Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

1 Brother And Sister, And Brother And Sister.

Early that morning Raistlin and Iolanthe traveled the corridors of magic to Dargaard Keep. The two emerged from the rainbow ethers into the only room in the ruined keep that was fit for habitation—Kitiara’s bedchamber and sitting room. Even there, Raistlin noted black stains on the walls, evidence of the fire that had swept through the keep so long ago.

The glass in the lead-paned windows had been broken and never replaced. A chill wind hissed through what was left of the latticework, like breath through rotting teeth. Raistlin looked out that window onto a scene of desolation, destruction, and death. Ghostly warriors with visages of fire kept horrible vigil, walking the parapets that had been gloriously red for the color of the rose and were transformed to a hideous red with their own blood.

Dargaard Keep, so legend said, had once been one of the wonders of the world. The keep had been designed to resemble the symbol on the family crest, the rose. Petal-shaped stone walls had once glistened in the morning sun. Rose-red towers had proudly soared into the blue skies. But the rose had been afflicted by a canker, destroyed from within by the knight’s dark passions. The rose walls were blackened, stained with fire, death, dishonor. Broken towers were shrouded in storm clouds. Some said that Soth wrapped himself and his keep in a perpetual tempest, deliberately banishing the sun, so he might shield his eyes from the light that had become hateful to him.

Raistlin gazed on the ruin of a noble man, led to his downfall by his inability to control his passions, and Raistlin thanked whatever gods had blessed him at his birth that he was not afflicted by such weakness.

He turned his eyes from the dread sight outside the window to his sister. Kitiara was seated at a desk, writing orders that could not wait. She had asked her visitors to be patient until she finished.

Raistlin took the chance to study her. He had seen Kit briefly in Flotsam, but that hardly counted, for she had been riding her blue dragon and wearing the armor and helm of a Dragon Highlord. Five years had passed since they were together, when they had vowed to meet again in the Inn of the Last Home, a vow Kit had broken. Raistlin, who had changed beyond all measure in five years, was surprised to see that his sister had not.

Tall and lithe, with a warrior’s strength and hard-muscled body, Kitiara, who was in her mid-thirties, looked much the same as she had looked at twenty. Her crooked smile still charmed. Her short, black curls clustered around her head, luxurious and rampant as when she was young. Her face was smooth, unmarred by lines of sorrow or joy.

No emotion ever touched Kitiara deeply. She took life as it came, living each moment to the fullest, then forgetting the moment to leap to the next. She had no regrets. She rarely thought about past mistakes. Her mind was too busy plotting and scheming for the future. She had no conscience to sting her, no morals to get in her way. The one crack in her armor, her one weakness, was her obsession with Tanis Half-Elven, the man she had not wanted until he turned his back on her and walked away.

Iolanthe roamed nervously around the room, her arms clasped beneath her cloak. The room was chill, and she was shivering, though perhaps not so much from the cold as from dread. She had insisted they arrive early in the day, so they could be gone before nightfall. Raistlin continued to watch Kit, who was struggling with her missive.

Writing was laborious work for Kitiara. Fond of action and excitement, easily bored, she had always been a poor student. She had never had a chance to go to school. Their mother, Rosamund, had an affinity for magic that she would later pass onto her son. Sadly, Rosamund was not able to cope with the gift. For her, the gift became an affliction. After her twin sons were born, she drifted for years on a sea of strange dreams and fantasies, barely clinging to sanity. When her husband died, Rosamund’s hand slipped from the last bit of reality that had been keeping her afloat and sank beneath the waves. Kit had taken over raising her younger brothers. She had remained with the boys until she determined that they were old enough to take care of themselves. Then she had gone off on her own, leaving her brothers to fend for themselves.

Kitiara had not forgotten her half brothers, however. She had returned to Solace some years later to see how they were getting along. It was then that she had met their friend Tanis Half-Elven. The two had begun a passionate affair. Raistlin had known at the time that the affair would end badly.

The last Raistlin had seen of Kitiara, she had been riding on the back of her blue dragon, Skie, and he had been on board a ship sailing to its doom in the Blood Sea. Caramon had wrung an admission from Tanis that he had been spending his time in Flotsam dallying with Kit, that he had betrayed his friends to the Dragon Highlord. Raistlin recalled Caramon’s outraged anger, yelling accusations at Tanis as their ship was swept up into the storm.

“So that’s where you’ve been these four days. With our sister, the Dragon Highlord! …”

“Yes, I loved her,” Tanis had said. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

Raistlin doubted if Tanis understood himself. He was like a man who cannot overcome his thirst for dwarf spirits. Kitiara intoxicated him, and he could not get her out of his system. She had been the ruin of him.

Kitiara was dressed for combat. She wore her sword, boots, and blue dragonscale armor, with her blue cape thrown over her shoulders. She was wholly absorbed in her work, hunched over the desk like a child in the schoolroom, forced to complete some hateful assignment. Her head, with its mass of black curls, almost touched the paper. Her teeth were clamped on her lower lip; her brow furrowed in concentration. She wrote, muttering, then scratched out what she had written and started again.

At last Iolanthe, mindful of the passing time, gave a delicate cough.

Kitiara held up her hand. “I know you’re waiting, my friend.” Kit stopped to sneeze. She rubbed her nose and sneezed again. “It’s that gods-awful perfume of yours! What do you do? Bathe in it? Give me a moment. I’m almost finished. Oh, damn it to the Abyss and back! Look what I’ve done!”

In her haste, Kit had passed the heel of her hand over the page, smearing the last sentence she had written. Swearing, she flung down the pen, spattering ink over the page and contributing to its final demise.

“Ever since that fool Garibanus got himself killed, I must write all my orders myself!”

“What about your draconians?” Iolanthe asked, glancing toward the closed door, through which they could hear the scraping of claws and subdued voices of Kit’s bodyguards. The draconians were grumbling. Apparently even the lizardmen found Dargaard Keep a loathsome place. Raistlin wondered how Kit could stand living here. Perhaps it was because, like much else in her life, the tragedy and horror of Dargaard Keep skidded off her hard surface, like skaters on ice.

Kitiara shook her head. “Draconians are good warriors, but they make lousy scribes.”

“Perhaps I might be of assistance, Sister,” said Raistlin in his soft voice.

Kitiara turned to face him. “Ah, Baby brother. I am glad to see you alive. I thought you had perished in the Maelstrom.”

No thanks to you, my sister, Raistlin wanted to say caustically, but he kept quiet.

“Your baby brother conned Ariakas out of one hundred steel to come here to spy on you,” said Iolanthe.

“Did he?” Kitiara smiled her crooked smile. “Good for him.”

The two women laughed conspiratorially. Raistlin smiled in the shadows of his cowl, which he had kept deliberately drawn low over his face, so he could observe without being observed. He was pleased to find his suspicions about Iolanthe confirmed. He decided to see what more he could discover.

“I do not understand,” he said, glancing from one woman to the other. “I thought—”

“You thought Ariakas hired you to spy on me,” said Kitiara.

“That is precisely what we wanted you to think,” said Iolanthe.

Raistlin shook his head, as though deeply puzzled, though in truth he had already suspected as much.

“I will explain later,” said Kit. “As I said, I was glad to hear from Iolanthe that you were still alive. I feared you and Caramon and the others would not escape the Maelstrom.”

“I escaped,” said Raistlin. “The others did not. They died in the Blood Sea.”

“Then you don’t know … ?” Kitiara began, then stopped. “Know what?” Raistlin asked sharply.

“Your brother did not die. Caramon survived, as did Tanis and that red-haired barmaid whose name I can never recall, as well as that woman with the blue crystal staff and her barbarian hulk of a husband.”

“That can’t be possible!” said Raistlin.

“I assure you it is,” Kit replied. “They were all in Kalaman yesterday. And there, according to my spies, they met up with Flint and Tas and that elf woman Laurana. You knew her too, I think.”

Kit continued to talk about Laurana, but Raistlin wasn’t listening. He was glad he had kept his hood covering his face, for his mind reeled and staggered around like a drunkard. He had been so certain that Caramon was dead. He had convinced himself of it, repeated it over and over, every morning, every night … He closed his eyes to keep the room from spinning and gripped the arms of the chair with his hands to try to regain control of himself.

What do I care whether Caramon is alive or dead? Raistlin asked himself, digging his fingers into the wood. It is all the same to me.

Except that it wasn’t. Somewhere deep, deep inside, some weak and much-despised part of him, a part he had long tried to excise, could have wept.

Kitiara was watching him, waiting for him to reply to some question he had not heard.

“I did not know my brother was alive,” Raistlin said, working to keep his emotions in check. “It’s odd that he would be in Kalaman. That city is half a world away from Flotsam. How did our brother come to be there?”

“I did not ask. It was neither the time nor place for a family reunion,” said Kitiara, laughing. “I was too busy telling the populace what they would have to do to ransom their so-called Golden General.”

“Who is that?” asked Raistlin.

“Laurana, the elf maid.”

“Oh, yes,” said Raistlin. “I heard the Knights selected her when I was in Palanthas. It seems the choice was inspired. She has been winning.”

“A fluke,” said Kitiara angrily. “I have put an end to her victories. She is now my prisoner.”

“And what do you intend to do with her?”

Kitiara paused, then said, “I intend to use her to gain the Crown of Power. I told the people of Kalaman that if they want her back, they must hand over Berem Everman.”

Raistlin was starting to understand. He recalled the man at the wheel of the ship. The man who had steered the ship into the Blood Sea. An old man with young eyes. “Berem is with Tanis, isn’t he?”

Kit stared at him, surprised. “How did you know?”

Raistlin shrugged. “A hunch, nothing more. You think Tanis will trade Berem for Laurana?”

“I know he will,” said Kitiara. “And I will trade Laurana for the crown.”

“So this is your secret plan. Where are Tanis and my brother now?” Raistlin asked.

“Trying to find some way to rescue the elf maid. My spies were on their trail, but they lost track of them, though they did come across someone who remembered a kender resembling Tasslehoff asking for directions to a place called Godshome.”

“Godshome …” Raistlin repeated thoughtfully.

“Have you heard of it?”

Raistlin shook his head. “I am afraid not.” Though of course he had heard of it. Godshome was a sacred, holy site dedicated to the gods. He wasn’t going to impart such information to his sister. Knowledge is power. He wondered why Tanis and his brother and the others would be traveling there.

“It is said to be located somewhere near Neraka in the Khalkist mountains,” Kit continued. “I have patrols out searching. They will soon find them, and Tanis will lead me to Berem.”

“What is so important about this man?” Raistlin asked. “Why is half the army looking for him? What makes him worth the Crown of Power?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“If you want my help, I do.”

“My baby brother is a self-serving bastard.” Kitiara grinned at him. “But that’s how I raised you. I will tell you a story.”

She drew up a chair and sat down. Since there were only two chairs in the room, Iolanthe sat cross-legged on the bed.

“You’ll find this story interesting,” said Kitiara, her lips parting in a crooked smile. “It’s about two siblings, one of whom kills the other.”

If she expected Raistlin to react, she was disappointed. He sat still, unmoved, and waited.

“According to the tale,” said Kit, “this man named Berem and his sister were out walking when they came across a broken column covered in rare and precious jewels. The two were poor, and the man, Berem, decided to steal an emerald. His sister opposed him and, to make a long story short, he bashed her head in.”

“She fell and hit her head on the stone,” said Iolanthe.

Kitiara waved her hand. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Berem ended up cursed by the gods with the emerald stuck in his chest. He’s been wandering the world since, trying to escape his guilt. Meanwhile, his sister forgave him, and her good spirit entered the stone, and when Takhisis tried to get around her, she couldn’t. She was blocked from coming into the world.”

Raistlin would have been dubious of the remarkable story, except he had seen for himself the emerald embedded in Berem’s chest.

I was right, he thought, Takhisis cannot enter the world in all her might. A good thing. Otherwise this war would have ended before it began.

“The broken column is the Foundation Stone from the Temple of Istar,” Iolanthe explained. “Takhisis found it and brought it to Neraka and built her temple around it. She seeks Berem in order to destroy him, for if he joins his sister, the door to the Abyss will slam shut.”

“And what am I to do?” Raistlin asked. “Why bring me into this? It seems you have thought of everything.”

Kitiara cast a glance from beneath her lashes at Iolanthe, a glance the witch was not meant to see. The glance told Raistlin, You and I will discuss this in private. She changed the subject. “Are you in such a hurry to leave? I haven’t seen you in years. Tell me, what do you think of this elf female?”

“Kitiara,” said Iolanthe in warning tones. “The walls have ears. Even burnt walls.”

Kit ignored her. “Everyone raves about her beauty. She’s so pale and all one color, like bread dipped in milk. But then, I saw her at the High Clerist’s Tower right after the battle. She was not looking her best.”

“Kitiara, we have more important matters—” Iolanthe began, but Kit silenced her.

“What did you think of her?” Kit insisted.

What did Raistlin think of Laurana? That she was the only beauty left for him in the world. Even his accursed vision, which saw all things age and wither and die, had not been able to sabotage her. Elves were long-lived, and age touched the elf maiden gently. The years made her, if possible, more beautiful still.

Laurana had been a little in awe of him, a little afraid of him. She had trusted him, however. He had not known why, except that she had seemed to see something in him others could not, something even he could not see. He had appreciated her trust, been touched by it. He had loved her … no, not loved her, cherished her, as a man parched with thirst and lost in the desert cherishes a sip of cool water.

“She is everything you are, my sister, and all that you are not,” Raistlin said softly.

His sister laughed, pleased. She took it as a compliment.

“Kitiara, I need to speak to you,” Iolanthe said, exasperated. “In private.”

“Perhaps I could finish writing that letter for you,” Raistlin suggested.

Kitiara waved him toward the desk and walked over to the window, where she and Iolanthe put their heads together to talk in hushed tones.

Raistlin sat down. He placed the Staff of Magius at his side, keeping it near his hand. His thoughts busy, he began mechanically to copy the words of the blotted and misspelled original onto a new sheet of paper. He wrote smoothly, swiftly, and far more legibly than Kit.

As Raistlin worked, he gently pushed his cowl behind his ear to try to hear what the two were discussing. He caught only a few words, enough to give him a general impression of what they were discussing.

“… Ariakas suspects you … That’s why he sent your brother … We have to think of something to tell him …”

Raistlin continued the letter. Absorbed in listening, he had been paying little attention to the words he was writing until a name seemed to catch fire, blaze a hole in the page.

Laurana. The orders were about her.

Raistlin paid no more heed to Kit and Iolanthe. He gave all his attention to the letter, reading over what he had written. Kit was sending the missive to a subordinate, telling him that his orders had changed. He was no longer to bring the “captive” to Dargaard Keep. He was to take her directly to Neraka. The subordinate was to make certain Laurana was alive and unharmed—at least until the exchange for the Everman was complete. After that, when Kitiara had the crown, Laurana would be given in sacrifice to the Dark Queen.

Raistlin pondered. Kitiara was right. Tanis was certain to come to Neraka to try to save Laurana. Was there some way Raistlin could help? Kitiara wanted him here for some reason; he could not figure out why. She did not need him to capture Berem. That plot was well advanced, and there was nothing for him to do. Ariakas had sent him to betray Kit. Hidden Light had sent him to betray Kit and Ariakas. Iolanthe had some scheming plot of her own. Everyone had a knife drawn, ready to plunge it into someone else’s back. He wondered if they would all end up stabbing each other.

His musings were interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls ringing hollowly on the stone floor. Iolanthe went deathly pale.

“I must take my leave,” she said hurriedly and flung her cloak around herself. “Raistlin, come see me when you return to Neraka. We have much to discuss.”

Before he could say a word, Iolanthe threw her magical clay against the wall, squeezed inside the portal before it was halfway open, and shut it swiftly behind her.

The footfalls drew closer, moving slowly, resolutely, purposefully. A chill like death flowed into the room.

“You are about to meet the master of Dargaard Keep, Baby brother,” said Kitiara, and she tried to smile the crooked smile, but Raistlin saw it slip.

2 Knight of the Black Rose. The Hourglass of Stars.

Death’s chill flowed beneath the door, seeped through the cracks in the stone walls, sighed through the broken window panes. Raistlin shivered from the dreadful cold, and he laid down the quill pen and thrust his hands into the sleeves of his robes to try to warm them. He rose to his feet to be ready.

“Soth is very terrible,” said Kitiara, her gaze fixed on the door. “But he will not harm you, so long as you are under my protection.”

“I do not need your protection, my sister,” said Raistlin, angered at her patronizing tone.

“Just be careful, will you, Raistlin?” said Kitiara sharply. He was startled. She rarely, if ever, called him by name. Kitiara added softly, “Soth could kill us both with a single word.”

The door opened, and terror entered.

The death knight stood in the doorway, an imposing figure clad in the armor of a Solamnic Knight from the time of the rise of Istar. Beautifully crafted armor that had once shone silvery bright, but was now blackened and stained with blood that only the waters of redemption could remove, and Soth was far from seeking forgiveness. A black cape, bloody and tattered, hung from his shoulders.

His eyes shone red in the eye slits of his helm; red with the passion that had been his doom and that he could not control. He raged at his fate; raged at the gods; raged, sometimes, at himself. Only at night, when the banshees sang to him the mournful song of his own downfall, was the blazing fire reduced to smoldering embers of remorse and bitter regret. When the song ceased with the coming of day, Soth’s rage blazed anew.

Raistlin had walked many dark places in his life, perhaps none darker than his own soul. He had taken the dread Test in the Tower. He had journeyed through Darken Wood. He had been trapped in the nightmare that was Silvanesti. He had been a prisoner in Takhisis’s dungeons. In all those places, he had known fear. But when he looked into the hellish fire that blazed in the eyes of the death knight, Raistlin knew fear so awful, so debilitating that he thought he would die of it.

He could clasp the dragon orb and speak the magic and be gone as swiftly as Iolanthe. He was fumbling for the orb with his shaking hands when he saw Kitiara watching him.

Her lips curled. She was testing him, taunting him as she had when he was a child, and she was trying to force him to take a dare.

Anger acted on Raistlin like a potion, restoring his courage and his ability to think. He recognized then what he should have seen earlier but for his terror: the fear was magical, a spell Soth had cast on him.

Tit for tat, two could play at that game.

“Delu solisar!” Raistlin said swiftly. He let go of the orb and raised his hand to trace a rune in the air.

The rune caught fire and blazed brightly. The dueling magicks hung, quivering, in the air. Kitiara watched, one hand on her hip, the other clasping the hilt of her sword. She was enjoying their contest.

Soth’s magic snapped. Raistlin ended his spell. The fiery rune vanished, leaving behind an afterimage of blue and wavering smoke.

Kitiara nodded in approval. “Lord Soth, Knight of the Rose, I have the honor to present Raistlin Majere.” Kitiara added, half teasing and half proud, “My baby brother.”

Raistlin bowed in acknowledgment of the introduction; then, raising his head and standing tall, he forced himself to look directly into the eye slits of the death knight’s helm, to stare into the fires of a tortured soul’s torment, though the sight made Raistlin’s own soul shrivel in horror.

“You are powerful in magic for one so young,” said Lord Soth. His voice was hollow and deep, burning with his constant rage, undying regret.

Raistlin bowed again. He did not yet trust himself to speak.

“You cast two shadows, Raistlin Majere,” said the death knight suddenly. “Why is that?”

Raistlin had no idea what he was talking about. “I do not cast one shadow in this terrible place, my lord, let alone two.”

The death knight’s red eyes flickered.

“I do not speak of shadows cast by the sun,” Lord Soth said. “I dwell on two planes, forced to dwell on the plane of the living and cursed to dwell in the plane of the dead who cannot die. And in both I see your shadow, darker than darkness.”

Raistlin understood.

Kitiara had no idea what Soth meant. “Raistlin has a twin brother—” she began.

“No longer,” Raistlin said, casting her an irate glance. She could be as stupid as Caramon sometimes.

Between the spellcasting, the terror, and the intrigue, Raistlin was suddenly worn out. “You brought me here because you required my help, my sister. I have pledged you and Takhisis my allegiance. If you wish me to serve you in some way, tell me how. If not, allow me to go home.”

Kitiara glanced at Lord Soth. “What do you think?” “He is dangerous,” said Soth.

“Who? Raistlin?” Kitiara scoffed, startled and amused.

“He will be your doom.” The death knight stared at Raistlin, his flame eyes flickering.

Kitiara hesitated, watching Raistlin, frowning, and fingering the hilt of her sword. “Are you saying I should kill him?”

“I am saying you could try,” Raistlin said, his gaze going from one to the other. His fingers closed over a bit of amber.

Kitiara stared at him, and suddenly she began to laugh. “Come with me,” she said, grabbing a blazing torch from the wall. “I have something to show you.”

“What about him?” Raistlin asked, not moving from where he stood.

The death knight had walked over to the window and gazed down at the desolation.

“Evening is coming,” said Kitiara. “Soth has somewhere else to go. Make haste,” she added, shivering. “You don’t want to be anywhere close.”

The wail was distant, yet the eerie and awful sound pierced Raistlin, smote his heart. He slowed his pace and looked over his shoulder, stared back down the corridor. The song was ghastly, yet he seemed compelled to listen to it.

Kitiara caught hold of his wrist. “Stop up your ears!” she said warningly.

“What is it?” he asked. He could feel the hair prickling on his neck, rising on his arms.

“Banshees. The elf women who share his curse. They are compelled to sing to him every night, recite the story of his crimes. He sits in the chamber where his wife and child perished and stares at the bloodstain on the floor and listens.”

They both hastened down the corridor, increasing their pace. Still the evil song pursued them. The wailing seemed to beat on Raistlin with black wings and tear at him with sharp claws. He tried to muffle his ears with his hands, but the song throbbed in his blood. He saw that Kitiara was very pale, and she was sweating.

“Every night it is the same. I never get used to it.”

The corridor they walked came to a dead end. Raistlin guessed they had not walked all that way for nothing, and he waited patiently to see what happened. Kit handed the torch to Raistlin to hold. Raistlin could have offered to use the light from his staff, but he never liked to reveal its power to people unless there was some good reason to do so. He held the torch so she could see what she was doing.

Kitiara put her left hand on a certain stone in the wall, her right hand on another stone, and pressed a third stone on the floor with her foot. By force of habit, Raistlin made a mental note of the precise location of each stone with regard to its neighbors. He certainly hoped he would never have to return to Dargaard Keep, but one never knew. Grinding on its hinges, the wall that was actually a door swung slowly open. Kit sprang through the opening into the darkness beyond. Raistlin glanced around, then followed cautiously after her.

Kitiara placed her hand on a stone on the other side, and the door swung shut, muffling the banshees’ wail. He and Kitiara both shared a sigh of relief.

She took the torch from him and went ahead of him, lighting the way. Stairs carved out of rock, enclosed by rough-hewn rock walls, spiraled downward. Kitiara descended rapidly, her boots ringing on the stone, drowning out all sound of the banshees. Raistlin followed. He noted that the stairway was not charred and that there was no smell of smoke or death.

“This stonework is new,” he said, running his hand over the rock and collecting dust on his fingers. “Recently built.”

“By the hand of our Queen,” said Kitiara.

Raistlin stopped walking. “Where are you taking me? What is down here?”

Kitiara smiled slyly. “Perhaps you’d rather go back upstairs to listen to the choir?”

Raistlin resumed his descent. The staircase—he counted forty-five stairs—led to a door made of solid steel. Raistlin stared at it, impressed. The door alone was worth all the wealth in Neraka. He could not imagine what treasure lay behind it.

Kitiara placed her right hand, palm flat, on the center of the door, which was smooth, without a mark that Raistlin could see. Kit spoke a single word, “Takhisis,” and light flared white beneath her palm. She invoked the name of the Dark Queen again, and a green light glowed. Kitiara said the name three more times, and three times the light changed colors, going from red to blue to black.

The outline of a five-headed dragon blazed, etched into the door, and the door rose, silently and smoothly, until it disappeared into the ceiling.

Kitiara motioned Raistlin to go inside. He remained outside the door, regarding her coldly.

“You first,” he said.

Kitiara laughed and shook her head and walked ahead of him. She held the torch high, so he could inspect the vault. The light shone on walls carved out of solid rock. The vault was not large, perhaps twenty paces by twenty paces. The ceiling was low. Raistlin could have reached up his hand to touch it.

The vault contained only three objects—an hourglass, made of crystal encased in gold; the golden pedestal on which the hourglass stood; and a candle marked with red, numbered stripes placed at regular intervals, starting with one and ending at twenty-four. The candle kept count of the hours of the day. It had burned nearly to the bottom.

Raistlin still did not trust Kitiara, but curiosity overcame caution. He entered the room and walked over to inspect the hourglass. He had no need to cast a spell to tell that it was enchanted.

The top of the hourglass was filled with sand; the bottom held darkness, utter and eternal. Raistlin looked closely and saw that a single grain of sand was lodged in the narrow opening between the two halves. The grain had not fallen. It was blocking the rest of the sand, preventing it from dropping.

“It’s clogged,” said Raistlin.

“Wait!” Kitiara breathed.

“For what?”

“For Dark Watch,” said Kitiara.

Raistlin watched the flame of the candle consume the wax, eating away at the white until it reached the red stripe that marked the end of a day. When the red began to melt, he looked at the hourglass and drew in a soft breath.

The single grain of sand that was lodged in the narrow opening between the two halves began to sparkle. The grain shone, bright as a star, and like a star, it streaked through the darkness, falling to the bottom. The grain flickered a moment in the darkness; then the light faded and went out. Another small grain dropped into the narrow opening and hung there.

Kitiara replaced the candle that marked the hours with a new candle, lighting the new one from the guttering flame of the old. The flame burned clear and unwavering in the still air of the vault.

“What is this?” Raistlin asked, his voice soft with awe.

“The Hourglass of Stars,” said Kitiara. “It began keeping time on the first day of creation, and when the sand runs out, time will end.”

Raistlin longed to touch the glistening sides of the crystal, but he kept his hands clasped together in the sleeves of his robes. One needed to be wary of artifacts.

“And what is it doing here? How did Takhisis come by it?”

“She forged it,” said Kitiara.

“What does this have to do with Ariakas?” Raistlin asked. “Nothing,” said Kitiara. He looked at her, startled.

“Oh, I know that’s what I told Iolanthe. I had to tell her something for her to bring you here, otherwise she would have been suspicious. How do you think that wizardess Ladonna escaped? Iolanthe helped her. The witch is not to be trusted, Baby brother.”

Raistlin was not surprised. That fit with his suspicions.

“I do not trust her,” said Raistlin. “I trust no one.”

“Not even me?” Kitiara asked playfully.

She reached out her hand as if to smooth back his hair as she had done when he was a child burning up with fever.

Raistlin drew back, avoiding her touch. “Why am I here? What do you want from me?”

Kitiara lowered her hand and rested it on the golden top of the hourglass. “The Sly One. That’s what they called you. Perhaps that’s why you were always my favorite. It seems that Nuitari has betrayed his mother for the last time. Takhisis has decided to get rid of the god of magic and his two treacherous cousins. She is bringing in three new gods, Gods of the Gray. They will answer directly to their Queen, and she will give them the magic.”

Raistlin staggered as though he’d been punched in the face. If he had not been holding on to his staff, he would have fallen. All thoughts of rescuing Laurana flew from his mind. He had himself to consider. He was in deadly peril. Kit was talking about destroying the gods of magic, destroying the magic that was his lifeblood.

He could feel the Dark Queen very near him. He could feel her breath upon the back of his neck. He heard her voice as he had heard it in her shrine in the Red Mansion.

Serve me! Bow down before me!

This was her punishment for his disobedience. He had to be careful here, very careful.

“An interesting notion,” said Raistlin cooly. “Removing three gods cannot be easy, even for Takhisis. How does she plan to accomplish this?”

“With your assistance, Baby brother.” Kitiara gazed into the flame of the candle. “Tomorrow night, the Night of the Eye, the most powerful wizards in Ansalon will gather in one place—the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. You are going to destroy that Tower and those within.”

“And if I refuse?” Raistlin asked.

“Why should you? You owe these wizards nothing. They made you suffer,” said Kitiara. “Takhisis will make you far more powerful than Par-Salian ever was, more powerful than all wizards in the world combined. You have only to ask her.”

Raistlin watched the flame of the candle eat into the wax.

“What do you want of me?” he asked.

“Serve Takhisis and she will give you everything your heart desires,” said Kitiara. She ran her hand over the top of the hourglass. “Betray her and she will devour you.”

“That is not much of a choice,” said Raistlin.

“You are lucky she is giving you a choice at all. I do not know what you did, but our Queen is not pleased with you. She gives you this chance to prove yourself. What is your answer?”

Raistlin shrugged. “I bow to my Queen.”

Kitiara smiled that crooked smile. “I thought you might.”

3 Broken door. A question of trust.

It was long after Dark Watch. The new day had begun, the day that would change his life. Raistlin was back in his room in the Broken Shield without any memory of how he came to be there. He was appalled to realize he’d cast spells and traveled the corridors of magic, all without being consciously aware of what he was doing. He was glad to think that some part of his brain was working rationally when it seemed that the rest of his brain was running around, shrieking wildly, and flinging up its hands.

“Calm down!” he said to himself, pacing the length of the small room. “I have to be calm. I have to think this through.”

Someone banged on the floor from the room underneath. “It’s the godsdamned middle of the godsdamned night!” a voice shouted up through the floorboards. “Stop that godsdamned tromping around, or I’ll come up there and godsdamned stop it for you!”

Raistlin briefly considered hurling a fireball at the floor, but that would only burn down the inn and accomplish nothing. He flung himself on his bed. He was exhausted. He needed sleep. He tried closing his eyes, but when he did, he saw the tiny grain of sand blazing to life and falling into darkness. He saw the candle burning away the hours.

Tonight, the Night of the Eye.

Tonight, I must destroy the magic.

Tonight, I must destroy myself.

For that’s what it amounted to. The magic was his life. Without it, he was nothing, less than nothing. Oh yes, Takhisis had promised that he would receive his magic from her, as did Ariakas. Raistlin would have to pray to her, beg her. And she might choose to toss him a crumb or not.

And if he refused, if he went against her, where could he go in the wide world that the goddess could not find him?

Raistlin felt half suffocated. He rose from the bed and walked to the window and flung open the shutters to the cool night air. In the distance the dark outline of the temple dominated Neraka, seeming to obliterate the stars. The towers and spires writhed in his fevered vision, changed to a clawed hand that lunged at him, reaching for his throat …

Raistlin came to himself with a gasp. He had fallen asleep while standing on his feet. He staggered back to his bed and collapsed down on it. He closed his eyes, and sleep came, pouncing on him like a wild beast and dragging him down into dark depths.

But as he slept, the cold and logical part of his mind must have continued to work, for when he woke only a few hours later, he knew what he had to do.

Day was dawning, time for the changing of the watch. Soldiers coming off duty were in a good mood, heading for the taverns. Soldiers coming on duty grumbled and swore as they took up their posts. Gray mists like tentacles slid sullenly over the city. The clouds would blow away. The Night of the Eye would be clear. The Night of the Eye was always clear. The gods saw to that.

Raistlin walked swiftly, his hands in his sleeves, his head bowed, his cowl pulled low. He bumped into soldiers, who glared at him and shouted insults to which he paid no heed. The soldiers muttered, but went on their way, either late for duty or eager for pleasure.

Raistlin entered the Red District, passed through the gate, and stopped to get his bearings. He’d been here only once before, and that had been after dark and he’d been pretending to be unconscious.

He followed the route Maelstrom had taken and found what he thought was the entry point to the tunnels at the back of a large building. The entrance was well hidden, and Raistlin couldn’t be sure. He walked around to the front, glanced up at the sign—a lute suspended from a rope above the door. The wind had a trick of vibrating the strings, making them hum.

Raistlin banged on the door. Dogs barked.

“We’re not open yet!” a deep voice yelled from inside.

“You are now,” said Raistlin. He drew a bit of dung out of a pouch and began rolling it between his fingers as he spoke the words to the spell. “Daya laksana banteng!”

Strength filled his body. Raistlin kicked the heavy wooden door and shattered it to splinters. The iron lock dropped off and fell to the floor. Raistlin knocked aside some of the wooden shards with the end of his staff and entered the shop.

He was immediately set upon by two mastiffs. The dogs did not attack. They stood in front of him, their heads lowered, ears flat. The female curled her lip, showing yellowed fangs.

“Call off your dogs,” said Raistlin.

“Go to the Abyss!” howled a black-bearded man seated on a stool in the back of the cluttered room. “Look what you’ve done to my door!”

“Call off your dogs, Lute,” Raistlin repeated. “And do not even think of touching that crossbow. If you do, the only thing left on that stool will be a greasy, hairy glob of burnt dwarf.”

Lute slowly moved his hand from the crossbow.

“Shinare,” he said sullenly. “Hiddukel. Come to me.”

The dogs gave Raistlin a parting growl and slunk back to their master.

“Lock them in that room,” Raistlin ordered, indicating the half-dwarf’s bedroom.

Lute ordered the dogs into his room and, heaving himself, grumbling, off the stool, he locked the door on them. Raistlin made his way through the piles of junk to the back of the store.

“What do you want?” Lute asked, glaring at Raistlin.

“I need to speak to Talent.”

“You’ve come to the wrong place. He’s at the Broken Shield—”

Raistlin slammed his hand down on the counter. “I am in no mood for your lies. Tell Talent I must talk to him now!”

Lute sneered. “I’m not your bloody errand boy—”

Raistlin seized hold of Lute’s thick, full beard and gave it a twist that brought tears to the half-dwarf’s eyes.

Lute yelped and tried desperately to break Raistlin’s grip. The half-dwarf might as well have tried to break one of the oak beams holding up his ceiling. Raistlin was still under the empowering effects of the spell. He gave Lute’s beard a sharp yank, drawing blood, and making him moan with pain. Hearing their master’s cry, the dogs barked furiously and flung themselves against the door.

“I’ll tear your beard out by the roots,” said Raistlin, hissing the words through his teeth, “unless you do as I ask. You will send for Talent now. You will tell him to meet me in the same place we met last time: the tunnels beneath this building.”

Lute muttered a curse.

Raistlin yanked harder.

“I’ll do what you say!” Lute shrieked, pawing at Raistlin’s hand. “Let go of me! Let go!”

“You’ll talk to Talent?” Raistlin asked, retaining his hold on the beard.

Lute gave a nod. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Raistlin released his grip, flinging Lute backward. The half-dwarf massaged his burning chin. “I’ll have to send Mari. I can’t go myself. You broke down my door. I’ll be robbed blind.”

“Where is Mari?”

“She generally comes around about this time.” As if conjured up by his words, the kender appeared at the entrance.

“Hey, Lute, what happened to your door?” she asked. “Oh, hullo, Raist. I didn’t see you there.”

“Never you mind about anything,” Lute growled. “And don’t you set foot in here. Run and fetch Talent. Tell him to go to the tunnels.”

“Sure, Lute, I’ll go. But what happened to the door—?”

“Now, you lame-brain!” Lute bellowed.

“You must hurry, Mari,” said Raistlin. “It’s urgent.”

The kender looked from one to the other, then dashed off.

“And bring back a carpenter!” Lute shouted after her.

“How do I get to the tunnel?” Raistlin asked.

“You’re so smart, you figure it out,” Lute said. He was still rubbing his chin.

Raistlin cast a swift glance around the cluttered shop. “Ah, of course, the trapdoor is beneath the dog kennel. Not terribly original. Is it locked? Is there a key?”

Lute muttered something.

“I can always blast a hole in your floor,” said Raistlin.

“No key,” Lute said. “Just lift up the damn door and go down the damn stairs. Watch your step. The stairs are steep. It would be a pity if you fell and broke your neck.”

Raistlin went over to the dog crate and shoved aside the bedding to find the trap door beneath. The spell he’d cast on himself was starting to wear off, but fortunately he had just strength enough to be able to pull open the heavy wooden door. It was at times such as this that he missed Caramon.

Raistlin peered down into the darkness that would be even darker once he shut the trap door.

“Shirak,” he said, and the crystal on top of his staff began to glow.

He gathered up the hem of his robes and carefully navigated the stairs as the trapdoor fell shut behind him. The subterranean chamber was silent and smelled of loam. He could hear the drip of water in the distance. He flashed the light around and, after a few moments, found the chair to which he’d been chained and the chair Talent had straddled.

Raistlin took Talent’s chair and sat down to wait.

Talent was not long in coming. Raistlin had not even had time to grow impatient before he heard the sound of booted feet thudding on the dirt floor and saw the light of a lantern shining in the darkness. Raistlin had his rose petals in his hand and the words to a sleep spell on his lips, just in case Talent had decided to send someone else to the meeting; someone such as Maelstrom.

But it was Talent himself who appeared in the circle of light cast by the staff.

“Sit down,” said Raistlin, and he shoved out a chair with his foot.

Talent remained standing. He folded his arms over his chest. “I’m here, but not because I want to be. You could have put us all in danger—”

“You are already in danger,” said Raistlin. “I have been to Dargaard Keep. I have spoken to my sister. Please sit down. I don’t like to have to crane my neck to look up at you.”

Talent hesitated, then sat down. His sword hung from his side. The tip brushed the dirt floor.

“Well?” he said tersely. “What did the Blue Lady have to say?”

“A great many things, but most do not concern you. One does. You have been betrayed. Takhisis knows everything. She has ordered Ariakas to kill you and Mari and all the rest of your gang.”

Talent frowned. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Majere, but if Ariakas knows, why haven’t I been arrested?”

“Because you are far more popular in Neraka than the Emperor,” said Raistlin. “There would be rioting in the streets if you were arrested and the Broken Shield was closed down. The same with your hairy friend upstairs. His business is crucial to most of the people in this city, especially now that many of the troops aren’t being paid. And then there are the clerics in the temple, half of whom are in your pocket. They’d have to give up all the black market luxuries they’ve come to enjoy.”

Talent gave a sardonic smile. “I suppose that’s all true enough. So Ariakas doesn’t plan to have us arrested—”

“No. He’s simply going to have you killed,” said Raistlin. “When is all this supposed to happen?” “Tonight,” said Raistlin. “Tonight?” Talent stood up in alarm.

“The Night of the Eye. Iolanthe tells me that you and your friend at the Hairy Troll always throw a street party where you set bonfires. Tonight the bonfires will flare out of control. The flames will spread to both the Hairy Troll and the Broken Shield. As you fight the flames, there will be a terrible accident. You and Mari and Maelstrom and other members of Hidden Light will be trapped inside the blazing building. You will burn to death.”

“What about Lute?” Talent asked harshly. “He won’t be at these celebrations. He never leaves this shop.”

“His body will be found in the morning. By a strange mischance, his own dogs will turn on him and rip him apart.”

“I see,” said Talent grimly. “Who is the traitor? Who betrayed us?”

Raistlin stood up. “I do not know. Nor do I care. I have my own troubles, and they are far greater than yours. Which brings me to my final request. There are two others who are marked for death this night. One is Iolanthe—”

“Iolanthe? Ariakas’s Witch?” Talent said, amazed. “Why would he want to kill her?”

“He does not, but the Blue Lady does. The second is Snaggle, the owner of the mageware shop on Wizard’s Row. He will not want to leave his shop. He’ll have to be ‘persuaded’.”

“What in the Abyss is going on?” Talent demanded, aghast.

“I can’t tell you the entire plot. What I can tell you is that this night, Queen Takhisis will seize control of magic. By her command, the Blue Lady is sending out death squads to kill as many wizards as possible. Snaggle and Iolanthe are both on her list.”

Talent stared at him, silent and appalled. Then he said, “Why tell me? Why not tell Iolanthe?”

“Because I cannot trust her,” said Raistlin. “I am not certain even now whose side she is on.”

Talent shook his head. “Iolanthe is a threat to you, and yet you want to protect her. I thought your type would be more likely to laugh as you watched her go up in flames. I don’t understand you, Majere.”

“I imagine there is a great deal in this world you do not understand,” said Raistlin caustically. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to explain it to you. Suffice it to say I owe both Iolanthe and Snaggle a debt. And I always pay my debts.”

He picked up his staff with the glowing light and started to leave.

“Hey!” said Talent. “Where are you going?”

“I am taking the back way out,” said Raistlin. “Your friend Lute would not be pleased to see me again.”

“You’re probably right. I heard about the broken door,” said Talent, falling into step beside Raistlin. “But you’ll get lost. I’ll have to show you.”

“Do not bother. I remember the route from when I was here the last time.”

“You remember it? But you couldn’t. You were—” Talent stopped. He stared at the mage. “You only pretended to be drugged. But how did you know the drink was spiked—?”

“I have an excellent sense of smell,” said Raistlin.

The two walked together. The only sounds were the gentle thump of the staff on the dirt floor, the slight swishing of the black robes, and the thudding of Talent’s boots. Talent walked with his head down, his hands behind his back, lost in thought. Raistlin cast keen glances around him, noting the many tunnels branching off from the one they were using. He pictured a map of the city in his head and used it to try to calculate where each might lead.

“This system is quite extensive,” Raistlin remarked. “I would guess, for example, that this tunnel”—he pointed with his staff—“leads to the Dark Queen’s temple. And this.” He pointed out another tunnel. “This one leads to the Broken Shield.”

“And this,” said Talent grimly, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, “leads to the death of people who do too much damn guessing.”

Raistlin smiled and inclined his head.

“Something I’m wondering,” said Talent abruptly. “You don’t trust Iolanthe, a fellow wizard. The gods know I don’t trust you. Yet you trust me. You must since you told me all this. Why is that?”

“You remind me of someone,” said Raistlin after a moment’s pause. “Like you, he was a Solamnic. Est Sularus oth Mithas. He lived that motto. His honor was his life.”

“Mine isn’t,” said Talent.

“Which is why you are still alive and Sturm is not. And why I trust you.”

Talent escorted the mage out of the tunnels. Once they were on street level, Talent kept an eye on Raistlin, watching until the black robes had merged with the crowds in the street. Even after Raistlin had gone, Talent remained standing in the alleyway, going over the wizard’s words in his mind.

It seemed too incredible to be believed. Takhisis trying to destroy the gods of magic! Well, so what? Who would miss a few wizards anyway? The world would be a better place without wizards, or so most people believed. Most people, including Talent Orren.

Take that young man, Talent thought. He makes my flesh crawl. Only pretending to be drugged! Maelstrom will have to be more careful next time. Only there may not be a next time. Not if what Majere says is true. Do I trust him? This might all be a trap.

Talent left the alley and made his way to Lute’s shop. There he found that his friend, for the first time in memory, had actually summoned up the energy to walk from the counter to the front of the shop. Lute stood glaring at the wreckage of his front door, poking at the fragments with his cane and swearing. Mari sat on the stoop, her chin in her hands, listening to Lute’s colorful language with evident enjoyment.

“Mari,” said Talent, kneeling down beside the kender to look her in the eye. “What do you think of that wizard, Majere?”

“He’s my friend,” said Mari promptly. “We had a long talk, him and me. We’re going to change the darkness.”

Talent regarded her in silence a moment. Then he stood up. “We have a problem.”

“Damn right we do!” Lute said angrily. “Look what that rutting bugger did to my door!”

“A bigger problem than that,” said Talent Orren. “Come back inside, both of you. We have to talk.”

4 God of White. God of Red. God of Black.

“Lambskin,” said Raistlin. “The finest. And a quill pen.”

“What type?” asked Snaggle, taking down a box. He placed it on the counter and opened it. “I have some lovely swan feathers, sir. Just come in. Black swans as well as white.”

Raistlin studied the quills, then picked one up. He eyed the tip carefully, for it had to be perfect, and ran his fingers over the soft feather. His mind went back to that day in Master Theobald’s class, the day that had changed his life. No, that was not right. That day his life had not been changed. His life had been affirmed. “I will take the crow quill,” said Raistlin.

Snaggle pursed his lips. “Crow? Are you certain, sir? You can afford better. Those potions of yours are marvels. I can’t keep them in stock. I was planning on ordering more.”

He shoved the swan feather temptingly forward. “I have peacock, as well. Iolanthe uses only peacock feathers for her work.”

“I am not surprised,” said Raistlin. “Thank you, but this is the one I want.”

He placed the lowly crow feather on the counter. He selected the strip of lambskin with great care. For that item, he did choose the best.

Snaggle added up the purchases and found that they equaled what he owed Raistlin for the potions. He gave Raistlin an order for more, an order that would never be filled. Raistlin would, he hoped, be able to save the old man, but he would not be able to save the shop, which would be burned to the ground. Raistlin looked at the neatly labeled boxes stacked on the shelves, boxes containing spell components and artifacts, scrolls and potions. He thought of Iolanthe’s apartment above the shop, of her spellbooks and scrolls, clothes and jewels, and other valuables. All lost in the flames.

Pausing on his way out, Raistlin glanced back at Snaggle, who was seated on his stool, calmly drinking tarbean tea, unaware of the fury rolling toward him.

“How do you celebrate the Night of the Eye, sir?” Raistlin asked.

Snaggle shrugged. “Same as any other night for me. I drink my tea, lock up the shop, and go to my bed.”

Raistlin had a momentary vision of flames engulfing the shop, engulfing the old man’s bed. Secreting his precious purchases in the long, flowing sleeve of his robes, he returned to the street, heading to his next destination, the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka.

Raistlin cast a spell of holding on the door, as powerful as he could make it. He did not think anyone was likely to come calling, but he could not take a chance on being disturbed. He walked up the stairs slowly. Time was slipping away. He could see the grain of sand lodged in the narrow part of the hourglass. Every moment that passed, the grain slipped a little closer to oblivion.

Raistlin was tired. He had been on the move since before dawn, unable to rest until he had spoken to Talent and made certain all was well there. He had taken care of the less important matters first. Arriving at the moment of decision, his steps slowed. Even by warning Talent, Raistlin had not yet committed himself to the battle against Takhisis. He could always back out, do what he was supposed to do, what he had assured Kitiara he would do.

Raistlin continued his climb.

He sat on the high stool in the shabby, little kitchen that still smelled of boiled cabbage. Unwrapping the package, he gently withdrew the lambskin and placed it on the table in front of him. He smoothed it with his hands as he had as a child. He lifted the crow quill pen and dipped it in the ink. He saw his hand, and it was the hand of the child. He heard a voice, and it was the voice of his master, Theobald, hated and despised.

You will write down on this lambskin the words, ‘I, Magus’ If you have the gift, something will happen. If not, nothing.

The adult Raistlin wrote the words in sharply angled, bold, large letters.

I, Magus.

Nothing happened. Nothing had happened that first time either.

Raistlin turned inward, to the very core of his being, and he vowed, I will do this. Nothing in my life matters except this. No moment exists except this moment. I am born in this moment, and if I fail, I will die in this moment.

He remembered his prayer, the words forever seared on his heart.

Gods of magic, help me! I will dedicate my life to you. I will serve you always. I will bring glory to your names. Help me, please help me!

The prayer he prayed as an adult was different.

“Gods of magic,” he said, “I promised I would dedicate my life to you. I promised to serve you always. This day, I keep my promise.”

He stared down at the words he had written, at the simple words of a child’s test, and he thought of the sacrifices he had made, the pain he had endured, and the pain he would continue to endure until the end of his life. He thought of the blessings he had been given and how that made the pain worthwhile. He thought of how the magic, the pain, the blessings might be swept away, leaving him like the child he had been: weak and sickly, alone and afraid.

He thought of Antimodes, his mentor, a mage of practical mind, a businessman; Par-Salian, wise and far seeing but perhaps not wise and far-seeing enough; Justarius, whose leg had been crippled in the Test, who wanted only to be left in peace to raise a family. He thought of Ladonna, who had believed the Dark Queen’s promise and been betrayed and burned with fury.

They would all die this night unless he stopped Takhisis.

Raistlin raised his voice and looked to the heavens. “I know I have disappointed all of you. I know that you do not approve of what I am. I know that I have broken your laws. That does not mean I do not revere you or that I lack respect. This night I prove it. By coming to you, I risk my life.”

“Not much of a risk,” said Nuitari. “Without the magic, you have no life.”

The god stood over Raistlin. His face was round as a moon, and his eyes were dark and empty, which made the anger in them all the more terrible. He was dressed in black robes, and he held in his hand a scourge of black tentacles.

“You did, as you say, break our laws,” said Solinari, coming to stand beside his cousin. Dressed in white robes, the god held a scourge of ice. “The Conclave of Wizards was established for a purpose—to govern the magic and those who use it. You not only break the laws, you flout them, mock them.”

“Yet I understand him,” said Lunitari, beautiful and awful, her hair black streaked with white. Her robes were red, and she carried a scourge of fire. “I do not condone his actions, but I understand. What do you want of us, Raistlin Majere?”

“To save what will be lost this night. In Dargaard Keep, there is an underground chamber. Within this chamber is the Hourglass of Stars. Takhisis forged it. The sand she poured into it is the future she desires, a future in which she reigns supreme. Each grain that falls brings that future closer to coming to pass.

“This night, Takhisis will bring three gods—the Gods of the Gray, gods of ‘new magic’ to guard the Hourglass. She intends for these gods of no color to replace you. Her new gods will be loyal to her. All magic will flow through her. You three will no longer be needed.”

The cousins stared at him in silence, too amazed to speak.

“This night,” Raistlin continued, “you can ambush these three gods, and break the Hourglass. This night, you can save yourselves. You can save the magic.”

“If what you say is true—” Solinari began.

“Look into my heart,” said Raistlin tersely. “See if I speak the truth.”

“He does,” Lunitari said and her voice trembled with anger.

Solinari frowned. “To fight gods, we must exert all our power. We will have to withdraw our magic from the world. What will happen to our wizards? They will be left powerless.”

“The majority of wizards will be in the Tower of High Sorcery. I will undertake to protect them.”

“And we are supposed to trust you!”

Raistlin faintly smiled. “You have no choice.”

“If you do this, Takhisis will know you betrayed her. She will be your enemy not only in this life, but in the life beyond,” Lunitari warned.

“Join the Conclave of Wizards. Conform to the law,” said Solinari. “We will protect you.”

“Otherwise, you will be on your own,” said Nuitari.

“I will consider your proposal,” said Raistlin.

What else could he say, withering in the heat of the scourge of flame and burning in the cold of the scourge of ice and writhing with the sting of the black tentacles?

Solinari and Nuitari were not pleased, but they had work to do, and they did not stay to argue or cajole. The two departed, and only Lunitari remained.

“You have no intention of joining the Conclave, do you?”

Raistlin looked down at the words on the lambskin. Black ink on white. He traced over them with his finger.

“I, Magus,” he said softly.

He was startled to see the words turn red, as though written in blood. He shivered and crumpled the lambskin in his hand. When he looked up, Lunitari was gone.

Raistlin sighed deeply and closed his eyes and let his head sink into his hands. They were right. He was playing a dangerous game, a deadly game. He was risking not only his life, but his soul. Still, as Nuitari had said, it was not much of a risk.

Raistlin felt worn out, and there was still work to be done before the day turned into momentous night. He left the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka, never to return.

Raistlin entered the city proper, using his forged pass to get through the gate. He had to wait in long lines, for the gate was crowded with soldiers. He remembered Kitiara saying something to the effect that Ariakas had summoned all the Highlords to Neraka. She was coming herself, once the matter of the gods of magic was settled.

Raistlin went straight to the temple. He entered through the front, humbly requesting one of the dark pilgrims to act as his guide.

The pilgrim took him to the Abbey. Raistlin prostrated himself on the floor before the altar, lying down on his belly, his forehead touching the floor, and prayed to Takhisis.

“My Queen, I have done as you asked. I beseech your blessing.”

5 The Prayer Meeting.

The Night of the Eye was the time when the moons that were the representations of the gods of magic were in alignment, forming an unblinking eye in the heavens and granting power to their wizards throughout Ansalon.

But that night, the moons did not rise. The light of Solinari did not gild the lakes with silver. The red light of Lunitari did not set the skies aflame. The black light of Nuitari, visible only to those who had dedicated themselves to him, was invisible to all. The moons were gone. And so was the magic. The Eye had closed.

Across the continent, the death squads of Queen Takhisis went forth to seek out the hapless, powerless wizards and destroy them. Squadrons of draconians, armed with swords and knives, dutifully set out from the temple in Neraka. One squad went to the ramshackle Tower of High Sorcery. Finding no one there, they set it ablaze. Another went to the mageware store of Snaggle on Wizard’s Row. He was gone, much to their astonishment, for Snaggle had never before been known to leave his shop.

Angry and frustrated, the draconians ransacked the shop, removing the neatly labeled containers from the shelves and emptying their contents into the street, then setting them on fire. The draconians smashed bottles and broke jars and confiscated artifacts to be taken back to the temple. When the shop was empty, they set fire to the building. Other squads were dispatched to the Broken Shield and the Hairy Troll to arrange for the “accidental” fires that would burn down the taverns and, by sad mischance, kill the owners.

The squadron sent to the Broken Shield was led by Commander Slith, and he was not happy. Slith didn’t give two clicks of his scales for wizards and would just as soon see them slit from gut to gullet as not. But he liked Talent Orren. Slith liked Talent and he especially liked the steel Talent paid him. Slith not only procured many of the goods Talent sold on his black market, the draconian was paid a commission on all customers he sent Talent’s way.

Slith was reflecting gloomily that with his income about to be reduced to nothing except his army pay, which he had not received, he no longer had a reason to hang around Neraka. Slith did not belong here. He was a deserter who had left the army long before, only stopping in Neraka because he’d heard there was steel to be made. The sivak tramped down the dark street, racking his brain, trying to figure out some way to disobey orders without actually having to disobey orders. He became aware that one of his subordinates was trying to claim his attention.

“Yeah, what?” Slith snarled.

“Sir, there’s something wrong,” said Glug.

“If you mean Takhisis forgot to give you a brain, that’s already common knowledge,” Slith muttered.

“It’s not that, sir,” said Glug. “Look at the tavern. It’s … well, it’s quiet, sir. Too quiet. Where’s the party?”

Slith came to a halt. That was a damn good question. Where was the party? There were supposed to be bonfires, crowds in the streets, crowds that had been paid well to set fire to the tavern. Slith saw lights in the Broken Shield, but there was no raucous laughter, rowdy merriment, or drunken revelry. The Broken Shield was quiet as a tomb.

That thought was not comforting. He looked up the street, and he looked down. He saw no one.

“What do we do, sir?” asked Glug.

“Follow me,” Slith said.

He marched across the street, his squadron scraping along behind.

Slith approached the door to the Broken Shield. A large human, who went by the name of Maelstrom and who was one of Slith’s particular pals, was acting as guard.

“No dracos,” Maelstrom said, and he pointed to the sign, “Humans only.”

“We’re here in the name of the Dark Queen,” said Slith.

“Oh, well, that’s different,” said Maelstrom, and he grinned and opened the door. “Go right in.”

“You men wait,” Slith ordered, leaving his squad in the street.

He walked inside the tavern and came to a dead stop, blinking in astonishment.

The tavern was packed. Every table was occupied, and those who hadn’t been able to find a seat lined the walls. Most of the patrons were soldiers, but a large number of dark pilgrims were there as well, seated in places of honor near the front. Slith recognized some of Talent’s best black market customers. As the sivak stood, gaping, one of the dark pilgrims rose and began to lead the crowd in prayer.

“Forgive us, Dark Majesty,” the pilgrim cried out, raising her hands. “We ask you to restore to us the moons you have swept from the heavens! Hear our plea!”

As the soldiers and pilgrims began to chant the name of Takhisis, Talent Orren, spotting Slith, made his way through the crowd.

“What in the Abyss is going on here?” Slith asked, staring.

“You are welcome, Commander,” said Talent solemnly. “You and your men. Come, join us in our supplications to the Dark Queen.”

Slith gave a snort. His tongue flicked in and out of his fangs. “Cut the crap, Talent,” he rasped.

“The Dark Queen has taken the moons out of the sky,” Talent continued in loud and reverent tones. “We have come together to seek her forgiveness.” His voice dropped. “All of us have come together, if you take my meaning.”

Slith saw old man Snaggle looking extremely irate. Judging from the way he was squirming, he was tied to his chair. A female kender sat beside him, grinning widely. And there was Lute, his great bulk overlapping a stool, his two dogs lying at his feet.

“You were tipped off,” Slith said in sudden realization.

“Join me in prayer!” Talent cried loudly.

He grabbed hold of Slith’s shoulder and drew him close and whispered in his ear. “I think it only fair to warn you, my friend, that these pious men, who have come here tonight to pray, are armed to the teeth and outnumber you three to one. They will take it very badly if you interrupt their prayers, and they’ll take it far worse if you burn down their tavern.”

Slith saw that everyone in the crowd was watching him. He saw hands resting on knives and clubs, the hilts of swords, or sacred medallions.

“I suppose they’re holding prayer services in the Hairy Troll tonight as well,” said Slith.

“Indeed they are,” said Talent.

Slith shook his head. “You won’t get away with it, Talent. The Nightlord will be furious when he finds out. He’ll come here himself to arrest you.”

“He’ll find the birds have flown the coop,” said Talent. “Maelstrom and Mari and Snaggle and myself.”

Talent’s expression grew serious and, under the cover of some particularly loud exhortations, he said softly, “Have you seen Iolanthe?”

“The witch? No.”

“I don’t know where she is. She was supposed to meet me here.”

Slith eyed his friend. The sivak was not particularly good at reading the emotions of humans, probably because he didn’t really give a rat’s ass, but Talent’s affliction was so obvious, the draconian couldn’t very well miss it. There being no female draconians, Slith had never experienced that particular emotion himself, and although sometime he regretted the loss, at times such as this, seeing the pain of worry and fear on Talent’s face, Slith considered himself lucky.

“Iolanthe’ll be all right,” Slith said phlegmatically. “The witch can take care of herself. If it’s any comfort, she wasn’t at home when they burned down her house.”

Since Talent didn’t seem particularly cheered by the news, Slith changed the subject, “Where will you go?”

“Wherever the forces of Light are fighting the Dark Queen. The army will be hunting for us. We need a couple of hours start.”

Talent pressed a large purse that jingled with the sound of steel coins into the draconian’s hand. Slith weighed it and did some rapid calculations in his mind.

“I hear the Hairy Troll is serving free dwarf spirits,” said Talent.

Slith grinned. His tongue flicked out of his mouth. “I suppose I should go investigate.”

He stuffed the purse into his belt, then gave a sigh. “I guess this means our little business venture has come to an end.”

“It’s all coming to an end, Slith,” said Talent quietly. “The long night is almost over.”

Slith patted his purse. “I’m thinkin’ all hell’s going to break loose around here. I might just take this opportunity to retire from the military—again. Join up with some buddies of mine.”

“Build that city you’re always talking about,” said Talent.

Slith nodded. “Good luck to you, Talent. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Same here. Good luck to you.”

The two shook hand and claw. Slith saluted Talent, then turned in brisk military fashion on his heel, and marched back out the door. He cast a glance and a grin at Maelstrom, who winked in return.

Slith’s troops were disappointed when they heard they were not to burn down the Broken Shield, but cheered up immediately when he told them they were going to the Hairy Troll.

“Could be they’re serving bad dwarf spirits,” Slith said. “You’ll need to taste them to find out.”

“Where are you going, sir?” asked Glug.

“I’ll be along,” said Slith. “Take the boys and go on ahead. I’ll meet you there. Don’t drink all the dwarf spirits before I get there.”

Glug saluted and ran off. The squadron pounded eagerly behind him.

Slith stood in the streets, gazing at the temple that writhed in the distance. He lifted his clawed hand in farewell and turned and walked in the opposite direction.

“Good luck, Your Majesty,” he called out over his shoulder. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

6 The Night of No Moons.

The Tower of Wayreth was the oldest Tower of High Sorcery in Ansalon, one of two Towers left standing, and the only Tower still in use. Built after the end of the Second Dragon War, the Tower of Wayreth rose out of a disaster. In those days, magic was wild and raw. A spell cast by three powerful wizards, intended to end a war, slipped from their control and devastated much of the world. The gods of magic realized that something must be done to keep magic and those who wielded it under control. Nuitari, Lunitari, and Solinari taught the discipline of magic to three wizards and sent them forth to establish the three Orders of High Sorcery, which would be ruled by a governing body known as a Conclave.

The wizards needed a central location, a place where students of magic could come learn the skills of their art, where the newly designed Test of High Sorcery could be administered, where artifacts could be created and stored, spells tested, books written and archived. It would also need to be a fortress and refuge, for many in the world did not trust wizards and sought to do them harm.

The three wizards came together to construct the Tower of Wayreth. The Tower’s two spires, built atop a dome and enclosed by a triangular wall, were conjured out of silver mist, which slowly, over time, coalesced into stone. During that period, the Tower came under attack from a tribe of barbarians, who wanted to make it their own. The Tower and the wizards inside were saved by a black robe wizard who cast a spell that created a magical forest surrounding the Tower. The wizard died, but the enchanted Forest of Wayreth sprang up and drove away the barbarians. From that day forward, the forest’s magic hid the Tower and protected it from foes.

“You do not find the Tower of Wayreth,” the saying goes. “The Tower finds you.”

The Forest of Wayreth was kept busy finding a great many mages traveling to the Tower to celebrate the Night of the Eye. Generally, only wizards who had already taken the Test of High Sorcery or those coming to take the Test were permitted to enter the Tower. But a Night of the Eye was a rare and special occurrence, and on this occasion promising students, accompanied by their masters, were also admitted.

The Tower was filled with magic-users who had traveled from all parts of Ansalon. Every bed in every cell was occupied, with many more sleeping on blankets on the floor or setting up camp in the courtyard. The mood was celebratory. Old friends greeted each other with warm embraces and exchanged the latest news. Students wandered about in awe and excitement, losing themselves in the labyrinthine hallways and blundering by mistake into restricted areas. Familiars of all sorts roamed and flew, crept and crawled through the halls, always in danger of being trampled underfoot or flying into someone’s hair.

Some wizards were in the laboratories, hard at work preparing the ingredients for potions and other concoctions, ready to mix them when the power of the moons was most potent. Other wizards were holed up in the libraries, studying the spells they meant to cast that night. Black Robes and Red Robes rubbed shoulders with White Robes, everyone putting aside differences to talk magic, though occasionally arguments did break out, particularly in those turbulent times.

There were a few White Robes, for example, who were still bitter over the fact that the Black Robes had defected to Queen Takhisis. Those White Robes did not believe the Black Robes should be forgiven and took the opportunity to state their views. The Black Robes took offense, and shouting matches were the result. Such rows were quickly quelled by the Monitors, red robe wizards who were assigned to patrol the Tower, keep tempers in check, and make certain no untoward incidents marred the important night. For the most part, wizards of all three robes were glad to be united once again in their love of magic, even if they were united in nothing else.

There would be no meeting of the Conclave on that Night of the Eye, a break from tradition. Word was given out that the heads of the orders had decided to dispense with the meeting, which took time away from important work. Since the meeting was notable only for Par-Salian’s traditional Night-of-the-Eye speech, which was considered among the young wizards to be a snoozer, the news was greeted with applause.

Only a few, a very few, knew the true reason for the cancellation. The three heads of the orders were not going to be in the Tower of Wayreth this night. Ladonna, Par-Salian, and Justarius were planning to undertake a daring and dangerous mission to Neraka. Accompanying the three would be six bodyguards—strong, young wizards who had been spending the past several days equipping themselves with combat spells designed to repel almost any type of foe, living or undead, and spells of protection to cast upon themselves and their leaders.

As evening was falling, the other wizards were attending a sumptuous and lavish banquet, set up in the courtyard. Ladonna and Justarius and Par-Salian were locked in one of the Tower’s upper chambers, discussing their plans. They sat in the shadows, their faces indistinct, their eyes shining in the light of the fire. Seeing that the fire was dying and feeling the chill of the night air, Par-Salian rose to add another log.

An hour-counting candle stood upon the mantelpiece, the unwavering flame slowly eating away the time until the three moons would move into alignment and the wizards could undertake the dangerous journey through time and space to the temple of the Dark Queen.

“Timing is critical,” said Ladonna. She was wearing fur-trimmed robes, pendants around her neck, and rings on her fingers. None of the jewels were for vain show. All of them were either magical or could be used as spell components. “Jasla’s spirit must be removed from the Foundation Stone with my necromancy spell first.”

She added, with a stern glance at Par-Salian, “This is only logical, my friend,” continuing an argument that had been ongoing between them for days. “If you raise your barriers to seal off the stone before I cast my spell, you will seal the girl’s spirit inside it.”

“My concern is what will become of Jasla’s soul,” said Par-Salian. “Her spirit is a good one, by your own account, Ladonna. I want assurances that you will set her free, not keep her a prisoner.”

“You must admit that finding out how the spirit managed to block Queen Takhisis would be extremely valuable information,” Ladonna said coldly. “I want merely to ask her some questions. You are outvoted. Justarius agrees with me.”

“It is a matter of the greater good,” Justarius said. He carried several scrolls thrust into his belt, as well as pouches of spell components.

Par-Salian shook his head, unconvinced.

“You can be present during the interrogation,” Ladonna conceded, though she did not sound pleased. “And you can see for yourself that I will set her free.”

“There. Are you satisfied? This argument is wasting precious time,” said Justarius.

“Very well,” said Par-Salian. “So long as I can be present. Ladonna will cast her spell first, remove Jasla’s spirit, and take it to a secure location. Justarius, you will then cast your spells to alter the nature of the Foundation Stone—”

“For all the good that will do,” Ladonna muttered.

Justarius bristled. “We have gone over this a hundred times …”

“And we will go over it a hundred more, if need be,” said Ladonna acerbically. “This is too important to undertake lightly.”

“She is right,” said Par-Salian. “Some who go to Neraka this night will not return. Each of us must be fully committed. State your reasoning.”

“Again?” Justarius asked, exasperated.

“Again,” said Par-Salian.

Justarius sighed. “The original stone, which was made of white marble, was blessed and sanctified by the gods. Takhisis cast her own ‘blessing’ upon it, in an attempt to corrupt it. But Par-Salian and I both agree that the stone is still pure at its heart, which is why Jasla’s spirit is able to find sanctuary there. If the corruption is removed and the stone can be returned to its original form and it is further protected with powerful spells of warding that Par-Salian will cast upon it, Takhisis will not be able to again pervert it.”

“And since her temple rests upon the Foundation Stone, if it is transformed, the temple will fall, forever sealing the Dark Queen inside the Abyss,” Par-Salian said.

Ladonna sat in silence. They were all silent, their expressions troubled. Each of them knew the arguments were desultory, meaningless, meant to avoid the subject that was uppermost in everyone’s mind. At last Ladonna was driven to speak what she knew they were all thinking.

“I have sought Nuitari’s blessing on this plan of ours. The god of the dark moon pays no heed to me. I do not believe I have offended him, but if I have—”

“It is not you, Ladonna. I have approached Solinari and with the same result,” said Par-Salian. “No response. You, my friend?”

Justarius shook his head. “Lunitari will not speak to me. And this is all the more troubling because the goddess enjoys chattering about even trivial matters. This plan of ours is the most dangerous undertaking any wizards have performed since the Sacred Three ended the Second Dragon War, and my goddess will not speak a word. Something is wrong.”

“Perhaps we should call this off,” said Par-Salian.

“Don’t be such an old woman!” Ladonna said scornfully.

“I am being practical. If the gods do not—”

“Hush!” Justarius said peremptorily, raising his hand. Shouts and cries could be heard coming from outside the door. “What is the cause of all this commotion?”

“A surfeit of elven wine,” said Par-Salian.

“That is not merry-making,” said Ladonna, alarmed. “It sounds more like a riot!”

The shouts grew louder, and the wizards could hear people running in panicked haste down the corridor. Someone started beating on their door, then others joined in, raining blows on the wood. The wizards began to call out for their leaders, some yelling for Par-Salian, others for Ladonna or Justarius.

Angry at such unseemly behavior, Par-Salian rose to his feet, stalked across the room and flung open the door. He was startled to find the hall was dark. The magical lights that generally illuminated all the passageways in the Tower had apparently failed. Seeing some in the crowd carrying candles or lanterns, Par-Salian felt a sense of foreboding.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded sternly, glowering at the crowd of wizards milling around in the hallway. “Cease this tumult at once!”

The wizards crowding the darkened hallway fell silent, but only for a moment.

“Tell him,” said one.

“Yes, tell him!” urged another.

“Tell me what?”

Several began to speak at once. Par-Salian quieted them with an impatient gesture and searched around in the darkness for someone to be the spokesperson.

“Antimodes!” Par-Salian said, sighting his friend. “Tell me what is going on.”

The crowd parted to allow Antimodes to make his way to the front. Antimodes was an older wizard, highly respected and well liked. He came from a well-to-do family and was wealthy in his own right. He was passionate about advancing the cause of magic in the world, and many young mages had benefited from his generosity. A businessman, Antimodes was known to be level-headed and practical, and at the sight of his face, which was pale, strained, Par-Salian felt his heart sink.

“Have you looked outside, my friend?” Antimodes asked. He spoke in a low voice, but the crowd was straining to hear. They immediately caught hold of his words and repeated them.

“Look outside! Yes, look outside!”

“Silence!” Par-Salian ordered, and again the crowd hushed, though not completely. Many grumbled and muttered in a low, rumbling undercurrent of fear.

“You should look outside,” said Antimodes gravely. “See for yourselves. And witness this.” He lifted his hand, pointed a finger and spoke words of magic. “Sula vigis dolibix!”

“Are you mad?” Par-Salian cried, alarmed, expecting to see fiery traces burst from his friend’s hands. But nothing happened. The words to the spell fell to the floor like dead leaves.

Antimodes sighed. “The last time that spell failed me, my friend, I was sixteen years old and thinking about a girl, not my magic.”

“Par-Salian!” Ladonna called in a shaking voice. “You must see this!”

She was leaning on the window ledge, perilously close to falling out, her back arched, her head craned to stare into the heavens. “The stars shine. The night is cloudless. But …”

She turned toward him, her face pale. “The moons are gone!”

“And so is The Forest of Wayreth,” Justarius reported grimly, gazing out past Ladonna’s shoulder.

“We have lost the magic!” a woman wailed from the hall. Her terrified cry threw everyone into a panic.

“Are you witless gully dwarves to behave so?” Par-Salian thundered. “Everyone, go to your rooms. We must keep calm, figure out what is going on. Monitors, I want the halls cleared at once.”

The shouting ceased, but people continued to mill around aimlessly. Antimodes set the example by leaving for his chambers and taking friends and pupils with him. He glanced back at Par-Salian, who shook his head and sighed.

The Monitors in their red robes began moving through the crowd, urging people to do as the head of the Conclave decreed. Par-Salian waited in the doorway until he saw the hall starting to clear. Most would not go to their rooms. They would flock to the common areas to speculate and work themselves into a frenzy.

Par-Salian shut the door and turned to face his fellows, who were both standing at the window, gazing searchingly into the heavens in the desperate hope that they were mistaken. Perhaps an errant cloud had drifted across the moons, or they had miscalculated the time and the moons were late rising. But the evidence of the vanished forest was horrifying and could not be denied.

As Par-Salian gazed across the bleak and barren landscape of treeless, rolling hills, he tried to cast a spell, a simple cantrip. He knew the moment he spoke the words, which came out as gibberish, that the magic would fail.

“What do we do?” Ladonna asked in hollow tones.

“We must pray to the gods—”

“They will not answer you,” said a voice from the darkness.

A wizard dressed in black robes stood in the center of the room.

“Who are you?” Par-Salian demanded.

The wizard drew back his hood. Golden skin glistened in the firelight. Eyes with pupils the shape of hourglasses regarded them dispassionately.

“Raistlin Majere,” said Justarius, his tone harsh.

Raistlin inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“This is your doing!” Ladonna said angrily.

Raistlin gave a sardonic smile. “While I find it flattering that you think I have the power to make the moons disappear, madam, I must disabuse you of that notion. I did not cause the moons to vanish. Nor did I take away the magic. What you fear is true. Your magic is gone. The gods of the moons have been rendered impotent.”

“Then how did you travel here, if not by magic?” Par-Salian said, glowering.

Raistlin bowed to him. “An astute observation, Master of the Conclave. I said your magic was gone. My magic is not.” “And where does your magic come from, then?” “My god. My Queen,” Raistlin said quietly, “Takhisis.” “Traitor!” Ladonna cried.

She took hold of one of the pendants she wore around her neck and tore a piece of fur from her collar. “Ast kiranann kair Gardurm …” She faltered, then began again. “Ast kianann kair—”

“Useless,” Justarius said bitterly.

“I am not the traitor,” said Raistlin. “I am not the one who betrayed your plot to enter the temple and seal the Foundation Stone to the Dark Queen. If it were not for me, you would all be dead now. The Nightlord and his pilgrims are there now, waiting for you.”

“Who was it, then?” Ladonna demanded, glowering.

“The walls have ears,” said Raistlin softly.

Ladonna crossed her arms over her chest and began to restlessly pace the room. Justarius remained by the window, staring out into the night.

“Did you come here to gloat over us?” Par-Salian asked abruptly.

Raistlin’s eyes narrowed. “You chose me as your ‘sword,’ Master of the Conclave. And all know that a sword cuts both ways. If your sword has caused you to bleed, that is your own fault. But to answer your question, sir, no, I did not come here to gloat.”

He jabbed a finger toward the window. “The Forest of Wayreth is gone. This moment, a death knight called Soth and his undead warriors are riding toward this Tower. Nothing stands in their way. And when they get here, nothing will stop them from tearing down these walls and slaughtering everyone inside.”

“Solinari save us!” Par-Salian murmured.

“Solinari fights to save himself,” said Raistlin. “Takhisis brought new gods to this world, Gods of the Gray, she calls them. She plans to depose our gods and seize control of the magic, which she will then dole out to her favorites. Such as myself.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Justarius harshly.

“Believe your eyes, then,” said Raistlin. “How are you going to fight Lord Soth? His magic is potent, and it does not come from the moons. It springs from the curse the gods cast upon him. He can blast holes in these walls with a gesture of his hand. He can summon corpses from their graves. He has only to speak a single word, and people will drop dead. The terror of his coming is so great that even the bravest will not be able to withstand it. You will cower behind these walls, waiting to die. Praying to die.”

“Not all of us,” said Justarius grimly.

“You might as well, sir,” Raistlin scoffed. “Where are your swords and shields and axes? Where are your mighty warriors to defend you? Without your magic, you cannot defend yourselves. You have your little knives, that is true, but they will barely cut through butter!”

“You, obviously, have the answer,” said Par-Salian. “Otherwise you would not have come.”

“I do, Master of the Conclave. I can summon help.”

“And if you work for Takhisis, why should you? And why should we trust you?” Ladonna asked.

“Because, madam, you have no choice,” replied Raistlin. “I can save you … but it will cost you.”

“Of course!” Justarius said bitterly. He turned to Par-Salian. “Whatever the price, it is too high. I would sooner take my chances with this death knight.”

“If it were our lives alone, I would be inclined to agree with you,” said Par-Salian ruefully. “But we have hundreds in our care, from our pupils to some of the best and most talented wizards in all of Ansalon. We cannot condemn them to death because of hurt pride.” He turned to Raistlin. “What is your price?”

Raistlin was silent a moment; then he said quietly, “I have chosen to walk my own road, free of constraints. All I ask, Masters, is that you allow me to continue to walk it. The Conclave will take no action against me either now or in the future. You will not send wizards to try to kill me or trap me or lecture me. You will let me to go my way, and I will help you remain alive so that you may go yours.”

Par-Salian’s brows came together. “You imply by this that our magic will come back, that the gods of magic will return. How is that possible?”

“That is my concern,” said Raistlin. “Are we agreed?” “No. There is too much we do not know,” said Ladonna. “I agree with her,” said Justarius.

Raistlin stood calmly, his hands folded in the sleeves of his black robes. “Look out the window. You will see an army of undead soldiers wearing charred and blackened armor marked with a rose. Flames devour their flesh as the warriors ride. Their faces wither in the holy fire that endlessly consumes them. They carry death, and Death leads them. Soth will shatter the walls of this Tower with a touch. His army will ride through the melted rock, and your pupils and your friends and colleagues will be helpless to withstand him. Blood will flow in rivers down the corridors—”

“Enough!” Par-Salian cried, shaken. He looked at the others. “I ask you both plainly: Can we fight this death knight without our magic?”

Ladonna had gone deathly pale. Her lips set in a tight, straight line, she sank down in a chair.

Justarius looked defiant at first; then, his face haggard, he gave an abrupt shake of his head. “I am from Palanthas,” he said. “I have heard tales of Lord Soth, and if a tenth of them are true, it would be perilous to fight him even if we had our magic. Without … we do not stand a chance.”

“Mark my words, if we make this bargain with Majere, we will live to regret it,” Ladonna said.

“But at least you will live,” murmured Raistlin.

He drew from his belt a small leather pouch and dumped the contents onto the floor. Marbles of all colors rolled out onto the soft carpeting. Ladonna, staring at them, gave an incredulous laugh.

“He is making fools of us,” she said.

Par-Salian was not so sure. He watched Raistlin’s long, slender fingers, delicate and sensitive, sort through the marbles until he found the one he sought. He lifted the marble and held it in the palm of his hand and began to chant.

The marble grew in size until it filled the palm of Raistlin’s hand. Colors swirled and shimmered inside the crystal globe. Par-Salian, looking in, saw reptilian eyes, looking out.

“A dragon orb!” he said, amazed.

Par-Salian drew nearer, fascinated. He had read about the famed dragon orbs. Five orbs had been created during the Age of Dreams by mages of all three orders who had come together then, as they had come together in his day, to fight the Queen of Darkness. Two of the orbs had been kept at the ill-fated Towers of Losarcum and Daltigoth and had been destroyed in the explosions that had leveled those Towers.

One of the orbs had dropped out of knowledge, only to be discovered by Knights of Solamnia in the High Clerist’s Tower. The Golden General, Laurana, had used the orb to hold the Tower against an assault by evil dragons. That orb had been lost in the battle.

Another orb had been given for safe-keeping to the wizard Feal-Thas, who had kept it locked up in Icewall for many centuries. The orb’s strange and tragic journey had led to its destruction by a kender at the meeting of the Whitestone Council.

The orb Par-Salian looked at, the last one in existence, was controlled by Raistlin Majere. How was that possible? Par-Salian was a powerful wizard, perhaps one of the most powerful ever to have lived, and he wondered if he would have the courage to lay his hands on the orb that could seize hold of a wizard’s mind and keep him enthralled, caught forever in a twisted, living nightmare, as it had done the wretched Lorac. The young mage, Raistlin Majere, had dared to do so, and he had succeeded in bending the orb to his will.

As Par-Salian gazed into the orb, both fascinated and repelled, he had his answer. He could see the figure of a man, an old, old man, barely skin and bones, more dead than alive. The old man’s fists were clenched in fury, he seemed to be shouting, screaming in rage, but his screams went unheard.

Par-Salian looked in amazement and awe at Raistlin, who gave a confirming nod.

“You are right, Master of the Conclave. The prisoner is Fistandantilus. I would tell you the story, but there is no time. You must all be quiet. Speak no word. Make no movement. Do not even breathe.”

Raistlin placed his hands upon the dragon orb. He cried out in pain as hands reached out from the orb and grasped hold of him. He closed his eyes and gasped.

“I command you, Viper, summon Cyan Bloodbane,” said Raistlin. His voice was a gasp. He shuddered, yet he kept his hands firmly on the orb.

“Bloodbane is a green dragon!” Ladonna said. “He lied! He means to kill us!”

“Hush!” Par-Salian ordered.

Raistlin was intent upon the orb, listening to an unheard voice, the voice of the orb, and apparently he did not like what it was saying.

“You cannot relax your guard!” he said angrily, speaking to the dragon within the orb. “You must not set him free!”

The hands of the orb tightened on Raistlin’s, and he gasped in pain from either the strengthening grip or the agony of the decision he was being asked to make.

“So be it,” Raistlin said at last. “Summon the dragon!”

Par-Salian, staring into the orb, saw the colors swirl wildly. The tiny figure of Fistandantilus disappeared. Raistlin grimaced, but he kept his hands on the orb, concentrating his will on it, oblivious to what was happening around him.

“Ladonna, are you mad? Stop!” Justarius cried.

Ladonna paid no heed. Par-Salian saw a flash of steel and leaped at her. He managed to grab hold of her hand and tried to wrest away the knife. Ladonna turned on him, striking at him and slashing a bloody gash in his chest. Par-Salian staggered back, staring down at the red stain on his white robes.

Ladonna lunged at Raistlin. He paid no heed. The orb began to glow with a bright, green, gaseous radiance. Tendril-like mists swirled out from the orb and wrapped around Ladonna’s body. She screamed and writhed. The smell was noxious. Par-Salian covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. Justarius began to gasp for air and stumbled to the window.

“Do not harm them, Viper,” Raistlin murmured.

The tendrils released their grip on Ladonna, who sagged back into a chair. Justarius was trying to catch his breath, staring out the window.

“Par-Salian,” Justarius said and pointed. Par-Salian looked out.

A dragon circled the Tower of High Sorcery, his massive body shining a sickly gray-green in the lambent light of a moonless sky.

7 Green Dragon. Dead knight.

The ancient green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, despised every being he had ever encountered in a life that spanned centuries. Mortal and immortal, dead and undead, gods and other dragons, he hated them all. Some, however, he hated more than others: elves, for one, and Solamnic Knights, for another. It had been a Solamnic Knight—one Huma Dragonsbane—who had ruined Cyan’s fun when, as a young dragon, he had taken part in the Second Dragon War.

The detestable knight with his brain-searing, eye-burning dragonlance had driven Cyan’s Queen, Takhisis, back into the Abyss, first wringing from her a promise that all her dragons would have to leave the world, hide themselves in their lairs, and fall into an endless sleep.

Cyan had tried hard to avoid that terrible fate, but he could not fight the gods, and he had succumbed like all the others to an enforced nap that had lasted for countless years. But first he had told his Queen what he thought of her.

Several centuries later, he woke, still mad. Takhisis had appeased him by promising him he could avenge himself on the wicked elves, who had once had the nerve to raid his lair during the Second Dragon War, inflicting wounds on him that he was convinced still troubled him.

The fool elf Lorac, King of Silvanesti, had stolen a dragon orb, and when he tried to use it to summon a dragon to save his beloved homeland from the armies of Dragon Highlord Salah-Kahn, Cyan had answered the call.

The green dragon had come to Silvanesti to find that the dragon orb had wrapped Lorac in its terrible coils. Cyan could have slain the wretched elf, but where was the fun in that? Cyan had inflicted wounds that would grievously hurt every elf ever born, from then until the end of time. He had seized their beloved land. He had taken the heart-aching beauty of Silvanesti and twisted it and stabbed it, slashed it and burned it.

He had tortured the trees and caused them to bleed and writhe in agony. He had blackened the lush meadows and transformed crystal lakes into foul and poisonous swamps. What was most enjoyable, he had whispered those nightmares into Lorac’s ear, forcing the elf king to watch the horror unfold before his eyes and making him believe that it was his doing.

Tormenting Lorac had been fun for a while, but Cyan had soon grown bored. Silvanesti lay in tortured ruins. Lorac had gone mad. Cyan had perked up when a party of brigands and thieves led by Lorac’s daughter, Alhana Starbreeze, arrived in Silvanesti. Cyan had enjoyed tormenting them, for a time. His fun had ended abruptly when a young wizard who still had eggshell on his head, as the saying went among dragons, had managed to break the orb’s hold—and Cyan’s—on Lorac.

Cyan had at first been thrilled to watch the young wizard foolishly attempt to take control of the dragon orb. Foreseeing yet another mortal to torture, Cyan had been cruelly disappointed. Not only had Raistlin taken control of the orb, he had ordered the orb to take control of Cyan.

The green had struggled and fought, but the dragon orb was strong, and even he could not resist its call. And that was why he was in western Ansalon, flying high above some gods-forsaken tower, there to do the bidding of his hateful master. Cyan had no idea why he was there, for his master had not yet deigned to tell him. The dragon circled the Tower aimlessly, thinking that he could always divert himself by breathing his poisonous gas on the hapless wizards who were milling around in the courtyard below.

Then Cyan heard the blare of trumpets. He knew that sound, and he hated it. He looked out across the hills and saw a Solamnic Knight riding toward him.

Cyan Bloodbane knew nothing about death knights. If someone had told Cyan that this knight was cursed and that he was evil and that he and Cyan were fighting for the same cause, the dragon would have snorted a gaseous snort. A foul Solamnic Knight, cursed or uncursed, dead or undead, was a foul Solamnic Knight and must be destroyed.

Cyan Bloodbane dived down out of the skies. He would use his dragonfear to terrify the knight, then his poisonous breath to kill him.

Lord Soth was intent upon leading his undead warriors in a charge on the Tower’s walls. Concentrating on his attack, Soth paid no heed to what was happening in the skies above him. He did not so much as glance in the dragon’s direction. The dragonfear washed harmlessly over him.

Cyan was disappointed. He had been counting on the dragon-fear to send the knight into a screaming panic, so he would have the pleasure of a little sport, chasing the knight around the fields, before finally killing him.

Cyan began to dimly realize that this was no ordinary knight, and it was then he noticed that the blasted knight was already dead! Which was going to take much of the fun out of the killing of him. Cyan cast a few random spells at the knight, hurled a couple of magic missiles and tried to envelop him in a web, but nothing came of his effort. Cyan gnashed his teeth in frustration. He might not be able to slay the knight, but the dragon could certainly make his undead life unlivable.

Soth, seeing magic missiles explode around him and cobweb dropping from the skies, was at first puzzled as to who was using the magic. It could not be the wizards. Their moons were gone. He lifted his head in time to see a green dragon diving on him like a stooping hawk, claws extended. Astonished beyond measure, wondering where the dragon had come from and why the beast was attacking him, Soth did not have time to try to explain. He didn’t have time to do much of anything except draw his sword. And that proved useless.

Cyan Bloodbane caught hold of Soth in his claws and dragged the knight off his horse. The dragon carried Soth, who was slashing at him with the sword, into the heavens, then flung him to the ground. Cyan then flew headlong into the ranks of the charging undead warriors. He smashed into them bodily, ripping with his claws and snapping with his fangs, rending and tearing and scattering their bones or crunching them in his powerful jaws.

By that time Soth had recovered and was back in the saddle. His sword flaring with unholy fire, he rode in pursuit of the dragon, who wheeled ponderously in the sky and flew again to the attack. The death knight struck the dragon a savage blow in the neck that caused Cyan to howl in rage and veer off. Sullenly circling, the dragon flew down for yet another strike.

Lord Soth, wheeling on his black horse, raised his sword.

“Thus does evil turn upon its own,” said Raistlin.

Par-Salian turned from the window where he had been watching the strange battle. Raistlin had his eyes fixed upon the hour candle, which had only a small amount of wax left. He looked exhausted. Par-Salian could not imagine the strain on body and mind required to keep control of the orb.

“I must take my leave,” Raistlin said. “It is nearly time.”

“Time for what?” Par-Salian asked.

“The end.” He shrugged. “Or the beginning.”

He held the glowing dragon orb in his hand. The multicolored, swirling light shone on the golden skin and gleamed in the hourglass eyes. As Par-Salian stared at the dragon orb, he was struck by a sudden thought. He sucked in a breath, but before he could say anything, Raistlin was gone, disappearing as swiftly and quietly as he had come.

“The dragon orb!” exclaimed Par-Salian, and the other two left off watching the battle to stare at him. “Of all the magical artifacts ever created, Takhisis feared those orbs the most. If she knew Majere had one, she would never permit him to keep it.”

“More to the point, she would never permit him to use the orb’s magic,” Justarius agreed, realization and hope dawning.

“So what does this mean, if anything?” Ladonna asked, looking from one to the other.

“It means our survival is in the hands of Raistlin Majere,” said Par-Salian.

And it seemed he could hear, hissing through the darkness, the young mage’s words.

“Remember our bargain, Master of the Conclave!”

8 Black Maelstrom.

The gods of magic, their moons gone from the skies, entered Dargaard Keep. Lord Soth was not there. He and his warriors were riding on the wings of fury to the Tower of Wayreth. The Forest of Wayreth was gone. The wizards who had gathered in the Tower for the Night of the Eye were bereft of their magic and would be vulnerable to the death knight’s horrific attack. Their joyous celebration might well end in bloody death and the destruction of their Tower.

That could not be helped, however. Takhisis must be fooled into thinking that the moon gods had fallen victim to her plot, that they had battled the three new Gods of the Gray and been slain by them. Warned in advance by Raistlin Majere, the three had come to the Tower to meet those new gods and ambush them when they tried to enter the world.

“Our world,” said Lunitari, and the other two echoed her.

The banshees hid away in terror at the coming of the gods. Kitiara was in the bedroom, asleep, dreaming of the Crown of Power.

The gods went at once to the chamber Raistlin had described to them, passing through stone and earth to reach it. They entered the vault and gathered around the sole object in the room, the Hourglass of Stars. They watched the sands of the future glitter and sparkle in the top half of the hourglass. The other was dark and empty.

Suddenly Nuitari pointed. “A face in the darkness!” he said. “One of the interlopers is coming!”

“I see one as well,” said Solinari.

“And I see the third,” said Lunitari.

The gods gathered the magic, drawing it from all parts of world, grasping the fire and the lightning bolt, the tempest and the hurricane, the blinding dark and the blinding light, and they entered the hourglass to challenge their foes.

But when they were inside the blackness into which the stars fell, the gods of magic saw no foe. They saw only each other and, in the distance, the stars glittering far above them. As they watched, the stars began to spin, slowly at first, then faster, whirling around a black vortex, spiraling away from them.

And all around them was darkness and silence, utter and eternal. They could no longer hear the song of the universe. They could no longer hear the voices of their fellow gods. They could no longer hear each other. Each could see the others falling away, being pulled into the emptiness. The three tried to reach out to each other, to grab hold, but they were falling much too fast. They desperately sought some way to escape, only to realize there was no escape.

They had fallen into a maelstrom—a maelstrom in time that would keep spinning and spinning, dragging down the stars, one by one, until the end of all things.

Their hands could not touch, but their thoughts could.

A mirror image, Solinari thought bitterly. There are no other gods. We looked into the hourglass and saw ourselves.

Trapped in time, Nuitari raved. Trapped for eternity. Raistlin Majere duped us. He betrayed us to Takhisis!

No, thought Lunitari in sorrow and despair, Raistlin was duped as well.

9 Brother and sister. The Hourglass of Stars.

Raistlin walked out of the corridors of magic and into Dargaard Keep. The glowing colors of the dragon orb in his hand were rapidly fading. The orb had shrunken to the size of a marble. He opened the pouch that hung at his side and dropped the orb into it.

The room was dark and, mercifully, silent. The banshees had no reason to sing their terrible song, for the master of the keep was away. Soth would be away for some time, Raistlin imagined. Cyan Bloodbane was not one to give up, especially when his foe had drawn blood.

The dragon would never be able to defeat the death knight. Soth would never be able to slay the dragon, for Cyan thought too well of himself to put himself in any true danger. So long as he could harass and torment his enemy, he would stay around to fight. Once the battle began to turn against him, the dragon would choose the better part of valor and leave the field to his foe.

Raistlin entered Kitiara’s bed chamber. Kit lay in her bed. Her eyes were closed; her breathing was deep and even. Raistlin smelled the foul stench of dwarf spirits, and he guessed she had not fallen asleep as much as passed out, for his sister was still dressed. She wore a man’s shirt, slit at the neck, with long, full sleeves, and tight-fitting leather trousers. She was even still wearing her boots.

She had good reason to celebrate. She would be leaving Dargaard Keep soon. A few days earlier, Queen Takhisis had summoned her Highlords to Neraka for a council of war.

“There is speculation that Takhisis will decide Ariakas has made one mistake too many in his handling of the war,” Kitiara had told her brother. “She will choose another to take over the empire, someone in whom she has more confidence. Someone who has actually done something to advance our cause.”

“Such as yourself,” Raistlin had said.

Kitiara had smiled her crooked smile.

Raistlin drew near his sleeping sister. She lay sprawled on her back, her black curls in disarray, one arm flung over her forehead. He remembered watching her sleep when they had been children. He had watched her during the nights he was ill, the fever burning his frail body, the nights Caramon had entertained his ill brother with his silly hand shadows. Raistlin remembered Kit waking and coming to him to bathe his forehead or give him a drink. He remembered her telling him, irritably, that he really should work on getting well.

Kit had always been impatient with his weakness. She had never been sick a day in her life. To her way of thinking, if Raistlin had just put his mind to it, he could have willed himself healthy. Yet despite that, she had treated him with a rough sort of gentleness. She had been the one who had recognized his talent for magic. She had been the one to seek out a master to teach him. He owed her a great deal, possibly his life.

“And I am wasting time,” he said to himself.

He reached into his pouch for the rose petals.

Kit’s eyes moved beneath her closed eyelids. She was deep in a dream, for she was mouthing words and starting to twitch and shift restlessly. Suddenly she gave a terrible cry and sat up in bed. Raistlin cursed and drew back, thinking he had awakened her. Kit’s eyes were wide with fear.

“Keep him away, Tanis!” Kitiara cried. She reached out her hands in pleading. “I have always loved you!”

Raistlin realized she was still asleep. He shook his head and gave a snort. “Love Tanis? Never!”

Kitiara moaned and slumped back down onto the pillow. Curling up into a ball, she pulled the rumpled blanket over her head, as though she could hide from whatever horror pursued her.

Raistlin stole near her and, opening his fingers, he let the rose petals drift down onto her face.

“Ast tasarak sinuralan krynawi,” he said.

He noticed as he spoke that the words did not feel right to him. They seemed dry, lifeless. He put it down to his own weariness. He waited until he was certain she was under the enchantment, sleeping soundly, then he left.

He was gliding out the door when the voice stopped him, the voice he’d hoped and prayed never to hear again.

“The wise say two suns cannot travel in the same orbit. I am weak now, after my imprisonment, but when I have recovered, this matter between us will finally be resolved.”

Raistlin did not respond to Fistandantilus. There was nothing to say. He was in complete agreement.

Raistlin had memorized the route Kitiara had taken to reach the secret vault below Dargaard Keep. He traveled the dark and silent corridors, following the map in his head. He carried with him the Staff of Magius, which he had left in Dargaard Keep to await his return.

“Shirak,” he said, and though the word again sounded tinny and flat, the crystal ball atop the staff began to glow.

Raistlin was glad for the light. The keep was empty; its master and undead warriors were gone; the banshees were silent. But fear and dread and horror remained full-time occupants. Death’s bony fingers plucked at his robes or brushed, cold and horrifying, against his cheek. The ground shook, the stones fell from the walls, and the walls began to collapse. He could hear the screams of the dying woman, begging Soth to save her child, and the piercing cries of a small child being burned alive.

The horror almost overwhelmed him. His hands started to shake; his vision blurred. He could not catch his breath, and he leaned against a wall and made himself breathe deeply, clear his head, reassert his own will.

After he had recovered, he continued down the stairs that spiraled into the stone. He doused the staff’s light when he reached the steel door, for he wanted to see before he was seen. Fumbling in the impenetrable darkness, he placed his hand on the door and felt with his fingers for the graven image of the goddess. He invoked the name of Takhisis, and white light glowed. He spoke the name four more times, as Kitiara had done, and each time a different-colored light flared beneath his palm. The door clicked open.

Raistlin did not immediately enter the room. He remained in the darkness, quiet, unmoving, holding his breath so as not to make a sound. The room appeared to be empty except for the Hourglass of Stars standing upon its pedestal. As he watched, the small grain of sand dropped into the narrow opening between the top half and the bottom and hung there.

Raistlin breathed a sigh of relief. The night was almost over. The gods of magic must have won their battle. Odd, though, that they had not destroyed the hourglass …

His stomach tightened. Something was not right. He walked into the room, his black robes rustling around his ankles. He leaned the Staff of Magius against the wall and went to stare intently into the hourglass. Three moons, the silver and the red and the black, glimmered in the darkness at the bottom of the hourglass. Their light still shone, but it was dim and would not shine for long. What had happened?

Raistlin did not understand and reached out his hand for the hourglass.

A voice stopped him, nearly stopped his heart. “You are wrong, Baby brother,” she said softly. “I do love Tanis.”

Kitiara emerged from the darkness, her sword on her hip.

Raistlin lowered his hand and slipped it into the folds of his robes. He managed to keep his voice under careful control and said with a shrug, “You are incapable of loving anyone, my sister. In that, you and I are alike.”

Kitiara gazed at him, her dark eyes shining in the starlight glimmering from the hourglass. “Perhaps you are right, Baby brother. It seems we are incapable of love. Or loyalty.”

“By loyalty I assume you are referring to your betrayal of Iolanthe,” said Raistlin.

“Actually I was speaking of your betrayal of our Queen,” said Kitiara. “As for Iolanthe, I did feel a small twinge of conscience about handing her over to the death squads. She saved my life, you know. She rescued me from prison when Ariakas had sentenced me to death. But she couldn’t be trusted. Just as you, Baby brother, cannot be trusted.”

Kitiara drew nearer. She walked with a swagger, her hand resting casually on her sword’s hilt.

Raistlin’s hand, hidden in the folds of his robes, slipped into one of his pouches.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said. “I did what I promised I would do.”

“Right now you are supposed to be in the Tower of Wayreth, betraying your wizard friends to Lord Soth.”

Raistlin gave a grim smile. “And you are supposed to be asleep.”

Kitiara began to laugh. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, Baby brother? Takhisis gave you the gift of her magic, and you used it to betray her. Ariakas gave me my command, and I plan to do the same to him.”

She sighed and added, “You left poor Caramon to die. And now I must kill you.”

She shifted her gaze to the hourglass. Raistlin saw the three waning moons reflected in her dark eyes, and he understood the truth. She was not asleep because the magic spell he had cast on her had not worked. And it had not worked because there was no magic. He had been duped. He watched the grain of sand slide down the narrow opening, falling a little closer to the darkness.

“There were never any Gods of the Gray, were there?” Raistlin said.

Kitiara shook her head. “Takhisis had to find some way to lure Nuitari and his cousins into her trap. She knew that the idea of new gods coming to supplant them would be too much for them to bear.” She passed her hand over the smooth, clear crystal. “Think of this as a whirlpool in time. Your gods have fallen into the whirlpool, and they cannot escape.”

Raistlin stared into the glass. “How did you know I would warn the gods? Bring them here?”

“If you didn’t, Iolanthe would have. So it really didn’t matter.” Kitiara drew her sword from the scabbard. The blade made a ringing sound as it slid out. She held it expertly, wielding it with easy, practiced skill. She was implacable, remorseless. She might feel some regret, perhaps, for having to kill Raistlin. But she would go through with it, of that he had no doubt, because that was what he would have done.

Raistlin did not move. He did not try to flee. What was the point in that? He could picture himself racing in terror down the hall, his robes flapping around him, running until his legs faltered and his breath gave out, and he would stumble and his sister would stab from behind. …

“I remember the day you and Caramon were born,” Kitiara said suddenly. “Caramon was strong and healthy. You were weak, barely alive. You would have died if it hadn’t been for me. I gave you life. I guess that gives me the right to take it. But you are my little brother. Do not fight me, and I will make your death quick and clean. Over in an instant. All you have to do is give me the dragon orb.”

Raistlin thrust his left hand into the pouch. His fingers grasped hold of the orb, closed over it. He kept his eyes fixed on Kit, holding her gaze, her attention.

“What good is the dragon orb?” he asked. “It is dead. The magic is gone, after all.”

“Gone from you, perhaps,” said Kitiara, “but not from the dragon orb. Iolanthe told me all about how the orb works. Once an object is enchanted, it will always remain enchanted.”

“You mean, like this?” Raistlin spoke the word, “Shirak,” and the Staff of Magius burst into flaring light.

Momentarily blinded, Kit tried to shield her eyes from the bright glare and raised her sword, jabbing wildly into the darkness. Raistlin dodged the attack easily and, bringing out a fistful of marbles, he tossed them on the floor under Kit’s feet.

Unable to see clearly, Kitiara trod on the marbles and slipped, losing her footing. Her feet went out from under her. She fell heavily to the stone floor, striking her head.

Raistlin snatched up his staff and stood over his sister, ready to smash in her skull if her eyelids so much as twitched. She lay still, however, her eyes closed. He thought perhaps she was dead, and he knelt down to feel the lifebeat in her neck, still strong. She would wake with a terrible headache and blurry vision, but she would wake.

He probably should kill her, but as she had said, she had given him life. Raistlin turned away. One more debt repaid.

He turned his attention to the Hourglass of Stars. The three moons glimmered in the glass like fireflies trapped in a jar.

He heard Fistandantilus shout, “Smash it!”

Raistlin picked up the hourglass. Expecting it to be heavy, he found it was deceptively light, and he almost dropped it. He was about to smash it, as the old man urged. Then he paused. Why was Fistandantilus helping him?

Raistlin held the hourglass poised above the floor. His thought had been to smash the hourglass and free the gods. But what if that didn’t happen? What if, by smashing it, he sealed them in the darkness forever?

Raistlin stared at the hourglass. The shining grain of sand quivered, about to fall. And then came the ghastly song of the banshees lifted in a terrible wail of welcome and revulsion.

Lord Soth had returned to Dargaard Keep.

Raistlin could hear, beneath the song, the death knight running down the stairs. Raistlin had some thought of trying to hide, and he was about to replace the hourglass on the pedestal when the shining grain of sand started to fall …

Raistlin watched it, and suddenly light flashed in his mind as the light had flared from his staff. Hoping he wasn’t too late, he swiftly turned the Hourglass of Stars upside down.

The grain of sand reversed, fell back into the top half, which had become the bottom.

The three moons vanished.

Raistlin could not see the moons’ blessed light. He did not know if his desperate act had succeeded or failed. He extended his hands, palms upward.

“Kair tangus miopiar!” he said, his voice shaking.

He felt nothing for a moment, and his heart stopped in fear; then the familiar, soothing, exciting, searing warmth burned in his blood and fire flared in his hands. He watched the flames leap from his palms, and he was weak with relief. The gods were free.

Raistlin hurled the Hourglass of Stars against the stone wall. The crystal shattered into a myriad of sharp shards. Spilled sand glittered in the light like tiny stars.

Raistlin picked up the dragon orb from among the marbles and held it fast. The door was opening, pushed by the death knight’s hand. He had just strength enough left to speak the words of magic …

… Barely.

10 No Rest For The Wizard. Revenge.

Raistlin emerged from the corridors of magic into his bedroom in the Broken Shield. He was exhausted, and he was looking forward to his bed, to falling into exhausted sleep.

He found, to his astonishment, that his bed was occupied.

“Welcome home,” said Iolanthe.

She was seated on the bed. As she lifted her head, he saw her face was battered and bruised. Both eyes were blackened, one almost completely swollen shut. Her lip was split. Her fine clothes were torn. Purple bruises covered her neck.

“Thank you for saving my life this night, my dear,” she said, mumbling through her bloody lips. “Too bad I can’t return the favor.”

She cast a sidelong glance at the man who was standing at the window, gazing out at the three moons, which had just come together to form one unblinking eye. Emperor Ariakas did not bother to turn around. He merely glanced over his broad shoulder. His face was dark, expressionless.

Raistlin felt nothing. He was going to die in the next few moments, and he was too worn, too drained to care. He supposed he should try to defend himself, cast some sort of deadly spell. The words of magic fluttered in his brain and flew off before he could catch them.

“If you’re going to kill me, do so now,” he said wearily. “At least that way I will get some rest.”

Iolanthe tried to smile, but it hurt. She winced and pressed her fingers to her lip.

“My lord wants the dragon orb,” she said.

Raistlin tore the pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the floor. The pouch opened. Marbles and the dragon orb rolled out onto the floor and lay there, gleaming in the moonlight. The three moons were starting to separate, drifting apart, yet never far apart.

The moonlight—silver and red—shone on the orb and, as if basking in the magic, the orb seemed to grow and expand. Its own colored lights swirled in response.

Ariakas gazed at the orb, entranced. He left the window and squatted down on his haunches to peer at it. The hands in the orb reached out to him. Ariakas’s fingers twitched. He must be longing to touch it, to see if he could control it. He actually started to reach for it. With a dark smile, he drew back.

“Nice try, Majere,” said Ariakas, standing up. “I’m not as stupid as King Lorac—”

“Oh, yes, you are, my dear,” said Iolanthe.

A blast of frigid air, chill as the frozen wastes of Icewall, struck Ariakas from behind. The magical cold turned his flesh blue and stole his breath. His hair and beard and armor were rimed with hoarfrost. His limbs shuddered. His blood congealed. A look of fury and astonishment froze on his face. Unable to move, he crashed to the floor with a thud like a block of ice.

“Never turn your back on a wizard,” Iolanthe advised him. “Especially one you just beat up.”

Raistlin watched, stupid with fatigue, as Iolanthe walked to Ariakas’s side. She knelt down, put her hand to his neck, and began to swear.

“Damn it to the Abyss and back! The bastard is still alive! I thought I had killed him for certain. Takhisis must love him.”

Iolanthe thrust a small crystal cone into her bosom and reached out her hand to Raistlin. “I know you’re tired. I’ll transport you. Hurry! We have to get out of here before his guards come to see what has happened to him.”

Raistlin stared at her. He was too tired to think. He had to cajole his brain into working. He shook his head and, ignoring her outstretched hand, he picked up the glowing dragon orb. It shrank at his touch, and his hand closed over it tightly.

“You go,” he said.

“You can’t stay in Neraka! Ariakas isn’t dead. He will send the Black Ghost after you—”

“He tried that tonight, didn’t he?” said Raistlin, looking at Iolanthe intently.

A blush suffused her face. She was beautiful and alluring. Small wonder those unsuspecting Black Robes had opened their doors to her sultry whispers in the dead of night.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“I count stairs, remember. How long have you been working for Hidden Light?”

“Ever since—” Iolanthe stopped then shook her head. “It’s a winter’s tale, meant to be told around the fire. We don’t have time for it now. My friends and I are leaving Neraka. Come with us.”

Raistlin was gazing into the dragon orb, watching the colors. Black and green, red and white and blue twined and writhed and twisted.

“I have to change the darkness,” he said.

She stared at him, not understanding. Then she squeezed his hand and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Thank you, Raistlin Majere. You saved the people who are most dear to me.”

She flung her magical clay on the wall. The portal opened, expanded, and Iolanthe stepped into it.

“Go with the gods,” she called to him.

The portal shut behind her.

“I plan to,” said Raistlin.

He held the glowing dragon orb in his hands and looked out the window to the three moons.

“You owe me,” he told them.

The hands in the dragon orb reached out to him, caught him up, and carried him away.

11 Godshome. Old friends.

Raistlin woke to find himself lying on hard rock, cold and polished, so it seemed he was resting on the surface of a glittering, black ice-bound lake. He was surrounded by a circle of twenty-one pillars of stone, shapeless and roughhewn. The pillars stood separate and apart, yet so close together that Raistlin could not see what lay beyond them.

He had no idea how long he had been asleep. He recalled periods of drowsy semiconsciousness, thinking that he should wake, that the sands in his hourglass were falling fast, the world was turning beneath him, events were happening, and he was not there to shape them. He tried several times to grasp hold of the rim of consciousness and pull himself out of sleep’s deep well, only to find he lacked the strength.

Once he was awake, he was loath to move, as one is reluctant to rise from bed on a gray morning when raindrops pelt gently on the window pane. The air was still and pure, and it carried to him the scent of spring. But the scent was faint, the season far away, distant, as though there, in that vale, the passing of years did not matter.

Raistlin looked up into the sky and judged by the position of the stars that the time was early morning, though what the date might be, he had no idea. The sky was black as death above. Faint light, glimmering in the east, promised a rosy dawn. The stars shone bright, none brighter than the red star, the forging fire of Reorx. The constellations of the other gods were visible, all of them at once, which was not possible.

The previous autumn, Raistlin had looked into the sky and seen that two constellations were missing: that of Paladine and that of Takhisis. How long past that seemed! Autumn’s leaves had gone up in flame and smoke. Winter had honored the dead with snow, white and pure. The snow was melting and new life, born of death and sacrifice, was stubbornly fighting to push its way through the frozen ground.

“Godshome,” said Raistlin to himself softly.

He had slept on the hard rock without even a blanket, yet he was not stiff or sore. He rose to his feet and shook out his robes and checked to make certain that the Staff of Magius was at his side. He could see the constellations reflected in the shining, black surface.

Stars above and stars below, much like an hourglass.

The pillars that surrounded him were much like prison bars. He saw no way to pass between them.

For some, faith is a prison, he reflected. For others, faith brings freedom.

Raistlin walked steadily toward the pillars and found himself on the other side without knowing how he came to be there. “Interesting,” he murmured.

He was thirsty and hungry. He rarely ate much at the best of times, and he had undergone such tension and inner turmoil the previous day that he had forgotten to eat at all. As if thinking made it so, he found a stream of clear water, running down from the mountains. Raistlin drank his fill and, dipping a handkerchief in the water, he laved his face and body. The water had restorative powers, it seemed, for he felt strong and revived. And though there was nothing to eat, he was no longer hungry.

Raistlin had read something of Godshome, though not much, for not much had been written. The Aesthetic who had traveled to Neraka had tried to find Godshome, which was very near that dread city, but he had been unsuccessful. Godshome was the most holy site in the world. Who had created it and why were not known. The Aesthetic had offered various theories. Some said that when the gods had finished creating the world, they came together in this place to rejoice. Another theory held that Godshome was man made, a holy shrine to the gods erected by some lost and forgotten civilization. What was known was that only those chosen by the gods were permitted to enter.

Raistlin felt a sense of urgency, the gods breathing down his neck.

Everything happens for a reason. I need to make sure the reason is mine.

Raistlin settled himself on the rocky floor near the stream and drew the dragon orb from the pouch. He placed the dragon orb on the surface before him and, chanting the words, reached out to the hands that reached out to him. He had no idea if his plan would work, for he was still discovering the orb’s capabilities. From what he had read, the wizards who created the orb had used it to look into the future. If the orb’s eyes could see into the future, why not the present? It seemed a much easier task.

“I am looking for someone,” he told the orb. “I want to know what this person is doing and hear what he is saying and see what he is seeing at this very moment. Is that possible, Viper?”

It is. Think of this person only. Concentrate on this person to the exclusion of all else. Speak the name three times.

“Caramon,” said Raistlin, and he brought his twin to mind. Or rather, he no longer attempted to drive him away.

“Caramon,” Raistlin said again, and he stared into the orb that was swirling with color.

“Caramon!” Raistlin said a third time, sharply, as when they were young and he was trying to waken him. Caramon had always been fond of sleeping in.

The orb’s colors dissipated like morning mists. Raistlin saw pouring rain, the wet face of a rock wall. Standing around in a sodden group were his friends: Tanis Half-Elven; Tika Waylan; Tasslehoff Burrfoot; Flint Fireforge; and his twin brother, Caramon. With them was an old man in mouse-colored robes and a disreputable hat.

“Fizban,” Raistlin said softly. “Of course.”

Tanis and Caramon wore the black armor and the insignia of dragonarmy officers. Tanis had put on a helm that was too big for him, not so much for protection as to conceal the pointed ears that would have revealed his elven blood. Caramon was not wearing a helm. He had probably not been able to find one big enough. His breastplate was a tight fit; the straps that held it on were stretched to their limit over his broad chest.

As Raistlin watched, Tanis—his face distorted with anger—looked swiftly around at the small group. His gaze focused on Caramon.

“Where’s Berem?” he asked in urgent tones.

Raistlin’s ears pricked at the name.

His brother’s face went red. “I—I dunno, Tanis. I—I thought he was next to me.”

Tanis was furious. “He’s our only way into Neraka, and he’s the only reason they’re keeping Laurana alive. If they catch him—”

“Don’t worry, lad.” That was Flint, always Tanis’s comforting father. “We’ll find him.”

“I’m sorry, Tanis,” Caramon was mumbling. “I was thinking—about Raist. I—I know I shouldn’t—”

“How in the name of the Abyss does that blasted brother of yours work mischief when he’s not even here?”

“How indeed?” Raistlin asked with a smile and a sigh.

So Tanis had captured Berem and was apparently planning to exchange him for Laurana. Only Caramon had lost him. Raistlin wondered if Tanis knew the reason the Dark Queen wanted Berem so desperately. If he knew, would he be so eager to hand him over? Raistlin did not hazard a guess. He did not know these people. They had changed; the war, their trials had changed them.

Caramon, good-natured, cheerful, outgoing, was lost and alone, seeking the part of himself that was missing. Tika Waylan stood beside him, trying to be supportive, but unable to understand.

Pert and pretty Tika, with the bouncing, red curls and hearty laughter. Her red curls might be wet and drooping, but their fire was still bright in the spring rain. She carried a sword, not mugs of ale, and wore pieces of mismatched armor. Raistlin had been annoyed by Tika’s love for his brother. Or perhaps he had been jealous of that love. Not because Raistlin had been in love with Tika himself, but because Caramon had found someone else to love besides his twin.

“I did you a favor by leaving, my brother,” Raistlin told Caramon. “It is time for you to let go.”

His attention shifted to Tanis, the leader of the group. Once he had been calm and collected, but he was falling apart as Raistlin watched. The woman he loved had been taken from him, and he was desperate to save her, though it meant destroying the world in the process.

Fizban, the befuddled old wizard in the mouse-colored robes, standing apart, watching and waiting quietly, patiently.

Raistlin remembered a question Tanis had asked him once, long in the past, when the autumn winds blew cold.

“Do you believe we were chosen, Raistlin? … Why? We are not the stuff of heroes …”

Raistlin remembered his answer. “But who chose us? And for what purpose?”

He looked at Fizban, and he had his answer. At least that was part of the answer.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot, irrepressible, irresponsible, irritating. If Berem was the Everman, Tas was the Everchild. The child had grown up. Like Mari. More’s the pity.

As Raistlin watched, Tanis angrily ordered the rest of the group to search for Berem. They wearily retraced their steps, backtracking along the trail to see if they could find where Berem had left it. It was Flint who discovered Berem’s footprints in the mud and gave chase, leaving the others behind.

“Flint! Wait up!” Tanis yelled.

Raistlin lifted his head, startled. The shout had not come from the orb. It had come from the other side of the rock wall! Raistlin looked in the direction of Tanis’s voice and saw a narrow, tunnel-like opening in the wall, an opening he could have sworn had not been there earlier.

He had no time for wonder and no more need for the dragon orb, apparently. Kitiara had been right. His friends had been searching for Godshome, and it seemed they had found it.

Raistlin returned the orb to its pouch. Picking up the staff, he hurriedly whispered the words to a spell, hoping as he did so that magic worked in that sacred place.

“Cermin shirak dari mayat, kulit mas ente bentuk.”

Raistlin had cast a spell to make himself invisible. He looked into the stream. He could not see his own reflection, and if he could not see himself, his friends would not be able to see him. The magic had worked.

The one possible exception might be Fizban. Taking no chances, Raistlin glided between the pillars of stone and concealed himself behind them just as a man crawled through the opening in the rocks.

It was the man with the old face and young eyes, the man who had been onboard the ship in Flotsam, the man who had steered them into the whirlpool. As Berem rose to his feet, an emerald, embedded in his chest, flashed green in the morning sun.

Berem Everman. The Green Gemstone Man. Jasla’s brother. The man who could set Queen Takhisis free or keep her forever imprisoned in the Abyss.

Berem looked fearfully behind him. He wore a hunted expression, a fox fleeing the hounds. He ran across the stone floor of the vale. Flint and the others would not be far behind, but for the moment, Berem and Raistlin were alone in Godshome.

A few magical words and Raistlin could spellbind Berem, make him a prisoner. He could use the dragon orb to transport them back to Neraka. He could present Takhisis with a gift of inestimable value. She would be grateful. She would give him whatever his heart desired. He might even be able to bargain for Laurana’s freedom. But he would always have to sleep with one eye open …

Raistlin watched Berem run past him. The Everman had sighted what appeared to be another opening in a far wall. And here came Flint, running after him. The dwarf’s face was flushed with excitement and exertion. Berem had a lengthy head start. It seemed unlikely that Flint would win the race.

Hearing a shout behind him, Raistlin turned to see Tasslehoff crawling through the narrow tunnel. The kender emerged into the vale and was exclaiming loudly over the stone pillars and the stone floor and other wonders. Raistlin heard the voices of his friends on the other side of the tunnel. He could not make out what they were saying.

“Tanis, hurry!” Tas called.

“There’s no other way?” Caramon’s voice echoed dismally through the narrow hole.

Tasslehoff searched the vale, trying to find Flint, but the pillars stood between the dwarf and the kender, blocking his view. Running back to the opening, Tas bent down and peered inside.

He yelled something into the tunnel, and someone yelled back. By the sounds of it, they had tried to crawl through it. Caramon, it seemed, was stuck.

Flint was actually gaining on Berem. The morning sunlight sent shadows crawling over the rock walls, and Berem had seemingly lost sight of the opening. He was running back and forth, like a rabbit trapped at a fence line, searching for the way out. Then he found it and made a dive for it.

Berem was about to crawl through the hole. Raistlin was pondering what he should do, wondering if he should try to stop Berem, when suddenly Flint gave a terrible cry. The dwarf grabbed at his chest and, moaning in pain, sagged to his knees.

“His heart. I knew it,” Raistlin said. “I warned him.”

He started instinctively to go the dwarf’s aid, then brought himself up short. He was no longer a part of their lives. They were no longer a part of his. Raistlin watched and waited. There was nothing he could do anyway.

Berem heard Flint cry out and turned fearfully around. Seeing the old dwarf drop to the ground, Berem hesitated. He looked at the opening in the wall, and he looked at Flint and then came running to help. Berem knelt beside the dwarf, whose face was ashen.

“What is wrong? What can I do?” Berem asked.

“It’s nothing,” Flint gasped for air. His hand pressed against his chest. “An upset stomach, that’s all. Something I ate. Just … help me stand. I can’t seem to catch my breath. If I walk around a little …”

Berem assisted the old dwarf to his feet.

From the opposite side of the vale, Tasslehoff had finally found them. But, of course, the kender got it wrong. He thought Berem was attacking Flint.

“It’s Berem!” the kender shouted frantically. “And he’s doing something to Flint! Hurry, Tanis!”

Flint took a step and staggered. His eyes rolled up in his head. His legs buckled. Berem caught the dwarf in his arms and laid him down gently on the rocks, then hovered over him, uncertain what to do.

Hearing the sounds of feet pounding toward him, Berem stood up. He seemed relieved. Help was coming.

“What have you done?” Tanis raved. “You’ve killed him!”

He drew his sword and plunged the blade into Berem’s body.

Berem shuddered and cried out. He sagged forward, his body impaled on the sword, falling onto Tanis, his weight nearly carrying them both to the ground. Blood washed over Tanis’s hands. He yanked his blade free and turned, ready to fight Caramon, who was trying to pull him away. Berem was moaning on the ground, blood pouring from the fatal wound. Tika was sobbing.

Flint had seen none of it. He was leaving the world, starting on his soul’s next long journey. Tasslehoff took hold of the dwarf’s hand and urged him to get up.

“Leave me be, you doorknob,” Flint grumbled weakly. “Can’t you see I’m dying?”

Tasslehoff gave a grief-stricken wail and fell to his knees. “You’re not dying, Flint! Don’t say that.”

“I should know if I’m dying or not!” Flint said irately, glowering.

“You thought you were dying before, and you were just seasick,” Tas said, wiping his nose. “Maybe you’re … you’re …” He glanced around at the stone floor of the vale. “Maybe you’re ground-sick …”

“Ground-sick!” Flint snorted. Then, seeing the kender’s misery, the dwarf’s expression softened. “There, there, lad. Don’t waste time blubbering like a gully dwarf. Run and fetch Tanis for me.”

Tasslehoff gave a snuffle and did as he was told.

Berem’s eyelids fluttered. He gave another moan and sat up. He put his hand to his chest. The emerald, soaked with blood, sparkled in the sunlight.

Hope lives. No matter the mistakes we make, no matter our blunders and misunderstandings, no matter the grief and sorrow and loss, no matter how deep the darkness, hope lives.

Raistlin left his place by the pillars and came, unseen, to stand over Flint, who lay with his eyes closed. For a moment, the dwarf was alone. Some distance away, Caramon was trying to restore Tanis to sanity. Tasslehoff was tugging on Fizban’s sleeve, trying to make him understand. Fizban understood all too well.

Raistlin knelt beside the dwarf. Flint’s face was ashen and contorted with pain. His hands clenched. Sweat covered his brow.

“You never liked me,” said Raistlin. “You never trusted me. Yet you were good to me, Flint. I cannot save your life. But I can ease the pain of dying, give you time to say good-bye.”

Raistlin reached into his pouch and drew out a small vial containing juice distilled from poppy seeds. He poured a few drops into the dwarf’s mouth. The lines of pain eased. Flint’s eyes opened.

As his friends gathered around Flint to say good-bye, Raistlin was there with them, though none of them ever knew it. He told himself more than once that he should leave, that he had work to do, that his ambitious plans for his future hung in the balance. But he remained with his friends and his brother.

Raistlin stayed until Flint sighed and closed his eyes and the last breath left the dwarf’s body. Raistlin chanted the magic beneath his breath. The corridor opened before him.

He walked into it and did not look back.

12 Kitiara’s Knife. Par-Salian’s Sword.

Kitiara reached Neraka early on the morning of the twenty-fifth, fearing she was late for the council meeting, only to find that Ariakas himself had not yet arrived. The plans for the meeting were thrown into confusion, for none of the other Highlords or their armies could enter the city ahead of the Emperor. Ariakas did not trust his fellow Highlords. If they were allowed inside Neraka, they might shut its gates and fill its walls with warriors and try to keep him out.

Kitiara had been expecting to move into her luxurious quarters in the temple. Instead, she was forced to camp outside the city walls, living in a tent that was so small and cramped, she could not pace about, as she was wont to do when she needed to think.

Kitiara was in a foul mood. She was still suffering a headache from where she’d hit her head on the stone floor of the vault. She was glad for the excuse to leave Dargaard Keep. Though she felt like crap, she had summoned Skie and flown to join her army. The thought of challenging Ariakas for the Crown of Power had eased the pain in her head. But she had arrived here only to discover that no one knew where Ariakas was or when he would deign to grace them with his presence. And that left Kitiara nothing to do except fume and complain to her aide-de-camp, a bozak draconian named Gakhan.

“Ariakas is doing this deliberately to unsettle the rest of us,” Kitiara muttered. She was sitting hunched over a small table, her head in her hands, massaging her throbbing temples. “He’s trying to intimidate us, Gakhan, and I won’t stand for it.”

Gakhan made a noise, a kind of snort and sneer. The bozak grinned, his tongue flicked out of his mouth.

Kitiara raised her head and looked at him sharply. “You’ve heard something. What’s going on?”

Gakhan had been with Kitiara since before the beginning of the war. Though officially known as her aide-de-camp, his unofficial title was Kitiara’s Knife. Gakhan was loyal to Kitiara and to his Queen, in that order. Some said he was in love with the Blue Lady, though they were always careful to say that behind his back, never to his face. The bozak was smart, secretive, resourceful, and extremely dangerous. He had earned his nickname.

Gakhan glanced out the tent flap, then drew it shut and tied it securely. He leaned over Kitiara and spoke softly, “My lord Ariakas is late because he was wounded. He very nearly died.”

Kitiara stared at the bozak. “What? How?”

“Keep your voice down, my lord,” the draconian said solemnly. “News like this, should it leak out, might embolden the Emperor’s enemies.”

“Yes, of course, you are right,” said Kit with equal solemnity. “Do you trust your source for this … um … disturbing information?” “Completely,” said Gakhan.

Kitiara smiled. “I need details. Ariakas has not been in battle lately, so I assume someone tried to assassinate him.” “And very nearly succeeded.”

“Who was it?”

Gakhan paused to build the suspense, then said with a grin, “His witch!”

“Iolanthe?” Kitiara said loudly, forgetting in her astonishment that she was supposed to be circumspect.

Gakhan cast her a warning glance, and Kit lowered her voice. “When did this happen?”

“The Night of the Eye, my lord.”

“But that’s not possible. Iolanthe died that night.” Kitiara gestured to some dispatches. “I have the reports—”

“Fabricated, my lord. It seems that Talent Orren—”

Kitiara glared at him. “Orren? What does he have to do with this? I want to know about Iolanthe.”

Gakhan bowed. “If you will be patient, my lord. It seems that Orren found out about the plot to kill him and his fellow members of Hidden Light. He sent word around among the troops that the Church was going to try to ‘clean up’ the city of Neraka. Orders had been given to burn the Broken Shield and the Hairy Troll. Naturally, the soldiers were not pleased. When the death squads arrived to carry out their orders, they found armed soldiers guarding the taverns. Orren and his friends escaped.”

“What has this to do with Iolanthe?” Kit demanded impatiently.

“She is a member of Hidden Light.”

Kitiara stared. “That’s impossible. She saved my life!”

“I believe she had some thought of serving you at the time, my lord. She grew disenchanted with you, however, after you wanted to take away the magic. She had been doing odd jobs for Orren. The two became lovers, and she threw in her lot with him.”

“So how does Ariakas fit into this?” Kit asked, confused.

“The Emperor wanted the dragon orb your brother has in his possession. Ariakas saved Iolanthe from the death squads, though not from love. He told her that if she valued her own life, she would have to kill Raistlin. Ariakas went with her to make certain she did as she was told and to obtain the dragon orb.”

“But Iolanthe, instead of attacking Raistlin, turned on Ariakas,” said Kitiara.

“I am told that if it were not for the intervention of the Nightlord, at the behest of Her Dark Majesty, the Emperor would have died of frostbite.”

Kitiara threw back her head and laughed.

Gakhan permitted himself a smile and a flick of his tail, but that was all.

“Has Ariakas thawed out?” asked Kitiara, still chuckling.

“The Emperor has been restored to health, my lord. He will arrive in Neraka tomorrow.”

“What happened to Iolanthe?”

“She fled, my lord. She left Neraka with Orren and the rest of Hidden Light.”

“It’s a shame I underestimated her.” Kitiara shook her head. “I could have used her. What about Raistlin?”

“He has vanished, my lord. It is assumed he also left Neraka, though no one knows where he went. Not that it matters,” said Gakhan with a shrug. “He is a marked man. The Emperor wants him dead. Queen Takhisis wants him dead. The Nightlord wants him dead. If Raistlin Majere is still in Neraka, he is a monumental fool.”

“And whatever my brother is, he was never that. Thank you for the information, Gakhan. I must think about all of this,” said Kitiara.

The bozak bowed and departed. One of the aides came in to light a lantern, for night had fallen, and ask her if she wanted supper. Kit ordered him to leave.

“Post a guard outside. No one is to disturb me this night.”

Kitiara sat staring at the flickering flame of the candle, seeing Ariakas’s brutish face. He believed she was conspiring against him.

Well, she was.

And he had no one to blame but himself. He had always encouraged rivalry among his Highlords. The knowledge that each Highlord was in danger of being replaced by a rival kept them all on their toes. The flaw in that was that some Highlord might decide to slit another Highlord’s throat and that throat could be Ariakas’s.

Ariakas distrusted all his Highlords, but he distrusted her the most. Kitiara was popular among her forces, far more popular with her troops than Ariakas was with his. She saw to it that her soldiers were paid. Most important, Kitiara was looked upon with favor by the Dark Queen, who was not viewing Ariakas fondly those days. He had made too many mistakes.

He should have won the war with a few swift and brutal, crushing blows, ending it before the good dragons entered to fight on the side of Light. He should have taken the High Clerist’s Tower before the knights could reinforce it. He should have relied on dragons, who could attack from the air, where they had the advantage, and far less on ground troops. And he should not have allowed Kitiara to ally herself with the powerful Lord Soth.

Takhisis was undoubtedly regretting having chosen Ariakas to lead her dragonarmies. Kitiara seemed to feel Her Dark Majesty’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her toward the throne, urging her to take the Crown of Power.

Strange … Kitiara really did feel a hand on her shoulder.

“What the—”

Kitiara jumped to her feet and drew her sword all in the same swift movement. She was about to strike when she saw who it was. “You!” she gasped.

“The monumental fool,” said Raistlin.

Kitiara held her sword poised and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Why are you here? Why have you come?”

“Not to kill you, my sister, if that’s what you fear. You were going to kill me, that is true, but I am willing to put our quarrel down to sibling rivalry.”

Kitiara smiled, though she did not sheathe her sword.

“I’ll keep my weapon handy just in case you feel the stirrings of sibling rivalry. So why are you here, Baby brother? You are in danger. You’ve made powerful enemies. The Emperor wants you dead. A goddess wants you dead!” Kit shook her head. “If you’re expecting me to protect you, there’s nothing I can do.”

“I expect nothing from you, my sister. I came with something for you.”

Raistlin stood with his hands hidden in the sleeves of his robes, his cowl thrown back. The lantern light flickered in the strange hourglass eyes.

“You want the Crown of Power,” he told her. “I can help you take it.”

“You are mistaken,” said Kitiara gravely. “Ariakas is my Emperor. I am his loyal subject.”

“And I am the king of the elves,” said Raistlin with a sneer. Kitiara’s lips twitched. “In truth, I am concerned for the Emperor’s health.”

She ran her index finger along the groove in the sword that allowed the blood to run down the blade and keep from fouling it. “Ariakas wears himself out with affairs of state. He should take a rest … a long, long rest. So what do you have in mind? How can you help me?”

“I have many arrows in my quiver,” said Raistlin coolly. “Which I choose to use will depend on the circumstances in which I choose to use it.”

“You blather like the king of the elves,” said Kit irritably. “You won’t tell me because you do not trust me.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t, my sister, otherwise I would be dead by now,” Raistlin said dryly.

Kitiara stared at him a moment; then she sheathed her sword and resumed her seat. “Let us say I accept your offer. You help make me Emperor. What do you expect in return?”

“The Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas.”

Kitiara was astonished. “That monstrosity? It’s cursed! Why would you want that?”

Raistlin smiled. “This from the woman who lives in Dargaard Keep.”

“Not for long,” Kitiara said. “You can have your cursed Tower. I don’t suppose anyone else would want it.” She put her elbows on the table and regarded him expectantly. “What is your plan?”

“You must get me inside the Temple tomorrow when the council meets.”

Kitiara stared at him. “You are a monumental fool! You might as well just walk into a dungeon cell and lock yourself up and be done with it. All your enemies will be there, including Queen Takhisis! If she or any of them discovered you, you would not survive long enough for death to rattle in your throat.”

“I have the ability to conceal myself from my mortal enemies. As for the immortal, you must persuade Takhisis that I am of more use to her alive than dead.”

Kit snorted. “You thwarted her plot to destroy the gods. You betrayed her trust on more than one occasion. What could I possibly say to convince Takhisis to let you live?”

“I know where to find Berem Everman.”

Kitiara caught her breath. She gazed at him in disbelief, and then she leaped to her feet and seized hold of his arms. He was bone and skin, no muscle, and she was reminded of the sickly, little boy she had helped to raise. As if he were that little boy, she gave him an impatient shake.

“You know where Berem is? Tell me!”

“Do we have a bargain?” Raistlin countered.

“Yes, yes, we have a bargain, damn you! I’ll find a way to get you inside the temple, and I’ll talk to the Queen. Now—tell me, where is the Everman?”

“Our mother gave birth to only one fool, my sister, and that was Caramon. If I tell you now, what is to prevent you from killing me? To find Berem, you must keep me alive.”

Kitiara gave him a shove that nearly knocked him down. “You’re lying! You have no idea where Berem is! Our deal is off.”

Raistlin shrugged and turned to go.

“Wait! Stop!” Kitiara gnawed her lip and glared at him. Finally she said, “Why should I go along with you?”

“Because you want the Crown of Power. And Ariakas wears it. I have read about this crown, and I know how the magic works. Anyone who wears the crown is invincible to—”

“I know all that!” Kitiara interrupted impatiently. “I don’t need a damn book to tell me.”

“I was about to say the crown is ‘invincible to physical attacks and most types of ordinary, magical assaults,’” Raistlin finished coolly.

Kitiara frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“I have never been ‘ordinary,’” said Raistlin.

Kitiara’s eyes gleamed beneath her long, dark lashes. “We have a deal, Baby brother. Tomorrow will be a momentous day in the history of Krynn.”

13 The Spiritor. Temple of the Dark Queen.

The sun rose, bloodshot and bleary eyed and sullen after a night of drunken chaos. The gutters of the streets of Neraka ran red with blood in the predawn hours of that momentous day, and yet the enemy was nowhere in sight. The forces of the Dragon Highlords were fighting among themselves.

Since the Emperor had been late in arriving, the troops of the other Highlords had been forbidden to enter the city of Neraka, which meant they were forbidden to partake of Neraka’s ale and dwarf spirits and other pleasures. The soldiers, many of whom had been forced-marched in order to reach Neraka in time, had made the march and endured the floggings, the putrid water, and the bad food because they were promised a holiday in Neraka. When they were told that they could not enter the city and they had to keep eating the same bad food and drink nothing but water, they mutinied.

Two Highlords, Lucien of Takar, half-ogre leader of the Black Dragonarmy, and Salah-Kahn, leader of the Green, had been waging their own private war for a month; each wanted to extend his holdings into the other’s territory. The humans of Khur, under the leadership of Salah-Kahn, had always hated the ogres, who, for their part, had always hated the humans. The two races had become reluctant allies in the war, but with the war going badly, every Highlord was looking out for himself. When fights broke out among their troops, each blamed the other and neither did anything to stop the fighting.

The White Dragonarmy was in the worst state, for the army had no leader. The hobgoblin Toede, who held that position, had not shown up for the meeting, and rumor had it that he was dead. Draconian and human commanders began fighting among themselves for leadership, each hoping to ingratiate himself with the Emperor and no one doing anything to maintain discipline and order in the ranks.

Only one Highlord, the Blue Lady, Kitiara, managed to keep her forces under control. Her officers and troops were loyal to her and highly disciplined. They were proud of their Highlord and proud of themselves, and though some grumbled that they were missing out on the fun, they stayed in their camp.

Soldiers of the Red Dragonarmy were already in the city, and they had been given orders to keep the others out until the Emperor arrived. That proved a difficult task since draconians could simply fly over the walls, and they crowded into the Broken Shield and the Hairy Troll (both under new management).

When the Nerakan Guard, backed by the soldiers of the Red Dragonarmy, tried to expel the draconians during the night, fights broke out. The Nightlord, seeing that the Nerakan Guard was unequal to the task of dealing with the unruly mobs and afraid that the fighting would spill over onto temple grounds, dispatched temple guards to assist. That left the temple undermanned at a critical time, right when the Nightlord was preparing for the war council.

The Nightlord was furious and laid all the blame on Ariakas, who, whispers said, had been so stupid as to nearly get himself done in by his own trollop. The Nightlord ordered every dark pilgrim in the city and surrounding environs to assemble at the temple to assist with security.

Raistlin was up before dawn. He had spent the night in the tunnels beneath Lute’s shop. That morning, he took off his dyed black robes. He ran his hand over the cloth. The dyer had not lied; the black color had not faded, had not turned green. They had served him well. He folded them and laid them neatly on the chair.

He tied the pouches containing his spell components and the dragon orb onto a strip of leather and hung the pouches around his neck. He attached the thong with the silver knife onto the wrist of his hand and tested it to make certain the knife would fall into his palm at a flick of his wrist. Finally, he dressed himself in the black velvet robes and golden medallion of a Spiritor, a high-ranking cleric of the gods of Darkness. Kitiara had given Raistlin the disguise, telling him how she had encountered the Spiritor during her escape from Ariakas’s prison.

The soft cloth slid down Raistlin’s neck and shoulders. He arranged the bulky fabric so his pouches were underneath, concealed from sight. Clerics drew their holy magic from prayers to their gods, not from rose petals and bat guano.

That done, he set the dragon orb on the table and placed his hands upon it.

“Show me my brother,” he commanded.

The colors of the orb shimmered and swirled. Hands appeared in the orb, but they were not the familiar hands. They were skeletal hands, fleshless with bony fingers and the long, hideous nails of a corpse …

Raistlin gasped, abruptly breaking the spell. He snatched his hands away. He heard the sound of laughter and the hated voice.

“If your armor is made of dross, I will find a crack in it.”

“We both want the same thing,” Raistlin said to Fistandantilus. “I have the means to achieve it. Interfere, and we both lose.”

Raistlin waited tensely for the reply. When it did not come, he hesitated; then, not seeing any hands, he grabbed the orb and thrust it into the pouch. He did not use the orb again, but made his way through the tunnels that took him underneath the city wall and into Neraka.

A large crowd of dark clerics was gathered in front of the temple by the time Raistlin arrived. The line extended down the street and wrapped around the building.

Raistlin was about to take his place at the end when it occurred to him that a Spiritor such as he was pretending to be would not wait in line with lowly pilgrims. To do so might look suspicious. Raistlin rapped the shins of those in front of him with the end of the Staff of Magius, ordering them to get out of the way.

Several rounded on him angrily, only to shut their mouths and swallow their ire when they saw the sunlight flash on his medallion. Sullenly, the dark pilgrims drew aside to allow Raistlin to bully his way through to the front of the line.

Raistlin kept his hood pulled low over his head. He was wearing black leather gloves to conceal his golden skin as well as his knife. He feigned a limp, giving him a plausible reason for leaning on a staff. And though the Staff of Magius garnered some curious glances, the staff had a way of appearing nondescript as circumstances required.

Arriving at the temple entrance, Raistlin presented his pass, also provided by Kit, and waited with unconcealed impatience as the draconian guard studied it. The draconian finally waved a clawed hand.

“You have leave to enter, Spiritor.”

Raistlin started to walk through the ornate double doors, which were adorned with the representation of Takhisis as the five-headed dragon, when another guard, a human, halted him.

“I want to see your face. Remove your hood.”

“I wear my cowl for a reason,” said Raistlin.

“And you’ll take it off for a reason,” said the guard, and he reached out his hand.

“Very well,” said Raistlin. “But be warned. I am a follower of Morgion.”

He drew back his hood.

The guard’s face twisted in fear and revulsion. He wiped his hand on his uniform to remove any possible contamination. Several clerics waiting their turn in line behind Raistlin shoved each other aside in their haste to move away from him. Of all the gods in the dark pantheon, Morgion, god of disease and corruption, was the most loathsome.

“Would you like to see my hands?” Raistlin asked and started to pull off the black gloves.

The guard muttered something unintelligible and jerked his thumb toward the doors. Raistlin drew his hood over his head, and no one stopped him. As he entered the temple, he could hear, behind him, the shocked comments from the onlookers.

“Chunks of flesh falling off …”

“… lips rotted away! You could see the tendons and the bone …”

“… living skull …”

Raistlin was pleased. His illusion spell had worked. He considered maintaining the illusion, but keeping the spell going all day would be draining. He would simply keep his hood over his face.

Raistlin joined a black mass of clerics milling around in the entryway. He asked one how to find the council chamber.

“I have traveled from the east. This is my first time visiting Her Dark Majesty’s temple,” Raistlin said by way of explanation. “I do not know my way around.”

The dark pilgrim was pleased to be singled out by a cleric of such high office, and she offered to personally escort the Spiritor. As she led him through the convoluted corridors to the council hall, she described the events planned for the war council, or the “High Conclave,” as Ariakas termed it.

“The meeting of the Highlords will commence with the setting of the sun. An hour after”—the pilgrim’s voice grew soft with awe—“our Dark Queen, Takhisis, will join her Highlords to declare victory in the war.”

A trifle premature, Raistlin thought.

“What happens during the High Conclave?” he asked.

“First the Emperor’s troops will take their places at the foot of his throne. Then the troops of the Highlords will enter and, after that, the Highlords themselves. Last to come will be the Emperor. When all are assembled, the Highlords will swear their loyalty to the Emperor and Her Dark Majesty. The Highlords will present the Emperor with gifts to the goddess as a mark of their devotion.

“We hear,” the dark pilgrim added in a confidential tone, “that one of the gifts will be the elf woman known as the Golden General. She will be sacrificed to Takhisis in the Dark Watch rites. I hope you will be able to attend, Spiritor. We would be honored by your presence.”

Raistlin said he looked forward to it.

“This is the council chamber,” announced the pilgrim, bringing him to the main door. “We are not permitted to go in, but you can see inside. It is most impressive!”

As with all other chambers in the temple, the circular council hall existed half on the ethereal plane and half in the real world and was designed to unsettle all who looked upon it. Everything was as it appeared to be, and nothing was what it appeared. The black granite floor was solid and shifted underfoot. The walls were made of the same black granite, making the observer feel the dark rising all around him in a tidal wave meant to drown the world.

Raistlin, peering upward to the domed ceiling, was astonished and displeased to see several dragons perched among the eaves. He was staring at the dragons and wondering how they might affect his plans, when he suddenly had the horrible impression that the ceiling was falling on him. He ducked involuntarily, then heard the dark pilgrim give a dry chuckle. Raistlin stared at the ceiling until the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach subsided.

“On those four platforms,” said the guide, gesturing, “are the sacred thrones of the Dragon Highlords. The white is for Lord Toede, the green for Salah-Kahn, the black for Lucien of Takar, and the blue is for the Blue Lady, Kitiara uth Matar.”

“The platforms are rather small,” said Raistlin.

The guide bristled, taking offense. “They are most imposing.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Raistlin. “What I meant was that the platforms are not large enough to hold the Highlord and all his bodyguards. Don’t you fear assassins?”

“Ah, I see what you mean,” said the guide stiffly. “No one other than the Highlord is permitted on the platform. The bodyguards stand on the stairs that lead up to the platform, and they encircle the platform itself. No assassin could possibly get by.”

“I assume the large, ornate throne with all the jewels at the front of the hall is for the Emperor?”

“Yes, that is where His Imperial Majesty will sit. And you see the dark alcove above his throne?”

Raistlin had found it difficult to look at anything else. His eyes were constantly drawn to that shadowy area, and he had known what the alcove housed before the guide told him.

“That is where our Queen will make her triumphant entrance into the world. You are fortunate, Spiritor. You will be there with her.”

“I will?” Raistlin asked, startled.

“The Emperor has his throne beneath her. Our Nightlord stands close to Her Dark Majesty, and dignitaries such as yourself, Spiritor, will be standing alongside her.”

The guide sighed with envy. “You are very lucky to be so close to Her Dark Majesty.”

“Indeed,” said Raistlin.

He and Kit had planned that he would join her on her own platform. He could work his magic from there. There were risks in that. He would be in full view of everyone in the council hall, including Ariakas. And though Raistlin was disguised as a cleric, the moment he started to cast his spell, everyone in the hall would know he was a wizard. The longer he thought about it, the more he realized that the Nightlord’s platform would serve him far better.

I will be standing above Ariakas, he reflected. The Emperor will have his back to me. True, I will be close to Takhisis, but she will not be paying attention to me. Her attention will be focused on her Highlords.

“We should be going,” the guide said abruptly. “It is almost time for midday rituals. You can accompany me.”

“I do not want to be a burden,” said Raistlin, who had been wondering how to get rid of the woman so he could go exploring on his own. “I will find my own way around.”

“Attendance is mandatory,” said the guide sternly.

Raistlin swore beneath his breath, but there was no help for it. His guide steered him away from the hall and into the maze that was the temple, where they immediately got caught up in a confused mass of dark clerics and soldiers, all attempting to enter the council hall. The heat from the hundreds of bodies was intense. Raistlin was sweating in his velvet robes. His palms in the black, leather gloves were itchy and wet. He disliked the feeling, and he longed to rip the gloves off. He dared not do so. His golden skin would have caused comment; he feared he would be recognized from the time when he’d been imprisoned here.

Just as the crowd seemed about to thin out, a large baaz draconian appeared out of nowhere and barged into them.

“Make way!” the draconian was yelling. “Dangerous prisoners. Make way! Make way!”

People fell back as ordered. The prisoners came into view. One of them was Tika, walking directly behind the guard. Her red curls were limp and bedraggled, and she had long, bloody scratches on her arms. Whenever she slowed down, a baaz draconian gave her a shove from behind.

Caramon came next, carrying Tasslehoff, slung over his shoulder. Caramon was protesting loudly that they had no reason to arrest him, he was a commander in the dragonarmy, they’d made a big mistake. So what if he didn’t have the right papers? He demanded to see whoever was in charge.

Tas’s face was bloody and bruised, and he must have been unconscious because he was quiet. And Tasslehoff Burrfoot, in such an interesting situation, would have never been quiet.

Where is Tanis? Raistlin wondered. Caramon—insecure and self-doubting—would never abandon his leader. Perhaps Tanis was dead. The fact that Tasslehoff was injured suggested a fight had taken place. Kender never did know when to keep their mouths shut.

There was one other person in the group, a tall man with a long, white beard. Raistlin didn’t recognize him at first, not until Tika stumbled. The baaz draconian shoved her, and she fell against the bearded man. His false beard slipped and Raistlin knew him—Berem.

Tika put her hand to Berem’s face, pretending to be concerned about him, but in reality to repair the damage, swiftly sticking the beard back into place.

The group passed so close by Raistlin that he could have reached out his hand and touched Caramon’s arm, the strong arm that had so often supported him, held him, comforted him, defended him. Raistlin turned his attention to the man with the false beard.

Raistlin had promised to deliver Berem Everman to Takhisis, and there was the Everman, not an arm’s length away.

Raistlin drew in a soft breath. The idea burst like an exploding star inside his head, dazzling him. His heart leaped with excitement; his hands shook. He had thought only to see his sister, Kitiara, wear the crown. That had been the extent of his ambition, his desire. He had never dreamed he would be handed the ability to bring down Queen Takhisis. He quickly squelched the thought, mindful of the voice in his head. Fistandantilus was out there, watching, waiting, biding his time.

Two suns cannot travel in the same orbit.

Raistlin dragged his hood over his face and shrank back against a wall. Clerics and soldiers shoved past him, shielding him from sight. The draconians continued on, bullying their way through the crowd, until Raistlin lost sight of them.

“Where are they taking the prisoners?” he asked his guide.

“To the dungeons below the temple,” she replied. Her lip curled in disapproval. “I don’t know why the stupid guards brought that filth into the main level. The dracos should have entered through the proper gate. But what can you expect of those lizard-brains? I always said creating them was a mistake.”

True, thought Raistlin, but not for the reason the guide imagined. The Dark Queen’s draconians, born into the world to help her conquer it, were taking the one man in the world who could cause her to lose it to the one place in the world where he needed to be:

The Foundation Stone.

14 A reunion of sorts. The spell trap.

Midday services were held at various locations throughout the temple. Raistlin’s guide led him up twenty-six stairs to a place known simply as the Abbey.

“A place of worship and meditation,” according to his guide, “where no sight or sound intrudes on the senses that might distract one from adoring our Queen.”

Apparently that included light. They entered a winding passageway that was utterly, impenetrably dark. Raistlin had to feel his way along, keeping one hand on the stone wall and shuffling his feet over the floor so as not to trip over something. His guide considered the darkness deeply symbolic.

“We mortals are blind and must rely upon our Queen to guide us. We are deaf and hear only her voice,” the pilgrim told him before they entered the sacred place. “No light is permitted in the Abbey. No one is allowed to speak. Holy spells maintain the darkness and the silence.”

Raistlin thought it all highly annoying.

He knew the passage ended only when he bumped into a wall and bruised his forehead. He could not see anything; he could not hear anything. He could smell and he could feel, however, and both those senses told him that the room was filled with people. Raistlin’s guide pressed her hand on his shoulder, indicating he was to kneel. Raistlin pretended to do so, and the moment she let loose of him, he slipped away from her. Not wanting to become lost, he kept near the door, and remained standing by the entrance, leaning on the Staff of Magius.

At least, he reflected, he had time to think, examine his plan, go over it in his mind. He was settling down to enjoy the silence when he was startled and unnerved to hear voices rising in a chant. A shiver crept over his flesh. The room was silent, yet the voices were loud and dinned in his ears.

“Everything happens for a reason—because Takhisis wants it to happen,” the clerics intoned.

“Everything I do is done by Her Dark Majesty’s grace. Everything I do is at Her Dark Majesty’s behest. Freedom is an illusion.”

As Raistlin listened, the terrible thought came to him. What if they are right? What if everything I am doing is because Takhisis is telling me to do it? What if she is the one who brought me to Neraka? What if she is the one who has protected me, saved me, guided me? She is leading me to my destruction …

He was standing by the door, and he had only to turn and leave. He turned and found himself pressed against a wall. He slid along the wall, hoping he was going the right way, only to find his path blocked by the bodies of devout clerics. He tried another direction, and by that time he was turned around in the blinding, suffocating night. He could not find the way out.

He was sweating. The gold medallion around his neck was like a stone, seeming to weigh him down. He shuffled along the floor, tripping over people. A hand reached out and clutched at his ankle, and his heart nearly stopped beating.

This will be my future if I give in to her, Raistlin realized suddenly. I will be lost in the darkness, disembodied, like Fistandantilus. I will be alone and afraid, always afraid.

“Everything I do is done by Her Dark Majesty’s grace. Everything I do is at Her Dark Majesty’s will.”

Lies … all lies, he thought. Fear, that is her will.

Raistlin came to a halt. He stared fixedly into the darkness. And it seemed to him that the darkness blinked.

When the hour of prayer and meditation finally ended, the dark pilgrims rose stiffly from where they had been kneeling on the floor and began to wend their way out. The darkness spell remained, and they moved slowly, feeling their way. Raistlin found the exit easily. He had been standing right next to it all the time.

He breathed an inward sigh of relief when he once more returned to the main part of the temple. Although the light here was dim, it was light.

“I must attend to my duties now,” his guide told him apologetically. “Will you be all right on your own?”

Raistlin assured her he would be fine. She told him where to find the dining hall and said that he was free to see the wonders of the rest of the temple.

“There are only a few areas which are prohibited,” she said. “The chambers of the Highlords, which are in the tower, and the council chamber.”

“What about the dungeons?” Raistlin asked.

The guide frowned. “Why would you want to go there?”

“I am a servant of Morgion,” said Raistlin in his soft voice. “I am commanded to bring my god new followers. I find that those rotting in prison cells tend to be receptive to his message.”

The guide grimaced in disgust. Most dark pilgrims loathed Morgion and his priests and their methods of preying upon the sick, luring them with false promises of renewed health to draw them into a hideous bargain from which not even death would free them. Raistlin’s guide said caustically that if he wanted to visit the dungeons, he could do so. She cautioned him not to get lost.

“The Nightlord and the other dignitaries will be gathering here an hour prior to the time of the council meeting. You should be here if you want to join them.”

Raistlin said that nothing would make him happier, and he promised to be back two hours before he was wanted. His guide left him, and he found his way down from the upper level of the temple to the lower. He counted the stairs as he descended and marked his mental map accordingly.

Raistlin found his friends in a holding cell. He did not approach, but observed them from a distance. The passageways in the dungeons were narrow and twisted and shadowy. Torches in iron baskets set at intervals on the walls shed puddles of light on the floor. The stench was frightful, a combination of blood, decaying flesh (corpses were often left chained to the walls for days before being removed), and filth.

A bored hobgoblin jailer sat tilted back in a chair, amusing himself by throwing his knife at rats. He held his knife in his hand, and whenever a rat skittered out of the shadows, he would hurl the knife at it. If he hit the rat, he would scratch a mark upon the stone wall. If he missed, he would scowl and grumble and make another mark in a different place on the wall. His aim was poor and, judging by the number of marks for their side, the rats were winning.

Absorbed in his contest, the hobgoblin paid no attention to his prisoners. There was no reason he should. They were obviously not going anywhere, and even if they managed to escape, they would lose their way in the convoluted tangle of planar-shifting tunnels, or tumble into a pool of acid, or fall victim to one of the other traps placed in the corridors.

In the dim light, Raistlin could see Caramon slumped on a bench at the far end of the holding cell. He was pretending to be asleep and, not being a very good actor, was doing a poor job of it. Tika, at the opposite end, held Tas’s head in her lap. Tas was still unconscious, though, by his moaning, he was at least alive. Berem sat on a bench, his vacant eyes staring into the darkness. His head was cocked, as though he were listening to a loved one’s voice. He spoke softly in reply.

“I’m coming, Jasla. Don’t leave me.”

Raistlin toyed with the idea of freeing Berem. He discarded it almost immediately. Now was not the time. Takhisis was watching. Better to wait until nightfall, when her attention was focused on the battle for power among her Highlords.

The only problem with that plan was that Berem was likely to be discovered long before night fell. The false goat-hair beard he wore to conceal his features was starting to slip off. His laced shirt front gaped open slightly, and Raistlin could see a faint gleam of green light from the emerald in his chest. If Raistlin could see it, so could the hobgoblin jailer. All he had to do was look away from his contest with the rats …

“You are in danger, Caramon,” Raistlin warned silently. “Open your eyes!”

And that moment, as though Caramon had heard his brother’s voice, he opened his eyes and saw the glint of green. Caramon yawned and heaved himself to his feet, stretching his arms as though stiff from sitting.

He glanced at the jailer. The hobgoblin was watching a rat that was trying to make up its mind if it would be safe enough to emerge from its hole in the wall. Caramon sauntered nonchalantly over to Berem and, keeping one eye on the hobgoblin, swiftly drew the lacings to Berem’s shirt front closed. The glint of light from the emerald vanished. Caramon was about to try to stick the false beard back in place when the hobgoblin hurled his knife, missed, and swore. The knife clanged against the wall. The rat, chittering in glee, made a dash for it. Caramon sat down hurriedly, crossing his arms over his chest and feigning sleep.

Raistlin fixed his gaze, his thoughts on Caramon. “You can do this, my brother. I have often called you a fool, but you are not. You are smarter than you think. Stand on your own. You don’t need me. You don’t need Tanis. I will create the diversion. And you will act.”

Caramon sat bolt upright on the bench.

“Raist?” he called out. “Raist? Where are you?”

Tika had been patting Tas’s cheek, trying to rouse him. Caramon’s shout made her jump. She stared at him reproachfully. “Stop it, Caramon!” she said wearily, her eyes filling with tears. “Raistlin is gone. Get that into your head.”

Caramon flushed. “I must have been dreaming,” he mumbled.

Tika sighed bleakly and went back to trying to rouse Tas.

Caramon slumped down on the bench, but he didn’t close his eyes.

“I guess it’s up to me,” he said with a sigh.

“Jasla’s calling,” said Berem.

“Yeah,” said Caramon. “I know. But you can’t go to her now. We have to wait.” He laid his hand on Berem’s arm, calming, protecting.

Raistlin thought how often he’d been annoyed by that same protective hand. He turned away, retracing his steps along the passage, moving away from the main prison area, deeper into the darkness. He was not certain where he was going, though he had some idea. When he came to the place where the corridor branched off in different directions, he chose the passage that sloped downward, the passage that was darkest, the passage that smelled the worst. The air was dank and fetid. The walls were wet to the touch; the floor, covered with slime.

Torches lit the way, but their light was feeble, as though they, too, struggled to survive in the oppressive dark. Raistlin spoke the word that caused his staff to shine, and the globe of crystal glimmered palely, barely enough for him to see. He moved quietly, treading softly, alert to any sound. Arriving at the top of a staircase, he paused to listen. Voices—the guttural, sibilant voices of draconian guards, drifted up from below.

Hidden in the darkness, Raistlin removed the golden medallion of faith from around his neck and dropped it into a pocket. He took several pouches from around his neck and tied them to the belt of his black robes. Then, dousing the light of his staff, he crept down the stairs.

Rounding a corner, he saw a guard room with several baaz draconians seated at a table with their bozak commander, playing at bones beneath the light of a single torch. Two more baaz stood at attention in front of a stone arch. Beyond the arch was darkness vaster and deeper than the darkness of death.

Raistlin remained on the landing at the bend of the staircase and listened to the draconians talk. What he heard confirmed him his theory. He gave a loud “ahem” and walked loudly down the stairs, his staff thumping on the stone.

The draconians leaped to their feet, drawing their swords. Raistlin came into view and, at the sight of his wizard’s robes, the draconians relaxed, though they kept their clawed hands on their sword hilts.

“What do you want, Black Robe?” asked the bozak.

“I have been commanded to renew the spell traps that guard the Foundation Stone,” said Raistlin.

He was taking an enormous risk mentioning the Foundation Stone. If he had made the wrong surmise and those draconians were guarding something else, he would soon be fighting for his life.

The bozak commander eyed Raistlin suspiciously.

“You’re not the usual wizard,” said the bozak. “Where is he this night?”

Raistlin heard the inflection on the word; realizing it was a test, he gave a snort. “You must have extremely poor eyesight, Commander, if you mistook Mistress Iolanthe for a man.”

The baaz draconians hooted and made rude comments at their commander’s expense. The bozak silenced them with a growl and slid his sword back into its sheath.

“Get on with it, then.”

Raistlin crossed to the arch that was festooned with cobwebs. He lifted his staff and let the magical light play over the web. He spoke a few words of magic. The strands glistened with a faint radiance that almost immediately died. The draconians went back to their game.

“A good thing I came,” said Raistlin. “The magic is starting to fail.”

“Where is the witch tonight?” the bozak asked in casual tones that were a little too casual.

“I hear she is dead,” said Raistlin. “She tried to assassinate the Emperor.”

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the bozak and the baaz exchange glances. The bozak muttered something about her death being “a waste of a fine female.”

Raistlin started to walk through the arch.

“Stop right there, Black Robe,” said the bozak. “No one allowed past this point.”

“Why not?” asked Raistlin, feigning surprise. “I need to check the other traps.”

“Orders,” said the bozak.

“What is out there, then?” Raistlin asked curiously.

The bozak shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Guards were not posted to guard nothing. Raistlin was now firmly convinced that the Foundation Stone lay through that arch. He tried to catch a glimpse of the fabled stone, but if it was there, he could not see it.

He looked up at the arch. A strange feeling came over him. His flesh crawled, as when someone steps on your grave. He could not figure out why, except that he had the oddest impression he had seen the archway before.

The stonework of the arch was ancient, far older than the guard room, which appeared to have been recently built. Raistlin could discern the faint outlines of carvings on the marble blocks that formed the arch, and though the carvings were faded and damaged, he recognized them. Each marble block was engraved with a symbol for the gods. Raistlin looked to the keystone, the center point of the arch, and though the lines were faint he could see the symbol of Paladine.

He closed his eyes, and the Temple of Istar filled his vision, beautiful and graceful, white marble shining in the sunlight. He opened his eyes and looked into the twisted darkness of the Temple of Takhisis, and he knew with unerring certainty what lay beyond:

The past and the present.

“What’s taking you so damn long?” the bozak demanded.

“I cannot figure out what type of spell Mistress Iolanthe has cast,” said Raistlin, frowning in seeming puzzlement. “Tell me, what would happen if someone were to pass through the arch?”

“All holy hell breaks loose,” said the bozak with a relish. “Trumpets sound the alarm, or so I hear. I wouldn’t know myself. It’s never happened. No one has ever gone through that arch.”

“These trumpets,” said Raistlin. “Can they be heard in all parts of the temple? Even in the council hall?”

The draconian grunted. “From what I’m told, the dead can hear them. The noise will sound like the end of the world.”

Raistlin cast a rudimentary spell on the cobwebs, then started to leave. He paused and said as an afterthought, “Do any of you know by chance where they have taken the elf woman they call the Golden General? I am supposed to interrogate her. I thought she would be in the dungeons, but I cannot locate her.”

The draconians had no idea. Raistlin sighed and shrugged. Well, he had tried. He climbed back up the stairs, thinking as he went that the trap he had set was so obvious, only a complete moron would stumble into it.

15 The Nightlord. Paying A Debt.

Temple bells rang the hour. The time of the council meeting was drawing near, and Raistlin still had to make his way back to the upper level. Once he was out of sight of the guards, he removed his pouches and concealed them once more beneath his robes. He put on the golden chain and the medallion of faith, transforming himself from wizard to cleric and left the dungeons, counting the stairs to find his way to the upper regions of the temple where the Nightlord’s entourage was gathering.

Raistlin joined the group of Spiritors in an antechamber outside the council hall. He kept apart from the others, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He did not speak to anyone, but stood in the shadows, his head bowed, his hood over his face. His limp was pronounced. He leaned heavily on his staff. A few of the Spiritors glanced at him, and one started to approach him.

“He’s a follower of Morgion,” said another, and the cleric changed his mind.

After that, everyone left Raistlin severely alone.

The Nightlord made his appearance, accompanied by an aide. The Nightlord was clad in a black velvet robe over which he wore vestments shimmering with the five colors of the five heads of the dragon, Takhisis. The Spiritors, dressed in their own ceremonial garb, clustered around him. The Nightlord was in an excellent humor. He greeted each Spiritor in turn; then his flat and empty eyes turned upon Raistlin.

“I am told you are a worshiper of Morgion,” said the Nightlord. “It is not often we have one of his followers among us, especially one of such high rank. You are welcome, Spiritor—”

The Nightlord stopped talking. His eyes narrowed. He studied Raistlin.

“Have we met, Spiritor?” the Nightlord asked, and though his tone was pleasant, the expression in his eyes was not. “Something about you seems familiar. Put back your hood. Let me see your face.”

“My face is not pleasant to look upon, Nightlord,” said Raistlin in a harsh voice, as different from his own as he could make it.

“I am not easily shocked. This very morning I cut off a man’s nose and gouged out his eyes,” said the Nightlord, smiling. “He was a spy, and that is what I do to spies. Let me see your face, Spiritor.”

Raistlin tensed, cursing his luck. He should not have come up here. He should have foreseen the danger that the Nightlord would recognize him. They would not bother taking him to the dungeons. The Nightlord would kill him here, where he stood.

“Take off the hood! Show him your face,” said Fistandantilus.

“Shut up!” Raistlin hissed under his breath. Aloud he said, “My lord, I have sworn an oath to Morgion—”

“Show your face!” The Nightlord took hold of his medallion of faith and began to chant, “Takhisis, hear my prayer …”

“He will kill you where you stand! Take off the hood! As you said, we are both in this together. For the moment …”

Slowly, reluctantly, Raistlin took hold of the hood and drew it from his head.

One of the Spiritors covered her mouth with her hand and gagged. The others averted their eyes and shrank back from him. The Nightlord looked away not from disgust, but because he had lost interest. He had not unmasked a spy, merely a diseased follower of a loathsome god.

“Cover your face,” said the Nightlord, waving his hand. “My apologies to Morgion if I have offended him.”

Raistlin drew his hood over his head.

“Once again, I have saved you, young one.”

Raistlin pressed his hand against his temple, longing to reach into his skull and rip the voice out of his head.

Fistandantilus chuckled. “You owe me. And you pride yourself on paying your debts.”

A hand squeezed Raistlin’s heart. His chest hurt. He struggled to breathe and was seized by a fit of coughing that doubled him over. He pressed his hand to his mouth. His fingers were covered in blood. Raistlin cursed inwardly, impotently. He cursed and coughed until he was dizzy, and he sagged back against a wall.

The Spiritors eyed him in alarm. The word contagion was on everyone’s lips, and they nearly came to blows trying to get away from him. Then the sound of a gong reverberated throughout the temple. The Spiritors forgot Raistlin in their excitement.

“The bell summons us, my lord,” said the aide, and he opened the double doors that led from the chamber into the council hall.

The Spiritors crowded around the door, eager to witness the procession of Highlords and the arrival of the Emperor.

“Must you gawk like peasants?” the Nightlord said angrily.

The Spiritors, looking chastened, left the door and returned to the antechamber.

“The Emperor’s troops are gathering around his throne,” reported the aide from his position at the door. “They are making ready for the Emperor.”

“We enter after Ariakas,” said the Nightlord. “Line up.”

The aide bustled around, forming the Spiritors into two lines. The Nightlord took his place at the end. No one paid attention to Raistlin, who was leaning on his staff, gasping for breath and trying to clear his mind. The thunder of tramping feet, marching in time to the rhythmic thumping of a drum and shouted commands of officers, caused the floor to shake.

“First will come the Procession of Pilgrims,” the Nightlord told his Spiritors. “When all of you have assembled on the platform, I will enter and take the place of honor beside Her Dark Majesty.”

The soldiers in the hall began to cheer.

“See what is going on,” the Nightlord commanded his aide.

“The Emperor has entered the hall,” the aide reported.

“Is he wearing the Crown of Power?” the Nightlord asked tersely.

“He wears the armor of a Dragon Highlord,” reported the aide, “a cape of royal purple, and the Crown of Power.”

The Nightlord’s face contorted in anger. His outraged voice sounded shrill above the thunderous ovation. “The crown is a holy artifact. When Queen Takhisis has conquered the world, we will see who wears this crown.”

The Spiritors stood in line, expectant, excited, awaiting the signal and the arrival of their Queen. Raistlin fell in at the end. He began to cough. The cleric in front of him whipped around to glare at him.

Ariakas’s troops cheered him and kept on cheering. Ariakas appeared to be in no hurry to stop them, for the cheering grew louder and more raucous. The soldiers struck the floor with their spears and banged their swords against their shields and roared his name. The Spiritors were growing tired of waiting. They began to mutter and shift impatiently. The Nightlord scowled and demanded to know what was happening.

“Ariakas is making his reverence to the throne of the Dark Queen,” the aide reported from his place at the door. He had to shout to make himself heard.

“Has Her Dark Majesty arrived?” the Nightlord asked.

“No, your lordship. Her throne remains empty.”

“Good,” said the Nightlord. “We will be there to welcome her.”

The Spiritors fidgeted. The Nightlord’s foot tapped the floor. Finally, the cheering began to die. A hush settled over the troops. Another gong sounded.

“That is our signal,” said the Nightlord. “Make ready.”

The Spiritors readjusted their hoods and smoothed their robes. A trumpet sounded and cheers again erupted in the hall, as loud or louder than those that greeted the Emperor. The Nightlord was pleased. He made a gesture, and the line of Spiritors began to move toward the door. From there, they would walk out onto the narrow stone bridge that led from the antechamber to the throne of the Dark Queen. The first two Spiritors were at the door when the aide suddenly cried out for them to stop.

“Why? What for?” the Nightlord asked, frowning in displeasure.

“The signal was for Highlord Kitiara, your lordship!” the aide said, trembling. “The Blue Lady and her troops are coming into the hall now.”

The Nightlord paled with fury. The Spiritors broke ranks and clustered angrily around their leader, all of them clamoring to be heard. The entrance of a draconian wearing the insignia of the Emperor’s guard brought sudden, chill silence.

“What do you want?” asked the Nightlord, glowering.

“His Imperial Majesty Ariakas extends his respects to the Nightlord of Queen Takhisis,” said the draconian. “The Emperor has sent me to inform your lordship that there has been a change in plans. Your lordship and these honored holy men will enter the hall after the Highlord of the White Dragonarmy, Lord Toede. The Emperor—”

“I will not,” said the Nightlord, dangerously calm.

“I beg your lordship’s pardon,” said the draconian.

“You heard me. I will not enter last. In fact, I will not enter at all. You may so inform Ariakas.”

“I will inform the Emperor,” said the draconian, and with a bow and a disdainful flick of his tail, he departed.

The Nightlord cast a grim glance around at his clerics. “Ariakas insults me and, by insulting me, he insults our Queen. I will not stand for it and neither will she! We will go to the Abbey and give her our prayerful support.”

The Spiritors swept out of the room, their robes rustling with righteous indignation. Raistlin started to join them. He took a step then, clutching at his chest, cried out in pain. His staff fell from his limp hand. He stumbled, staggered, and sank to his knees, coughing and spewing up blood. With a groan, he slumped onto his belly and lay on the floor, twitching and writhing in agony.

The Spiritors stopped, staring at him in alarm. Several looked uncertainly at the Nightlord.

“Should we help?” asked one.

“Leave him. Morgion will see to his cleric,” said the Nightlord, and he waved his hand dismissively and hastened off.

The Spiritors did not wait to be told twice. Covering their mouths and noses with their black sleeves, they tried to get away from Raistlin as fast as possible.

Once he was certain he was alone, Raistlin rose to his feet. He picked up the Staff of Magius and walked to the door and looked out into the hall.

A narrow bridge of black stone extended some distance ahead of him. At the end was the shadowy alcove and the throne of the Dark Queen. She had not yet made an appearance. Perhaps she was in the Abbey, listening to the complaints of her Nightlord. In the hall, drums beat and soldiers cheered. Another Dragon Highlord was making his grand entrance. Raistlin ventured out onto the bridge. He did not go far. He wanted to see, not be seen.

The bridge had no rails, no barriers. Raistlin peered over the edge, looking down on the heads of the crowd that was far below him. The soldiers surged and heaved and wriggled, reminding him of maggots feeding off rotting flesh. The platforms on which the Dragon Highlords had their thrones rose high above the floor. Narrow, stone bridges extended from the antechambers of each Highlord to the throne. Thus, the Highlords were spared the need of walking among the masses.

Ariakas’s throne reared above all the others. His throne was in the place of honor, directly beneath the Dark Queen’s alcove.

The Emperor’s throne was made of onyx and was plain and unadorned. Takhisis’s throne, by contrast, was hideously beautiful. The back of the throne was formed of the gracefully curving necks and heads of five dragons, two on the right, two on the left, and one in the center. The arms of the throne were the dragon’s legs; the seat, the dragon’s breast. The throne was made entirely of jewels: emeralds, rubies, sapphires, pearls, and black diamonds.

From his vantage point on the bridge, Raistlin could see two of the other Highlords: the handsome and disdainful face of Salah-Kahn and the ugly, cunning face of the half-ogre Lucien of Takar. The white throne was empty. Ariakas had been shouting for Lord Toede, Highlord of the White, but no one by that name was answering.

The same Toede who had been Fewmaster in Solace. The same Toede whose search for the blue crystal staff had plunged Raistlin and his friends into danger and started them on the bright and shining, dark and tortuous paths they walked.

Raistlin could not see Kitiara from where he stood. She must be seated on the throne to Ariakas’s right. Raistlin advanced along the bridge. He no longer worried about anyone below seeing him. The domed ceiling of the hall was wreathed in smoke from the breath of the dragons, who were watching from their alcoves high above and from the hundreds of torches mounted on the walls and the fires burning in iron braziers. In his black robes, Raistlin was just another shadow in a hall of shadows.

Takhisis would be watching him, as she was watching with avid interest everything that was going on. The air in the hall reeked of smoke and steel, leather and intrigue. Certainly Ariakas must have smelled the stench. And yet he sat on his throne alone, isolated, apart, supremely confident and invincible. He had no armed guards, only the Crown of Power. Let his underlings ring themselves round with steel. Ariakas feared nothing and no one. He had the backing of his Queen.

“But does he?” Raistlin wondered.

A ruler is supposed to appear confident. Even arrogance has its place upon the throne. But no god can forgive hubris. The last living man who had worn the crown had suffered from that malady. The Kingpriest of Istar had believed himself to be as powerful as any god. The gods of Krynn had shown him power; they had sent a fiery mountain crashing down upon his head. Ariakas had made the mistake of thinking too well of himself.

Raistlin was finally in a position where he could see Kitiara.

And with her was Tanis Half-Elven.

16 Crown of Love. Crown of Power.

Raistlin had not anticipated finding Tanis there, and he was annoyed. The presence of the half-elf could seriously disrupt his plans. Tanis was not standing at Kit’s side; no one was allowed on the platform with the Highlord. But he was as close to her as he could manage, however, standing on the step leading to the throne.

Raistlin’s lip curled. Tanis had come to Neraka to save the woman he loved. But did he know, even at that moment, which woman that was?

The council meeting proceeded. Raistlin, high above the thrones of the Highlords, could hear Ariakas’s deep bellow, but much of what he was saying was swallowed by the vastness of the chamber. From what he could gather, Highlord Toede was not there because he had been slain by kender. And that news prompted a sound Raistlin could hear clearly—Kitiara’s scornful laughter.

Ariakas was furious. He rose to his feet and started to descend the platform. Kitiara did not move. Her soldiers grabbed their weapons. Raistlin was amused to see Tanis take a protective step toward Kit, who remained seated on her throne, regarding Ariakas with a look of unutterable scorn. The other two Highlords were on their feet, watching with interest, neither offering any support, both probably hoping Ariakas and Kit would kill each other.

Raistlin walked to the edge of the bridge and looked down on Ariakas, who was directly beneath him. That was the moment to strike. No one was paying any attention to him. Everyone was watching the Highlords. Raistlin readied his magic.

Then he went blind. Darkness obliterated his sight, filled his mind, his heart, his lungs. He froze in place, for he was standing on the edge of the bridge. A wrong step would carry him over. He could always use the magic of his staff, which would allow him to float like a feather through the air, but everyone in the hall would see him, including Ariakas, unless they were all blind as he was at the moment. Reading his thoughts, an unseen hand tore his staff from his grasp and smote him in the back. His heart lurching in terror, he pitched forward. He landed, hard, on his knees, and though his wrists tingled and his knees were bruised, he shook with relief, for he had not plunged over the edge.

He reached out a shaking hand and felt nothing in front of him except air and realized how close he had come. He longed to crawl to safety, but he had lost all sense of direction and he feared that he might yet fall. The hand was pounding him, grinding him, crushing him into the stone. Then suddenly, when it seemed his heart would burst, the hand released him, the darkness lifted from his eyes. Raistlin scrambled back until he bumped into something solid, the Dark Queen’s throne.

Raistlin turned to face her not because he wanted to, but because she compelled him. And that was her mistake.

She was a shadow, and for Raistlin the shadows held no terror.

He looked down to see his sister and the rest groveling in fear. Kitiara cowered on her throne. Tanis Half-Elven had been driven to his knees. Ariakas knelt before his Queen. They were nothing, and she was everything. Takhisis had her foot on their necks. Once she was assured of their submissiveness, once she was certain that they knew she owned them, she lifted her foot and permitted them to rise.

Her gaze flicked over Raistlin, and he knew himself forgotten. He was nothing, a nonentity, a grain of sand, a speck of dust, a drop of water, a flake of ash. Her attention was focused on those who held the power, those who were important to her: her Highlords and the struggle that would end with the most powerful among them ascending to the throne and dealing the death blow to the forces of Light.

Raistlin blended into the darkness, became the darkness. He watched and waited for his chance.

Takhisis began to orate. Kitiara looked pleased; Ariakas, baleful. Raistlin could not hear what the Queen was saying. She was talking to those who mattered. He watched the proceedings, feeling as though he were watching a play from the last seat in the very last row.

Kitiara left her throne and, motioning to Tanis, descended the stairs and advanced onto the floor of the hall. The soldiers fell back to give her room. Tanis walked behind her like a whipped dog brought to heel.

A platform reared up like a striking snake from the middle of the hall. Kitiara climbed the spiky stairs that were difficult to traverse, apparently, for Tanis, coming after her, kept slipping, much to the amusement of the onlookers. Following the analogy of a play, Tanis was the understudy called on to perform at the last moment. He had not rehearsed, did not know his lines.

Kitiara made a grand gesture, and Lord Soth entered, his awful presence overpowering all the other actors in the piece. The death knight carried in his arms a body wrapped in white cloth. He laid the shrouded figure at Kitiara’s feet; then he vanished, a dramatic exit.

Kitiara reached down and unwound the cloth. The light shone on golden hair. Raistlin moved closer to the edge of the bridge for a better view as Laurana struggled to fight her way out of the winding sheet. Tanis instinctively reached out to help her. Kitiara stopped him with a look. When he obeyed her, she rewarded him with that crooked smile.

Raistlin watched with interest. Together at last were the three who had started it all. The three who symbolized the struggle. The Darkness and the Light and the soul that wavered in between.

Laurana stood tall and proud in her silver armor, and she was all that Raistlin remembered of beauty. He looked down on her, and he sighed softly and pressed his lips together grimly. He knew loss in that moment, but he also knew she had never been his to lose.

Tanis looked at Laurana, and Raistlin saw that the wavering soul had finally made the choice. Or perhaps Tanis’s soul had made the choice long before, and his heart had just now caught up. Love’s light illuminated the two of them, shutting out Kitiara, leaving her alone in the darkness.

Kit understood and the knowledge was bitter. Raistlin saw her crooked smile twist and harden.

“So you are capable of love, my sister,” said Raistlin. And he knew then that he would have his chance.

Kitiara ordered Tanis to lay his sword at the foot of the Emperor, swear fealty to Ariakas. Tanis obeyed. What else could he do when the woman he loved was a prisoner of the woman he had once imagined he loved?

It was strange that Laurana, the prisoner, was the only one of the three who was truly free. She loved Tanis with her entire being. Her love had brought her to this place of darkness, and her light shone more brightly still. Her love was her own, and if Tanis did not return it, that no longer mattered. Love strengthened her, ennobled her. Her love for one opened her heart to love for all.

Kitiara, by contrast, was tangled in a web of her own passions, always reaching for the prize that hung out of reach. Love to her meant power over one, and that meant power over all.

Tanis climbed the stairs leading to the throne of Ariakas, and Raistlin saw the half-elf’s eyes go to the crown. Tanis’s gaze fixed on it. His lips moved, unconsciously repeating the words, Whoever wears the crown rules! His expression hardened; his hand clenched on the hilt of the sword.

Raistlin understood Tanis’s plan as clearly as if he and the half-elf had spent years working on it. In a sense, perhaps they had. The two of them had always been close in a way none of their friends had ever understood. Darkness speaking to dark, perhaps.

And what of Takhisis? Did the Queen know that the half-elf, shaved clean of the beard that had once hidden his shame, climbed the stairs toward destiny, prepared to sacrifice his life for the sake of others? Did she know that in the heart of her darkness, down in her dungeons, a kender and a barmaid and a warrior were grimly prepared to do the same? Did Takhisis realize that the wizard wearing the black robes that marked his allegiance to self-serving ambition would be ready to sacrifice his life for the freedom to walk whatever path he chose?

Raistlin raised his hand. The words to the spell he had memorized the night before blazed in his mind like the words he’d written in blood on the lambskin.

Tanis climbed the stairs, his hand clutching his sword’s hilt. Raistlin recognized the sword. Alhana Starbreeze had given it to Tanis in Silvanesti. The sword was Wyrmsbane, the mate to the sword Tanis had received from the dead elf king Kith-Kanan in Pax Tharkas. Raistlin remembered that the weapon was magical, though he could not remember at that moment what magic the sword possessed.

It didn’t matter. The sword’s magic would not be powerful enough to pierce the magical field generated by the Crown of Power. When his sword struck that field, the blast would blow him apart. Ariakas would remain safe behind the shield; not so much as a splatter of blood smearing his gleaming armor.

Tanis reached the top of the stairs, and he started to draw his sword. He was nervous; his hands shook.

Ariakas stood up from the throne, planting his powerful legs and crossing his bulging arms over his chest. He was not looking at Tanis. He was staring across the hall at Kitiara, who had her own arms crossed and was staring defiantly back. Multicolored light flared from the crown and shimmered around Ariakas, making it seem as though he were being guarded by a shield of rainbows.

Tanis slid his sword from the sheath and, at the sound, Ariakas’s attention snapped back to the half-elf. He looked down his nose at him, sneered at him, trying to intimidate him. Tanis didn’t notice. He was staring at the crown, his eyes wide with dismay. He had just realized his plan to kill Ariakas must fail.

Raistlin’s spell burned on his lips; the magic burned in his blood. He had no time for Tanis’s eternal wavering.

“Strike, Tanis!” Raistlin urged. “Do not fear the magic! I will aid you!”

Tanis looked startled and he glanced toward the direction of the sound that he must have heard more with his heart than with his ears, for Raistlin had spoken softly.

Ariakas was starting to grow impatient. A man of action, he was bored with the ceremony. He considered the council meeting a waste of time that could be spent more profitably pursuing the war. He gave a snarl and made a peremptory gesture, indicating Tanis was to swear his fealty and get on with it.

Still, Tanis hesitated.

“Strike, Tanis! Swiftly!” Raistlin urged.

Tanis stared straight at Raistlin, but whether he could see him or not, whether he would act or not, Raistlin could not tell. Tanis started to lay the sword down on the floor; then, resolve hardening his expression, he shifted his stance and aimed a blow at Ariakas.

Raistlin and Caramon had often fought together, combining sorcery and steel. As Tanis’s sword arm started to rise, Raistlin cast his spell.

“Bentuk-nir daya sihir, colang semua pesona dalam. Perubahan ke sihir-nir!” Raistlin cried and, drawing a rune in the air, he hurled the spell at Ariakas.

The magic flowed through Raistlin and burst from him, crackling out of his fingertips, blazing through the air. The magic struck the rainbow shield, dispelling it. Tanis’s sword met no obstacle. Wyrmsbane pierced Ariakas’s black, dragon-scale breastplate, sliced through flesh and muscle and bone, and sank deep into his chest.

Ariakas roared, more in astonishment than in pain. The agony of dying and the terrible knowledge that he was dying would come to him with his next and final breath. Raistlin did not linger to see the end. He did not care who would win the Crown of Power. For the moment, the Dark Queen was intent upon the struggle. He had to make good his escape.

But the powerful spell he had cast had weakened him. He stifled a cough in the sleeve of his robes and, grabbing the staff, ran along the bridge, heading back toward the antechamber. He had almost reached the entrance when a mass of draconian guards blocked his way.

“The foul assassin!” Raistlin gasped, gesturing. “A wizard. I tried to stop him—”

The draconian didn’t wait, but shoved Raistlin aside, slamming him back into the walls. Soldiers flowed around him, dashing down the bridge.

They would soon realize they had been duped, and they would be back. Raistlin, coughing, fumbled in his pouch and took out the dragon orb. He barely had breath enough left to chant the words.

The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of Caramon’s cell. The door was open. The cell was empty. A charred patch on the floor was all that remained of a bozak draconian. A pile of greasy ash denoted the demise of a baaz draconian. Caramon and Berem, Tika and Tas were gone. Raistlin heard guttural voices shouting that the prisoners had escaped.

But where had they gone?

Raistlin swore under his breath and looked around for some clue. At the end of the corridor, an iron door had been torn off its hinges.

Jasla was calling, and Berem had answered.

Raistlin leaned on the staff and drew in a ragged breath. He could breathe easier; his strength was returning. He was about to go in pursuit of Berem when a hand snaked out of the shadows. Cold fingers closed painfully over his wrist. Long nails scraped his skin and dug into his flesh.

“Not so fast, young magus,” said Fistandantilus. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

The voice was real and close, no longer in his head. Raistlin could feel the old man’s breath warm on his cheek. The breath came from a living body, not a live corpse.

The hand held him fast. The bony fingers with their long, yellowed nails tightened their grip. Raistlin could not see the face, for it was hidden in the shadows. He had no need to see it. He knew the face as well or better than he knew his own. In some ways, the face was his own.

“Only one of us can be the master,” said Fistandantilus.

The green bloodstone mottled with red striations glistened in the light of the Staff of Magius.

17 The last battle. The bloodstone.

Raistlin was caught completely off-guard. A second before, he had been triumphing in his victory over Ariakas, and between the space of one shuddering breath and another, he was held fast in the grip of his most implacable foe, a wizard Raistlin had duped and cheated and sought to destroy.

Raistlin stared, mesmerized, at the bloodstone pendant dangling from the bony hand. When Fistandantilus had been a living man, he had murdered countless young mages, sucking out their lives with the bloodstone and giving the life-force to himself.

In desperation, Raistlin cast the only spell that came to his terrified mind—an elementary spell, one of the first he had ever learned. “Kair tangus miopiar!”

His hand flared with fire. Raistlin realized the moment he spoke that the spell would be useless against Fistandantilus. The magical flames could only harm the living. He was despairing, cursing himself, when, to his amazement, Fistandantilus snarled and snatched his hand away.

“You are flesh and blood!” Raistlin gasped, and he was heartened. He was fighting a live enemy, one that might be strong, but also one who could be killed.

Falling back, Raistlin clasped the Staff of Magius in both hands and raised it in front of him, using it as both shield and weapon. He remembered the times Caramon had insisted his twin learn to defend himself with the staff and how he had always tried to get out of it.

“I will soon be your flesh and your blood,” said Fistandantilus, his fleshless lips parting in a ghastly smile. “A reward from my Queen.”

“Your Queen!” Raistlin almost laughed. “A Queen you plotted to overthrow.’

“All is forgiven between us,” said Fistandantilus. “On one condition—that I destroy you. Did you honestly think your actions, your plans, would escape my notice? In return for your demise, I will become you—or rather, your young body will house me.”

He cast a disparaging glance over Raistlin’s thin frame and sniffed. “Not the best body I have inhabited, but one that is powerful in magic. And with my knowledge and wisdom, you will become more powerful still. I hope that will be a final comfort to you in your last moments.”

Raistlin lashed out with the Staff of Magius, aiming a blow at the wizard’s hooded head. But he was not particularly skilled as a fighter, not like Caramon. His strike was clumsy and slow. Fistandantilus ducked. He caught hold of the staff, and jerked it out of Raistlin’s hands.

The staff’s magic crackled. Fistandantilus cried in rage and flung the staff halfway down the corridor. Raistlin heard the crystal globe crack as the staff struck the stone floor. The glow of magic dimmed.

Raistlin glanced back over his shoulder and marked where the staff lay. He fell back a step, his hand fumbling beneath his robes for the pouches that held the dragon orb and his spell components. Fistandantilus saw what he intended. He pointed at the pouches and spoke words of magic. Like iron to lodestone, the pouches flew out of Raistlin’s hands and into the hands of the old man.

“Bat dung and rose petals!” Fistandantilus cast the pouches disdainfully to the floor. “When I am you, you will have no need of such ingredients. The Master of Past and Present will craft magnificent magic. Too bad you will not be there to see it.”

Fistandantilus extended his hands, fingers spread, and began to chant, “Kalith karan, tobanis-kar…”

Raistlin recognized the spell and hurled himself to the floor. Blazing arrows of fire shot from the old man’s fingertips and sizzled over Raistlin’s head. The scorching heat burned his hair. The Staff of Magius lay just beyond reach. The crystal globe had cracked, but the magical light continued to shine and he saw, in its light, something sparkle.

He was about to try to make a grab for it when he heard footsteps behind him—Fistandantilus coming to finish him off. Raistlin gave a moan and tried to rise, only to collapse onto the floor again.

Fistandantilus laughed, amused at his struggles. “When I am in your body, Majere, I will hunt down and slay your imbecile brother, who is now trying to fight his way to the Foundation Stone. Caramon will think, in his final, despairing moments, that his beloved twin was his murderer. But then that’s nothing new to poor Caramon, is it? He’s already seen you kill him!”

Fistandantilus began chanting a spell. Raistlin did not recognize the words; he had no idea what the spell would do. Something horrible, that was certain. He moaned again and glanced surreptitiously behind him. When Fistandantilus was near, Raistlin lashed out with his feet, striking the old man in the shins and sending him crashing to the floor. The spell ended in a garbled cry and a thud.

Raistlin made a lunge and a grab for the small, sparkling object. His hand closed over the dragon orb, and he scrambled to his feet.

A trumpet blast echoed through the corridor.

Fistandantilus did not bother to rise. He sat on the floor, slapped his hands on his knees, and grinned up at him. “Some moron has tripped your spell trap.”

The old man gathered his black robes around him and pushed himself to his feet. He took a step toward Raistlin, who opened his palm. The dragon orb’s colors swirled and glowed, illuminating the corridor.

“Well, go ahead, young magus,” said Fistandantilus. “You have the orb. Use it. Call upon the power of the dragons to smash me to a bloody pulp.”

Raistlin looked at the orb, at the colors swirling inside. His mouth twisted, and he looked away.

Fistandantilus smiled grimly. “You don’t dare use it. You are too weak. You fear the orb will take hold of you and you’ll end up a drooling idiot like poor Lorac.”

He lifted the bloodstone pendant. “I promise, Majere, I won’t let that happen. Your end will be swift, though not exactly painless. And now, much as I have enjoyed our little contest, my Queen needs my services elsewhere.”

Fistandantilus began to chant.

Raistlin closed his fist over the orb. The bright light welled out between his fingers: five rays, five different colors, slanting off in different directions. Raistlin raised his hand.

“Cease your spell-casting, old man, or I will hurl the orb to the floor. The orb is made of crystal. It can be broken.”

Fistandantilus frowned. His chanting ceased. He held up the bloodstone pendant and made a squeezing motion with his hand.

Raistlin’s heart quivered and bounded in his chest. He gasped, unable to breathe. Fistandantilus tightened his grip, and Raistlin’s heart stopped beating. He could not breathe. Black spots burst before his eyes, and he felt himself falling.

Fistandantilus relaxed his grip a fraction.

Raistlin’s heart gave a painful lurch, and he was able to draw in a breath. Fistandantilus squeezed his hand again, and Raistlin cried out in agony and fell to the floor. He lay on his back, staring up at Fistandantilus. The old man knelt down beside Raistlin and pressed the bloodstone against Raistlin’s heart.

Fear, raw and bitter, gripped Raistlin. His mouth went dry; his arm muscles clenched; sickening, hot liquid burned his throat. His fear wrung him, drained him, leaving him confused and shaken. He was not afraid of death. Weak and frail, he had fought death from the moment of his birth. Death held no terror for him; even now, it would be easier to simply shut his eyes and let the easeful darkness wash over him.

He did not fear dying. He did fear oblivion.

He would be consumed by Fistandantilus. His soul devoured, swallowed up, and digested. His body would go on living, but he would not. And no one would know the difference. In the end, it would be as if he had never been.

“Farewell, Raistlin Majere …”

Raistlin was swimming in the ocean, trying to keep afloat, but he was trapped in the Maelstrom and there was no escape; the blood-red water was dragging him down, dragging him under.

“Caramon! Where are you?” Raistlin cried. “Caramon, I need you!”

He felt an arm clasp hold of him, and for a moment relief flooded through him. Then he realized that the arm was not the muscular arm of his twin. It was the bony arm of Fistandantilus, clutching his victim closer, preparing to suck out his life. Fistandantilus pried open Raistlin’s fingers and took hold of the dragon orb. He held it up before him and laughed.

Raistlin saw to his horror his own face laughing at him. The eyes were his eyes, the pupils the shape of hourglasses. The hand that held the dragon orb was his hand. The light of the staff, which was fast dimming, glimmered on golden skin. The delicate bones, the maze of blue veins, were all his.

He was losing himself, dwindling away to nothingness.

Rage blazed inside Raistlin. He was too weak to use his magic. The spells writhed like snakes in his mind and slithered away, and he could not catch them. But he had another weapon—the weapon a mage could use when all other weapons had failed him.

Raistlin gave a flick of his wrist, and the little silver knife he wore on the thong around his forearm slid into his palm. His hand closed spasmodically over the hilt and, with his dying strength, he wrapped his arm around Fistandantilus and pulled him close and thrust the knife into him. Raistlin felt the knife pierce flesh, and he felt it scrape horribly against bone. He had struck a rib. He jerked the knife free. Blood, warm and sticky, gummed his fingers.

Fistandantilus flinched and gave a puzzled grunt, wondering at first what was wrong. Then the pain hit him, and he realized what had happened. His face that was Raistlin’s face contorted. The hourglass eyes darkened with pain and fury. Raistlin had not dealt his foe a mortal blow, but he had gained precious time.

His strength was almost gone. He had one more chance, and it would be his last. Unwittingly, Fistandantilus helped him, twisting his body in an effort to try to seize the knife. Raistlin stabbed and the blade sank deep. Fistandantilus gave a cry, only it was Raistlin’s voice that screamed. Raistlin saw his own face contort in agony. He shuddered and closed his eyes and thrust the knife in deeper. He gave the blade a twist.

Fistandantilus fell, writhing, to the floor. Raistlin let go of the knife; his hand was too weak and shaking to hold on to it. The knife remained buried up to the hilt in the black robes.

Raistlin gasped for air and watched himself die. He realized suddenly he had only a few moments to act. He grabbed the bloodstone that still lay on his breast and slammed it down on the heart of the dying wizard.

An eerie feeling come over Raistlin, a feeling that he had done this before. The feeling was strong and unnerving. He ignored it and kept the stone pressed to the heart, and he felt his own strength, his own being returning to him and with it, the knowledge, the wisdom, the power of the archmagus.

Fistandantilus opened his mouth in an attempt to cast a spell. He coughed, choked, and blood, not magic, flowed from his lips. He gave a shudder. His body went rigid. The blood bubbled on his lips. The hourglass eyes fixed in his head, and he lay still. His hand went flaccid; the dragon orb rolled onto the floor. The hourglass eyes, dark with enmity and rage, stared up at Raistlin. He looked down on himself, dead, and Raistlin wondered, suddenly, fearfully, if he was the one who had died, and if it was Fistandantilus who was gazing down at him.

Alarmed at the thought, he snatched the bloodstone from the body, and the flow of knowledge ended abruptly. He did not know what he had gleaned; his head was littered with strange spells and arcane knowledge. He was reminded of the confusion in the library in the wretched Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka.

He rose, shakily, to his feet, and he was suddenly aware that he was not alone. By the light of the Staff of Magius, once more burning brightly, he could see on the wall a shadow—five heads of the Dark Queen.

Well done, Fistandantilus!

Raistlin caught his breath and cautiously looked up.

Raistlin Majere is dead! You have slain him!

The shadowy eyes of the shadowy heads stared at something in his hand. He looked down to see that he was holding the bloodstone pendant.

“Yes, my Queen,” he said. “Raistlin Majere is dead. I have killed him.”

Good! Now make haste to the Foundation Stone. You are the final guardian.

The heads vanished. The Dark Queen, intent upon other dangers, disappeared.

“Not even the gods can tell the difference,” Raistlin murmured.

He looked at the bloodstone pendant. As the wizard’s dark soul flooded into his, Raistlin had glimpsed unspeakable acts, countless murders, and other crimes too terrible to name. He closed his hand over the pendant, then flung it into one of the acid pools. He watched the acid devour the pendant, as the pendant had almost devoured him. He seemed to hear it hiss in anger.

Raistlin held up the dragon orb. He watched the colors swirl in the light, and he chanted the words and disappeared from the tunnels, leaving the body of Raistlin Majere behind.

18 Two Brothers.

Raistlin stood before a broken column, encrusted with jewels that glittered temptingly, luring the unwary to their doom. He murmured the words to a spell he had not known he knew, and he traced a rune in the air. The figure of a woman appeared inside the stone. The woman was young, with a sweet and winsome face, pale with grief and sorrow, soft with yearning. The woman’s eyes searched the darkness.

He saw her lips move, heard her ghostly, anguished cry.

“Berem comes, Jasla,” Raistlin said.

He was careful to avoid stepping in the underground stream, which was crawling and snapping and roiling with baby dragons. Climbing a rock ledge that ran along the foul water, he came to a place some distance from the stone, where he could keep watch. He spoke the word, “Dulak,” and the staff’s light went out.

Raistlin waited in the darkness for the person who had been dumb enough—or perhaps courageous enough—to walk into his spell trap. Raistlin knew who that person was, the other half of himself. He heard the sounds of two people sloshing through the dragon-snapping, bloodstained water. He knew them in spite of the darkness.

One was Caramon, a good man, a good brother, better than he deserved. The other was Berem Everman. The emerald glimmered and, in answer, the jewels in the Foundation Stone began to glitter with a myriad of colors.

Caramon walked protectively at Berem’s side. His sword was in his hand, and it was stained with blood. His black armor was dented; his arms and legs were bleeding. He had a bloody gash on his head. His jovial face was pale, haggard, drawn with pain. Sorrow had marked him. The darkness had changed; the darkness had changed him.

A brother lost.

Raistlin looked into the future and saw the end. He saw a sister’s love and forgiveness, her brother redeemed. A brother found.

He saw the temple fall. The stone splitting as the Dark Queen shrieked in rage and struggled to keep her grip on the world. He saw a green dragon, waiting for his command, waiting to take him to the Tower of Palanthas. The Tower’s gates would open at last.

“Shirak,” said Raistlin, and the magical light of the Staff of Magius banished the darkness.

19 The End of a Journey.

The Temple’s darkness is lit to day-like brilliance with the power of my magic. Caramon, sword in hand, can only stand beside me and watch in awe as foe after foe falls to my spells. Lightning crackles from my fingertips, flame flares from my hands, phantasms appear—so terrifyingly real that they can kill by fear alone.

Goblins die screaming, pierced by the lances of legions of knights who fill the cavern with their war chants at my bidding, then disappear at my command. The baby dragons flee in terror back to the dark and secret places of their hatching, draconians wither in the flames. Dark clerics, who swarmed down the stairs at their Queen’s last bidding, are impaled upon a flight of shimmering spears, their last prayers changing to wailing curses of agony.

Finally comes the Black Robes, the eldest of the Order, to destroy me—the young upstart. But they find to their dismay that—old as they are—I am in some mysterious way older still. My power is phenomenal. They know within an instant that I cannot be defeated. The air is filled with the sounds of chanting, and one by one, they disappear as swiftly as they came, many bowing to me in profound respect as they depart upon the wings of wish spells. …

They bow to me.

Raistlin Majere. Master of Past and Present.

I, Magus.