rob people!” Tasslehoff said indignantly. “Kender are very honest. And I think that’s a disgrace, kender not being allowed! I’ll just go give them a piece of my mind—”

He twisted out of Flint’s grasp and started to run across the street. Flint glared after him; then, with a sudden gleam in his eye, he called out, “You can go if you want to, but you might want to listen to what I came to tell you. Laurana sent me. She said something about you riding a dragon …”

Tasslehoff turned around so fast that he tripped himself and tumbled over his own feet, sprawling flat on his face on the street and spilling half the contents of his pouches.

“Me? Tasslehoff Burrfoot? Ride a dragon? Oh, Flint!” Tasslehoff picked up himself and his pouches. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“No,” Flint said glumly.

“Hurry up!” Tasslehoff said, tugging on Flint’s shirt. “We don’t want to miss the battle.”

“It’s not happening right this minute,” Flint said, batting away the kender’s hands. “You go on. I’ll be along.”

Tas didn’t wait to be told twice. He dashed off down the street, pausing at intervals to tell everyone he met that he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, was going to be riding a dragon with the Golden General.

Flint stood long moments after the kender had left, staring at the Great Library. The old dwarf’s face grew grave and solemn. He was about to cross the street, but then he paused. His heavy, gray brows came together. He thrust his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

“Good riddance,” he muttered, and he turned and followed Tas.

Raistlin remained sitting on the bench a long time after they had gone. He sat there until the sun had gone down behind the buildings of Palanthas and the night air of early spring grew chill.

At last he rose. He did not go to the library. He walked the streets of Palanthas. Even though it was night, the streets were still crowded. The Lord of Palanthas had come out to publicly reassure his people. The silver dragons were on their side. The dragons had promised to protect them, the lord said. He declared a time for celebration. People lit bonfires and began dancing in the streets. Raistlin found the noise and the gaiety jarring. He shoved his way through the drunken throng, heading for a part of the city where the streets were deserted, the buildings dark and abandoned.

No one lived in that part of the great city. No one ever went there. Raistlin had never been there, but he knew the way well. He turned a corner. At the end of the empty street, surrounded by a ghastly forest of death, rose a tower of black, silhouetted against a blood-red sky.

The Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas. The accursed Tower. Blackened and broken, the crumbling building had been vacant for centuries.

None shall enter save the Master of Past and Present. Raistlin took a step toward the Tower, then stopped. “Not yet,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

He felt a cold and corpselike hand brush his cheek, and he flinched away.

“Only one of us, young magus,” said Fistandantilus. “Only one can be the Master.”

2 The Last of the Wine.

The gods of magic, Solinari, Lunitari, and Nuitari, were cousins. Their parents formed the triumvirate of gods who ruled Krynn. Solinari was the son of Paladine and Mishakal, gods of Light. Lunitari the daughter of Gilean, God of the Book. Nuitari was the son of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness. From the day of their birth, the cousins had formed a strong alliance, bound together by their dedication to magic.

Eons earlier, the Three Cousins gave to mortals the ability to be able to control and manipulate arcane energy. True to form, mortals abused their gift. Magic ran amok in the world, causing terrible destruction and loss of life. The cousins realized that they must establish laws governing the use of the power, and thus, they created the Orders of High Sorcery. Ruled by a conclave of wizards, the order established laws regarding the use of the magic that strictly controlled those who practiced the powerful art.

The Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth was the last of the five original centers of magic on Ansalon. The other three towers, those located in the cities of Daltigoth, Losarcum, and Istar, had been destroyed. The Tower of Palanthas still existed, but it was cursed. Only the Tower of Wayreth, located in the wayward and mysterious Forest of Wayreth, remained active and very much alive.

Since people tend to fear what they do not understand, wizards trying to live among ordinary folk often found life difficult. No matter whether they served the God of the Silver Moon, Solinari, or the God of the Dark Moon, Nuitari, or the Goddess of the Red Moon, Lunitari, wizards were generally reviled and mistrusted. Small wonder that mages liked to spend as much time as possible in the Tower of Wayreth. There, among their own kind, they could be themselves, study their art, practice new spells, purchase or exchange magical artifacts, and enjoy being in the company of those who spoke the language of magic.

Before the return of Takhisis, wizards of all three orders had lived and worked together in the Tower of Wayreth. Black Robes had rubbed elbows with White Robes, waging debates related to magic. If a spell component required the use of cobweb, was it better to use cobweb spun by spiders in the wild or those raised in captivity? Because cats pursued their own secret agendas, did they make untrustworthy familiars?

When Queen Takhisis declared war upon the world, her son, Nuitari, broke ranks with his cousins for the first time since the creation of magic. Nuitari loathed his mother. He suspected her flatteries and promises were lies, yet he wanted to believe. He joined the ranks of the Dark Queen’s army, and he took many of his Black Robes with him. The wizards of Ansalon continued to present a united front to the world, but in truth, the orders were being torn apart.

The wizards were ruled by a governing body known as the Conclave, which was made up of an equal number of wizards from each order. The head of the conclave during such turbulent times was a white robe wizard named Par-Salian. In his early sixties, Par-Salian was deemed by most to be a strong leader, just and wise. But given the rising disorder among the ranks of the wizards, there were those who began to say that he had lost control, that he was not fit for the job.

Par-Salian sat alone in his study in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The night was cold, and a small fire burned in the grate—a real fire, not a magical one. Par-Salian did not believe in using magic for the sake of convenience. He read by candlelight, not magical light. He swept his floor with a plain, ordinary broom. He required everyone living and working in the Tower to do the same.

The candle burned out, and the fire dwindled, leaving Par-Salian in darkness, save for the glow of the dying embers. He gave up trying to study his spells. That required concentration, and he could not concentrate his mind upon memorizing the arcane words.

Ansalon was in turmoil. The forces of the Dark Queen were perilously close to winning the war. There were some glimmerings of hope. The meeting of the Whitestone Council had brought together elves, dwarves, and humans. The three races had agreed to set aside their differences and unite against the foe. The Blue Lady, Dragon Highlord Kitiara, and her forces had been defeated at the High Clerist’s Tower. Clerics of Paladine and Mishakal had brought hope and healing to the world.

Yet for all the good, the mighty force of the dragonarmies and the terrifying threat of the evil dragons were arrayed against the Forces of Light. Even now, Par-Salian waited in dread for the news that Palanthas had fallen …

A knock came on the door. Par-Salian sighed. He was certain it was the news he feared to hear. His assistant having long since gone to bed, Par-Salian rose to answer the knock himself. He was astonished to find his visitor was Justarius, the head of the Order of Red Robes.

“My friend! You are the last person I expected to see this night! Come in, please. Sit down.”

Justarius limped into the room. He was a tall man, strong and hale, except for his twisted leg. An athletic youth, he had been fond of participating in contests of physical skill. All that had ended with the Test in the Tower, which had left him permanently maimed. Justarius never spoke of the Test and he never complained about his injury, other than to say, with a shrug and a half smile, that he had been most fortunate. He might have died.

“I am glad to see you safe,” Par-Salian continued, lighting candles and adding wood to the fire. “I thought you would be among those battling the dragonarmies in Palanthas.”

He paused in his work to look at his friend in dismay. “Has the city already fallen?”

“Far from it,” said Justarius, seating himself before the blaze. He positioned his injured leg on a small footstool, to keep it elevated, and smiled. “Open a bottle of your finest elven wine, my friend, for we have something to celebrate.”

“What is it? Tell me quickly. My thoughts have been filled with darkness,” said Par-Salian.

“The good dragons have entered the war!”

Par-Salian stared at his friend for long moments; then he gave a great, shuddering sigh. “Praise be to Paladine! And to Gilean, of course,” he added quickly with a glance at Justarius. “Tell me the details.”

“Silver dragons arrived this morning to defend the city. The dragonarmies did not launch their anticipated attack. Laurana of the Qualinesti elves was named Golden General and made leader of the forces of Light, including the Knights of Solamnia.”

“This calls for something special.” Par-Salian poured wine for them both. “My last bottle of Silvanesti wine. Alas, there will be no more elven wine from that sad land for a long time, I fear.”

He resumed his seat. “And so they have chosen the daughter of the elf king of Qualinesti to be Golden General. The choice is a wise one.”

“A politic one,” said Justarius wryly. “The Knights could not settle on a leader of their own. The defeat of the dragonarmies at the High Clerist’s Tower was due in large part to Laurana’s courage and valor and quick thinking. She has the power to inspire men with both words and deeds. The knights who fought at the Tower admire and trust her. In addition, she will bring the elves into the battle.”

The two wizards lifted their glasses and drank to the success of the Golden General and to the good dragons, as they were popularly known. Justarius replaced the silver goblet on a nearby table and rubbed his eyes. His face was haggard. He settled back into his chair with a sigh.

“Are you well?” Par-Salian asked with concern.

“I have not slept in many nights,” Justarius replied. “And I traveled the corridors of magic to come here. Such a journey is always wearing.”

“Did the Lord of Palanthas ask for your help in defending the city?” Par-Salian was astonished.

“No, of course not,” said Justarius with some bitterness. “I was prepared to do my part, however. I have my home, my family to protect, as well as my city, which I love.”

He lifted his goblet again, but he did not drink. He stared morosely into the dark, plum-colored wine.

“Come, out with it,” said Par-Salian grimly. “I hope your bad news does not offset the good.”

Justarius gave a heavy sigh. “You and I have often wondered why the good dragons refused to heed our pleas for help. Why they did not enter the war when Takhisis sent her evil dragons to burn cities and slaughter innocents. Now I know the answer. And it is a terrible one.”

He was silent again. Par-Salian took a drink of his wine, as though to brace himself.

“A silver dragon who calls herself Silvara made the horrible discovery,” Justarius said. “It seems that years ago, sometime around 287 AC, Takhisis ordered the evil dragons to secretly creep into the lairs of the good dragons as they slept the Long Sleep and steal their eggs.

“Once their young were in her possession, Takhisis awakened the good dragons to tell them that she intended to launch a war upon the world. If the good dragons intervened, Takhisis threatened to destroy their eggs. Afraid for their young, the good dragons took an oath, promising that they would not fight her.”

“And that oath is now broken,” said Par-Salian.

“The good dragons discovered that Takhisis had broken her oath first,” Justarius replied. “The wise have speculated as to the origin of the so-called lizardmen, the draconians …”

Par-Salian stared at his friend in horror. “You don’t mean to tell me …” He clenched his fist. “That is not possible!”

“It is, I am afraid. Silvara and a friend, an elf warrior named Gilthanas, discovered the terrible truth. Through the use of dark and unholy magic, the eggs of the metallic dragons were perverted, changed from dragons into the creatures we know as draconians. Silvara and Gilthanas attest to this. They witnessed the ceremony. They barely escaped with their lives.”

Par-Salian was stricken. “A terrible loss. A tragic loss. Beauty and wisdom and nobility transformed into hideous monstrosities.”

He fell silent. Both men knew the question that must be asked next. Both knew the answer. Neither wanted to speak it aloud. Par-Salian was Master of the Conclave, however. The discovery of the truth, however unpleasant, was his responsibility.

“I notice you said that the eggs were perverted through the use of unholy magic and dark magic. Are you saying that one of our order performed this monstrous act?”

“I am afraid so,” Justarius said quietly. “A Black Robe named Dracart in conjunction with a cleric of Takhisis and a red dragon devised the spells. You must take swift action, Par-Salian. That is why I came here in all haste tonight. You must dissolve the Conclave, denounce the Black Robes, cast them out of the Tower, and forbid them from ever coming here again.”

Par-Salian said nothing. His right fist unclenched, clenched again. He stared into the fire.

“We are already suspect in the eyes of the world,” Justarius said. “If people find out that a wizard was complicit in this heinous act, they would rise against us! This could well destroy us.”

Still, Par-Salian was silent.

“Sir,” said Justarius, his voice hardening, “the god Nuitari was involved in this. He had to be. He sided with his mother, Takhisis, years ago, which means that as head of the Black Robes, Ladonna must be involved, as well.”

“You don’t know that for certain,” said Par-Salian sternly. “You have no proof.”

He and Ladonna had been lovers, back in the past, back in their youth, back in the days when passion overthrows reason. Justarius was aware of their history and he was careful not mention it, but Par-Salian knew his friend was thinking it.

“None of us have seen Ladonna or her followers for over a year,” Justarius continued. “Our gods, Solinari and Lunitari, have made no secret of the fact that they were dismayed and angered when Nuitari broke with them to serve his mother. We must face facts, sir. The Three Cousins are estranged. Our sacred brotherhood of wizards, the ties that bind us—white, black, and red—are severed. Already, Ladonna and her Black Robes may be poised to launch an assault against the Tower—”

“No!” Par-Salian said, slamming his fist on the arm of the chair, spilling the wine.

Par-Salian, with his long, white beard and quiet demeanor, was sometimes taken for a weak and benign old man, even by those who knew him best. The head of the Conclave had not attained his high position through lack of fire in his blood and belly, however. The heat of that fire could be astonishing.

“I will not dissolve the Conclave! I do not for one moment believe that Ladonna was involved in this crime. Nor do I blame Nuitari—”

Justarius frowned. “A Black Robe, Dracart, was seen in the act.” “What of it?” Par-Salian glowered at his friend. “He may have been a renegade—”

“He was,” said a voice.

Justarius twisted around in his chair. When he saw who had spoken, he cast an accusing glance at Par-Salian.

“I did not know you had company,” Justarius said coldly.

“I did not know myself,” said Par-Salian. “You should have made yourself known, Ladonna. It is rude to eavesdrop, especially on friends.”

“I had to make certain you still were my friends,” she said.

A human woman in her middle-years, Ladonna scorned to try to conceal her age, as did some, using the artifices of nature and magic to bring plump youth to wrinkled cheeks. She wore her long, thick, gray hair as proudly as a queen wears a crown, coifing her hair in elaborate styles. Her black robes were generally made of the finest velvet, soft and sumptuous, and decorated with runes stitched in gold and silver thread.

But when she emerged from the shadowed corner where she had been secretly watching, the two men were shocked by the change in her appearance. Ladonna was haggard, pale, and seemed to have aged years. Her long, gray hair straggled out from two hastily plaited braids that hung down her back. Her elegant, black robes were dirty and bedraggled, tattered and frayed. She looked exhausted, almost to the point of collapsing.

Par-Salian hurriedly brought forth a chair and poured her a goblet of wine. She drank it gratefully. Her dark eyes went to Justarius.

“You are very quick to judge me, sir,” she said acidly.

“The last time I saw you, madam,” he returned in kind, “you were loudly proclaiming devotion to Queen Takhisis. Are we to believe you did not commit this crime?”

Ladonna took a sip of wine, then said quietly, “If being a fool is a crime, then I am guilty as charged.”

She raised her eyes, casting both men a flashing glance. “But I swear to you that I had nothing to do with the corruption of the dragon eggs! I did not know of this despicable act until only a short time ago. And when I found out, I did what I could to make amends. You can ask Silvara and Gilthanas. They would not be alive now if it were not for my help and the help of Nuitari.”

Justarius remained very grim. Par-Salian regarded her with grave solemnity.

Ladonna rose to her feet and raised her hand to heaven. “I call upon Solinari, God of the Silver Moon. I call upon Lunitari, Goddess of the Red Moon. I call upon Nuitari, God of the Dark Moon. Witness my oath. I swear by the magic we hold sacred, I am speaking the truth. Withdraw your blessings from me, all the gods, if I am lying. Let the words of magic slip from my mind! Let my spell components turn to dust. Let my scrolls burn. Let my hand be stricken from my wrist.”

She waited a moment then resumed her seat. “It is cold in here,” she said, staring hard at Justarius. “Should I build up the fire?”

She pointed her hand at the fireplace, where the fire was dying, and spoke a word of magic. Flames danced on the iron grate. The fire grew so hot, the three had to draw back their chairs. Ladonna lifted her goblet and took a gulp.

“Nuitari has broken with Takhisis?” Par-Salian asked in astonishment.

“He was seduced by sweet words and lavish promises. As was I,” Ladonna said bitterly. “The Queen’s sweet words were lies. Her promises false.”

“What did you expect?” Justarius asked with a sneer. “The Dark Queen has thwarted your ambition and hurt your pride. So now you come crawling back to us. I suppose you are in danger. You know the Queen’s secrets. Has she set the hounds upon you? Is that why you’ve come to Wayreth? To hide behind our robes?”

“I did discover her secrets,” Ladonna said softly. She sat for long moments, staring at her hands; her fingers were long and supple still, though the skin was reddened and drawn tightly over the fine bones. “And yes, I am in danger. We are all in danger. That is why I have come back. Risked my life to come back to warn you.”

Par-Salian exchanged alarmed glances with Justarius. Both men had known Ladonna for many years. They had seen her in the magnificence of her power. They had seen her raging in anger. One of them had seen her soft and tender with love. Ladonna was a fighter. She had battled her way to the top of the ranks of the Black Robes by defeating and sometimes slaying in magical combat those who challenged her. She was courageous, a formidable foe. Neither man had ever seen the strong and powerful woman show weakness. Neither had ever seen her as they saw her at that moment: shaken … afraid.

“There is a building in Neraka called the Red Mansion. Ariakas sometimes lives there when he returns to Neraka. In this mansion is a shrine to Takhisis. The shrine is not as grand as the one in her temple; it is far more secret and private, open only to Ariakas and his favorites, such as Kitiara and my former pupil, and his mistress, the wizardess Iolanthe.

“To make a long story short, several of my colleagues were most horribly murdered. I feared I was next. I went to the shrine to talk to Queen Takhisis directly—”

Justarius muttered something.

“I know,” said Ladonna. Her hand shook, spilling the wine. “I know. But I was alone, and I was desperate.”

Par-Salian reached over and laid his hand on her hand. She smiled tremulously and clasped her fingers over his. He was startled and shocked to see tears glimmer in her eyes. He had never before seen her cry.

“I was about to enter the shrine when I realized that someone was already there. It was Highlord Kitiara, talking to Ariakas. I used my magic to make myself invisible and listened to their conversation. You have heard of the Dark Queen’s search for a man called Berem? He is known as the Everman or the Green Gemstone man.”

“The dragonarmies are all taxed with finding this man. We have been trying to discover why,” said Par-Salian. “What makes him so important to Takhisis?”

“I can tell you,” said Ladonna. “If Takhisis finds Berem, she will be victorious. She will enter the world in all her might and power. No one, not even the gods, will be able to withstand her.”

She related the Everman’s tragic story to her audience. The two men listened in astonishment and grief to the tale of Jasla and Berem, a tale of murder and forgiveness, hope and redemption. [2]

Par-Salian and Justarius were silent, each turning over what he heard in his mind. Ladonna slumped in her chair and closed her eyes. Par-Salian offered to pour her another glass of wine.

“Thank you, my dear friend, but if I drink any more, I will fall asleep where I sit. Well, what do you think?”

“I think we must act,” said Par-Salian.

“I would like to do some investigating on my own,” said Justarius crisply. “Madam Ladonna will forgive me when I say that I do not entirely trust her.”

“Investigate all you like,” said Ladonna. “You will find that I have spoken the truth. I am too exhausted to lie. And now if you will excuse me—”

As she rose, she staggered with weariness and had to put her hand on the arm of the chair to steady herself. “I cannot travel this night. If I could have a blanket in the corner of some novice’s cell—”

“Nonsense,” said Par-Salian. “You will sleep in your chamber, as usual. Everything is as it was when you left. Nothing was moved or altered. You will even find a fire in the grate.”

Ladonna lowered her proud head, then extended her hand to Par-Salian. “My old friend, thank you. I made a mistake. I admit it freely. If it is any consolation, I have paid dearly for it.”

Justarius rose with some difficulty, leveraging himself up out of the chair. Sitting for any length of time caused his crippled leg to stiffen.

“Will you also spend the night with us, my friend?” Par-Salian asked.

Justarius shook his head. “I am needed back in Palanthas. I bring more news. If you could wait one moment, madam, this will be of interest to you. On the twenty-sixth day of Rannmont, Raistlin Majere was found, half dead, on the steps of the Great Library. One of my pupils happened to be passing and witnessed the incident. My pupil did not know who the man was, only that he was a wizard who wore the red robes of my order.

“That said, I do not think Raistlin will be of my order much longer,” Justarius added. “Today one of the local cloth dyers brought me word that a young man came to his establishment with a request to dye red robes black. It seems your ‘sword’ has a flaw in it, my friend.”

Par-Salian looked deeply troubled. “You are certain it was Raistlin Majere?”

“The young man gave a false name, but there cannot be many men in this world with golden-tinged skin and eyes with pupils like hourglasses. But to make sure, I spoke to Astinus. He assures me the young man is Raistlin. He is taking the Black Robes, and he is doing so without bothering to consult the Conclave, as is required.”

“He’s turning renegade.” Ladonna shrugged. “You have lost him, Par-Salian. It seems I am not the only one to make mistakes.”

“I never like to say I told you so,” said Justarius grimly. “But I told you so.”

Ladonna left for her chambers. Justarius returned to Palanthas via the corridors of magic. Par-Salian was alone again.

He resumed his seat in his chair by the dying fire, pondering all he had heard. He tried to concentrate on the dire news Ladonna had brought, but he found his thoughts straying to Raistlin Majere.

“Perhaps I did make a mistake when I chose him to be my sword to fight evil,” Par-Salian mused. “But given what I have heard this night and what I know of Raistlin Majere, perhaps I did not.”

Par-Salian drank the last of the elven wine; then tossing the lees onto the glowing embers, dousing them, he went to his bed.

3 Memories. An Old Friend.

It wasn’t the physical pain that clouded my mind. It was the old inner pain clawing at me, tearing at me with poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Caramon, everyone’s friend.

Not like Raistlin—the runt, the Sly One.

A knocking on the door brought Raistlin back, abruptly, to reality.

He stirred in his chair and let go of the memory slowly and reluctantly, not because he enjoyed reliving that moment in time—far from it. The memory of his Test in the Tower of High Sorcery was horrible, for it brought back the bitter pangs of jealous fury, the sight of Caramon being burned to death, the sound of his twin’s screams, the stench of charred flesh.

Then, after that, having to face Caramon, who had been witness to his own death at his brother’s hands. To see the pain in his eyes, far worse in some ways than the pain of dying. For it had all been illusion, a part of the Test, to teach Raistlin to know himself. He would not have brought it all back to mind, would have kept the memory locked away, but he was trying to learn something from it, so he had to endure it.

The time was early morning, and he was in the small cell that he’d been given in the Great Library. The monks had carried him to the cell when they had thought he was dying. In the cell he had at last dared to look into the darkness of his own soul and dared meet the eyes that stared back at him. He had remembered the Test, remembered the bargain he’d made with Fistandantilus in order to pass it.

“I said I was not to be bothered,” Raistlin called out, annoyed.

“Bothered! I’ll bother him,” a deep voice grumbled. “I’ll give him a good smack up the side of his head!”

“You have a visitor, Master Majere,” called out Bertrem in apologetic tones. “He says he is an old friend of yours. He is concerned about your health.”

“Of course he is,” Raistlin said sourly.

He’d been expecting the visit. Ever since he’d watched Flint start to cross the street to the library, only to change his mind. Flint would have spent the night brooding, but he would finally come. Not with Tas. He would come alone.

Tell him to go away. Tell him you are busy. You have a great deal of work to do to prepare for your journey to Neraka. But even as Raistlin was thinking these things, he was removing the magical spell that kept the door locked.

“He may enter,” Raistlin said.

Bertrem, his bald head glistening with sweat, cautiously shoved open the door and peered inside. At the sight of Raistlin sitting in the chair, wearing gray robes, Bertrem’s eyes widened.

“But those are … you are … those are …”

Raistlin glared at him. “Say what you came to say and be gone.”

“A … visitor …” Bertrem repeated faintly then hastened off, his sandals flapping on the stone floor.

Flint thumped inside. The old dwarf stood glowering at Raistlin from beneath his shaggy, gray eyebrows. He crossed his arms over his chest beneath his long, flowing beard. He was wearing the studded leather armor the dwarf preferred over steel. The armor was new and was embossed with a rose, the symbol of the Solamnic Knights.

Flint wore the same helm as always. He’d found the helm during one of their early adventures; Raistlin could not remember where. The helm was decorated with a tail made of horsehair. Flint always held that it was the mane of a griffon, and nothing would disabuse him of that notion, not even the fact that griffons did not have manes.

Only a few months had passed since they had last seen each other, but Raistlin was shocked at the change in the dwarf. Flint had lost weight. His skin had a chalky tinge to it. His breathing was labored, and his face was marred by new lines of sorrow and loss, weariness and worry. The old dwarf’s eyes, glaring at Raistlin, flared with the same gruff spirit.

Neither spoke. Flint harrumphed, clearing his throat, as he cast sharp, swift glances around the cell, taking in the spellbooks lying on the desk, the Staff of Magius standing in the corner, the empty cup that had held his tea. All Raistlin’s possessions, nothing of Caramon.

Flint frowned and scratched his nose, glancing from beneath lowered brows at Raistlin and shifting uncomfortably.

How much more uncomfortable he would be if he knew the truth, Raistlin thought. That I left Caramon and Tanis and the others to die. He wished Flint had not come.

“The kender said he saw you,” Flint said, breaking the silence at last. “He said you were dying.”

“As you see, I am very much alive,” Raistlin said.

“Yes, well.” Flint stroked his beard. “You’re wearing gray robes. What is that supposed to mean?”

“That I sent my red ones to be washed,” Raistlin said, adding caustically, “I am not so wealthy that I can afford an extensive wardrobe.” He made an impatient gesture. “Did you come here to stare at me and comment on my clothes, or did you have some purpose?”

“I came because I was worried about you,” Flint said, frowning.

Raistlin gave a sardonic smile. “You did not come because you were worried about me. You came because you are worried about Tanis and Caramon.”

“Well, and I have a right to be, don’t I? What has become of them?” Flint demanded, his face flushing, bringing some color into his gray cheeks.

Raistlin did not immediately respond. He could tell the truth. There was no reason he shouldn’t. After all, he didn’t give a damn what Flint thought of him, what any of them thought of him. He could tell the truth, that he had left them to die in the Maelstrom. But Flint would be outraged. He might even attack Raistlin in his fury. The old dwarf was no threat, but Raistlin would be forced to defend himself. Flint could get hurt, and there would be a scene. The Aesthetics would be in an uproar. They would throw him out, and he was not ready to leave.

“Laurana and Tas and I know you and the others escaped Tarsis,” Flint said. “We shared the dream.” He looked extremely uncomfortable at admitting that.

Raistlin was intrigued. “The dream in the nightmare land of Silvanesti? King Lorac’s dream? Did you? How very interesting.” He thought back, considering how that might be possible. “I knew that the rest of us shared it, but that was because we were in the dream. I wonder how the rest of you came to experience it?”

“Gilthanas said it was the starjewel, the one Alhana gave Sturm in Tarsis.”

“Alhana said something about that. Yes, it could be a starjewel. They are powerful magical artifacts. Does Sturm still have it?”

“It was buried with him,” said Flint gruffly. “Sturm’s dead. He was killed at the Battle of the High Clerist’s Tower.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Raistlin said, and he was surprised to realize he truly was.

“Sturm died a hero,” said Flint. “He fought a blue dragon alone.”

“Then he died a fool,” Raistlin remarked.

Flint’s face flushed. “What about Caramon? Why isn’t he here? He would never leave you! He’d die first!”

“He may be dead now,” said Raistlin. “Perhaps they all are. I do not know.”

“Did you kill him?” Flint asked, his flush deepening. Yes, I killed him, Raistlin thought. He was engulfed in flames …

Instead he said, “The door is behind you. Please shut it on your way out.”

Flint tried to speak, but he could only sputter with rage. Finally he managed to blurt out, “I don’t know why I came! I said ‘good riddance’ when I heard you were dying. And I say ‘good riddance’ now!”

He turned on his heel and stomped angrily across the floor. He had reached the door and flung it open and was about to walk out when Raistlin spoke.

“You’re having problems with your heart,” Raistlin said, talking to Flint’s back. “You are not well. You are experiencing pain, dizziness, shortness of breath. You tire easily. Am I right?”

Flint stopped where he stood in the doorway to the small cell, his hand on the handle.

“If you do not take it easy,” Raistlin continued, “your heart will burst.”

Flint glanced around, over his shoulder. “How long do I have?” “Death could come at any moment,” Raistlin said. “You must rest—”

“Rest! There’s a war on!” Flint said loudly. Then he coughed and wheezed and pressed his hand to chest. Seeing Raistlin watching him, he muttered, “We can’t all die heroes,” and stumped off, forgetting, as he left, to shut the door.

Raistlin, sighing, rose to his feet and shut it for him.

Raistlin removed a soft leather pouch from the belt he wore around his waist. He reached his hand into the pouch and drew out what appeared to be a small ball made of colored glass, very like a child’s marble. He rolled the glass ball around in the palm of his hand, watching the colors writhe and swirl inside.

“You grow to be a nuisance, old man,” Raistlin said softly, and he didn’t give a damn if Fistandantilus heard him or not.

He had a plan and there was nothing the undead wizard could do to stop him.

4 The Cursed Tower. The Dragon Orb. Silence.

The new black robes were still slightly damp around the seams and they smelled faintly of almond. The scent came from the indigo, the dyer told him. Raistlin was also convinced he could detect the odor of urine, which was used to set the dye, despite the dyer’s assurance that the robes had been rinsed a great many times and that the smell was all in his imagination. The dyer offered to keep the robes and rinse them again, but Raistlin could not afford to take the time.

His biggest fear was that the Dark Queen would win her war before he had a chance to join her, impress her with his skill, and acquire her help in furthering his career. He pictured in his mind becoming a leader among the Black Robes of the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka, her capital city. He pictured the Tower itself; it must be magnificent. He supposed the wizard Ladonna lived there, if she were still head of the Order of Black. He grimaced at the thought of having to abase himself before the old crone, treat her as his superior. He’d have to explain why he had taken the black robes without seeking her permission.

Ah, well. His servitude would not last long. With the support of the Dark Queen, Raistlin would be able to rise above them all. He would have no more need of them. His ambitious dreams would be fulfilled.

“Your dreams?” Fistandantilus snarled, his voice pounding like blood in Raistlin’s ears. “Your dreams are my dreams! I spent a lifetime—many lifetimes—working toward my goal, becoming the Master of Past and Present. No sniveling, hacking upstart will steal it!”

Raistlin kept his own thoughts in check, refusing to be drawn into battle before he was ready. He walked rapidly, unerringly through the night toward his destination, toward his destiny. The Staff of Magius lit his way, the orb held in the dragon’s claw shining softly, illuminating the dark streets that, in this part of the city, were very dark and very empty. No lights shone in the windows, most of which were broken. No laughter rang from within the tumble-down buildings. The streets were deserted. No one, not even the fearless kender, dared venture into the shadow of the Tower of High Sorcery—not by day and especially not by night.

The Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas had once been the most beautiful of all the Towers of High Sorcery. Named the Lorespire, the Tower was to be dedicated to the search of wisdom and knowledge. The Tower graced Palanthas, its wizards assisting the knights to fight Queen Takhisis in the Third Dragon War. The wizards of all three orders came together to create the fabled dragon orbs and used them to lure the evil dragons into a trap. Takhisis was driven into the Abyss and the white Tower of the wizards and the High Clerist’s Tower of the Knights were both proud guardians of Solamnia.

Then came the rise of the Kingpriests, who dictated that sorcery was evil. The Knights were strong supporters of the Kingpriests, and they came to view the wizards with distrust and finally demanded that the wizards abandon the Tower. Two Towers of High Sorcery had already been attacked, and the wizards had destroyed them, with devastating results to the populaces of those cities. The wizards of Palanthas decided to surrender their Tower. The Lord of Palanthas had intended to take over the Tower for his own use, as the Kingpriest had taken over the Tower of Istar, but before the lord could turn the key in the lock, a black robe wizard named Andras Rannoch cast a curse upon it.

The crowd who had gathered to rejoice in the eviction of the wizards watched in horror as Rannoch cried out, “The gates will remain closed and the halls empty until the day comes when the Master of Past and Present returns with power.” Then he had leaped from the Tower and was impaled upon the barbs of the fence. As his blood flowed over the iron, he spoke a curse with his dying breath.

The beautiful tower was transformed into a thing of evil, horrible to look upon. Almost four hundred years had passed, and no one had dared come too near it. Many had tried, but few could summon up the courage to come within sight of the dread Shoikan Grove, a forest of oak trees that stood guard around the Tower. No one knew what went on in the grove. No one who entered the grove ever returned to tell.

Raistlin was here in this part of Palanthas because he had magic to perform, and it was vital that he be left alone. Any interruption—such as Bertrem knocking on his door—might well be fatal.

The Tower’s twisted remains came into view, blotting out the stars, blotting out the light of the two moons, Solinari and Lunitari. Nuitari, the dark moon, was still visible, though only to the eyes of those who had been initiated into the dark god’s secrets. Raistlin kept his eyes upon the dark moon and drew courage from it.

He pressed steadily on, even though he could feel the terror that flowed in a bone-chilling river from the Tower. Fear lapped at his feet. He shivered and drew his robes closer around him and went on. Fear grew deeper. He began to sweat. His hands trembled, his breath came fast, and he was afraid he would have a coughing fit. He gripped the Staff of Magius tightly, and though the shadow of the Tower snuffed out every other light in the world, the staff’s light did not fail him.

The river of terror grew so deep that he could barely find the courage to put one foot in front of the other. Death awaited him. The next step would be his doom. Still he took that next step. Gritting his teeth, he took another.

“Turn back!” Fistandantilus urged him, his voice hammering inside Raistlin’s brain. “You are mad to think of trying to destroy me. You need me.”

You need me, Raist! Caramon’s voice said, pleading. I can protect you.

“Shut up!” Raistlin said. “Both of you.”

He came within sight of the Shoikan Grove, and he shuddered and closed his eyes. He could not go on, not without risking dying of the terror. He was far from the populated part of the city. It would do. He searched around for a suitable place to cast his spell. Nearby was an empty building with three gables and leaded pane windows. According to the sign that dangled at a crazy angle from a hook, the building had once been a tavern known as the Wizard’s Hat, a name suitable for a tavern located near the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas.

The painted sign was extremely faded, but by the light of the staff, Raistlin could see a laughing wizard quaffing ale from a pointed hat. Raistlin was reminded of the senile old wizard, Fizban, who had worn (and continually mislaid) a hat that looked very much like the one portrayed on the sign.

The memory of Fizban made Raistlin uncomfortable, and he quickly banished it. He walked over to the door and shoved on it. The door creaked on rusty hinges and swung slowly open. Raistlin was about to enter when he had the feeling he was being watched. He told himself that was nonsense; no one in his right mind came to this part of the city. Just to reassure himself, he cast a glance around the street. He saw no one, and he was about to enter the tavern when he happened to look up at the sign. The painted eyes of the wizard were fixed on him. As he stared, one eye winked.

Raistlin shivered. The thought came to him that if he failed, he would die there and no one would ever know what had happened to him. His body would not be found. He would die and be forgotten, a pebble washed away in the River of Time.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Raistlin chided himself. He stared hard at the sign. “It was a trick of the light.”

He walked swiftly into the abandoned tavern and shut the door behind himself. All that time, Fistandantilus was berating him.

“I cast the Curse of Rannoch! I am the Master of Past and Present. You are nothing, a nobody. Without me, you would have failed your Test in the Tower.”

“Without me,” Raistlin returned, “you would be lost and adrift in the vastness of the universe, a voice without a mouth, a scream no one can hear.”

“You have used my knowledge,” Fistandantilus said. “I have fed you my power!”

“I spoke the words that mastered the dragon orb,” said Raistlin.

“I tell you the words to speak!” Fistandantilus retorted.

“You do,” Raistlin agreed, “and all the while you mean to destroy me. You will wait until my life-force gives you strength, and then you will use it to kill me. You plan to become me. I won’t let that happen.”

Fistandantilus laughed. “My hand holds your heart! We are bound together. If you kill me, you will die.”

“I am not convinced of that. Still, I will not take a chance,” said Raistlin. “I do not intend to kill you.”

He sat down upon a dust-covered bench. The tavern’s interior was much as it had been centuries before, when the tavern had been a popular place for the wizards and their pupils to congregate. There was no bar, but there were tables surrounded by comfortable chairs. Raistlin would have expected the room to be filled with cobwebs and overrun by rats, but apparently even spiders and rodents were loath to live within the shadow of the Tower, for the dust lay thick and smooth and undisturbed. A mural on the wall portrayed the three gods of magic toasting each with mugs of foaming ale.

Raistlin looked around the empty tables and chairs, and he imagined wizards sitting there, laughing, telling tales, discussing their work. Raistlin saw himself seated there, discoursing, studying, arguing with his fellows. He would have been accepted for what he was, not reviled. He would have been loved, admired, respected.

Instead he was alone in the darkness with the specter of evil.

Raistlin leaned the Staff of Magius against the table, propping it with a chair so it would shed its pure, white light on the table. A cloud of dust rose as he sat down, and he sneezed and coughed. When the coughing fit ended, he took the orb from its pouch and placed it on the table.

Fistandantilus had gone quiet. Raistlin could no longer mask his thoughts from the old man, for he had to concentrate his entire being on taking control of the dragon orb. Fistandantilus saw the danger he was in, and he was trying to find a way to save himself.

Raistlin placed the dragon orb on the table, steadying the small globe so it did not roll off onto the floor. He took from another pouch a crudely carved wooden stand he had constructed during those days when he and Caramon and the others had traveled by wagon across Ansalon.

Raistlin had been happy then, happier than he had been in a long time. He and his brother had rediscovered some of their old camaraderie, remembering what it was like in their mercenary days, when it had been just the two of them relying on steel and magic for their survival.

He brushed dust from the table off the dragon orb and brushed the dust of Caramon from his mind. He placed the orb in the center of the wooden stand. The orb was cold to the touch. He could see, in the staff’s light, the varied shades of green swirling around slowly inside. He knew what to expect, having used the orb before, and he waited, counseling patience, battling fear.

He thought back to the writings of an elf wizard named Feal-Thas, who had once possessed a dragon orb. Raistlin recalled one line.

Every time you try to gain control of a dragon orb, the dragon inside is trying to gain control of you.

The dragon orb began to grow to its original size, about the span of his hand measured with his fingers spread wide, from the tip of his thumb to the tip of his little finger.

He reached out to the orb.

“You will regret this,” Fistandantilus said.

“I will add it to my list,” Raistlin said, and he placed his hands upon the cold crystal of the dragon orb. “Ast bilak moiparalan. Suh tantangusar.”

He spoke the words he had learned from Fistandantilus. He spoke them once; then spoke them a second time.

The green color swirling around in the orb was subsumed by a myriad of colors, all whirling so rapidly that if he looked at them, they would make him dizzy. He shut his eyes. The crystal was cold, painful to the touch. He kept firm hold of it. The pain would ease, only to be replaced by far worse.

He said the words a third time and opened his eyes.

A light glowed in the orb. A strange light, formed of all the colors of the spectrum. He likened it to a dark rainbow. Two hands appeared in the orb. The hands reached out for his hands. Raistlin drew in a deep breath and took hold of the hands, clasped them tightly. He was confident, felt no fear. In the past, the hands had supported him, soothed him as a mother soothes a child, and he was startled, alarmed, to feel the hands close over his in a crushing grip.

The table, the chair, the staff, the tavern, the street, the Tower, Palanthas—everything disappeared. Darkness—not the living darkness of night, but the horrible darkness of everlasting nothingness—surrounded him.

The hands pulled on his hands, trying to drag him into the void. He exerted all his will, all his energy. All was not enough. The hands were stronger. They were going to drag him down.

He looked at the hands and saw, to his horror, that they were not the hands of the orb. The flesh of the hands had rotted and fallen off. The nails were long and bone yellow, like those of a corpse. The bloodstone pendant, its green surface spattered with the blood of so many young mages whose lives the old man had stolen, dangled from the scrawny neck.

The battle sapped Raistlin’s fragile strength. He coughed, spitting blood, and since he dared not let go of the hands, he was forced to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his new black robes. He spoke to the dragon, Viper, whose essence was trapped inside the orb.

“Viper, you acknowledged me as your master!” he said to the dragon. “You have served me in the past. Why do you abandon me now?”

The dragon answered.

Because you are prideful and weak. Like the elf king Lorac, you fell into my trap.

Lorac was the wretched king who had been arrogant enough to think he could control the dragon orb. The orb had seized control of Lorac and duped him into destroying Silvanesti, the ancient elven homeland.

“He destroyed what he loved most. I destroyed Caramon,” Raistlin said feverishly, not even thinking about what he was saying. “The dragon has duped me …”

The hands tightened their grip and pulled him inexorably into the endless emptiness. Raistlin fought against it with a strength born of desperation. He had no idea what was going on, why the orb had turned on him. His arms trembled from the strain. He was sweating in the black robes. He was growing weaker.

“You float on the surface of Time’s river.” Raistlin gasped, struggling for breath against the choking sensation in his throat. “The future, the past, the present flow around you. You touch all planes of existence.”

That is true.

“I have an enemy on one of those planes.”

I know.

Raistlin looked into the orb, looked beyond the hands. He could see, on the other side of the River of Time, the face of Fistandantilus. Raistlin had seen rats on battlefields swarming over the corpses of the dead. He’d watched them devour flesh, strip it from the bones. The ruins the rats left behind were all that was left of the old man.

His eyes remained, burning with resolve and ruthless determination. His skeletal hands held Raistlin fast, one hand on his hand, one hand on his heart. Fistandantilus was fighting Raistlin for control of the dragon orb. And he was using Raistlin’s own life- force to do it.

“I see the irony does not escape you,” said Fistandantilus. His voice softened, grew almost gentle. “Stop fighting me, young magus. No need to continue to endure the struggle, the pain, the fear that is your wretched life. You stand before me naked and vulnerable and alone. All those who ever cared for you now loathe and despise you. You do not even have the magic. Your skills, your talent, your power come from me. And deep inside, you know it.”

He speaks the truth, Raistlin thought in despair. I have no skill of my own. He told me the words to the spells. His knowledge gave me power. He watched over me, protected me as Caramon watched over me. And now Caramon is gone, and I have no one and nothing.

He is wrong. You have the magic.

The voice that spoke was his voice, and it came from his soul and drowned out the seductive voice of Fistandantilus.

“I have the magic,” said Raistlin aloud, and he knew that pronouncement to be the truth. For him, it was the only truth. He grew stronger as he spoke. “The words may have been your words, but the voice was mine. My eyes read the runes. My hand scattered the rose petals of sleep and flared with magical fire of death. I hold the key. I know myself. I know my weaknesses, and I know my worth. I know the darkness and the light. It was my strength, my power, my wisdom that mastered this dragon orb.”

Raistlin drew in a deep breath, and life filled his lungs. His heartbeat was strong and vital. For a moment, the curse that had been laid on his hourglass eyes was lifted. He no longer saw all things withering with age. He saw himself.

“I have been afraid all my life. I fell victim to you because of my fear.”

He saw his foe as a shadow of himself, cast across space and time. Raistlin gripped the hands firmly, confidently.

“I am afraid no longer. Our bargain is broken. I sever the tie.” “Only death severs our tie!” said Fistandantilus. “Seize him,” Raistlin commanded.

The blue and red, black and green, and white lights inside the orb swirled violently, dazzling Raistlin’s eyes and bursting inside his head. The colors coalesced, with green predominant. The dragon, Viper, began to form inside the orb, various parts of the beast visible to Raistlin as it thrashed about: a fiery eye, a green wing, a lashing tail, a horned snout and snarling mouth, dripping fangs, ripping claws. The eye glared at Raistlin, and then shifted its glare to Fistandantilus.

Viper lifted his wings and, still inside the orb, he soared through time and space.

Fistandantilus saw his danger. He looked frantically around, seeking some means of escape. His refuge had become his prison. He could not flee the plane of his tenuous existence.

“To use your magic against the dragon, you must have your hands free,” Raistlin said. “Let go of me, and I’ll let go of you.”

Fistandantilus swore and his grip on Raistlin tightened. Raistlin’s shoulder and arm muscles burned, and his hands trembled with the strain. He could see, in the mists of the dragon orb, the dragon, Viper, swooping down on the wizard.

Fistandantilus shouted words of magic. They came out as so much meaningless drivel. With one hand caught in Raistlin’s grip and the other clutching his heart, Fistandantilus could not use the gestures needed to unleash the power of his spell. He could not trace the runes in the air, could not cast balls of flame or send spiked lightning jabbing from his fingers.

The dragon opened his fanged mouth and extended his talons.

Raistlin was almost finished. Yet he would not let go. If the strain killed him, death would only tighten his grip, not break it.

Fistandantilus set him free. Raistlin sank onto the table, gasping for breath. Though his hands were weak and shaking, he managed to keep his hold on the dragon orb.

“Let go of me!” Fistandantilus raved. “Release me! That was our bargain.”

“I do not have hold of you,” said Raistlin.

He heard a shriek of rage and saw a rush of green; the dragon was returning to the dragon orb. Raistlin stared inside the orb, into the swirling mists.

He saw the face of an old man, a ravaged face, gnawed by time. Fleshless hands beat against the crystal walls of his prison. His yammering mouth shrieked threats.

Raistlin waited tensely to hear the voice in his head. The mouth gibbered and gabbled, and Raistlin smiled.

He heard nothing. All was silence.

He ran his hand over the smooth, cold surface of the dragon orb, and it began to shrink in size. When it was no larger than a marble, he picked it up and dropped it into the pouch. He dismantled the crude stand and slid the pieces into a pocket of his black robes.

He paused a moment before he left the tavern to look around at the empty tables and chairs. He could see the wizards sitting there, drinking elven wine and dwarven ale.

“One day I will come here,” Raistlin told them. “I will sit with you and drink with you. We will toast the magic. One day, when I am the Master of Past and Present, I will travel through time. I will come back. And when I come back, I will succeed where he failed.”

Raistlin drew the cowl of his black robes over his head and left the Wizard’s Hat.

Raistlin woke that morning after a sound night’s sleep, a sleep uninterrupted by coughing fits. He drew in a deep breath of the morning air and felt it fill his lungs. He breathed freely. His heart beat strong and vibrantly. He was hungry and ate the bread soaked in milk, which was the monks’ breakfast, with relish.

He was well. He was whole. Tears of joy stung his eyes. He brushed them away and packed up his few belongings, his spell components, his spellbooks, and the Staff of Magius. He was ready to depart, but first he had an errand to run. He needed to repay his debt to Astinus, who had given him, albeit inadvertently, the key: self-knowledge. And he owed a debt to the Aesthetics, who had cared for him, fed him, and clothed him.

Raistlin sought out Bertrem, who was generally to be found hovering near Astinus’s chamber, guarding his privacy or ready to dash forth at his command.

Bertrem’s eyes widened at the sight of Raistlin’s black robes. The Aesthetic swallowed several times. His hands fluttered nervously, but he blocked the way to Astinus’s chamber.

“I don’t care what you do to me. You will not harm the master!” said Bertrem bravely.

“I came only to take my leave of Astinus,” Raistlin said.

Bertrem cast a fearful glance at the door. “The master is not to be disturbed.”

“I think he will want to see me,” said Raistlin quietly, and he advanced a step.

Bertrem stumbled back a step and bumped up against the door. “I am quite certain he would not—”

The door flew open, causing Bertrem to fall inside, nearly trampling Astinus. Bertrem ducked out of the way and flattened himself against the wall, trying in vain to become one with the marble.

“What is this banging and shouting outside my door?” Astinus demanded in acerbic tones. “I cannot work with all this commotion!”

“I am leaving Palanthas, sir,” Raistlin said. “I wanted to thank you—”

“I have nothing to say to you, Raistlin Majere,” said Astinus, preparing to shut the door. “Bertrem, since you are a failure at providing me with the peace and quiet I desire, you will escort this gentleman out.”

Bertrem’s face flushed with shame. He sidled out the door and, greatly daring, plucked at Raistlin’s black sleeve. “This way—”

“Wait, sir!” Raistlin said, and he thrust his staff into the doorway to prevent Astinus from closing the door. “I ask you the question you asked me the day I arrived: What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see Raistlin Majere,” Astinus replied, glowering.

“You do not see your ‘old friend’?” Raistlin said.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Astinus said, and again he tried to shut the door.

Bertrem tugged harder at Raistlin’s black sleeve. “You must not disturb the master—”

Raistlin ignored him and spoke to Astinus. “When I lay dying, you said to me, ‘So this ends your journey, my old friend.’ Your old friend, Fistandantilus, the wizard who crafted the Sphere of Time for you. Look into my eyes, sir. Look into the hourglass pupils that are my constant torment. Do you see your ‘old friend’?”

“I do not,” said Astinus after a moment. Then he added with a shrug, “So you won.”

“I won,” said Raistlin proudly. “I came to pay my debt—”

Astinus made a gesture as though brushing away gnats. “You owe me nothing.”

“I always pay my debts,” Raistlin said sharply. He reached into a pocket of the black velvet robes and drew out a scroll wrapped in black ribbon. “I thought perhaps you would like this. It is an account of the battle between us. For your records.”

He held out the scroll. Astinus hesitated a moment; then he took the scroll. Raistlin removed the staff, and Astinus slammed shut the door.

“I know the way out,” Raistlin told Bertrem.

“The master said I was to escort you,” said Bertrem, and he not only walked with Raistlin to the door, but accompanied him down the marble stairs and out into the street.

“I washed the gray robes and left them folded on the bed,” Raistlin said. “Thank you for the use of them.”

“Of course,” said Bertrem, babbling with relief at finally being rid of his strange visitor. “Any time.”

He flushed, suddenly, and stammered, “That is … I don’t mean ‘any time.’”

Raistlin smiled at the Aesthetic’s discomfiture. He reached into his pouch and clasped his hand around the dragon orb and made ready to cast his spell. It would be the first powerful spell he had cast without hearing that whispering voice in his head. He had bragged that the power was his. He would finally know whether or not he had spoken the truth.

Gripping the Staff of Magius in one hand and the dragon orb in the other, Raistlin spoke the words of magic.

“Berjalan cepat dalam berlua tanah.”

A portal opened in the midst of space and time. He looked through it and saw the black, twisted spires of a temple. Raistlin had never been to Neraka, but he had spent time in the Great Library reading descriptions of the city. He recognized the Temple of Takhisis.

Raistlin entered the portal.

He looked out of it to see poor Bertrem, his eyes bulging, frantically pawing the empty air with his hands. “Sir! Where have you gone? Sir?”

Unable to find his vanished guest, Bertrem gulped and turned and fled up the stairs to the library, running as fast as his sandaled feet would carry him.

The portal closed behind Raistlin and opened on his new life.